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Messages - Carlie

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Your Stories / Aranea de quod Laquearia (NSFW)
« on: 02:08 AM, 09/13/18 »
I hung around the bedroom with nothing to do. The ceiling fan blades rotated slowly knocking around bits of cat fur that remained in the room. Now that I had consumed the cat, there was nothing to play with anymore. I heard the front door of Michael’s upstairs apartment open and giggling. It was late. Not an odd time for a sacrifice, but the giggling was different.

Michael let the witch into the bedroom. I could read the energy off her, and she had a hint of a magical background. Michael’s body language was different with her. They were both acting coy. She was playing with her blue hair. He was touching her shoulder and pulling away. She explained to him about sigils and how they were ‘charged’ by masturbation. They both giggled at that word. She told him that if he wanted the spirit to leave the room they would have to write the word banishment as a sigil and charge it.

I flickered the lights in disgust. Banishment really? She may be a witch, but a low level one if not a beginner. This was just insulting.

Noticing this, Michael nervously started his long-winded explanation of the situation to the woman while she drew up the sigil. He was halfway between explaining the part where ‘his cat had disappeared,’ and ‘the scratches appearing on his body every night,’ when she started to kiss him. He kissed her back.

She placed the paper sigil on the bed and laid on it as they took garments off each other, one by one. This was much different than any other banishing ritual Michael had tried before, and I was intrigued for the most part.

I watched as she took his penis in her mouth. She kissed it, licked it and sucked on it until it was fully erect, which didn’t take long. He guided her up against his body until his face was at her breasts. He kissed, licked and sucked on these and as he did so, he placed his penis between her thighs to tease her with it.

I became bored as they moved on to sex. I flickered the lights to try to remind them of why they were here, but as I did so I felt my power over the material world was fading. It was very slightly but it was enough. I began to worry about what would happen if they both orgasmed on top of that paper. Sigils aren’t even supposed to work like this. Not only is this boring, but it had to stop soon before my power I spent all this time gaining was lost.

The lights of the overhead ceiling fan flickered one last time as I manifested myself. My eyes became the lightbulbs on the overhead light. Each limb was an unfolding blade of the ceiling fan. My mouth morphed the inside engine-motor. I unfolded myself into this spider-like being and looked down at the pair.

By this point, the woman was sitting on top of Michael’s penis and bouncing with her back to me. Michael was horrified, by my manifestation. He tried to push the witch off of himself, and the stupid human started to beg me not to take the woman. I would have laughed if I wasn’t in such a hurry.

 I dropped down from the ceiling and onto the witch right before she orgasmed. With her head tilted back, my body landed on her neck. Each blade dug into her as my body began to spin. Due to the hair and bone, my new teeth in the engine-motor had to work overtime to grind her neck into my mouth. I felt my energy come back from the sigil. I felt even more powerful than before as I sucked the squirting blood into my gears and let it spray around the room. There was only a little more energy that was needed for my final transformation to be complete. Once her head fell off, I dropped the body and crawled up the bed to the pathetic man.

With the whirring of the motor and my own spirit manifestation of a voice, I told him.

“Your sacrifices have been noted, but your services are no longer required.”

I know I need to go back and make the sentences longer, I needed to post a rough just in case the deadline comes sooner than I can fix it.

Thanks for the critique. I didn't find it rude at all. I need to update this thing but I want to finish this one part first. Thanks for telling me to make the sentences more detailed. I have a problem with that.

The siding, sheet metal, door to the storage unit opened for us. We were greeted with the smell of many different kinds of dust. Sawdust, that earthy dust, and old book musk just to name a few. It was dark in the cluttered glorified garage. There was a light inside the storage unit but the sunlight pouring down made a distinct border between the dim almost dark insides of the unit and the outside. I wasn’t really ‘there’ for most of the trip from Dallas to Havre, but once the smell of all those different kinds of dust filled my nose I was almost hyper-aware of my surroundings.

Inside the four grey walls of the storage unit was a collection of old wooden furniture that was stacked up in the back of the of the ugly unit. To get to the furniture my mother so desperately wanted, we needed to move three layers of boxes stacked chest high. I started to regret the deal we made with my aunt.

It was the Tuesday after the wedding when I was ‘allowed’ on my aunt’s computer to relax. I noticed that she had an email from the storage company. Much to her dismay, she had to find a new place for her belongings because of the dead body found in the storage unit. My aunt Marge mentioned that it would be a ‘cryin’ shame’ to see all our old grandfather’s hand crafted furniture go to waste since she had no room for it. My mother almost tore aunt Marge's head off. Soon enough an agreement was made. We would call everyone from the wedding to find some new homes for my grandfather’s furniture. We would have first pickings and could keep everything we could carry in our truck. Because of our hangovers, it was the next day when we went to the storage unit.

My aunt had brought the key and the paperwork to the officer and opened the storage door. Then she bid her goodbyes to us and told us if we needed any help, she’ll be at her work at her restaurant next door. I doubted she would be any help at all. We both knew she had to go to work, but we both exchanged a look of disappointment at being played by her… again.

My mother and I got to work moving the boxes. Some half open, others not. The layer of boxes were full of outside Christmas decorations. I guessed that since it snowed so much in Montana, it wasn’t a practical idea to put out decorations at all, and that’s why the decorations were sent to the tomb.

Next layer I handled where heavy boxes of books. I loved books so, when my mom wasn’t looking I took a peek inside. Aunt Marge did say we could keep anything we found in there. These were weird psychology books. The thinnest was labeled
The Personality and Preference Inventory or PAPI for short. I was more of a Myers Briggs 16 personalities kind of person. I’ve heard stories of my aunt’s ex-husband becoming a psychologist and I guessed that they must have stole each other’s stuff during the divorce. It reminded me of the many weird tests I had to take while I was in counseling. I tossed the book back in the box and shook my head trying to physically shake those thoughts from my head. Which only helped to make me feel light headed.

Last last layer must have only been her ex-husband’s things, which I found odd. I joked that maybe aunt Marge might have killed him which lightened the mood. Two the boxes were labeled clothes. Last box was open already. It had a dirty PS2 with two memory cards, an eyetoy, and a few games inside. I wondered aloud why she would have this and my mother started one of her tirades.

When I was a little kid I always played with the PS2 they had at Blockbuster. Sometimes I wouldn’t even pick out a movie and just go straight for the PS2. My parents wanted to get me one for Christmas but didn’t have the money for it at the time so they asked aunt Marge for some financial help. According to my mom, she was having trouble with the restaurant at the time and couldn’t help us, but ‘the bitch had enough to get her ex-husband the same toy without a problem!’ By the end, I wished I was encompassed with the same anger too, but I was just disappointed.

I felt myself slipping into my past again, right as my mom asked me if I wanted it. We took the box of games, including the gaming system, into the truck and placed it in the back seat too.

By lunchtime, we both agreed we needed to rest. I flat out told my mom that I couldn’t talk to my aunt right now. So she would get us some food to go. I told her I’d be in the comic book store.

The comic book store was more like a nerd’s paradise. There were mannequins dressed in cosplay and nerd culture t-shirts in the front display, along with posters of the newest versions of the never changing old super heros. I walked inside and there was a box of toys being hand examined by a man in his late forties. He greeted me with a smile and a casual “Welcome to Stars and Bards”.

I nodded to him with a smile and a little shy “Hi”, escaped my lips.

As I walked around the store another man in a green polo shirt said, "Oh, they have games here too?". I wandered over to the man and took a look around at the games.

With a smile at how lucky I was, I commented on how old they were.

The man turned and saw me, “Yeah, a lot of these are mor from my era. I don’t know much about anything post N64. But I’ll whip anyone at Bubble Bobble.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” I reply with a giggle. “I think one of my friends had one. My first video game system was a gameboy advance. If you don’t count those times at Blockbuster where I played with the PS2.”

