February 28, 2011

The Story of He

[Posted by Will]

He longed for New York, for home. He was drifting along in a sea of uncertainty. His future, unknown. His present was murky at best and he lived day to day, one day at a time. He had become comfortably numb by it all, brought down. The heavy weight of life took it’s toll on him, aged him horribly. Four years had gone by and it felt like forty. He had no idea what was next for him but he embraced it fully, head on and let it envelop him whole.

He once had hopes and dreams just as much as the next person. Like the next sucker, he thought. He was a bitter and broken man. He loved, lost and lucked out. He was drowning in the bottle of booze that became his life. He wrote little, fucked little, did little, was little. He had little to show for his life, his accomplishments had become few and far between. He had went to college to learn answers and only left with questions and a piece of paper that was his diploma. He had no idea what he wanted to be, but he wanted that person to be somebody.

Disillusioned by fame and glory became his life story. He was sorry he never hoped to achieve more. Fear and shame kept his talents hidden and his mouth shut. His heart was battle scarred, buried deep within his chest, guarded and fenced off far from the world to see the tears it shed. His soul shattered, scattered, tattered, torn to pieces. He was lost within himself, trapped and had no way out.

Most would say he was his own worst enemy and worst critic. How could anyone love this poor hapless hopeless man, when he didn’t even love himself? He was surrounded by people daily, swimming in a sea of urchins and yet he never felt more alone in his life. He traversed the many pathways that life had to offer up to him and each time he ended up on the road to going nowhere fast. He would sit alone a lot and drink himself to sleep. Each night thinking how did this become my life? Each night dreaming of something better, of hope, of home.

If he could go back and do it all again he’d say, he’d do it all the same. He was dooming himself to repeat the same mistakes, the same failures that led him to this point. He was happy with the same, mundane. He learned a little each time but asked for the same result in return. He was a glutton for punishment, a metaphorical sadomasochist. In the end all he had was himself and who better to punish than yourself, than having to deal with yourself?

Sure he had friends but for some reason they were never enough. Nothing could compare to the love of a good woman he thought. He seemed to look for love in all the wrong places and loved too often, too quickly, at the drop of a hat. He wore his heart on his sleeve, ready, willing and determined to give it away with every single handshake. But it was never enough, he was never enough and he never knew why.

He felt like he was a ghost. He was disappearing from the world. As each day passed he felt as if he were disappearing. He could stand in front of the mirror for hours and stare, just stare deep into his own eyes. Looking at himself, trying to see the real him but looking back at him was a stranger. He no longer recognized the man he had become. His world was in shambles and he became a cipher in it.

He wanted, tried but felt like he failed at every turn. He just wanted to make it all go away, all his pain, all his suffering and so he drank, he reached for bottle after bottle and numbed his pain. It was bliss but it was fleeting. He just wanted to hit a reset button and try again elsewhere. He lived in a few different states over the past four years but they still felt the same. He was trapped in a world of shit and he needed to get out. He longed for New York, for home, back when the world made sense.

He knew for so long what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. But unfortunately something happens when we age, we get wiser. Our hopes and dreams seem to fade quickly with time because we settle into the fact that we will never achieve those far-fetched infantile dreams. We become realists. He wasn’t always a negative person but when a person actually lives life they change their perspective quickly. No longer did the world feel in front of him, it was ahead of him, but it left him behind.

Change is a harsh mistress, it happens whether we want it or not and it’s a real bitch most times. He was disgruntled by the fact that the world was changing, people were changing. He was changing. He turned to film originally for immortality, to be remembered forever, long after he was gone. He went to film school to discover his art and his many multitudes of hidden talents only to learn film had changed without him. It was no longer about story, art or substance. He grew up with this mentality from watching the greats that were the products of film schools of the seventies. He lived in that world, in the world he was in however, film belonged to studios, and it belonged to studio executives that were without imagination. The auteur dream was dead, friends. His dreams were dead. Art died, and all that remained was business.

Disillusioned by it all he graduated broken hearted, cursed with a diploma he’d do nothing with. He learned something from his disillusionment though; he learned there was something left in the world, words. A school tried to rob him of his imagination, showing and never telling. However there was something they couldn’t do. The products of the institution were uninspired by words, no emphasis on them at all, soulless. With that realization he realized even though they took everything from him there was something they could never take from him, his words. It was all he had left but damn it, those words would always be his, even if he had to take them to his grave.

