The writing game

Hello escapists! This here will serve as a fun and constructive place where we could all have a nice game together and improve our writing skills. Every single user can join as long as she/he/it follows the rules:

In this game each user will write a short piece, between 2-4 paragraphs (each paragraph approx. 4-5 sentence) which addressed the terms listen by the above user and everyone before him. The terms will reset after every 15 posts of stories, but we'll experiment with this number later.
Write your conditions with the red color.


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Here is the first term:
The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening.
This can be a tale about a new kid in school or a crazy homeless man stranded on a terraformed Mars for the first time.

Noise came from everywhere, yet nothing came to his vision. Only a name, John Doe appeared in a maroon color before his eyes, closed shut and blackness soon consumed the visage. He supposed that was his name. The noise got louder and to him the sound became unbearable. He desperately tried to open his eyes and used his fingers to pry them open. The noise ceased, a small bit of light could be seen.

The light grew wider, still wider and John found hope inside it. The hope turned to dread as fast as it had come once the ghastly image within the light appeared. A blood soaked humanoid with a knife. It spoke in incomprehensible tongues, bringing a knife down. Just before the knife hit, air filled John's lungs. He had awoken from a dream.

The main character is an unreliable narrator.

"ANSWER ME NOW!!!" said the police officer. "Did you lie to us?"

""Uh, erg, I'm, No! No, sir! I did not lie!" I said.

"Then please retell us the story of what you saw during the crime." Asked the police officer.

"Well... It was a sunny day... A-at around 6:00 P.M. A-and there was this lady. She looked very pretty. And I just kept watching her and... And... This guy, he came and pushed her to the ground... And then... S-started doing t-things..."

"What did he do?!" said the Police Officer.

"He started kissing her and then he... took off all her clothes... He put it in her and then started ripping her clothes..." I replied.

"That confirms it" said the police officer. "You're going to jail".

"NO! I DIDN'T RAPE HER!" I said. "WHOEVER SAID I DID IT WAS LYING!!!"

"Give it up"

He cuffed me and escorted me to prison...

A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.

Blue and white, blue and white. Gold and green but mixed with red. Dark, dark brown while sprinkled with gray. Blue and white, grew as it saw me. The dark plates in the middle of blue and white expanded like a water droplet. Blue and white, so pretty but so scared at the same time. Brown and khaki wrapped around their beige so blue and white couldn't move but they tried anyway. Had to stick my grey and silver in to prove a point.

Their gold and green was stained with red when I took them away from the house of teal and white which was down the street from my building of brick, and grey. I saw them form when a truck of orange and white came. I couldn't stop looking. Blue and white, I love those colors. They were my parent's colors and my sibling's colors along with all my aunts and uncles but they're all gone now. No more blue and white to soothe me. I need to be soothed.

Blue and white tastes like steel and salmon but now I have to stop because the blue and red strike through my windows, batter my doors. Blue and white is still breathing but the beige is gone. Perhaps next time I should try another color.

The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.


The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening
The main character is an unreliable narrator.
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.

Just 11 numbers, 11 numbers and I'm out of this place, away from these people these. This whole city has been a mistake. 11 numbers and I can get away from the food where you can't tell if they're poisoning you or just adding condiments. 11 numbers and I can be free from the aggression the clunking grinding heaving city, seriously is anyone here not an arsehole?
Anyway calm down, no point getting aggressive last time I got aggressive I got sloppy, left too much evidence. All in all I was lucky to get out lucky no one found him until he'd bleed out.

I pick up the phone for about the ninth time. Four- Nine-Two-Eight. No not her, she'd not hear it. Hell for all I know she'd take the opportunity, would make sense really. I'd do it, alone in a strange city. It'd be a pleasure.

My eyes are dashing around. Metal tube, full of strangers, I swear walls were further apart a few minutes ago. So who do I call? Who gets me out of this city still breathing? No, no, dead, no, dead, also dead. I really should delete people after killing them. It'd save a lot of time. Rooms smaller again, I can feel it and wait. Is she looking at me, damn though I was supposed to be keep a low profile. No wait, my imagination. Or was it. What if she's hiding it.

