Novel/Short story

[nilzizi]

That sounds great!

[BASALTWOLF]

i reckon we have a "CRE8IVE" forum section..
for stories or gfx etc

[nilzizi]

Added some more stuff to the story

[Chuck_The_Duck]

Well, heres my little take on this whole thing. Writing this up as we speak. It'll be a finished product here soon.

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Why am I here? It is a question that has plagued humanity for generations. Why am I here? Am I alone? What is the meaning of life? All tough questions, questions that humanity stopped searching for long ago. You are here because you allow yourself to be commanded there. You are alone because people tell you that you are. The meaning of life? The meaning of life is merely to die.
My name is Edward Darson. I have been in prison for five years now, on some trumped-up charges concerning the whereabouts of my assets. But the real reason? Oh, now that’s something that they never want to tell you. That’s something that they will never fess up to. I am here because with my knowledge, my expertise, I could put many very, very important people away. So what do I do, you ask? Officially, I am a paralegal for a law firm. A very large, important law firm. But, off the charts, away from the light, I am what this world prefers to call a mercenary; a man who murders, maims, and tortures to get the job done. But they’ll never tell you that. Oh, I’ve worked for some very important people over the years, and you might even know some of them. But there’s no need to add insult to injury. They think that I’m safely tucked away in my prison cell, rotting out the rest of my years in this place, never being able to tell my story. But one day, I will escape. One day, I’ll get out of here and make them pay for what they have done to me. What they have done to my wife. What they have done to my child.

My wife’s name was Linda Darson, my child Paul. Both are lying in graves right now, all because the wrong person got mad at me. And me? I was framed for the murder, sent to prison for the influx of cash that I had, and banished from society for… well, you get the point. My wife was a beautiful woman. She was also one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She believed in second chances, fate, and she had hope. Hope that humanity would retrace its steps and go back to a more civilized time, one without war, poverty, famine, death. She was always an optimist. But in spite of all that, these men, these monsters, broke into my house in the dead of night. They shot my wife in both legs so she couldn’t run away. Then they raped her, and made my son watch. When they were finished with her, they killed her with a bullet to the brain. Then they turned to my son, my ten-year-old son, and shot him twice in the stomach, and just watched him bleed out onto the floor. Monsters. When I came home there was nothing I could do but sit and cry to myself. Calling the cops wouldn’t have even helped at that point. When S.W.A.T raided the house, I was there, cradling my wife’s dead body in my arms. They didn’t even have the heart to take me away from her. Two hours later, I’m in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of my lawyer, when I’m told that there will be no lawyer. There would be no bail. There would be no more questioning. I was a sleazy wife-killer and I had killed my son as well. They thought that the beatings could hurt me more, but they were wrong. You may not know, but there is nothing more devastating then coming home to your wife and child, brutally murdered and lying in their own blood and feces. Here’s to hoping that you never have to.

So now I am here. I was convicted to thirty years in prison for embezzlement and forgery of official documents. I’m sure they wanted to book me for my wife too, but apparently you can’t pay off the normal cop. Not for something like that. So here I am, five years into my sentence and it feels like I just got in here yesterday. But that’s not saying that I’m exactly a saint. I may not have murdered my wife, but there’s a lot of people in heck that I’m sure want a piece of me. As of my prison term, I had murdered twenty-nine people. And for every one, I have a prize. A little souvenir, picked up off the body, off the terrain, off the local townsfolk; just to remind me exactly where I was and what I did. A lot of soldiers say that after the first couple of kills they just loose count. I can never forget. The faces that I’ve seen, the smell of the body as it releases its bladder, the feel of the gun, or the knife, in your hand. You can never forget. Twenty-nine people.

So, now you know. Label me a monster, see if I care. Tell me that I’m a freak; tell me that I’m insane. You would be absolutely right. I am a monster. I am insane. But I swear upon my wife and my child that I will get out of here. I will make these people pay for what they have done to me. I will murder them. I will murder their families, their associates, their friends, everyone remotely in contact with them. Every single one will die by my hand. And when I am done, I can finally rest. Until then, I am Edward Darson. I am a monster. I am a freak. And I will release a torrent of violence that this nation has never known. I will make the blood spill across the US. I will chase my adversaries across the world. I will make sure that every last one of them pays the dearest price to me for what they have done.

“Thus that which is the most awful of evils, death, is nothing to us, since when we exist there is no death, and when there is death we do not exist.”
-Epicurus
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Yeah, nilzizi, its not... bad, but it fails to keep interest in the subject. Fails to describe your character, you know? First off, embellish on what you mean when you say, "Its as if there was one single person 'programming' the entire world." Its a very interesting concept, you need to take on that. Put more onto the description of the characters you describe, how they look, how they act, etc. And put more feeling into your whole "love scene." Simply putting "I really dont understand it," simply makes readers loose interest and honestly, you could get a lot of mileage out of description.
All in all, not bad. Not bad, you just need more detail here, more thought, and more feeling. Good luck, dont hesitate to ask for some help from yours truly.

[SPAD3R]

LoL
You sound like a LA teacher, but still AWESOME STORY.
You too nizili.

[nilzizi]

Added a lot more stuff and followed some of your advice Chuck

[SPAD3R]

Well. I just hope that NO ONE comes on.
AHAHAHAHAHAH
Well I WIN!!!!

[Dixon]

Im on.... nice story nilzizi. (highfives)

[SPAD3R]

Man....
Been a long time still....LOL
I STILL WIN!

[Chuck_The_Duck]

I woke up at six o clock, as usual. I don’t know what it was, but today just seemed different. The smells, the taste of the air, the sight of my bunk… I don’t know what it was but today just seemed like my first day here, again. I get up and stretch, my vertebra cracking in discomfort. I walk slowly to the entrance of my cell, the feeling of something new and refreshing very nicely sitting in my mind. The usual wake up call, the night sticks making the loud metallic noise as they rap past, the guards nodding to me quietly, the buzzer, the exit. All made sweeter by this feeling that I had. For the life of me, I cannot place it. The search, the walk to the cafeteria. The oatmeal, which I decided that I would have warmed today, is placed on the table in front of me, with my tray and my glass of orange juice. Although that would eventually find its way into the records, I felt that today was the day to celebrate. If I could only remember why…

Then it hit me. My new associate. My new partner, that enigmatic Charles Winter that would be joining me in my cell. My new… employee. He was – is – a drug dealer. I have a bit of a problem with them… but at least it proves that he was smart enough to succeed for a little while, at least. White, a very nice attribute. He showed signs of knee problems in the holding cell; that could be a good thing and a bad thing. He lived in a small apartment, no relatives that I know of, no contacts that I’m aware of. He worked on his own, which, though concurrent with many of his kind, shows initiative. No signs of struggle upon arrest, no signs of resistance in prison, and he got off with a very, very light sentence. Amazing what money can do for you these days. The only problem is his occupation. You see, when you get into prison, everyone assumes that your life stops, that everything is put on hold, and you serve your time, frozen in time. This is not the case at all. The forgers? They keep notebooks, filled to the brim with signatures they copy and those they make up, and swap them in their spare time. The tax evaders scheme for new ways to make money, and write them on the walls, tell them to one another, mutter to themselves in their sleep, just so that they know what to do when they get out. And the drug dealers? Well, they deal drugs, of course. It’s the two-sided coin, really. On one side, you have the ecstasy that the drugs give your employees in this hellhole, and the profit that you can potentially make from it. Liken the experience to prostitution in a warzone. On the other hand of that ugly coin, you get the addictions, the violence, the bartering and the black market. I run this prison, drugs do not.

