Etchings and Scribbles

An attempt at writing third person -------------------------------------------------------- It was a serene day in the village. At last, the long winter had finally broken, sunlight streamed through the freshly budding leaves in the orchard, and children ran amuck in the streets. Well-worn dirt paths held deep grooves on their sides from merchant wagons that passed through. The village itself had grown since the previous year. It seemed every so often a passer-by would decide to stay and a family would sprout up around them. The robed man walked into this saccharine scene full of relief. It had been a long journey, and his feet were killing him. A gentle breeze picked up and carried the smell of wildflower blossoms to him, his grayed beard trailing along outside his hood. “Yes, yes…” he muttered to himself, lifting one foot in front of the other in an almost zombified state of mind, he made his way to the largest building in town, the inn. The inn itself was perhaps the finest building...

Our first visit was a short one. Not that we realized or knew what was going on, but we knew without a doubt that the safest place any of us could be was in that broom closet. “More like a boom closet,” one of us had tried to joke. No one laughed. Humor had died with everything else. “We need to find food and water. I think for now we have a workable shelter.” “How are we gonna sleep in there? It’s packed full of shit.” “We’ll pull the racks out and recycle them into something else.” “Oh yeah, you’re just Robinson fuckin’ Crusoe, aren’t ya?” “Chill the fuck out man, I know we’re in a bad spot. But if we don’t want to die, then we need to work together, OK?” That was the extent of our conversation that day. No names asked, no life stories shared. I think we were all in denial. It’s difficult to ask those hard questions when you’re surrounded by destruction, and deep down we all knew the answer. Deep down we wanted it all to go back the way it was. None of us were happy, but one of us c...

Melissa and I had been officially seeing each other for a few weeks. To whom it was made official I’m not sure, but she had been staying at my place, and I had allowed Her toothbrush to grace my bathroom counter for more than a night. To me, that said “Official Couple”, to  Her  it probably said “Official Dumbass Has Allowed You In”. That was a term I began hearing a lot more, “dumbass”. She only called me that every now and then, but that was  Her  official description of everything, ESPECIALLY things she didn’t care to understand. “Look at that dumbass”, “What kind of dumbass”, “What the dumbass”, “Who in their dumbass mind”, trust me, it got old. But I was blinded by attraction, and, arguably, a dumbass about the ways of love or even a healthy relationship. It seemed the only healthy relationship was  Her  status with cigarettes and getting  Her  nails done. I never asked how or where she got those nails fixed up every few days. Once, I was be...

I like where this one is going, and will probably come back to it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- She smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. I never enjoyed those cheap adages as they seemed too shallow to describe a person. Only after having met Her , known  Her  intimately, and come away bruised battered and scarred, did I realize how apt a summation it was. We met while I was doing some community service at the local homeless shelter. They of course did more than cater to the homeless population, helping out those living on the edge of poverty as well. Those people had gone from few to plenty in the aftershocks of the war, and those of us living comfortably could feel the cold knocking at our door. It wouldn't be long before everything collapsed and left us all to freeze. But I digress, we were talking about Her . There wasn't a day that went by after our first cha...

Based on a writing prompt, "A person receives packages from themselves from the future". Maybe a series. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It all started on a Tuesday afternoon. I got home from work a bit early that day. My key stuck in the lock to my building and I had to wrestle it free, worrying the whole time I was wearing the edges and one day it would completely cease to work. Instead of heading upstairs and into the safety of my apartment, I drudged forward towards our mailboxes. Much to my relief, the hall was devoid of any presence save my own. I fought with the lock on the mailbox as well, they were all out to get me that day. The door swung open without a sound, save my keys clacking on the mailbox adjacent. The sight inside was not a new one, and it continues to this day to amaze me how much passion and ability our mail-person has for making such a small space contai...

This is a character concept for a campaign of the good ol' tabletop RPG. His name is Ike, and this is his backstory -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ike was born into a nomad community that sustained themselves by moving throughout the fertile Paradise Valley. This tribe was integrated enough with the local towns and villages that they could stop and trade for supplies when needed, but always they did everything they could to be self-contained. This involved hunting, fishing, foraging, surviving day-to-day. His parents were both very skilled, and while Ike was still young they taught him all they could about what to eat from the land. When he was shown how to hunt, he balked at the idea, failing even to loose an arrow on a deer that was too wounded to ever recover. Recalling that day, Ike would only offer a simple “I just wanted it to get better.” One fateful day, his parents went off to...

This is based on a run of The Consuming Shadow (a game by Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw) that happened a while back -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Its been 32 hours since I began this mad dash to stop whichever ancient evil that deigned to invade our reality. The only thing keeping me going is an incantation I learned early on that heals my wounds, and the fact that bashing these monstrosities with my pistol eventually kills them. The only thing keeping my sanity from slipping away like sand through fingers is the delightful concoction in these syringes I've purchased. Still, even those wear off over time, and healing myself through constant melee takes its toll as well. I've just taken my second dose of "delightful", and already I can feel the madness tearing into me. The last town I visited had already been taken by the shadows, and the minions of the ancient one poure...