Post by Kapitan on Jan 24, 2006 22:06:49 GMT -5
I'm bored, so I figured I'd show you guys how bad of a writer I am and how, hopefully, I've improved some.
Here's one called, the "Death of a Writer." It's incomplete:
I'll post my other ones later, but hey, if you're still in the mood for some torture, why not read some crappy fanfiction? The only two I'm actually proud of happen to be the FLCL ones, and they're both incomplete and remarkably old.
Edit: How about a nice link to an old original fiction, my first?
Edit: I think I'll post the beginning of this here, too, since WORD's on the fritz and won't save. >_<;;
Here's one called, the "Death of a Writer." It's incomplete:
Art Hendricks was a simple man, give him a nice warm cup of coffee and a metal cd and he could drive for hours. This, of course, didn't mean he had like it, but the coffee and music made it bearable, if only just barely. On this particularly cold, October night he'd already travelled a few hundred miles to Corpus Christi and was just crossing the city limit out of the city to begin his final leg of the "race" to his final destination.
'Only a few more hundred miles, Art,' he reminded himself, 'only a few hundred more.'
A fairly fit man, he made sure of that, working out for an hour before going to bed, eating healthy, and so on. He was also incredibly bright, in fact, he could very well have gone on to an Ivy League university if he had wanted to, he didn't. He didn't want to finish high school, either, and he didn't. Many would call him a failure, but at twenty-five, he figured he had a long time to get a good grip on his life. Right now, living in his small apartment in Chicago, writing his novel, and the occasional "sleep-over" at his girl's place was enough to keep him happy. Like I said, he was a fairly simplistic man.
The book deal he was currently driving to had been on his mind ever since he got a call from his agent the month before. A publishing company had read some of his earlier, published works, and then caught wind that he was in the process of writing a full-length novel based on a few of the characters in said stories and were interested. He'd never actually met them, which was odd considering they'd talked via phone, fax, and third-party sources for almost three weeks now. Art knew this wasn't usually how it was done, but he couldn't complain. It was his only chance at success, and Kathy was beginning to get a little annoyed that there wasn't a golden band around her finger yet.
So, over the last few weeks he'd been on the phone almost all day trying to talk these guys into signing a deal with him for a trilogy, and possibly more if he could squeeze it out of them. Now, all he needed to do was meet these guys in person, make a good impression, give his presentation, and pray to God that they signed the contract.
This deal was going to make him, Art just knew it. Slowly, he felt himself smile as he let himself drift off into memories of Kathy's reaction as he told her the news...and the events that followed said reaction.
...
Kathy McCormick stretched out on her black, leather couch and snuggled against her pillow. Idly, she flipped through the channels of her TV and let out a loud sigh. Eight hundred channels and nothing to watch? Typical, as much as she knew that wasting the extra money on that "Direct TV" crap wasn't worth it, she couldn't help herself. Kathy McCormick liked the finer things in life, and honestly, who could blame her?
She stopped on a random cartoon show, it was Japanese. Kathy could never grasp the fascination with these foreign cartoons. They were just so weird, back when she was a young girl, she remembered shows like GI Joe and freakin' Transformers ruled her life. She had to admit, these newer shows had really slick animation, though. Even if she had no idea who "Ee-New-Yash-a" was or what the heck a "Key-la-la" was. Well, if this show could reduce her thirteen year old niece into a drooling fangirl -- she could still hear her annoying rantings and ravings of "Sesshy is soooo hot!" in her nightmares, she grimaced -- it'd have to do.
Snuggling further against her pillow, Kathy shivered. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to wear nothing but panties and a large "Bears" jersey when it's freezing outside and your heater isn't working.
Kathy ignored the TV's screams of "INUYASHA!" and "KAGOME!" and let her thoughts drift to her last conversation with her so-called "boyfriend." It started out as some stupid arguement about what kind of topping to order for their pizza, but escalated into an arguement of his "fear of commitment," as she put it.
Of course, Kathy knew Art didn't really have a "fear of commitment," but dang it, she was twenty-five and wasn't getting any younger! What girl, in the prime of her life, wanted to stay in permanent "gal-pal" mode with a deadbeat writer whose idea of a good time was staying home and watching Lifetime? To make matters worse, lately, he'd been holed up inside his apartment on the phone with God knows who and ignoring her. He'd even rejected her invite for an "all-nighter!" Kathy McCormick wasn't going to stick around and wait for some man to come to his senses when there were dozens of other men just begging to pull an "all-nighter" with her!
But, she loved him. Why the hell did she have to love him so much?
