A thread to deposit any sort of creative writing that you've done through boredom, amusement, or whatever. Feel free to say what you do or don't like about anything.

The Fate of Beacon 9

“|-||||--|-||-|---|||-||||-|-||-|
-|-|-|||-|||-|----||---||||||--||
||-|||||-|--|----||-||----||||-|-|-|-||||--”

The fragmentary distress signal of the pioneer vessel InterStel-14 flashed across the interface screens on board the Beacon 9 docking station. There was something cold and foreboding in the encrypted blinks of green light, which the station’s systems would normally have decoded as follows:

“…orbit terminated..[we are] attempting…
“They(It?) knew… jeopardy of…
“…seized cargo! Advise [you] flee(?) and…”

But the blasted circuitry and control centres of the Beacon 9 could do nothing but relay the ominous code and its far-fetched source, via the cruel indecipherability of dimly flashing characters.

In any case, the message was received by no one. The craft which once hummed with mankind’s industrious pursuit of the stars now drifted vacantly through the airless eons of the unknown, the command deck and the rest of the once teeming station now devoid of life and voice. The dull information screens flickered with the dwindling energy of the station’s nuclear core, but no operatives remained to man them. The main lighting had long since faded to a gloom which barely held back the bitumen blackness of space, but no corpses or bones would have been seen if power was regained. Perhaps though the ever-dimming twilight of the ghost ship’s corridors was a blessing (had there been any onlooker to appreciate it), for the shadows hid darker shades of their own. Scattered silhouettes of human forms stained the floors and walls of the station with a dusty residue – poignant glimpses of a community subjected to the horrors of impossible, alien weaponry.

The strike had been instant and unexpected. A wave of terror had gripped every crew member instants before the station was engulfed by the sudden flow of Un-Matter which reduced all living souls to a fine, powdery near-nothingness. The horrible ash-like impressions were all that remained of the United Galaxy Initiative’s finest, now mercifully veiled by the perpetual twilight of Beacon 9’s dying lights.

The command screens flickered once more, but the urgent stop-start warnings came too late to the silent, funereal deck. Soon the panic of the InterStel-14 crew would be snuffed out by a similar wave of oblivion, and their craft would join the growing fleet of drifting, dusty husks which littered a corner of the abyss where humankind was never meant to venture.

“|--|--||||-|-||||--|-||-||------||---||---

|---||-|______________________________________________________”

That was awesome! Reminds me a little of the film Event Horizon, cool imagery there man!

For my course, we have to do modules in Creative Writing, so I had to hand in 3 short stories at the beginning of this year. I didn't really like doing it, as I prefer script-writing, but this is the best one I did out of the three.

Who is Big Brother?

“I swear, Anne, if I have to talk to that idiot one more time I'm going to pack it all in for good. I don't care what they're paying me, it isn't nearly enough for the stress I'm being caused!”ordered Paul, dragging the kitchen chair out from the table and slamming it down in the position he wanted.
Paul had a job, just like anybody else. He had a wife, just like anybody else. He had children, just like anybody else. Paul was as normal as they came- apart from his desire for strawberry milk on his cereal perhaps. But he was short and stout, and always stood by his fathers traditional ideals- ‘all a man needs in life is a good haircut and a good pair of shoes'. The one thing that made Paul very different, however, was his voice. The voice that his wife, Anne, fell in love with. The voice that made him unlike anybody else. Paul was the voice of Big Brother.
“Take yesterday for example, she comes into the diary room and asks 'Do you think John is fit? Do you think he likes me?' - I felt like bloody screamin’! I'm a grown man, Anne. This is no job, it's torture.”
“Look love, I know you don't like doing it any more, but it's your last series on the show, so all you have to do is grit your teeth and bare it. When work gets you down, just try and look at some of the positive aspects – at least you're bringing humour and entertainment to the general public, not everybody gets to do that.”
They’d been married for five years now. When they first began dating, Paul would often brag about his job and 'do the voice' for her, when she asked him to. She wouldn't ask Paul to 'do the voice' any more, for fear of having divorce papers shoved in her face.
“Humour and entertainment?! Is this what our culture finds entertaining after all these years, pet? A bunch of 'whacky' and 'zany' twenty-some things getting 'jiggy' in a hot-tub?”
“Jiggy?”
“Aye! 'Jiggy'!”. Paul was getting more and more worked up.
“Sometimes I wish I'd just been born a mute.”
“Oh, Paul, don't say that.”
“No, Anne! I do!”
Anne had heard this all before and she knew there was absolutely no chance of reasoning with him. Through trial and error she had also discovered that she couldn't just agree with him and tell him that he was right. Last time she tried that she was given the whole - You're meant to be my wife! Why aren't you being supportive! - line. There was no winning, all she could give her husband was a smile and a hug – it normally appeased him. She clattered her cereal bowl in the sink, walked behind her man and wrapped her arms around his neck and chest.
“Next time the house-mates are getting on your nerves, just remember that they have to stay in that house and you get to come home to me.”
She kissed him on the cheek. Paul began to subdue.
“Ahhh, maybe your right love. It's just for a few hours today any way. It can’t possibly get any worse…”