Four- Nine-Two-Eight


The first and last sentences must be the same

I take a bite out of my sandwich. The woman next to me gives me a disgusting look as the ketchup drips down my chin and into my lap. I couldn't remember packing the sanwiches, but I made them this morning. Or yesterday. Or maybe I made them tommorow.

They taste as nice as they always have. I used to like them more, but they yelled at me too much so I shut them up. They taste like uncooked chicken, or maybe pork. I don't remember getting on the train, but I need to go get more ingredients. I've had twelve sandwiches now, but they're never filling enough. The best sixteen sandwiches of my life. I take a bite out of my sandwich.

The author is blind or deaf.

bracketed conditions only hinted at.

(The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening)
(The main character is an unreliable narrator.)
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.
The first and last sentences must be the same
The author is blind or deaf.

Just one push and everything would end.

Lights flashed, making shadows dance on coloured signs, along windows opening into pitch black tunnels, over empty faces and stained plastic seats. Flickering with each heartbeat and single drop of sweat that was running down his body. Figurines littered the hall, occupied each little space available, leaving almost no air for him to breathe. They loomed over him, next to him, in front of him - everywhere. Bunched like sardines in a can. All those fake mannequins caught up in their emptiness, he would break today. Scatter their essence in one quick instant when holy fire would carve out a piece of the cancerous growth that was this city. Turn this cesspool into a funeral pyre for the glory of His majesty. And he would finally be His instrument. Oh, such Joy! He had been born broken, but it was through Him that he was saved. That he could see, while not hearing. That he understood and that he knew what had to be done.

The belt felt heavy, pushing into his skin just above his waistline, providing a natural barrier for the oozing sweat that trickled down his body. His hand was buried in a pocket, thumb playing on the slick metal button that would end everything. Was it time? Only minutes, he knew. Minutes until the world ended. His eyes focused hazily. A young girl sat maybe two seats across from him. She wore thick glasses writing something down on a small block in front of her. A student? Her face was young and beautiful, attentively focused on the thing in front of her. Such innocence. But it was just temptation, he knew, only designed to betray and corrupt. He blinked. Black wings. Red skin. Staring at him with the red eyes of a demon! A flash of searing hatred. No. He closed his eyes. All those things didn't matter anymore. There was just one push in a few minutes. Just one push and everything would end.

Our main character is out to kill someone

The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening
The main character is an unreliable narrator.
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.
The first and last sentences must be the same
The author is blind or deaf.
Our main character is out to kill someone

The doors open. Some woman says things I can't hear, won't ever hear. I grasp, paw like an animal, at the woolen cap stretched over my head. Underneath, a stump. What was once an ear. I feel a bitter sting of tears. Gone now. Just a wilted, ravaged stump. The other is the same. They will never be back, they cannot regenerate and no force of will will return them to me. Damn him.

The doors close, and we're off to another stop. The last stop. I'm on a Subway train. I walked on twenty minutes ago, or so I think from watching the clock. It's crowded, and I can barely see him through this throng of faceless people. But he can't see me either. But what would it matter, would he remember me? Remember my pain? The pain that HE CAUSED ME?

I still remember it. Just a few weeks ago, the whistling of birds, the honking of cars, the pleasant words of friends on the street, all of them rang clear as bells in my ears. I was on my commute home, a simple drive; home to see my wife, my children. So beautiful, all of them. Then, some punk, some bastard walked out in the street, dared the traffic to hit him. I swerved one way, someone else did another. We collided, and flames sparked. I could feel the heat as it spread through my vehicle, but all the while I was trapped. Screaming, crying and begging for help.

Then, he came. I saw his wicked smile as he smashed in my window, glass shards scraping across my skin. I screamed, but he did not care. He reached in, invading my space, and tore my seatbelt away. I begged him to open the door, to let me get out, but all he could say was "It's stuck," in that mocking tone. Again and again and again. He grabbed me under my arms, and I asked what he was doing. I heard his maniacal laughter as he hissed in my ear, "Helping you."

