VGFacts

Pokk,
the Evil Dust Mite from Under the Kitchen

So there was this house on some street. This house was like any other house, on a street like any other street, in a city like any other city, in a state like any other state in a country.... well, you get the idea. In this house like any other house on a street like any other street in a city whose name you can’t know was a family that was seemingly normal. Yep, your average, everyday, normal family. Average, other than the fact that they have turned a blind eye to the homeless man who took the liberty of moving into their house.
They have never tried to make contact with him; he just lives on the stairs that lead to the basement and takes food whenever he pleases. He looks like any other man from the gutter, from the ragged cloths to the filthy skin. One difference between him and, well, anyone else, this man has the word “Ladel” carved into his forehead. This is assumed to be his name.
One average day, the family sat together at the kitchen table, enjoying breakfast. Ladel was making a peanut butter and butter sandwich when he felt a repeated tapping on his right leg just above the knee. He looked down to discover toy soldier after toy soldier being flung at his leg. He then discovered the source of this barrage was a large millipede. This millipede wielded a toy soldier in each leg, leaving only two on which to stand. These plastic figures would appear from no where when he threw them, allowing him to further hurl them at Ladel’s right leg, just above the knee. You can imagine the pile of toy soldiers that quickly accumulated.
“Why are you doing that?” Ladel asked. If, of course, the family acknowledged his existence, this would be the first time they heard him speak. However, they kept right on eating.
One has to wonder why he even spoke to it. Whether or not he was expecting an answer, he got one.
“I am Sud, the evil millipede. My evil power is toy soldiers; they can never leave my legs so I learned to walk with just the two. To some this is viewed as a curse, but I’ve been known to give quite a pummeling with my infinite supply of plastic doom! My attack comes with a message: your days of residing in this domicile are numbered. You have been warned, wicked Ladel!”
Sud no longer spoke to the man. He continued to make toy soldiers persistently projectile.
Ladel raised a curious eyebrow at this. The contemplation of stepping on it crossed his mind, but was interrupted when he felt something hit his chest. There, at the other side of his neglected sandwich, stood a rat on his hind legs. In one paw it held open a large sack that contained the proportionate bean bags it threw at Ladel with the other paw. When Ladel finally noticed it, the rat began yelling and pointing at the man, then gesturing towards the sink. This continued for a minute or so, then the rat continued to throw tiny bean bags.
So many things confused Ladel. Why could these creatures speak? How could they hold things, let alone throw them? Why did the rat speak Russian? Was the family really ignoring this, or was it not even happening? Light headed, he had to lean against the counter for support. The constant bombardment form both things were inconsequential to him now. That was when a small chunk of the kitchen floor exploded upwards.
A light emitted from the hole, but was soon cut out by a shadow. Clawing could be heard, as whatever made the light dance climbed its way to the surface world. At last the first limb emerged. It had the appearance of a spider’s leg, only this one came to a sharp point at the end. This was followed by another, and the combined strength of both finally pulled the full form out.
What it was further defied all laws of physics and reality. A dust mite, enlarged to roughly the size of a chipmunk, pulled itself from the opening. It shook off dust from its tunnel and gave off a scream that was far too pathetic to follow such a dramatic entrance.
“Bwah! I am Pokk, the evil dust mite. I come to give you a message-“ it didn’t get anymore out, as a toy soldier hit it directly in the face.
”Hey, whoa! Shut up!” Sud yelled. “I already went though all that. And who invited you, anyways?” It threw another toy soldier at Pokk, with noticeably more force than he used against Ladel.
The rat joined in on assaulting Pokk and taunting it in it’s angry language.
“Get out of here,” Sud said. “No one told you to come out. And stop going on with that evil stuff. You know you’re not evil. You’re stupid.”
“I’m evil,” Pokk said. “Please, just let me prove it!”
“Alright,” Sud said. “How would you deliver your message of doom to this marked one?”
“Through a mean letter?”
“Get OUT of here! That’s stupid, you’re stupid. No one likes you! Go!”
The two creatures continued to belittle and attack the dust mite until it retreated back into its hole. Who can say how long it’ll wait in the darkness for some sort of acceptance from it’s peers, or if it will ever even come?
“What is going on?” Ladel yelled. Trying to understand all this was hurting his head. He felt faint. In another moment he may just collapse, but he won’t be granted that moment.
“Oh, yeah. You,” Sud said. ‘You know, we were supposed to explain what is going to happen to you. You probably could have avoided it, but we’re out of time. Thank Pokk for that one.”
As if on cue, the drain to the sink opened to the size of the entire basin. Ladel and his sandwich were vacuumed in instantly. His journey took both a. instant and a lifetime. What met him at the end was a realm of unimaginable horror. The same twisted minds that would torture him to the doors of death also held superior medical knowledge that will bring him back to life. These horrible inhabitants of this strange, terrible land will continue to destroy Ladel mind and body just to rebuild him for as long as they please.
After the sink closed back down to size, and Sud and the rat retreated to wherever they came from, all evidence of this strange occurrence ever happening was the hole in the floor. The father filled it in later that day and replaced the surrounding tiles, but no one ever said anything about it.
As for Pokk? Oh yes, Pokk. Under this kitchen is where it will remain, waiting, never really admitting to the hatred and rejection expressed to it.


