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Freelance writer!
112
January 13, 2004 10:58 PM
People. Don''t be so harsh on the writer. In this world of instant messaging and this forum that lacks a grammar or spell checking, it is understandable that typos occur.
*News tagenigma.com is my new domain.
229
January 14, 2004 09:11 PM
CHTHULU TAKES EMILY POST TO THE PROM
It's been a while since I read my Lovecraft, so the voice may not be quite on target, but here goes.
20:53 1/14/04
At the Prom in Ry’Leh,
Dead Chthulu dances dreaming . . .
I have kept these horrors held within my bosom for ages; now, that the final sickness of my family line is descending, I can bear them no more. It is a creeping malady of the soul, this terror from beyond the ages, whilst he-who-will-not-be-named-on-a-dance-card capers just beyond the ken of my vision in the still watches of the night.
It is to be assured that any reader has heard of the events surrounding the publication of Etiquette, to the degree that they need not be repeated. Ms. Post and the oft-acclaimed newspapers of the day, buried under various charges of consorting with powers both of Manners and of the Diabolical, refused comment—but rumors of infernal and nameless horrors survived nonetheless. In such a quaint New England town, such stories are always passed along, over the heads of tankards in public houses along the docks. Believe if you will the denunciation from the Department of the Navy regarding the fire aboard the Bristol, and the claims of local fishermen of scraps of Prom Dress, found strangely charred throughout the bay.
I debarked from the schooner Adrienne on the morning of the fourteenth of January, 18--, bound for Baltimore and my Uncle Fester—so named by way of a tragically humorous incident involving a shipping crate of wooden shoes—for an annual vacation among the curios of my family’s seafaring past. Many fine specimens of the South Pacific were arranged as a display above Uncle Fester’s fireplace, including one faintly disgusting fish-faced mask of sorts, crafted out of what to my juvenile mind appeared to be tiny blowfish. That this disagreeable object had attained an unhealthy fascination over my intellect should not be wondered at; for many years, Uncle Fester and Aunt Horrible had regaled we children with the story of how it had been found.
Grand-Uncle-Twice-Removed Pepe Longstockings, a great distiller of Tequila and inspirer of children’s books, had been washed ashore an island in the midst of the dead Pacific, his Tequila Clipper having been capsized in an utterly freak and otherworldly squall that rose up from seemingly nowhere. Cast away on this block of basalt, surrounded by washed-up bottles of tequila, he found the mask lying alone at the entry to a great flight of stairs leading down into the netherworldly depths. Ignoring the soulless voices that arose therein, as he assumed they emanated from the Agave worm he’d recently eaten, he returned to his tequila and woke up several months later in Belgium, with no recollection of how he had arrived.
I alighted the staircase leading to my Uncle’s house with delight, and froze in horror. Instead of delight at my presence, there arose such screams of fear—nay, otherworldly and soul-consuming terror—from within. Presently perceiving that I was not the object by which this terror was caused, I took heart and bounded into the house, demanding an explanation.
“Horace!” My uncle screamed as he saw me. “Horace, you must come quickly!”
“Uncle Fester!” I screamed in response, although we were not more than two feet away from each other. “What’s wrong? Speak quickly, man!”
At this precise moment, from farther within the house spoke a voice—no, a sound without any of the pleasing qualities of human voice. If a charnel house or a crypt could summon the power of speech, it might address one with just such a horrifying lack of timbre.
The voice spoke just two sentences, which I shall remember to my grave:
“WHAT THE H—L IS WRONG WITH YOU MORTALS? GET ME MY CORSAGE!”
“No!” I shrieked, appalled.
“He’s been like this all afternoon!” Aunt Horrible bawled. “Your cousin Awful, that is. He’s channeling the spirits of the Elder Gods, and he’s got to go to the Prom with that Post girl tonight!”
Thus: the family’s curse. Ever since that fateful day of Basalt, Tequila and Belgium, my line has had an etheric contact with Those Not of Our Time. Upon occasion, one of those of my blood would be temporarily subsumed, as it were, as with the essence of a Great Old One; from this, there was but one recourse.
“What are we going to do?” Shrieked Aunt Horrible.