A detonation in the gas tank of my car startled me, rocking my vehicle. That bastard took the opportunity, and slammed my face down into the dashboard. Flames licked my face, catching my ears. I could feel the horror of all sound slipping away, like water flowing down a drain. I screamed as loud as I could, but no voice registered in my mind. I was wrenched out the window, and pulled to "safety" by that monster. I could see the diabolic grin on his face, that would surely come later when he was called a hero. A hero? He saved nothing. He took my perception away from me, my life.

And so, I'll take his. I watch him as he stands. I reach a hand into my pocket, and feel the knife. Oh, the pleasure that shall return to me as I slip my blade through his ears, and neatly slice them away. It will be clean, efficient. Not the brutal mauling he gave me. I'm better than him, and he will see it. But he will not hear it.

It's time. He's getting up to leave, and I stand with him. It will all be over in a moment. The doors open.

The main character is old, and slowly dying.

The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening
The main character is an unreliable narrator.
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.
The first and last sentences must be the same
The author is blind or deaf.
Our main character is out to kill someone
The main character is old, and slowly dying.

The people, all around me, mouths moving, talking maybe? I didn't know, I wanted to know, but what to is to know but know. I giggled, I don't know if I did it out loud, but the woman next me look at me, stared, I could see the hate in her eyes, it was beautiful, wonderful, pretty. 'She wants to kill you,' Steve said. Steve was killing me, slowly not fast, he enjoyed it and ever since the great silence had come he was my only companion.

I giggled again, who was this strange old man they said, I know they said it, Steve said they said it, why would Steve lie? Steve doesn't lie! No lies but more lies, all lies. I let out a sob, the woman was looking at me with her hatefully beautiful eyes, staring. 'She wants to kill you,' Steve said again. I look away, stare at my hands, wrinkled hands, each curve showing lost time. 'You're nothing,' Steve said, 'You're just an empty body, do something real.'

I knew what I had to do then, I swung my stick out and smashed the staring woman in the face, it felt good, I imagined I could hear the crack. Now people were taken notice of the old man, the stranger in the train, they were staring now. The woman had fallen to the floor, she was nothing to me, just another face, I hit her again and again and again, each time feeling better and better. Blood blossomed like a Spring flower as I made my art on her body. I look up. The people, all around me, mouths moving, talking maybe?

The place is a dreamscape

The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening
The main character is an unreliable narrator.
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.
The first and last sentences must be the same
The author is blind or deaf.
Our main character is out to kill someone
The main character is old, and slowly dying.

She'd managed to get a good few shots in. Oh, how she did. Fear made her more agile than normal. She darted at him, swiped at him, tried to stick him like a pig. But he was faster, bigger, stronger. She got him, once or twice, right in his gut with that damn kitchen knife but it was too stubby. Hadn't slowed him down. Couldn't slow him down. They'd been married so long and now she was trying to hurt him. All he'd wanted to do was talk. Discuss, as she liked to call it. They'd always been so good at discussing. He eventually got her to calm down and write his address down. Her writing on the kitchen stationary was ugly and twisted. It had always been so pretty. Seemed like it went away with her looks. Especially after he smashed her against the sink until her face was cracked and broken. She might have screamed once or twice. He couldn't tell.

But she came at him first. And, frankly, she needed that lesson. Surgery can fix anything. They'd talk about it when he got home. Among other things. Lots to talk about. Discuss. Probably too much for one day. Like what she was doing with him, why she was doing with him, how long she'd been doing with him. In his own house. The one he'd paid and worked to the death for. She liked to talk about making sure the relationship was based on mutual respect. Didn't seem to bother her as she slipped into old age with him. He wondered how many times they'd done it in the house, while he sat reading in his chair, unable to hear them. Completely oblivious. How many times he'd been inside her.

He saw the station name scrawl across the screen and stood up from his seat. Dizziness struck him but he managed to stabilize. He stumbled to the doors. The train pulled into the station, gaspingly slow. He was going to find the hole that little rat had scuttled back into. They would talk. Discuss. His side rested against the side of the train. He felt tired. It was a long trip out here, inside the city. He'd put on a new shirt before leaving. The other was spotted in red. Now there was red seeping through this shirt too. She'd managed to get a good few shots in.

The main character is in love.

ignore.

