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Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Sat Jun 30, 2012 3:06 am
by DrakeNavarone
I'm a little hesitant to do this because I have a pretty terrible work ethic. But that's the reason that I feel I *should* do this, so bear with me.

Following in the footsteps of a few others in this subforum (kaleidofish, Argeus_the_Paladin, etc.), since it looked like a really neat idea, I will be taking writing requests based on image submissions for the time being. Just post a picture and we'll both see what I can come up with. Context (like character names or back-stories) with the image is welcome, but I have to reserve the right to ignore it if I get a good idea or just can't proceed with the context I'm given. I'm going to try to do all of them, and ideally in order, but I'm a slow mover with a weak will, so we'll see how long I can keep it up.

So request away. I could really use the practice, since I haven't really written anything in quite a while. I hope to churn out a few funny pieces with this, especially, since it is a writing muscle much in need of bulking up. But really, any kind of practice is welcome.


Table of Contents:

1. Mugen no FIYAH (FIA)

2. Syrocket Man (Sapphi)

3. The Throne Worn by Polish (Hijiri)

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Sat Jun 30, 2012 10:01 am
by F.I.A

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Sat Jun 30, 2012 11:51 am
by Sapphi

That handsome bespectacled fellow is Yuri, a doctor specializing in immunology who really, REALLY enjoys giving injections. He has about 100 syringes on his person at any given time. You know, just in case. Has a hotblooded streak. Likes acting superior and barking orders at people.

The little girl (10~12) is Chicory, an adorable amnesiac orphan who is currently working off a debt to him. She is kind and friendly but also good at stealing things and and kicking people in the shins. Calls Yuri "Sir" compulsively and he doesn't correct her because he is not the most humble person in the world.

I'm purposefully not telling you the setting because I want to see where you put them (the weirder the better). :mrgreen:

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Mon Jul 02, 2012 5:46 pm
by DrakeNavarone
This was quite an honor, getting to write a sanctioned continuation of the war between these two men. So, I present to you, the most recent iteration of the unending saga of revenge, vengeance, and revengeance.

Official Soundtrack: Here (single track)

Original Scenario, for the curious: Here
Mugen no FIYAH

Revenge is a cursed cycle. Its flame will never be doused by anything at all.

...In short, it is LIMITLESS.



A horrendous, soul-blighting cackle can be heard over the crackling surrounding flames. A madman is perched atop the sky-scraping headquarters of ATP Industries. A man who insists to be called "Uncle Mugen," but is much more truly Father Carnage. In one hand, he clutches a flat-head screwdriver. In the other, a living doll fancily dressed in deep blue with eyes red and green. And wide with terror. They plead to her Master for rescue.

But rescue, it seems, is impossible. The doll's Master, FIA, stands enclosed by an inferno. It roars on with a ferocity that would scare mortal men. But these men engaged in this endless feud are more than mere mortals. They both, in equal measure, are the embodiment of fury. FIA wipes from his eyes manly tears first shed in shock and desperation. But now is not the time for desperation. It is time for action.

"Will I wind?" the banshee-shriek from the building tops continues. "Will I not wind? I know, how 'bout I UNwind? There is nothing more relaxing than dismantling the things you love so much. Well, maybe there is ONE thing..." The fiend reaches into his pocket for his matchbox and what, at first glance, appears to be a rolled cigarette. Hands full many times over, Mugen performs a very delicate juggling act with the screwdriver, matchbox, doll, cigarette, match. And that's when FIA strikes.

A meteor in the shape of a briefcase is launched upwards to the rooftops, striking a clean blow to the charred and raw side of Mugen's head. The impact puts him into a dizzying spin, and he leans his weight on a foot with naught but air underneath. He plummets 30 stories towards the inferno trap he himself laid. And he lands square on an offhand uppercut by FIA. Bones snap in both the attacker's hand and the victim's ribcage. FIA manages to grab the hostage before rolling Mugen off his shattered fist. FIA looks his companion over, relieved she is unharmed.

"Stay behind me." The doll gives a weak nod in reply.

FIA turns towards the Hawaiian-shirted menace sprawled out on the ground, gasping for air. He is going to put an end to this, once and for all. He picks up the demon by the collar with his broken hand and rears back his other arm. SLASH! The screwdriver's head runs across FIA's chest, cutting a line a half-inch deep from right side to left. FIA tightens his grip on his foe's collar. His broken hand screams with pangs of abuse. The pull in his shoulder tells him his punching arm is fully cocked. Mugen pushes FIA's face away with his left hand, desperate to escape. The glow of rage in both men's eyes burns far brighter than flames bellowing all around them. And then, the fist fires!



And hits not flesh but cement. FIA quickly looks around for his enemy. A hunched-over, gasping Mugen stands outside the entrapping flames. The men give each other ghastly glares.

"This isn't over... not yet... not ever..." Mugen wretches out between pained breaths. And with another POOF, he vanishes.

"No, this isn't over yet..." FIA replies to no one but the fires he must wait to die down. He turns towards his doll and tries to pick her up, but his strength has left with his opponent and the pain is too unbearable. The aches in both hands are now equal. He has broken them both. A high cost, but at least for a short while, things will be quiet again.

For a short while.


Revenge is a cursed cycle. Its flame will never be doused by anything at all.

...In short, it is LIMITLESS.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Mon Jul 02, 2012 6:36 pm
by Sapphi
>Father Carnage
>Hawaiian-shirted menace

:lol: :lol: :lol:
Ahahaha, this is wonderful!

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Mon Jul 02, 2012 8:40 pm
by Hijiri
Let's see what you can do for this?

The guy goes by the name of Riley. He's part of a pantheon of 7 gods, him being the god of time. He's also given the task of writing down the history of humankind and all it's events, including disasters, wars, outbreaks, and other things like that. To do his job, he sometimes walks amongst us to get a closer look at certain incidents. Also, he and the other gods are unknown to humanity, and thus work with no compensation or graditude from mankind.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Wed Jul 04, 2012 8:56 am
by Enerccio

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Wed Jul 04, 2012 7:19 pm
by DrakeNavarone
Enerccio wrote:Image
Already done, and you know it. Don't mean to skip ahead, but I couldn't not post this reply.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Fri Jul 06, 2012 3:19 am
by DrakeNavarone
So this one is pretty damn ridiculous too. And somehow, I fell into the Super Shounen Power Hour or something. I'm not really complaining or anything, as these first two requests were fun, but maybe I can give an honest effort at 'funny' with the next request or the one after. I have to say this is still good practice though, I don't do a lot of action scenes either.

This was a very interesting request. I had so many ideas, and really, I could've put even more into it, but things were starting to get ridiculous length-wise (this is about 4 times longer than FIA's request). There are parts to this I don't like but feel necessary as segue and transition, or building up to a later thing I do like. Ideally, I'd touch those parts up and rewrite them, but I don't have the will to do that. Pretty much everything that'll be in this thread is a first draft, and it'll stay that way. In some ways, it's a good idea that I post the first drafts, since some of these necessary or transitionary bits are one of my weakest areas right now. It's good to have a record of my failures so I can see what went wrong.

Of course there are things I like too... outside of two or so throwaway joke lines, the fight and the dialogue preceding the fight were fun and interesting to do, respectively. Also, I think this is the writing piece that probably saw the most research I've done for a piece yet (with maybe the exception of my debut vn). I'm more used to just making things up and since a lot of my stories thus far have some fantasy elements in them, it's fairly easy to get away with. And now while this story is pretty ridiculous, I feel like I had to get some things absolutely correct, because while I don't consider this piece itself to be commentary, at the core of it is a rather important issue (at least I believe so), so I had to do justice by that. This is also one of the first pieces I've written that actually involves, even on a base and almost invisible background level, a *social* issue as opposed to just characters and growth and things like that. So that was interesting too.

