Ravenstorture

Spyder: Sleep. I need sleep. now. I know I am a wierd, deformed, lovecrazed, psychopathic killing freak, but I am a very very tired psychopathic killing freak. I need to restore some stamina, anyway. I have a feeling that there will be corpses to form in the near future, and I will be damned if I have to fight to keep awake during all of it. [I]Harlequin look at her comically.[/I] Spyder: Shut up and die. Oh, um, never mind. [I]Spyder leaves the room in search of somewhere to sleep, muttering about what she will do to people if she is woken.[/I]

I know pretty much all the scientific names for phobias. Pretty dumb, hey? Well, I have alot of time on my hands. Here are a few common phobias, a few really cracked ones and some of my own... Yours: Kakorrhaphiophobia- Fear of failure or defeat. Acrophobia- Fear of heights. Molysmophobia or Molysomophobia- Fear of dirt or contamination. Astraphobia or Astrapophobia- Fear of thunder and lightning. Autophobia- Fear of being alone or of oneself. Arachnephobia or Arachnophobia- Fear of spiders. Claustrophobia- Fear of confined spaces. Coulrophobia- Fear of clowns. (very common) Mine: Aichmophobia- Fear of needles or pointed objects. Dysmorphophobia- Fear of deformity. Heliophobia- Fear of the sun. (for those of you who have seen the pallor of my skin, this should be obvious) Probably Nobody's: Euphobia- Fear of hearing good news. Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic. Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women. Allodoxaphobia- Fear of opinions. Barophobia- Fear of gravity. Anablephobia- Fear of looking up. Anthrophobia or Anthophobia- Fear of flowers. Apeirophobia- Fear of infinity. Bolshephobia- Fear of Bolsheviks. Arachibutyrophobia- Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth. And, my personal favourite... Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia- Fear of long words.

Well, the movie had some pretty good graphics with the whole going forward in time bit and those amazing little houses on the rivercliffs were cool, but am I wrong in thinking that movies usually have to contain some sort of plot? Anyway, I'm not sure if the book was even based on the novel by HG Wells, was it? I haven't read the book, but I didn't remember the movie stating that it was based on the novel. I think that if the movie was based on the novel, it probably would have been alot more enjoyable.

So, what is your opinion of subcultures? Do you belong to one, or do you frown on them? Is mainstream your scene, or do you shy from conformity and everyday society? Otaku seems like a pretty subculture orientated place, many many people openly suggesting (or even admitting) that they are crazy or wierd. I love this place, because I am crazy AND wierd. So tell me what you think...

[I]Spyder walked carefully up the wooden staircase, the darkness growing thicker until it enveloped her and she had to pause momentarily to set her night vision. Soon the ruined hallway appeared in front of her again, and she continued along it. Peering into each doorway as she passed it, she found three bedrooms, the bathroom, and what looked to be a study of some sort. The last door in the corridor, furtherest back in the house, was locked. She smiled with glee and removed a glove once more. Kneeling in front of the keyhole, she looked into it and saw light passing through, obstructed by a cylindrical object, hopefully a key of sorts. Spyder inserted one of her metallic fingernails into the lock and jiggled it until she hear the clink of metal falling on floorboards on the other side of the door. Then, checking the keyhole again to see if it was unobstructed, she lay on the floor and slid a nail under the doorway. A moment or two of scratching revealed that the key was two far away for her to reach with her two inch nail. Resting her head upon the ground, Spyder closed her eyes and opened her mind to the night in meditation, flinching at the sheer evil of the place in which she lay. Breathing deeply, concentrating on growth, concentrate, concentrate... the sound of metal scraping against wood... two and a half inches, three inches, three and a half, four, five, six... she opened her eyes and adjusted her other hand so that she would not impale herself during the exercise. Breathing slowly, deeply, retracting the probes from her mind into her fingers, into the enemies around her. More scratching, a clink. She had found it. Spyder brought the key out from under the door and sucked in deeply, her steel nails shrinking quickly back into her flesh. She winced at the cold sting it produced. Replacing her glove, she stood and leant against a wall as the blood flowed into her head slowly, making her sway. Squatting over, picking up the key. Inserting it into the lock, turning it, a click, grabbing the doorhandle, turning slowly, another click, pushing the door in, stepping inside...[/I]

[I]I sat outside in the wind, hunched over in emotional pain. Why did battle wounds only throb and apologies sting like welts rubbed with seasalt? Why am I so strong and agile in body yet weak and exposed in mind? What is wrong with me? I blame everything on my mutations. Why am I such a freak. Why does it have to be this way. Questions I ask myself every moment of night and day, yet I shy from the alternative...wait, footsteps... a figure approaches, walks with a catlike grace, not a lurching gait of the Lightbearers. I curl into the shadows and halt my breathing, difficult to do so short after crying. I let him pass and regain my breath. Listening intently to the conversation inside, I try to discern an identity to the newcomer. Were it not for the fact that he did not sense my presence, it may have been Harlequin. We can always scent eachother at close range, it's easy... he smells like me and I smell like him. Another person approaches me from inside, it's Athen. He looks angrily at me when he sees my foetal position, but when I look up with my tearstained eyes he smiles sympathetically and pats my hair. He offers my hand with a familiar call of, "My lady...", and I smile and take it, standing and wiping my eyes on my coatsleeve. The tempting aroma of burnt antelope consumes me as I step inside the house, and strangely enough all my feelings of hunger suddenly vanish. [/I]

[I]Valeigh walks into the main room and leans against a wall. Athen is butchering the antelope carcass in the center of the room, Spyder is kneeling in meditation in front of a broken window. As soon as she hears Valeigh enter the room, she arouses from her trance and stands, turning to face Valeigh.[/I] Spyder: I'm sorry. I just realised how hurtful I have been towards you lately. I would have taken it as offence if I were in your position, but I assumed that you wouldn't. It was stupid of me, I know. So was hunting you. But I make thousands of mistakes... [I]Spyder's voice trails off and she looks away, stung by her own words. Her demeanour buckles under the amount of effort it took to say that, and she walks quickly outside. Seconds later a scream is heard, carried away by the wind. But it is a scream of anger, and it is ignored.[/I]

[I]The party reaches the door and pauses.[/I] Spyder: Home, then? Athen: if that's what it's called, I suppose so... Spyder: We're not far, and Harlequin should arrive soon. [I]Athen looks doubtful, but keeps it to himself. Spyder and Athen return to the dark house they ventured from, Rico and the wounded Valiegh as additions this time. They go to enter the house from the back door, but a faint noise stops the party dead, and animal noises are heard from somewhere around the side of the house. Spyder motions for Rico to assist Valiegh, and then strips off her long, black coat and sword, laying them on the ground. Smiling to herself, she also removes her satchel and boots, revealing startlingly white feet and abnormally long toes, edged with long, sharp, silver toenails. She peels long black gloves from her arms and hands to reveal the same freakish fingers and metallic looking fingernails. Her knuckles number three to a finger. Then, tieing her long black hair back with one of the gloves, she cracks her shoulders and stalks off into the shadows. Silence follows, and then a savage, choking cry of terror. Spyder returns, wiping thick blood from her finger and toenails on her skirt. (that's right, I am wearing a SKIRT.) "And dinner," she announces, replacing her garments, "is served."[/I]

Spyder looked into the eyes of her opponent and rethought her course of action. This fight, she sensed, was almost pointless because she knew it was very possible neither would win. If she didn't try her best. Athen, sensing her thoughts, snorted and walked outside. He didn't make a sound but she knew he had left. Ignoring his sudden dissapearence, Spyder suddenly stepped back and brought her blade down and back, across her body. Breathing deep and slow, she swung it up and cut diagonally across her opponent's chest. The move was blocked and just as swiftly the defensive turned to attack, this time the clash of metal and metal was not heard. The stillness that followed was disturbed only by a raven black lock of hair, fallen slowly to the ground. Spyders heartbeat told her that she had better start paying attention.

It is cold, and the only light in the street comes from a flickering, yellow tinted streetlight. Spyder looks out from her refuge in the privet hedge to the old, paint-flecked colonial house across the road. The only sign of life is the dim light of a candle in the front window. A signal, she is sure of it. Checking that there is no one to see her, Spyder dashes across the road and runs quickly and swiftly up the old stairs, her bare feet not making a sound. Pulling the old screen door back and gathering her heavy black cloak around her more tightly, she knocks timidly at the door and waits, praying. Footsteps inside, the sound of a slide of a gun being pulled back. The doorhandle turns, and very slowly, a mirror peeks through the chained wedge of darkness. Spyder breathes a sigh of relief and leans forward, kissing the mirror and carefully leaving a black print of her lips in the exact centre. The mirror retracts back into the shadows and the door shuts on the sound of muffled laughing. The candlelight in the window is extinguished and the door opens again, an arm extending this time to welcome Spyder into the musty silence. They wait a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness before turning to embrace eachother quickly and hurrying down the hallway into a room open to many dark passages. It is warmer there, and Spyder turns to the occupant of the house, her eyes glowing strangely in the dark. Spyder: I have missed you terribly. The trip here was awful, wrought with danger, not the usual activity at all. Athen: I missed you to, and was worried about your safety. The Plainlands are becoming more and more dangerous as each night passes, I fear to cross them again. Spyder: Why do you think the danger is increasing? Athen: The moons are becoming stronger. Just a bit, but it's enough. How is Harlequin? Spyder: Dead. (shocked silence) Athen: I'm sorry... Spyder: He'll be here within the next ten or so hours, he knows where this place is, but Death has delayed him somewhat. Athen: ...and his passing? Spyder: Surprisingly painless. You know how painful it is for the strong. It was... different for him. Athen: We dont have ten or so hours, Spyder. Spyder: That's why I plan to get most of it done now. (click) Come on, get your coat. If we hurry, We can beat him back here. Athen: Let's go, then. (Spyder and Athen exit the house stealthily through the back door and head for the town, armed to the teeth and eyes glinting greedily at the prospect of blood)

A background? As always, the earth has fallen into darkness. An entity thirsting for power forcing the facade of reality into the subconscious of our minds. The distinction between life and death has become blurred, and the qualities and weaknesses of each state exchanged to the point where death is not the end, and life doesn't look all that flash either. But still, as with any misplacing of order, as with any sudden widespread chaos, there is two things that remain true. Good, and evil. Other points, well? not much to say other than the usual morphing of vermin to monstrous proportions, deformed births, massive crime upsurge, the constant fear of showing your face in sunlight, the mounting uncertainty of safety, and the aphorism that is always tied to times like these: trust no one. However, it is also important to point out that that may not be true. A foreground? May, 2009. News bulletin: Recent reports of an uprising religious movement, the "LightBearers", are becoming more and more frequent as each week passes. According to inside information, the numbers of people choosing to follow this uprising is beginning to progress into the hundreds of millions. Many fear that the ideology of this new 'cult' may be unsuitable for peacetime as it clashes violently with every other belief system, religious or otherwise. The streets are becoming unsafe as evangelism reaches new heights in major cities such as New York, Sydney, Hong Kong, Moscow, Athens, Instanbul, Madrid and London. June, 2009 The LightBearers announce the "Coming of a New Era", never a good sign. August, 2009 Electricity, gas and water plants are invaded, general industry is severed. September, 2009 Official Anarchy is announced, the people are on their own. January, 2010 Word of a gathering reaches you, the air smells of revolution. May, 2010 A messenger arrives, telling you that there is a meeting in the capital city nearby. You must reach it before the third moon. You are Alive when you set out, but the road is dark and awash with danger and that may change. Death means Immortality, but life means Regeneration. Remember that you are needed for a cause, so your heath and strength is an issue. Take whatever you can carry. The LightBearers carry staffs, capped with a lit globe. Its luminosity measures the staffbearer's health. Remember that these people are your enemy. _____________________________________________ Name: Spyder Status: alive Possessions: thin dagger, plain sword, various healing elixirs Bio: Skilled in designing, crafting and wielding blade weaponry. Father killed by a Lightbearer, striving to reach the gathering to kill Lightbearers if nothing else. Close adversary of Athen. Only infirmity is for her love, Harlequin, and her incessant lust for blood and carnage.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Raiha [/i] [B][COLOR=royalblue]Okay, well, Liam's right. Spacing is nice. And otherwise it's nice. LOL, anti-drug propaganda here..........[/COLOR] [/B][/QUOTE] So, what EXACTLY do you guys mean by spacing? do you think it's a bit too crammed together? I agree. It happens when you write a bit too.... passionately. And then dont edit is properly afterwards. Sorry 'bout that.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by cloricus [/i] [B]why did you block the name out - why even put the first letters? [/B][/QUOTE] I never put my real name on the net, and the rest is just habit. Those who know me will recognise who it is.

Didn't actually happen, just playing with adjectives and metaphores here, but it mirrors how I truly feel about you Harlequin... if you're reading this, my love... (and if anyone has read more of my stuff, they might have made a connection between the charecter in this and in a few other things of mine...) Ravenstorture ________________________________________________ From her position in the humid darkness, he looked almost porcelain, with curving patterns of the muscular arms and legs entwined in her own, to form a convolute tangle of limbs that spoke of tranquil ardour. She lay in the shadow and drank in the feeling of protection created by his silent presence, although a sense of iniquity emanated from this magnificent creature she had entwined in her arms. To anyone else he would appear to be hers, but she knew that possession could never be applied to him, as he was as wild and untamed as he was indescribably beautiful. To watch this figure took her breath away, to lie here entwined with it was more than she could bear, almost. She didn't dare make a sound for fear of the sight dissolving. Her lips ached for his skin, but she couldn't bring herself to move. There was a fluttering of movement, and his eyes opened to penetrate her own. Her breath caught in her throat, and a sudden stillness blanketed the air heavily. She felt her hand reach forward to take his own, careful not to break it. She did not know, as yet, what it was made of. The skin was velvety and white as bone where it intercepted the light. She lay her head on his chest and listened to the strong heartbeat. She could hear the vines growing through the cracks around her window. She shut her eyes and encircled his torso in her arms once more, silently thanking whoever cared to listen for the millionth time that night. She pictured the roseate crescent of his lips and obsidian eyes, through which a glimmer of the powerful and enigmatic mind could be seen. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on his skin, running off away from me and leaving a silver trail in the moonlight, and placing a delicate hand on her hair. She slid an arm across his chest and drew her head back to look at his face, and was blinded by his stunning beauty and overpowering presence. He saw the tears now streaming down her face and smiled. Pulling her down on top of him, he slid his tongue inside her and numbed her flesh with a kiss. :demon:

No name for this, I think it was just one of thise moments where you wake up at one in the morning, fumble for a match, a candle, a crayon and a flat surface and milk the sudden inspiration for everything it's got. Hope it was worth it. Ravenstorture ___________________________________________ As the day yawns before me I feel like an insomniac at the first glimpse of nightfall. I am lying in the corner of a bare, unfurnished room on an uncovered mattress. There is nothing else in the room except for a rumpled pile of dark clothing and a couple of spent syringes sitting in a glass of water. I glance over my scarred, tracked arm at the magnificent creature lying beside me. It had not yet woken, so I rose quietly and crossed the floor diagonally on my toes, using the wall to steady myself as my head swam. I paused to gaze back at the beautiful tangle of flesh and linen when I reached the doorframe. The mouldy carpet felt damp under my cold feet as I crossed it to the bathroom, which looked like something out of a prodigy clip, cockroaches and all. The mirror was fractured and old, but it still told me all I needed to know. I ran my fingers through my hair and closed my eyes as the scene before me swam sickeningly. I expected the feeling to disappear after a few seconds, but this time it lingered, and the intensity of my disorientation ascended until I found myself curled up on the cold tiles. I clutched my head in my hands tightly as shuddering spasms convulsed through my body and pain strobe lighted through my head. A sudden rush of heat up my back and into my prickling scalp turned the red vision to black and I awoke later to the feeling of a warm hand on my skin. Taking my hands away from my face, I found my surroundings were much too bright for my unadjusted eyes. I gasped and retracted my head, shutting my eyes tightly. Arms slid under my knees and shoulders to lift my fragile body up and carry it back to he soft reassurance of the mattress. I wait until the darkness is reinstalled by the heavy swish of a blanket being drawn over the dirty window, and relax my eyes. Opening them slowly, I blink though the nausea and reach over to find the glass of water and sip it timidly, holding the sharps back and wincing at the sound made by needles against glass. Leaning back again I relax my tense back muscles and hang the glass over the edge of the mattress. Still holding it, I contract my hand around it as agony unfurls in my head and spreads down my neck and shoulders, like a thorn infested vine growing down my spine into my legs. When the pain reaches my feet, it doubles back up my body, and the glass in my hand shatters, feeding the pain already nesting there like a coiled snake. I lie there feeling the shards of glass in my hand pulse in time with the rhythm of my weak pulse and he pain intensify and subside with every shuddering breath. ______________________________________ :demon:

This one is a true story, believe it or not... I tuned some sections to make it a tad more humorous, Douglas Adams style, to give the ending a bit more shock impact and to contrast them. Plus if I didnt the thing wouldnt hold you into it until the end. Hope it's engaging enough to get you through the whole 2085 words... enjoy. Ravenstorture ______________________________________________ Within An Inch of Her Flesh It was very hot when I woke up, but I still donned long sleeves, heavy trousers, gloves and a veil over my hair. Mum said it had something to do with 'respecting culture'. I couldn't understand how people could even move in this heat with all the clothing. Only the women wore it, not the men. I didn't think it was fair, but you can't argue with tradition. One woman, I noticed as I went out onto the balcony, wore a full black costume - you couldn't even see her eyes. I held a black cloth over my eyes to see if I could see through it - it was easy in the bright, dusty sunshine. The dark cloth filtered the glare that reflected off the Sahara, which stretched out behind me in every direction. "Can't I just stay here?" "Don't you want any breakfast?" "I'll come, but it's only because I love you so much." "Ok, you win. Macdonald's sound ok?" Macdonald's meaning bread, I thought. My mother had taken me to Egypt to experience cultures different from where I lived - Australia. From what I had seen so far, I had a completely new view on the world, on Egypt and even on Australia - how sheltered it was from the rest of the planet. Egypt certainly had a culture different from ours - usually Aussie girls wear less than the boys do, but here the minimum dress standard for women was to cover everything but the hands and face, and for men, it was to cover everything only from knee to navel. We locked the door to our old, smelly room and took the old, smelly lift down to the old, smelly ground floor. The streets were bustling with early morning activity and the glittering Mediterranean presented itself before me in a wide blue arc lined with a thick strip of garbage and dead fish. We walked past a butcher hanging up a beef carcass in the sun, nearly tripping over a thick layer of frantically howling cats as we edged around. The bazaar was packed with glittering 'prizes' and American tourists who "wanted a real taste of culture" and Mum and I were momentarily separated by a herd of goats. "This is it, I think." I called to mum as she was momentarily distracted by yet another glittering dance belt, her eyes fogging over. We had come to a small bridge at the end of the tourist's marketplace, the " display" Alexandria divided from the "real" city by a dirty stream of sewerage, dead cattle and a complete lack of tourists. We crossed the bridge and took a sharp left into yet another marketplace, smaller but with just as many people. This one had more goats, no tourists and less hygiene. No belts were sold here, only the things that the destitute needed, like vegetables and goats. Many of the women were completely covered in black, and poverty was out in force. "Hang on mum - let me catch up to you." I struggled through the crowd, desperate to catch her. I had something on my mind about this place. "Don't worry love - I'm sure that you could find your way home easily? before the child slavers get you, anyway." She casually read my mind. My face promptly adapted a horrified expression. "Just joking!" "Ha?" my laugh was as weak as my legs were. "Hold my hand - the goats are coming." We walked for a few more minutes, the tankers on the Mediterranean becoming dots glimpsed between passing buildings. "Mum, I know I've asked you this before, but why do the women have to cover every thing up?" Mum dragged me off the street into what could be mistaken as bakery, perhaps if you were drunk, but that was what it was meant to be. A bakery minus any type of hygiene standards and about thirty cats too many. "Because, love, the government and people are screwed. They don't treat females equally yet, and that is for a long and complicated reason." I ordered a loaf of bread in Arabic, pointing out that I wanted a fresh one, otherwise there was no way I would have got it. We injected ourselves into the thick, sluggish traffic of people sliding past the "bakery" and wondered where it would take us. I had no doubt we would find out, one day. Alarming thoughts perhaps, if you are in a country where there may be room to go where you please, but hey, this was Africa. It seemed that the progression was taking us north, out of the slums, towards the bay. My loaf of specially requested fresh bread was yanked out of my hand, dislodging my glove. The assailant saw the white pallor of my skin and quickly placed the loaf back where it had come from, and dismissed himself with a mumbled apology. My path was abruptly obstructed by a wall, and mum and I sat on it. I soon discovered that my demands for an edible breakfast had not been met. The loaf met its older brother on the garbage-strewn sand, and I continued to starve quietly and without fuss. "Mum?" "What, love?" She was not handling the craving for food as well as I was. "What happens if women accidentally reveal themselves in public? Like, their arm or something?" Mum was suddenly silent, and she didn't look at me when she replied, "I don't know." I had a feeling that she did. She had been reading about it since she was able to, a real human rights activist, and I supported her and shared her views all the way. She had taken me across the world to show me the horror - was it so bad she couldn't tell me? We watched the street as the sun reached its zenith, and shadows suddenly found better places to spend their time. The waves crashed behind us as if they also had better things to do, but didn't have the luxury of pissing off for a while like the shadows did. I swatted at a mosquito, and then at a seagull. Mum rose and we walked back to the hotel as fast as the sun would allow, the streets falling silent as the siesta began. When I awoke to the three o'clock prayer, a small portion of the heat had been replaced by humidity. My left hand was sunburnt from lying in the sun, and no matter where I looked, I could not find any energy to perform any bodily functions like breathe, and think straight. Mum bounded into the room, scaring away a few mangy cats that had seen fit to invade our hotel room. "Let's go!" I struggled for air and made little gurgling noises. "Ready? We're going to the Internet café, remember?" I rolled off the bed but did not have the energy to fall anywhere. "Lunch?" I suddenly leapt into the bathroom and straight back out again, dressed and drooling. My hunger had majestically preceded my death state, souvlaki here I come. "Ugh." I grunted with enthusiasm, as my brain had not received its fair share of blood as yet. "I'm going to pack when I get back, the train to Cairo leaves tomorrow, doesn't it?" "Yes - that's a good idea, actually." She stood there and looked thoughtfully at the floor. I turned around to look for the city guide, and stood on the third pair of sunglasses this week. The lift was literally nowhere to be seen, so we took the stairs. I liked the stairs, the banister was excellent to slide down, but unfortunately there was one to many dead cockroaches today, so I relished the exercise of dodging cats instead. Our little hotel was situated on the bay road, in the center of the wide arc that capped Egypt. A gigantic mess of high rises and buildings stood a way away to our right, and Guide to Egypt told us that it concealed an Internet café. "The easiest way to not get lost in Alexandria is to follow the northern coast. It sort of has an edge like a stamp, so really it's just one bay after another. If you find a bay, you're on the top coast." Mum drilled me as she caught the horrified look in my eye as the massive tangle of apartment buildings loomed in front of us. "If you do get lost, wait an hour or so and you'll hear one of the five daily prayers. See how the men always point it one direction as they lie down to pray? There's your compass bearing; men always point east when they pray, towards Mecca. If you know east, you know north, and then you find the bay and in turn, our apartment." We walked a while in silence. The air became cooler as the packed suburban nightmare skyline began to block the hot desert sun. "Ok, well this shouldn't take long. Someone will know where the internet cafe is?" Her voice faded out as she caught sight of a woman driving around the corner, covered from head to toe in black, her scared eyes peeking out from a pale slit over her face. We quickly crossed the road to the bay edge, the pavement framing the wide bay separated from the dirty beach by a short, stout wall about three quarters of a metre high. The lady's hands were high on the steering wheel, and her sleeve was slipping dangerously low, revealing a sliver of pale flesh. She didn't notice in time. "Gareah! Gareah kawabi!" Mum screamed as she shoved me back to the wall. Suddenly a screech was heard as a man abruptly stopped his car and got out, abandoning his vehicle in the road and more men started to walk towards us, some yelling angrily. The woman in the car had revealed just an inch of flesh and had not covered it in time. She began to wail and shriek in Arabic but I understood enough to realise that she was frantically praying. "L*** - run!" Mum yelled but I could not move, I was so shocked at what was happening in front of my very eyes. Everything began to slow down, and I began to notice in shocking detail the violence in the men's eyes. They began to kick and beat the car, and one man smashed the driver's side window, cutting the woman's eyes, and dragged her onto the footpath at my feet. The mob closed in and I was roughly shoved onto, and over, the wall. It was short on that side but on the other side it was a sickening drop, not far, but it looked that way from upside down. I fell onto a pile of garbage, the breath knocked from my lungs. I could hear the woman scream and they struck the life from her, her bones snapping like branches - only a few feet away from me. The beach behind me was swamped with angry people yelling, some brandishing weapons and clubs. A man had stood on my hand as I had not yet got up, and the increasing pressure from the mob forced me back over the wall. My feet scrabbled at the granite wall worn by years of high tides. By the time I had collapsed on the other side, the crowd was walking away, no longer interested in what had happened. The woman had been beaten beyond recognition. Blood was splattered everywhere, and as I knelt staring at this unfortunate woman I felt as if I were alone on the street. We were the only two people in the world. I thought of all my mother had taught me about society, about the relationship between men and women and what it had done to us in the past years. It had not gone away, and although we were sheltered from it in Australia, my mother had known and she had taught me about the horrible planet we live on the best way she could. She had shown me. Perhaps this woman, too, had known. She may have shown her children also. Thinking of my love for my mother and the chances and luck that I had I lay down, on the street next to the dead woman, and cried as the sun set behind the wall in a blaze of purple and orange. L*** G****** In Memory Of Hakea Tamanya, 1977 - 1998

There are very few stories in the world that suck me in as quickly as this one did, and even fewer that keep me so engaged. I couldnt seem to read it quickly enough. The final draft should be amazing. ..Ravenstorture.. :demon:

Tell me if this kind of writing does anything for you, if anyone enjoys it I'll do some more. Ravenstorture ____________________________ She has put her fist through the window of her apartment. As she pulls her arm back, along with half the window, the shards slice across her wrist and the palm of her hand, simple as a knife slicing through uncooked white chicken meat. The blood begins to fill the gash to the brim, spilling over, as she looks down at her hand with detachment. The sound of glass falling fills her ears with wind chimes, the sound of glass filling the blue night. Ballerinas of glass cling to her wrist, she plucks them out and lets them fall to the floor. She walks to the bathroom and holds her cut hand under the tap, filling the sink with diluted blood. She smiles to herself - she always smiles when she feels broken and ground up, with nothing left except a diamond in her chest. A diamond that nobody can pluck out and possess. A diamond beautiful like herself. She knows she is beautiful because the sure, sharp mirror tells her so. I see someone in the mirror, though, who is not beautiful, and that is why she hates me. I am the part of her she wants to kill. She has tried before, but what she doesn't know is that if it weren't for me she would have died long ago. I won't let her die, even if she doesn't like me I won't. Maybe that is why she hates me so much. I am the one who holds her together, and how can I help it if I see bloodshot eyes and the pores of her skin as she bends over the mirror? The blood mingles in the water in the sink, in sluggish streaks. The water becomes the colour of roses. She can hear the glass falling in her apartment; her attention has always been held by bright and flashing things, and she is awed at having created the scattering glass with it's private, special orchestra. She loves everything prismatic, fake or real. Chandelier droplets. Diamonds. Treasure buried in white lines... She wraps her hand in a towel, watching the white material become tie-dyed with splotches of red. She walks back into the living room and sees the window, an open mouth in the night, dripping glass. ____________________________ :demon:

Just tell me what you think. Honesty apreciated. Ravenstorture September 28th, 2001 I sit on the floor and roll my hand absentmindedly over the ampoules on the floor in front of me. There are three encasing gold liquids, like beech honey, and two with a clear, viscous liquid inside. I glance towards my bedroom boor, bolted several times, for the millionth time that hour. The sound of the television down the hall drags me screaming back into the world in which I am based. For now. I hiccup, and then swear under my breath. It jolts my body in a way I do not feel comfortable with, not at all, and I lean against the wall and hold my breath, wishing it would go away. Reaching behind me, I feel the edge of slippery paper under my shaking fingertips. Dragging it out, I flick the sterile packet across my fingers a couple of times and close my eyes, feeling the pulsating vibrations of my surroundings in time with the music I have playing, to mask the moaning that will follow. I open my eyes and rip open the packet, drawing out the syringe and placing it on the floor next to the ampoules. I begin to unbutton my shirt slowly, and when I reach halfway I slip my arms out from the sleeves and let the shirt drop to my lap. My right hand searches the floor for a silver ampoule. I pick it up and break the neck of the ampoule against the wall carefully as not to spill any precious liquid and place it back on the floor, dipping the needle of the syringe into the crystalline substance. Drawing strength into my hand, I slowly retract the pedicle, lengthening the instrument of pleasure and pain to almost double its size. I exhaust the ampoule, pushing all thoughts of Flynn to the deepest recesses of my mind, burying guilt with the excuse that that is where he is safe. But as I open another ampoule and suck out the venom inside, my heart flinches painfully away from the fact that there is nowhere safe inside my head. The syringe is full, so I bring it up in front of my face and squirt some liquid out to eliminate any lethal air bubbles. Undoing my watch, I shove it up my arm past the elbow and pump my fist rhythmically. I watch my left arm in avid fascination as the veins begin to rise like fences keeping me from peaceful dreams and a boyfriend that never leaves me. My eyes dart quickly from my arm to the door, then to the syringe in my hand and back to my arm again. They creep up to my elbow as my other hand encases the syringe and positions it in my fingers. Turning the needle around to face into my elbow, I hiccup again, violently jolting my arm and almost stabbing myself with the syringe. I swear again and lean back quickly, pushing the steel into my raised vein and injecting myself with imitation happiness. I feel the taste of it come up into my throat, like mercury or copper or one of those metals, and that silvered feeling all along the back of my neck and shoulders, where it'll hurt the next morning. I throw the syringe away before I lose myself in the rush and fall on it, and pull the tourniquet down off my scarred forearm. The music becomes dull and heavy, like it's playing in another room, and as I shut my eyes I feel hands running up my thighs, pushing themselves into me and pulling everything out onto the cold, hardwood floor. I open my eyes again to behold the magnificent sight of all my internal and sexual organs lying in my lap and across the paraphernalia of my self-destruction. The hands squirm inside me as something tightens like angel wire round their source and they begin to die a violent death. I can feel the empty chasm inside me grow still as the hands disappear and I vomit my heart out onto my crossed legs, still beating sporadically to the beat of the distant music. Another rush comes, and this time I'm standing, someone is underneath me, I'm trying to see if it's someone I trust but I cant see their face because they are lying on their stomach and we're too deep underwater for there to be enough clarity for vision. Some clock chimes in the distance, I can't count the bells but just in case it was twelve I wish myself a happy birthday and force my love into a tighter ball at a deeper place in my mind. :demon:

read it, tell me what you think, yadda yadda yadda BUTTER FLIES This story refers to the annual American migration of monarch butterflies southwards to California, Florida, and Mexico. A thousand or more shifting, fluttering monarch butterflies tumbled through the air, their collective shape convulsing and twisting in the soft afternoon light. A slightly less number of custard tarts sat silently, in wait, twenty or so kilometres ahead. Mrs Bruin paused in her Friday afternoon ritual of taking in the washing to note a passing shadow. Glancing towards the low sun, she saw to her utter dismay the familiar cloud like a swarm of bees dancing with the last rays of sunlight. Suddenly torn between her washing and the tarts cooling about her kitchen windowsill, she imagined someone emptying a vacuum cleaner and decided another load of washing wasn't half as bad as baking another hundred tarts for the monthly church market. Dashing inside, she began to clear surfaces with a speed only a sixty-year-old woman faced with a shitload of baking could muster. Meanwhile, a thousand or so monarch butterflies advanced with terrifying speed. Mr Bruin looked up from his cricket biography at the sound of enraged muttering coming from the kitchen. Something about generic floor plans, small kitchens, low maintenance housing, not nearly enough bench space? as indeed Mrs Bruin was in a spot of bother as to where to put all twenty baking trays of her steaming ten centimetre radius by five centimetres deep custard cream tarts. Resorting finally to placing upturned glasses amongst the tarts and balancing more trays on top to form a sort of multi-storey pie tray, she finally fit all the trays inside. Mrs Bruin collapsed against the fridge with a sigh and a squelch as one of her beige half-heels sank into a pie on a dish on the parquet. As the sunlight dimmed, Mr Bruin wondered if it was the dying day or just that time of the year again. Mrs Bruin, however, was so exhausted by the ordeal that she did not bother to count the nineteen pie trays crammed in the tiny kitchen, and thus overlooked the twentieth sitting innocently outside on a garden table. The butterflies, however, did not. Butterflies, contrary to what many believe, are not stupid. They are very aware of the saying "nobody suspects the butterfly", and take great pleasure in taking advantage of it. Butterfly activity can be traced in the disappearance of a two and a half-ton steel wrecking ball from an Indianapolis construction site in 1974, sparking the idea for René Magritte's painting "the infinite search", and in many cases of cow mutilation and Human Spontaneous Combustion. The butterflies dive bombed the custard, tiny thwocking rousing Mrs Bruin from her daze in the kitchen. Running for the back door, the slammed into it and fell unconscious at her husbands feet, deaf to his explanation of the suddenly locked door. "You know what happened last year," he said. "We were clearing out those butterflies for weeks on end?" Thwock, thwock, smack, bubble, squeak, flutter, laughter. Fine feelers and antennae became clogged with thick, hot, steaming custard and all sense and feeling was lost to the sweet tasting goo. One thousand butterflies held custard fights over the washing line, the tiny pitter patterings of custard hitting tiny furry bodies and the light insectoid laughter filled the air as the monarchs dusted Mrs Bruins washing with a light shower of custard and butterfly dust. Breeding could wait - as far as the butterflies were concerned, getting there was half the fun. Ravenstorture :demon: