Hooks; let's write 'em.

There was nothing worse, she thought, than being psychic. Being able to see the future was not the glamorous thing that everyone thought it to be: It was terrible. She knew what was going to happen, with an amazing degree of certainty - whether it was an accident or a catastrophe - and her ability usually showed her more bad than good. For some reason her skills never showed her what the lottery numbers were going to be.

It wasn't fair.

She felt this way until she started having the visions about him.
 
Peoples' lives speed past you like bullets.
You don't care to remember the name of the ruler of the country you are living in right now.Why would you:the country might be a memory, something for the history books, in a little while,say a century or three.
"Hey look",you say to yourself on one of your long walks through a city like any other city (what was it called anyway?Sheekahgow or somesuch nonsense?),"that building fell into ruins pretty quickly.They sure can't build for s**t in this century".(But then again:which century?You tend not to care overly).Man,lemme tell you:immortality is vastly overrated.
 
For your posts, HSF, or in general?

I don't know whether this was like the Character Creation Chain thread, started as a creativity exercise, so I'm not sure about whether they should be critiqued or not - that might be up to the person who started the thread. It could also be as a bit of fun. Sure, a lot of these are really good, and I'd definitely want to read more of some of them. Hopefully, if anyone got sufficient inspiration from writing one of these exercises, they can write it down and post it in the critiques section. I wouldn't mind seeing that.
 
The day I decided I wanted to die, was the same day I found out that my whole life had been a joke, that all life was actually a thing that could be laughed at, and the really funny thing was, it was the latter discovery that made me wish I could undo my death.
My name is Jerome, In my past life I was known as Jerome Aynor, but here, you can call me anything you want, since names don’t have much use where I am now, nothing from home has any use here at all. . .although I have plenty of things to keep me busy, very busy.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning, I haven’t always been this much of a cynic, or as sarcastic as you no doubt perceive me. I think you’ll agree by the time I’m finished, I deserve your pity, unfortunately I get very little for it.
 
"Got any hooks, mister?" he asked, his eyes running down the groaning shelves in the ironmonger's store.
"Hooks, bud? What kinda hooks y'after? I got fishin' hooks, baler's hooks, coat hooks, hoist hooks, heavy duty graplin' hooks...I mean, what is it y'want it for, bud?"
"I need a hook so strong that no reader can wriggle off once I got her on in it, see?"
"No reader, did y'say, bud?"
"Sure, mister."
"Y'wan a reader hook?"
"That's it, man."
"Mmm. Well now, I ain't been asked for one of them in years. We used to sell a lot of 'em at one time but nobody wants 'em no more. Just use a few swear words and a naked girl on the cover these days, I reckon. Mmm, now wait a minute. Got a box of 'em someplace. Where did I put it?"
 
"So you want a story right? Hell, doesn't everybody want a story these days?" He exhaled slow, watching the smoke ring drift away, before looking me dead in the eyes with a fervour that made me want to run.
"Sweetheart, if you wanna know why I'm in here and you ain't, then a story is not what you need. What you need is two ears, an open mind and a whole lotta faith cos this ain't gonna be no fairy tale, and you my darlin', have just put yourself in a whole mess o' trouble just by being here."
 
Phil Brown said:
"Got any hooks, mister?" he asked, his eyes running down the groaning shelves in the ironmonger's store.
"Hooks, bud? What kinda hooks y'after? I got fishin' hooks, baler's hooks, coat hooks, hoist hooks, heavy duty graplin' hooks...I mean, what is it y'want it for, bud?"
"I need a hook so strong that no reader can wriggle off once I got her on in it, see?"
"No reader, did y'say, bud?"
"Sure, mister."
"Y'wan a reader hook?"
"That's it, man."
"Mmm. Well now, I ain't been asked for one of them in years. We used to sell a lot of 'em at one time but nobody wants 'em no more. Just use a few swear words and a naked girl on the cover these days, I reckon. Mmm, now wait a minute. Got a box of 'em someplace. Where did I put it?"
Click to expand...

Brilliant:)
 
Oh, I loved that!
***
Running through the flames, I leap off of the ship and into the chilling water of the ocean. But I am prepared. I pull on my mask, and oxygen is supplied to me. I whip my head around, searching the foggy water in earnest. And then I see it. I see another splash from somewhere to my left and behind me a little. I kick my legs and my arms, swimming to the direction of that splash. I see someone in a mask similar to mine. I know that he is who I’m looking for. I grab his hand, and together we swim off, away from the sinking skeleton of the scorched ship.
 
Farmer Brown tried his best to hide. He parked his car a mile from the house; snuck around the barn, making sure to duck under the windows and jump in the hedges when she peeked her head out the window and yodeled his name; creeped in through the back door; peeked his head both ways in the hall connecting his study to the living room; and silently hid in the gloom of a dark edge of the room far from the fireplace.

While he gloated over his intellegence, Mrs. Brown stood behind him with a raker in her fat hands. She raised it and called his name, frowning. He turned around and shrieked. She brought it down, fast fast fast and hard hard hard. He raised his hands in panic or reflex.

*-*

Two hours later, he was still raking leaves in the barn and cursing her name aloud when a spaceship landed on top of his house. Or rather, through his barn, for when it landed there was no barn left. Also, there was no Farmer Brown left. At least not in solid form. He was a puddle on the floor, crushed and melted by the hot and heavy underside of its hull.
 
She gazed in disbelief as the giant white bird slowly landed in front of her. It was like something out of the legends - the great desert bird that flew amongst the clouds and caused the winds in the world by the strokes of its wings, and yet here it was, as real as she was. Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid, not even when it brought its massive head down to regard her with immense amber eyes. Without thinking, she raised her hand to touch the jet black beak, and she marvelled at the experience.
 
Many people are frightened of the dark. Many people are frightened of being alone. A combination of both in the middle of the night can set one's nerves on edge. Just what is that creak on the stairs? That muffled thud from the room above? People imagine that if they are going to meet a violent end that it will happen at times such as these.

Very few people, however, expect to be bludgeoned to death on the crowded steps of a church on a bright, sunny, Sunday morning and especially not by a priest.
 
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One night in the middle of December, at approximately midnight, Mr. and Mrs. Spin's phone rang in the living room. Groggy, tired, and absolutely pissed, Mrs. Arthur Spin creaked down her stairs in pink bunny slippers, holding onto the railing. She fumbled with the phone a little, and just about the twelth ring, when the call would be missed, she managed a grip around the reciever, and held it against her head like a .44 magnum.

"Hello?" she managed to croak. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and touched her pink haircurlers. She looked dead-tired.

"Hello?" said the voice at the end of the reciever. "Spin's residence?" She couldn't make out if it was a man or woman; it was too nasally.

Regardless, she was pissed.

"Yeah." She raised her voice, tried to make it sound stern and unappealing. Maybe that would scare them away. "What?"

The speaker was clearly taken aback. "I-I'm sorry to disturb you so late in the night..."

"Get to the point already."

The speaker stuttered a little.

"Hurry, I don't have all night."

"Your husband is dead," it said without preamble.

She stopped breathing. She fell to the chair, stunned. "What?"
 
A funny beeping noise sounded from her handbag, and she realised that it had to be her mobile phone. Not wanting to inadvertantly call the emergency services, Amanda hurriedly unzipped the bag and rummaged around until she found the offending handset, trying to see whether any buttons had been pushed. There were three numerals on the display - all sixes - and she was about to clear the screen when she caught the phone on her hairbrush, accidentally pressing the 'call' button.

She fumbled with it, trying to cancel the call before anything happened, but for some reason it wouldn't work. Damn it, she thought, this is a brand new phone! It shouldn't be doing this! Resignedly, Amanda put the phone to her ear, running through all manner of excuses to give if - or when - someone picked up the receiver on the other end.

I regret to inform you that the master cannot come to the telephone right now, some sort of answerphone began, please leave your name...

"Ah, hello? Who is speaking?"

"I'm sorry, I dialled this number by mistake," Amanda began. The voice belonged to a well spoken man, deeply pitched and with a polished accent. "My name is Amanda, and if you don't mind..."

"Amanda, is it? Well, perhaps one of us is fortunate for this encounter. My name is De'Ath. My given name is Lucifer."
 
It would be impossible to say when or how it happened, or even if it was an accident or not. It just did. And I certainly didn’t trust the other me enough to stay close to all who are important to me.

For ten years I’ve been traveling from spaceport-to-spaceport, colony-to-colony, planet-to-planet, running from myself, running from my past, and running away from officers who were, without doubt, ordered to capture me and deliver me home. I jumped into hyperspace, became a bandit, a pirate, a priest, a hacker--anything I could to forget. I’ve seen it all: the Quartron Nebula, the Dasha Sector, even Earth. I’ve done everything a man could do to forget his past, bury it, forget it. I’ve even surgically removed that part of my mind.

Yet the memories still lurked, deep inside, just behind the veil of my dreams, echoing loud, incoherent nightmares. I would suddenly wake up covered in sweaty sheets, panting, screaming at my Father, who I couldn’t even remember. And the other me wouldn’t let go. He refused. The feeling of horrible deja-vu whenever I held a knife in my hand or saw a gun pointed at me jostled me, and I cursed him for it, demanding he faded away, left, packed his bags and left left left. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He refused.
 
Daniel had always thought that he would never tire of the peaceful solitude of his garden. With a sigh, he reached beneath his chair and took up the pistol, training it on the cheery lemon-yellow gate. The muzzle flashed twice, startling the pigeons that nested in the cherry tree. He saw the gate shudder under a blow and a pool of claret began to spread beneath it, soaking into the pale chalk of the path.

He had known that they would come for him, but he had not expected to be pleased about it.
 
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"With all due respect," she said, "I don't possibly see how you could help me."

She turned and walked away, leaving Alacris standing, open-mouthed, after her. All he had done was asked if she'd like any help with the assignment, knowing that she had recently been ill, but to get a reply like that? It wasn't as if their assignment was easy - far from it. It wasn't every day that the order to pilfer the official war strategies directly from the enemy camp was given, and it wasn't appreciated if you failed. Rumour had it that those who had gone back empty-handed had been chained to a rock for the wyverns to eat.
 
Really enjoying this thread, some great stuff so far.
This is my first post on this forum and actually, the first time I think i've ever let anyone read anything i've written (havn't been at it for too long). Please be kind. :)

Wern choked back a sob, he never wanted to give them the pleasure of seeing him succumb to the torment they inflicted upon him. The emotional dam could hold for only a moment this time, it fractured and crumbled and he cried out with a howl of agony. Electrocution this time. Lethal injection the last. Firing squad before that. Always different. As though they were testing out every form of execution known to man, all with the economy of only using one test subject. Each time he prayed that it would be the last, that the monsters would just let him die and stay dead. He had suffered enough for his crimes. Let me die, he prayed again and again.

He was still breathing heavily when the door to his cell cracked and swung open. His eyes widened in terror as a figure eclipsed the light streaming in through the door. Again? So soon? His throat tightened and adrenaline flooded his veins. Wern nearly fell over as he hastily scuttled back against the wall, retreating from the preceived threat of the figure's encroaching shadow.

The figure took a step foward into the cell, throwing his shadow over Wern's trembling and broken body. Wern uttered an involuntary yip of fear. The figure remained silent for several moments, waiting until Wern forced himself to look up at him before speaking.

"You are free to go, Mr. Reback." it said.
 
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