And so, here you go, Sapphi... I.... I tried. I hope you don't find too much fault in it. I hit on the *things* in the given context more than the personalities, it feels like, so there's probably a good-sized gap between your imagination and mine on this front. And unfortunately, since the tale is purely about Yuri, I barely managed to shoehorn in Chicory where I could and even then feels artificial.
Syrocket Man

"We appreciate your cooperation on this deal. This will be a great boon to our business."
"Just show your appreciation by the stipulations in the contract. There isn't need for thanks."
"Oh, but there really is, Dr. Gargarin. By securing the rights to mass produce these rocket-propelled hypodermic needles you've patented, we take a leap forward to our ultimate ambition. The perfect marriage of physics and medicine: Rocket Surgery!"
"Enthralling. Now sign the papers. I've got inoculations to administer."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Doctor."
"I'm sure. Chicory, follow."

With the press of a button grafted into his gloves, the rocket boosters in Dr. Yuri Gargarin's boots ignite, launching him straight through the window of the meeting room on the 60th floor of KSG Biological's principal business offices. The thrusters from the doctor and his constantly-tailing orphan companion kick up a whirlwind that scatters all the papers in the board room. An exec waves an intern to dive on the freshly-inked contract. Before any of the suits realize they can quit shouting to be heard, the doctor and the girl are already a mile away. Some of the uppity pharmaceutical vultures look upset at having their feathers ruffled, but with the profits to be made off this deal, they can easily write off the cost of a replacement window or feather re-fluffing.

And as for the doctor himself, he's nothing but haughty smiles. KSG isn't the only one who made a great leap forward in their ultimate ambitions. With the money he is making and the near future availability of his Syrockets (TM) as he pitched them, now to be mass produced and at no cost to him, he has more tools in his belt to help in his quest to eradicate all infectious disease. And one step closer to his primary mission: the absolute destruction of Carmerck Healthcare, Ltd., The most disgusting den of villainy he's ever seen as an immunologist. He swore upon himself that he'd be the one to drive a nail in their coffin. A nail attached to the end of one of his Syrockets (TM).


Later that night, in the middle of a dream where he went back in time to deliver the polio vaccine to a young Franklin Roosevelt, Yuri awakens to the startling sound of shattering glass. He rises from his bed, tucked away in the corner of his lab, to make out the outlines of a man with a flashlight creeping about. Not missing a beat, he reaches into his lab coat and withdraws a syringe. With a flick of his wrist, the needle flies through the lab and sinks into the suspect man's neck. The man stands still stunned for three long seconds, and then reaches for the syringe and shines his flashlight on it. He might not have processed what he was seeing, for he quickly begins to wobble and collapses, taking a few more glass vials and beakers with him.

The pitter-patter of feet fly down the stairs, and cease at Chicory's appearance. Obviously disoriented from being suddenly pulled from sleep, she stares at the unconscious man lying on the ground, his own flashlight illuminating his face, and asks innocently "Who is he? Did he make that noise?"

"An intruder. Industry spy, I'd wager. One of Whalefield's. Fetch some rope, and quick."

After a good while, the man starts to come to, but can't reason why he can't get his arms into his lap. He looks up to the lab-coated man for answers. Before getting a word out, he realizes he shouldn't be meeting this man face-to-face. Or face-to-waist, as would be more accurate -- it dawning on him that he's bound to a chair somehow. His captor notices the man's new-found consciousness, and immediately reacts with another syringe in the neck.

"Chicory. Fill a few glasses up with cold water. I can't have him passing out or slurring or anything. Sodium thiopental is heavy stuff."
"Right away, sir."

She dashes up the stairs, returning in short order with a single glass, only to return up the stairs. Yuri allows himself to be distracted by the cuteness of the energy and gait put into running the repeated errand. She has two hands, doesn't she? Why not carry them two at a time? By the time the seventh glass of water arrives, the interviewee is in a compliant, albeit still drowsy, state.

