Rate the Story. :x :x
+6
Heartswell.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN
rock and/or roll
Alice in Wonderland.
---
zero
10 posters
Page 1 of 1
Rate the Story. :x :x
by zero Sun 19 Oct 2008, 2:44 pm
omfg finally. 
So uh, yeah, to all those who don't know how the Rate the Story works:
First Poster: -posts excerpt of story-
Second Poster: -rates story- -posts another excerpt of story-
And so on and so forth. 10 being the highest, 1 being the lowest.
I guess I'll start?
Kay.
---
“There’s nothing wrong with me . . . right?”
Brendon’s head snapped up in surprise. He was washing the dishes from breakfast and the loud run of the water from the faucet was the only noise being made. He didn’t even realize that Ryan was still seated at the table, twiddling with his fingers.
He looked skeptical to answer, “Um . . . no?”
The older boy nodded slightly, not to agree but as if he was thinking something over. Brendon didn’t know exactly how to react to the whole situation. He’s never seen Ryan doubt or question himself before.
“I’ve been counting them.”
“Counting what?” Brendon arched his eyebrows to think of what Ryan could possibly be counting.
“Not what. Who.”
“Ry, I’m confused enough. Just spit it out.” He rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning the dishes. By the time Brendon was finished with his chore, Ryan finally started talking again.
“The people I’ve had sex with.” Brendon wiped his hands and sat down across from Ryan with a worried expression ceased on his face. “I’ve been going to a therapist lately,” he whispered and gulped, clearly uncomfortable. “She says I call it sex for a reason.”
Brendon gave a silly smile and said, “Well, what else are you supposed to call it?”
“Making love . . . or something like that.” The taller boy covered his face with both his hands with his elbow on the table, embarrassed with the whole thing.
Rolling his eyes, Brendon scoffed. “Who calls it that anymore?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate to answer. “People who love each other, maybe? People that are supposed to do it with each other? People that are not me?”, he said, stressing his last statement.
“Well, I call it sex, but since you’re so concerned about yourself calling it sex, what does calling sex what it really truly is – which is sex – make you?” he retorted, placing his arm on the table and his chin on his palm and he leaned forward.
“I don’t know?” he shrugged pulling a confused face. “A slut?”
-- unposted.
So uh, yeah, to all those who don't know how the Rate the Story works:
First Poster: -posts excerpt of story-
Second Poster: -rates story- -posts another excerpt of story-
And so on and so forth. 10 being the highest, 1 being the lowest.
I guess I'll start?
Kay.---
“There’s nothing wrong with me . . . right?”
Brendon’s head snapped up in surprise. He was washing the dishes from breakfast and the loud run of the water from the faucet was the only noise being made. He didn’t even realize that Ryan was still seated at the table, twiddling with his fingers.
He looked skeptical to answer, “Um . . . no?”
The older boy nodded slightly, not to agree but as if he was thinking something over. Brendon didn’t know exactly how to react to the whole situation. He’s never seen Ryan doubt or question himself before.
“I’ve been counting them.”
“Counting what?” Brendon arched his eyebrows to think of what Ryan could possibly be counting.
“Not what. Who.”
“Ry, I’m confused enough. Just spit it out.” He rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning the dishes. By the time Brendon was finished with his chore, Ryan finally started talking again.
“The people I’ve had sex with.” Brendon wiped his hands and sat down across from Ryan with a worried expression ceased on his face. “I’ve been going to a therapist lately,” he whispered and gulped, clearly uncomfortable. “She says I call it sex for a reason.”
Brendon gave a silly smile and said, “Well, what else are you supposed to call it?”
“Making love . . . or something like that.” The taller boy covered his face with both his hands with his elbow on the table, embarrassed with the whole thing.
Rolling his eyes, Brendon scoffed. “Who calls it that anymore?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate to answer. “People who love each other, maybe? People that are supposed to do it with each other? People that are not me?”, he said, stressing his last statement.
“Well, I call it sex, but since you’re so concerned about yourself calling it sex, what does calling sex what it really truly is – which is sex – make you?” he retorted, placing his arm on the table and his chin on his palm and he leaned forward.
“I don’t know?” he shrugged pulling a confused face. “A slut?”