~Gahmstead

I wrote this back in high school.

This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

(07-04-2013, 07:10 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

This is a writing thread.

(07-04-2013, 07:14 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:10 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

This is a writing thread.

Well I guess if a mod could change the name it could be the writing/story thread.

(07-04-2013, 09:16 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:14 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:10 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

This is a writing thread.

Well I guess if a mod could change the name it could be the writing/story thread.

No, I mean the thread is fine as is. Though it would be nice to have a megathread for short writings so that there won't be too much clutter on this board.

(07-04-2013, 09:18 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 09:16 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:14 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:10 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

This is a writing thread.

Well I guess if a mod could change the name it could be the writing/story thread.

No, I mean the thread is fine as is. Though it would be nice to have a megathread for short writings so that there won't be too much clutter on this board.

That's why I think it needs the name change, so people are more likely to put stories here instead of a random thread.

By the description of the "Creative Discussion" I figured this to be the place to post this. I did my research; I'm not the only person to post a short story. I have more to post, I just didn't want to overload the forum.


But seriously, what did you guys think of it?

(07-04-2013, 09:30 PM)Gahmstead Wrote: [ -> ]By the description of the "Creative Discussion" I figured this to be the place to post this. I did my research; I'm not the only person to post a short story. I have more to post, I just didn't want to overload the forum.

That's why I think if a mod just changes the name to the Story/Writing thread their won't be a bunch of random threads for just one story, but one big thread for everyone's stories.

(07-04-2013, 09:23 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 09:18 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 09:16 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:14 PM)Lightmatt Wrote: [ -> ]

(07-04-2013, 07:10 PM)JiraiyaSannin Wrote: [ -> ]This definitely belongs in the Chit-Chat thread or a writing thread.

This is a writing thread.

Well I guess if a mod could change the name it could be the writing/story thread.

No, I mean the thread is fine as is. Though it would be nice to have a megathread for short writings so that there won't be too much clutter on this board.

That's why I think it needs the name change, so people are more likely to put stories here instead of a random thread.

Well I don't think it's very nice to hijack someone else's thread. Get someone, who is into the idea of a Short Stories megathread, to write up a decent op and make a new thread.

As for the story in the OP, I think the hook is very weak. When writing a story it's a good idea to try and grab the reader with a really nice hook. Saying, "So there was this house on some street. This house was like any other house, on a street like any other street, in a city like any other city, in a state like any other state in a country...." doesn't really convince me to want to read on. Also it's either one period or three; four periods isn't punctuation.

Thank you for the honest opinion.

I wrote this when I was fourteen, and I was REALLY into Jhonen Vasquez. Between him and Chuck Palahniuk I'm used to convention being thrown out the window. Very little edits were made when I found it and retyped it.

I'm leaving this thread as it is for now, though the idea of a separate "short stories" thread is not a bad one.