"You work for Carmerck?"
"Car mark? I dun work with cars..."
"Who hired you? A man named Whalefield?"
"I dunno 'is name..."
"Short and stout. Young-ish, but with Salt-and-Pepper hair. Tends to clear his throat before he talks, every damn time."
"Yeah, that's sah guy."
"What did he send you for? Schematics for a Syrocket (TM)?"
"Sirrocket (TNnnn)? He jus asked me ta grab some bluprins with syringes in 'em..."
"You've been very cooperative. I didn't even need the water after all. Alright, time to let you go."

And with that, Yuri stabs him with the third needle of the night. The man passes out in short order.

"Strap him to one of the test rockets in the shed and point him South-southwest. I'm sure he'll hit a city that-away."
"How? He's huge, I can't lift him."
"I believe in our youths. You can do it."
"Not very encouraging, sir."
"I'm back off to bed. I'll be having a long day tomorrow, and I was in the middle of a fantastic dream."


At exactly a quarter after nine the next morning, Yuri marched right through the front doors of the Carmerck Healthcare main branch office. He was sure Anderson Whalefield, his arch-nemesis, would be there. And he was sure he would be welcome. He dropped his name at the reception desk, and was quickly asked up to the top floor to the CEO's office. As he opened the double doors he found coming right off the elevator, he realized this particular office was the only thing on this floor outside the small elevator lobby he was leaving. The fact that it was easily three times the size of Yuri's private home lab made it sting.

And there stood the man himself. One of the worst things to ever happen to medicine. The man who put money in the pocket of now-discredited researchers who implied a connection between triple vaccines and developmental disorders, in an effort to turn around to profit off of home detection kits and individual vaccinations. A man who set back immunology in the public eye for years. A man who created in Yuri a love for orphans, who have no parents to object to inoculation because of a myth. Okay, so that last part might be something of a positive. But still, Anderson Whalefield was evil, without doubt.

"Hrrhmmm. Gargarin. I heard you sold the rights to your rocket needle."
"True. But I wonder from whom? The friend you sent my way last night?"
"Hrrhmm. I heard it from him second, actually. A partner in the biz broke the news first."
"KSG got it. They didn't even bid as high as you. But they're gonna give me free Syrocket (TM) shipments as part of the deal."
"Hrrhmm. Perhaps we should've added such stipulations in our bid..."
"Wouldn't have made the slightest difference."

"Hrhm. Let's cut to the chase. I want to bury this hatchet and offer you a job. As... eccentric as you are, your research is highly regarded. I'd like to put you to use."
"What could you possibly offer...?"
"Hrm. I've heard you're something of a surprise philanthropist. You're working on building an orphanage, I hear. The Shepard... something."
"The Good Shepherd House for Involuntary Test Subjects."
"Hrmmhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmm. You see... Hrmhrrmm. We'd be willing to make a generous contribution to development."
"Generous, you say?"
"Hrmmmrrmm... Very generous."

".....What does this job entail?"
"Hrrrhrrmm. We need you to lead a research study and publish a paper linking a number of recent vaccinations to serious adverse developmental effects."
"You need me to disparage vaccines in a research paper? For what end?"

"Hrrrrmm. This recent healthcare reform has insurance companies absorbing the cost of preventative care at no cost at all to the consumer. Treatments for ailments, however, can have costs absorbed into the consumer premiums legitimately. The insurance companies have assured us a significant kickback if we can curb preventative care habits in preference to treatments we can sell them at a reduced cost. And I can assure you those kickbacks will trickle down on to the fine contributors of this research study, for use personal and philanthropic. How does that sound?"

"I have to say, it sounds... like you're pissing on my life's work. You sure know how to romance a guy, cooing in his ears. But now that I've heard what you're saying, it sounds less like sweet nothings and more like crappy and clumsy dirty talk. I've never been more put off."
"Hrrmm. Very well. It's not often I meet a man with such principle. And even less often I let them escape my grasp after I've shared so much. Never, in fact. I'll have security escort you out of the building... and off this mortal coil."

