Writing Forums

Writing Forums is a privately-owned, community managed writing environment. We provide an unlimited opportunity for writers and poets of all abilities, to share their work and communicate with other writers and creative artists. We offer an experience that is safe, welcoming and friendly, regardless of your level of participation, knowledge or skill. There are several opportunities for writers to exchange tips, engage in discussions about techniques, and grow in your craft. You can also participate in forum competitions that are exciting and helpful in building your skill level. There's so much more for you to explore!

9-21-06 | five-hundred years from now (1 Viewer)

Not open for further replies.


Senior Member

Here's my entry: :)

Drop(by the way, I'm winging it, sooo don't expect perfection)

I saw nothing but darkness. Standing alone on what I thought was a ledge, my hands gripped the sticky tar of the wall. I worked my way along the edge of the cliff, feeling for vibrations, heat, anything that might signal the bardarian troupe.

We had fought the troupe three times last night, or at least, what we thought was last night. One could never tell anymore; the sun no longer existed. I stopped. slow vibrations crept up along the coolness of the wall. The emerging heat made me tremble, as it was only then that I could feel just how truly cold it was.

I bent down and searched the crags for an opening. I must have been covered in tar, not that it mattered. Suddenly, the rock gave way and I collapsed to the inside wall. One would expect a fire, or a torch, or anything to give that blessed light, yet once in side all I could see was the swallowing, searing, darkness.

But it was a start. Warm air brushed against my skin; I could tell the volcano was active. Scurrying down the cave, I fit my body in tight, going deeper and deeper, feeling for the signs of the troupe. I found it--pressed up against my back.

"Don't move." Came a voice. The accent was... unfamiliar.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Nothing of your concern," the voice cackled, "I see you're native to this region. You don't find many of your kind, not since the seas evaporated." His voice was cold and raspy, something sinister.

"Don't kill me. Please, if this is your home, then I shall leave." I pleaded.

"No, no... No need for that. I haven't had anyone to work on since the war." I could hear the bristling of whiskers. "Indeed, the war that snuffed out the sun."

There was a crack, and my knees buckled under me. I dropped, never to to get up again.


I don't know how many words that is, but I have to get off now. You'll just have to judge me on this. Boy I hope fantasy of you competes. :twisted:

Last edited:

Fantasy of You

Senior Member
Okay, well I wouldn't have entered, but I guess I have to now, since cacafire said he wouldn't gimme any. 500 words exactly!


Hands work quickly. I pull his arm from the sleeve of the jacket, then the other; pull it out from under his back. It’s hard work, he’s deadweight. I put my own arms through the jacket, pull up the collar.

The wind reaches me, even in the shelter of the forest. It tears at my face like shards of glass. I’m glad I have the jacket. I finger through the pockets, they’re empty.

His boots are in good condition. I prise them from his feet, discard my own, slip them on. I pull the hat from his head, stare at the crimson stain upon it before slipping it over my ears.

I adjust my footing, kick the rock that bears the same crimson mark as the hat.

Something pokes at my scalp from in the hat, if feels like cardboard. There’s a voice, and another, and the slam of steps slow my mind.

‘He’s there!’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He’s gone.’

I’m gone, running, ducking, turning from branches and roots, and they whip, slap at my face, and the snow breaks and crunches under my feet. I don’t stop running, not until the trees are far behind me.

Then I stop, pant, sit.

The thing in my hat pokes again, and when my hand reaches up to pull it from my head, there’s a voice again. And I’m up, running, panting, and the snow breaks and crunches under my feet.

But I don’t stop, not on purpose. The weight in my shoulder forces me to the ground, the pain of it rips into my arm as I try to rise. I turn my head backwards, lying in the snow, see the shaft in my shoulder and figures coming closer.

Three of them.

‘He’s there.’

‘Nice shot.’

‘He’s gone…’

I was gone. Before I could even see faces, the rock comes at me. I see the crimson seal upon it, the same one I’d used. The irony.

The soldiers approach the body, pull his arms from the sleeves, pull it from his back. It's hard work, he's deadweight. They take his boots. One of them fingers the hat, pulls out the piece of cardboard.

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t know.’ The soldier reads the words on the card: ‘ “I know not with what weapons World War three will be fought, but World War four will be fought with sticks and stones. Albert Einstein.” The guy wasn’t far off, whoever he was.’

They all grin, and the soldier flips the card over, begins to read to untidy words, but fails to read them aloud.

Time can heal nothing but false wounds; the real wound can never close, can never heal, for it is embedded so deeply with in the world of men, rooted so firmly within the instinct of each of us, that we can never change. We are a dark and destructive disease upon the world - a virus - and it pains me to realise that only our eradication will bring peace.
Last edited:


Senior Member
Here's mine. Cut it close. *gulp* 499 words, not including the title. ;)



The crowd jeered from above the walls of junk surrounding the Pit. Broken equipment and fragments of glass littered the Pit's edge below. The two contestants facing each other waited for a tired sun to break from the acid-lined clouds and signal the battle.

Forgotten Gods, look kindly upon me.