The power of words will always have more imagination and provoke more thought then anything that can be seen. There was more interpretation to them. Words spoke to him daily. Suddenly the culmination of all his schooling became clear. There was a glimmer of hope amongst all the sadness. He still had one love in his life left, words. Film could always still have it’s meaning, just like any first love. It will always be there, but it means something different now. You never forget your first love. First love is bittersweet, it is fleeting, but its memory is engraved in you forever. However, he was with his new love now, hoping it would last a lifetime. Time will tell.

Words though don’t come easy. They are not without emotion. They are not without inspiration. Words don’t come easy even though they are always there. A writer is an artist whose hands are the brushes and he paints pictures with ink, in black and white. Anyone can craft a sentence but it takes an artist to string the words together and create something that transcends the words on a page, the letters that create those words. To go beyond meaning. Anyone can speak, but speaking words uninspired mean nothing. It’s what the words stand for. An idiot can speak, but an artist can create meaning with his, no matter how many or how long or little and sometimes by saying nothing at all.

He longed for home, for New York. He knew when his time was coming. He knew when it was time to pack his bags and go home. He longed so badly for years and now it was his time. He was headed home, finally after so long, he could rest. He could go back to the beginning where it all made sense. He could go home. He missed it for far too long, he missed the falls and the colored trees; the very scent in the air lifted his soul. He missed the campfires and the contemplation that went with it as he would stare into the dancing flames and search his soul for deeper meaning and he knew it would be there he would find it, at home.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he wrote this, dreaming of home. The story of he; the artist’s struggle was not etched in black and white. There is more meaning if you know where to look between the lines, you’ll find it there and that is where you’ll find him someday. He’ll be there for an eternity. Long after he’s gone, long after the aimless wandering and meandering through this dismal, abysmal thing we call our lives. He found his immortality finally, past the uncertainty of life. He isn’t sad when he weeps now; he’s found a new happiness, a new life, a new love, a new meaning. Please don’t be sad for him, he’ll be at ease, at peace. He was longing for home no longer, he was finally going there soon, and he was on his way. He was finally headed home. This is the story of he. He was the story of an artist; he was the story of me.

February 26, 2011

Safe Haven - Rogues

[...posted by Ted H]

Been doing about 20 other things this week aside from writing. Wouldntve been a problem since thats why we've got 5 freakin writers but since its been just me and Ryan for the last month, then I guess I need to step it up a bit. Pounded this out, not entirely thrilled with it since I dont feel like its done-but Ill just post it now and tweak it later cuz Im lazy like that.

...on the bright side, no more god damn intro sequence...


[Safe Haven - Rogues]

“It’s almost sundown,” Johnston said as he and Teto sat in the darkened corner of a building. “He’s usually on time,” Johnston continued. “Shh,” Teto said as they heard a door open and close, followed by footsteps. The room was empty with warped hardwood flooring that echoed each step. They knew there was someone in heavy boots coming alone. The man walked into the room and quickly surveyed the area. The was tall and well build with short hair that was balding in the back. The man cleared his throat and said “Gee, I guess I’ll leave since there’s no one here,” in a sarcastic tone.

That was the signal. Johnston and Teto stepped out into view as the man didn’t even flinch upon seeing them. “Where’s the shipment?” he asked, looking around for something that wasn’t there.

The mans name was John and he and Teto had an understanding; The people of Safe Haven weren’t allowed guns as well as other banned items, and Teto and John disagreed with that view. Teto would gather up periodical shipments of contraband and deliver them to John, who in turn, distributed the items to his fellow civilians. The ResEs knew such an operation existed, and have been trying to years to shut it down, but they’ve yet to pinpoint John or any Rogues involved.

“Shipment was too big,” Teto said as he reached into his pocket. “Define ‘too big’,” John said as Teto pulled out a folded up piece of paper. “It’s a map,” Teto said “We’re not coming back into the city for a while. We brought in 20 times the usual amount to keep you guys armed and set in the meantime. All of its hidden in about seven different areas marked on the map. Make it last.”

“Why aren’t you coming back in?” John asked as he looked over the map. “We’ll be busy,” Teto said as he and Johnston started for the door. “How well did you hide everything?” John asked but the two men didn’t turn around to answer. Teto cracked the door open and peered out to make sure no one was around. He then opened and walked out. Johnston followed as he balled his fist and knocked on his chest two times. That was the signal for the sniper that everything was clear.

A few minutes later, the two Rogues met up with their sniper, Tucker, and were now heading for their exit from the city. Rogues weren’t allowed in the city, since they were made up mostly from people who were originally banished, and ResEs were instructed to shoot first and not even bother with questions.

Teto was one of the original Rogues, back before they were even called Rogues. Back then they were just survivors, keeping together in a group. He never liked the idea behind Safe Haven so his group never bothered. The droves of people flocking to the city however, was tempting. Only a fraction of the people trying actually made it to Safe Haven. And for every failed trip, there were supplies left behind to scavenge.

It had become an easy life. Teto and his group would arrive, kill off all the zombies and help themselves. Sometimes there was a stray survivor. If that survivor was infected, they were killed. After a while Teto didn’t even hesitate when he came across an infected living person. They were gonna die anyway.

Uninfected survivors were a problem sometimes, especially if they tried to defend their stuff. If they were stupid enough to think they could still make it to Safe Haven then the group would let them go then just wait for that person to get themselves killed. If they were smart, they would join in the group and forget about the city. Not everyone got to join though. You had to be strong enough to survive on your own. No one was getting a free ride through the apocalypse. If you weren’t strong enough, then you were left alone, usually the group took all your stuff anyway since you usually wouldnt be surviving much longer.

When Safe Haven started banishing people, some found their way to Teto’s group and joined up. Eventually their numbers swelled to the point where Teto’s original group was only a fraction of the overall numbers. Those banished people had been referred to as “Rogues” and the name stuck.

Johnston was a middle aged man originally from Minneapolis. He had a wife, a 16 year old son and an 8 year old daughter. When he finally arrived to Safe Haven however, it was just him and his daughter. The girl was infected but he managed to hide it from the ResEs when they entered. He tried his best to care for her as her health deteriorated, but it was a losing battle.

Someone eventually caught on to what was going on and they quickly notified the ResEs, who swiftly busted in and tore Johnston’s daughter from his arms, dumped her into the middle of the street and executed her in full view of everyone looking. Johnston flipped out and tackled the man who executed his daughter, beating his face and knocking out the mans front teeth while tearing out his hair. It took several ResEs to subdue him and not long afterwards he found himself outside the walls of the city.

He was picked up by the Rogues almost immediately. When Teto started his smuggling operation, Johnston jumped onboard to assist. He saw it as a chance to deliver some payback, be it by arming the civilians or to shoot any ResEs who made the mistake of getting in the way.

Tucker was the brash, young, cocky sonovabitch of the group; the polar opposite of Johnston. He was barely a teenager when the dead started walking and he had to adapt real quick to surviving without his family. His dad had taken him hunting countless times before so he knew his way around his fathers rifle, which played no small part in his survival to Safe Haven. But when he was learned that he wouldn’t be allowed to keep the rifle, Tucker simply turned around and refused to enter the city.

In the years since, he’s modified the rifle and added a scope to guarantee accuracy. He never really matured and often breaks off on his own into the city, usually coming back with a story of something that happened to him that no one believes. Tuckers prone to talk your ear off, but he’s the most dangerous person you never see, and he fit right in to Teto’s plan as a guardian up on the roofs, making sure no ResEs interrupt business.

Tetos business was more of a charity service. He would supply and arm the people of Safe Haven and expects nothing in return. Despite Safe Haven being as advertised, there were still ways into the city from the outside and some zombies always find their way in. The ResEs tend to catch any undead that get in but every so often they’ll arrive too late and some defenseless citizen gets infected or worse.

At this point in time, Teto figured there were enough weapons, drugs and alcohol distributed to cover half the city. About half of that was siezed by the ResEs, some wasted, but there was still a substantial amount in circulation, especially the weapons. It was the only thing keeping the ResEs in line sometimes, the knowledge that the citizen you harass or one of the people around might be packing. That’s why they’re tolerable during the day, but after curfew is another story. Being armed wont help you if its just you alone with the ResEs.

The three men quickly made their way for their exit. It was after curfew, meaning all the ResEs would be out real soon. ResEs had the Rogues outnumbered 10:1 as it was, so it wouldn’t be a good thing if anyone got caught and gunned down. Despite being heavily outnumbered, they had every intention to bring down the ResEs and all the people in charge of Safe Haven. Teto had a plan to do that. The smuggling operation was just a small part of that plan, right now he just needed more time.

February 22, 2011

Safe Haven - Mean Guy and the Rotting Cure

[...posted by Ted H]

I swear to God I hate doing the beginnings of stories. It takes me longer to do that part than any other section. This one was especially excruciating since I (sober) also had to keep asking myself "What would 3 drunk idiots say to each other right before work?"
Throw in how things have been a bit busy for me lately and youll understand why I havent been around for a week...my fantasy baseball team isnt drafting itself ya know*
Anyway, I got one more intro thing to labor through and then I can really get this thing rolling.

(*-actually, it can draft itself, but then Id have a crappy roster because the autodraft would give me overrated and useless players...and Miguel Cabreras drunken ass...and a pitching staff thatll rely on Raphael Soriano for saves. So in a way, my team cant draft itself, because my autodraft is a moron)



[Safe Haven - Mean Guy and the Rotting Cure]

Jake didn’t stay long. He rarely did. Patrick enjoyed the visits yet understood why they had to be so short, Jake wasn’t suppose to be here. He wasn’t suppose to be in the city. He was a Rogue, unwanted, banished. If the ResEs ever found out he frequented the church, Patrick would be in a world of trouble as well. That’s why Jake never says too much regarding how he gets into the city or what business he has, and Patrick never inquires.

Patrick resides inside a collapsing church, dresses like a priest and acts every bit of the part. There were no living priests left when he arrived to Safe Haven, and pretending to be one had given him purpose after he had already lost everything. It seemed awkward at first, but everyone eventually got used to the act. There were a few people he knew before that had survived with him and for the most part they accepted the role Patrick was filling. Jake had been different though. Jake knew him before the apocalypse and still to this day treated him the same as he had back then. No masked respect, no unanswerable questions about Gods will and certainly no discussions involving the bible. Patrick was still an atheist. He was merely placating to the masses, using his own sense of morality as a guide.

Jake knew this, and so Patrick felt less like a fraud when he was around. He wasn’t sure if it was the same with Jake. Rogues weren’t known to still keep any sort of personal relationships in Safe Haven, too risky, but Jake had made it a point to visit Patrick in the church as often as he could. Those visits had become more and more sporadic and Patrick was beginning to wonder if Jake was becoming jaded to his old predicament and accepting to his current one.

Jake had become to de facto navigator for the perilous trip to Safe Haven and had to make a lot of tough decisions along the way. Some necessary calls were made and some that were bad decisions with hind sight. Those who survived the trip suffering from survivors guilt began to harbor their anger towards him as a result. Afterwards, few remained close to Jake if not becoming downright hostile to him, and he eventually got himself kicked out of the city.

Today, the two men had talked about random events for a while before Jake had decided it was time to leave. On his way out the front doors he turned back and hesitated. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said “try not to die in the meantime.” This concerned Patrick, but Jake didn’t wait for a reaction and was gone. “Why would he say that?” he said as he was left alone. Being away for long stretches of time was nothing new for Jake. Was he going to go a longer stretch of time before returning? Were the Rogues not planning to enter the city anymore? Was Jake just playing around? Patrick had no answers, as usual, and he couldn’t fake his way to an appropriate answer.


“We have to go to work now,” Kyle said as he rushed to finish his glass. “Why you gotta rush that shit?” Nick asked as he remained in his relaxed, laid out position on a couch, beer in hand. “Why rush? This coming from a guy who chugged down his last three beers like he was about to die,” Brad said from across the room as he pulled out a fresh beer for himself and opened it. “It’s called filling the gas tank,” Nick said with a drunken chuckle.

“That made absolutely no sense.”

“Shut up…ya pirate.”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.”

“Well, I sure as hell can't work sober.”

Kyle, Nick and Brad were all best friends who met in college. Kyle was a big guy who spent more time upside down on a keg than he did in a school desk. Brad was usually right with Kyle at parties, if not in a shady hidden area smoking up weed whenever he had the dime to spare for it. Nick was a proud recipient of Affirmative Action despite spending as many days in juvenile incarcerations as he did in church. Brad and Kyle weren’t even sure if “Nick” was his real name since he claimed to avoid everything about his past since his parents were, as he put it, “fucking assholes and I hate them.” The three milked as much of the college experience as they could, though only Brad managed to graduate.

They all had trouble holding jobs in their post-college-pre-apocalypse lives and usually wasted their time at a local bar. So when the dead started walking again and society fell, they didn’t really lose out on much. They managed to survive and stuck close together even after making it to Safe Haven.

Kyle and Nick enrolled as Residential Enforcers to take advantage of the unique benefits provided. They were morally ambiguous and didn’t mind the perceived “bad guys” label that ResEs often get. Brad would have joined too, but he was injured during his journey to Safe Haven and was blinded in his right eye, which he keeps a makeshift eye patch over. Brad chose to instead work for the ResEs by providing inventory on seized contraband.

“Seized contraband” usually constituted weapons, drugs, alcohol and any other vice that Safe Haven deemed inappropriate. It originally was Brads job to record every item that was handed in and ensuring that it was promptly and properly destroyed. After a while though, when it became evident that there was no authority that would reprimand the ResEs, Brad would instead filter the items throughout the ranks as he saw fit, Nick and Kyle getting choice selection of coarse.

The three, like all ResEs, lived in the central Hub located in the center of Safe Haven. It was the only place in the city that ran electricity, or air conditioning or offered complete shelter from the elements. The energy was generated from solar panels on the roof of the Hub and the system it utilizes was never designed to power an entire city, so it was only used for the Hub which already provided a strain on the system.

The three lived in comfort in the Hub and only ventured into the city when their shifts as ResEs require them to. All ResEs were also required to patrol in the few hours after curfew started to ensure all inhabitants were off the streets. All were also required to check in via radio to command to ensure they were actually doing their jobs.

“Come on, seriously,” Kyle said as he walked over and smacked Nicks leg “You know how Janky likes to tattle.” Nick sighed and reluctantly rolled off the couch. “Fucking gimp,” he mumbled as Kyle passed him a rifle and a headset radio and the two marched down a staircase and into a hallway.

“Mean Guy and Rotting Cure reporting for duty,” Kyle said into his radio as the two walked out into the streets. Kyle always thought it was a mistake letting all the ResEs pick their own call signs. It beat the hell out of being called a number though, so he never complained.

“You guys seem to be late again, gonna have to report this,” the radio operator said back. “Fuck you, Janky,” Nick barked into his radio. “Chill out, dude,” Kyle said “At worst the boss man will bitch over the radio but don’t give this cripple the satisfaction of hearing you lose your temper.” Nick nodded then spoke into his radio again “True, and at least I can still walk.”

“Real fucking original,” Janky responded. “You’re so pathetic,” Nick continued “Even if you had both your legs, you still wouldn’t be able to kick any ass, let alone tap some.” Kyle tried to resist the urge to laugh at that one. “Could you guys stop bickering?” another enforcer said over the radio “There’s the one fucking channel we have here and I’d rather not listen to you two arguing all night.”

“Right, at least don‘t start this early,” Kyle said as Nick rolled his eyes. “Just check in on time next time,” Janky said “and remember, all units, we’ve got possible Rogues running around in the northwest sector,” Janky said, moving passed the harassments of Nick.

“Wanna go check it out?” Kyle asked. “Fucking right I wanna,” Nick responded “Either that or I hope we catch someone breaking curfew if you know what I mean.” Kyle smiled. Partnering up with Nick was trying at times, but it was rarely boring. “I’d rather find some Rogues cuz I heard some of them are interested in my early retirement special,” he said as he raised his rifle in the air.

“Knock, knock,” Nick said.

“Whose there?”

“Bunch of faggot ass Rogues wanting a fatal case of lead poisoning.” Both men laughed.

February 15, 2011

This is an untitled.

[... Posted by Ryan]

So yea. Back to posting poems. The idea of a sabbatical to focus on my stories didn't really do anything. My stories still aren't done and poems are just so amazingly fun. This one, well it's a little older. It's about heartbreak. This one was about me. Now I don't normally write poems about me, but this one needed to come out. And it's good, I think. So I'm posting it.



The fog of doubt,
Replaced the shadow of truth,
Your presence,
Once did prove,

The blinding sun,
Recedes and enlightens,
And in one moment,
I could feel my knees weaken,

Fog has turned solid,
And I can longer trust,
That the emotion once known,
Was ever more than lust,

What you renewed,
I refuse,
To grasp that which you imbued,

And stars guide my love,
Though, not alone,
I still look above for trails,
To lead me back to one,

I look back,
Cleansed of your influence,
And realize it was more fun,
Than anything of conscience,

Whole lies and no truths,
The base of all of our time,
But I never lied to you,
We could have been divine,

Return to the life you held previously,
And I shall remain in mine,
I hold steadily alone,
In a world of my own design,

Alone I mourn your indecision,
Your inability to let yourself be happy,
But you're free now, in your insecurity,
I won't be here for your convenience anymore.

Safe Haven - Sunset

[...posted by Ted H]

As promised, some motha fucking backstory.
A bit awkward, but once all the introductions are out of the way, it should all run smoother...


[Safe Haven - Sunset]

Cayra’s pace quickened as she made for the edge of the city. It was getting closer to curfew but she wanted to watch the sun set. She reached the last tall building before the walls and made her way inside. Before everything had gone to hell, this was an office building where unimportant people made money off the hard work of slightly less important people. No one knew what company the offices were for, everything had since been obliterated beyond recognition. No one would care either way if the building was in pristine condition because the building was too close to the edge of the city. No one bothered taking up residence inside for fear of being too close to where the zombies were. There were also some nights where you couldn’t get to sleep the moaning of the undead would get so loud.

Cayra entered and made her way up the main staircase all the way to the roof. There the high walls still towered overhead, but she could watch the sun set longer than any other person could. She found a nice place to sit and watched. It always felt tranquil, knowing that even though the apocalypse had seemingly swept across the world, life still went on. The sun still rose in the morning and set in the evening. Life went on, even if most humans on earth were dead. It also suggested that if somehow humanity were to overcome the undead, then it could also rebuild. As long as the sun kept rising, then there was still hope.

The sun began to creep behind the wall now. The giant walls surrounding the city are what make the last refuge of humanity, Safe Haven, so safe. They keep the undead out, and humanity in. Cayra often felt overwhelmed at the tremendous effort and cost it took her just to reach this place. She also felt selfish that despite the amount of people who died, she was among the fraction of the world that managed to survive. But above all else, she felt amazement that she could even feel so overwhelmed and selfish after 13 years.

13 years. It may have been that long, but Cayra always felt like it all happened recently. The initial infection, how so many people mysteriously died at random. There was no rhyme or reason to the infection. No trend, no common cause, nothing. Just one day, people started dying, then they would get up and start eating others. Then she remembered holding up in a small 2 bedroom apartment with well over a dozen people. It was there she had first heard about this place.

A place called Safe Haven, billed as the last refuge of humanity, had been erected in California and was welcoming as many living people as it could hold. Government protocols, barricaded houses and attempts to escape for the ocean were all shoddy if not doomed endeavors, but this Safe Haven offered what nowhere else could: unquestioned safety and a large and diverse amount of humanity to rebuild with.

There was no need for discussion, they needed to get there somehow. The only disagreement was over how soon. Some wanted to leave immediately, while the rest felt they needed to plan and prepare for the trip. Cayra was part of the group that wanted to wait, and it proved to be a smart choice. Of those people that left immediately, Cayra never saw any of them again. When her group finally made the trip, it was a race against time. Safe Haven was safe for entry at the time because of a small army holding off the dead while survivors flocked. To attempt entry after the men with guns retreated would’ve been suicide.

The journey to Safe Haven was a long and dangerous trip that Cayra doesn’t like to recall. Still, despite the cost and sacrifice, she had made the trip across the country to where Safe Haven was. Now 13 years later, while it’s still as safe as day one, it’s also a living hell. Because nowadays safety from the undead comes at the cost of humanity itself.

There are no weapons allowed in Safe Haven. Since there were no zombie to fight inside, the people in charge, the ones who funded and build the walls, deemed it unnecessary to own a weapon and banned them out of fear that people would use them against each other. Drugs and alcohol are also banned so that when humanity emerges from the apocalypse, they would be more perfect and vice free, or that was the idea at least.

People in the city are expected to stay in line. Early on, if someone caused too much trouble, the police force would toss them out into the wasteland. Now if someone becomes too unruley, it's easier to just deal with them in a more direct fashion, usually resulting with that person being shot. The police force are known as the Residential Enforcers, or “ResEs” and are the only people allowed to carry weapons. They were originally the remnants of the army that fought off the undead while Safe Haven was constructed. In order to swell the numbers of enforcers needed, non-military personnel were chosen to join. Eventually, the ResEs became deluded, no longer reflecting what they originally were. And when it was obvious that their superiors would turn a blind eye to their actions, the abuse of power was the next logical step.

There were two things to always be mindful of in Safe Haven: the potential for zombies, and how long you have until curfew. The purpose of a curfew was originally so the ResEs could more easily sweep through and deal with any undead that may have found a way in, or if any survivors were infected and managed to slip through early detection. Now the only thing to fear after dark are the ResEs themselves. If caught in the night by one, there was no telling what they might do with you. Rape, rifle target practice, beatings, or maybe they would “volunteer” you to be a guinea pig for the science team who were constantly trying new things to find a cure, or more effective way to combat the dead. Either way, few survive getting caught after curfew, and they usually wish they didn’t.

Cayra pushed these thoughts aside as the sun continued to creep further behind the wall. She got up and dusted herself off. “Another day and we’re still alive,” she said as she made for the stairs. It was time to get going, curfew was about to take over.

February 14, 2011

Kind of a Slam Poet

[... Posted by Ryan]

Well, this is kind of a slam poem. For those of you who don't know SLAM it's basically poetry meant to be spoken word. Poetry with true rhythm, great pentameter. And it has to express something worth saying out loud. Instead of picking a topic I just wrote... Until I couldn't think of anything else to write. But here goes.

"The Floor"

It’s where my jaw fell,
When I thought about a moment alone,
Where all that was empty,
Could possibly be full.
Like the once happy,
But now sad,
The once open,
But now mad,
Like the twang sound,
Of a country boy,
Who came home a city man,

Like the possibilities,
I once saw that are all gone,

Sprawling, Grasping, Clutching,
For one more handle,
To bear the reigns in,
Once more,
I’d like to clutch,
Shift it all on down to neutral,
And bring these horses to a calmer pace,

But it’s on the floor,
Where my jaw lies,
Where my surprise hides,
And why I can’t even seem to try,
But it shows blank in my eyes,
The way I think this will go tonight,

My thoughts of,
How the world goes,
Of how this poem flows,
And the wild passion throes,
Because who in the world knows?
I could be a reader, a rhymer,
A preacher, A tyrant,
And you’d all still say the same thing,
Because he’s a man without soul,
And you all want to know,
Who really truly knows,
Well that’s no one,
And that’s the truth,

So we’ll keep pain inside,
And remember all the lies,
That the world tends to spread as news,
And I’ll keep on the floor,
Because if you look for the clues,
You’ll see that the floor is the place,
When you ever want to displace,
Those feelings and thoughts of the blues,

February 11, 2011

Safe Haven - Intro pt.2

[...posted by Ted H]

Lil bit to finally end the intro sequence. Not much, but Ive been too busy gloating over the Super Bowl. I did some editing to this part to make it seem a little bit more serious than before.
Next time I shall provide some motha fucking backstory.


[Safe Haven - Intro pt.2]

Patrick continued to survey the continuing dilapidation of his church until a faint glow caught his eye in a corner in the back. The glow illuminated from a cigarette a man dressed in black was smoking. Their eyes locked for a moment before the man walked out from the shadows and into view. “You’ve been gone a while,” Patrick said as the man grabbed a toppled chair and walked over. “Been busy,” he said as he took a drag of his cigarette and placed the chair down backwards and sat down on it, resting his arms in front of him on the back of the chair.

“Busy killing?” Patrick asked as the man chuckled, smoke escaping from his mouth and nose as he tried to suppress a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “You believe in another way?” Patrick asked as he sat down on a nearby pew, pushing aside a tattered bible to make room. “They’re already dead,” The man responded “You can’t kill what’s already dead.”

“They are still people.”

“They were people.”

“Hmm…well what about the others that you’ve killed? The ones that still breathe.”

“They don’t count as people.”

“And who exactly put you in a position to decide that?”

“They did, when they made the same decision about me and everyone else in this city.”

Patrick stood up and distanced himself. “Did you come here to lecture?” he asked. The man took a final drag from his cigarette before putting it out. “Nah,” he said while flicking the butt away “Just some nice small talk.” Patrick shook his head. “Jake, you hate small talk.”

February 5, 2011

Safe Haven - Intro

[...posted by Ted H]

Aight, gonna post this then prolly drop off the face of the earth for a bit. Super Bowl tomorrow and my Packers are playing. Im either gonna be too euphoric for the next week to do any writing, or Im gonna shoot myself in the head out of misery.

Anyway, this time around Ive got the intro to one of my bigger current projects. Its 90% conversation which I enjoy cuz I get to be lazy while still establishing everything needed. I'm gonna keep commenting about it, the actual story is after.

I'm only posting the intro cuz it sets a certain mood and right after it introduces the 3rd character, the mood and conversation quickly shifts gears. So for now Imma cuttin the scene before that character gets introduced. Seriously, heres how it all would work:

-Intro-strait faced, serious mood.
-Still intro-bring up the zombies, maintain strait faced seriousness of it all
-3rd character introduced-strait faced becomes smirk, seriousness becomes "lol zombie apocalypse"

Not that thats a bad thing, but Id rather keep the conflicting tones distinct from one another before I merge them in future updates. Zombie [drama] stories are of the handle with care variety.
...and now for your feature presentation.


[Safe Haven - Intro pt.1]

“We’re all ready to die.”


“Everyone here could…should die today if they had to.”

“That’s a bit morbid.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Doesn’t change anything. I’m certainly not ready.”

“That depends. Do you grieve anymore?”

“I can’t grieve forever.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It doesn’t?”

“I wasn’t talking about Pete.”

“Who then?”

“Who? How bout the world. Billions upon billions of people. Do you grieve for them?”

“I could.”


“I’m all out of tears.”

“Is that why you stopped grieving for Pete?”

“Not just him. I cried for a lot of people. Everyone I knew, gone. You’re the last friend I have, Father.”

“Don’t call me that.”


“I’m sorry, its just…you know I only pretend to do this to help people…because all the real ones are dead.”

“We all know you pretend, Pat, but it doesn’t mean we still can’t accept you like the real thing.”

“Still though, we’re all ready to just die.”

“Because we don’t grieve?”

“Because we’re no longer affected by it. We’re used to the massive deaths on a daily basis. We’ve lost what made us human. We’re no better than those outside our walls.”

“The zombies?”

“If you have to acknowledge them, yes, the zombies. They’re us except they don’t have humility. Now we’re no better.”

“We have to name them something.”

“For what reason?”

“Psychological. People are less scared when their fear has an identity, a name.”

“You have a point, but these things already had names. They were regular people once. People we all knew and loved, now reduced to targets.”

“I should go.”

“To the graveyard?”


Cayra refused to answer and instead walked down from the alter where she and Patrick had been standing. “It’s getting late,” she said as she continued up the aisle and out the front doors, leaving Patrick alone. He looked out into the sky through a collapsed part of the roof to regard the setting sun. The church itself was in a sad condition and would rightfully be condemned and abandoned, yet every Sunday, Patrick puts on a mass to a full house of people. Some attend mass out of hope for the future, while the rest only attend out of routine because outside of the routines, there is nothing else to do in Safe Haven other than wait for the inevitable.

February 4, 2011

The Cowboy

[Posted by Allie]

Just a little something I've been playing with...

He may as well have donned a cowboy hat because the nickname stuck. He wasn't sure why at first. He didn't wear boots or anything you'd see a stereotypical cowboy wearing, but after a few days of people watching, he realized that this was a small town filled with high class people. No one wore jeans. They wore dress shoes or running shoes, khakis, skirts, and perfectly starched and ironed blouses and button down shirts. He was the one that looked like a person who handled horses on a day to day basis with his blue jeans that were worn white in some places, work boots, and white t-shirt. He heard someone remark that he may as well chew on a piece of straw. To him, Farm Boy would have been a better nickname.

The people here drank cosmopolitans and he sipped whiskey from a short glass. And tonight, that's just what he did. He sat in a small booth in the back corner of the bar with his glass and let the liquid warm him all the day down to his gut. He enjoyed the feeling. He only drank one, maybe two glasses, when he went into the bar every few nights, but it was enough for him to feel warm and relaxed. He liked to sip and watch. The people around him seemed nervous when they spotted him, they'd try to pretend they didn't see him. The glances cast his way were a sure sign the still knew he was there.

February 2, 2011


[Posted by Bree]

So, with this being my first post, don't hate too bad. I wrote this a long time ago but I wanted to atleast put something on here.


Fall out of love with me
It's the nights you cry yourself to sleep
That the days seem so long

Shame on me

This time I will drink your kiss
Please be kind; rewind
To a perfectly horrid summer
My heart
Your hands are stained liquid
A delicious crimson

My MacBeth you are not
Don't you ever call me your lady

Shame on me but shame on you.