Whalefield's finger never makes it to the intercom button. Before he could press it, he loses all feeling in his hand, thanks to the pair of syringes sticking out of his hand, both filled with a powerful and fast-acting anesthetic. Whalefield leaps away from the phone just in time to dodge four needles of tranquilizers lobbed where he was standing.

"Hmrrraaaaaahhh! Gaaarrrgaaaarrrriiiinnn!!" The exec shouts at the top of his lungs. He charges towards the immunologist, barreling forward at a surprising speed for someone who looks not the least bit athletic. However, his speed is no match for the rocket-boosted speed Yuri possesses. Yuri quickly hops over and blows past Whalefield, turning around mid-flight to toss a few more syringe darts at his foe. Two of the tranquilizers sink their single tooth into the back of the businessman. Whalefield detects the onset of effects immediately. In a desperate attempt to counter the tranqs flowing through rapidly through him, Whalefield pulls out two whole bottles of caffeine pills from his inside pocket and manages to down them both in three seconds. Yuri freezes for the briefest moment in amazement, but that's a moment Whalefield capitalizes on. He grabs a fake potted plant on the windowsill behind him and tosses it at Gargarin. Forgetting to dodge, Yuri puts up his arms to block his face. The impact of the pot stings for a second, but Yuri realizes he's ultimately unharmed.

But Whalefield has already regained his position behind his desk as he had hoped. He immediately starts bombarding Yuri with everything in reach. First the phone, then his keyboard, and his monitor. Yuri gracefully evades the phone and keyboard, but makes a sudden and unskilled veer to the right to barely avoid the monitor. His lean and his rocket boots put him in a vulnerable tilt nearly parallel to the floor, and that's when the office chair is lobbed his way. Unable to correct himself in time, the chair slams Yuri into the wall. As soon as he hits the ground, the propulsion from the rockets shoots him horizontally across the floor and slams his head on the other wall at the corner of the room. Whalefield has already torn out the drawers of his desk to use as ammunition, and uncovers the adrenaline shot he was hoping he'd find. This will do the trick, he tells himself. The caffeine isn't acting fast enough at all, and with all the throwing he's done, he has nearly succumbed to the tranqs. The difference is very apparent immediately after administration of the shot. His muscles still remain pretty heavy and sluggish, but he already feels a tighter control over them than he did seconds ago. And he is way more alert. It is the splash of cold water he very much needed to wake up out of his haze.

Yuri manages to pick himself off the ground after shutting his boosters off temporarily. But he isn't given much of a chance to recover. As soon as he has both feet firm and supporting his full weight, the drawers sail through the air toward him. He takes a two step dash alongside the wall before kicking his rocket boots back on, but it isn't fast enough. The second drawer's corner pegs him right in his shoulder. This time, it hurts. He doesn't know if he's cut or bleeding, but he feels the burn of a hundred Tetanus boosters in his arm. He knows he can fight through it, but that burn lingers on strong. He bursts forward, managing to duck under the last drawer, and pulls out his secret weapon from the inside of his lab coat. A set of syringe-looking darts with much larger, sharper, unhollow needles at the tip. His literal Syrocket (TM) nails to hammer the lid on this coffin for good.

Each between the gaps of his fingers, he shoots forward like a bullet toward Whalefield, 8 rocket nails at the ready. Whalefield has picked up even the desk itself in a pure adrenaline-fueled fury, wielding it overhead with both arms. Before he can swing it down, Yuri rams him in a full body, rocket-propelled tackle, knocking him out from under the desk. Before it falls to the ground, both men are already out the shattered window sixty stories above the ground. Whalefield begins to pound on Gargarin's back, but it provides little more than a distraction at this point. Yuri has numbed himself to all but the nails in his hands. He drives both fists into Whalefield's gut, all the nails piercing deep enough to stick, and gives his arch-nemesis one huge push. Yuri manages to separate from Whalefield and he straightens himself up, just in time to watch all 8 of the rocket nails ignite. Yuri takes one last look at his foe and graces him with the smuggest sneer he can offer, before Anderson Whalefield flies off beyond the horizon. Yuri takes a few deep breaths and turns for home.