-- unposted.
zero- Leading by Example
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Number of posts : 1813
Age : 28
Location : into unknown
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by --- Sun 19 Oct 2008, 7:21 pm
-
Last edited by --- on Fri 04 Dec 2009, 1:36 pm; edited 1 time in total
---- Crusader
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Number of posts : 2195
Age : 43
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by Alice in Wonderland. Mon 20 Oct 2008, 5:01 am
7.9
---
There had been kissing. Okay, a lot of kissing. And some groping, under the sheets and under tee shirts. But mostly kissing. Because Brendon knew that Ryan was a poet and poets were romantics, so there had been a lot of kissing. And once there had been something like sex, but not. Because their jeans were on and their shirts were on (though Ryan’s hands were under Brendon’s shirt, gripping at his shoulderblades). But they were rocking against each other and they both came (pretty damn hard) and their thighs were sticky under their boxers and that had lead to fighting over who got to shower first. (Brendon won.)
Kissing and groping and that one almost sex time, but mostly kissing. Because, Brendon knew (besides the poet/romantic thing) that Ryan had never had sex. Not with a guy, at least. And Brendon had, knew how much it hurt (especially that first time) and Brendon was in no real rush to do that to Ryan (although if Ryan weren’t a virgin in that particular way, Brendon would have had his pants around his ankles on the first night).
-Untitled/unfinished/unposted.
---
There had been kissing. Okay, a lot of kissing. And some groping, under the sheets and under tee shirts. But mostly kissing. Because Brendon knew that Ryan was a poet and poets were romantics, so there had been a lot of kissing. And once there had been something like sex, but not. Because their jeans were on and their shirts were on (though Ryan’s hands were under Brendon’s shirt, gripping at his shoulderblades). But they were rocking against each other and they both came (pretty damn hard) and their thighs were sticky under their boxers and that had lead to fighting over who got to shower first. (Brendon won.)
Kissing and groping and that one almost sex time, but mostly kissing. Because, Brendon knew (besides the poet/romantic thing) that Ryan had never had sex. Not with a guy, at least. And Brendon had, knew how much it hurt (especially that first time) and Brendon was in no real rush to do that to Ryan (although if Ryan weren’t a virgin in that particular way, Brendon would have had his pants around his ankles on the first night).
-Untitled/unfinished/unposted.
Alice in Wonderland.- New Recruit
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Number of posts : 329
Age : 36
Location : Catching bread & butterflies with Bren. -
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by rock and/or roll Tue 21 Oct 2008, 9:06 am
8.
His teeth pinched his lip, much much harder this time as he mentally berated himself for even contemplating venturing out here. The sun was suddenly too hot against his bare legs and clothed body, making him feel sweaty and sticky. And his calves itched more prominently from their long gone contact with the grasses and weeds. It was harder to meet Mika’s eyes, fully aware that he knew an intimate secret that had been forgone from the curly-haired man’s memory. He wanted out, he wanted to curse himself under his own bitter breath for wishing, he wanted to blink back anguished tears. His journey from point A to B, hopeful and anxious, had come to a dead end. What a waste.
“So, what brings you to my humble abode?”
Sam almost snorted at the irony. But all sarcastic thinking aside, he’d reached the nail-biting climax in his little escapade. Literally. His pinky found its way into his mouth and he bit daintily at the end of it, feeling it become flimsy between his teeth.
“I was hoping you’d remember for one...” he muttered, finger forming a much appreciated barricade between himself and his estranged bedfellow.
“Remember...?” The curls shook as he moved his head, eyes once again narrowed and questioning.
Sam sighed, removing the saliva slicked finger from his mouth, silently wondering whether it was better to deliver the blow slow and painfully drawn out, or if he should throw it up like an excess of Vodka. Punches created tender bruises, but vomit promised messy clean-ups.
- unposted.
His teeth pinched his lip, much much harder this time as he mentally berated himself for even contemplating venturing out here. The sun was suddenly too hot against his bare legs and clothed body, making him feel sweaty and sticky. And his calves itched more prominently from their long gone contact with the grasses and weeds. It was harder to meet Mika’s eyes, fully aware that he knew an intimate secret that had been forgone from the curly-haired man’s memory. He wanted out, he wanted to curse himself under his own bitter breath for wishing, he wanted to blink back anguished tears. His journey from point A to B, hopeful and anxious, had come to a dead end. What a waste.
“So, what brings you to my humble abode?”
Sam almost snorted at the irony. But all sarcastic thinking aside, he’d reached the nail-biting climax in his little escapade. Literally. His pinky found its way into his mouth and he bit daintily at the end of it, feeling it become flimsy between his teeth.
