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dave
Member
Posts: 58

So, I have a few random-ass shitty stories to post, which I have written off and on for the past few years.  Should I just post them in this forum in a thread of my own?

 

Also: be forewarned that they will most likely suck, as I am a complete amatuer.  But you guys all seem to eat up material, so I think some of it will be interesting.

August 21, 2009 at 10:24 AM Flag Quote & Reply

redhollywood
Member
Posts: 3663

post them here dude. I would love to read them. 

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I am the bee's knees. I vomit greatness and shit glory. Jesus got nothing on me.

August 21, 2009 at 12:47 PM Flag Quote & Reply

Bonitis_Victim
Member
Posts: 1702

We'll try not to make fun of you roo much.:tongue:

Just kidding, post em here I'd love to read them.

August 21, 2009 at 3:30 PM Flag Quote & Reply

redhollywood
Member
Posts: 3663

in all fairness I make fun of everyone

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I am the bee's knees. I vomit greatness and shit glory. Jesus got nothing on me.

August 22, 2009 at 9:33 AM Flag Quote & Reply

SIEKONE
Site Owner
Posts: 2602

Post them I will read it.

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August 23, 2009 at 8:54 PM Flag Quote & Reply

Rick's Stump
Member
Posts: 2442

As long as it's not a 60 page manifesto, I'll give it a read. :tongue:

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repectthestumpB.jpg picture by argo1965

August 24, 2009 at 7:32 AM Flag Quote & Reply

dave
Member
Posts: 58

    I was six when my mother taught me the art of personal strength. When someone tried to make me doubt myself, I knew I had the strength. If I worried about failing where I wanted to succeed, I believed I would succeed. If an obstacle – figurative or physical – came across my path, I knew I could overcome it. The trait of self confidence has served me well to this very day. And then I remember that the only thing my shit-for-brains mother could ever teach me was confidence.

    Everything else I learned through doing. My method of choice is trial and error, which has gotten me in deeper shit than you can imagine. But what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Actually, that’s a lie; what doesn’t kill me just shortens my lifespan a little each time. Like cigarettes and sleeping pills. God, I really wish I had some of those sleeping pills right about now. 10 milligrams of zolpidem tartrate and everything just gets better. I’m not angry at all, I’m not stressed, and I’m not thinking about the shit I’m in. I’m fucking ecstatic when I have that. I’d kill for some of that right about now, I really would.

    But it kills your memory. Anterograde amnesia’s a son of a bitch – basically, your short term memory goes out the door. Plus, you don’t remember a fucking thing you did while you were on the drug. Well, you only forget shit some of the time. Zolpidem tartrate fucks with your mind and vision. I don’t need that shit causing problems for me, considering what I have to do every day.

    Sadly, all I have are cigarettes to keep me sane. And my freedom. I have my freedom, which keeps me from killing myself. I reach for my waist and unzip the general purpose pouch on my duty belt. I rummage around blindly with my eyes closed, feeling a few familiar items – a multi-tool, a map, compass, wallet, pill box, rag, a lighter – until I find what I want: my crumpled little box of cigarettes.

    I think it’s an old pack for Marlboros. Wrinkles and folds mar the crumpled cardboard material that make up the box. There used to be vivid colors on them, but the chemicals have since run off, leaving the cardboard some dying shade of red all over the package. Plus, the whole damn thing’s soggy and smelly like a wet dog. I really need to take better care of my shit.

    I pop open the top of the box and probe my fingers inside. I’m outta luck; it’s empty. My mom always told me smoking would kill me – and I outlive her by a lot. I never thought highly of my mother. So when the stupid cunt died very horribly, it was to my pleasure. At first, a blinding flash of light blasted across the horizon; literally, a blinding flash of light. I saw some dead poor dead bastards with their eyes burned out from that light. Or maybe the explosion did that? The titanic explosion I will remember until the day I die. My mother won’t be able to remember it; she was in it.

    But that explosion was epic. Light travels faster than anything else we know of in the Universe. So, naturally, we experienced that first. Then, the ground seemed to crumple beneath us in a massive earthquake. Anyone with a Richter scale would have seen the magnitude of this event and thought the world was actually coming to an end. But, there wasn’t just an earthquake. A tremendous burst of energy forced everything in whatever direction it pleased. Anything, or anyone, outside during the blast most likely got their entire skeleton crushed by the force of the blast. Houses got torn to shreds, cars ended up miles away from where they had been parked, electrical lines were uprooted, and buildings collapsed. And this was just in the survivor radius.

    The only spared structures and people were those living farther away from the center of the blast. Anyone who lived within the mile died instantly or within minutes. Anyone who lived within four miles would have died by the end of the day. Anyone within eight miles would have died within the week. After that, the radius of people who survived the blast begins.  That is only some of the shit I have to deal with.

    This monstrous event wasn’t a nuclear strike, but a nuclear blast did occur. I still don’t know what happened to this day. I doubt that anyone ever will know exactly what the hell happened. A nuclear power plant used to be smack-dab in the center of the industrial section of the town… that may have been a part of it. But Chernobyl didn’t blow the fuck up like that! Whatever happened caused a lot of shit to go down. How much shit, you may ask? Well, enough shit to make me need a smoke right now. What kind of shit happened? Well, there’s a whole lot of it.

    A military cordon, for one. A really tight military cordon – motion sensors along the borders, regular patrols with kill-on-sight orders for anyone caught going in or out. Every so often, reconnaissance planes from the United States Air Force fly over our heads at mach 3, casting the wind on our backs and then deafening us after flying away. I’ve heard stories about people who tried to get through the cordon. To make it short, they didn’t make it out.  The military keeps a tight boundary around us.

    So, what’s a former EMT to do in that situation? He sure as hell isn’t going up and asking the military to help just to get shot by a sniper a mile away. He sure as hell isn’t sitting down and dying. He’s not waiting until someone strolls along, sees the poor bastard, and ask “Aww, do you need a place to stay?” in a pleasant tone. He’s gonna pick up a rifle, stuff a backpack full of supplies, and survive. I refuse to die because of the strength my mother taught me. I respect myself too much.

    Even in death, my mother still fucks me over.

 

 

There's a very small part of something I started a long time ago.  My creative writing teacher liked it and I kept going, but it gets kinda dense later on and I feel it starts to suck as it progresses as well.

August 27, 2009 at 4:38 AM Flag Quote & Reply

Bonitis_Victim
Member
Posts: 1702

Good job Dave, I really like your style of writing. Just curious, how much of yourself do you put into your characters?

August 28, 2009 at 1:08 AM Flag Quote & Reply

SIEKONE
Site Owner
Posts: 2602

lol, :) Don't hate your mother!!! Good stuff dave.

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August 28, 2009 at 5:49 AM Flag Quote & Reply

dave
Member
Posts: 58

This specific character has... a lot of me in him.  Except I don't hate my mother.

 

I hate my father.

 

And a few other notions.  What did you guys think?  A 10?  Any critisisms?

August 28, 2009 at 1:38 PM Flag Quote & Reply

Bonitis_Victim
Member
Posts: 1702

If you've got more, post 'em, like I said, I like your writing style. So were you an EMT or something?

August 28, 2009 at 1:59 PM Flag Quote & Reply

dave
Member
Posts: 58

No, I'm not an EMT.  However, I've been meaning to take classes because I play airsoft, which can result in nasty injuries.

 

Now it gets a little dense.  I didn't want him to have a magic rig where he gets everything he needs, or looks for everything he needs.  Again, I want constructive critisism.

 

And remember, my property.  *Paranoid stare*

 

 

    I hate it when I think too much. I forget the fact that my nose is runny. My eyes are still closed as I roll onto my left side, trying to keep the crap out of my throat. I’m inside, but that would be complimenting the shell of a mobile home I’m stuck in. The vacated, two-wheeled mobile home with blown-out windows was vacated when I found it, and a kicked-in door was there – of my own doing. I needed to get inside for the night, so sue me.

    Whoever lived in the mobile home before me was in a helluva hurry. A few belongings must have been taken, but there was still an intact bed, food supplies, beers, clothes, and other personal effects to name items still there. My Geiger counter didn’t get any counts from the trailer, or anything inside, but all of the food was long since expired. So, I just ate an MRE, or a meal-ready-to-eat. An MRE is basically a type of military ration made to give all the nutrients and calories you needed. Its only downfall is that it’s not made to taste good, it’s made to feed you for three days.

    I have my ECW sleeping bag laid out on top of the bed in the trailer and I slept on that. An Extreme Cold Weather sleeping bag can answer itself in its name – the damn thing’s waterproof and cold proof, which I need on a cold night like tonight. September nights can be very cold. Or is it November? Hell if I can remember. Jeez, it’s cold. It’s just really fucking cold, but my extreme cold weather sleeping bag, along with my extreme cold weather condition suit, keep me warm enough. At least I’m not shivering. But my nose won’t stop fucking running.

    Christ, it’s fucking cold.

    “Where’re fucking cigs when you need ‘em?” I mutter. I realize that phlegm coats my throat and lungs. I try to force it out which makes me sit up. My body wants to get it out more than I initially planned. I gasp for breath as my thoracic diaphragm shudders up and down, and chunks of yellow phlegm fly out. I cough more to get the rest out, hacking from the bottom of the throat and in my chest to get it out. Finally, the phlegm gets out and I can breathe normally once again… after a fucking minute of whooping and wheezing.

What the fuck am I doing out here? I know why, but I still ask myself in my head. I’m trying to get to Refuge. Refuge happens to be the only civilized place for 40-some-odd miles; not counting the Cordon.

    “Fuckin’ hell,” I mutter again. At least this time I speak it clearly. That shit in my throat probably came from the damn snot. It’s cold outside and the crickets won’t cut the racket. I can hear something roaming around outside – it’s probably nothing. But, in the cordon, one has to expect the worst. But the question is: what’s the worst that can happen? It’s pretty bad.

    I’ve run into men who think the lack of police gives them the right to go bonkers. I’ve seen bears that survive in the harsh, radiated environment by eating humans. Same with the dogs and carnivores. And they aren’t happy carnivores, either. Something changed them; they’re more pissed off and they don’t seem to have the whimsy gene anymore. I grope my left hand around aimlessly for what I want to find. I finally set my hand on the wooden stock on my M14 rifle. I’m not taking any chances.

    The M14 rifle is gas-operated firearm with a rotating bolt. The whole rifle is about three and a half feet long. The damn thing weighs too much – around 5.1 kilograms, or around 11 pounds. However, the 7.62x51mm NATO rounds bring down anything I need to stay down. The magazines load 20 of these rounds and the weapon fires at 700-750 rounds per minute. It’s big and heavy, but it’ll kill what you shoot.

    I grunt quietly as I pick up the hefty firearm. I reach for the front of the Combat Integrated Releasable Armor System, or CIRAS, vest secured to my body, into a magazine pouch. Luckily, I had all my gear with me: my first, second, and third line of gear. The first line is what I need to survive. My first line consists of maps, a compass, knife, multi-tool, two canteens, first-aid kit, and lighter. All of this is either on my rigger’s belt or in the general purpose pouches around my belt. My second line is what I need to fight; my rifle and CIRAS.  My third line is what I need to keep going, which is in my large three-day pack. I keep food, warm clothing, medical supplies, a hydration bladder, and other such things in there. I reach into a magazine pouch on my CIRAS vest and pull out a square magazine, load it into my rifle with an assuring slap, and then cock the weapon. If it’s an unwelcomed human visitor, they should have heard the sound of the chambering round. They’d know they aren’t welcome and then get the hell out of dodge.

    A low, growling whine emits from outside through the aluminum mobile home. I think that’s from whatever’s outside. Whatever was outside wasn’t any human or recorded by any fucking zoologist, and it knew I was inside the vehicle. That could have been the sound of a hungry dog... no, if that’s a dog than I’m the king of Siam. I know that’s not a bear, since they sound a lot different. I know that from hunting bears. So, I don’t know what creature is loitering outside my shelter. That’s not something I like to happen. I like to know my enemy.

    Whatever this was, it didn’t like me being there. I didn’t see any droppings when I came in, so I doubt this was anything’s home. I gripped my rifle tighter now and held the weapon up towards what I could only make out as the entrance to the trailer. The creature outside snarled loudly, which only shook me completely awake. It had a high-pitched frequency whine to it, like a shitty TV. Soon, more high-frequency growls followed in suit with the original one. This certainly as fuck isn’t a sound that normal animals make.

    Shit, this guy has friends, is the only thing I can think in response to that. I’ve never heard this kind of animal before and I certainly don’t want to see them face-to-face. I hear scritch-scratching on the metal siding of the trailer. They are testing their obstacles, I imagine. It’s only a matter of time until they find the broken-down door. I really don’t want them to find that.

I can hear the crackling of leaves as the creatures traverse around the mobile home, trying to find other ways in. The snarls and growls continue, an occasional animal bashing itself into the metal of the mobile home. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but their brains are obviously not a size to brag about. The scritch-scratching on the metal still continues as the pack of wild, unknown animals make their way closer to the broken-down door of the mobile home. This is bad.

    This is how I’m going to be killed? Because of my own stupid choice of sleeping in a fucking hillbilly’s mobile home? At the jaws of some fucking wild animal? I didn’t survive this long to die like this! There’s gotta be some way I can get around this. I know that in semi-automatic fire, I can most likely take down any normal wild animal. But I don’t know what these are – they could be some new breed of mutant dog-bears. Wait, that doesn’t make sense! The point is that I don’t know if a 7.62x51mm round would take them down in one shot. I can’t even see shit in this crappy lighting. What are my options?

    Quick, quick, I have to think. Wait for them to come in and gun them down? I can’t see for shit, that’s too fucking risky. Get a flashlight? That’s all the fucking way in my general purpose pouch, and they might jump in while I’m futzing with that. Throw food at them? Hell no, I need that food to get by! Think, think… I need to think.

    All the while, a pack of beasts draw ever closer and closer with their natural, presumably savage, instinct. They begin barking and snarling, their high-frequency clamoring tormenting my ear drums. The mobile home starts to vibrate and shake around. Shit, they found the door. They’re figuring out how to get in. I think I have it slanted, though. This means they are too big to fit through a cramped space. Shit just got worse.

August 28, 2009 at 8:47 PM Flag Quote & Reply

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