Announcement (Yeah I'll be doing announcements in green):
Some players have only user the term the user above them have - You're supposed to use all of the terms the users have brought in.
In case of two users posting a story with the same terms - they both count, and the next user has to use both of their terms. I won't penalize you if you happen to post at the same time another user does.

The main character or speaker is a stranger in the place of happening
The main character is an unreliable narrator.
A story written from the point of view of a crazed psychopath.
The story takes place in a modern day, New York City Subway train.
The first and last sentences must be the same
The author is blind or deaf.
Our main character is out to kill someone
The main character is old, and slowly dying.
The place is a dreamscape
The main character is in love.

Has it always been like this?

I'am sitting here (Maybe I was always sitting here?) surrounded by darkness and screeching sounds of metal. There is motion (Or do I think there is motion?). There is pain (Or do I think there is pain?) Stiff and old (My body?). I cannot see, yet hear (Are you sure?).

Has it always been like this?

I stand up, struggle not to be dragged down by failing muscles. There is something I have to do. And something important I forgot (A world I'am disappearing from?). Faint clanking echoes of screams and cries guide me into Light (A passing window of hate and regret). It engulfs everything, colours and shapes blinding me (Thinking they blind me), while sounds faintly fade out and die (Thinking they die).

Has it always been like this?

A train (Subway?). Long. Drawn out. Empty. Billboards of an alien place (Maybe I know this place?) shining through windows into darkness. Walls stained with blood, drops trickling down, turning the floor crimson. I feel calm. There is a door in the front where I have to pass through, opening into a place I know (I always knew). A room, circular, yet walls dotted with windows showing tunnels passing. There, I will find what I was looking for. I know. (Do you now?). I move, fake (real?) pain burning as I approach the small metal door. The train is not empty anymore.

Has it always been like this?

On the seats, naked people, lined up like cheap commodities. Pale. Some of them mutilated and covered in blood (You did this). Dead (Alive?). I pause as a window passes. Darkness. I hear (Do you now?) screams of victims, lovers, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, soldiers, scientists, clerks, children, cleaners, waiters, chefs, car owners, managers, bankers, monsters, animals and men. They are howling at me (baleful hate?), thanking me for their freedom (eternal love?). But there is one left. Just one.

Has it always been like this?

My hand runs along the cold metal (soft human flesh?) up to a small automatic button. I push and know I have entered where I need to be. Trickling sounds echo around me. I know it to be blood, cold and viscous, seeping into my shoes. I smile as I take my steps towards the far end. I go from darkness to light, from cacophony to empty tranquility, only to see her standing right in front of me, arms raised in an eternal embrace. There she is, waiting for me, as I did for her. Always. So full of life, she stands radiating like a sun. Life, beauty, hope and eternity. And I know that I have to end it. My arm is a sword. The sword is my arm. I descend upon her.

Has it always been like this?

I tear her apart while she laughs and I smile. My body falls apart with every strike through her heart. My skin deteriorates when her warm blood spills over it, bones go dry when I rip her arm out and my lungs empty when I smash her skull to pieces. I die as she dies. Finally I collapse into her arms and in that last dying embrace I hear her whispering how much she loves me. I kiss her and close my eyes.

Silence and darkness

Has it always been like this?

The character is female

(As it wasn't really clear, a cookie for whoever can guess what Steve is)

Announcement:
We restart the terms after ten successful ones, and we continue with the term given to us by Dajosch.

The main character is female

My heart should have stopped beating ten minutes ago, but I'm still on my feet. Something had gone terribly wrong, and I wouldn't dare guess what made Hershel change his mind. The time is fourteen past twenty one, and it's already dark outside. The dim street lights give seldom solace as I walk through the dark street and face the cold winds blowing on my face. I'm not living on borrowed time anymore which means my internal clock had stopped. I'm a free woman now, well, that depends on your definition of woman.

Manufactured and produced by Bane incorporated, I am... "No", I yelp in the middle of the empty street, "I was... a machine, of flesh and blood, made for one purpose". I stopped in my tracks as the sound of hard soles hitting the pavement echoed through the street. I heard laughter coming from behind me. "You're still mine, puppet", the voice spoke in a threatening tone, His laughter grew louder and louder but my legs wouldn't budge. "Lets play a game, puppet", it spoke again. It's Hershel, I know it...

