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 Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 3:38 pm
† [you've died . . .]
[but you ain't going to heaven]
F I N A L
S A B B A T H
[jesus won't save your soul] †
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Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 3:39 pm
† s t o r y
l i n e Everyone dies. Literally. So for most people it’s not really something to worry about. Sadly, for a certain group of people, (about 1 in 5,000.) death is something to worry about.
Why?
Well, because it isn’t the end. They must go on, not as ghosts, but as immortals. Or at least until they have finished what they started. So in a way, they are like ghosts. The difference is that these group of people --“death’s heads” is how we shall refer to them-- have physical bodies. And while they still feel pain, it can’t kill them.
To escape this life, the death’s heads have to guide at least one person through life. That one person will, at one point or another, attempt suicide. All the death’s head has to do is stop this.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that all death’s heads are suicides.
†
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Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 3:40 pm
† r u l e s
In this game you do not need a profile; instead, all you need to do is make sure that we know enough about your character in your first post.
You may either be a death's head or a human. Or you could be a human who is about to kill themselves, and then becomes a death's head.
RULE 1: Follow the TOS.
RULE 2: Fighting is encouraged.
RULE 3: A death's head may kill a human, and vice versa.
RULE 4: Don't godmod/jesusbot.
†
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Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 3:41 pm
† o t h e r This space will be saved for other events. †
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Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 4:10 pm
((BEGIN!))
John Sallick climbed to the top of the stairs, in the dark, with the rain hitting the outside of the building and making too much noise. This was his final day at the office; he was climbing to the top of the building to jump off.
He got to the top, and didn't see a soul. Lucky for him. But even if someone had been up there, he would have still jumped.
And so he ran. He ran as fast as he could do the edge, and then jumped. From the ninth story he didn't hear anyone scream. He didn't even scream. Instead he just smiled. A big grim smile. If he landed just right, he might be able to take somone else out with him. Sadly, everyone stood back in horror as he started to get closer.
SMACK!
And that was it.
What the ambulance got there, they found a man wearing a black suit, with a hotpink tie around his neck. The man's skin was very white. And he had red lipstick on. His blood-drenched hair was a dirty blonde that hung limp and unkept around his face. He was tall, but not too tall.
John was 26 years old, and he had had a good job. Hell, he had even had an atractive body. But what was this new feeling? It felt like he hadn't even jumped.
And that was when he realised that he was looking down at his own suicide.
He quickly ran back inside, and quickly found a bathroom. When he got there, he looked into the mirror and saw that his hair was drenched in what looked like blood.
He screamed.
John Sallick was a dead man.
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Posted: Sun Nov 26, 2006 11:42 am
Kristine McCullins looked at her test paper, the big "F" glaring out at her. She had failed every test since the beginning of school, but her mum didn't care. Her mum never cared about her; the only thing that bothered her was when she ran out of Ambien CR pills and rum.
Kristine peered out of her long black hair at her pale, pale hands and freshly painted black nails holding the test paper. These are the pathetic hands of a nobody, she thought to herself.
She went to the bathroom instead of to her last period class, staring at herself in the mirror. Her frail, thin form was clothed in black; chain pants, long-sleeved black fishnet shirt with a black Marilyn Manson shirt covering it, and black combat boots. She swept her hair out of the way to look at her face. She hadn't slept well in a long time, and it was obvious as she looked at the bags under her intense ice blue eyes. She glared at her smudging black lipstick on her small, thin lips, wiping it off for good. What was the point in wearing it if you could see the natural light pink underneath? She let her hair fall back into place; she didn't want to look at herself anymore.
She punched the mirror, cracking it a little over where her face appeared. She punched it over and over until she saw herself through shards. She looked at her knuckles, smiling at the blood all over her hand as she went into a stall to wait for the bell to ring.
She left school, not caring that it was a Friday, walking by herself.
Her hair blew in the autumn wind, a leaf landing in it, left untouched. After all, who cared about a stupid leaf when you were going to die anyway?
She wanted to buy a gun, but she wasn't old enough. She had a razor blade under her pillow; she'd been planning this for weeks. Today, her mum was going to get drunk and take her sleeping pills, just like every day, and she planned to do it after that.
Kristine was a soul in need of hope; a soul in need of another.
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Posted: Mon Nov 27, 2006 11:24 am
John stared at himself in the mirror of the office building. His beautiful mirror image stared right back at him. And he saw that even though his face had been smashed from the fall, you could still see how lovely he was. "I'm so glad that I didn't go through with it," He said. And then everything came back into view. He lifted up his shirt to feel his ribcage; it was fractured beyond repair. And then he felt his spinal-cord. He was no doctor, but he knew that it was ruined. He should be dead.
Suddenly he heard a loud cracking noise. And then a shifting noise, life the shifting of rocks. And then the splintering of what sounded like wood. He soon discovered that these were his bones coming back together!
And he knew that that was scientifically impossible. It wasn't even logical for bones to heal so fast . . . was it? AND HE WAS DEAD! Why wasn't he dead?! He had jumped. He had jumped and he had died. Why wasn't he dead?
John hadn't been a religious man; religion was a waste of time, in his oppinion. But he knew now that he was in fact a ghost . . . or something like it. But he had to test it.
He put his head under the sink, washing the blood off his hair, and then he left the bathroom. Even from up on the top floor he could hear ambulances. But he had to see his body again. So he went to the bottom floor, and walked into the group of people that surrounded the site of his death. He saw the body. It was him alright. It was him. "I'm dead," He whispered to himself, and then he ran.
He ran and ran as far as he could. He couldn't stay near the site of his own death; he wouldn't. He just wouldn't.
He had to get some damn coffee.
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