2 perspective pieces

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ko ko
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2 perspective pieces

Post by ko ko » Tue Mar 08, 2011 3:09 am

uh, so i finally decided to release some of the crap i've written to the public. they were a bit of a spur of the moment kind of thing. i has more, but i really don't feel like sharing. imo, they are a bit repetitive because who hasn't done stuff like this before? i mean really. plus they're pretty short, so don't worry about having to read some long tale or something.

but anyways, this jake's pov called Driven

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6792911/1/Driven" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

and one rachel pov called Slow Torture

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6803839/1/Slow_Torture" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

yipee
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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by JMRCTA » Tue Mar 08, 2011 3:18 am

COOL! Great fanfic. U really rocked it! COOL.
I haven't read "Slow Torture"
Cuz I don't want to read many things on computer. It kills my eyes.
It leaks.

I've seen it. I've cracked the skull of a man open and watched the grey matter leaked out of its white container and spill over the floor. I was sad until I saw the dark grey body of his slave driver. Then my heart hardened and I moved on to kill the next man.
That was a cool one.
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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by Sassy_Cat » Sat Mar 12, 2011 9:48 pm

Why couldn't you have just copy-pasted it onto this forum?
"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."
- Ray Bradbury

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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by ko ko » Sun Mar 13, 2011 2:34 pm

can

didn't cuz of laziness, but fine, here:


Driven

What drives a man?

No, what really drives a man? I'm not talking about what drives a man to get up every morning and go to work to make enough money to support himself, his wife, and two kids, to pay the mortgage of his house in the suburbs with the white picket fence and dog running around the yard. I'm not talking about what drives a man to put up with the normal drudgery of everyday life. I'm talking what drive a man when he is a soldier.

So what drives a man? Is it his sense of duty? No. That's what gets him in the war. But after a while, that just sort of fades away and becomes just another thing you question. What is duty anyway? Who cares about responsibility to your country or race or whatever when the people around you are dying.

No, what drives a man is the fear of shame. A man is raised to believe that he needs to be a man. That fear is for the weak. That killing another man is the only way to cleanse your soul. That when you are face to face with your enemy and you see the white of his eyes and you pull the trigger and stop his heartbeat before he stops yours, that's when you truly experience life. When you end another man's life, that's when you are a man and you know what life really is.

But that's not true. It's all just an act we play. To kill another man when you appreciate your own life, liberties, and pursuits, it's like you've killed a part of yourself. But you don't show it. You can't show it. How can you? When everything that you were raised to believe is the thing you are striving to feel, you still search for that feeling of exhilaration, of liberation, of finally becoming a man.

But that's not what you feel. You feel an emptiness. You carry a fear of blushing. If a man blushes, well then he's just not a man. You kill because if you don't, you are deemed too weak to kill another man. You could fall. Falling is the only other option because even running is falling. So you could fall facing the other direction. You could let yourself be killed. But then again, that means you have failed. You can't let that happen. Why? Because that means embarrassment.

The object of the game is to avoid shame. Pain you can bear. The weight of the men you have killed, that you can carry around all day. Your back becomes bent and twisted, not being used to the emotional baggage. But you still stand up straight. A bend back is cause for embarrassment too.

That flush of blood to the face. The sudden redness that fills the cheeks. That can't be allowed. Pain is a part of daily life. Pain means you are strong. Pain you can ignore because pain means you can heal. Pain is viewed the same as a wound. Pain means it'll scab, peel, then be good as new. But is it really? Physical pain and emotional pain, are they equal? Are they the same? How can they be? The brain doesn't bleed.

It leaks.

I've seen it. I've cracked the skull of a man open and watched the grey matter leak out of its white container and spill over the floor. I was sad until I saw the dark grey body of his slave driver. Then my heart hardened and I moved on to kill the next man.

But when will it end. Can it end? When will my shame finally build up enough to finally tell me to stop? When will that final straw break my camel back? How much longer can I keep myself from feeling the shame of my sins?

Shame isn't the same as regret. Regret is missing the opportunity to do something different. When you've reached the point of shame, there are no other options but retreat. I killed and let pieces of myself be killed because I was too afraid of shame, too embarrassed not to let it happen. My back is already broken, yet I keep accepting straws.

How often do you hear someone say they were too afraid not to kill someone? That must be a first. But it's true. I was, am too afraid of the consequences if I do not kill another man.

The consequences for me aren't even death. Sure, that's a possibility. If I don't kill the man immediately in front of me, he will kill me. I'm not even afraid of where I will go afterwards. If for some miraculous reason I go upwards, all the weight I've been carrying will drag me down. And even if I'm send down, the shame I feel now would be way worse than any punishment that could be inflicted upon me.

