The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
And once again the boundaries are pushed farther and farther. An innocent man, distraught, full of fear, enters that dark, cold cellblock without anyone giving it a second though. Except me.
I see it happen everyday, merely for the sake of solving a case those with quiet lives of abundance are shot from grace, come crashing down to the pits of evil that dwell within the prison walls. Some break down, some crack under the pressure of those above them; the screaming and chattering rings in my ears every night, those who sanity snuck away from them, those who couldn't keep a firm grip.
Yet in contrast those with knives in their pockets, devils in their minds and crime in their futures walk free due to the injustice that is life. Greeted back into society with open arms, because they're changed, turned their life around, tricked the world. Then they'll carry on hunting. Yet those of innocence amble out with little more than their body intact.
You see, I know how these things works. Prison's all have a revolving door system that can be tapped if anyone goes to the effort of trying. Everyone has a weakness to exploit, everyone has a dark secret they wish to burn forever, everyone has enemies. I've been here half my life and I've seen it all before; sweat trickling, drip followed by drop, from those who have been used, an eye always behind their shoulder, knife still emanating from their rigid back.
That's where I come in. I see all that enters and all that exits, whisked away to the baron echoes that lurk within the walls. I know everything.
I used to be at the very bottom, getting coffees, doing paper work all day, I was on autopilot day-in-day-out, doing what I was told when I was told. But then I forced a change. Ambition is a big thing. The best of them all have it, the worst of them need it and everyone tries to use it. But many can't, many don't, and they burn like the pen-pushers that walk through those metal gates day-after-day. Why bother living if life is acceptable, mundane, ‘enough’? Why carry on?
It started when I was a child really, I'd use my parents as pawns to get what I wanted, creating rifts, carefully constructing plans in order to gain exactly what I needed. Conflict is the key to everything. Then when they had done all they needed, I got rid of them. They were bored of life, like so many others that dress the world in forced smiles, paint a beautiful picture over that of a massacre. I did the same when I left home; why should I pay to live in an apartment owned by a drug dealer? Just another secret used to my advantage.
Then I started out as a police officer, bottom of the pile, formed from mud and water that shone in the sun only to be crushed by the boot of those with movement. So I did what I do best, I played with people.
See Chris over there? He didn't used to look over his shoulder, he didn't used to plead at my feet every week when I visited him for a payment, but of course that's because I didn't used to know he was f**king his wife’s sister at weekends. Of course, back then I didn't realise his children’s bruises were painted with his fists.
What about Thomas. He killed his partner and framed it on the nearest scumbag that was unlucky enough to be close by. You see, these people have something to lose; jobs, family, even something as little as respect. All I need are words to keep me on my throne.
And sweat and sweat and sweat on. That's all they do. They bleed under the smallest of pins, writhe beneath me, scream as I plunge deeper into their souls, hopelessly trying to stay holding that last string, those strings that I’m free from, those strings that I control. Now they are but puppets to me; worthless and weak, still crying behind the grinning mask they've created.
As much as those of innocence plead and plead, it's those of power I can gain from. Once again injustice is served with a drop of a hammer. A drop of my hammer…
I see it happen everyday, merely for the sake of solving a case those with quiet lives of abundance are shot from grace, come crashing down to the pits of evil that dwell within the prison walls. Some break down, some crack under the pressure of those above them; the screaming and chattering rings in my ears every night, those who sanity snuck away from them, those who couldn't keep a firm grip.
Yet in contrast those with knives in their pockets, devils in their minds and crime in their futures walk free due to the injustice that is life. Greeted back into society with open arms, because they're changed, turned their life around, tricked the world. Then they'll carry on hunting. Yet those of innocence amble out with little more than their body intact.
You see, I know how these things works. Prison's all have a revolving door system that can be tapped if anyone goes to the effort of trying. Everyone has a weakness to exploit, everyone has a dark secret they wish to burn forever, everyone has enemies. I've been here half my life and I've seen it all before; sweat trickling, drip followed by drop, from those who have been used, an eye always behind their shoulder, knife still emanating from their rigid back.
That's where I come in. I see all that enters and all that exits, whisked away to the baron echoes that lurk within the walls. I know everything.
