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Writing Triple Styled


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She stood in a normal way on the normal cliff, looking out in a very normal fashion at the normal ships coming in. The normal sun was setting over the normal ocean, with the normal streaks of red, orange, and pink. The air felt mild to the touch, that is to say, it felt normal. Though she wore a light jacket, she was not cold, and yet was not overly warm. She was toasty.

The feeling of the sunset was peaceful and comfortable, and her boyfriend of 3 years stood there next to her, sharing this nice moment. His name was Steve and even though they were only 23, Stacey felt that he was the One. Her life was so picture perfect. Her life was so normal. Any woman would have killed to be in her shoes. She glanced down. Her shoes were indeed lovely, hugging her feet, the leather possessing a golden hue from the fading sunlight. Such a perfect end to a perfect day.

She stood on the cliff, staring out over the mineral fields and the harvesters that crawled over the rocky crags, hauling the Durillium ore to the storage depot and processing plant. Steam and gas escaped from gashes in the uneven rock, rising up into the atmosphere to set the sky ablaze with greens and oranges and yellows, yet the sun was still unable to burn through the haze.

Time was lost in the quarry. Night mixed into day and day blurred into night. Sometimes the clouds dropped toxic rain, sending the workers scrambling for cover. The rain was no longer deadly, but still posed serious health hazards. After the first year deaths and after pressure from the Industrial Workers Union, the Company changed their policies. Now workers were tested weekly for chemical contamination and sickness. She knew this wasn?t enough; she knew the workers were in more danger than the Company let on, but she wasn?t about to lose her job over it. Managerial positions were hard to come by these years, and Katherine kept her mouth shut.

A few beeps came from the survey device by her feet. She reached down to check the monitor. 78% concentration. The IWU demanded a concentration of under 30% to allow the miners to continue. Katherine entered a few keystrokes. A few more beeps were heard, and then Katherine glanced back at the monitor. 28% concentration. She picked up the device and walked back to the shielded office.

She stood on the cliff, staring out into the white, vast unknown, as amorphous blobs ebbed ever closer. The blobs hadn?t been there before, and Betty wondered where they came from. She didn?t remember writing them in, and nobody?she looked around?nobody was in sight for miles. She held the script in her hand, skimming through it. No additions of amorphous blobs. She checked her notes on the back. No mention of any blobs. What the ****? The horizon was supposed to be a white background, with no splotches of color. Just white. That?s what she wrote; ?There is a vast sea of white, as if someone had painted the sky a single panel.? Nothing about blobs and yet, there they were. Damn it.

Betty was a writer, but apparently not a very good one if she couldn?t control her own story. She took her red pen and scribbled something in the margins; ?Betty?s story is what she has written, nothing more. There are no weird blobs; there is no outside force controlling this story. I, Betty, am writing this story, and I am in control of it.? The blobs disappeared. Betty liked this. She wrote again; ?I, Betty, the author of this story am writing the sky to be blue.? The sky was now blue. ?I, Betty, write storm clouds.?

Dark thunderclouds brewed, sending torrential rains stinging Betty?s face. A burst of wind took the script out of her hand, carrying it high into the air, buffeting it from all sides, twisting it in an excruciating aerial ballet. The script began tearing itself apart, tatters of the cover sheet being whipped about in the maelstrom. A massive lightning bolt struck, turning the script to ashes. In the next second, all was calm. Betty stood there again, on the cliff, but this time holding a blank piece of paper.

Oh, what the imagination can do.
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[color=royalblue]Fascinating......... three different points of view. Although I'm not sure why you called Genre, Genre. I'm sure I'm just missing an important detail. While we're on the subject, was this for a college grade of some sort or just for fun?[/color]
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Experimental: A man with large eyebrows stood out to her from the cliff, climbing up it with not effort at all. Ven stared at him with little care and little interest. She turned around from the man, crossing her shoulders tight.

"Ha ha," said the man to her as he walked over. "Venny dear, now please, do dance with me here upon this very cliff. For I wish to feel you in my arms, and wish to make you smile." The man held out his hand, placing it right in her line of vision.

There was a sudden blur, like spinning fast and endlessly around and round in circles. Suddenly there was not a cliff. And there was not a man.

Venny stood on a marble floor the glimored in the light. And through the light, Ven could see her face, her usual, meaningless face. The dark, black hair stood on her head, matted and fritted around in mangled curls. Her thin eyebrows, fuzzy, sat meek on her face, dancing up on her eyes. The eyes she saw did not look like her own. In them, through the reflection, she could see herself still standing on the cliff, the man's hand in her line of vision, the careless look on her face.

She smiled from seeing herself in her eyes and began to laugh. Stomping the ground, tears began to run down her face, carless, absent tears; tears that a tree would never cry. Tears that a stolid, unemotional girl like Venny would not cry. And even through her tears, she continued to cry.

She cried because she knew what was going to happen on that cliff, with the man. She knew it well.

The man would put his arms around her, force her to dance while he hummed a beat. And Venny would not want to dance, no she wouldn't. She would tell him no, over and over again. Tell him no until she thought she knew nothing--not even his name.

And she watched this, on the marble floor, through her reflection, her eyes. She say the naive, stupid girl struggle not to dance, and she watched as she knew what was going to happen happen.

The man began frantically grabbing her as Ven finally decided to climb back down the cliff. She paused on the edge, preparing her grappling materials, getting ready to go down as fast as she could. And then she had felt a stern hand grab her shoulder like a thin branch. Suddenly all she could feel was pain and hurt.

As she stared at her reflection in her eye, she could feel the pain. And as soon as the pain came, drops of blood began falling on the marble floor. Drops of pain, of wounds. She couldn't see her reflection any longer as the blood continued to drip. She began walking off, leaving the blood on the ground, the memory of the images in her eyes that she could see.

Suddenly she slipped on the floor, fell on her knees, and her arm fell on top of her head as she felt liquid drip onto her. Venny knew what it was, and looked at it, fixated.

There on her arms stood one of the scars she had gotten from the man. It was large, gashed her entire wrist up to the near end of her arm. It was bleeding freshly, and she looked at it for a long time, still on the ground.

She began picking at it

[i]Pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick[/i]

She couldn't stop herself. It felt good to pick it, it was like having an orgasm. Only it wasn't.

The sore continued to grow bigger and bigger. Ven picked off half the scar, then finally, as if she had come out of her fixation, she stood up. She was no longer on a marble floor or looking down in her eyes seeing herself and the man. She was no longer there.

Slowly, cautiously, she rolled over on her bed, feeling around for any human forms. Her hand came over a thick, even-muscled arm. She screamed, and pulled the covers off the arm, revealing the whole body.

There he lay, dead.
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