But for now, I continue to feel the fear for shame. The embarrassment of blushing. The constant pursuit of being a man. The constant pursuit of redemption.

So, as I stare into the eyes of the man before me, I don't pray for his soul. He isn't in control of his movements. A grey slug is. I've come to believe these slugs, no matter what they believe, can never be men. Only men can be men.

Before I take the fatal bite into my enemy's neck, I look at the men around me. Over there, one of my men takes the life of a man with a the slice of his tail blade. Over here, another of my men takes the life of a man with twist of her wrist. And next to me, my best friend, a man until the end, takes the life of a man with his bare hands.

I turn back to my man. He looks into my uncaring eyes, his own full of fear. He knows he is going to die. I wonder if he feels shame at his end. A part of me reminds me once again that he is not here because of his own volition. It all boils down to that grey slug controlling his every movement, his every thought. But that doesn't matter now.

This man is in front of me. If I do not kill him, then he will kill me. How will I face myself then? How will I deal with the shame? The embarrassment? I cannot.

So I kill him.

My reputation remains pure.
me and the shift key, we had a falling out

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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by ko ko » Sun Mar 13, 2011 2:38 pm

here be the other one, it comes with a note to better understand:


Slow Torture

Inspiration for this piece:

"It's not a sacrifice to renounce the unwanted. It is not a sacrifice to give your life for others, if death is your personal desire. To achieve the virtue of sacrifice, you must want to live, you must love it, you must burn with passion for this Earth and for all the splendor it can give you – you must feel the twist of every knife as it slashes your desires away from your reach and drains your love out of your body. It is not mere death that the morality of sacrifice holds out to you as an ideal, but death by slow torture." –Francisco D'Anconia, Atlas Shrugged.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe one day, they will ask, why did she do it?

They probably wouldn't even ask one day, they would probably start asking even before the act was complete. But others would ask later. The question would continue for who knows how long. Maybe one day even later, the history books will cut the summary so short that the question won't even be asked because its importance will have been so greatly reduced. But until then, they will most definitely ask, why did she do it?

Perhaps they will think it was for glory, because it was her duty, because she knew it was the only way. Perhaps others, those that actually knew her nature, they will think it was because she loved the fight, which she just couldn't get enough of it and that was the only way for her to go.

I mean, who could imagine a beauty such as Rachel growing old? Her blond hair darkening from the years and sun to a light brown or some sort of reddish. No matter the splendor of her golden hair now, the truth is genetic. Blond hair doesn't last.

The soft smooth perfection that is her lightly tanned skin won't either. Sure, the magical properties of morphing will delay the damage of the sun and other harsh things, but eventually, it will wrinkle and, dare I say it, sag! The horror! No amount of fantastically matching clothes can cover up a hideously old body underneath. And let's not even mention the creaking in the joints due to the extensive use they've endured from years of hard use from gymnastics and other physical hardships that young people put themselves through. Good God, save her from Father Time!

And yet, that fierce ferocity in her icy blue eyes would never fade. Only Tobias's raptor eyes could match such a glare. But I don't know if you could even call that natural. Even when he was in human form, the glare remained, but it was much more passive, like it was a permanent expression, not a feeling. Those that knew her will say that there was more than just expression behind those eyes.

I am told that feeling could be heard in her voice, too. She had confident certainty that her actions were exact. You could see a loyalty to herself and that which she had taken into herself. Whatever she deemed worthy of doing, it would be done to the best of her ability, as if it were her last act. And if you knew how her life played out, many of her acts she viewed to potentially be her last, because, at the time, they most certainly could have been her last.

But at one point, she became aware of what exactly would be her last act. And this brings back our original question. Why did she do it?

There is only one person who can answer that. I'm not even sure she could tell you the full answer to that question. The reason being is that she doesn't fully know herself. How do I know this? Maybe I should stop talking in the third person.

I have no answer. There is no single reason, only a multitude of events that led up to my ultimate decision.

Glory? Bah, what is the use of glory when you are not there to enjoy basking in its light? What need do I have for glory? They have always said I have my own personal spotlight. It is warm enough. I do not need the gratification of others. I have always been too independent for that anyway.

Duty? HA. Duty to whom? Duty to your country? A country is simply imaginary lines drawn on a map by some old men of the past. Screw the old men of the past. They may have wept for the future, but I cry over the past. What use are tears at this stage anyway? As for duty to your race or species, that can't mean much because we aren't even all of the same species. So if you really must know, just ask Jake over there what duty means.

