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On the night air came the whiff of menacing bonfires. Someone had thrown the keys to the asylum dwellers and all hell was breaking loose, yet he strode on regardless, gripping his mighty hammer.
His name is Glib Pulverizer, and he's as hard as a concrete slab. Towering at twenty-three feet in height and weighing in at 442 pounds, when he's hungry he just grabs a sheep with his massive hands and rips out its spine; when he's thirsty he just sucks up puddles. Glib Pulverizer, if you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your life.
And so he marched on, felling young trees with his bounding stride. When the burning spires of the asylum came into view, Glib ground to a halt and scratched his sandpaper stubble. His night-blue eyes scanned the scene: escaped lunatics were running riot - some were chasing each other in giddy circles waving flaming torches, giggling like demented clodhoppers; others were revelling in frenzied copulation, howling like wild dogs as they gyrated and thrusted; one slathering cretin was attempting to saw off one of his feet with a shard of glass.
Glib sneered, gripped his hammer ever tighter, and whispered the slogan of his killjoyous fetish: "I FLICK MY WRIST AND LAY WASTE TO YOUR INSOLENCE." - With the utterance of these words, his ogre rush of brutal style commenced.
Poets the world over have waxed lyrical about Glib's stomach-turning ultra-violence, and with good reason. When he thunders into action it's like witnessing a human tidal wave, and the lunatics of the burning asylum were the latest scapegoats to be on the receiving end of his super-exuberant smiting.
In a blur of savage fury, the hapless nutters were pummelled into a bloody pulp. Decapitated heads span through the air and splattered against stone walls. Blood spurted hither and thither as if ghoulish fountains were being intermittently turned on and off. The deep-crunching resonance of bones being mashed created a symphony of spine-chilling rhythm. The splodgy giblets of the fast-falling lunatics lay everywhere, steaming and twitching on the cobblestones of the asylum's courtyard.
Then suddenly, the maelstrom was over, and Glib stood there, gently rocking from side to side. After a brief moment of eye-blinking contemplation, he yanked the pelt of a grizzly bear from his back and wiped the sticky entrails off his mighty hammer.
Glib Pulverizer, he's as hard as a concrete slab. If you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your goddamn life.
His name is Glib Pulverizer, and he's as hard as a concrete slab. Towering at twenty-three feet in height and weighing in at 442 pounds, when he's hungry he just grabs a sheep with his massive hands and rips out its spine; when he's thirsty he just sucks up puddles. Glib Pulverizer, if you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your life.
And so he marched on, felling young trees with his bounding stride. When the burning spires of the asylum came into view, Glib ground to a halt and scratched his sandpaper stubble. His night-blue eyes scanned the scene: escaped lunatics were running riot - some were chasing each other in giddy circles waving flaming torches, giggling like demented clodhoppers; others were revelling in frenzied copulation, howling like wild dogs as they gyrated and thrusted; one slathering cretin was attempting to saw off one of his feet with a shard of glass.
Glib sneered, gripped his hammer ever tighter, and whispered the slogan of his killjoyous fetish: "I FLICK MY WRIST AND LAY WASTE TO YOUR INSOLENCE." - With the utterance of these words, his ogre rush of brutal style commenced.
Poets the world over have waxed lyrical about Glib's stomach-turning ultra-violence, and with good reason. When he thunders into action it's like witnessing a human tidal wave, and the lunatics of the burning asylum were the latest scapegoats to be on the receiving end of his super-exuberant smiting.
In a blur of savage fury, the hapless nutters were pummelled into a bloody pulp. Decapitated heads span through the air and splattered against stone walls. Blood spurted hither and thither as if ghoulish fountains were being intermittently turned on and off. The deep-crunching resonance of bones being mashed created a symphony of spine-chilling rhythm. The splodgy giblets of the fast-falling lunatics lay everywhere, steaming and twitching on the cobblestones of the asylum's courtyard.
Then suddenly, the maelstrom was over, and Glib stood there, gently rocking from side to side. After a brief moment of eye-blinking contemplation, he yanked the pelt of a grizzly bear from his back and wiped the sticky entrails off his mighty hammer.
