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November 16, 2018, 04:57:12 AM
609981 Posts in 47094 Topics by 6272 Members
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Badmovies.org Forum  |  Other Topics  |  Entertainment  |  New Short Stories. « previous next »
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Author Topic: New Short Stories.  (Read 1022 times)
Bad Penny
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #15 on: August 24, 2018, 11:04:09 AM »

Your best yet.  Cheers
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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Dark Alex
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« Reply #16 on: August 24, 2018, 04:33:06 PM »

One of the guys at work read the story and said although he liked it, the last chapter needed to be longer (which I agree with), and that it needed more gore. Well gore isn't so much my thing, but as it has been asked for I've put a bit more visceral stuff in. I might yet still add more stuff, depending if I find stuff that fits in correctly. I did want to make the defence of the church a bit more of a fight so that has been extended.
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There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
316zombie
zombie chef to the stars
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« Reply #17 on: August 28, 2018, 04:54:38 PM »

i really think you should submit this to daw's anthology editors. seriously. they actually READ stories from the" slush pile" and jumpstart careers. i've found some of my fave authors through their anthologies, you could join that club. you ARE that talented, my friend, you really are!
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don't EVEN...EVER!
Dark Alex
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« Reply #18 on: August 28, 2018, 05:28:40 PM »

Sorry, but that is not something I am familiar with.
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There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
Dark Alex
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
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Karma: 449
Posts: 3290



« Reply #19 on: August 29, 2018, 03:23:17 PM »

The Lore.
By Alex Corbett.

It was a quiet day in hell. Well, if one could drown out the wailing of the damned being tortured at any rate. A figure clad in a tattered black robe walked quickly up to a serpentine figure, whose tail was thrashing around in frustration. As the robed figure approached he has dwarfed by the snake like creature. Looking down on at him he hissed "Has a black priest been summoned?"

"Yes my direst lord. As soon as we saw what had happened we called for one."

"You called for a priest before informing ME?"

"Noo, my lord Aamon. I came straight to tell you, while one of the lesser demons was sent to fetch the priest."

It was not considered wise to upset a Grand Marquis of Hell with forty infernal legions at his command. Especially when his favourite daughter had been possessed. In a place where creative tortures were commonplace Aamon was looked up to as an inspiration.

“Which one of them has dared do this?”

“We think it is Michael, dread lord.”

A shudder ran through the body of the demon prince from his fur covered head to the tip of his long trailing snake body and tail and he propelled himself faster along the corridors of hell, his lion like paws digging into the ground and dragging his long body along behind him.

Before long he had reached his home lair. Well he called it a lair, but really it came in the shape of a nice three-bedroom cottage in a mock Tudor style right down to the thatched roof. The roof regularly had to be replaced as what with being in hell it was more often on fire than not, but regardless it was a nice touch. The job of Demon Price didn’t pay as well as most people thought it would, but it did come with some nice fringe benefits. Aamon especially appreciated it being a bungalow. The lack of legs made stairs a pain. He had done his best to make the cottage look a bit more gothic with decorations purchased from a dollar store, some excess stock left over from Hallowe’en one year, but it still seemed to lack the decorum Aamon felt a senior demon prince should have. He looked forward to the day one of those TV interior decorators died and came down here. Considering the pain on people’s eye balls they inflicted, surely all of them were heading to hell when they died after all and Aamon was nothing if not appreciative of a fellow master artist at work.

Slithering down the hallway, Aamon burst into his girl’s room in a manner that had terrified more than one teenage boy demon with designs on his daughter. It wasn’t that Aamon was an overly protective father. He just liked to see if he could frighten them to death, something he frequently managed. Afterwards he’d collect the heads and had them mounted on wooden plaques in the dining room. He liked to chuckle over them over dinner.

It took his mind off his wives terrible cooking.

The black priest was there waiting for him. He had two large eyes and a protrusion from his face that would be best described as an insect’s hand, if insects had hands that is. His red skinned demonic hands gripped a leather bound copy of The Devil’s Bible, using it to cover his face as Dementia, his youngest daughter vomited a sparkling rainbow at him while cursing him, telling him that his mother looked after orphaned puppies in heaven.
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There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
Bad Penny
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 839
Posts: 5543


The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #20 on: August 29, 2018, 06:27:12 PM »

Dude, I told you you couldn't base a story on my home life!

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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
316zombie
zombie chef to the stars
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Posts: 1769



« Reply #21 on: September 03, 2018, 01:49:34 PM »

dear brother says you should check this out, alex.
http://www.authorspublish.com/20-publishers-always-open-to-submissions/
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Dark Alex
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« Reply #22 on: September 03, 2018, 02:57:26 PM »

Had a look at it. Maybe once I have written a few more stories. I don't think I have enough to submit yet.
« Last Edit: September 03, 2018, 03:13:43 PM by Dark Alex » Logged

There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
Dark Alex
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 449
Posts: 3290



« Reply #23 on: September 04, 2018, 05:23:27 AM »

Done a bit more work on the start of this one.

Hopefully ER, this no longer reminds you of your home life, although if it does you have my sympathies.

The Lore.
By Alex Corbett.

It was a quiet day in hell. Well, if one could drown out the wailing of The Damned being tortured at any rate (Lucifer had never been a fan of their music and had a particular objection to Smash It Up for some reason). A man (or at least something in the approximate shape of a man) clad in a tattered black robe walked quickly up to a serpentine figure, whose tail was thrashing around in frustration. As the robed figure approached he has dwarfed by the snake like creature. Looking down on at him he hissed "Has a black priest been summoned?" The terrifying effect of his voice was somewhat modulated by the effects of not having nose, something that was undeniably useful in hell.

"Yes my direst lord. As soon as we saw what had happened we called for one."

"You called for a priest before informing ME?"

"Noo, my lord Aamon. I came straight to tell you, while one of the lesser demons was sent to fetch the priest."

It was not considered wise to upset a Grand Marquis of Hell with forty infernal legions at his command. Especially when his favourite daughter had been possessed. In a place where creative tortures were commonplace Aamon was looked up to as an inspiration. In no small way due to this, he was also viewed as a demon you did not want to upset

“Which one of them has dared do this?”

“We think it is Michael, dread lord.” Was the answer the quivering demon replied, endeavouring to put a whole lot of begging not to be tortured please if that was possible into the short sentence.

A shudder ran through the body of the demon prince from his fur covered head to the tip of his long trailing snake body and tail and he propelled himself faster along the corridors of hell, his lion like paws digging into the ground and dragging his long body along behind him.

Before long he had reached his home lair. Well he called it a lair, but really it came in the shape of a nice three-bedroom cottage in a mock Tudor style right down to the thatched roof. The roof regularly had to be replaced as what with being in hell it was more often on fire than not, but regardless it was a nice touch. The job of Demon Price didn’t pay as well as most people thought it would, but it did come with some nice fringe benefits. Aamon especially appreciated it being a bungalow. The lack of legs made stairs a pain. He had done his best to make the cottage look a bit more gothic with decorations purchased from a dollar store, some excess stock left over from Hallowe’en one year, but it still seemed to lack the decorum Aamon felt a senior demon prince should have. He looked forward to the day one of those TV interior decorators died and came down here. Considering the pain on people’s eye balls they inflicted, surely all of them were heading to hell when they died after all and Aamon was nothing if not appreciative of a fellow master artist at work.

Slithering down the hallway, Aamon burst into his girl’s room in a manner that had terrified more than one teenage boy demon with designs on his daughter. It wasn’t that Aamon was an overly protective father. He just liked to see if he could frighten them to death, something he frequently managed. Afterwards he’d collect the heads and had them mounted on wooden plaques in the dining room. He liked to chuckle over them over dinner.

It took his mind off his wives terrible cooking.

The black priest was there waiting for him. He had two large eyes and a protrusion from his face that would be best described as an insect’s hand, if insects had hands that is. His red skinned demonic hands gripped a leather-bound copy of The Devil’s Bible, using it to cover his face as Dementia, his youngest daughter vomited a sparkling rainbow at him while cursing him, telling him that his mother looked after orphaned puppies in heaven.


Aamon swore and sent some particularly nasty thoughts in the direction of upstairs. Every time the boss man went on holiday the angels would pull crap like this. It was even worse when the Big G took some time off. The last time that had happened they’d came down here like a bunch of drunken frat boys and toilet papered his lawn, but what had really irked him had been that they’d smashed his collection of garden gnomes. Satan could sort all this out easily enough, but he was on two weeks holiday in the Seychelles (where he’d invested in a time share bungalow back in the 80’s) and the mobile phone plan he’d signed up to had terrible coverage out there. Not that Aamon would call on Lucifer for help. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t help, or that Aamon feared him but he did have terrible flatulence and in a place, that, well let’s face it contained the fires of hell it was a dangerous combination. More than one ambitious demon who had invited the boss around for dinner seeking a promotion had instead found his home being burned down around him after the Morningstar had let one rip.

Aamon was old enough to remember the so-called fall. Rebellion against heaven my arse. Or rather Satan’s arse. That was the trouble with getting humans to write things. They’d mistranslated between Enochian and Hebrew. For a while the Big G had tried correcting them, but it only led to schisms and more infighting so nowadays he just left them to it.

The truth was, it was because Satan let loose in god’s presence and offended the almighties delicate nostrils. What was translated as ‘the fall’, was meant to read ‘the fart’. Still he couldn’t blame Big G for his reaction. Heaven had to be deep cleaned after that one to get rid of the smell (and as per usual humans had misread that one as some great flood). And ever since anyone who couldn’t control their gas was sent to hell where the fires would at least ignite their emissions so no one else would have to be troubled by them. No wonder the humans thought of this place as a land of punishment. Mind you, it was surprising just how many of them who were considered evil ended up here. Hitler, Gadhafi, Hussein, Ghandi... uncontrollable flatulent’s the lot of them! One of them, Attila had received the nickname Attila the Bum he was so bad.

Demons were excellent at torture but were somewhat lacking when it came to being witty.

Aamon was rudely shaken from his meanderings by his daughter’s latest outburst “Your grandmother knits warm socks for homeless people!” As Aamon watched her demonic red skin, covered in scars and unholy markings became smooth and without blemish. He who had tortured (flatulent) souls for an eternity found himself struggling not to throw up at the sight of it. Her goat like slit eyes lost their healthy red glow and instead became an angelic blue.
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There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
Dark Alex
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 449
Posts: 3290



« Reply #24 on: September 10, 2018, 03:36:29 PM »

Aamon was rudely shaken from his meanderings by his daughter’s latest outburst “Your grandmother knits warm socks for homeless people!” As Aamon watched her demonic red skin, covered in scars and unholy markings became smooth and without blemish. He who had tortured (flatulent) souls for an eternity found himself struggling not to throw up at the sight of it. Her goat like slit eyes lost their healthy red glow and instead became an angelic blue. At the edge of his vision a golden halo was slowly forming.

Cursing the Heavens above for angels and their childish pranks, Aamon yelled at the black priest “Cast this foolish intruder out of my daughter. Send him back to gates of heaven, with the flaming farts of Satan burning him every step of the way!”

The black priest stepped forward, holding the black bible in front of him and began to chant in a nervous voice. The language he spoke in was not Latin as you might expect, but for reasons known only to the Morningstar himself, Esperanto. He had embraced that concept wholeheartedly and had an edition brought our right away in that language. He had been in a black mood for decades when Esperanto didn’t really take off. He’d been convinced he was getting in on the ground floor of the next big thing. The only time Aamon had seen him more upset was when he’d invested heavily in Atari right before they released the Jaguar console. For a being famous for his contracts, Satan was hopeless when it came to making sound financial decisions, and yet he would with boundless enthusiasm invest in every scam that came along convinced this time he’d gotten it right. In a bright, cheerful voice Dementia started singing Kumbaya.

For only the second time in his long existence did Aamon feel a chill freezing his blackened demonic soul. The other time had been when Beelzebub had come around to show him all his holiday snaps from his trip to the Costa del Sol
« Last Edit: September 10, 2018, 03:43:36 PM by Dark Alex » Logged

There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
Bad Penny
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 839
Posts: 5543


The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #25 on: September 11, 2018, 09:00:41 AM »

Another good one, Alex!  Cheers
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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Dark Alex
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 449
Posts: 3290



« Reply #26 on: September 11, 2018, 12:04:11 PM »

Hmm, I know where I want this story to go, but I am not sure how exactly to get it there, so I am going to retire it for a little while and come back to it at some point.
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There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh.
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