RANKS OF GLORY

RANKS OF GLORY

The buildings were red. Their roofs were black. They were uniform, and each reached to the twilight sky, with their eyes trained on the orange clouds and their faces turned away, in a manner of superiority, from the ground from whence they came. Select buildings had neon signs, advertising empty candy shops and drawing attention to a marquee with a desolate and overcast single box-office. The sun was always setting somewhere in between the high skyline, and the sky was always warm and simmering with orange and red and gold-gilded clouds. The outline of the ambitious regulars with their two or three black-framed windows apiece was hazy in the eye of the sun, and the twilight always seemed to swallow up the edges, giving the buildings an infinitely indefinite form.
On the gray, lifeless sidewalk underneath a flickering neon sign sat a boy. It was as if he was sitting apart from the sidewalk, though, on another planet which boasted life and energy. His face, though pale, was bright with possibility and his dark eyes were aglow with persistence. He sat only for a second, with his elbows on his beige shorts and his hands intertwined with his black hairs. His eyes were darting, and he was thinking, wondering where he'd look next. His leg was shaking, still only at his toes which were enshrouded in a red shoe. He wasn't sweating yet, but he sat up to wipe his forehead with his hand, as if preparing the slate for the cool profuse that was to seep from his pores onto his freckled face.
He lifted his head and beamed into the orange twilight. He turned around hurriedly and lunged for his vintage blue bike-- a Shoal700 with a petite frame and black handlebars, and handbrakes on both sides and flaking blue paint, that he had be given on his seventh birthday. He pushed the ground with his foot, alternating between left and right, using the lifeless, gray sidewalk to provide his bike the momentum it needed to drive him towards fascination and play.

The boy rode past the red buildings, returning their apathy with his eyes ahead on the black, lusterless, unmarked road. His bike wheels spun past the forest of red buildings that stood all by themselves; bodies with no intestines, eyes with no heart. There was nothing standing beneath the marquees, no feet planted on the gray sidewalk, no color other than red moving forwards and backwards in the boy's peripherals. And so he rode, on the main street, towards the Government.
The blue bike slowed down when it reached the center of the city, where the red buildings were even redder, and their noses turned higher to the air. The always-setting sun was snuffed out behind a wall of black roofs, and the twilight sky was only allowed to boast its dark orange tint.
The boy came to a halt, squeezing both handbrakes and letting his red shoes skid along the asphalt. His eyes were fixed on the divider between Government and all else; a solid black line that made everything in front of him darker than it was behind. He screwed up his face, thinking again, his eyes slightly dulled by the darkness that ran up walls and engulfed roads, and his skin a little paler as the color ran into the nothingness in front of him. He sat on his black bike seat; his toes planted gingerly on the ground and his face resting heavily in his hands. The air stirred slightly around him, growing impatient with his stillness, urging him to cut through its currents and pleasure it with the interaction that it had so missed.
However, the boy still sat with his toes planted gingerly on the ground, and his hands resting between strands of hair. His eyebrows were caved inwards, and his eyelids were closed over his eyes. He dropped one hand on the handlebar, and with a sigh, he released his eyes to embrace what was in front of him, and brought his hand to hold the other handlebar. His right hand played with the right handbrake, and with another sigh and a shake of his head, he lifelessly pushed his bike on his tip-toes towards the darkness.

He got off of his bike on the right side, and walked it forward. His steps were silent in the silence, broken only by the clicking sound of the gears of the bike finding their places in the grooves of the chain, working to perpetuate a joint relationship of pulling and grooving.

RANKS OF GLORY!

I'm going to write a animated film about Ranks of Glory. His name will probably have to be changed, but I am going to do it.

It is going to be about Ranklin', who lives in an awesome city of twilight called Oracle. The buildings are all tall and scarlet red, and have glowing neon signs EVRYWHARR. The sidewalks are pale gray, and grass is never seen. The only transportation on the empty streets are blue bicycles with black handlebars and rusty bike chains. The people of the city are tall men with black and white striped coats and top hats.

The city of Oracle was at war.
After his father finished his room...
He was dragged out of the house by soldiers.
His mouth was open, he was screaming.
Looking past his family with crazed eyes.
He had black hair and glasses.
Shot to father's fingers breaking wood off of door.

Ranks of Glory

Name and age?
Ranks Of Glory.
He's 13.

Nickname? Who gave it?
Ranklin'. His imaginary friend, Stuart.

What is most noticeable about your character’s appearance/physical presence? How does he or she feel about it?
He has large eyes, black hair, is 4'11" and very skinny; not really deserving of the name Ranks Of Glory.

Describe his or her voice, verbal ticks, pet phrases etc.
His voice is low, and he tends to apologize a lot. He frequently says, "too tired."

Describe a gesture your character makes.
He rubs his eyes too much.