■

“Day 5 - The house-mates are playing hide and seek. Georgina is in the Diary Room.”

“I just can't believe their total lack of respect to be completely honest, Big Brother. You can't just take someone's mayonnaise without asking first. I put it on the shopping list ‘specially for me, everyone else said they didn't want none, so why’d they just nick it? How dare they?!”
“Have you confronted the other house-mates about your mayonnaise, Georgina?”
As Paul said it, he felt his spine shiver. It had gotten worse. He was supposedly talking to another adult – albeit someone fifteen years younger than he was – but still, an adult nonetheless, and he was talking about mayonnaise. At what point had his life turned from champagne-laden repartee about bureaucracy and brotherhood into moronic verbal spillage regarding table sauce? What was the deciding moment? Was he being incessantly punished for something he'd done in the past? Was he on some other, divine Big Brother- a pawn for celestial laughs? Either way, he was sat here talking to what he could only assume was the Missing Link about the case of her stolen mayonnaise.
“Well, no...” she continued. “But that's not the point, Big Brother. It's about respect. They should just know.”
“What are you going to do about it, Georgina?” said Paul in the most monotonous tone yet.
“I reckon I'll just take everyone else's stuff if they're gonna take mine. It's only fair, innit, Big Brother.”
“Thank you, Georgina.”
Georgina left the Diary Room. Paul sighed with more utter disgust than relief. Georgina had just continued to prove she was exactly the type of girl Paul would never even give the time of day to outside. She was everything he loathed in women: loud, obnoxious, with an unproven self-confidence. And if truth be told, she was too tall. Paul looked on his desk and spotted a packet of what turned out to be his favourite flavour crisps. For a few moments- sheer jubilation. He then swivelled in the control room chair and looked up, and the usual loom of discontent smothered the taste of prawn cocktail. He flicked his eyes from one monitor to the next, watching the camera footage that documented the entire goings on in the house.
“Shouldn’t have looked up, Paul.”

■


As his shift ended Paul looked at the monitor covering the garden area, inquisitively– some of the house mates had begun playing hide-and-seek. Thanks to the hundreds of cameras installed in the place, he could see where all of them were hiding and could inevitably laugh at the others’ clueless wanderings, like resurrected mummies, sharing the same glazed over, and brain-dead expression. A sense of power flickered in him. At any point, he could ruin their fun by announcing over the speakers where each one of the idiots was hiding. His hand began to hover towards the live announcement button. He smiled, thinking of the capabilities. Power… ‘Wait a minute, Spiderman?! Why am I thinking about that?!’ He thought. “With great power comes great responsibility…” ‘Great, trust modern Hollywood movies to install things in your mind… I’m sure that quote doesn’t even mean anything… why the hell did they change the murder plot in that anyway….’ The thoughts of influence faded with distraction. Complete contempt for his job consumed him again, but this time, adrenaline fuelled a want for action.
■