What was left for me? My family already broken years before offered no comfort. Those that had been through the same roller-coaster ride as me offered no comfort.

I was betrayed. How could she do what she had done? No one knew her anymore, especially not me. Everyone felt she was always the most predictable, second only to me. But no, she'd done the unthinkable. How? How could she do this to us? How could she not see what exactly she was doing to us? To me? I would pay the price. For her traitorous act, I would save her. She would try to forgive me. And I would not be there to tell her that it was not necessary. It will be forever branded to the back of her eyes that it was she who did it. The one I was supposed to trust the most. The punishment for betrayal is worse than death.

He was lost. He faced the same betrayal as I. While my reaction was to be expected, I don't think anyone really expected his to be quite so brutal and cold. But I understood. He and I, we had never been close. But we were drawn together along with the others. I find it odd when I see the string that ties us together is actually a rope. He would give me a blank look and I could read it though there were no words. We had an understanding. But when he gave me that look, I knew. The price I would pay was a fraction of his. When I returned his look, he knew. And though he had never been more certain in his life, it was his loss.

He grew distant. Or perhaps it was I that had neglected him. We had an unspoken agreement. But at some point, our game had ended. Maybe I missed the queues, but I felt like I was the one waiting. They never seemed to come. Maybe he simply feared me. When he was in the mood, all he ever seemed to talk about was how uncontrollable I was. For him, he was right, but, oh, how little he knew. Or maybe that was all an act, just like my so-called lack of fear. Because it always seemed like he just had other things to do. He seemed to have everything he'd ever wanted. His life was complete here. So I had fallen to the wayside. He neglected our banter.

Near the end, the anger really was hate. He and I never really talked, never had any connection. We were probably the least close in the group. The matter of trust for the most part was there in battle. But at the table, how can I respect someone with no opinion of his own? He was a hypocrite. He called us a primitive, backwards species, but it was he who was the most foolish. Maybe it is that we have a vicious nature, but man has a long history of fighting his brothers, so we learned to accept what brothers as we may. They knew nothing of that. They focused solely on species. Could he not recognize the connection between us all? Why was he so eager to throw it all away? They showed him no love while we offered our hand every day. His uncertainty clashed too greatly with my resolution. He was my only ally that held my anger.

I only asked him once, so I was only denied once. But there were times when I looked at him, and he knew what my soul was asking, but the answer I received was always no. He constantly wondered why he hadn't received what he wanted, but I wondered, didn't he? Was he not granted the one thing he wanted the most? No more, no less. It was something even I could not do. I could not ask him to deny the actual best thing in his life. I would not live in denial. I saw what he wanted. It was he who was in denial. He refused to see that he had indeed been given exactly what he'd asked for. Why should he lie? Because he was in denial. How do we help those in denial? We shove the curtain from their eyes and show them the truth. But even then, they could still turn away and delve deeper into the hole they had created for themselves.

So, why did I do it? I guess the answer is actually very simple. Where else was I to turn?

Betrayal, loss, neglect, anger, denial; I was surrounded by elements I could not live with. They would have driven me to self-destruction. What would be the point of that? Even now, after all that I've been through, everything must have a purpose. I still do not wish unto others that which I would not wish unto myself. That left me with only one option: to accept.

My cup was empty. There was only one thing I knew that was absolute that could fill it, blood. The blood of my enemies would be mixed in with my own. It would create a harmony the likes I'd never seen, and I would be satisfied.
Last edited by ko ko on Sun Mar 13, 2011 2:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by Sassy_Cat » Sun Mar 13, 2011 2:49 pm

Yay. Awesome story! Although the thought of someone drinking blood is still swirling around my head. Eep.
"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."
- Ray Bradbury

My amazing blog- http://yasreadyas.blogspot.com/

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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by ko ko » Sun Mar 13, 2011 2:54 pm

that's symbolism for ya
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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by JMRCTA » Sun Mar 13, 2011 10:31 pm

It's cool. Bloods is fine!
:D
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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by Sassy_Cat » Mon Mar 14, 2011 5:01 pm

I'm on a only-mouse-and-bird-blood diet.
"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."
- Ray Bradbury

My amazing blog- http://yasreadyas.blogspot.com/

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Re: 2 perspective pieces

Post by JMRCTA » Tue Mar 15, 2011 12:52 am

:o How 'bout all living creature's blood? It's cute, right?
And w8, ko ko's works r good. PROMISE. Cross mah hart. :)
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