Charles Winter. Drug dealer, supposedly reformed now. But isn’t everyone in prison? One oddity arose during my investigations of his actions. When he was booked, his phone call wasn’t made to the pawn shop, the bail center, or the lawyers. It was made to a cleaning service. What could a man like him need from a cleaning service? Perhaps he was one of those obsessive compulsive kinds. All the sweeter for me, I enjoy the pristine conditions of my cell. Charles Winter. Like my favorite ulcer. My most affectionate tumor.
Ah yes, remembering this made the day that much more sweet. It was 9:13, and I was sure that the Warden was giving Mr. Winter the dullest speech of his entire life. 7th grade math class has nothing on the Warden. I sighed and got up from my seat, the oatmeal lying half-eaten on the tray. As I made my way to the entrance of the cafeteria, I stopped near a man who was eyeing his meal with some distaste.

“I assume that the cold oatmeal doesn’t serve your stomach well?”

“Well, yeah, this f**kin- Mr. Darson! Ah, thank you sir. This… erm…”

I chuckle a bit, it’s like watching an animal realize what it meant to be shot. That slow realization that there is a person behind that gun, and he is just as vicious.

“Do not worry about that. Here, take this… it should still be a bit warm.”

“Ah, thank you sir. I’m sorry about th-“

“Do not ever apologize for the way you think.”

With that I walked away, that entire table silent, the man testing the oatmeal slowly then ravishingly consuming it. Occasionally, it pays to be the nice guy. Fear does a body well, but it is respect that truly brings out the best in leadership. I make my way back to my cell, a guard accompanying me. After that incident the other day, they wanted to make sure I was safe, they told me. In actuality, we really couldn’t afford many more accidents; this month seemed to be filled to the brim with small incidents and things of that nature. Babies that needed to be delivered back home. Accidents with the new buzz-saw in the job reclamation area of the cellblock. This and that, medicine and operations, stitches and staples. Yes, yes, I had to watch my temper, or else that money would start to come from my personal Swiss account. And here they thought that the generous donations to the prison every Christmas came from a concerned citizen. Sometimes I do laugh at my audacity.

My cell seemed different, and I at once noticed that there was a new smell, a new taste to it. The clothing piled on the top of the bed clued me in that the conversation the Warden was having was about to come to a close. Mr. Winter was just in time for me to have a chat with him, for someone to show him around the place, and for lunch, of course. No, I couldn’t have my new employee not knowing what the deal was around here. The beat, as it be. As I sat at my desk, which had been pushed further into the corner to make room for this new being, this presence, I thought about what it would be like to have a partner again. Not a partner, though, it was too soon to introduce partnership into this. Associate, more like. An associate that could help me with the paperwork, lend a needed hand, give me a second opinion. From a perfectly businesslike standpoint, it was such a good idea. From my standpoint, I knew that I would have to keep one eye open when I slept; one of my hands free at all times around this man, never turn my back to him. Yes, he could be dangerous, no matter what his file said he had done inside and outside of jail.

As I waited for Mr. Winter, I focused on the job at hand. He would have to be put into the books, his name, fingerprints, and number. He would have to get a check for personal effects outside this place, and we would have to negotiate a program in which he could still… enjoy his occupation without touching my men. He needed something to help with his knees, presumably, and whatever he left in his apartment. Hopefully I could train him, teach him how to run things in here without my direct supervision, just in case something were to happen to me, unlikely as that may be. One step at a time, I have to think. One step in front of another leads you to your goal, slowly and surely. As I hear the guards gruffly telling someone to move along, the clack of shoes and slight clink of chains tells me that I have a new visitor. I straighten up in my chair and rearrange papers as Mr. Winter steps in to the cell, the slow squeak of the door irritating me, but not dissuading me as I hold out a hand.

“Mr. Winter? I am Edward Darson. Contrary to what the Warden may have told you, I run this prison, t*ts to toes. Please, sit. Welcome to Cell Block D. We’ve been expecting you…”

"Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face.”
-Nelson DeMille

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May want to rethink that statement, friendo.