Heartsteal
That guy who's not around much right now
So, as some members may know by now, I write short stories from time to time in the shoutbox, though they're often not much more than a fight scene. As a little hobby of mine, it seems like they're fairly appreciated, so I thought to start this thread.
I'm going to be posting the short stories I place in the shoutbox here, and I'd love to see other members take a stab at it, or just let me know what they think.
I hope that everyone will come to appreciate this thread, and come to share a little slice of their own work.
So, for the first story! (kinda)
There was blood on the dance floor, the thrum of the crowd made the air vibrate with tension as the music played. Lit by both the lights beneath it, and above it, the crimson fluid slipped up both the crowd, and the two their attention was so completely focused on.
No one really knew how it'd begun, nor did they particularly care, cheering for one or the other, breaking into their own little tussels here and there. Fighting for the best view, the crowd was as much a danger as the opponent as the formally dressed young man dodged back from yet another sweep of the knife. He looked terribly out of place in the venue, yet strangely at home, his feet practically gliding across the floor in his expensive leather shoes. A small cut had been made along his chin when the thug picked his fight, snapping over something infinitesmal, completely irrelevant to him. Attempting for a gash across the throat, it was as much his fumble as the visitor's reflexes that had only landed the blow mere inches away from a kill. Lunging in, the jewelry wearing street punk tried to stab with his hunting knife, no doubt bought at walmart. Sliding off to the side, the formal man almost made his foolish opponent stab a bystander, catching the knife-wielding wrist in mid lunge and redirecting it upward. Reaching up with his free hand, he grabbed the offending arm with both hands, and twisted himself to face the opposite direction. Hauling the arm down behind it's owner, the gentleman kicked backwards, taking out his opponent's footing as he drove the knife through a glass-panelled floor tile. Following his opponent to the floor, dropping to a knee on his ribs, the suited man pulled back on the arm he'd ust trapped, one under the elbow, and another holding the wrist, pulling the both of them to their feet, he hefted the punk over his shoulder, and flipped him, keeping the upward momentum as he tossed the fool right off the dancefloor.
The crowd was dumbfounded, they'd expected things to go in a very different direction, their jaws slack for a moment, it seemed like even the music stopped. There was an uproar, three more patrons stepped from the crowd, brandishing broken bottles; with blood on their minds, violence was an easy answer. The man in the suit pretended to brush some dust from his shoulder, as if they were little bother to him.
The man was a bodyguard, and his job was merely to dispose of any potential threat, as well as distract attention from his client. With the soon to be riot breaking out, he figured that was handled well enough. Rushing in his direction at roughly the same time, the bodyguard would have little time to react. Moving forward to meet them head-on, he assumed the best chance would be to pass, and return, taking down two opponents separately before he dealt with the third. The assailants hadn't expected the response they got, and hesitated. The first went down from one punch in the nose, and another in the teeth, mere instants behind it. Regaining their bearings, the remaining two readied themselves, moving closer together. That was just terrific... The taller of the two lashed out first, slashing wildly with the bottle at his opponent's face. Ducking beneath it, the suited man kicked outward while he stepped forward, his heel colliding with the locked knee of the untrained party-goer. Following through from the kick, he followed up with a right-handed punch to the diaphragm, blasting the wind from the man's lungs before he could even scream in pain at the bone-crunching agony of his leg. The second man had tried to stab the formally dressed newcomer, but the lunge had met where he'd been but a moment before, mid stride to his punch. Catching the other drunkard's wrist at full extension, he drove a fist into the back of his elbow, snapping it backwards with a sickening crunch. Without even batting an eye, he kicked savagely into the back of his knee, and finished with a full hammerfist to the collarbone, dislocating the man's arm at the shoulder with a wet sound that was barely audible over the rest of the club.
Straightening back up, the bodyguard brushed himself down again, as if to make a point; then looked at the gathered crowd, who were still staring, mouths wide from the first display. Waiting a moment to see if he'd get any more challengers, the suited man made his way back to the barstool, and sat as if nothing had happened. The bartender recoiled in terror, too afraid to serve the man that had just taken down four others in a standup fight without taking a hit. Putting a hand to his jaw and pulling it away red, gleaming under the strobe lights, the bodyguard chuckled a little, inaudible over the music and crowd's murmurs. Rapping his knuckles on the counter twice, he ordered a drink, a grin on his face at the scene he'd made.
What a perfect job...
And now the second.
In the modern age, aggression amongst the youth has been a drastic change. Bullying has changed, it was more like a war for information, what used to be a beating once every month or so, has become ceaseless psychological attacks, invading one's privacy. With communications technology at an all-time high, it has become incredibly easy to find and communicate with people. An entire subculture of 'bullies' has formed across the internet; it's become popular to act asinine. High school is nothing like adults think it to be, the popular kids, wearing their brand-name semi-formal clothes, are often the offenders. The things that make educators' alarms go off, are the signs of a victim, but they are misinterpreted. Wearing dark clothes, and often displeased expressions, they are labelled as the aggressor, and the real problem goes unsolved. There is no such thing as a bystander anymore; they choose sides. Almost never is that side the victim's. With hundreds of people against a few, and with the easy access to their personal information, there is no respite. To the offenders, this communication is no big deal, just one little message a week or two, but they don't take into account the quantity that that entails. When a single person receives hundreds of messages, each from different people, pointing out their flaws, when they can find websites dedicated to picking them to pieces, life can become quite bleak. During all this, the victim comes to accept it, and eventually believe what they hear; living their life on a cycle, the same routine until they snap. Some people break violently, others quietly, school shootings and suicides; every school gets one. Virtually every year, a school will lose a student to either crime or suicide; a student that anyone could ask about and get the same answers... "such a quiet kid..."
The moon was out, beautiful and full. Prom night, all the other grads were out partying, but not CJ. Clifford had never been in very good shape, and despite his intelligence, he didn't get very good grades. For years, since he'd come to this school he'd been mocked, ridiculed for every little thing. He'd had his social networking accounts reset several times, so full of hate messages he couldn't bring himself to sign in. With a small group of friends that took advantage of his kindness, he sat alone; at lunch, in class, and now. When he'd arrived to the graduation dance, the student council president had been at the door, allowing the students in; she was a pretty girl, Sherly, CJ had always liked her. The blonde was the stereotyped popular girl, a lot of friends, good grades, multi-talented, and even finding the time for extra-curricular activities. As soon as he'd stepped inside, Clifford was pushed back out by a couple guys from the rugby team. "You're not welcome here, go home fatty!" one of them had shouted, spitting on his suit, the one he'd just spent several hundred dollars to have tailored to his husky frame. No one did anything about it, they either went about their business, or took the time to stop and laugh, one stole his glasses and tossed them as hard as he could out to the middle of the parking lot.
So here he sat, on the edge of the school roof, gazing at the cold beauty of the full moon, writing a note for his family, apologizing, for everything, for being a loser, for being such a coward, for killing himself... Tears stained the slip of paper as the new grad tucked it into his shoe, and letting himself fall headfirst to the ground, as unforgiving as his peers had been.
I'm going to be posting the short stories I place in the shoutbox here, and I'd love to see other members take a stab at it, or just let me know what they think.
I hope that everyone will come to appreciate this thread, and come to share a little slice of their own work.
So, for the first story! (kinda)
There was blood on the dance floor, the thrum of the crowd made the air vibrate with tension as the music played. Lit by both the lights beneath it, and above it, the crimson fluid slipped up both the crowd, and the two their attention was so completely focused on.
No one really knew how it'd begun, nor did they particularly care, cheering for one or the other, breaking into their own little tussels here and there. Fighting for the best view, the crowd was as much a danger as the opponent as the formally dressed young man dodged back from yet another sweep of the knife. He looked terribly out of place in the venue, yet strangely at home, his feet practically gliding across the floor in his expensive leather shoes. A small cut had been made along his chin when the thug picked his fight, snapping over something infinitesmal, completely irrelevant to him. Attempting for a gash across the throat, it was as much his fumble as the visitor's reflexes that had only landed the blow mere inches away from a kill. Lunging in, the jewelry wearing street punk tried to stab with his hunting knife, no doubt bought at walmart. Sliding off to the side, the formal man almost made his foolish opponent stab a bystander, catching the knife-wielding wrist in mid lunge and redirecting it upward. Reaching up with his free hand, he grabbed the offending arm with both hands, and twisted himself to face the opposite direction. Hauling the arm down behind it's owner, the gentleman kicked backwards, taking out his opponent's footing as he drove the knife through a glass-panelled floor tile. Following his opponent to the floor, dropping to a knee on his ribs, the suited man pulled back on the arm he'd ust trapped, one under the elbow, and another holding the wrist, pulling the both of them to their feet, he hefted the punk over his shoulder, and flipped him, keeping the upward momentum as he tossed the fool right off the dancefloor.
The crowd was dumbfounded, they'd expected things to go in a very different direction, their jaws slack for a moment, it seemed like even the music stopped. There was an uproar, three more patrons stepped from the crowd, brandishing broken bottles; with blood on their minds, violence was an easy answer. The man in the suit pretended to brush some dust from his shoulder, as if they were little bother to him.
The man was a bodyguard, and his job was merely to dispose of any potential threat, as well as distract attention from his client. With the soon to be riot breaking out, he figured that was handled well enough. Rushing in his direction at roughly the same time, the bodyguard would have little time to react. Moving forward to meet them head-on, he assumed the best chance would be to pass, and return, taking down two opponents separately before he dealt with the third. The assailants hadn't expected the response they got, and hesitated. The first went down from one punch in the nose, and another in the teeth, mere instants behind it. Regaining their bearings, the remaining two readied themselves, moving closer together. That was just terrific... The taller of the two lashed out first, slashing wildly with the bottle at his opponent's face. Ducking beneath it, the suited man kicked outward while he stepped forward, his heel colliding with the locked knee of the untrained party-goer. Following through from the kick, he followed up with a right-handed punch to the diaphragm, blasting the wind from the man's lungs before he could even scream in pain at the bone-crunching agony of his leg. The second man had tried to stab the formally dressed newcomer, but the lunge had met where he'd been but a moment before, mid stride to his punch. Catching the other drunkard's wrist at full extension, he drove a fist into the back of his elbow, snapping it backwards with a sickening crunch. Without even batting an eye, he kicked savagely into the back of his knee, and finished with a full hammerfist to the collarbone, dislocating the man's arm at the shoulder with a wet sound that was barely audible over the rest of the club.
Straightening back up, the bodyguard brushed himself down again, as if to make a point; then looked at the gathered crowd, who were still staring, mouths wide from the first display. Waiting a moment to see if he'd get any more challengers, the suited man made his way back to the barstool, and sat as if nothing had happened. The bartender recoiled in terror, too afraid to serve the man that had just taken down four others in a standup fight without taking a hit. Putting a hand to his jaw and pulling it away red, gleaming under the strobe lights, the bodyguard chuckled a little, inaudible over the music and crowd's murmurs. Rapping his knuckles on the counter twice, he ordered a drink, a grin on his face at the scene he'd made.
What a perfect job...
And now the second.
In the modern age, aggression amongst the youth has been a drastic change. Bullying has changed, it was more like a war for information, what used to be a beating once every month or so, has become ceaseless psychological attacks, invading one's privacy. With communications technology at an all-time high, it has become incredibly easy to find and communicate with people. An entire subculture of 'bullies' has formed across the internet; it's become popular to act asinine. High school is nothing like adults think it to be, the popular kids, wearing their brand-name semi-formal clothes, are often the offenders. The things that make educators' alarms go off, are the signs of a victim, but they are misinterpreted. Wearing dark clothes, and often displeased expressions, they are labelled as the aggressor, and the real problem goes unsolved. There is no such thing as a bystander anymore; they choose sides. Almost never is that side the victim's. With hundreds of people against a few, and with the easy access to their personal information, there is no respite. To the offenders, this communication is no big deal, just one little message a week or two, but they don't take into account the quantity that that entails. When a single person receives hundreds of messages, each from different people, pointing out their flaws, when they can find websites dedicated to picking them to pieces, life can become quite bleak. During all this, the victim comes to accept it, and eventually believe what they hear; living their life on a cycle, the same routine until they snap. Some people break violently, others quietly, school shootings and suicides; every school gets one. Virtually every year, a school will lose a student to either crime or suicide; a student that anyone could ask about and get the same answers... "such a quiet kid..."
The moon was out, beautiful and full. Prom night, all the other grads were out partying, but not CJ. Clifford had never been in very good shape, and despite his intelligence, he didn't get very good grades. For years, since he'd come to this school he'd been mocked, ridiculed for every little thing. He'd had his social networking accounts reset several times, so full of hate messages he couldn't bring himself to sign in. With a small group of friends that took advantage of his kindness, he sat alone; at lunch, in class, and now. When he'd arrived to the graduation dance, the student council president had been at the door, allowing the students in; she was a pretty girl, Sherly, CJ had always liked her. The blonde was the stereotyped popular girl, a lot of friends, good grades, multi-talented, and even finding the time for extra-curricular activities. As soon as he'd stepped inside, Clifford was pushed back out by a couple guys from the rugby team. "You're not welcome here, go home fatty!" one of them had shouted, spitting on his suit, the one he'd just spent several hundred dollars to have tailored to his husky frame. No one did anything about it, they either went about their business, or took the time to stop and laugh, one stole his glasses and tossed them as hard as he could out to the middle of the parking lot.
So here he sat, on the edge of the school roof, gazing at the cold beauty of the full moon, writing a note for his family, apologizing, for everything, for being a loser, for being such a coward, for killing himself... Tears stained the slip of paper as the new grad tucked it into his shoe, and letting himself fall headfirst to the ground, as unforgiving as his peers had been.