She frowned to herself and counted all his good points on her fingers.
"Well," she said aloud, "he's kind, handsome, funny, smart, tender when he needs to be, rough when he wants to be...and when he touches me in that spot I like -- Ooh!" She pulled the pillow up against her face, to hide the blush. From who? Who knows.
Kathy switched hands and counted off his bad points.
"But on the flipside," she frowned further, "he's a deadbeat, lazy, wreckless, can't be trusted to be on time to anything, smokes, doesn't brush his hair often, doesn't shave often..."
The sound of the door-bell snapped her out of her monologue. She stood up and stumbled towards the door. Slowly taking off the locks, she looked through the peephole to see Art standing on the other side with the biggest grin on his face and a bouquet of roses in his left hand. Kathy smiled to herself, he was sweet all right, but he wasn't of the hook...yet.
"Hey, babe," Art said, planting a big kiss on her lips, and startling her in the process.
"Art," she began, but stopped to squeel as he playfully pulled at her jersey. She slapped his hand away and said, "what's the occasion?" Kathy pointed towards the roses.
Art had already made himself comfortable and was stretched out on her couch staring intently at the show.
"Ooh, huh? Right! These are for you, babe. I've got some huge news, it'll rock your world." He paused. "I love that Miroku, he's my hero. It's too bad this show's so repetitive!"
Kathy took the flowers from Art and placed them on the kitchen counter. She opened up a cabinet and took out two wine glasses and a half-finished bottle of gin.
"So, what was this talk of rocking my world, lover-boy?" Kathy called over from the kitchen as she poured the gin into the glasses. She walked over to the coach and handed him a glass.
"You won't believe this, Kath," Art began, swirling the fluid around in the glass, "last month my agent called me about this deal. Some publishing company down in Texas read some of my stories and took interest in that novel I'm writing, since it stars the same characters and all. Anyways, for the last three weeks I've been trying to close the deal...and in a few days I've got a meeting with them. Baby, I think I finally got my break!"
Kathy could hardly contain her excitement and downed her drink in one gulp, much to the surprise of Art...who did the same. Combing back her raven hair with her hand, she smiled and looked at Art with a cattish glint in her eye. Getting up from her couch slowly, seductively, she took Art by the hand.
"I believe this calls for a celebration," she said in the most sultry voice she could muster.
"Sleep-over?"
"Sleep-over."
"Sweet."
...
That had been the best "sleep-over" Art had had in a long time.
Art snapped out of his reverie when his CD skipped. He took another sip of his cold coffee and then raised his heater up.
'Only a few more hundred miles, Art,' he thought, 'only a few hundred more.'
...
The white sedan pulled into the Motel 6's parking lot fairly early in the day, in fact, it was still dark out when he slammed the car's door and pulled his suitcase out of his trunk. The hotel wasn't the best looking, but hey, it was a Motel 6, and he didn't have the cash to blow on a room at the Holiday Inn down the road. It would have to do. On the bright side, maybe it was better than it looked on the outside? This town wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be, maybe the hotel would be the same?
Art had been surprised when he first entered Brownsville's city limits, it looked like a hick town at first, alright, but as he pulled further into town civilization seemingly sprang out of nowhere.
It was still different from Chicago, though, way different. First off, the roads had been practically barren on his ride over to the hotel, save for the occasional cop car. It was only 4:00 am for Christ sake! His hometown prided itself in its ability to stay up for hours on end fueled by nothin' but Starbucks coffee - which oddly enough, he saw, this town was currently constructing. Secondly, the buildings were much, much taller there...here, the buildings seemed to reach no higher than two stories.
'God,' he wondered, 'these people ever hear of the term, "reach for the sky?"
Art slung his suitcase over his shoulder and beeped his car locked. He'd left his laptop in the car, but he could always get that in the morning. Right now, Art was dead-tired, and the only thing he wanted to do right now was get a room and get acquainted with his bed.
The hotel's interior did, in fact, look a whole lot better than the outside did, but it was still pretty bad...and not worth mentioning. If you've ever been inside one Motel 6 lobby, you've been in them all.
As he approached the main desk, Art noticed that the man at the desk looked pretty jittery.
"Welcome," the man said, looking up from his magazine, "room for one?"
The man -- Miguel, Art glanced at the guy's I.D. tag -- was middle-aged with balding dark hair and a graying moustache that nearly covered half his face. His brow was creased with wrinkles and his eyes had dark circles under them that showed fatigue and only added to the aura of utter boredom Miguel seemed to exhume.
'Gee, Mee-gel, you look tired, brother. Want to take a break while I look after your Hustler?' Art considered saying, but decided against it and said instead, "Uh, yes. Put it under Art Hendricks, please, and can I also have a wake up call at exactly noon? I've got an important appointment at 4:00 pm."
Miguel nodded and walked over to the wall of keys and picked one out. The numbers '207' inscribed on the key-chain that accompanied the keys. He handed them to Art and directed him towards the elevator.
"G'night, compadre," Art waved back as he walked off. Miguel shrugged and went back to reading his magazine.
...
Fumbling with the locks, Art finally managed to get the door open and walked into his suite. It wasn't grande, but it would do. He made note of the essentials: one small TV with basic cable, check. Phone, check. Mini-fridge, check. Bed - he walked over to it, dropping his suitcase haphazardly on the floor behind him, and patted it, "Check!"
Slowly, he let himself drift off to sleep. The vast amount of caffeine he had consumed on his drive over would keep him awake for a bit, but soon it would pass...and Art would enter the sweet, sweet haven of his dreams and relax. And maybe have a nice dream of his last "sleep-over?" Perhaps.
'Only a few more hundred miles, Art,' he reminded himself, 'only a few hundred more.'
A fairly fit man, he made sure of that, working out for an hour before going to bed, eating healthy, and so on. He was also incredibly bright, in fact, he could very well have gone on to an Ivy League university if he had wanted to, he didn't. He didn't want to finish high school, either, and he didn't. Many would call him a failure, but at twenty-five, he figured he had a long time to get a good grip on his life. Right now, living in his small apartment in Chicago, writing his novel, and the occasional "sleep-over" at his girl's place was enough to keep him happy. Like I said, he was a fairly simplistic man.
The book deal he was currently driving to had been on his mind ever since he got a call from his agent the month before. A publishing company had read some of his earlier, published works, and then caught wind that he was in the process of writing a full-length novel based on a few of the characters in said stories and were interested. He'd never actually met them, which was odd considering they'd talked via phone, fax, and third-party sources for almost three weeks now. Art knew this wasn't usually how it was done, but he couldn't complain. It was his only chance at success, and Kathy was beginning to get a little annoyed that there wasn't a golden band around her finger yet.
So, over the last few weeks he'd been on the phone almost all day trying to talk these guys into signing a deal with him for a trilogy, and possibly more if he could squeeze it out of them. Now, all he needed to do was meet these guys in person, make a good impression, give his presentation, and pray to God that they signed the contract.
This deal was going to make him, Art just knew it. Slowly, he felt himself smile as he let himself drift off into memories of Kathy's reaction as he told her the news...and the events that followed said reaction.
...
Kathy McCormick stretched out on her black, leather couch and snuggled against her pillow. Idly, she flipped through the channels of her TV and let out a loud sigh. Eight hundred channels and nothing to watch? Typical, as much as she knew that wasting the extra money on that "Direct TV" crap wasn't worth it, she couldn't help herself. Kathy McCormick liked the finer things in life, and honestly, who could blame her?
She stopped on a random cartoon show, it was Japanese. Kathy could never grasp the fascination with these foreign cartoons. They were just so weird, back when she was a young girl, she remembered shows like GI Joe and freakin' Transformers ruled her life. She had to admit, these newer shows had really slick animation, though. Even if she had no idea who "Ee-New-Yash-a" was or what the heck a "Key-la-la" was. Well, if this show could reduce her thirteen year old niece into a drooling fangirl -- she could still hear her annoying rantings and ravings of "Sesshy is soooo hot!" in her nightmares, she grimaced -- it'd have to do.
Snuggling further against her pillow, Kathy shivered. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to wear nothing but panties and a large "Bears" jersey when it's freezing outside and your heater isn't working.
Kathy ignored the TV's screams of "INUYASHA!" and "KAGOME!" and let her thoughts drift to her last conversation with her so-called "boyfriend." It started out as some stupid arguement about what kind of topping to order for their pizza, but escalated into an arguement of his "fear of commitment," as she put it.
Of course, Kathy knew Art didn't really have a "fear of commitment," but dang it, she was twenty-five and wasn't getting any younger! What girl, in the prime of her life, wanted to stay in permanent "gal-pal" mode with a deadbeat writer whose idea of a good time was staying home and watching Lifetime? To make matters worse, lately, he'd been holed up inside his apartment on the phone with God knows who and ignoring her. He'd even rejected her invite for an "all-nighter!" Kathy McCormick wasn't going to stick around and wait for some man to come to his senses when there were dozens of other men just begging to pull an "all-nighter" with her!
But, she loved him. Why the hell did she have to love him so much?
She frowned to herself and counted all his good points on her fingers.
"Well," she said aloud, "he's kind, handsome, funny, smart, tender when he needs to be, rough when he wants to be...and when he touches me in that spot I like -- Ooh!" She pulled the pillow up against her face, to hide the blush. From who? Who knows.
Kathy switched hands and counted off his bad points.
"But on the flipside," she frowned further, "he's a deadbeat, lazy, wreckless, can't be trusted to be on time to anything, smokes, doesn't brush his hair often, doesn't shave often..."
The sound of the door-bell snapped her out of her monologue. She stood up and stumbled towards the door. Slowly taking off the locks, she looked through the peephole to see Art standing on the other side with the biggest grin on his face and a bouquet of roses in his left hand. Kathy smiled to herself, he was sweet all right, but he wasn't of the hook...yet.
"Hey, babe," Art said, planting a big kiss on her lips, and startling her in the process.
"Art," she began, but stopped to squeel as he playfully pulled at her jersey. She slapped his hand away and said, "what's the occasion?" Kathy pointed towards the roses.
Art had already made himself comfortable and was stretched out on her couch staring intently at the show.
"Ooh, huh? Right! These are for you, babe. I've got some huge news, it'll rock your world." He paused. "I love that Miroku, he's my hero. It's too bad this show's so repetitive!"
Kathy took the flowers from Art and placed them on the kitchen counter. She opened up a cabinet and took out two wine glasses and a half-finished bottle of gin.
"So, what was this talk of rocking my world, lover-boy?" Kathy called over from the kitchen as she poured the gin into the glasses. She walked over to the coach and handed him a glass.
"You won't believe this, Kath," Art began, swirling the fluid around in the glass, "last month my agent called me about this deal. Some publishing company down in Texas read some of my stories and took interest in that novel I'm writing, since it stars the same characters and all. Anyways, for the last three weeks I've been trying to close the deal...and in a few days I've got a meeting with them. Baby, I think I finally got my break!"
Kathy could hardly contain her excitement and downed her drink in one gulp, much to the surprise of Art...who did the same. Combing back her raven hair with her hand, she smiled and looked at Art with a cattish glint in her eye. Getting up from her couch slowly, seductively, she took Art by the hand.
"I believe this calls for a celebration," she said in the most sultry voice she could muster.
"Sleep-over?"
"Sleep-over."
"Sweet."
...
That had been the best "sleep-over" Art had had in a long time.
Art snapped out of his reverie when his CD skipped. He took another sip of his cold coffee and then raised his heater up.
'Only a few more hundred miles, Art,' he thought, 'only a few hundred more.'
...
The white sedan pulled into the Motel 6's parking lot fairly early in the day, in fact, it was still dark out when he slammed the car's door and pulled his suitcase out of his trunk. The hotel wasn't the best looking, but hey, it was a Motel 6, and he didn't have the cash to blow on a room at the Holiday Inn down the road. It would have to do. On the bright side, maybe it was better than it looked on the outside? This town wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be, maybe the hotel would be the same?
Art had been surprised when he first entered Brownsville's city limits, it looked like a hick town at first, alright, but as he pulled further into town civilization seemingly sprang out of nowhere.
It was still different from Chicago, though, way different. First off, the roads had been practically barren on his ride over to the hotel, save for the occasional cop car. It was only 4:00 am for Christ sake! His hometown prided itself in its ability to stay up for hours on end fueled by nothin' but Starbucks coffee - which oddly enough, he saw, this town was currently constructing. Secondly, the buildings were much, much taller there...here, the buildings seemed to reach no higher than two stories.
'God,' he wondered, 'these people ever hear of the term, "reach for the sky?"
Art slung his suitcase over his shoulder and beeped his car locked. He'd left his laptop in the car, but he could always get that in the morning. Right now, Art was dead-tired, and the only thing he wanted to do right now was get a room and get acquainted with his bed.
The hotel's interior did, in fact, look a whole lot better than the outside did, but it was still pretty bad...and not worth mentioning. If you've ever been inside one Motel 6 lobby, you've been in them all.
As he approached the main desk, Art noticed that the man at the desk looked pretty jittery.
"Welcome," the man said, looking up from his magazine, "room for one?"
The man -- Miguel, Art glanced at the guy's I.D. tag -- was middle-aged with balding dark hair and a graying moustache that nearly covered half his face. His brow was creased with wrinkles and his eyes had dark circles under them that showed fatigue and only added to the aura of utter boredom Miguel seemed to exhume.
'Gee, Mee-gel, you look tired, brother. Want to take a break while I look after your Hustler?' Art considered saying, but decided against it and said instead, "Uh, yes. Put it under Art Hendricks, please, and can I also have a wake up call at exactly noon? I've got an important appointment at 4:00 pm."
Miguel nodded and walked over to the wall of keys and picked one out. The numbers '207' inscribed on the key-chain that accompanied the keys. He handed them to Art and directed him towards the elevator.
"G'night, compadre," Art waved back as he walked off. Miguel shrugged and went back to reading his magazine.
...
Fumbling with the locks, Art finally managed to get the door open and walked into his suite. It wasn't grande, but it would do. He made note of the essentials: one small TV with basic cable, check. Phone, check. Mini-fridge, check. Bed - he walked over to it, dropping his suitcase haphazardly on the floor behind him, and patted it, "Check!"
Slowly, he let himself drift off to sleep. The vast amount of caffeine he had consumed on his drive over would keep him awake for a bit, but soon it would pass...and Art would enter the sweet, sweet haven of his dreams and relax. And maybe have a nice dream of his last "sleep-over?" Perhaps.
I'll post my other ones later, but hey, if you're still in the mood for some torture, why not read some crappy fanfiction? The only two I'm actually proud of happen to be the FLCL ones, and they're both incomplete and remarkably old.
Edit: How about a nice link to an old original fiction, my first?
Edit: I think I'll post the beginning of this here, too, since WORD's on the fritz and won't save. >_<;;
"I'm not right," that's what I told her as I left her standing in the rain that day. She had been crying, my mind could comprehend that much at least. In my eyes, her tears only registered as zeros and ones, [eyes, liquid.] Her only outlet of emotion scrolled down down my shades in flashes of green, 01100101.01111001.01100101.01110011.00101100.00100 000.01101100.01101001.01110001.01110101.01101001.0 1100100.
She screamed at me, begging to know why I had to leave. I couldn't tell her. I didn't know myself, really, the only thing I knew is that Seattle was no place for my talents. My curiousity knew no bounds anymore, and busting through the firewalls of government facilities went from the adrenaline rush of a lifetime to providing nothing but cheap thrills. Once you've broken through the nation's highest security, where else is there to go? What other boundaries are there that have yet to be broken down?
That girl had been the only thing that kept me from tipping over the edge, from sinking into the darkness that I had not yet explored. When I severed my ties with her, I fell headfirst into the unknown. I left Seattle, I left my old life behind, all I had now were my eyes, and my mind.
So, it was, that I left my old life behind and started my life as the Schism of Reinhart. The world was my canvas, my scripts were my tools, the net was my domain. But, I knew, and still know today, that I'm not right; I've never been right. I haven't been 'right' since the day I was born, me, Tokiha Takeda of Seattle - the Schism of Reinhart.
...
My life began in a small Seattle hospital, don't ask me where, because I don't know. I don't remember my early life, so let's skip that part, huh? That was Takeda's life, not mine, not the Schism's.
The Schism began as my handle for a popular information exchange message board and chatroom I joined when I was fourteen. The board introduced me to many things, many, many things.
She screamed at me, begging to know why I had to leave. I couldn't tell her. I didn't know myself, really, the only thing I knew is that Seattle was no place for my talents. My curiousity knew no bounds anymore, and busting through the firewalls of government facilities went from the adrenaline rush of a lifetime to providing nothing but cheap thrills. Once you've broken through the nation's highest security, where else is there to go? What other boundaries are there that have yet to be broken down?
That girl had been the only thing that kept me from tipping over the edge, from sinking into the darkness that I had not yet explored. When I severed my ties with her, I fell headfirst into the unknown. I left Seattle, I left my old life behind, all I had now were my eyes, and my mind.
So, it was, that I left my old life behind and started my life as the Schism of Reinhart. The world was my canvas, my scripts were my tools, the net was my domain. But, I knew, and still know today, that I'm not right; I've never been right. I haven't been 'right' since the day I was born, me, Tokiha Takeda of Seattle - the Schism of Reinhart.
...
My life began in a small Seattle hospital, don't ask me where, because I don't know. I don't remember my early life, so let's skip that part, huh? That was Takeda's life, not mine, not the Schism's.
The Schism began as my handle for a popular information exchange message board and chatroom I joined when I was fourteen. The board introduced me to many things, many, many things.