Fiction by Fans


He Sees You When You're Sleeping. He Knows When Yo
Oct 24, 2004
New York, NY
I like to write, a lot, and I thought that maybe anyone who wants to post something they've written could do so here....

It's not fan-fiction, but its fiction nonetheless...

Any sort of graphic imagery (aside from flat out sex, which I'd assume would be banned) should be explained beforehand in a WARNING...

WARNING: One Scene of Graphic Violence
WARNING: Contains Sexual Imagery
WARNING: Mexicans

but aside from the silly one, be sure people know what they're reading.

Before your piece give the name of the piece, the type of piece it is (short story, poem, scene, etc.), and any Warnings or Notes you feel are necessary

And nothing Novel length, if you have something that big and you want to post an Exerpt and then link to the real deal, that's cool, but don't monopolize the area.


Name: Lusting for Ganymede
Type: Poem

He is what I would make myself,
With his soft turquoise eyes,
And tanned linen skin.
He is the beauty that changes the world
In such a way that we all
Feel inadequate.
Beneath his flesh is nothing
Save for the intangible notion of lust
For a good person
Who can’t see him as anything
But the godly Ganymede he appears to be.
As I watch from the corner
I can see that his touch is soft
Upon his lover’s face.
Gentle like the starlight resting upon the windowsill.
I look the other way and heave a powerful sigh,
Knowing that he has everything that I can never have,
And although I can see every lie
He plants upon his lover’s cheek
I consider that perhaps that this is the price
Of realizing your dreams.
Hmm, I tried to post original 'random' stories before, not many people took interest.
yeah, well, i figured i'd give it a try at least...

Writing's important to me and so yeah... woof.
Dr.Strangefate said:
yeah, well, i figured i'd give it a try at least...

Writing's important to me and so yeah... woof.
Don't fear! The Moon is hear!

Here's a story I wrote for GMaster's Challenge that never got posted (since he apparently abandoned it):

Name: "They Speak"
Type: Short Story

They speak to me. Every last one of them. They're very talkative. Sometimes they all speak together. There's no way to block them out, believe me. I've tried. Sometimes they form a sort of white noise: a jumble of words with no clear statement. But sometimes I can hear them perfectly.

The father of two from California who's wife wanted him dead tells me I should quit smoking. The Vegas girl with gambling debts tells me I should smoke more. The grandmother from New York who saw something she shouldn't have tells me I just need to find a girl and settle down. The South American politician who challenged his goverment one too many times tells me I'm an important part of society. But one voice comes through clearer than the rest. Shasha sounds just as beautiful as the day I met her and just as sad as the day I killed her. She tells me in that bitter sweet tone that I should do what my heart tells me to do and I know she's the only one who's right.

The room is dirty. One of the dirtiest places I've ever been, and that's saying something. The walls are an ugly, stained color and I can barely see through the murky windows. The dirty matress sags under my weight. The gun feels heavy in my hand. Heavier than its ever felt before. I checked in an hour ago and I haven't done anything but stare at it, occasionally checking the chamber to make sure that the bullet is still there. I guess this isn't the kind of thing you do lightly. After all, it took me a few weeks to make the decision.

Those weeks were some of the most empty in my life. I felt nothing when I squeezed the trigger. The familiar feelings were gone. Day blended together as I met random people in back alleys and stuffy night clubs, my mind on autopilot. I knew what I needed to do, but I didn't have the guts to even consider it. That is, until last week. When I met Stanley.

Stanley was a politician who dabbled in some very nasty things. He wanted an old man dead. A holy man. I did my usual thing and staked the guy out. I went to his Sunday services, observed the fundraisers he held for the poor, and watched him donate toys to charity every week (sometimes twice). The problem was that he was a very influential man in the area, and Stanley didn't like some of the things he was saying.

On the third sunday I spent at the father's church, something incredible happened: I felt something. It was like a rush of fresh air saving me from death. It was disgust. Disgust for Stanley and his cold, uncaring eyes, disgust for all the heartless bastards that I'd worked for, and most of all disgust for myself. For all the people that I'd murdered, for the look on Sasha's face when I put the gun to her head. That day I decided that I only had two people left to kill and neither of them was an old priest who devoted his time and effort to helping people.

That night I made a visit to Stanley's home. His family was gone, so he was home alone. I told him that I'd been reborn and that I finally recognized what kind of person he was. When I pulled the trigger, it felt different than it had felt before. There was no malice in it. No anger. Just a twinge of happiness. I opened up all the files on his computer so the cops would see why he had to die. After that, there was no turning back. One person left to kill.

I've spent the last week in solitude. Thinking. Thinking of Sasha and all the others. The families who mourned their loved ones, dirty people handing me dirty money. For the first time ever, I hated myself.

Two days ago I sold all my things. And yesterday, I bought a gun. I got it through the usual channels but this gun is special. The last gun. It sits in my hand now and I continue to stare at it as if the cold piece of metal is going to reveal some beautiful truth to me and I won't have to do it. But nothing happens. Its just a gun.

I check the chamber again and put it to my temple. I notice suddenly that the voices are gone except for one. She tells me in that bitter sweet tone to do what my heart tells me to do. For once, I listen to her.

I know the story feels a bit bare bones, but I was following the rules of the Challenge. When I have the time (god knows when that'll be) I plan to rework it and greatly expand it. I'll post the new version whenever I decided to do it. :D
This is a poem I wrote for school. It's not exactly fiction, but close enough.

Name: White, Black, Red, or Green
Type: Poem

When you think of the past what words come to mind
Whether it Tut, Lincoln, Douglas, or Sioux; all are of different historical kinds
History didn’t discriminate, it tells of people with different skin
Yet their differences are thin.
Have you ever said a racial slur
When it just came out, as time went by in a blur
Have you ever wanted to take it back
Because you knew it could be offensive to red, white, or blacks.
Do you judge people by their color, religion, or background
Are you one of the many that follow “certain” people around
Have you ever said a derogatory word
Do you wish you’d have never said something so absurd
United are all of us, as beings of Earth, as humans too
United are all of us, no matter who
Believes their better, just because
Their skin’s a different color, united are all of us.
Who’s your hero, could it be
King Tut, Lincoln, Oprah, J. Lo., or Yao Ming
They might not be of the same color,
But their all heroes one way, or another
White, Black, Red, or Green
It doesn’t matter it’s just what’s seen
Humans are just one race, of course
All should be treated the same and nothing worse.
Ok, this isn't really fiction, I guess, but this is something that I did within class today (In class assignment). Its a poem that we had to incorporate the 5 senses (Touch, Smell, Taste, Sight, and Sound), and it had to be about a place we've been at that we enjoyed a lot like a vacation spot or something, and as if we were writing it in a postcard to somebody.

Title: Wishing you were here
Type: Poem

Wishing you were here
As I walk the crowded peer.
People shout their grateful screams
And throw rocks as if they were joyous beans.
Now I sit here eating my sweetness treat
The cold water swims up to me feet.
The wind breezes by, disguising itself
Bringing me the memory of the cakes that lay on your shelf.
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I wrote something last week in the middle of the night, i don't know, i was with a headache and the idea came out of nowhere.

Name: Rebirth
Type: Short Story

I fight. I fought so many battles I can’t remember everyone, but they are the same to me; the enemy comes in groups, four or five, it doesn’t matter. I swung my sword, the blood splashed all over and they fell. Every single one of them. I’m the best warrior there is- I’m invincible and they fear me. They fear me and I like it. A new group appears in front of my eyes and I know the result of the battle even before I touch my blade.

Melody. It’s like music when I slice and they fall. It’s poetry, it’s everything! They are slow and I’m the wind, they attack clumsily and I’m technique, they are so calm and yet I’m fury.

My body burns. I can’t remember how many I killed and since I’ve been here, but I keep going, until there is none. Even though it hurts my body to not fail me, ever. Everything is perfect and calculated. I’m tired, but I can’t stop. A little voice in my head keeps saying “Fight! Fight until there is no one left,” and I fight, hoping that they will cease someday.

The music begins again. I slice and they fall; the blood is all over, everything so red, my hands, my sword and even though I can’t see, I know my face is full of it. I fell the warmth and the taste, that iron taste that never get out of my mouth. I try with all my forces to remember how it started, but I can’t. For me that is what always happened, I slice and they fall.

But not this time. The voice in my head screams “Fight!”, except this time I ignore it. I can’t do it anymore; this is what I am and even so I can’t be it anymore. I put my sword down and see they’re coming. There are five of them. They surround me, but I don’t move a muscle, and then I felt something on my neck and all becomes clear.

My death. I remember the fights, all of them and how they began. The enemy comes in groups of four or five, and it doesn’t matter. I swung my sword, the blood splashed all over, my blood, and I fall. Since then, I battle until I can win. But I never will. This place showed me this- I lost and I died. It couldn’t happen another way, it was my destiny. And now that I accept it, all becomes clear. I see my headless body and a white light surrounds me.

Life is not all. It’s a mere page in a very old book, and it’s not about complete it, but complete it and understand it. And when you do, you can move on to the other page, and the cycle continues until someday the book runs out of pages. I never understood that. I always thought I was invincible and could never die. I was a leaf in a tree so big that I could live the last moments of my life until the leaf touched the ground.

And now I understood it all. I could move on. The white light fades down and I see a masked man, my minds starts to fail me and then I feel pain. I cry and try to remember when was the last time, until I know that it’s my first. I cry so hard and so loud, that I forget everything, then someone holds me and I feel warm and safe. I don’t care about anything anymore. And even though my mind fails, I know somewhere someone just flipped the page
This is something i've been trying to get across for a while, i see it all the time...sometimes even when its done to me, the basic jist. What happens when you play by the rules, and its for naught, you’re made the scapegoat by the way you dress, talk, act, and look.

No title
By Nigma​
We have lived to fight our Fathers fears,
We have dreamt with our Mothers tears,
We have been healed by keeping our brothers near,
We have been soothed by our sisters ear.

Have you lost your way?
Trying to steal my pay,
I have a PHD, about law above matter,
But all you seem to see is little dark matter,
Can you not see that I’m a warrior?
All you keep saying is that I look like a mobster.

How blind are you?
Your eyes are that of a fool,
Sitting on that little bar stool.

When I look your way,
You’re quick with the get-a-way,

I fought with the rest of them, and got my way,
Now, they have no respect for good deeds I play
Being treated no better, than if I were a bad day.

When I rise up and make my claim,
They do not see the burning flame,
There just looking for another man to blame,
For there own crimes of shame.

I will take them,
Keep them,
Nurture them,
And when I return,
They will fear them

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