“I never played much PS2. I had a cousin who owned one. He was really into this ‘Breath of Fire’ game for a while. It looked pretty cool. So, what brings you in here today, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I paused for a moment, deep in thought over all the half truths I could tell and decided on one. “I’m looking for some PS2 games.” I said a tad too enthusiastically. “I found one in my aunt’s storage unit today.”

He smiled and spoke. “Oh you’re a storage-unit person too. I guess most people at the plaza this week probably are. PS2 is a pretty good find. Any games you’re after in particular?” He glanced back at the display of video games.

I turned to the gamerack and spoke. “I know I want Rayman Raving Rabids for sure, and any games that include the old camera gimmick. My friend said there were developer kits that they used to sell too, but I doubt that there's one here.” She picks up a game from the shelf then looks to him. “Are you a storage unit person too?”

“Yeah. I’m clearing out a unit with my ex. I’m hoping to get some cash for some old toys I found in there.” He glanced over to Gregg at the counter. “Should be finding out about that any minute. I hope.”

“Oh cool. I hope you have some collectors items.” I paused and placed the game back on the shelf. I was scanning the RPG section when my eyes unfocused and my mouth moved before I could stop it. I quietly asked, “ Do you know what happened to the man that died there?”

"I haven't heard anything, and as long as there's no psychotic killer running around town, I'm not sure I want to know." He shook his head. "But if it was just a death of natural causes, I suppose they wouldn't be closing the place down, or having everyone move their stuff out."

"It makes me wonder..." I trailed off in thought her head turning to the displays in the windows. There was a woman in a green jacket that was walking by with two white carry out boxes. "Oh I have to meet up with my mom. Bye." I said suddenly  then left the store in a hurry.

My mind raced. What a stupid question to ask him. Yet, what made me wonder was why no one was talking about whoever died in there. Who where they? Where they into videogames too? It’s sad how the world goes on without recognizing a fallen member of the same species. It’s unfair how the world only favors the rich and famous since when they die no one stops talking about them for days on end. Yet when someone normal dies the rest of the world doesn’t even notice.

Will I even be noticed when I die?

We ate in silence right before we loaded up the furniture and slammed the sliding sheet metal door shut. I wasn’t really there on the trip back from Havre to Dallas.

Fleming Storage Units WIPs / Re: Master List of Summaries
« on: 08:59 PM, 11/ 4/17 »
#11 No title yet. The main character is the niece of the owner. The owner is present when opening the unit but has to go to work shortly after. I would like to write more of the WIP before I post it. (it's only 2 paragraphs so far) (edit: JK here it is: ) Marge from Marg Madness is the owner of the unit but is letting her sister and the main character, Mary Ann, get first dibs on the unit's things and told them she will get someone else to pick up what they leave behind. She really is going to leave the rest to go to the police auction.

Fleming Storage Units WIPs / Re: Location Collaboration
« on: 02:12 AM, 11/ 4/17 »
Unit 11 here. I want to say I'm going to be the niece of Marge Erikson and they went to the wedding on the 9th, (before the allotted time to get things started) did some hangover recovery on the 10th, and Marge had to show the police the paperwork and told them that she was the owner of the unit and allowing her family to move things out for her on the morning of the 11th. They are eventually going to Marg Madness in the evening of the 11th or 12th depending on if I want or need the story to last 2 days. The niece, Mary Ann, is going to the Stars and Bards sometime around noon to mid-afternoon on the 11th.

This story wasn't my cup of tea. I think it would have been more powerful if the story was addressed to the dad.

Story Critique / Re: My Cool Art Teacher
« on: 03:07 PM, 10/22/17 »
Thanks so much for getting back to me so quickly and with such a detailed critique. I based this off of a true event and didn't know how to adapt it to a real meaningful story but what you said will help me tweak some things. So to address some things.

I was going to explain where the "BANG" came from but I was afraid it would distract from seizure. (it was from her hitting her head on the rolling metal cart next to her)

Second I wanted to make it seem like she had everything under control with her getting into her morning routine before losing all control. But I will better define that in that paragraph.

Thanks again.

Story Critique / My Cool Art Teacher
« on: 11:18 PM, 10/21/17 »
   There was no happiness during middle school, only varying levels of misery. You can say that there were only a few things that didn’t completely suck during middle school. For me, it was my art teacher.

   She was the coolest person in my life back then. Back in the long lost years of 2008, none of my teachers were allowed to show their tattoos or have piercings. Every teacher I’ve ever seen up until then were the most modest housewives in all of suburban Texas. My art teacher would bend the rules by wearing a jacket outside of her classroom to hide her full sleeve tats, but she rarely wear her jacket in her room. She must have somehow convinced the administration to allow her to wear her thick silver septum piercing because that thing was always in.

   I remember one time I had it set in my mind to dress up crazy for picture day, and wore pigtails to school. My art teacher thought it was a great idea and added bows to the pigtails. I think I looked pretty great the way it turned out.
She would tell us all sorts of stories about the crazy adventures she would have outside of school, or about the things she did in her past. I don’t quite remember all of them, but the good ones involved a little bit of alcohol. In one of them she took a school trip to France, and told us how she was in love with everything there. Like every good artist, she went to the Louvre, admired the architecture, and learned how to cook crepes!

   When she told us about crepes, none of us had ever heard of them before and she promised to make some for us after a class project and make a party out of it. I, personally, was the most excited for this party and promised to bring the cups.

   A week before the party, she had broken her foot on one of her crazy adventures. Well, it was more like a car ran over it after a party, but that was my wacky art teacher for you. She was also a bit wackier thanks to the medicine that the doctor gave her.
Then came the day of the party. Her class was during the first period of school, but she was unusually late. The class sat by the door with plastic ware and paper plates, I with my cups, ready for the party we hoped was still happening today.
When my teacher came she was disheveled, hobbling on one foot, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, and in her arms filled with strawberries, whip cream, and pancake mix. We all helped her into the classroom and started to break out our party supplies. One of my friends was asked to go to her car and bring in a hot plate she brought from home.
She told us that she needed us all to be quiet because she didn’t exactly ask the principal, whose office was just down a corridor, if they could cook crepes in the art room or if we could have a party.
I remember looking back at her before sitting in my chair at one of the round tables with my friends. She was standing at her desk with a rolling metal TV cart next to her that she repurposed to help her teach. She was applying her cherry red lipstick, which meant she was getting into her morning routine.
I turned around and sat in my chair letting the sounds of the normal art room chaos, though slightly softened by us wanting a secret party, wash over me. She was the kind of teacher that was comfortable with chaos in her classroom she knew how to handle it. I’m pretty sure I was talking to my friend about the manga I was reading at the time, Chobits, or how two anime boys looking into each other's eyes longingly was considered ‘yaoi’ when there was a huge BANG and the class went silent.
My head snapped toward the BANG. I remember seeing the metal cart rolling from the desk and my art teacher, gone from where she was standing. She was on the ground. I'm guessing she had hit the cart on the way down. Her body was twisted, her arms curled up, and her hands clenched into tight fists. Drool was leaking from her mouth. Her eyes bulged out of their sockets, and only stayed in her head thanks to the optic nerve’s tight grasp. Her whole body was convulsing, and she kept making the sound that you would make if someone was beating on your chest while you kept a steady tone but her tongue kept flopping around.
There were a sickening 15 to 30 seconds where no one moved, and then another thud.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the same cheerful friend that help carry in the hotplate from her car, throw down the books he was carrying and sprint out of the door. This snapped another girl out of the shock, and she ran too. The rest of us stayed and watched the grunting and thumping of the coolest art teacher in the school’s body convulsing on the ground.

Her wide eyes stared out at all of us.

I don’t know how long it took for the PE coach to run in with my friend. Him yelling at us to get help is what snapped me out of the shock. I ran into the corridor, and luckily found one of my teachers who called 911 for me.

At the time I felt so helpless I couldn’t even do that.

It still feels weird to type that when I think about the situation. How a room full of kids were just as helpless as a teacher having a seizure.

[Edits: I added the reason for the BANG and a sentence describing her being comfortable with chaos as a way to make her seem like she had everything under control. I also did some formating things]

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