“What do you mean you want to leave the show right now?!”
“I mean.” Paul spoke more slowly. “That I would like to leave the show.” He paused. “Right… NOW!!”
“Okay, okay, calm down” said Jeff: Paul's boss. He was the big cheese, the head honcho and other such cliches that Paul cynically ran through his head. He was the brains behind Big Brother, but Paul didn’t care whatsoever.
“It's only been five days of the new series, Paul. You can't just quit after five days. The public will notice.”
“Let them notice. I don't care about the public. I don't care about the idiots in this house” Paul was trying to be as composed as he could.
“Well you've signed a contract, ‘mate’, and you're contractually obliged to finish this series, alright?”
“Ha, and what are you going to do if I don’t Jeff?”
“Paul, we’ve been pals for a very long time, and you know I respect you, but you know me. Don’t think for a second I wont get Channel 4’s legal team on you”
Paul had known the answer before he even asked the question. There was no way he could compete with the channel’s lawyers. These people ate complaining members of the public for breakfast and jumped up, stropping employees for elevenses. His case against Georgina’s stolen jar of mayonnaise wouldn’t even tempt their saliva glands into action.
“The only way you're leaving this job early, Paul, is if I decide to fire you and frankly, you're just far too important to me at this stage.” Jeff smiled as he said it, because he knew that he had won.
“Tell me what I want to hear, Paul.”
Paul winced.
“If you think I’m going to acknowledge this silly game of winning you’ve had since Uni, then forget it. But I have got the resolve and self decency to carry on with this, so I will try my best then, ‘Jeff’”
“Excellent.” said Jeff. “I'm glad we could sort this little thing out so easily.”
Paul wasn't lying. He was definitely going to try his best – to get fired.

■

“Day 6 - The house mates are making lunch. Judy and Kim are in the swimming pool.”

Back again in the tiny control room, Paul couldn’t keep his eyes on the monitors without staring back down at the microphone and its announcement activation button. It was right in front of his hand. His slight peckishness for power had now become crazed hunger, through focused infuriation and embrace for the consequences. This was going to take a lot of guts; he knew it would almost certainly result in his termination. Definitely. He took a deep breath, looked towards the door then stared blankly at just one of the screens; the pool camera. He then held down the button and leaned in towards the microphone.
“Could Judy please come to the Diary Room?”
He continued to watch her on the camera footage. Judy was in the pool with Kim, and now looked bewilderedly surprised that she had been asked to come to the Diary Room while she was swimming. Judy was a glamour model– not a particularly famous one, but that would soon change in her eyes, once she left the Big Brother house. They all did it for the same reasons. Their fifteen minutes of fame. She climbed out of the pool wearing a polka dot bikini, her unmarked, bay coloured chest glistened- the light catching her breasts as she raised her hands and threw back her soaked hair behind her head. As stereotypically gorgeous as she was- but completely different in physique to his wife- Paul couldn’t even think to fight his attraction for her - what average man could, surely that’s why she was in here? He shook his brain and remembered that he loved his wife Anne, not Judy, Anne. So he didn't have to worry. Did he?
This was going to take a lot of guts.
“Hi, Big Brother!” she said gleeful, but still innocently puzzled, as she dropped into the chair, rubbing the roots of her chestnut hair with a towel between her hands.
Paul tried not to gulp. He needed to be confident, or she would think Big Brother was joking. Big Brother was not joking. He was now Big Brother, the power in his grasp elevating him their in his own right. He was taking getting fired too seriously.
“Hello, Judy. You look very nice today.”
“Ohh, thanks, Big Brother!” she smiled.
Keep going. Keep going.
“Are you enjoying yourself in the Big Brother house, so far?”
“Oh yeah, it's been top! I've just been enjoying a swim with my girl, Kim.”
He took a deep breath.
“Yes, Big Brother saw. In fact, Big Brother would love to join you both.”
Immediately, the oblivious smile she owned left her face. She stopped rubbing, dropped her hands and started fidgeting in her chair, looking at the walls of the tiny room for then next thing to happen and a clue to what he meant. Paul continued, he was doing well so far.
“Big Brother finds you both very attractive and would request that you both use the showers on a more regular basis.”
This was golden.
“Erm… I don’t think that’s very appropriate Big Brother….wha…what are you on about?!
“Big Brother and the male population of Britain would very much like to see Kim and yourself get together in the showers.”
“I beg ya pardon, what?! I think me and Kim deserve a lot more respect than that! Even from the men in England!!
“Big Brother is sure men give you plenty of respect on the outside world – when you're taking your kit off in magazines.”
Judy's face turned bright pink with anger and embarrassment, almost matching the polka dots on her bikini. She let out a gasp of disgust and stormed out of the Diary Room, forgetting her towel briefly as Paul smiled. He watched her stamp through the house to the first person that would listen and somehow believe the outrageous comments and requests that Big Brother had just made to her. His work was done. Not a minute later, Jeff crashed into the control room, making Judys display and departure in the diary room look like a bouncy castle. The ear to ear grin on Pauls face needn’t require words as to have pleased with himself he was.
“Come to fire me have you, Jeff?”
“Fire you?” Jeff responded casually. “Haha, of course not, Paul, I just wanted to hand you your phone, its Anne. Don’t think she sounds too happy with you.”
Like a wave, Paul’s smile left his face and broke onto Jeff’s.

