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11-26-22 04:28 AM
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Xeogaming Forums - Game Over - Raggins' story (will eventually find a name) | | Thread closed
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AlpoRaggins

Troubadour
Not so much dead.








Since: 12-11-04
From: Someday, Somewhere, Over the Rainbow

Since last post: 5886 days
Last activity: 5775 days
Posted on 03-04-05 12:24 PM Link
Here, basically the same post as on another board.

I've been working on this for the past few months. Its fairly long, but I'll only post piece by piece. If someone could post after each time I do, it would be appreciated. Tell me what you guys think.

Oh yeah. Its copyrighted too. Steal it, I'll rip your balls off with your own fingers.

Er... just for even more clarification.

All characters, and the such, copyright 2005 by Alexander J. Robinson.

Nice and formal for you plagiarizing mo' fo's.

-----------------------------------------------------------

When silence came to stalk him, he fled to the shore, with a pale hand in his. It was hard to find such serenity in the evolving world, and when it came, it seemed to rattle all thought in his head with a hum, a high pitched squeal that was entirely nonexistent, yet so tangible as if a voice came to soothe him. Music, whistles, voices and outbursts of all noise were what he was born with, and what he would live with forever on. Silence fell rarely in the city on the beach, Station One as it was named, where the king of all noise would sleep. And when the noise did finally stop, there was over stimulating silence. So chaotic seemed the world that nobody seemed to stop and realized when the silence came. They only thought of their destinations. A man ran to the beach, where the waves always spoke to him, always roaring, with the pebbles below scattering around as quickly as the people in the city. His silence was no different than anyone elseís, for donít all see a bit of tragedy when all falls quiet? When will it all start again, when will it start after that? And the questions that binds the mind until it snaps into reality once again and is pushed along by an oncoming wave, as if we were those very pebbles. The ocean, too, calms itself every once in a while. This is seemingly peaceful to some, but the majority tends to be pessimistic, and predict the coming waves. In his world, the waves never stopped.

Midday was cold, with a moon covering the sky to the north, reflecting past the froth and jetsam on the southern waters. Astonishing, an astronomers dream, the moon above these lands. So large, so close, the day need not be tracked by the rise and fall of the sun, but by the shrink and growth of the moons violent orbit round the planet. Craters and valleys could be seen from where one stood, anywhere and everywhere; another planet itself, cold, dead, and yet so alive with myth. The century turned, and study of astrology was abandoned, locomotive smoke churned in the skies, and gunshots drowned out any thought of safely staying in one place. Times were hectic, crime was high, but few remembered that the moon was still higher. Individuals such as the man on the beach knew this still held true.

The militia had taught him to be wary of his backdrop. Alertness was the key for getting around a street corner. Sadly enough, each corner held some sort of sin. That was the city, at least. Where the militia had taken him had been much different. Outside city lines, away from the defensive wall of people and steel, there lay nothingness, a land waiting to be turned upside-down, sifted for its buried goods from earlier years. Even along the banks of the landís single river was there dust; dry, these lands only seemed live due to the settlements found every so often, governed by convicts and bandits from the major cities. As straight as the river, the railroad lay along the banks, the one boundary separating the northern part of the country from the south. Upon the very most western point, running north and south were the lands beaches, each different depending on where one stood. At the western tip was Station One, the first docking bay for the train, suitably named Big River for the route it took along the rivers edge. The guards upon the train didnít mind where you got off; one could jump train whenever needed, leaving be it by choice or force. To the east the train went, through Station Two halfway along the countryside, and then to the third station, breaking the name pattern, the countryís largest city of Saint Damten. Beyond Saint Damten lay a mountain range, and entire world beyond, so indescribably vast that a fog shrouded the denizens of this land from going any further. South and north of the river was home to many more natural monuments, but was mostly dried lands, cracked and sun toughened. The man had visited up to the mountains, through these deserts and to all the beaches, riding the train and boating down the river, with one trip on motorcycle (difficult due to the lack of road), one on horseback, and many on foot. Each time trouble brewed, each time he and the other trainees foxed their way out of whatever happened. He was issued a gun, but hadnít ever found any need to draw it. An army-issue rapier was all he needed to intimidate his foe; looked upon as more of a medallion than weapon, it never drew blood, not once during any engagements, nor needed to be unsheathed. Keeping it at his side made him feel some form of authority; this certain feeling could enforce the most lethal of arms within the city.