I used to be at the very bottom, getting coffees, doing paper work all day, I was on autopilot day-in-day-out, doing what I was told when I was told. But then I forced a change. Ambition is a big thing. The best of them all have it, the worst of them need it and everyone tries to use it. But many can't, many don't, and they burn like the pen-pushers that walk through those metal gates day-after-day. Why bother living if life is acceptable, mundane, ‘enough’? Why carry on?
It started when I was a child really, I'd use my parents as pawns to get what I wanted, creating rifts, carefully constructing plans in order to gain exactly what I needed. Conflict is the key to everything. Then when they had done all they needed, I got rid of them. They were bored of life, like so many others that dress the world in forced smiles, paint a beautiful picture over that of a massacre. I did the same when I left home; why should I pay to live in an apartment owned by a drug dealer? Just another secret used to my advantage.
Then I started out as a police officer, bottom of the pile, formed from mud and water that shone in the sun only to be crushed by the boot of those with movement. So I did what I do best, I played with people.
See Chris over there? He didn't used to look over his shoulder, he didn't used to plead at my feet every week when I visited him for a payment, but of course that's because I didn't used to know he was f**king his wife’s sister at weekends. Of course, back then I didn't realise his children’s bruises were painted with his fists.
What about Thomas. He killed his partner and framed it on the nearest scumbag that was unlucky enough to be close by. You see, these people have something to lose; jobs, family, even something as little as respect. All I need are words to keep me on my throne.
And sweat and sweat and sweat on. That's all they do. They bleed under the smallest of pins, writhe beneath me, scream as I plunge deeper into their souls, hopelessly trying to stay holding that last string, those strings that I’m free from, those strings that I control. Now they are but puppets to me; worthless and weak, still crying behind the grinning mask they've created.
As much as those of innocence plead and plead, it's those of power I can gain from. Once again injustice is served with a drop of a hammer. A drop of my hammer…
Nice, I haven't read anything like this for a while. Very good, Sir.
I know what you mean, I seem to just write what I feel and see how it turns out, without much thought or planning. Which, obviously, results in something that's a little disjointed.
Cheers for the comments, Para. :-)
Cheers for the comments, Para. :-)
A top 3 entry from what I've seen thus far.
Brilliant visual imagery is what you're best at - making it flow isnt. It was quite disjointed narrative which was easy to read but it didnt much follow on, it would've perhaps been an idea to do it as a speach to another person then the circumstance would be more blatant and it would flow better.
I'd give it 8/10
Well done.
Brilliant visual imagery is what you're best at - making it flow isnt. It was quite disjointed narrative which was easy to read but it didnt much follow on, it would've perhaps been an idea to do it as a speach to another person then the circumstance would be more blatant and it would flow better.
I'd give it 8/10
Well done.
And once again the boundaries are pushed farther and farther. An innocent man, distraught, full of fear, enters that dark, cold cellblock without anyone giving it a second though. Except me.
I see it happen everyday, merely for the sake of solving a case those with quiet lives of abundance are shot from grace, come crashing down to the pits of evil that dwell within the prison walls. Some break down, some crack under the pressure of those above them; the screaming and chattering rings in my ears every night, those who sanity snuck away from them, those who couldn't keep a firm grip.
Yet in contrast those with knives in their pockets, devils in their minds and crime in their futures walk free due to the injustice that is life. Greeted back into society with open arms, because they're changed, turned their life around, tricked the world. Then they'll carry on hunting. Yet those of innocence amble out with little more than their body intact.
You see, I know how these things works. Prison's all have a revolving door system that can be tapped if anyone goes to the effort of trying. Everyone has a weakness to exploit, everyone has a dark secret they wish to burn forever, everyone has enemies. I've been here half my life and I've seen it all before; sweat trickling, drip followed by drop, from those who have been used, an eye always behind their shoulder, knife still emanating from their rigid back.
That's where I come in. I see all that enters and all that exits, whisked away to the baron echoes that lurk within the walls. I know everything.
I used to be at the very bottom, getting coffees, doing paper work all day, I was on autopilot day-in-day-out, doing what I was told when I was told. But then I forced a change. Ambition is a big thing. The best of them all have it, the worst of them need it and everyone tries to use it. But many can't, many don't, and they burn like the pen-pushers that walk through those metal gates day-after-day. Why bother living if life is acceptable, mundane, ‘enough’? Why carry on?