■

“I just can't believe... you would... do this to me... Paul!!” Anne could barely get her words out between sharp, sobbing gasps of inhalation. “Was it something I've done or... didn't do? Tell me what I've done wrong??.”
He'd rushed home as soon as he heard her crying over the phone. Since they’ve met and since they’ve had been married, Paul had never seen or even heard his wife cry. He knew this time he had crossed a line neither he or she knew existed before he drew it, and adulterated on it.
“But, I had no idea that you ever watched the live show...”
For a split second, Paul could have sworn her eyes flickered red.
“What difference does that make?! Is that meant to make me feel better?! I was lonely and I wanted to see how my husband was getting on at work, and I see you chatting up – extremely vulgarly might I add – a bimbo, on live television! You've made a laughing stock out of me, Paul and you've broken my heart.”
“I didn't mean to, it was all a joke.”
“Oh, so I'm a joke to you now?!”
“No! I don't mean like that, on the TV show – it was a joke. I was trying to...”
He stopped. If he told Anne his plan to get fired, she would probably leave him any way.
“I'm sick of my job Anne, you know I am! I wanted to liven things up a bit, have some fun with it, I just don’t care about Big Brother and everything about it any more!”
“Yes I did know that! And all the way through this I have stood by you, supported you, comforted you. Not once did I actually mention how completely selfish you have been about this, don’t you think there are other people associated with the show, in even more boring, monotonous, and considerably more underpaid jobs?! Did you think about that?! No, you just cant see past your own selfish ignorance!”
Anne marched with her head in her hands to the front door, ripping it shut behind her- the picture of the two of them on their wedding day, hanging beside the door, dropping in its left corner.

crap

010011110110111001100101001
000000110010001100001011110
010010000001101001001000000
111011101100101011011100111
010000100000011101000110111
100100000011101000110100001
100101001000000111001101100
101011000010111001101101001
0110010001100101

That does actually say something lol

Nice work Martin, good read!

Ta. It was a right arse ache writing them stories, I had to write 3 that together, added up to 4,500 words. I made that one really long so the others could be short and crap.

I wrote this back in June, and posted it on here not long after. But I'm posting it here again, made a few changes too. NERR. It was based on cartoon I did for my mate, who is that way inclined.
---
In a town known to some as Grimsby, a boy lived. When he was 15, he got himself a lost prophets tattoo, which the local hairdresser did in the backroom of Mike's Snips for 6 quid. The hairdresser made an error, and tattooed "Last Prophets" instead. When he was 13, he changed his name by depol to Corey Taylor, after his moron-hero from Slipknot. After the release of "The Subliminal Verses" in 2004, Brent, as he was originally known, changed his name back because they didn't say "Fuck" as much anymore.

Three years later, on a rainy day, Brent Thompson walked home.
It was his birthday. His skinny hood was up. His skinny jeans were wet. His pot belly stuck out from his skinny clothes. His converse now had no room for any more felt tip bollocks. His fringe obscured his eyesight, making him walk into at least three lampposts and the paperboy before he got home that night from school.

