There was one upon a time a thread titled Written Clips. In it was a myriad of stories that you saw but a glimpse of. Over time it died and I have decided that Written Clips should stay dead. However, a place where pieces of a story emerge should still exist. Where friends can PM me about ideas and thoughts for what I write. In some cases, they lead to roleplays or beautiful works of art. Whatever the outcome is, it all starts in places like this. Whether sound bites made written or clips of the finale, this is a place for creativity.

---------- Post added 04-24-2014 at 10:32 AM ----------

The sound of thunder roared through the air, shaking buildings and sending little bits of dust raining down. The battle seemed never ending to those who cowered beneath their staircases or tables. Only those fighting were thriving in this environment. The thrill of looking a man in the eyes before they were killed. The chance to use explosives. To run dramatically or furtively as they chose. A world where the innocent were disregarded, forgotten. A world where those fighting became addicted to conflict and forgot who they were and what they had been fighting for. It was a world of complete chaos.

A small boy stood between his mother, who held his younger sister, and the door to his house. The ceiling had cracks running along it and dust littered his short cropped hair. Determination showed in his brown eyes as he clenched his fists. The fighters sometimes came into buildings, killing anyone not wearing their colors. He wanted to protect his family from there. Suddenly the door broke open, a wounded soldier falling inside. Blood smeared across the broken boards and floor. The man looked up at the kid, and started to pull his gun up. Without hesitation, the boy grabbed a wooden stick and wacked the gun away. The man fell unconscious as the boy poised ready to strike again.

His mother ran up behind him and pulled the wood from his small fingers and pulled him into her embrace. Kissing his hair and smoothing his shirt, she stared past him worriedly at the fighter. What would happen when he came to? She looked around her livingroom and spotted the curtain cords. Standing, she retrieved both and gave one to her boy. "Quickly, tie his feet." She took the man's hands and tied them in front of him where she would be able to see them. Only then did they barracade the front door, stacking the largest bookcase and bracing it with the piano.

Grabbing the man by the shoulders, she pulled him towards the bathroom. Her daughter quietly grabbed some clothes and followed. The boy began patrolling the house, peeking out windows carefully for signs of more fighters. After dousing the man's wounds, the mother bound them up and left him in the bathtub. Over the next few hours, it was quiet waiting. The sounds of fighting growing dim as the fighters moved to another part of the city.

A grunt brought the mother back to the bathroom. The fighter was awake, a crazed look in his eyes. Automatically, he started fighting his bonds despite her quiet reasoning. Giving up, she simply watched and waited. Eventually he would tire and sleep. Then she redressed his wounds that he had inevitably torn. When he woke up, he repeated the process. The boy took his sister down to the cellar for the night to sleep. Their mother checked in on them throughout the night. It was early morning when she started to piece together the mystery that terrorized their lives.

The fighter began showing signs of withdrawal. His misery and rants confirmed her theory. Whoever had started this war kept it going with drugs. No wonder once decent men through away their morals. She kept water going down his throat, but otherwise let him weather the effects of his master. It's tremors and sweat bearing on him like a whip. Not wanting any chance of contamination, she kept rinsing him off. Noticing a silver sheen in his sweat, the mother decided it was time for a little experimenting. Taking a bottle and collecting some, she set it aside. Time to start preparing for an end to this madness.