Steeling himself, Uncle Fester spoke. “What we always do,” he snapped. “We’ll drink Tequila until we all pass out.”
“To the Tequila!” I cried, reaching for the bottle.
It has now been nearly eighty years, and since that fateful day, no spirit or apparition has troubled my family in any way. Who is to say what occurred on that night of horror, when the Dead Gods from the outer spheres walked the earth in a rental tuxedo? Ms. Post certainly will not; yet from her behavior, denouncing all forms of bad manners, we can certainly take clues. Chthulu, it seems, must not be a polite gentleman of whom can be spoken of in polite company.
21:55 1/14/04
[edited by - Toraque on January 14, 2004 10:13:46 PM]
It's been a while since I read my Lovecraft, so the voice may not be quite on target, but here goes.
20:53 1/14/04
At the Prom in Ry’Leh,
Dead Chthulu dances dreaming . . .
I have kept these horrors held within my bosom for ages; now, that the final sickness of my family line is descending, I can bear them no more. It is a creeping malady of the soul, this terror from beyond the ages, whilst he-who-will-not-be-named-on-a-dance-card capers just beyond the ken of my vision in the still watches of the night.
It is to be assured that any reader has heard of the events surrounding the publication of Etiquette, to the degree that they need not be repeated. Ms. Post and the oft-acclaimed newspapers of the day, buried under various charges of consorting with powers both of Manners and of the Diabolical, refused comment—but rumors of infernal and nameless horrors survived nonetheless. In such a quaint New England town, such stories are always passed along, over the heads of tankards in public houses along the docks. Believe if you will the denunciation from the Department of the Navy regarding the fire aboard the Bristol, and the claims of local fishermen of scraps of Prom Dress, found strangely charred throughout the bay.
I debarked from the schooner Adrienne on the morning of the fourteenth of January, 18--, bound for Baltimore and my Uncle Fester—so named by way of a tragically humorous incident involving a shipping crate of wooden shoes—for an annual vacation among the curios of my family’s seafaring past. Many fine specimens of the South Pacific were arranged as a display above Uncle Fester’s fireplace, including one faintly disgusting fish-faced mask of sorts, crafted out of what to my juvenile mind appeared to be tiny blowfish. That this disagreeable object had attained an unhealthy fascination over my intellect should not be wondered at; for many years, Uncle Fester and Aunt Horrible had regaled we children with the story of how it had been found.
Grand-Uncle-Twice-Removed Pepe Longstockings, a great distiller of Tequila and inspirer of children’s books, had been washed ashore an island in the midst of the dead Pacific, his Tequila Clipper having been capsized in an utterly freak and otherworldly squall that rose up from seemingly nowhere. Cast away on this block of basalt, surrounded by washed-up bottles of tequila, he found the mask lying alone at the entry to a great flight of stairs leading down into the netherworldly depths. Ignoring the soulless voices that arose therein, as he assumed they emanated from the Agave worm he’d recently eaten, he returned to his tequila and woke up several months later in Belgium, with no recollection of how he had arrived.
I alighted the staircase leading to my Uncle’s house with delight, and froze in horror. Instead of delight at my presence, there arose such screams of fear—nay, otherworldly and soul-consuming terror—from within. Presently perceiving that I was not the object by which this terror was caused, I took heart and bounded into the house, demanding an explanation.
“Horace!” My uncle screamed as he saw me. “Horace, you must come quickly!”
“Uncle Fester!” I screamed in response, although we were not more than two feet away from each other. “What’s wrong? Speak quickly, man!”
At this precise moment, from farther within the house spoke a voice—no, a sound without any of the pleasing qualities of human voice. If a charnel house or a crypt could summon the power of speech, it might address one with just such a horrifying lack of timbre.
The voice spoke just two sentences, which I shall remember to my grave:
“WHAT THE H—L IS WRONG WITH YOU MORTALS? GET ME MY CORSAGE!”
“No!” I shrieked, appalled.
“He’s been like this all afternoon!” Aunt Horrible bawled. “Your cousin Awful, that is. He’s channeling the spirits of the Elder Gods, and he’s got to go to the Prom with that Post girl tonight!”
Thus: the family’s curse. Ever since that fateful day of Basalt, Tequila and Belgium, my line has had an etheric contact with Those Not of Our Time. Upon occasion, one of those of my blood would be temporarily subsumed, as it were, as with the essence of a Great Old One; from this, there was but one recourse.
“What are we going to do?” Shrieked Aunt Horrible.
Steeling himself, Uncle Fester spoke. “What we always do,” he snapped. “We’ll drink Tequila until we all pass out.”
“To the Tequila!” I cried, reaching for the bottle.
It has now been nearly eighty years, and since that fateful day, no spirit or apparition has troubled my family in any way. Who is to say what occurred on that night of horror, when the Dead Gods from the outer spheres walked the earth in a rental tuxedo? Ms. Post certainly will not; yet from her behavior, denouncing all forms of bad manners, we can certainly take clues. Chthulu, it seems, must not be a polite gentleman of whom can be spoken of in polite company.
21:55 1/14/04
[edited by - Toraque on January 14, 2004 10:13:46 PM]
100
January 16, 2004 11:02 PM
I''ll work for half of what he charges!
It''s Maxd Gaming, put in an underscore and I will beat you with a rubber ducky!
{ Check out my Forum } { My First Space Art (Ever) }{ My .Net Information }{ A upcoming space RTS codenamed Gruntacktica
. }{ . }
Not following the new trend:
Looky here mommy! No cow pic!
It''s Maxd Gaming, put in an underscore and I will beat you with a rubber ducky!
{ Check out my Forum } { My First Space Art (Ever) }{ My .Net Information }{ A upcoming space RTS codenamed Gruntacktica
. }{ . }Not following the new trend:
Looky here mommy! No cow pic!
The Untitled RPG - |||||||||| 40%Free Music for your gamesOriginal post by capn_midnight 23yrold, is your ass burning from all the kissing it is recieving?
138
January 16, 2004 11:05 PM
quote: Original post by maxd gaming
I''ll work for half of what he charges!
I''ll work for free. WHAT NOW?!
100
January 16, 2004 11:10 PM
quote: Original post by orionx103quote: Original post by maxd gaming
I''ll work for half of what he charges!
I''ll work for free. WHAT NOW?!
I''ll work for half that.
It''s Maxd Gaming, put in an underscore and I will beat you with a rubber ducky!
{ Check out my Forum } { My First Space Art (Ever) }{ My .Net Information }{ A upcoming space RTS codenamed Gruntacktica
. }{ . }Not following the new trend:
Looky here mommy! No cow pic!
The Untitled RPG - |||||||||| 40%Free Music for your gamesOriginal post by capn_midnight 23yrold, is your ass burning from all the kissing it is recieving?
1,845
January 18, 2004 09:10 PM
Uh-oh. Looks like the only thing now is to pay for the privelage of writing. Hmm... I''ll pass.
480
January 18, 2004 11:55 PM
quote: Original post by Iron Chef Carnage
Uh-oh. Looks like the only thing now is to pay for the privelage of writing. Hmm... I''ll pass.
Some of us really bottom of the ladder types will slave for years for nothing for the priviledge to write.... well.
Always without desire we must be found, If its deep mystery we would sound; But if desire always within us be, Its outer fringe is all that we shall see. - The Tao
February 07, 2004 08:38 AM
Well if you''re all so willing to write for free then I''ve got some work for you. I am a volunteer writer on a dark fantasy MMORPG project called Netherstorm. Currently we have around 30 active members from all around the globe. We are still looking for more writers (we currently have 4) so if you''d like to join send a sample of your best dark fantasy work to sjoerdvosse@netherstorm.com
Note that we are looking for volunteers for now, so no pay for now. The business people on our team are very busy looking for funding though and should come up with some money in a few months. If not, I still think it''s great fun to work with a team of talented writers, artists, modelers and game-designers to make something beautiful.
Note that we are looking for volunteers for now, so no pay for now. The business people on our team are very busy looking for funding though and should come up with some money in a few months. If not, I still think it''s great fun to work with a team of talented writers, artists, modelers and game-designers to make something beautiful.
This topic is closed to new replies.
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