“I was hoping you’d remember for one...” he muttered, finger forming a much appreciated barricade between himself and his estranged bedfellow.
“Remember...?” The curls shook as he moved his head, eyes once again narrowed and questioning.
Sam sighed, removing the saliva slicked finger from his mouth, silently wondering whether it was better to deliver the blow slow and painfully drawn out, or if he should throw it up like an excess of Vodka. Punches created tender bruises, but vomit promised messy clean-ups.
- unposted.
rock and/or roll- Literary Mentor
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Number of posts : 860
Age : 33
Location : in the 21st century.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by LADIES AND GENTLEMEN Tue 21 Oct 2008, 9:36 pm
Nine point fiiive.
The corpse has no specific colour. This is what you first realise - that its skin is a sickening fusion of translucence and rotting greygreen. It blurs and blends into what once was a camouflage army uniform, caked in mud and filth and what could easily be human entrails. Stench hangs in the air, thick as the congealed blood left pooled in its open mouth. You can smell the death in the air around you; a rank, stifling sweetness that seems to escape from your lungs and spread through your entire fucking body, pulsing in your veins and swirling behind your eyeballs.
You don’t know how long you’re staring at it, because the horror chokes your thoughts; eats away at everything around you save for the stale, decaying excuse for a human form before your eyes. The remains of a tongue sit, limp and thick in its open mouth. Any remains of eyes would have been stretched wide in terror – but they’re not. There’s nothing left but empty sockets and more black, dead flesh. It’s like the death is eating it from the inside out. It, you think, and realise with a start that you don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman who lies before you. Does it matter? They’re dead, now. Now.
The corpse has no specific colour. This is what you first realise - that its skin is a sickening fusion of translucence and rotting greygreen. It blurs and blends into what once was a camouflage army uniform, caked in mud and filth and what could easily be human entrails. Stench hangs in the air, thick as the congealed blood left pooled in its open mouth. You can smell the death in the air around you; a rank, stifling sweetness that seems to escape from your lungs and spread through your entire fucking body, pulsing in your veins and swirling behind your eyeballs.
You don’t know how long you’re staring at it, because the horror chokes your thoughts; eats away at everything around you save for the stale, decaying excuse for a human form before your eyes. The remains of a tongue sit, limp and thick in its open mouth. Any remains of eyes would have been stretched wide in terror – but they’re not. There’s nothing left but empty sockets and more black, dead flesh. It’s like the death is eating it from the inside out. It, you think, and realise with a start that you don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman who lies before you. Does it matter? They’re dead, now. Now.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN- Administrator.
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Number of posts : 3875
Age : 31
Location : living the street rat nightlife -
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by rock and/or roll Sun 26 Oct 2008, 9:06 am
9.9
Timing was everything, they said. Hers left something to be desired. A grizzly bear-esque grumbling noise erupted from deep in the back of my throat, ash-flavoured from my last stolen moment with a flimsy cigarette, tainted only by the sweet taste of coffee. I rolled onto my side to face her, a less than impressed glare disfiguring my face. Body sleep-stained; creases lined my raggedy shirt, hair no doubt in a bird’s nest on my crown and eyes stinging in the afternoon light. Sleep was only a rest of the head and a close of the eyes away. Her mouth smiled jubilantly, not coinciding one bit with my expression. Opposite but alike. Perfect yet flawed. Heavy boots treaded into the fading wine-red of the carpet as she dropped down next to my now arisen form. It left me wishing that I’d sticky-taped a ‘Disturb and You Die’ sign on my door.
“You know, doorbells were invented for a reason,” I greeted, dryly.
“So were locks, sunshine. You should really lock your front door, otherwise just anyone could come in off the street and rob you.”
“Duly noted.” Pause. Yawn. “How’s your day been?”
“Well...” Perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed and blood red lips pursed. “I found five bucks on the pavement and some creepy guy tried to cop a feel while I was waiting for the bus, so I punched him in the stomach... Overall it was a pretty awesome day.”