Where does he or she now live? Describe the city, town or village, the house itself. Be very specific. It doesn’t have to be in Canada. Any feelings about this place?
He lives in a decrepit city filled with towering scarlet buildings. The sky is often orange, like twilight on an October day. The sidewalks are dry gray, and the city seems empty, but the streets are tread by grown men with black coats and top hats, and legs like stilts. Ranks can only see their chin. There are some buildings with luminous lights, advertising the nothingness inside of them. The only transportation in the city are old blue bicycles with rusty chains and black handlebar-grips. There are playgrounds and no schools.

Has s/he lived elsewhere? What does s/he remember of these places?
No. He's lived in Oracle his whole life.

What part of her home is her favourite? Least favourite? Why. Describe, using specific details.
His favorite part of his house is an add-on his dad made before he died. It's dark with black and white striped wallpaper. There's a ring of dull yellow and red light bulbs that runs around the walls. His imaginary friend Stuart stays in this room, sitting on a chair in the center. Ranklin' comes down to play with new things that Stu-ly, as he calls him, gives him each day. However, Stu-ly hides the things in the walls, under the carpet, under the desk, and sometimes outside, so that Ranklin' has to find them.

What does your character’s bedroom/sleeping place look like? (lots of detail please)
His bedroom has striped green wallpaper that's peeling, a dresser, and a night table with a lamp on it.

What does he or she wear to sleep in?
He wears a frog costume.

What does your character dream of at night?
He dreams of a sea of black-eyed cloaked and top-hatted men that his dad rides on until he's a skeleton. The sky is stormy, and the whole situation is black and white.

Who are/were her parents? Rest of family? What does she feel for them?

Class, ethnic group, religious background?

Who does s/he love, or has s/he loved? Or what. Detail.

Who loves him or her?

Married/ in relationship/single? Give names and specifics.

How does your character feel about sex/intimacy? What sexual relationship(s) is he or she involved in?

Exactly what does your character do to make a living (or in the case of a child, what do his/ her parents do; or in the case of independent wealth, how does he or she pass the time?)? How much does s/he earn? Feelings about work? What is the best part of the job, the worst?

Who or what does/he fear?

What about his or her life would he or she change if s/he could?

Does the character have a hobby? Secret passion? (Can be something ordinary like soccer playing or yoga classes or mountain biking or sewing or fixing up old trucks - or an unusual interest like some Greek poet from the third century, or collecting spiders, or walking the tightrope…

What would be his or her favourite smell ( why)?

What kind of shoes does he or she wear, (e.g. furry slippers or gumboot or trainers… new or old, style, what colour, fitting properly or too tight or too loose, nice and clean or old and smelly)? Describe exactly.

Favourite meal? Attitude to food?

Favourite clothes?

What is the worst thing that could happen to him or her right now?

What vehicles does your character use/own? (for example: bike, skateboard, truck, yacht, stroller, canoe, spaceship, battered pickup, etc.. please be as exact as possible). What are his/her feelings towards it/them. What kind of journeys does he or she make?

What is his or her most treasured possession?

What illnesses has he or she suffered, if any?

What’s his/her philosophy of life? For example’ You’ve got to look after Number 1’ or ‘Never say die’ or ‘Don’t ask for reasons.” What are his or her most strongly held beliefs?

What does he or she feel guilty about?

Biggest mistake ever made?

Best thing he/she ever did?

To Name a Few--

FUNNY

Corpin Loot
Lietzy Hachor
Chricke Algotor
Venerian Dzeez
Lisslelum Loliphag
Roitogog Blunderfoot
Pronk Piss
Tremmy Undergo
Sephilus Honmouth
Roran Vators
Sally Stupid
Riptide Maximum
Oral Tsects
Alexander Brumfield
Robbin Banks
Franklin Furters
Hillary Roddham Clinton
Lololollirollorumpus Smith
Potrusion Lociliiiii
Sombbbbb Rolaaaaa
Burns
Cloaca

SERIOUS

Stalin
Reginald
Regulus
Plato
Cecil
Aulio
Vespasian
Velerian
Corstogra
Inclistil
Romisto
Leonidas
Reinston
Glo
Danger
Candlejack
Toren
Khari
Soldad
Innovinivch
Ivan

OTHER

Portrine
Eckle Trimester
Forceable Cline
Trello Patrille
Linkol Telestom
Rorder Cloginator
Stayble Trainstation
Linkbtw Worldtimesandhistories
New York City
Coarse
Little League
Salad Bar
Reading Rainbow
Slug
Personal Trainer
Ranks of Glory

FAVS:

Ranks of Glory
Vespasian
Stayble Trainstation

Robots are together.

ROBOTS

These are robots
And these robots are together
These robots are probably coming from a dance
With other robots
And they were moving their arms
Their dials were most likely set to nothing
And the time moved on
Their legs never rust
And their faces are fixed
Before they were in the forest
They were probably in a bar
Drinking and laughing
And they’ll be drinking and laughing
In a bar forever
The robots are metal
And probably have metal hearts
These robots are male and female
And they’re together
As an item or as kin
Or as like-minded strangers
One might be concerned
And the other might be sighing
They’re both in the brambles of a jungle

Their car broke down
They are arguing because they are robots
The robots were probably coming from a dance
At a bar
Where they drank and laughed
The robots probably crashed
Being that they came from a bar
Laughing and dancing and drinking
The female is concerned
And the robots are in the bramble

These are robots
Their eyes are holes
There are two of them
And they are walking together
One is pivoting its body
Perhaps it’s going to look at the other
Perhaps it’s going to complain
Perhaps it’s moving; there’s an obstacle
Perhaps it’s sad
Their antennas are crisscrossed
Their signals are skewed
One is concerned
They’re dials are not synchronized
One is concerned
They are robots
And they are made out of scrap.

He awoke on a rack, naked with no hair on his body. There was a pink bow tied on the head of penis, and a scar running up the length of his abs. His windows were open, except, the opposite way so that the window was in closed position, but air was coming in from above it. There was a cooler on the floor with five bass lined up perfectly inside, and a knife on the door with a blank note stuck to it. His dresser was turned upside down, and the drawers were all in a pile in the corner of his room. There was a very large grandfather clock beside him, so close to him that is he stuck out his tongue, he'd touch the casing of the clock. It's terrible.

This is a story.

MAJOR CONFLICT: He was sexually harassing a girl at work, and was being penalized for it. However, in his twisted reality, he felt that his sexual harassment was a-okay.

MAIN CHARACTER: Is a retard. He has a problem with sexual desires, and feels that what he does is an expression of love, not, indeed, sexual harassment. He becomes angry at his boss and coworkers for thinking that he was just out for the sex/sexual acts, and decides to kill his boss and make his dead body watch as he performs an act of necrophilia on his “lover.”

MOST IMPORTANT SCENE: The most important scene is when the main character kills his boss and the woman he “loves,” and has sex with her corpse.

THEME: The word “love” is so twisted in a lot of cases, that some peoples’ view of how to express it are twisted as a product. It also an exaggeration (for the most part) of how far people will go to get other people to understand their beliefs/feelings. That, or people are sick. I don’t know. I’m bs’ing this assignment, Mr. Craddock.

SETTING: In an office.

The most unfortunate thing happened to me today. I lost my job. But it wasn’t the fact that I lost my job that upset me. In fact, I wanted to lose my job. It’s the manner in which I lost my job that upsets me. I loved a girl at work, which is fine, but I suppose that it’s when you express your love that you get in trouble. Love, in the work setting, is not perceived as love. It’s stripped down to the carnal desires of the thing. It’s called “sexual harassment” and has taboos around it. But I wanted to be with the girl that I loved. The only problem, I suppose, is that she didn’t love me.

Eventually, she told my boss about my love for her, which as I said, had all sorts of taboos around it. My boss came to talk to me about it. He reprimanded me for harassing her sexually. I didn’t try to correct him and tell him that I simply loved her. I took his talking to and didn’t mouth off or quit, because that wasn’t the manner in which I wanted to leave me job.

I still loved the girl at work. I suppose that even if I tried, I couldn’t stop loving her. Love is a complicated venture, which is embarrassed by the work environment. They make it seem so indecent, so sexually driven. They don’t see the beauty in it. They don’t realize that love is such a strong emotion, and that it can’t be restricted or contained.

It seemed that she became less and less taken by me. Sometimes afraid. I can’t imagine why.

She told the boss about my love for her again. My boss gave me a final warning, and told me that I was going to be fired the next time that he received a complaint. I was angry, but I kept my anger in. This wasn’t how I wanted to lose my job. However, this made me dislike my boss even more. I began to feel sorry for him, though. He probably didn’t have love. He probably didn’t know what love was, outside of prostitutes. Maybe this was why he stripped it down to only it’s carnal desires.

I wouldn’t see her for hours because she would be on lunch break twice and three times a day, or so it seemed. That or the other guys at work would stop me from approaching her. I resented them all for the disregard for love, and became sad because they all probably only dealt with prostitutes, and therefore only saw love for it’s carnal desires.

It came to the day when I decided to leave work. The girl that I loved was there, and I saw her, and the boss didn’t say anything to me. So I took out my gun and I shot her. And then I shot my boss. And then I loved her body and propped my boss up against the wall and made him watch. I wanted his eyes to understand the true meaning of love. It wasn’t carnal. It was gentle. It was beautiful.

One of the guys saw me loving her dead body and was startled. He shot me in the arm with my own gun three times and wrestled me out of the building where he called the police. This wasn’t how I wanted to leave work. I wanted to leave with their bodies, and teach my boss an eternal lesson about love.