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"Checkmate" the knight said as he rode his horse across the field, blocking the king from any escape. The king sighed and knelt, awaiting what he had anticipated over the last few moves. The opposing king drew his sword and walked towards the loser. He swung. The white crown fell to the ground and the white horses fled.
The tornado tore into the house effortlessly as she watched from mere miles away. Planks of wood, lumps of brick and overall debris flew around in the air where the building she had grown up in once stood. Meanwhile, he stood behind her chuckling, as he drew back the tornado and it blinked from existence.
Eternal gratitude. That's what she'd said to him. She'd have eternal gratitude for what he did for her. So why is it, while laying in the gutter of this street, blood pouring out of his side, the gratitude wasn't showing? Instead she'd fled from him. So much for eternity.
The director of the project stood and smiled as he watched the groups of five people argue it out in separate rooms below him. They all deserved to be there, he knew that and they knew that. A sudden gunshot from one of the rooms made him jump slightly, but he quickly recovered and chuckled.
The leathery texture of the sofa confused her as it seemed to her to be made of something different. It squeaked as she moved around on it. Everything about this world made her uncomfortable. Nothing felt, tasted or sounded like it looked.
It would seem that one thing we haven't quite managed yet is the ability to communicate through sonar or waves, not unlike the morse code we've established. Sonar is still a rather foreign concept to us, although we have grasped the idea of pulse and echo, using these theories, we've not yet found a way to allow us to communicate just using small waves. The next step up from harnessing sonar abilities for ourselves could be telepathy, and, if the dolphins get there before we do, it's no wonder why they'll survive the end of the earth.
The decorations on the tree began to wobble against her humming, clinking together, vibrating vigorously, the movements becoming more frantic, the stronger her voice got. She began singing a higher note, watching as the decorations wobble off the tree. She started to scream, the tree shivered, the ornaments shattered, still suspended on the branches.
Hand held firmly on the doorknob, so nobody could turn it, she rested her head against the door and breathed as slowly and as quietly as she could. Trying to take her mind off of what was, if anything was, out there, and how it got to be there, if it did indeed exist out there and not just in her mind. The doorknob began to turn under her hand, and she held it tighter, trying to stop the door from opening.
Detention seems a bit...small a punishment for what I've done. By "what I've done", I do, of course mean, "what they think I was doing while I was trying to stop it from getting worse for them" but, then again, maybe they know it wasn't me. Hence the pitiful excuse for a punishment. I was a bit confused as to what lines they were going to make me write for this, but apparently "I will think before I act" was sufficient. Not sure why.
Some people just want to watch the world burn. And the inventor of the straw is one of them (Discluding the time Kevin from Blue's Clues thought HE'D invented it). I mean, come on, the straw is one of the most destructive utensils in existance. You move them a little bit closer to you and you knock the entire glass over. It spills everywhere, it stains everything, and the carpet's ruined. Have you ever used a straw while drinking alcohol? The inventor of the straw was bitter and hates carpets and sober people.
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writing since 2012 · 13 entries · 13 days shown up
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