- Babe in Arms
Timing was everything, they said. Hers left something to be desired. A grizzly bear-esque grumbling noise erupted from deep in the back of my throat, ash-flavoured from my last stolen moment with a flimsy cigarette, tainted only by the sweet taste of coffee. I rolled onto my side to face her, a less than impressed glare disfiguring my face. Body sleep-stained; creases lined my raggedy shirt, hair no doubt in a bird’s nest on my crown and eyes stinging in the afternoon light. Sleep was only a rest of the head and a close of the eyes away. Her mouth smiled jubilantly, not coinciding one bit with my expression. Opposite but alike. Perfect yet flawed. Heavy boots treaded into the fading wine-red of the carpet as she dropped down next to my now arisen form. It left me wishing that I’d sticky-taped a ‘Disturb and You Die’ sign on my door.
“You know, doorbells were invented for a reason,” I greeted, dryly.
“So were locks, sunshine. You should really lock your front door, otherwise just anyone could come in off the street and rob you.”
“Duly noted.” Pause. Yawn. “How’s your day been?”
“Well...” Perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed and blood red lips pursed. “I found five bucks on the pavement and some creepy guy tried to cop a feel while I was waiting for the bus, so I punched him in the stomach... Overall it was a pretty awesome day.”
- Babe in Arms
rock and/or roll- Literary Mentor
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Number of posts : 860
Age : 33
Location : in the 21st century.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by Heartswell. Tue 28 Oct 2008, 4:47 pm
9.5 
Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm.
He's been tossing and turning within the empty lonely sheets for a while now, battling unborn monsters and queasy fears bursting from the back of his head and the barrier of fantasy and reality; all mixed with that harrowing feeling of self-induced loneliness. A feeling so hauntingly familiar to Pete that it hurts; a feeling that hadn't come up since the night everything tore itself apart; the first night of the aftermath where he felt so alone, so deathly alone and without a shred of flickering light to guide him from the hole he had thrown himself in, gnashing on his perfectly carved smile and every I'm sorry his ears consumed.
Just a question to you with rotten breaths and indecisive greens.
The boy in his dreams is bleeding and spilling his guts all over the marble floors and he's screaming his lungs away as he almost tastes the bloody rust spread across his arms and cotton-clad chest soaked red. The rusty calloused taste is thickening over his fingertips and clothes as he's drinking up the sight splattered across the thready nerves adorning his retinas.
You're just a poor little boy who can't cry, Wentz. The boy of his dreams is coughing blood and laughing his dead ass off as his bowels mix on the floor, climbing out of that grinning gash puckered like cherry-dyed lips revealing rib-long teeth and yellow bowel-puke; right next to the door with the flickering light bulb. One, two, three, four, eleven; he's missing a rib that's leaving this big big wide space in his side like an ugly lost tooth ruining a magazine Hollywood smile.
All a scary scarring nightmare that runs through his mind every night and breaks down his sleep into a non-existent memory of insomnia and mouthfuls of bitter-grainy pills clawing their way down his stubborn esophagus; dry as a towel and spiky as a cactus it felt after each capsule and each compressed-powder remedy.
He needed sleep, no doubt. But the boy in the dream had raging-sea-black skull-eyes hollow enough to suck the soul from you, suck any will to rest and feel at peace with the universe. Eyes very much like the ones hiding behind Frankie's sallow eyelids; the dyed-eyelids that looked dead-white under the rapidly changing club lights, where he'd dance, dance and dance until the lights made no sense to both of them; dancer and viewer. And those pieces of boneless flesh would merge into mindless and unsaved kisses.
That boy had him now; he had him good.
Good.
He's an innocent little dancing doll with claws in his eyes that tunnel deep in your eyes.
Oh fuck.
He's curling into his unwanting bed again and holding back all those feelings gushing through his insides as the glossy black and white of the night climbed through his mirror casting reflections of dull moonlight against his walls and his eyes followed. Like a little boy with a larger than life imagination creating beasts across his walls and monsters under this bed. He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins. His eyes made those trickling beams of moonlight seem like headlights chasing him into the dark and waiting. Waiting to run him over and leave his body a matted minced rug onto the floor.
It's the illusions, the fantasies, the nightmares that never stay in your head.
If he fell asleep flashes and ribbons of bleeding colors choke his mind and pin him down so he'd never wake up, and if he wakes up slaps and metal beatings are the ones who'd never let him sleep.
He was in limbo and he needed a catalyst to face the headlights or never wake up. And maybe... maybe those twirling shameless bones were the answer.
---Dancing Bruises; chapter four.
Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm.
