Here are some works of literature sent in by people.
Be warned some are very long.
Crimson red liquid fell to the earth, landing in a small pool of its fellow concoction and sending droplets of spray away from the small puddle. A soft groan followed the action from the liquid, signifying some sort of painful feeling that was brought forth by the life's blood. Another drip of red fell again, bit it landed on bright crimson felt, bleeding into the fibers of the cloth. This time a small coughing noise followed the blood, causing more to spew forth from pale lips, darkened by the color of the liquid. A hobroccoli is sooo cool groan fell upon the lips once more, but this time the pain seemed to be fading and the agony it held in its tone seemed to dissipate slightly. Golden eyes, which were surrounded by black makeup, closed in thanks that the flow of blood was beginning to slow.
Stark white, yet covered in random spatters of dried and fresh blood; a skull like mask seemed to hang upon the creature's face, making it look like it was fresh from the grave after being brutally murdered. Red satin cloth wrapped around the top of the mask and tied in the back of the creature's head, like a headband, except that the length of cloth that was not wrapped around and knotted hung loosely behind the thing's back, following it like a shadow. Bright red feathers, most likely that of a phoenix, stuck up from the headband, creating a small mane of red atop the creature's head. Black hair hid beneath the shadow of the mane, only revealing itself near the area of its ears. Human features appeared to be the most usual form of it, but this plague of humanity was far from being so.
Red felt encircled the creature; clothing it and making it look as if it were from the 1800s. An eerie fog of red flowed around it, surrounding and shrouding the plague in its gaseous form. A simple English style sword hung from the belt of the creature, its handle tarnished gold and covered in bright speckles of blood; a weapon that caused no mark but killed all the same. A life threatening amount of blood fell from random wounds and various areas of the creature's body, covering it in the liquid and personifying what it would do to a human's. Another soft groan fell from the creature's lips, softening until it no longer held the ability to make a sound. A whirl of red surrounded the creature, its own fog aura swirling around it and hiding it fully from view. Then, it stopped, leaving the creature in a more /human/ form.
The soft beating of a heart seemed to alert the creature, making its molten gold eyes open quickly and examine itself. Its clothes were no longer bright red and covered in blood. Instead, a black leather jacket hung from its shoulders like a trench coat, its material flowing down to its ankles while a zipper ran from the collar of it to the waist, though unzipped and hanging open. A black cotton shirt blared out from beneath the folds of the jacket, the portrait of a phoenix, its feathers bleeding into the sun that barely peaked out from beneath its leather captor. The shirt was short sleeved and ran only to just below the black belt that the creature wore to hold up the black jeans that clung to it's frame, loosely covering it's legs and clutching it's hips. A few frayed edges on the bottom lining on the jeans and down to black army-like boots, ones that strapped up all the way to just below the kneecaps of the creature before ending abruptly. It looked a lot like a human being, and could be mistaken for one....that is, with the exception of its bright eyes.
A moan fell from its lips as it felt life once more enter it, the crimson liquid that so bequeathed life flowing through its veins instead of the reverse. Slight stubble appeared upon its face, making it look even closer to a human male than before. No, no longer did this creature bleed, mercilessly, the wicked humans of the earth. No, now /it/ was a /he/, and /he/ would go on in a daily life routine until some small minded person deserved a sentence of a blood filled death.
With an abrupt swish of his jacket, and a quick turnabout, the man proceeded to walk down the street, his hands in his pockets and his boots scuffing the cement as he walked down the cement strip like any other normal human would. The feeling of plastic sent his newly acquired nerves into a frenzy, something they usually tended to do once he had transformed back into his human form. Almost instantly he pulled out the small piece of plastic, finding a card with his current picture and the information that came with the body that he now possessed. With a small shake of his head he replaced that card back into the confines of his leather jacket, only to pull out another that signified his bank account and gave him the ability to withdrawal money from it. A small smile appeared on his face before replacing the small blue card, finally finding a pair of keys and a pair of sunglasses to shade his sensitive, not to mention abnormal, golden eyes. Coolly he slipped on the shades, covering the yellow glow that his irises tended to emit and keeping the greedy eyes of humankind away from his difference.
Swiftly he walked through the decay filled streets, the evidence that his natural form had befallen the streets painting the ground that he walked upon in blood and rotting flesh. Coughing could be heard from every angle whilst sirens blared through the lifeless air, one ambulance following another as the ‘Red Death’ struck the sin filled city of Las Vegas, Nevada. His face became placid, white as a ghost’s, and unmoving, the disgusting sights that lay before him not even tempting what little human food he had eaten to flow from his stomach and out his mouth. Hence forth he walked through puddles of blood and blots of random sand patches, each grabbing hold to the tread of his boots while he did so. Once again he pulled the license out from his pocket, only to remind himself of his human identity before he walked into the apartment complex that he, the starter of the death, called a temporary home….