It started when I was a child really, I'd use my parents as pawns to get what I wanted, creating rifts, carefully constructing plans in order to gain exactly what I needed. Conflict is the key to everything. Then when they had done all they needed, I got rid of them. They were bored of life, like so many others that dress the world in forced smiles, paint a beautiful picture over that of a massacre. I did the same when I left home; why should I pay to live in an apartment owned by a drug dealer? Just another secret used to my advantage.
Then I started out as a police officer, bottom of the pile, formed from mud and water that shone in the sun only to be crushed by the boot of those with movement. So I did what I do best, I played with people.
See Chris over there? He didn't used to look over his shoulder, he didn't used to plead at my feet every week when I visited him for a payment, but of course that's because I didn't used to know he was f**king his wife’s sister at weekends. Of course, back then I didn't realise his children’s bruises were painted with his fists.
What about Thomas. He killed his partner and framed it on the nearest scumbag that was unlucky enough to be close by. You see, these people have something to lose; jobs, family, even something as little as respect. All I need are words to keep me on my throne.
And sweat and sweat and sweat on. That's all they do. They bleed under the smallest of pins, writhe beneath me, scream as I plunge deeper into their souls, hopelessly trying to stay holding that last string, those strings that I’m free from, those strings that I control. Now they are but puppets to me; worthless and weak, still crying behind the grinning mask they've created.
As much as those of innocence plead and plead, it's those of power I can gain from. Once again injustice is served with a drop of a hammer. A drop of my hammer…
I see it happen everyday, merely for the sake of solving a case those with quiet lives of abundance are shot from grace, come crashing down to the pits of evil that dwell within the prison walls. Some break down, some crack under the pressure of those above them; the screaming and chattering rings in my ears every night, those who sanity snuck away from them, those who couldn't keep a firm grip.
Yet in contrast those with knives in their pockets, devils in their minds and crime in their futures walk free due to the injustice that is life. Greeted back into society with open arms, because they're changed, turned their life around, tricked the world. Then they'll carry on hunting. Yet those of innocence amble out with little more than their body intact.
You see, I know how these things works. Prison's all have a revolving door system that can be tapped if anyone goes to the effort of trying. Everyone has a weakness to exploit, everyone has a dark secret they wish to burn forever, everyone has enemies. I've been here half my life and I've seen it all before; sweat trickling, drip followed by drop, from those who have been used, an eye always behind their shoulder, knife still emanating from their rigid back.
That's where I come in. I see all that enters and all that exits, whisked away to the baron echoes that lurk within the walls. I know everything.
I used to be at the very bottom, getting coffees, doing paper work all day, I was on autopilot day-in-day-out, doing what I was told when I was told. But then I forced a change. Ambition is a big thing. The best of them all have it, the worst of them need it and everyone tries to use it. But many can't, many don't, and they burn like the pen-pushers that walk through those metal gates day-after-day. Why bother living if life is acceptable, mundane, ‘enough’? Why carry on?
It started when I was a child really, I'd use my parents as pawns to get what I wanted, creating rifts, carefully constructing plans in order to gain exactly what I needed. Conflict is the key to everything. Then when they had done all they needed, I got rid of them. They were bored of life, like so many others that dress the world in forced smiles, paint a beautiful picture over that of a massacre. I did the same when I left home; why should I pay to live in an apartment owned by a drug dealer? Just another secret used to my advantage.
Then I started out as a police officer, bottom of the pile, formed from mud and water that shone in the sun only to be crushed by the boot of those with movement. So I did what I do best, I played with people.
See Chris over there? He didn't used to look over his shoulder, he didn't used to plead at my feet every week when I visited him for a payment, but of course that's because I didn't used to know he was f**king his wife’s sister at weekends. Of course, back then I didn't realise his children’s bruises were painted with his fists.
What about Thomas. He killed his partner and framed it on the nearest scumbag that was unlucky enough to be close by. You see, these people have something to lose; jobs, family, even something as little as respect. All I need are words to keep me on my throne.
And sweat and sweat and sweat on. That's all they do. They bleed under the smallest of pins, writhe beneath me, scream as I plunge deeper into their souls, hopelessly trying to stay holding that last string, those strings that I’m free from, those strings that I control. Now they are but puppets to me; worthless and weak, still crying behind the grinning mask they've created.
As much as those of innocence plead and plead, it's those of power I can gain from. Once again injustice is served with a drop of a hammer. A drop of my hammer…