If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one
Tales from Elysium:
“I don’t know!” Aiden said, louder, never lifting his gaze from the tag. It had his name on it, the number of his room, the doctor’s name. It summarized his whole existence into a short sequence of letters and numbers. It turned him from human being into pure data.
And then there was silence, broken a second later by the god’s laughter. He stood up, settling the girl down on the throne and left the studio. In his dressing room, he changed into a form-fitting pair of blue jeans and a muscle tee. He was so over the toga look. So two millennia ago.
As the gangly Lord Farlaine stood, calm began to return to the Hall. Farlaine cleared his throat and began to speak. “Arkjavic is a human kingdom, founded under the high moral principles of humanity. We cannot allow our culture to be destroyed in the manner which my colleague Lord Winston suggests.”
The Crow: Nachtmusik (Yes, I'm pulling out the oldies.)
It was the outfit he’d worn in the video for his first Number One hit, laid out on a large frame behind a glass cover. On the glass, he could see his reflection, a ghostly outline, pale lines and kohl-framed eyes. He’d been made up for the grave as for one of his concerts. “My God,” he whispered, rubbing at his eyes, spreading dark smears down his cheeks. It seemed clownish now, the black and dark red of his lips. Like an imitation of Adrian Rabe, not Rabe himself. With a stained hand, he smashed the glass before him, thousands of shards raining onto his face, hair, and clothes. Again the absence of any sort of alarm rang loud in his ears. He tore off his dirt-covered funeral clothes and tossed them carelessly on the floor, the suit, the black silk shirt, the trousers, shoes, socks, underpants.
Untitled Henri Piece (I can't promise I'll finish it, but I still might.)
Life’s a game of Good Guys vs. Bad Guys, no matter what kind of psychobabble anyone’s been listenin’ to these days. The problems come when people can’t agree on who the Bad Guys are.
“What?” she asked, not sure whether to be offended.
“Nothing,” he said between giggles. He sat up and pulled out an elastic from his pocket with which to tie his hair back. “So did you hit on Gil?”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“Not particularly. I was kind of getting bored of the whole OH EM GEE OUR PROFESSOR’S BEEN KIDNAPPED! routine, though.” He put his hands to his cheeks and let his jaw hang open in a mocking imitation of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’.
Patrick frowned and wriggled, not for the first time. His movements set the whole bed to trembling. “Raeith,” he grumbled. “I tell you, for a deity, you’re one lousy travel agent.”
Raeith made a noncommittal noise and turned another page of the motel Bible without looking at his partner. “Would you rather we book the Imperial Suite at the Gran Veneto on 5th Avenue? We could sign in as Mr. and Mr. Heathen God, just to make an extra-positive impression. Besides, we already spent enough money on clothes.”
“Well this bed sucks. All kinds of shit’s digging into my back. How can you stand it?”
“Uh, hello? God?”
Gala's eyes slid heavily shut, and she turned her head away from where her twin had stood. Maybe she was as stupid as Bara, but she was sure Bara couldn't fly with the dolphins. "No one but me," she muttered, falling back into deep sleep with a half-smile on her lips.