‘Dylan Morrison, Age 32, gender: Male….that part wasn’t so hard….’ Such words ran through his mind, each piece of information circulating through his head and painting the portrait of what would be his human identity…for as long as he wished it to be, at least. A small shake of his head and he was off, up the elevator nearest him and dead set on floor seven, apartment number 665, the last apartment on his floor. ‘Ah what the irony would’ve been had they an apartment 666…’ He chuckled as he thought up this phrase, a constant joke between each of the plagues to find some way to blatantly reveal themselves, and yet, not getting caught because of the lack of observation from humankind. Yes, up the elevator he went, to the flat that he kept up to conceal all that he kept secret and kept /him/ secret. The tone of the elevator finally arriving on his floor alerted him of where he was, so deep in his thoughts that it had to ring to bring him out, hesitating, for a split second, on whether or not he should go back and be near all of his kind neighbors. Then he went forth, one foot in front of the other, stopping a moment to steal a glance at the portrait of what an artists from long ago had thought the personified ‘Red Death’ had appeared like. The death grinned maliciously, his yellow eyes glowing slightly as he did so, for the painting of himself was so close to accurate that it amused him so. Then, the click of a door opening startled him, making him force the grin off his face and turn away from the blood spattered painting. He had had to clean up around this floor as well…it was somewhat sad to have to kill some people that he thought deserved to live, but the others would know of his treachery and would attack him mercilessly with their own plight…and he very much wished to live. The clomping of his own feet brought him out of his reverie, only to find himself in front of his apartment and with his keys in his hands. A sigh fell upon Dylan Morrison’s lips, but it no longer was alone….a single drop of blood dripped over his pearly white teeth and down his chin, falling to the earth once more before caught it, unwillingly, upon his shirt….he’d need to change quickly.
He rushed in, unlocking then locking his door, pulling off his phoenix shirt and searching through his closet once more. A glare was sent viciously towards his lack of human clothing, for he now only had his English ‘football’ jersey left, and he dearly wished not to wear it in the streets. A moan parted his lips once more, ending with him having more than just a drop of blood on his chest…in fact, blood was slowly dripping from his mouth. By this time he would have to change complete form, for this one was not holding out as long as it should. He snarled lightly before turning from his closet, jersey in hand, and stomping over to the television, pressing the remote, and turning it on. James McAvoy’s face suddenly appeared upon his plasma TV as Rory O’ Shea, with bleach blonde hair and a small amount of facial hair. He would have to turn into this one, or else his carpet would need a long scrubbing. In seconds his aura surrounded him, turning him into an exact copy of the actor, finally revealing him as James, except holding only a jersey and wearing the bottom half of his outfit. Quickly he pulled the shirt on, then, with a small test of his new body, punched the wall lightly.
‘It will have to do.’ He decided, not daring to speak for fear of being heard by the sensors that were installed in his apartment…ones that every flat in the United States of America installed to make sure that absolutely no foreigners were left in the states. The decision to be mute was a must, and so far, it worked quite well. A grin spread upon his face as the thought that ‘it was good that they didn’t install cameras’ crossed his mind before he turned away from his current position and ran to the door…work needed to be done…..
[Numero two-o]
“My eyesight is going bad.” He gave an alluring smile, one that forced his mouth to show his dimples, making him look like he was being sincere, yet funny. The woman at the desk smiled back at him, giving a nasally laugh and leaning foreword to become closer to the man before her. His grin vanished suddenly, an eerie look upon his face suddenly appearing along with a knowing look in his eyes, making him suddenly seem dangerous. He turned, his black suite rustling as he did so, his black tie hanging over his shoulder at the sudden change in direction. He shifted his weight, making his black slacks hang over more on his right leg and show his white socks on the other. Gingerly he pulled a black cloth from his pocket, tying it over his eyes so that he couldn’t see any longer, then turned around to face the woman once more, pressing a thin, calloused finger to his lips and making a ‘shushing’ noise. Her eyes grew wide and she backed away, staring at him cautiously, like he would create a sudden plague of some sort.
He grinned, the knowledge of her moving away in registering in his mind as the sound of her green jacket rustling as she moved her elbows off the counter echoed in his mind. As he did this, a group of teenagers ran in, sporting assault rifles and ski masks, alerting him of their caliber by the smell of the lead that sheathed the gunpowder in the bullets. With easy strokes he straightened his tie, then pulled his jacket down a bit and smoothed down his silk white dress shirt. The sound of bullets being fired off rang in his ears, signaling him that it was time for the Neos. With ease he pulled the 4 ½ inch barreled .22 from his concealed holster. With ease he turned swiftly, dodging the path of bullets and assassinating each gangster with every shot that he fired. With ease he pulled each bullet from the corpses, letting the people around him stare in awe at what had just happened as he cleaned up the crime scene. It was all too easy for a man graced with inhuman speed.
With that, he walked out of the bank, taking a few thousand for good measure, releasing his hazy blue eyes from the blindfold only until after he was a few blocks away.
Slim fingers pulled the ties of the black blindfold off of his face while he stood upon a rooftop, in front of a large neon sign that said something about a club of some sort. Once again he gingerly placed the cloth into his blazer pocket, the one opposite of the 4,880 dollars that he had rightfully taken, it was, after all, his way of ‘paying himself off’ for protecting those people. A small sigh parted his salmon colored lips, causing the chain reaction of a furrowed brow and increasing the happenstance of lines upon his smooth forehead. As a bad habit he ran his hand through his scruffy, dirty blonde hair, making the tuft of hair that curled over his forehead move slightly. Lack of sleep gave itself away from under his blue eyes, small curved lines that seemed almost unnoticeable unless looked at properly. He was old, yet he was young. Fifty in mind, twenty-five in life.
The feel of a black handgun weighed heavy upon his back, hidden behind the black blazer that he wore, alerting him that he should follow the code soon and clean his gun. It always seemed to grow heavier when he had to do work upon it. With a small crack of the neck, to loosen up, he turned around, heading for the main street levels and into the life of the night….
Both of these were sent in by, TomLeFroy
Nælle, come here.”
Swooping out of the sky, bat-like wings folded tightly to her dark sides, swooped a black dragon. She was large, the size of a small house, with long silver spines lining her ridged back, and along her the underside of her neck, protecting her throat from attacks. More spikes protruded from the back of her head, connected by a thin membrane, creating a crest. A like-wise spiked club lashed from side to side on the tip of her tail, like a mace. She landed before a tall, thin boy with a dull thud, shaking the ground with her bulk. Her meter-long claws dug deep into the ground, scraping on rocks and impaling an unfortunate burrowing mole.
“I am here.” Nælle’s deep, gravelly rumble did not sound in Nat’s ears, but all through him. Her tone was both mocking and amused.
The boy grinned, and put his hand to her beak-like muzzle, caressing the tiny scales there. She rumbled deep in her chest and her whole body shook with her eerie purr. She opened her jaws with pleasure, and her giant silver fangs, needle thin, but strong as steel, were visible, dripping saliva onto the already damp soil.
Wordlessly, Nat launched himself into the air and grasped her neck spines in both of his hands, heaving himself upward. Nælle lowered her whole body to make his effort a little easier. Once Nat sat safely and securely at the base of her long, snaking neck, she rumbled deep in her cavernous chest and raised her wings high into the air. With a great whoosh she brought them crashing down, propelling herself high into the sky.
As the pair flew they did not speak. Instead, they simply observed the breathtaking panorama below them. A thin, serpentine river flowed swiftly through a deep valley, nearly half a mile below. The water twisted and split, moving ever onward towards the sea, several days’ hard dragon flight away. The hills on either side of the valley were steep and rocky; the stone had been exposed over the millennia, just as the valley had been gorged out by the vigorous river. Wispy evergreens grew wherever their roots could find purchase on the cliffs. The harsh wind had bent them at a ridiculous angle, and their branches refused to grow on the wind-facing side.
Finally, the boy broke their brooding silence. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking of you, Nathaniel,” was the growled answer. “You are a chick, still, not yet grown, yet you harness the Energy of a he-man in his prime, fully trained. I should be proud to call you a friend.”
“Yet you are not,” grinned the pale boy. “You will never bow your head to anyone, be it man, dragon, or other ethereal being.”
“That is so.” Replied Nælle smugly, shaking her head spines from side to side.
The dragon arched her back then, pinned her wings, and dove, hurtling toward the ground in a terrifyingly steep dive. Her whip-like tail streamed straight out behind her, and her eyes were half-shut against the freezing wind. Nat whooped, and threw his hands above him in the air, joyous. With a yelp of fear, he once again clutched Nælle’s spines to keep himself seated, regretting his foolish action.
This one was sent in by, Izta