"Go on puppet, struggle. I want this to feel good".

.
There is an envelope involved in the story

The main character is female
There is an envelope involved in this story

I clutched the letter close to my chest, trying to think what's inside but really I imagined what was going to written. We hadn't seen each other in years but I don't need to predict what he was going to say to me. It wasn't the right time to open it. At least not now. I had to get a seat first, get my letter opener, have a glass of water, and then I'll open it. My hands are shaking with trepidation because I know that it may not be what I want to hear, the words "don't" or "not" cling to the negative side of my thinking. They bug me to no end but I must carry on, and I have to open this letter.

It was nice for Emile to give the letter to me. I know that if things don't work out then at least I'll have him, right? He always cautioned me about these long-distance relationships and how it was hard to maintain. I couldn't ignore him, because he knew his brother more than I do and maybe he was keeping a secret from me. But I have to be faithful, I need to be. I'm almost there.

Finally, I took a sip of water, fetched my letter opener, and took a seat where I always sat when he was around. It's placed where he usually is at the table that he made with his own bare hands, for us. Gently, I picked up the letter opener and moved in towards the envelope but I stopped mid-lunge. I didn't think that I'd be stopped by simple thoughts but I had. What if it isn't what I wanted to hear? This letter could detail the new life he started without me, or his heart-felt apologies as to why this "fling" didn't work out. He's given me nothing but gifts and trinkets from his business travels. Even the time had to spend with me, he always felt worn out by something whether it was work, the commute, the people, his brother, a number of other things too.

No. He loved me, he cared for me, and gave me the money I needed to pay off everyone I owed money too. He gave me clothes, this apartment, and a decent job. Then why isn't he here? Why did he have Emile deliver the letter to me at work? Why couldn't he come back? Why bother spend some much money on a gal and not have the decency to show your face to her in the last two years?

I jumped when a knock at the door. I hurried to the door and looked through the hole expecting him. Instead Emile was at the door. Perhaps I should let him in...

The story written in a journal entry

The main character is female
There is an envelope involved in this story
The story written in a journal entry

Friday, October 13th 1882,
Gare de Strasbourg,
Paris,
France.

Dear Journal,

That invitation arrived at least a week ago, in a sealed envelope from Georges Nagelmackers himself! I only counted myself as a caring, albeit, distant friend to him. However, he has repaid his favours a thousand times with this opportunity. We had only met brief in America, but had written to each other ever since. Little did I know then that this Frenchman would soon be the founder of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits. Indeed, he has always promised me to travel to Europe in style, but never like this! Soon I will be able to see Munich and Vienna from the comfort of the train car while sampling French cuisine, hopefully it'll live up to its reputation. Nevertheless, this is only a test run and as noted in the letter, there are still a few kinks to be ironed out. Hopefully all will go well, for more Georges' sake than mine. First that Franco-Prussian War delayed his dream and now I hope that nothing will crush it.

At least I have him to thank that I speak some French. The train attendants seem to speak nothing but French. France will be France, I guess, but with people from all counties and all walks of life seek to ride through these great place on train on a grand service such as this, you cannot help but feel that your needs and wants should be understood by the staff. He calls this train the 'Train Eclair de luxe', well if this train does not turn out to be the 'lighting luxury train' that I will make sure that Mr. Nagelmackers will know. It's a pity that the invitation was for me and me alone. My parents are getting on in years and they should have a chance to see the world while they can. Not only that, but I can help but feel that I will be awfully lonely on this iron horse. All the other guest I have seen are just friends of Georges, not of each other as well. Not matter how well decorated the restaurant car is, nor how warm the colours are, I suspect the conversations will be cold and frigid, centred on Mr. Nagelmackers and only him.

Nevertheless, I should stop belly-aching as the last call has been made and the train will start on its long journey soon. Ever since I got the sealed envelope, seconds have turned into minutes and hours have been transformed into days. Now, I'll see if all this impatient waiting will bear fruit.

Bon Voyage!

The story must have some historical context

 

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