Ascent

This is a world unlike our own. A boxed in world with literal boarders stretching up into the unknown. A world of pollution, infecting the land and air. All water is stagnant. The unfortunate souls born of this world never live long: the average life span is roughly twenty years. Not that they know. They’ve no need for numbers, and no desire to question their existence. They just are.
Buildings sprout from the ground then bend and twist in horrific angles. With a population so unmotivated to perpetuate its survival, it’s hard to believe anyone actually built them. Maybe they really did grow from the sickly soil. There are roads, but no vehicles. Sidewalks, crosswalks, and street signs are all present, although the pedestrians are all together directionless. Everything is cracked and broken. Structurally, nothing should be standing. Logically, nothing should be able to live here.
Yet life there is, mostly people. Gray skinned, hunched over with blood shot eyes, these people wander aimlessly until death, when they finally collapse where they are and rot. Intercourse is nonexistent. The more people die, the more they appear, like some demented joke. One will never find an infant here. All “new arrivals” have the appearance of a child of six or seven years. One boy in particular is shuffling along the wall that is the end of the world. To his left the wall climbed into the gray-green smog. Eventually the wall turned, even though the boy did not.
Whether it was hours before he got back up or days is irrelevant. The importance is the rare moment of observation and the miraculous occurrence of curiosity that followed. The pipe that runs up the corner of the walls, had it always been there? It’s possible that it had, forever unnoticed until now. But is it possible that some otherworldly power willed this pipe into existence just to set forward the following events? No one in this polluted existence, this boy included, will ever know the answer.
The boy had no memory of the beginning of his ascent, not that memory is something he is blessed with. One moment he is sitting up on the ground, and seemingly the next he is ten feet up. However he figured out that he can grip the large brackets riveted into the walls to hold still the pipe to climb is anyone’s guess. Slowly, he climbed another fifteen feet, entering the smog. Instantly he felt dizzy and vomited. Somehow, he held on through the wave of fatigue. His ascent continued at a much slower pace. The next time he vomited, it was blood. The toxic gases of the smog have now began to deteriorate his lungs. His death is very close now. What little life is granted to him will only know suffering. But who knows what drove him to continue? Whatever it was, it seemed to overpower the fluids in his lungs.
Above the smog is the cleanest air this poor child has ever breathed. Still not clean by any means, but better than the pollution bellow. Vomiting calmed down to coughing, but blood still came up. The dizziness never went away, but still he climbed. And yet above that pocket of “clean” air, another blanket of smog waited. This one far thicker, like a solid ceiling. If this boy could grasp the concept of tangibility, maybe he would stop climbing, but the stupid child keeps going.
What do you know? The pipe stops above the smog, but the walls keep going out of sight. Instead of the sickly brownish-purple from the world below, these walls are sky blue with splotches of white that serenely moved across the surface. When one of the splotches would come to the end of a wall, it would simply move to the next wall and keep going. Not that the boy registered any of this. His most immediate problems were internal. The air in this layer was actually clean. Breathable. Even if they weren’t already filling with various fluids, the child’s lungs, which had only ever processed poisoned air, would eventually go into shock. Look now, as his body convulses. His little hands grip the bracket as hard as they can, whiting his knuckles. Listen as the boy chokes, drowning from within. Every hack loosed more blood. Just as his grip gave way, a pair of hands scooped him up.
This is a world unlike our own. A world of mortality; birth and death. A world of hypothesizing and learning. Because the walls are the end of all existence, there is no sun beyond to provide light. Instead, the walls themselves illuminate their own light, radiating brightly for about twelve hours, after which they dim to nearly complete darkness. This “recharging” period take about another twelve hours, then the walls begin to glow again. The grass is lush and green. The stonework of the architecture is done skillfully. The cobblestone roads saw regular usage from horse draw wagons, while the brick sidewalks had constant foot traffic. Everyday is like a cool autumn day. The clouds in the sky are not for precipitation, they are a barrier keeping all from ascending to the above layer, just as the smog keeps anyone or anything from attempting a descent.
What lies above the clouds and dwells below the smog has forever been a debate for the residents of this layer. The people here are of relative intelligence, enough to question what lies beyond. Countless sample from both had been taken and experimented upon. The clouds confused them the most of the two. When in a laboratory, they were harmless water vapor. Only when one tried passing through the barrier high up in the sky does it show its bite. Anytime they sending a flying machine up, it gets repelled back then burst into flames. It doesn’t matter if the expedition is manned or not, it never succeeds. The smog is hazardous no matter what. Almost any instrument used to measure it corrodes instantly, as does flesh. Because of this, the people are more likely to study the clouds. Any attempt to venture through the clouds is usually a public event, as building a flying machine takes time. There is a small group within the scientific community who turn all their focus onto the smog, however. These will be the only people who don’t gather at the city square for the launch ceremony. Other than the city, the only other settlement of people is a village far across the plains, and even they make it to the ceremony. For a number of day cycles now, the village has slowly been gathering in the outskirts of the city.
The city itself stands at one of the walls, close to a corner. Specifically, a corner that dipped down to the smog. It is odorous, a very pungent smell that turns most stomachs, making ths an unpopular location. It is this reason that Queldoro can keep his research equipment down here; no one will come down to steal them. He came down to continue his studies because the launch ceremony is today, and he wants no part of it. Even someone like him, who has devoted his adult life to studying the smog, cannot be around it long. He usually lets nothing interrupt his work because of the limited time frame he has each day to do it, but when a child emerged from the smog minutes after his arrival, an exception was made.