Things are likely going to be hectic for Dr. Yuri Gargarin for some time. While he has enjoyed a casual disregard for the law, the law has not enjoyed the same disregard for him. Yuri and Chicory will be on the run for quite some time until some of the immediate heat dies down. Plans might have to be delayed. But there are no regrets. Carmerck Healthcare didn't fall with its CEO, but Yuri has granted it a pardon for the crimes under its old master, until it slips up again. And his greatest enemy is no longer of this world. He can't ask for more than that right now. He's in the good company of his orphan companion, a hundred syringes tucked in the inside of his lab coat, and rocket-powered flight. And if another healthcare tyrant tries to wield the power of money over medicine, he'll be there to topple him. He is Dr. Yuri Gargarin. He is "Syrocket Man" (Trademark, Gargarin Pharmaceutical Appliances).

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Fri Jul 06, 2012 1:23 pm
by Sapphi
DrakeNavarone wrote:So this one is pretty damn ridiculous too. And somehow, I fell into the Super Shounen Power Hour or something.
Probably because that was exactly the sort of attitude I approached the drawing with. :lol:
DrakeNavarone wrote:And now while this story is pretty ridiculous, I feel like I had to get some things absolutely correct, because while I don't consider this piece itself to be commentary, at the core of it is a rather important issue (at least I believe so), so I had to do justice by that. This is also one of the first pieces I've written that actually involves, even on a base and almost invisible background level, a *social* issue as opposed to just characters and growth and things like that. So that was interesting too.
I really, really love the fact that you incorporated this. If Yuri lived in our timeline, he would be pissed out of his mind about it. :lol:
DrakeNavarone wrote: And so, here you go, Sapphi... I.... I tried. I hope you don't find too much fault in it. I hit on the *things* in the given context more than the personalities, it feels like, so there's probably a good-sized gap between your imagination and mine on this front. And unfortunately, since the tale is purely about Yuri, I barely managed to shoehorn in Chicory where I could and even then feels artificial.
What?! Are you apologizing?! NO! I loved it!
Seriously, I don't usually laugh this often while reading. Obviously I'm biased because they're my characters, but I thought it was excellent.

Surprisingly, you pegged them down pretty well for hardly knowing anything about them. The part with Chicory and the cups of water was especially funny to me because I was like "OMG, she's so dumb! She would totally do that!" And while it's pretty over-the-top here, there is a scene I have planned where Yuri *does* throw a syringe like a dart, so I was like "Yes! Yes, he's throwing syringes!! This is perfect!!"

Oh, and the "I believe in our youths" part was the best. I was eating while reading and I almost choked because I couldn't stop laughing.

Thank you so much. It is awesome.

EDIT: Two things I forgot to say about this.

1. Is Yuri's last name supposed to be a pun on Gagarin and GAR? (If so, LOL)

2. I had to stop in the middle of it this morning to go to work. (Darn you, source of income!) When I got out to the car, I turned the radio on. Guess what was playing? THIS. Just wonderful.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Thu Jul 12, 2012 7:20 pm
by DrakeNavarone
First, to Sapphi: Yeah, Gargarin is indeed a play on both. As I told a friend I sent the story to, I had to double up on Gar for Yuri (Gar-gar-in, you see). I think I did alright.

As for this one, the context doesn't really suggest action, so I had no idea how to even start this one. So in actuality, I didn't. This is less of a tale as it is a rant. And because of that, it's not really full of activity or even funny, like the other two pieces. I'm glad I did it, and it was quick once I started, but in some ways, it was kind of trying. I was given an open-ended prompt that wasn't my idea, and I had absolutely no idea where to go with it. So for this one in particular, compared to the last two, the bulk of the battle was fought before the first word was put down. It was a good task, ultimately, since I often toss things out before even trying them. A good way to make me get to work on something I have no map for.