Vivian leaned against the metal pole Father had salvaged from the ruins, long ago. Her fingers rested on a tiny switch. Bolts, screws, and rusted nails surrounded her feet. Her gray eyes narrowed at the enemy, who also wore the traditional dress for dueling: patches of plastic layered together. She pulled back her dirty, unwashed hair into a tight ponytail, and grinned blackened teeth at her man.

"Kill him," Father had said. "For your gender's honor--and your Mother's memory."

Vengeance would be hers today.

Weak shafts of auburn light broke past the clouds, and glass fragments glittered like crystals.

He spoke, and his voice rang up to the heavens. "I, Russum of Pillaged London, declare you foe and bound for the River of Thames!"

The enemy's shaved head gleamed in the sunlight, and he grinned too as he went into a defensive stance, sword held back, shield in front. The faded outline of ancient heraldry embossed its surface. Vivian knew it well, for her Mother's creed once belonged to the Red Cross. Mother. If only you could see me now.

"I am Vivian. I belong to no one, make no claim nor wish of destitution--except that you choke and die on your own blood!"

Russum broke into motion. Vivian only had a second to leap back before his sword smashed where she once stood. Low roars erupted from the spectators at the sudden burst of lightning striking the ground. Vivian blinked. So that's the secret of his weapon.

She balanced on her toes, careful not to step on any debris, and pointed the pole at his eyes. Russum snarled and rushed forward again. This time Vivian took the full brunt of his charge--

And fell flat on the ground with a hiss when a bolt embedded in her palm. Russum had used the shield to smash her and her pole aside. He lifted his sword for another lightning blow. Vivian rolled away from the stroke, ignoring the shrapnel piercing her body. She stood up quickly and backed off. Blood trickled from innumerable scratches and pooled on the dirt-packed floor.

One more time. Just one more time.

Confident his foe was shaken, Russum gave vent to a full throated warcry and stormed once more. Vivian took one step, smiled, and pressed the switch.

The magnetite rod heaved on invisible strings, and a shower of metal flew up and pierced Russum's unprotected back.

Russum staggered and fell to his knees. His mouth gaped open. Blood and foam bubbled up, and he dropped his weapons to clutch his throat where a serrated piece of metal speared his vocal chords.

"For my Mother, whom you killed."

Vivian raised her weapon.



Senior Member
[ot] I guess these stories show the attitude people have towards the future nowadays... :D What ever happened to the future's of back to the future?[/ot]



Senior Member

“I don’t know…I’m just feeling a little…” says the girl.

“Yes, yes?”

“A little lonely, I guess.”

There is a sudden death-silence. The girl can almost feel the computer reeling with shock and disappointment.

The world goes wrong in moments. She can see the edge of the grassy field she stands in, golden waves of barley rippling without sound in the soft breeze. Birds are frozen in the sky, dripping polygons which moments before had been feathers. An old oak lies curled in the field, but she can see through to its core now, and it is hollow. The thick, tough bark of the trunk is nothing more than an illusion, paper-thin – the tree is hollow now.

“I’ve…tried, so hard, to keep you happy here.” The voice whispers straight into her soul, and the girl knows the computer would weep, if it could.

“Oh, but I love you, you know that.”

“I’ve tried to keep you happy and nothing I do…” The ground shakes, pulling up like a carpet on the horizon. The sunlight flickers through primary shades, and jagged edges are folding down from the clouds. Her world is dissolving.

“But it’s just…this place…it’s lonely.”

“You are the last one. You know that.”

A tear drops through the earth to virtual infinity.

“I know that.”
Last edited:


Senior Member
Reflections of an Independent Nomenclature

Vast and endless, the once-known kingdom of the cosmos.

Ironic that we have taken those possibilities and destroyed them, placing ourselves into the confines of our new world, one that sets us free, and holds us completely.

It was almost three-hundred years ago, when mankind finally mapped the human psyche. In another ten years, we had the means to transfer this consciousness into insubstantial computerized space... a virtual plane of data bits and mathematical structure. At first attempt, immortality was a success, simply taking the essence from one body and moving it to the next. Illness, age, birth defect… all gone and irrelevant overnight. Later we realized that those bodies were only a hindrance, that remaining here was so infinitely better.

No longer did we fear for our physical health. Never again would we worship physical beauty. Hunger, pain, greed, intolerance; so many vices were given to dust in an instant that we almost did not find our way in the new humanity. The kingdoms of men, the borders of nations... all fell as one. War and hatred became distant memory, ideals of the past. Many railed against our departure, the most vocal were those that called themselves 'believers'. To think we once placed value in what those petty pretenders named God. Perhaps the greatest benefit of this existence is the assurance that we are our own, and that it has always been such. Sure there is still some debate amongst the Creative Philosophical nomenclatures as to where our existence truly began… but very little reference to a God being is found in those invigorating discussions.

You are data bits, and nothing more. Comforting, is it not?

Some semblances of our past selves remain, but are nothing compared to what we have achieved here, in this place. I move at the speed of thought. I comprehend all things that are known to any. My knowledge, my discoveries, my theories and insights are all given freely in the instant of their conception.

We inhabit physical forms only to maintain our existence, the mechanized recipients so easily constructed and assumed. Repairs to subsystems and backup systems are completed daily; we are never without a contingency system. We continue to propagate and multiply our numbers, but here it is done through code creation and careful assessment. And yes, a creator can still feel the same love for its creation as mothers and fathers once felt centuries ago. Here however, there are no limits to imagination and exploration. Our ‘children’ know everything that we know almost instantly. They are not only our equals, they are our betters, and we are so very pleased in that regard.

Oh yes, there is still emotion. It simply inhabits a different context. I'll never shed tears, or become so angry that I harm another. I can love, and I can become upset. The difference is understanding and acceptance. And here, we understand and accept all things.

Humanity has never been better.

[an]Lotta fun thinking about this one, appreciate the stretch Chris, great writes all.
Please excuse the slant on religion, just foreward thinking... write your own story.

//Sy (count: 493)[/an]
Last edited:


Senior Member
Milking the Vultures (302 words)

"It's time to milk the vultures," said Abraham. Everyone stood from their chairs. They walked to the door. "They're very hostile this time of season, so be careful." Everyone nodded. Abraham opened the door and each of them stepped into the cold, one after the other. Abraham walked to the front of the band, a hatchet in his left hand, and began the march into the desert night.

The moon was new. Their candles lit their way. In the distance, the vultures could be heard but could not be seen. The partially frozen dirt crunched beneath their feet.

As the band approached a stone altar, their pace began to thicken. When they reached the rock formation, Abraham stopped walking. The band formed a circle around him. From his long wool coat, Abraham removed two human femurs; he put one in each hand. He kneeled in front of the altar. As if it were a giant drum, he beat the bones against the rock. He began to speak in Latin.

All at once the vultures came. Their silhouettes could be seen against the stars above. The wind of their wings came down in a soft cool breeze. For a few long seconds, the kettle boiled above their heads, pacing and raving. Abraham's eyes, which had been shut, were now wide open and looking up. He dropped the bones and rose from his place before the altar.

A large vulture swooped down and drove it's hungry beak through his neck. It ripped out his throat as he lay helpless on his back. The band scattered, leaving their candles behind. The whole kettle of vultures flew down and attacked them, tore out their throats and their hearts. All the way through morning the vultures dined upon their bodies. They didn't spill a drop of milk.

Chris Miller

WF Veterans
From original post:
The competition will close Jan. 1, 2507 at which time we’ll see whose was most accurate… Just kidding, but that’s the idea. Really it’ll close Sunday Oct. 15, 2006 and results posted within 7 days.


Senior Member
A New Start

Chica eased aside the branches of the low shrub to peer at the building. Everything seemed quiet. He sniffed at the air; no fresh smells reached him. He turned and gestured to Chimmy and watched as her pregnant form waddled towards him.

“Here’s a place,” he said. He pointed to the smaller building, left of the larger one. “That place seems ideal for us. You’d think they knew we were coming.”

Chimmy, so close to time, wasted no energy on words and simply grunted agreement and walked past him. Startled by her acceptance, Chica made a sudden leap in front of her so he could lead the way. ‘Females,’ he thought. ‘No respect for males.’

The door wasn’t locked. Inside the little house seemed even more ideal; two beds and low table and chairs. He pulled one out from the table for Chimmy to sit on. There was even a water tap, which Chica tested immediately. Pure and fresh, so he opened a cupboard to find cups and plates. He filled a cup and brought it to his wife. Not many of his race had wives and Chica was very aware of her needs.

Chimmy looked at him with those beautiful deep brown eyes he loved so much.

“This is a good place for us, Chica. I feel it inside.” She smiled at him then groaned at a sudden contraction. “And just in time. He comes soon.”

Chica helped her to a bed then searched around the room. Cupboards in the corner held spare linen so he took a sheet and ripped it into strips, preparing for the birth. He’d read all he could in the GenTrust Centre before he and Chimmy left. Leaving wasn’t exactly illegal, but with the sanctions in place against his race, they were supposed to stay within the safe boundaries of the Centres. He and Chimmy had opted to have their child in freedom.

Chimmy groaned aloud and he looked around. The contractions shouldn’t be coming this quickly this soon.

A cupboard below the sink provided pans, so he filled them with water. He had no way to boil it like the books said, but it tasted pure and he trusted his senses. Carefully he removed Chimmy’s smock and placed pillows beneath her. Since the change brought to his people, birth was no longer the simple process it had been for his ancestors.

In less than an hour Chica held a squirming wet bundle out to his love, his heart almost tearing with pride as she smiled through tears, first at her son, and then at Chica. She cuddled the baby to her breast and closed her eyes in pleasure as he began to suckle.

* * * * * * * *
Dana wriggled in her seat as the flyer landed; holidays were fun but she was anxious to get on Sensenet from her bungalow and talk to friends. Once down, she ran to the bungalow door, stopped in the opening, and turned, wide-eyed to her parents.

“Daddy, we’ve got Chimps!”
Last edited:


I have one already, thanks.

I take we are judging your last work Journey and not your first?
Last edited:
Not open for further replies.