The streets are empty as Queldoro runs with the child cradled in his arms. He did his best to hold the boy and move as quick as he could. His convulsions and coughing are more violent than ever before. Queldoro’s shirt matted to chest because of all the blood it had absorbed. He burst through the door of a colleague’s clinic shortly after entering the city limits. It didn’t take long for the doctor to determine the boy would be dead in less than an hour. That he is alive is nothing short of miraculous, he said. It is probably more merciful to put him out of his misery, he said.
In the next bed, Quintiago listened intently. He just woke up a moment before, after sustaining a serious injury while setting up the equipment at the launch site. Upon hearing of this mysterious sick child from below the smog, he had a revelation. Quintiago is one of the head scientist involved in the ceremony. He pleaded to the men to let him take the child to the machine. If he came up through the smog, maybe he has a chance to travel above the clouds. Minutes later they are speeding down the street in Quintiago’s wagon. When they reached the crowd around the square, they are allowed through because of his clearance. After hearing his claim, the other scientists running the program vote against his claim. If they do succeed, they wouldn’t want a dirty, sick little boy to represent them to whatever is above. The three men don’t give up their case so easily. An argument that quickly turns violent ensues. In the commotion, Quintiago brings the boy in to the basket of the machine. The preparations had already been completed before he arrived, all has to do is release the anchors, and that is exactly what he does. The machine leaves the ground at a steady pace, leaving the commotion below.
“Not long now, boy,” Quintiago said. “This isn’t the fastest form of travel, but it’s the only way we can get so high.”
The boy lay on his side against one of the sides of the basket. His condition worse now than ever before, Quintiago wondered if he would even make it to the cloud barrier. He coughs once, hard. It almost feels like it rattles his insides, and he drools a little. Wiping his mouth, he discovered that it wasn’t saliva, but blood. The look he gives the boy is of anger and fear, with a little bit of regret. A bang can be heard from the ground, which is now far away. No time to look, not even time to be curious. A section a the basket’s floor explodes upwards as a cannon ball comes crashing through, taking out Quintiago but somehow missing the balloon and combustion system that is lifting it into the sky. Ever upwards the machine climbs, with the child as its lone occupant. Eventually it does reach the cloud barrier, and much to the surprise of all on the ground, it passes right through.
This is a world unlike our own, an ephemeral world where matter is when it needs to be. A world of knowledge and creation. The “ground”, for a lack of better terms, is both solid and intangible. As you look around, the scenery looks clear, but there’s always the presence of some mist in your peripherals. Not even the walls of the world have a constant physical form. This is the top of the universe, the upper most layer of this existence. The beings here are aware of what their existence is, and the nature of the universe in which they live. They know of the layers below, and the workings of each world. Even now, they are perfectly aware of the hot air balloon emerging through the “ground”.
The nature of this world calmed the disease inside the child. Convulsions reduced to trembles, and the coughing ceased altogether. The air vehicle disappears. Gone to where is anyone’s guess, leaving the boy alone and trembling in a fetal position. If only he could have opened his eyes. If only he could have possessed the intelligence to observe his surroundings. Then he could have seen as the mist took form. What seemed like it was everywhere was actually only condensed around the boy. Isolating him. Quarantining him.
Whatever quelled the sickness released its effect. The child was drifting off into sleep when all the pain and coughing came rushing back. Within moments, the child is dead, suffering no more. His cell of mist then shrunk in size, until it was no bigger than the size of an atom. And so ends the journey of this poor child born of a strange and mysterious world. Never before had anyone done what he did, and maybe never will again. Only from this top layer can such a feat be observed. Be appreciated. Any visitors to this world would be privileged to bear witness to these events. They would also hear the following conversation, although the location of the voices would be unknown to them.
“That’s it. The boy’s been taken care of. We have accomplished what we set out to do.”
“Yes. The child worked out fine. It was young enough to have the strength to travel all the way. Any older and it would have died trying to leave the bottom layer.”
“But why did you allow that,” a third voice asked. “What was the purpose.”
“The creatures of the layer below have nothing to discern one passing day from the next. They need something to record as history,” said the first voice.
“Even us,” the second added, “since our creation, nothing of significance has ever befallen us. Time merely passes, one could say. I say, if an eternity of moments are exactly like the previous, then how can one prove the passage of time? A creature from the layer of waste made it all the way up to us. As a result, there is something new to our layer. This gives us a past and present. We can now experience time.”
“I believe you got more than you bargained for,” the third voice said. “It isn’t just isolated to the boy and the three men, you know. It is spreading throughout the population of the middle layer.”
To this, the first voice said nothing. The second voice said, “this I know. That is their history. An era of plague. They are a resourceful species, I’m sure they will prevail. If not, it’s a self-sustaining world. Even if this population is exterminated, another will come about.”
No more was said. The other voices, even the third who seemed against the whole thing, couldn’t deny the truth in those words. They know their influence could solve the problems of the lower layers, but continue to do nothing but observe. It wasn’t a need to remain hidden from the lower levels. They know the universe would continue to exist whether or not the lowest layer is polluted. The constitution of their reality doesn’t depend on level of understanding the people of the middle layer have on the world around them, so why change any of it? If bettering the living conditions of the lower life forms ultimately accomplishes nothing, then why bother?


~Jimmy “Gahmstead” Fitzpatrick

Merged your two threads as it's best if your writing is kept in one thread for clarity's sake.
I've also merged the titles - let me know what you want it to be called.

Dat merge.