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Shadow of the Sun

Because I'm bored...

...I'm going to give you an example of some of my free-writing. I started this because I was bored out of my skull in an English class, so I picked up my pen and went at it, no planning, nothing.

Then I typed it up, just because.

The formatting is screwy due to the way to boards work, but meh.

Yes, it isn't too stellar, but see: meh.


Dust. A burning hellhole, drenched with heat, missing any and all water you could ever find. A planet-wide desert, an endless graveyard bleaching the bones of those who have come before us to a pristine white.
This is where our story begins. In this gem of fire, life forms, grows, acts as all living things do, then disappears into the shifting sands. In this panorama of desolation, a puissant story grows, one that will capture the minds, hearts and souls of many who hear it.
It starts…here, in the small town of Burntwood, a town in which the residents eagerly await the hells for the relief they will bring. A town of two-thousand mindless drones, their souls and minds flayed to the bone by the lash of monotony, a scourge that provides more pain than any earthly whip. After years of being smashed with the sledgehammer of drudgery, it takes legendary courage to be independent…or madness.
No. No…not madness. It takes sanity, the kind of frank, pure sanity that matches madness step for step, the horrifying sanity of a man who has realized that the only thing that matches the lack of purpose in life is the lack of consequences his actions have. A man who has outreached cynicism into the blank depths of freedom, the freedom to do what he chooses against the impotent wishes of society.
Such men are dangerous. Especially the one who, at this moment, is exercising his freedom against the wills of his victim…

When he opens his eyes, Elijah Atwood is horribly disappointed. His eyes are opening. That means he’s alive. That means a further day of painful serenity is soon to follow, joining the unfocused blur that has until now made up his life. Another day of painstaking, regimented routine, brutally murdering all creativity, spontaneity and enjoyment from life, leaving him as a horribly blank shell of a man whose spirit has been broken so much that the concept of fixing it is alien.
Eli’s mind buzzes in a kind of mental static, conveying no real thought, simply the illusion of it, as his sludgy gray eyes rove his room for what must be the millionth time; it is a wonder that they have not worn a groove with their constant passing.
His eyes register what they have registered a multitude of times before: an utterly Spartan room, made mostly of ancient oak. Decorated mostly with grays, there is a bed, a wardrobe, a shaving mirror, the rest of the room a tribute to grim oblivion.
Sliding with the lethargy of the dead, Elijah manages to escape the prison that is his bed and stumbles over to his shaving kit, lathering his face with foam before dragging his razor across his skin. For not the first, nor the last, time, he considers dragging it across his throat, but his religious upbringing (not that he really believe it) along with an inner hope, stomped though it may be, keep him from ending his life.
After shaving, he staggers into some dull, if practical, clothing, straps on a belt (with difficulty; tired fingers are useless ones), and lurches out his door.

The street, although perhaps more an alley, he arrives in is completely drab; a path lined with sand and gravel, with horribly ugly houses, made of corrugated iron and whatever the locals could steal without their tiny consciences acting up, on either side: the path he takes every day, at this time, to his work, worn and eroded where his boots have left their mark over the years.
He chose his job because of a yearning within his heart of hearts for an interesting life, a yearning most horribly unfulfilled- against all expectations, his job was roughly as interesting as watching paint dry, and probably paid less.
Such was the life of a sheriff in the horrible town of Burntwood.
Leadenly stomping along the path, he soon gets to the ‘building’ where he works. Run-down and condemned, the nick is completely pitiful; it had likely been donated by someone who was trying to escape the very slight public safety laws, in place- what made it worse is that the building was better than any of the other contenders.
Didn’t anyone care anymore? When had they stopped? Did they ever care in the first place? Was there ever any hope of getting them to care again? Such are the buzzing thoughts in Elijah’s mind when he sidles into his office.
And now…Elijah’s office is a form of rebellion against the regimented life he had unwilling been led into; it did not serve as an example, nor would it ever inspire a massive revolution, but it was still further than many of the world would do. A cyclone of papers to the left, a hurricane of pens, pencils, and other writing implements to the right, his office was a mess, a pandemonium; somewhere there was a god of chaos who derived all of his worship from this room.
Pouring himself a mug of coffee from the everboiling pot, Elijah takes a very deep draught and pulls a face. It was horrible; bitter, burnt, enough to make any true connoisseur of coffee to fall to his knees in tears and reiterate the proclamation of Nietzsche, but that didn’t matter. It was strong, and Elijah needed the caffeine. It was the only way to last through the horrible dullness that made up his day.
He cracks his first smile of the day when the drumming of boots on wood reaches his ears. Here are his kindred spirits. His people. The only reason to become a sheriff in this day and age was a misplaced belief that it would make life interesting. No such solace; the sheriffs could all be crooked and they’d still never find a single crime; the drudgery of day to day life simply stamped the spirit of perversity out of people.
“Morning, Arthur, Martin, Tom…” comes his cajoling cry; he’d been told he’d make a good singer, or he would have been if anyone had ever had such an astounding leap of mind, something rare in stagnation such as this.
The other sheriffs pull themselves to what could be called attention, but there is no real drive or heart in their actions; they’d gone through this every day for years.
Arthur Williamson would be the tallest, and the most senior, of the men assembled. At a relaxed forty-seven, he’s fit and dreams of some interest. Not many would believe such a roving spirit would hide behind that face with its scrubby red beard and stone gray eyes.
Martin Hill is the youngest, and second to Arthur in terms of height. He keeps himself as clean shaven as possible, but a five o’clock shadow always manages to evade the loving caress of his razor. He wears his wiry blonde hair in a ponytail, a style not often seen in these parts, and it compliments his high cheekbones well.
Tom Donohue is comfortable in the middle in terms of age and drew the short straw when it came to growth. The crown of his head, topped with brown hair of a medium length that screams that its owner can’t see why to get it cut more often than absolutely necessary only reaches Arthur’s chest, but Tommy doesn’t mind. He’s one of those blandly amiable people who’ll help you out in a tight spot, not due to any real pressing desire to do good but more due to it being an inbuilt instinct.
Elijah surveys his band of social misfits with tired eyes, and asks very hopefully, “Any news, boys? Any crimes at all?”
All three of them shake their heads in unison, a maneuver that had taught itself to them in their years of being here. “Sorry, Eli…nothing. Bit stupid of you to ask, really,” says Arthur in a low, rumbling voice, one which carries overtones of disappointment and regret.
“Nothing? Not even a goddamn pickpocket? Nothing at all?”
“Nope, Eli. You know how things are.”
“GODDAMNIT!” Eli stands fiercely, breaking his chair with the sheer force of his frustration as he does so. “There’s nothin’ that ever happens in this goddamn town! Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead!”
Tom looks shocked. He was the most religious of the group, and such thoughts are heretical. “Come now, Elijah…the Maker wouldn-”
Tom’s fist rockets around, catching Elijah on the jaw. This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. Elijah gets like this every few months or so, and he has a cup on his drawer filled with teeth he’s lost due to blasphemy to prove it.
Eli sighs, spits out what appears to be a molar with complete dejection, and admits, as he always does, in a soft, submissive voice: “Alright, alright, Tom…I was outta line. I’m sorry, right?”
Giving him a horribly condescending look, Tom barks in a voice of utter piety and a bit of smugness, “As you should be,” before drifting off.
“I dunno what he sees in religion, really,” slips out Martin, somewhat embarrassed at his confession. He’d been raised like most of the town; taught to read and write in the churches, indoctrinated since before he could stand. Martin was unusual in lack of dedication to the Maker.
“Something to hope for, maybe? I dunno,” pipes up Arthur, completing the quartet. Arthur was religious, in his own fashion, but he was a little lax.

Shocked It's absolutely wonderful and makes me want it to continue. I say continue it and make it a book.
The Chilli God

I agree somewhat with SotS's original thoughts on it. Not too stellar. It is descriptive, and leaves enough to the imagination so that it is comfortable, but I think it's a little bit fast-paced for a completely boring community.
A book? Hm, more emphasis might need to be made on the community before the scene of action. Like maybe, some sort of dream, or a letter that Elijah hasn't bothered to open, or something. A bit of foreshadowing to ensure the reader that, yes, you aren't just droning randomly as you actually were.

But, eh. I'm no student of literature, either(?).

Neither am I, but you have a good idea Chilli. Maybe something Eli has, say something truly blasphemous to the Maker and he doesn't realize it, could turn the entirty of Burntwood against him. That would make for something interesting for him. But who am I to critique? I can't free write no matter much I try (or don't try).
Shadow of the Sun

First paragraph.

There's a crime to be discovered.

Good work SotS not bad for starting it in your english class but i reckon it will turn out well.

Good luck with it!
Shadow of the Sun

Oy, Defiler...I'm Dave.
SotS is too troublesome.

Thanks will do. I wasn`t sure what you wanted me to call you so i left it at SotS that`s all.

Blah people like Dave's writing more than mine. Sad

Probably because its better oh well.

Shadow of the Sun wrote:
Oy, Defiler...I'm Dave.
SotS is too troublesome.

I've already told you. YOURE SotS!

Shadow of the Sun

I am NOT SotS.


*slaps SotS with a fish.*
Shadow of the Sun

Kyrian, your awesome abilities are thus revoked!

*shrug* I grant them to myself anyways. It's too early for me to truly find awesome potential.
Shadow of the Sun

Defiler! Get him with your nerve gas powers!

Sorry customs confiscated it off me, as if i someone like me would use it to harm civilians.

*curses whoever created customs*
Shadow of the Sun

Well, what use are you, then?
*stabs with claymore*

I didn`t say they got all of it. Mwahahahahaaa Twisted Evil .

*releases concealed nerve gas from his watch*
Shadow of the Sun

Gah! That got ME!
*convulses and dies*

Now settle down boys.
Shadow of the Sun

Who asked you?
*throws steak knife*

Oh its on now.
~Boiling Kettle in your face.~

*Laughs insanely and walks over Dave`s corpse dropping the watch in the corpse`s mouth*

That goes for you too.
~Kick Defiler in the face~
Shadow of the Sun

*eviscerates both with a meathook*
The organ market just got a massive spike.

*body starts hiss and blood starts bubbling as the Sarin nerve gas escapes from his bodies many wounds, as he gets up picks up and grabs Dave`s used throwing knife and throws it at it`s owner*
Shadow of the Sun


*beats over the head with the entire continent of America*


Sir, you forget yourself!

Shadow of the Sun

How do I forget myself?

*Gets up and rubs his head moaning*
The Chilli God

*Friendly Wave*

We can hijack this thread and make it the new Kiss'n'Kill!

Hijacking in progress!

*Acts as much like a terrorist as possible*

Darkblade wrote:
Blah people like Dave's writing more than mine. Sad

Probably because its better oh well.

Actually I think the reason people responded to Dave's more then yours was because its directly in his post. No one likes links.

People also don't like multiple chapters in a spoiler.

Then do multiple spoilers. Duh.

I can't wait to see Gnrlshrimp's reaction to this thread. He'll likely explode, or something fun like that.

This thread probably has forgotten its topic.

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