Glib Pulverizer, he's as hard as a concrete slab. If you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your goddamn life.
Hey, thanks Mr.S.
Okay, so maybe I will post a few some stories here and there - perhaps every blue moon, when my inner-strength is at its peak ;)
Okay, so maybe I will post a few some stories here and there - perhaps every blue moon, when my inner-strength is at its peak ;)
'Whoah, that was weird.'
Just so you know, I read all the stuff you post, as I'm sure do others. I just don't reply because I'd just say something stupid like 'Whoah, that was weird.' I enjoy all your writing, it's most excellent.
Black Glove wrote:
Gore and violence is good (I've just written something along these lines)
I remember the story. Yes I did think it was weird, very good, but weird and I would never have associated it with 'noise' subject. It was as loosely based as mine was.
I did enter but I haven't posted it yet (just give me a minute). It will be a little too 'flowery' for your taste though me thinks.
> I'm not sure they should've erased the Story Forum. I feel too
> self-conscious posting stories in this forum at the moment. They seem
> out of place.
I know what you mean. I have a story already written that I would have liked to post and bury in that forum. Thing is it is true that more people are likely to read them in here. I know originally I posted everything in here and then only went to post in the story forum because I didn't want to be shouted at by El Blokey :)
Gore and violence is good (I've just written something along these lines)
I remember the story. Yes I did think it was weird, very good, but weird and I would never have associated it with 'noise' subject. It was as loosely based as mine was.
I did enter but I haven't posted it yet (just give me a minute). It will be a little too 'flowery' for your taste though me thinks.
> I'm not sure they should've erased the Story Forum. I feel too
> self-conscious posting stories in this forum at the moment. They seem
> out of place.
I know what you mean. I have a story already written that I would have liked to post and bury in that forum. Thing is it is true that more people are likely to read them in here. I know originally I posted everything in here and then only went to post in the story forum because I didn't want to be shouted at by El Blokey :)
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Descriptive if not as dark, or obscure, as your earlier tales. Bit of
> writers block?
I've recently moved away from dark stories and gone more in the direction of gore and violence. I don't know why. Just a phase, I guess.
> Also, I have lost the link to Meka Dragons' site and don't know if he
> posted the other stories on it with links. Can you post the story you
> entered for the writing comp in this forum as I'd like to read that.
I think I posted it a while back. "Drowning Man" it was called. I think you thought it was a bit "weird" [which it was] :)
Have you posted yours, or did you not enter?
Thanks for replying by the way, but I think this will probably be the last story I post, as it feels increasingly pointless posting them. I'm not sure they should've erased the Story Forum. I feel too self-conscious posting stories in this forum at the moment. They seem out of place.
> Descriptive if not as dark, or obscure, as your earlier tales. Bit of
> writers block?
I've recently moved away from dark stories and gone more in the direction of gore and violence. I don't know why. Just a phase, I guess.
> Also, I have lost the link to Meka Dragons' site and don't know if he
> posted the other stories on it with links. Can you post the story you
> entered for the writing comp in this forum as I'd like to read that.
I think I posted it a while back. "Drowning Man" it was called. I think you thought it was a bit "weird" [which it was] :)
Have you posted yours, or did you not enter?
Thanks for replying by the way, but I think this will probably be the last story I post, as it feels increasingly pointless posting them. I'm not sure they should've erased the Story Forum. I feel too self-conscious posting stories in this forum at the moment. They seem out of place.
"Someone had thrown the keys to the asylum dwellers"
You probably :)
Descriptive if not as dark, or obscure, as your earlier tales. Bit of writers block?
Also, I have lost the link to Meka Dragons' site and don't know if he posted the other stories on it with links. Can you post the story you entered for the writing comp in this forum as I'd like to read that.
You probably :)
Descriptive if not as dark, or obscure, as your earlier tales. Bit of writers block?
Also, I have lost the link to Meka Dragons' site and don't know if he posted the other stories on it with links. Can you post the story you entered for the writing comp in this forum as I'd like to read that.
On the night air came the whiff of menacing bonfires. Someone had thrown the keys to the asylum dwellers and all hell was breaking loose, yet he strode on regardless, gripping his mighty hammer.