He's been tossing and turning within the empty lonely sheets for a while now, battling unborn monsters and queasy fears bursting from the back of his head and the barrier of fantasy and reality; all mixed with that harrowing feeling of self-induced loneliness. A feeling so hauntingly familiar to Pete that it hurts; a feeling that hadn't come up since the night everything tore itself apart; the first night of the aftermath where he felt so alone, so deathly alone and without a shred of flickering light to guide him from the hole he had thrown himself in, gnashing on his perfectly carved smile and every I'm sorry his ears consumed.
Just a question to you with rotten breaths and indecisive greens.
The boy in his dreams is bleeding and spilling his guts all over the marble floors and he's screaming his lungs away as he almost tastes the bloody rust spread across his arms and cotton-clad chest soaked red. The rusty calloused taste is thickening over his fingertips and clothes as he's drinking up the sight splattered across the thready nerves adorning his retinas.
You're just a poor little boy who can't cry, Wentz. The boy of his dreams is coughing blood and laughing his dead ass off as his bowels mix on the floor, climbing out of that grinning gash puckered like cherry-dyed lips revealing rib-long teeth and yellow bowel-puke; right next to the door with the flickering light bulb. One, two, three, four, eleven; he's missing a rib that's leaving this big big wide space in his side like an ugly lost tooth ruining a magazine Hollywood smile.
All a scary scarring nightmare that runs through his mind every night and breaks down his sleep into a non-existent memory of insomnia and mouthfuls of bitter-grainy pills clawing their way down his stubborn esophagus; dry as a towel and spiky as a cactus it felt after each capsule and each compressed-powder remedy.
He needed sleep, no doubt. But the boy in the dream had raging-sea-black skull-eyes hollow enough to suck the soul from you, suck any will to rest and feel at peace with the universe. Eyes very much like the ones hiding behind Frankie's sallow eyelids; the dyed-eyelids that looked dead-white under the rapidly changing club lights, where he'd dance, dance and dance until the lights made no sense to both of them; dancer and viewer. And those pieces of boneless flesh would merge into mindless and unsaved kisses.
That boy had him now; he had him good.
Good.
He's an innocent little dancing doll with claws in his eyes that tunnel deep in your eyes.
Oh fuck.
He's curling into his unwanting bed again and holding back all those feelings gushing through his insides as the glossy black and white of the night climbed through his mirror casting reflections of dull moonlight against his walls and his eyes followed. Like a little boy with a larger than life imagination creating beasts across his walls and monsters under this bed. He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins. His eyes made those trickling beams of moonlight seem like headlights chasing him into the dark and waiting. Waiting to run him over and leave his body a matted minced rug onto the floor.
It's the illusions, the fantasies, the nightmares that never stay in your head.
If he fell asleep flashes and ribbons of bleeding colors choke his mind and pin him down so he'd never wake up, and if he wakes up slaps and metal beatings are the ones who'd never let him sleep.
He was in limbo and he needed a catalyst to face the headlights or never wake up. And maybe... maybe those twirling shameless bones were the answer.
---Dancing Bruises; chapter four.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by Lucky Charms. Wed 29 Oct 2008, 5:46 pm
10.
Ugh Fatma, you do things to me that should very well be illegal.
He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins.
Insane. In the most sickest, beautiful way.
+++
“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”
“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.
“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.
“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.
“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.
-Talk Is Cheap, unposted.
Ugh Fatma, you do things to me that should very well be illegal.
He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins.
Insane. In the most sickest, beautiful way.+++
“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”
“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.
“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.
“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.
“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.
-Talk Is Cheap, unposted.
Lucky Charms.- Red Scare
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Number of posts : 809
Age : 29
Location : HERE.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by the lover. Wed 29 Oct 2008, 8:23 pm
10.
You have magic fingers, my friend.
*
Turning over the newspaper, Ryan begins to draw a picture. He always draws a picture on the back of his newspapers. It's as though it's the cherry on top of the cake that represents his obsession. Ryan draws a simple picture this time; the same word over and over again, written in the shape of human heart.
When Ryan finishes his picture, and it doesn't take long, he turns the newspaper back over and flicks through the pages. He's circled every 'R', 'E', 'A' and 'L' and 'REAL' in the entire newspaper. A crooked smile creeps onto his face and his stomach is filled with sick satisfaction.
One day, robots will cry. Ryan will be the first.
- One Day, Robots Will Cry, not posted on IAR.
You have magic fingers, my friend.
*
Turning over the newspaper, Ryan begins to draw a picture. He always draws a picture on the back of his newspapers. It's as though it's the cherry on top of the cake that represents his obsession. Ryan draws a simple picture this time; the same word over and over again, written in the shape of human heart.
When Ryan finishes his picture, and it doesn't take long, he turns the newspaper back over and flicks through the pages. He's circled every 'R', 'E', 'A' and 'L' and 'REAL' in the entire newspaper. A crooked smile creeps onto his face and his stomach is filled with sick satisfaction.
One day, robots will cry. Ryan will be the first.
- One Day, Robots Will Cry, not posted on IAR.
the lover.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 661
Age : 29
Location : HR3 5QD -
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by Heartswell. Thu 30 Oct 2008, 3:40 pm
9. It's interesting. Firstly, because of how you outlined Ryan's actions and what he was actually doing. I love reading about things like this. && I liked the last line the most because it says so much [as in Ryan's emotioneless-ness, yes? that's how I interepreted it.] but I'd prolly give it a read later 
next time post a longer excerpt 
--
He never did call. And Frankie was scared already. They always did.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
-Dancing Bruises; chapter five.
next time post a longer excerpt --
He never did call. And Frankie was scared already. They always did.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
-Dancing Bruises; chapter five.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by rock and/or roll Mon 03 Nov 2008, 10:38 am
9.5
I thought some of the sentences were a bit too long, but overall it was visually stunning. The references to drugs and Santa were a nice touch to it.
-
With each new deep growl of thunder his pulse seared up his veins, blood burning lava hot. Breaths came shaky and difficult. Lips trembled, an earthquake rumbling inside his gut and his mind was a messy tangle of mismatched wires. Short circuiting. He could explode. The physical environment dwarfed him and he looked up at the terrifyingly intimidating objects surrounding him. The opal clock over the ancient mantelpiece was a time bomb, each tick digging into his skull as it came closer to exploding into shattered fragments of glittering glass. The ceiling could have been as high as the heavens for all he registered inside his scared mind.
He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t think. He could barely keep his heart from beating overtime. Fear pressed against the quaking muscle. Hands became sticky with sweat. His body felt limp, each limb slackened and hanging from his despondent frame.
Just as he thought he would lose control, would collapse in a tragic heap of nerves and sobs, give in to the shakes which wracked his body with a new force every time the sky lit up or his eardrums were assaulted by the clap of nature’s hands...a firm and comforting, and obviously unafraid hand came to rest steadily on his quaking shoulder. It rubbed up and down over the rigid muscles there, a kind warmth emanating from the palm. Sam sniffled, a lone and very very relieved tear dribbling down his flushed cheek as he turned shakily to face his comforter.
Mika embraced him, arms winding gently but firmly around Sam’s still quivering form.
- Unposted.
I thought some of the sentences were a bit too long, but overall it was visually stunning. The references to drugs and Santa were a nice touch to it.
-
With each new deep growl of thunder his pulse seared up his veins, blood burning lava hot. Breaths came shaky and difficult. Lips trembled, an earthquake rumbling inside his gut and his mind was a messy tangle of mismatched wires. Short circuiting. He could explode. The physical environment dwarfed him and he looked up at the terrifyingly intimidating objects surrounding him. The opal clock over the ancient mantelpiece was a time bomb, each tick digging into his skull as it came closer to exploding into shattered fragments of glittering glass. The ceiling could have been as high as the heavens for all he registered inside his scared mind.
He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t think. He could barely keep his heart from beating overtime. Fear pressed against the quaking muscle. Hands became sticky with sweat. His body felt limp, each limb slackened and hanging from his despondent frame.
Just as he thought he would lose control, would collapse in a tragic heap of nerves and sobs, give in to the shakes which wracked his body with a new force every time the sky lit up or his eardrums were assaulted by the clap of nature’s hands...a firm and comforting, and obviously unafraid hand came to rest steadily on his quaking shoulder. It rubbed up and down over the rigid muscles there, a kind warmth emanating from the palm. Sam sniffled, a lone and very very relieved tear dribbling down his flushed cheek as he turned shakily to face his comforter.
Mika embraced him, arms winding gently but firmly around Sam’s still quivering form.
- Unposted.
rock and/or roll- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 860
Age : 33
Location : in the 21st century.
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by gloria- Mon 10 Nov 2008, 6:52 am
9.
i felt that the big words didn't quite fit the mood of the piece; if it's something frantic (which is what i gathered from this part) i tend to prefer shorter words - they read faster and incur more tension. a piece doesn't need to be big-worded and long-winded to be great. having said that, i did like it. (:
-
Let’s role play.
I am the laundry, out to dry on the line. You are the clothespins keeping me from blowing away. I am the moon. You are the earth’s gravity, keeping me in orbit. I am the block of ice. You are the chisel that shapes me. I am the ocean, and you are the tide; you are my heartbeat; you are my life source.
I am the basket case, and you are the medication that keeps me sane.
I am me.
You are you.
We are we. We are us.
unposted.
i felt that the big words didn't quite fit the mood of the piece; if it's something frantic (which is what i gathered from this part) i tend to prefer shorter words - they read faster and incur more tension. a piece doesn't need to be big-worded and long-winded to be great. having said that, i did like it. (:
-
Let’s role play.
I am the laundry, out to dry on the line. You are the clothespins keeping me from blowing away. I am the moon. You are the earth’s gravity, keeping me in orbit. I am the block of ice. You are the chisel that shapes me. I am the ocean, and you are the tide; you are my heartbeat; you are my life source.
I am the basket case, and you are the medication that keeps me sane.
I am me.
You are you.
We are we. We are us.
unposted.
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by zero Sun 16 Nov 2008, 6:20 pm
9. 
Muahaha. Hoorah for Jonas FanFiction.
Dare to read?
---
It is really quiet. Then it is really loud.
I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Falling asleep and waking up felt like slipping in and out of death. I am tired, I feel fragile. Like a boxful of mom’s china being carried around by Frankie. Cracking and just about ready to break. The knawing pain of hunger went away ages ago. I am left with the feeling like I just swallowed a balloon. They only feed us bread, rice, and tasteless soup. I’m sure I’ll die of beriberi, if the fact that I’m out of insulin doesn’t get me first.
The world seemed to fade away faster than Jesse Owens could run. I know we would never find out was home.
Joe is sick. I can hear his shallow breathing beside me. He won’t take any food or any water. There are many sick people here. If you aren’t dying, you wait – that’s the motto. Kevin sits in front of us, singing a lullaby to Frankie who hasn’t slept since we arrived here. Then Kevin grabs the little boy’s body slowly placing him on top of his lap and he gently pushes Frankie’s face on his chest. He starts rocking his body back and forth.
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to block little Frankie’s view from that girl in the corner. There's more blood on her than Sweeney Todd on Christmas.
My eyes start to droop, even a view as terrible as this it's normal. I pray that I will be alive to be haunted by the scene later. The sound of Kevin’s tired voice, Joe’s strange breathing and the other strangled ones I hear begin to lull me into sleep.
It is very quiet. Then –
“Joe?” A question, a concerned voice. I can feel and hear Kevin moving. “Joe?” Ruffling blankets, short gasps and the limp body nest to me started to shake. “Joe!” I sit up to see Joe’s arms flailing in the air with Kevin desperately trying to grab hold of them. I grab Frankie and pull him away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, scared, panicked.
Kevin doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy screaming for help.
--- unposted
Muahaha. Hoorah for Jonas FanFiction.
Dare to read?---
It is really quiet. Then it is really loud.
I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Falling asleep and waking up felt like slipping in and out of death. I am tired, I feel fragile. Like a boxful of mom’s china being carried around by Frankie. Cracking and just about ready to break. The knawing pain of hunger went away ages ago. I am left with the feeling like I just swallowed a balloon. They only feed us bread, rice, and tasteless soup. I’m sure I’ll die of beriberi, if the fact that I’m out of insulin doesn’t get me first.
The world seemed to fade away faster than Jesse Owens could run. I know we would never find out was home.
Joe is sick. I can hear his shallow breathing beside me. He won’t take any food or any water. There are many sick people here. If you aren’t dying, you wait – that’s the motto. Kevin sits in front of us, singing a lullaby to Frankie who hasn’t slept since we arrived here. Then Kevin grabs the little boy’s body slowly placing him on top of his lap and he gently pushes Frankie’s face on his chest. He starts rocking his body back and forth.
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to block little Frankie’s view from that girl in the corner. There's more blood on her than Sweeney Todd on Christmas.
My eyes start to droop, even a view as terrible as this it's normal. I pray that I will be alive to be haunted by the scene later. The sound of Kevin’s tired voice, Joe’s strange breathing and the other strangled ones I hear begin to lull me into sleep.
It is very quiet. Then –
“Joe?” A question, a concerned voice. I can feel and hear Kevin moving. “Joe?” Ruffling blankets, short gasps and the limp body nest to me started to shake. “Joe!” I sit up to see Joe’s arms flailing in the air with Kevin desperately trying to grab hold of them. I grab Frankie and pull him away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, scared, panicked.
Kevin doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy screaming for help.
--- unposted
zero- Leading by Example
-
Number of posts : 1813
Age : 28
Location : into unknown
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by blue. Sat 25 Apr 2009, 5:18 am
8
---
Pete asks, voice like charcoal burned too long and blackened, brittle between fingers but no matter how hard it's crushed, it stays intact, just streaks of chalky ashes across pale palms.
I almost say no, I almost push away his unsanded hands, so good, so guilty on the rectangle dip of skin between the bottom of my shirt and top of my jeans. Ragged ridges of bass stringed fingers dragging across the white, steady despite that my body shakes like leaves and an invisible wind.
"Please Patrick..."
I look at Pete and he looks back at me, greenbrownhazel overlapping babyblueskies. His face is half in shadows, day and night, light and dark. Pete shifts, so his entire face is shrouded in the dim flick across the room, and suddenly he's Pete and affliction. Pete and alcohol. Pete and Ashlee. He's suddenly a box of razors, a bottle of ativan, too much ambien and a fog fondling behind his glassy orbs like hot showers left on too long. Like the swirl of his blood clouding white with crushed pills.
-unposted, unnamed, undeveloped
---
Pete asks, voice like charcoal burned too long and blackened, brittle between fingers but no matter how hard it's crushed, it stays intact, just streaks of chalky ashes across pale palms.
I almost say no, I almost push away his unsanded hands, so good, so guilty on the rectangle dip of skin between the bottom of my shirt and top of my jeans. Ragged ridges of bass stringed fingers dragging across the white, steady despite that my body shakes like leaves and an invisible wind.
"Please Patrick..."
I look at Pete and he looks back at me, greenbrownhazel overlapping babyblueskies. His face is half in shadows, day and night, light and dark. Pete shifts, so his entire face is shrouded in the dim flick across the room, and suddenly he's Pete and affliction. Pete and alcohol. Pete and Ashlee. He's suddenly a box of razors, a bottle of ativan, too much ambien and a fog fondling behind his glassy orbs like hot showers left on too long. Like the swirl of his blood clouding white with crushed pills.
-unposted, unnamed, undeveloped
blue.- New Recruit
-
Number of posts : 384
Age : 92
Location : escaped convict(ion)
Re: Rate the Story. :x :x
by rock and/or roll Sat 02 Jan 2010, 5:24 pm
9. I liked it, but I think it may be a bit too wordy.
-
“Don’t I get a bedtime story?”
Jeordie’s lip tweaked, his left-over make-up cracking a little. His eyes were shining and Brian couldn’t quite tell whether it was from the weird coppery-lighting or the sex or the different shades of green he’d inhaled. But they looked at him with silent expectation and Brian sighed, climbing onto the bed next to his best friend.
“There once was a man called Jeordie. He annoyed his friend Brian, so karma hit him with a bus which paralysed him from the waist down and he could no longer whore around. Jeordie was sad. The end.”
Jeordie considered this, the look of soft amusement never changing. “You didn’t build up the story, not enough exposition. And I could still go down on other people. And there’s nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in casual sex.”
“Enjoyment being the key word there.”
- In Vogue.
-
“Don’t I get a bedtime story?”
Jeordie’s lip tweaked, his left-over make-up cracking a little. His eyes were shining and Brian couldn’t quite tell whether it was from the weird coppery-lighting or the sex or the different shades of green he’d inhaled. But they looked at him with silent expectation and Brian sighed, climbing onto the bed next to his best friend.
“There once was a man called Jeordie. He annoyed his friend Brian, so karma hit him with a bus which paralysed him from the waist down and he could no longer whore around. Jeordie was sad. The end.”
Jeordie considered this, the look of soft amusement never changing. “You didn’t build up the story, not enough exposition. And I could still go down on other people. And there’s nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in casual sex.”
“Enjoyment being the key word there.”
- In Vogue.
rock and/or roll- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 860
Age : 33
Location : in the 21st century.
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