Angst Story, Issue #4 (beta)
<div class="IPBDescription">Because I want you all to suffer.</div> Was feeling kind of depressed, some damn idea plopped in my head; thought I'd blow two hours of sleep and write some cesspool.
HERE'S THE RESULT, NOW DIE:
<i><u><b>The Sand Slave</b></u>
For countless ages, there stood a small island steadfast in its isolation from life. There it lay, in some unknown point amongst the immense blue, until one day, a basket was seen steadily drifting towards its shore. The waves gently guided the basket to the sand, where it lay in silence with but a minute quake. The shaking could of easily been mistaken as the rocking from the waves, but the astute eye could see that it shook from within the basket itself, for slowly, the strength from each quake grew in intensity.
Tentatively, a finger a basket broke out of the basket’s wreathed shell, followed by a hand, an arm, a shoulder, a face, and when all was revealed, there stood a child in the midst of an empty sand beach.
The inquisitive child was eager to explore his new surroundings, voraciously devouring the sights and sounds of what was to be his new home. In only a matter of a few days, however, he realized the island was quite barren. The generous supply of monotonous coconut trees and drab grey crabs were more than enough to provide for his daily sustenance, but beyond that, he felt that the island offered little for him in his life.
One day, as the boy walked along the beach, he heard the voice from the sand speak to him.
“Mold me,” whispered the beach to the boy, as the boy walked across its face.
“What shall I mold you into?” inquired the boy.
“Mold me.”
Once again, the boy asked what he was to mold the sand into, and once again, he was given the same response. It frustrated the young boy to be left with such vague words of instruction, but realizing that he had little else to do, the boy began working the sand with his novice hands.
As he began working on the sand, a crude shape began to take form It was ugly by sight, and hideous in texture, but as his first work, the child was pleased. The child spent many years on his endeavor, and while still a homely structure, one could see the child begin his mastery of the sand. As his hands aged in experience, so too did the boy himself, growing up to be a robust teen. Eventually, he completed his work, with the result of something not unlike that of a decrepit hut, nevertheless, he had great pride in his creation. One day, an immense ocean tide came rushing toward the teen’s work. He pleaded for the tide to spare his work, but the ocean paid no heed to the child’s voice, and the sand he had worked years on was made undone in seconds.
Grieving for his loss, the teen screamed at the ocean in vain fury, eventually collapsing on the shore, drained of his vitality.
The next day, the sand spoke to him once again.
“Mold me,” it cried to the teen.
“Why? I spent years working with you, and with but one tide, you return to nothing!”
“Please, mold me. You were a child when you began me, inexperienced. But now you are armed with knowledge on my intricacies. You know better how to use me. You can do better.”
The teen realized that the sand spoke truth. The teen was indeed wiser now, and realized how fault plagued his previous creation was. Empowered with greater confidence, the teen set forth once again to begin his new creation. Beginning with an adeptly fashioned foundation, he meticulously scooped and padded wet sand to the expanding sand wall, as it began to take form into a shapely mansion. Once again, the teen spent many years working on his creation. While far from perfection, the mansion demonstrated greater and greater expertise as it was seen from bottom to top, for the bottom half of the mansion was worked on as he was a teen, but the masterful architecture of the top could only have come from the hands of a skilled adult that knew sand so well, it was as familiar to him as his own blood.
The young man gazed at his sand mansion with great pride, wishing only that the beginning of the structure had been done with as much expertise as the crest. Perhaps the cruel ocean heard his thoughts, for not long after had he completed his work, the tides once more vanquished his life work, and once again he was reduced to nothing.
The young man spent the next several days in great mourning of his loss, but once he parched his eyes with all the tears it could hold, the sand once again spoke to him.
“Mold me.”
The young man made no reply.
“You have mastered so much now! Surely, it would be a waste for you not to continue. I beg of you, please, mold me.”
The man knew it was inevitable. He knew his destiny, and began his most ambitious project yet. For not only had his hands gained its peak in dexterity, but his mind too began its ascent with more vivid and more illustrious visions. From learning of the errors of his past, he would set out to make his sand castle greater than all that had been, and all that would be. Indeed, the castle he built was truly that of a master. It’s beauty shone with the brilliance of a living gem. So great was it, that distant nations, miles away from the small island, could see a speck of its magnificence, wondering whether a star had decided to grace itself on the earth’s skin. The man slaved on his castle, transcending his youth and strength to the castle’s spirit. When all was done, he was left an old man, but he smiled and stared in awe at the birth of this grand castle he could barely believe to have been made by his own hands.
Yet once again, the ocean saw it time to ruin the man once more. The ocean yielded to none, and it would not stop its tides for the sake of a transitory beauty. The castle once again met the same fate as the mansion and the hut, and once again the man was left with nothing.
The old man had no need to be goaded by the sand. He knew what was to be done, and set off in a now mechanical manner to a new and more elaborate structure. A cathedral, perhaps? Or possibly a temple? We would never know. From his sun-soaked body, the seams of his speckled skin began to crack under the unrelenting sun. The bones of his callused hands grated with one another for even the simplest of movements. He decided to take what he thought to be a quick nap before completing the foundation of his project. A great evening tide came later that day, smashing down the foundation, and carrying the old man back to the sea.
The beach returned back to its state of isolation, its vibrant yet short-lived history stripped by the sea. Whether the man existed or not, one would have never known, and one doesn’t need to know. </i>
Some TSA marines found the old haggard's body. They used his corpse to bait skulks, but the skulks just ended up contracting tuberculosis. The skulks sneezed on the gorges, which sneezed on the fades, which sneezed on the lerks, who accidentally flew inside the 'other' cavity of some onos, which irritated it enough to begin barking poetry and the hive. The hive, tired of listening to Yeats, called it quits and ripped a hole in the time consortium, sucking back all Hharaa life. The TSA, celebrating the victory, forget that they were financed heavily by the fascists, so WW VIII breaks out, and through the use of lemon juice, and some tinkering with equilibrium, everything dies.
The End.
(Aren't you all glad that you're not me?)
HERE'S THE RESULT, NOW DIE:
<i><u><b>The Sand Slave</b></u>
For countless ages, there stood a small island steadfast in its isolation from life. There it lay, in some unknown point amongst the immense blue, until one day, a basket was seen steadily drifting towards its shore. The waves gently guided the basket to the sand, where it lay in silence with but a minute quake. The shaking could of easily been mistaken as the rocking from the waves, but the astute eye could see that it shook from within the basket itself, for slowly, the strength from each quake grew in intensity.
Tentatively, a finger a basket broke out of the basket’s wreathed shell, followed by a hand, an arm, a shoulder, a face, and when all was revealed, there stood a child in the midst of an empty sand beach.
The inquisitive child was eager to explore his new surroundings, voraciously devouring the sights and sounds of what was to be his new home. In only a matter of a few days, however, he realized the island was quite barren. The generous supply of monotonous coconut trees and drab grey crabs were more than enough to provide for his daily sustenance, but beyond that, he felt that the island offered little for him in his life.
One day, as the boy walked along the beach, he heard the voice from the sand speak to him.
“Mold me,” whispered the beach to the boy, as the boy walked across its face.
“What shall I mold you into?” inquired the boy.
“Mold me.”
Once again, the boy asked what he was to mold the sand into, and once again, he was given the same response. It frustrated the young boy to be left with such vague words of instruction, but realizing that he had little else to do, the boy began working the sand with his novice hands.
As he began working on the sand, a crude shape began to take form It was ugly by sight, and hideous in texture, but as his first work, the child was pleased. The child spent many years on his endeavor, and while still a homely structure, one could see the child begin his mastery of the sand. As his hands aged in experience, so too did the boy himself, growing up to be a robust teen. Eventually, he completed his work, with the result of something not unlike that of a decrepit hut, nevertheless, he had great pride in his creation. One day, an immense ocean tide came rushing toward the teen’s work. He pleaded for the tide to spare his work, but the ocean paid no heed to the child’s voice, and the sand he had worked years on was made undone in seconds.
Grieving for his loss, the teen screamed at the ocean in vain fury, eventually collapsing on the shore, drained of his vitality.
The next day, the sand spoke to him once again.
“Mold me,” it cried to the teen.
“Why? I spent years working with you, and with but one tide, you return to nothing!”
“Please, mold me. You were a child when you began me, inexperienced. But now you are armed with knowledge on my intricacies. You know better how to use me. You can do better.”
The teen realized that the sand spoke truth. The teen was indeed wiser now, and realized how fault plagued his previous creation was. Empowered with greater confidence, the teen set forth once again to begin his new creation. Beginning with an adeptly fashioned foundation, he meticulously scooped and padded wet sand to the expanding sand wall, as it began to take form into a shapely mansion. Once again, the teen spent many years working on his creation. While far from perfection, the mansion demonstrated greater and greater expertise as it was seen from bottom to top, for the bottom half of the mansion was worked on as he was a teen, but the masterful architecture of the top could only have come from the hands of a skilled adult that knew sand so well, it was as familiar to him as his own blood.
The young man gazed at his sand mansion with great pride, wishing only that the beginning of the structure had been done with as much expertise as the crest. Perhaps the cruel ocean heard his thoughts, for not long after had he completed his work, the tides once more vanquished his life work, and once again he was reduced to nothing.
The young man spent the next several days in great mourning of his loss, but once he parched his eyes with all the tears it could hold, the sand once again spoke to him.
“Mold me.”
The young man made no reply.
“You have mastered so much now! Surely, it would be a waste for you not to continue. I beg of you, please, mold me.”
The man knew it was inevitable. He knew his destiny, and began his most ambitious project yet. For not only had his hands gained its peak in dexterity, but his mind too began its ascent with more vivid and more illustrious visions. From learning of the errors of his past, he would set out to make his sand castle greater than all that had been, and all that would be. Indeed, the castle he built was truly that of a master. It’s beauty shone with the brilliance of a living gem. So great was it, that distant nations, miles away from the small island, could see a speck of its magnificence, wondering whether a star had decided to grace itself on the earth’s skin. The man slaved on his castle, transcending his youth and strength to the castle’s spirit. When all was done, he was left an old man, but he smiled and stared in awe at the birth of this grand castle he could barely believe to have been made by his own hands.
Yet once again, the ocean saw it time to ruin the man once more. The ocean yielded to none, and it would not stop its tides for the sake of a transitory beauty. The castle once again met the same fate as the mansion and the hut, and once again the man was left with nothing.
The old man had no need to be goaded by the sand. He knew what was to be done, and set off in a now mechanical manner to a new and more elaborate structure. A cathedral, perhaps? Or possibly a temple? We would never know. From his sun-soaked body, the seams of his speckled skin began to crack under the unrelenting sun. The bones of his callused hands grated with one another for even the simplest of movements. He decided to take what he thought to be a quick nap before completing the foundation of his project. A great evening tide came later that day, smashing down the foundation, and carrying the old man back to the sea.
The beach returned back to its state of isolation, its vibrant yet short-lived history stripped by the sea. Whether the man existed or not, one would have never known, and one doesn’t need to know. </i>
Some TSA marines found the old haggard's body. They used his corpse to bait skulks, but the skulks just ended up contracting tuberculosis. The skulks sneezed on the gorges, which sneezed on the fades, which sneezed on the lerks, who accidentally flew inside the 'other' cavity of some onos, which irritated it enough to begin barking poetry and the hive. The hive, tired of listening to Yeats, called it quits and ripped a hole in the time consortium, sucking back all Hharaa life. The TSA, celebrating the victory, forget that they were financed heavily by the fascists, so WW VIII breaks out, and through the use of lemon juice, and some tinkering with equilibrium, everything dies.
The End.
(Aren't you all glad that you're not me?)
Comments
*dies laughing*
It's so good becuase it's true.
Rewfles, very amusing WWVIII there <!--emo&:D--><img src='http://www.unknownworlds.com/forums/html//emoticons/biggrin.gif' border='0' style='vertical-align:middle' alt='biggrin.gif' /><!--endemo-->
I like the story a lot though. Reminded me of how I managed to write something out of pure boredom and get 1st in Compo (had 3 choices and I chose story)
And trust me, I would be way too glad to be you. Now if you were me....you'd have to manually deal with this ingrown toenail while carefully avoiding the use of the word 'doctor' with my mom <!--emo&:(--><img src='http://www.unknownworlds.com/forums/html//emoticons/sad.gif' border='0' style='vertical-align:middle' alt='sad.gif' /><!--endemo-->
I started choking when I read that, AUH. 5 points to AllUrHive.
<!--QuoteBegin--></div><table border='0' align='center' width='95%' cellpadding='3' cellspacing='1'><tr><td><b>QUOTE</b> </td></tr><tr><td id='QUOTE'><!--QuoteEBegin-->Or maybe some sort of knife that he could sit and stare at for a long time.<!--QuoteEnd--></td></tr></table><div class='postcolor'><!--QuoteEEnd-->
LOL I can't even begin... This is why you don't read live journals folks.
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Exellent stuff Confuzor, that last part about WWVIII, reminds me of the way Douglas Adams writes...