He guarded Station One for a year, felt older than how he should have in his mid-twenties, and took vacation whenever he wanted. An officer of the law, he felt it unfulfilling when he saw the bounties on the posters, and he was not able to give chase. Everyone knew they had left for the wastelands; none were left in the city for him to go after. And thus the day came, he ran to the beach with the pale hand in his, and began to dance. He felt comfortable, attractive even, the way he presented himself. A simple suit, bought cheap in the city, of black with grey pinstripes, with a red tie neatly beneath his closed jacket. Short, cleated, army issue boots were all he needed on his feet. As for his head, he followed the trend of all men and tipped a black bowler cap above his oddly colored, red-brown hair. Side-whiskers gracefully grew the same color down his pale, almost deathly white cheek. With all the traveling, one would expect a darker tone, but his skin stayed pale, a possible genetic, hereditary issue. His face was peculiarly feminine, with red cheeks, lips, and eyes fair, and yet dark. With his sleeves pushed up, he ran downwards to the sea, along the beach with a close friend met on his travels. She too held the same complexion to her face, with eyes and lips that matched the man. Her black hair tumbled loosely, never up, but free and curling just below her shoulders. Sand built up on the hem of her simple white dress before their stop. The run didnít take much out of them, as they looked to the sea and began to dance. Simple, innocent fun, they forgot about the troubles in the city and focused on where and when they were.
01001000
Slow Ride
Take It Easy









Since: 01-10-05

Since last post: 5800 days
Last activity: 5150 days
Posted on 03-22-05 04:34 PM Link
Very good story Alpo, continue your work with the detail and care you put into it now.

I'm surprised no one saw this, well neither did I but thats because i'm hardly ever in this section of the board.
AlpoRaggins

Troubadour
Not so much dead.








Since: 12-11-04
From: Someday, Somewhere, Over the Rainbow

Since last post: 5886 days
Last activity: 5775 days
Posted on 03-26-05 02:36 PM Link
I'm not surprised that nobody has read it.

That's it for my story then. There really is no use posting it anywhere.
01001000
Slow Ride
Take It Easy









Since: 01-10-05

Since last post: 5800 days
Last activity: 5150 days
Posted on 03-26-05 02:55 PM Link
V_V

C'mon, post the story, I enjoy reading your work. You shouldn't stop posting it because people haven't noticed your thread.
AlpoRaggins

Troubadour
Not so much dead.








Since: 12-11-04
From: Someday, Somewhere, Over the Rainbow

Since last post: 5886 days
Last activity: 5775 days
Posted on 03-27-05 07:56 AM Link
I did jump the gun there, I guess. But you're the only one who cared to read it on the other board too. I guess I'll post again. Gah, I just need to let everyone know that I feel like a weiner for that last post

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adrift at sea was a stowaway, encased in a vessel so small that it burned to get free. It had been locked in for years, and yet was constantly let loose. It was a mere concentrated form of itself within this ship of sorts, a forlorn mask with a grimace upon it and clay ribbons around. Broken from its brother comedy, the mask portraying a tragic face seen commonly in the many a theater throughout countless lands was awash in salt, decaying from its journey, dieing. It understood, it thought, this being within. Its mission would prove fruitless upon the ocean, it sailed lonely inland for intelligible beings like itself. Dorados and hammerheads, along with the rest of their ill shaped cousins, would not fit, so its inner ambition could not be transferred to the other being. It could do no harm upon the sea; no being owned it, no being wanted it. The ocean itself didn°¶t have a need for the cracking mask; the fiend tossed it angrily onto the shores, at the feet of a dancing couple. It looked up, unmoving, conscious only to itself. A foot tripped, and four stopped. Two shadows hovered over the mask, looking down at its cracked, porcelain white-clean features. The force held within trembled slightly; the couple didn°¶t notice. It shivered from the inside, out of fear for its vessels breaking. Like a bottle, if broken, its contents would seep out, spread thin across the landscape by the weakest of winds, and become useless. A new container would be needed. It looked with its empty eyes up at the people in disgust; their joy for finding such a marvel alone made the force within the mask to tremble in repulsion. What had been thought of as the perfect craft, the very manifestation of itself at the most substantial level, had broken feebly. Yearning for its chance to find a new body, it waited patiently for one of the two to pick it up. And thus, the woman in white began her masquerade. With both hands holding the clay face upwards, flat, she looked to the man, feeling ever distant from him as she was emerged in interest with the new treasure.

°ßIt°¶s so sad°K°® she sighed, her eyes humbled as she smiled.
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