His name is Glib Pulverizer, and he's as hard as a concrete slab. Towering at twenty-three feet in height and weighing in at 442 pounds, when he's hungry he just grabs a sheep with his massive hands and rips out its spine; when he's thirsty he just sucks up puddles. Glib Pulverizer, if you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your life.
And so he marched on, felling young trees with his bounding stride. When the burning spires of the asylum came into view, Glib ground to a halt and scratched his sandpaper stubble. His night-blue eyes scanned the scene: escaped lunatics were running riot - some were chasing each other in giddy circles waving flaming torches, giggling like demented clodhoppers; others were revelling in frenzied copulation, howling like wild dogs as they gyrated and thrusted; one slathering cretin was attempting to saw off one of his feet with a shard of glass.
Glib sneered, gripped his hammer ever tighter, and whispered the slogan of his killjoyous fetish: "I FLICK MY WRIST AND LAY WASTE TO YOUR INSOLENCE." - With the utterance of these words, his ogre rush of brutal style commenced.
Poets the world over have waxed lyrical about Glib's stomach-turning ultra-violence, and with good reason. When he thunders into action it's like witnessing a human tidal wave, and the lunatics of the burning asylum were the latest scapegoats to be on the receiving end of his super-exuberant smiting.
In a blur of savage fury, the hapless nutters were pummelled into a bloody pulp. Decapitated heads span through the air and splattered against stone walls. Blood spurted hither and thither as if ghoulish fountains were being intermittently turned on and off. The deep-crunching resonance of bones being mashed created a symphony of spine-chilling rhythm. The splodgy giblets of the fast-falling lunatics lay everywhere, steaming and twitching on the cobblestones of the asylum's courtyard.
Then suddenly, the maelstrom was over, and Glib stood there, gently rocking from side to side. After a brief moment of eye-blinking contemplation, he yanked the pelt of a grizzly bear from his back and wiped the sticky entrails off his mighty hammer.
Glib Pulverizer, he's as hard as a concrete slab. If you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your goddamn life.
His name is Glib Pulverizer, and he's as hard as a concrete slab. Towering at twenty-three feet in height and weighing in at 442 pounds, when he's hungry he just grabs a sheep with his massive hands and rips out its spine; when he's thirsty he just sucks up puddles. Glib Pulverizer, if you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your life.
And so he marched on, felling young trees with his bounding stride. When the burning spires of the asylum came into view, Glib ground to a halt and scratched his sandpaper stubble. His night-blue eyes scanned the scene: escaped lunatics were running riot - some were chasing each other in giddy circles waving flaming torches, giggling like demented clodhoppers; others were revelling in frenzied copulation, howling like wild dogs as they gyrated and thrusted; one slathering cretin was attempting to saw off one of his feet with a shard of glass.
Glib sneered, gripped his hammer ever tighter, and whispered the slogan of his killjoyous fetish: "I FLICK MY WRIST AND LAY WASTE TO YOUR INSOLENCE." - With the utterance of these words, his ogre rush of brutal style commenced.
Poets the world over have waxed lyrical about Glib's stomach-turning ultra-violence, and with good reason. When he thunders into action it's like witnessing a human tidal wave, and the lunatics of the burning asylum were the latest scapegoats to be on the receiving end of his super-exuberant smiting.
In a blur of savage fury, the hapless nutters were pummelled into a bloody pulp. Decapitated heads span through the air and splattered against stone walls. Blood spurted hither and thither as if ghoulish fountains were being intermittently turned on and off. The deep-crunching resonance of bones being mashed created a symphony of spine-chilling rhythm. The splodgy giblets of the fast-falling lunatics lay everywhere, steaming and twitching on the cobblestones of the asylum's courtyard.
Then suddenly, the maelstrom was over, and Glib stood there, gently rocking from side to side. After a brief moment of eye-blinking contemplation, he yanked the pelt of a grizzly bear from his back and wiped the sticky entrails off his mighty hammer.
Glib Pulverizer, he's as hard as a concrete slab. If you ever see his fiercesome form, run for your goddamn life.