"SUPRISE!" screeched his mum when he got in.
"Happy Birthday son! You are finally a man!" Said his dad.
"Yeh whatever. Another year of pain and depression." replied Brent softly.

He stared at his cake, which said 18 in marzipan flavoured lettering.
Rolf, his baby brother, gurgled in the corner.
"Are you going to cut your cake Brent?" Asked his mum.
Brent took down his hood and flicked his fringe, snarling as he did it, but looking about as threatening as a cotton wool ball with googly eyes.

"I don't need a cake mum... Just leave me alone." He shouted.
His mother looked at him awkwardly and glanced worringly at her husband.
"Open your present Brenty!" she said, quickly moving the subject away from the cake.
Brent picked up the two packages from the table slowly and ripped open the packaging apathetically. It was a set of artists coloured pencils.
"Yeh, er thanks." said Brent, as he slooped out of the room.
"That boy" said his Dad to his wife, "I sometimes think he's a big fucking jessie".

Brent took the cake and the pencils to his room, leaving his parents talking about how he probably was gay, but they didn't really care, as gay people always ended up being quite funny, and they fancied having a son who was a camp comedian. His mum then complained at his father for saying "fuck" in front of the baby.

When he reached his room, Brent opened his artists set and slung all of the pencils in the bin, except for the black, white and red ones. He switched on a band called "My Best Friend A Rope", and pulled out an exercise book. He started writing a new poem entitled: "Woe is a cake", next to a picture of a hung cartoon rabbit.

After about 3 minutes, after realising he'd written exactly the same poem as yesterday but with the word "cake" replacing the word "Geography", he turned to the cake as "My Best Friend A Rope" finished their screamy bit and started whining. He picked up the knife to cut the cake, but all of a sudden, he had the overwhelming feeling to slit his wrists.

He'd never done it before. But he was getting nervous. The scene kids in the local park had made fun out of him for not having any bloody scratches. He quickly unravelled his sleeve and slashed his wrist with a yelp. However, no blood was shed. The knife went straight through his 42 bracelets that he collected on his wrist, but didn't go deep enough to reach his skin. He sighed, and threw the knife on the floor. He spent the rest of the night scoffing the cake to his new favourite album, "As my sweetheart came over the horizon, bleeding and dying and she was dead and I was crying and it was really romantic" by "ROSEBAZOOKA."

During the night, his parents were kept awake, running from the lounge to his baby brother's room. Constant whines were heard on the baby monitor downstairs. The odd thing was, Rolf was sound asleep all night. It turned out the baby monitor was in Brent's room, and was picking up the sounds of the music, not the baby's screeches. The difference? Not a lot.

A few months later, Brent was standing on a railway bridge, staring over the top. His life was going very badly according to him. The girl/boy he fancied was ignoring him, he was averaging a D in History and "ROSEBAZOOKA" had split up. It was time, he thought to himself, to end it all. As he heard a train's horn, he jumped.

Unfortunately for him, he jumped off a bridge at a station that hadn't seen any train action since 1983. Even worse, there was an old matress that tramps occasionally used for a nights sleep and builders used to bring prostitutes to, on his landing spot. He limped away, with a sprained ankle and traces of semen in his hair. At least he could show his ankle to the scene kids down the park, and make up lies like he "slipped on the blood of his bleeding heart" or some other shit. The smell of spunk, he thought, could probably be used as evidence to prove he was bi-sexual, which seemed to be the in thing amongst his peers.

A week later, he mustered up the courage to go out again, after being huddled away in his room painting his nails black for weeks. He phoned up a few friends that he had met on myspace, all of whom had at least 443 comments in bold, struck through, size 3 font, on each of their blurred, black and white pictures they took in front of the bathroom mirror. They met in town, at a well known emo club - "The Xcore."

The group walked into the club. After a few drinks and mistakes over which emos were girls and which were boys, he got talking to a girl with 6 lip piercings and the haircut of a 1920's boxer. After a short conversation, they exchanged myspace adresses and parted, as Brent was shitfaced on two WKD Orange's.

Over the months, the boy and girl talked for hours on end on myspace, facebook, beebo, livejournal, msn, yahoo, aol and the ASDA forums. He finally plucked up the courage to meet her.

They met at a fountain in Grimsby. Things were going well. They laughed at goths and discussed the latest Screamo realise from "Heart X Stab", and how deep the lyrics were because the lead singer had lost his cat when he was 12. Suddenly, the girl piped up: "I'm gonna go..."

Brent immediatley sprinted away from the fountain and jumped into the river in an emotional rage. It was over. She was over. His life was over.

The girl sprinted over to the canal, as Brent floated away, struggling for air and being weighed down by his jewellery, especially the huge chunk of metal embedded in his ear, which measured around 5 inches in diameter. He couldn't swim for christ's sake, he was an emo.

She shouted across to him.
"BRENT! I WAS JUST GOING FOR A PISS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

It was too late. He was out to sea.

He was rescued a few minutes later by the coastguard.

A few months later, Brent was sitting in his room. The Kaiser Chiefs blasted from his CD player. He had a curly mop for a haircut. He wore clothes borrowed from his grandad.

You've probably read my stuff already.

One day there was a tired lad called Sam, he was tired because he only had 4 hours sleep after working all day then watching the royal rumble. He stumbled upon a thread in which various fans of thrash music could post their fiction stories "interesting" thought Sam. But he couldn't be bothered to read it and went back to watching Rocky Balboa instead. "Maybe later" thought Sam, in between his thoughts of making a cup of tea.

Herzeleid wrote:One day there was a tired lad called Sam, he was tired because he only had 4 hours sleep after working all day then watching the royal rumble. He stumbled upon a thread in which various fans of thrash music could post their fiction stories "interesting" thought Sam. But he couldn't be bothered to read it and went back to watching Rocky Balboa instead. "Maybe later" thought Sam, in between his thoughts of making a cup of tea.

That's not fiction, that's you.

Dawning of the awareness.
Resist me if you wish, yet i will only gain from it, as your bindings will only inflict greater pain, and that pleases me almost as much as your screams do.
Look around you and inhale; inhale the putrescence that fills every corner of this dank, grim chamber. Acknowledge the fickle remains of those of your ilk who have been here before you; others who cheapened their lives, giving it to christ, others who had chosen to dismiss their natural desires and fantasies, deciding to live a life of hardship and suffering instead.
That's right, pray. Speak his name, as it heightens my pleasure, as it always has. The prayers dancing on your lips are futile, but entertaining to me, giving me greater satisfaction as i desecrate your worthless being, taking away from you that which you promised to keep unblemished and pure. Do you not yet realize your mistake? You pray endlessly for deliverance, but soon you will know the truth, that all your years of dependancy on him are but folly. Realise now to your sorrow that the deception of our forefathers has led you here, for it is they who sought to humble us with fear; they who did attempt to control us with their deception. If your god is omnipotent, why has he not come to your aid?
Even now as i carve the flesh of your breast and defile you, you cannot see the truth that he is but nothing! I am your only god now, for i hold the balance of your life within my whims. I can see in your eyes the fear. The fear of death or the realisation of the truth? Know only this: good and evil starts and finishes only within us, powers to use as we wish and are able, to fulfill the desires for which we strive. And know that the satisfying of these desires is not a weakness, in fact it shows strength and determination. Take not lightly the truth "do what thou wilt is the whole of the law". Acknowledge this now as i fill you with the gift of life as i paradoxically spill your crimson essence and free you from your shallow existance.

thrashduck wrote:

Herzeleid wrote:One day there was a tired lad called Sam, he was tired because he only had 4 hours sleep after working all day then watching the royal rumble. He stumbled upon a thread in which various fans of thrash music could post their fiction stories "interesting" thought Sam. But he couldn't be bothered to read it and went back to watching Rocky Balboa instead. "Maybe later" thought Sam, in between his thoughts of making a cup of tea.

That's not fiction, that's you.

Curse youuuu thrashduck!

Up here in space
Im looking down on you
My lasers trace
Everything you do

Better not, I was with my girlfriend all weekend, you strange man.