One of these days, I swear I'll get to write something actually funny... One of these days... That's all I really want... ;____;
The Throne Worn by Polish

One of the first things most students learn at school is that history... is boring. And unfortunately, it is painfully true. George Santayana famously said that those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it. But, really, how can anyone be bothered? And those of us who do learn it only have reruns to watch when those who never bothered repeat the mistakes of their predecessors. As a god cursed with the duty to record all of human history, I live a very charmed life...


Humans are remarkably static. The benefits of sitting on the throne atop the food chain. The creatures they force from their homes and impose adaptation upon are much more impressive, but alas, I'm no God of Zoology. Where I lack content, the humans possess in abundance. They are all too comfortable with their position as rulers of the planet. Fearing no competitors without, they fight within, clawing atop one another to reach another higher run on the social ladder. They even call it a rat race, but the literal sport would home more of my interest.

In many regards, these humans are simpler creatures than the ones they believe they lord over. They are always doing the same thing, every generation. There's always some war. There's always some scam. There's always some disaster, and the accompanying recovery. There's always some miracle. There's always some celebration. The good and bad always consistent and in equal measure, and is it ever tiring. I've been at this a long time now, and despite how long-lived I am, time paces itself the same for me as it does the subjects of my study. The last dozen decades have been exhausting...

In the last century, I've been surprised only once -- once more than the last few centuries before. They set foot on a rock not yet their own. The moon landing was as astonishing to me as it was the rest of the world. I was aglow with excitement for months. But of course, since humans rarely disappoint, in short order they would gravely disappoint. Planting a stamp on its surface with imaginary authority, the humans left and never truly bothered to return, to explore further with their own eyes and hands and feet. The rest of the years trickled on through a sieve of yawns until the flag owners abolished their own agency of true achievement. What was left on this earth to keep you so invested, so grounded? Was it a move to appease the complacent masses or the secret kings of the food chain -- the suited sapien? The blow winded but didn't surprise me. These are not creatures of ambition and exploration, nor adaptation and resourcefulness. They are creatures of comfort and cowardice.

The tomes I fill in for today only further depress. The final frontier is not one that will be explored with any immediacy. A young man working for a private-sector aeronautics firm is diagnosed with terminal cancer that will steal him from us before his prime. A stamp in Chinese characters approves the redistribution of the year's budget from space exploration to cyber security and warfare. A Russian weapon shipment is being sold to her allies, every bit of the income will go towards advancements in the nation's earthbound position. The American President quietly sips from a much-needed cup of coffee, his part in undoing decades of stellar pioneering comfortably completed in advance.

I cannot lift a finger to change the tides of time. They and I both are overburdened with the cataloging of endless non-events. The tears from perpetual yawns blind me as earthly concerns blind Man. My only hope of hopes, dream of dreams, is for some creature -- be it dog, bird, or ape -- escapes this place and seats himself on the throne of his own rock. And even then, I cannot follow. I must stay to chronicle the endless polishing of the same old throne I've seen day in and out for millenia.

In truth, I wish for the youths of this world to learn from their forefathers. To take with them what what their parents did not. I wish for them to learn the story by heart, and edit it as they please. The never-ending story is stuck in a loop. But alas, I can barely put down these notes myself, so who am I to impose? Those who don't learn from history may repeat it, but those that do are far worse off.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Thu Jul 12, 2012 9:13 pm
by KomiTsuku
I had a serious one of Yoi and Name, but then I saw this in my picture folder and had to put it forward.

Re: Drake's Image-based Writing Requests

Posted: Tue Jul 17, 2012 11:57 pm
by Hijiri
Sorry for not commenting earlier. I have to say, that was excellent, and you got "Riley" tone and mood perfectly. Thank you <: