Does anyone here write?

[vgking7]

Really. Who cares.

[Chuck_The_Duck]

Glad to hear that everyone here at least has an interest in it... btw, drop me a line if you want to come over to my website and write with me and Nick. Its hard, but I think that it's rewarding in the extremes. And at least no one will make fun of you.
Heres the URL if you want to check it out
http://perservere.proboards104.com/i...ead=166&page=1
Not much now, we just deleted the book that Nick and I wrote together, called Cold Cash and Colder Hearts. You might see it in a bookstore one day. Ha.

[Ryu_Hayabusa]

Like vgking said, I wrote Autumn War, which currently is still being written but decided to take some time off writing since my life has been so busy with school.

[Cooldude]

Iwrite privete stories for my freinds,but thats it.

[vgking7]

Can't wait till the new chapter comes out.

[SPAD3R]

Oh yeah, do you have a Publisher for your book yet?
Or an Editor?

EDIT: If you already do I might be blind or something.

[Chuck_The_Duck]

Oh yeah, do you have a Publisher for your book yet?
Or an Editor?

EDIT: If you already do I might be blind or something.

Hmm. We're not sure yet if we want to publish it... but in any case, no. We don't have any PR guys or anything.

[vgking7]

Well you should. It's an awesome story.

[BeardedHoplite]

i does a wee bit here and there

[Chuck_The_Duck]

*sighs*
Only just got time to write this tonight. Just another sample of what is to come. Sooner or later I'll bind em all together when it gets really long and post 'em all here as a book. Have fun.

The dream comes to me, again. I’m at the pinnacle of a skyscraper; the epitome of human achievement, really. Glancing around me, checking the wind, testing the humidity. I stare down the scope of the rifle, the propranolol coursing through my veins. Slowing down my breathing, almost stopping my heart, causing my aim to steady and my mind to clear. Classic, really. My son told me that Solid Snake used the same thing, I really had no idea it worked so well. There is a man looking out over what he thinks is his city in the distance. How naive. My hand moves slowly to the trigger, the finger extending through space to deliver its deadly fifty-caliber payload. Enter, stage left, our second player. A woman, probably about twenty-five, crossing the large outcropping to give him a hug… or something more. Some may call it sick, others just insane, but my only thought is how to shoot through both of them. My course is set. Their futures determined as I pull the trigger of my brand-new Barrett fifty-caliber. The shot echoes through space, traveling at three hundred and forty meters per second. The bullet, however, travels at eight hundred and fifty three. Science, look into it. The bullet speeds through the air. At this distance, it will take it about one point eight seconds to reach the target. The sound, however, will take almost four point seven seconds. Perfection. A second before impact, the head turns. The woman looks strangely familiar. The curves, the accentuation, the hair. I know this woman. And her name is Linda Darson.

I wake in a cold sweat. The dreams are more violent now; more than they’ve ever been. When you have a dream that you are so sure is real, how can you tell the difference between the dream and reality? What if the dream is reality? Stupid, unimportant facts; stupid dreams, meaningless and trivial. I look at the clock on the wall, 5:55, it reads. Just on time. I get dressed; get my white shirt on, the tightness showing off my muscles, impressive even at forty two. Looking in the mirror over my sink, I catch my reflection. Looking back at me is an aging man, haunted by his past and… made of bulls**t. I chuckle; today is bound to be a good one. I get to the edge of my cell door, the guards already stirring about the perimeter. 6:05 rolls around and right on time, they begin the wakeup bell, followed shortly by the rapping of nightsticks on the cell doors. Mine is avoided, of course. The guards nod, and today I see how they react to a blank, cold stare. They look like scolded schoolchildren. Who knew that preschool manners crossed over into the prison scene? The doors open, with that sound of metal grating that I absolutely abhor. I make a mental note to order WD-40 into the block, maybe there should be an incentive programs based on the decibel level of the door. The checks begin, every prisoner patted down from head to toe. They hit the third prisoner in the second row and all of a sudden, the man is on the ground amid shouts and orders to cease the struggle. I calmly walk into the circle of activity and observe the tactics of the guards, some of who I taught myself. I found myself mentally ordering them to apply pressure here and there, carefully avoiding the death throes of this beast or a man. Finally he is subdued with a blow to the head. Stunning, yes, but fatal, it is not. The guards pull a small packet out of the man’s shirt pocket. A small bag of some material; probably cocaine by the looks of it. The guards look at me questioningly and I give them a small nod. The man will serve ten days in solitary confinement, far more than enough time for him to think about what he has done. The small crowd quickly breaks up with a few glances and we head off to the cafeteria, only thirty-three minutes behind schedule. An isolated incident, without rhyme or reason, I reassure myself. I get my meal and head to my seat, alone.
And then I am disrupted, for the second day in a row. Absolute madness isn’t the right phrase, but it’s the first that comes to mind.

“Edward Darson! Is there an ‘Edward Darson’ here?”

I get up, slowly and deliberately. The warden is an overweight human example of fecal matter. The man can hardly get out of his office, much less intimidate a man. Nowadays, he keeps to his office while I run the scene for him. If I could kill one person at this moment, I’m sure it would be him. But I must keep up appearances.

“Edward Darson, sir. Reporting as you asked.”

He walks over from the observation deck to a small nearby catwalk. The a**hole can barely fit.

“Report to my office ASAP, Darson. I need to have a word with you.”

“Aye sir. Will do.”

As the warden moves back to his office, the cafeteria alights with conversation. I look around, catching most eyes, and the conversation turns to quiet whispering. Loose lips sink ships. I throw my lunch away, and a shame, too, I had only finished about half. No bother. I head over to the nearest guard, and he leads me off into the labyrinth of safety corridors and security systems. Too bad I didn’t actually own the system, I’m sure this place could be quite a fortress. I look around and wonder what the old man could possibly want to talk about. Had he noticed that the guards no longer took orders from him? Had he wondered why his paycheck was less than that of his lieutenants? Had he read into the accounting books and found that I had sorted the place out? No matter. The guard and I approached the office and he let me in using a key the size of my fist on a door that was twice my size, at the very least. As he opened them up, a dissatisfying creak sounded from them. The noise was absolutely horrendous and I remembered at once why I hated this man so. As I head into the office, I notice the man looking out the window with his wide-brim hat on, smoking a cigar and motioning for someone to get the door. As it closes behind me I have to wonder how many times he watched “Smokey and the Bandits” as a kid. The warden gets up from his seat slowly, and I recognize the man standing with him as Lt. Brannigan, a man I held in some high respect. Irony, really. The only man I truly liked standing at the right hand of the man I most despised. The warden, or Robsen Paulson, as his brass nameplate claimed, stood up and looked me over slowly, like he was looking for something. Sick, desperate man. Truly the last person I would ever kill, if only to stop him from touching me for a moment longer.

“Darson. Right. I called you here because… Ahh, because… Dern it, I had it and it lost me.”

Brannigan whispered something in his ear and the warden… Paulson smiled and nodded. Maybe he just liked the fact that someone was brazen enough to whisper in his ear. Sick, fat man.

“Right. I called you here because we have some news for you.”

A moment of silence. I look him over, he looks like he wants me to say something. So I do.

“Out with it. I have work to do, Paulson.”

He flushes red as Brannigan whispers something in his ear, and he calms down a bit, the redness still pervading through his ears.

“You are going to have a roommate. Soon. Someone by the name of Charles Winter. Just thought you should know.”

“Well. Thank you. I’ll have my leave now.”

I could hear the swearing under his breath as I left the room, the guard that let me in waiting for me. So. I had a roommate. The last one I had died of natural causes, though, to me, death is about as natural as it gets. Heart attack, they say. Something tells me it was the fact that I represented the devil to him. I kind of gathered that after he saw me the first day and couldn’t stop muttering “El Diablo” under his breath at me. It drove me absolutely insane. And as luck would have it, nature was on my side. That night, he suffered from a heart attack and I never had to hear from him again. The writhing as he died was quite atrocious. Good thing I was on the top bunk, as it was. So I had another one to break. Another spirit to crush under my boot. Charles Winter. How natural. How quaint. Charles Winter. As I got back to my cell, empty for not much longer, I called upon a guard to get me this man’s information and number. I would know everything about him. His name, number, D.O.B. I would make him squirm with how much I knew. His convictions. His motive. Everything. I would make this prison a personal Hell for him.

Oh the fun we will have. Oh the times we will share. Oh the humanity. Oh the sickness of it all. We would have fun here in cellblock D. As I get to my accounting, the only thing on my mind is how best to torture the man. Sick, yes. Twisted, yes. Fun? If half of the U.S. knew how entertaining it was to torture others, half of the population would be stuck in a serial killers basement, serving only to please. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a temptation is to give into it.

“The healthy man does not torture others - generally it is the tortured who turn into torturers”
-Carl Gustav Jung