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 Damn the Goldfields Altogether

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Little Monte

Little Monte

Number of posts : 15
Age : 26
Registration date : 2009-10-22

PostSubject: Damn the Goldfields Altogether   Sat Oct 24, 2009 7:03 pm

Edited. I think I corrected everything. If not please give him a shout and tell me. I'm bound to figure this out someday.

Damn the Goldfields Altogether

Some say that gold can make man do anything. That greed is the most powerful motivation in humanity’s horrific aggression and violent actions. Above the Tagish River, greed has driven men to the brink of becoming animals, as wild as the wolverine. Where the creeks shiver with cold and where the trails are dirtied by angst of those who desire the Midas Touch. Miners become bandits and bandits become murderers. In the end all north-men become the heathens that will be liberated by the fires of hell and warmly greeted by the Devil. God has no place above the 60th parallel; only those who are damned for gold.

A Minister, with no name, had initial intentions of bringing God to this frigid land, where the days wash over the nights. Though messengers of God become corrupted like fallen angels. He was sinless and had no need for the gold that drove the blasphemers to savagery. He canoed, hiked, and rode with the passion of the Cross in his heart and holiness running through his veins. Now he was the last of his kind. But now he was twisted and shaped of hate.

A fortnight ago the Minister was sitting in an old log church, built long before the gold rush. There, he and his brethren guarded a trinity and symbol of their faith. Ghosts of their ancestors claimed that Christ himself forged this holy trinity out of gold from the holy land. Word of this sacred gold reached the ears of the Gang, who had been running low on luck and ale. They needed a new source of income to fill their desires to pipes and whores. Stealing from the sinless seemed as easy as their women. Half a dozen bandits surrounded the church, executed all the ministers, and burned down their hallowed home. However, the last minister to be executed saw that God had forsaken him and his brothers to these madmen. He brought faith into his humanity. This man was, of course, The Minister. It is unknown how he escaped or what he did after. All that is known is that his heart was now filled with a cold hate and his gun holsters filled with cold steel and lead.

Walking alone, darkened under an old cowl, he haunted the muddied streets of a town at the Pass of Chilkoot. If you asked the Nameless Minister a fortnight ago, he would have claimed that pass was the pass to hell. Now he claims it’s the pass to personal revelation through bloodshed. People stared at the mysterious Father, but he did not glance back at the miners and adventurers. There time would soon come he thought.

Eventually he stood erect in front of a shady tavern that read “Lost Paradise.” From the inside he could hear the obnoxious laughter of the Gang. His heart began to beat harder and his veins began to swell with rage. Those men were no simple murderous bandits. They were demons dressed in hideous human flesh.

He gripped his cowl tighter against his head to prevent the northern Alaskan cold to chill his angry face. His hands brought his black cloak more tightly around his body. There was no turning back, he thought bitterly. I am my brother’s keeper. They shall know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.

The steps up to the tavern creaked under the weight of the Minister. He slowly pushed open the door, taking a quick glance inside before proceeding to enter. The small opening greeted him by the smoke of burning tobacco and a musky smell of unclean living.

Men sat down at tables smoking or drinking or both. Some of them had their whores sitting on their lap while playing cards, gambling their souls away. Everything in this tavern; liquor, cards, cigarettes, and prostitutes were all paid for by the money of murdered men and women.

None of these vile pleasures were paid for by what was stolen from the Minister. No, what he had was worth more than all the lives of the million miners in the Klondike. For it was sacred gold stolen from him and his deceased brethren.

The Minister entered the Tavern and was met with awkward stares by several of the outlaws seated. His hands were hidden underneath the black cloak that disguised the twin revolvers, which lusted for emptying their chambers into the hearts of the malevolent. He brushed past the hardened men and leaned up against the stained counter of the bar. The bar tender turned around revealing a raw scar stretched across the centre of his face. The Minister immediately recognized him. They met before. He was the one who gave the bartender that scar, still bloody from that fortnight ago.

Not recognizing the Minister from underneath his black cowl, he began to look at him questionably. Waiting for him to order a drink and exchange it for blood soaked gold. A single click from the hidden revolver underneath the Minister’s cloak was his answer. Followed by a loud bang.

Lead spun through the barrel of the pistol, ripped through the cloth of the Minister’s cloak, shattered through the wood of the counter, then finally ended its short journey by plunging into the throat of the bartender.

Blood poured from the entry the bullet made like a red curtain. The bartender pathetically tried to stop the bleeding with his hands. Before he could realize that it was hopeless he collapsed onto the stained wood counter, painting it a newer shade of red.

Every man in the tavern unsheathed their pistols and rifles and pointed them in chaotic directions, confused where the shooter was. Whores began crawling under tables like dogs. Before anyone could identify where the bullet came from, the Minister revealed himself.

He flung off his black coat, revealing the twin pistols that smiled with joy in the lamp light. One revolver was smoking like a woman smoking a cigarette after making love. Fire exploded from both barrels and several men went down nearly headless.

Guns blazed in panic from the outlaws. Lead rained through the tavern and puddles of blood formed. The Minister leaped over the counter for protection while unloading the remaining rounds from his steel twin revolvers into the chests of a couple of sinners. Vengeance from the innocent was overcoming the greed of the tyranny.

The crouched Minister grabbed a whisky bottle from under the counter, tied a cloth around the neck of it, and lit it on fire with a fallen candle. He peaked over the counter to see a potential target. A bullet screamed past, shattering the wood below his eye, launching a dozen splinters into it. Pain raged through him but did not outweigh his need for revenge. He hurled the flaming whisky bottle over the counter. A smirk formed over his blood soaked face as the bottle exploded and the sound of screaming echoed louder than the thunder of guns.

The Minister was now permanently blind in one eye but he was still determined to kill every son of a bitch that dared to commit the sins they did against him, against his brethren of the church.

Smoke began clouding the ceiling as red began flooding the floor. It was a Death’s bloody baptism of fire. The Minister knew that he better act fast or he’d be consumed by Satan’s fiery presence within the room. He looked desperately for a safe or anything that ironically protected valuables from thieves. Shots from rifles and pistols were still continuing from the men on the opposite side of the bar counter.

The Minister reloaded only one of his pistols and stood up, revealing himself from behind the counter. Half a dozen outlaws were hiding behind flipped over tables and wooden columns. A climax of the firefight occurred. Six outlaws for six bullets, resting patiently in the Minister’s gun. The odds were miraculous for him. An awesome storm of fire and lead brewed in the tavern. Blasts, bangs, and booms rang throughout the Klondike. It only lasted a handful of seconds but the moment in its entirety felt like an eternity in a nightmare.

Clicks from the Minister’s revolver told him he was holding an empty. The thunder from the steel of pistols and revolvers stopped. Only the crackling of the inferno and the infrequent moan of wounded men and whores lying on the ground now played through the tavern, like an orchestra performed by fallen angels. Alone, the Minister stood over his foes with a bleeding grin.

Smoke filled the lungs of the Minister forcing him to cough. Instead of spit and phlegm he spat blood. He felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen and gasped at the bullet hole tunneling through his stomach. All he could anticipate, now that his vengeance was complete, was a long and very painful death. When the holy man was still remained holy, he witnessed several people die from gangrene. The thought made him cringe with fear of the inevitable. But that’s the price one pays in a world judged by karma.

He ignored the throbbing pain in both his eye and his abdomen and proceeded to look for what was stolen from his brethren and himself. Shelves, drawers, and storage cupboards provided many potential hiding spots for the sacred gold. Clever bastards the Gang were. The hour glass was draining into the inferno of the tavern. The Minister needed to find his stolen gold or he’d become the charred dead. He violently began snapping cupboard doors off their hinges and thrusting drawers into the flames that consumed the tavern. Looking inside, the Minister found nothing but useless ale and food. Cursing his fortune, he continued to cough blood as the smoke began to augment.

Lumber and embers gave way, revealing a secret closet across the room. Inside the hidden closet was a wooden chest, with a golden-brown brass St. Andrew’s cross etched into it. Cowl now protecting his bleeding lungs from the gray haze, the Minister limped his way over to the secret closet. He walked through fire and flames, completely hypnotized by the essence of the chest that contained his brethren’s stolen gold. His legs were burned as black as his soul. Not fearing hell since he was experiencing more pain than could be expected by the Devil’s pitchfork. The sight of that chest made everything numb.

Collapsing in front of it, scorching embers sizzled their way into his knees. Sparks danced their way into his hair singing it and causing some of it to burn his scalp. None of this mattered to the dying minister. He had found what he had been looking for. His hands gripped the metal lock of the chest, which was so scalding it melted his palms, though he still continued to open it.

Inside the chest was the sacred gold, molded perfectly into a dragon. Cradling it like an infant child, he picked up the scaled beast up from the chest and tucked it under his leather belt. As he let go of the golden dragon, the revelation of all that he had physically suffered cursed him. Pain overwhelmed him like a charging avalanche. The Minister let out a horrific howl as he burst through the flaming door into the cool of the Klondike night. Flames from his body trailed after him as he ran madly out of the small miner’s town.

Through snow, mud, and ice he ran until he collapsed on the bank of a nameless creek. A morning sun teased the Klondike by slowly shining over an eastern hill. Smoke lifted from his body towards the heavens as though it were his soul. His shaking hand forced the golden dragon from his belt. Its lifeless eyes looked in nothingness. The very nothingness that it had on the world, yet so much was suffered from it.

The dying Minister crawled from the bank into the frigid waters of the nameless creek. There he would be carried downstream either dying from drowning, cold, or his wounds, it did not matter. His bitter limp hands let go of the golden dragon and it sunk to the bottom of the creek. He damned the journey, damned the track, damned the distance, there and back, he damned the sunshine, and damned the weather. Damn the goldfields altogether were his last thoughts as he stared at the trinity become swallowed by a dark abyss.

Last edited by Little Monte on Thu Oct 29, 2009 9:56 pm; edited 2 times in total (Reason for editing : The thousand nations of the mistake empire)
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root vegetable

root vegetable

Number of posts : 52
Age : 26
Registration date : 2009-01-26

PostSubject: Re: Damn the Goldfields Altogether   Sat Oct 24, 2009 11:57 pm

Finally posted something Chris, good job!

As previously mentioned; the grammar needs some work. Maybe more than some; we'll make it 'quite a bit of' instead Razz

I love the use of metaphors and the analogies. Lines like "All that is known is that his heart was now filled with a cold hate and his gun holsters filled with cold steel and lead." especially. you give great imagery to the story, and I personally picture a Clint Eastwood a la 'Gran Torino'-esque guy, with the badassery of Pulp Fiction's Jules as The Minister. (And the allusion; looooved it XD)

All in all, I think its got potential to be fucking WIN, once you learn some grammar rules and start applying them. And remembering that your audience is not in your brain, nor do they know what's going on in there (personally, I wouldn't want to even if I could), will make the story flow better, because it won't leave readers going "Wait... what?". But that'll come with practise. At the end of the day, this is a pretty sick first try. Keep it up.
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Dark S3cret
Dark S3cret

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PostSubject: Re: Damn the Goldfields Altogether   Sun Oct 25, 2009 6:00 pm

Lindsay, you spelt pratice wrong. Very Happy


First off I would like to say HOLY CRAP THIS IS PWNAGE. This story has POTENTIAL -- as Lindsay has pointed out. Your descriptions are so powerful it's waaay intense.

I especially loved this line:
But that’s the price one pays in a world judged by karma.
Not only because of the power in its simplicity, but the syntax sentence structure delivers the message so well. It's a kick-ass phrase.

Your ending was also awesome; the repitition of "Damn/[ed]" was very effective; partially because of how it almost parallels his dying -- spiralling into nothingness. But also because there's a strong feeling of desperation, and bitterness. A little ironic as well, that a holy man, a minister's last thoughts was to damn everything. Not to mention his actions, and his killing spree/quest for vengeance.

The only crit I have for you is basically what Lindsay already pointed out: you need to work on grammer/sentence structure. Some lines are golden, but I found that the story was riddled with mistakes, which reduces it's effectiveness and AWEsomeness a little. Very Happy
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Little Monte

Little Monte

Number of posts : 15
Age : 26
Registration date : 2009-10-22

PostSubject: Re: Damn the Goldfields Altogether   Sun Oct 25, 2009 7:46 pm

Thank you both very much for the criticism.
As Lindsay said I tend to think my audience is in my brain, which tends to cause several grammar mistakes and problems with sentence structure. Reading it over again I see where I made a lot of mistakes. I'll need to correct those sometime soon.

Thanks again for the very generous critique.
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Age : 25
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PostSubject: Re: Damn the Goldfields Altogether   Mon Oct 26, 2009 5:05 pm

I love this kind of a lot.

I envy your amazing use of imagery and metaphor - this piece is an explosion of wonderfulness in that regard. The character of the Minister was amazing. He was ironic, slightly hypocritical, and very believable. Smile The only thing I would pick on is keeping readability in mind - as Lindsey said, so that your audience doesn't go "Wait... what?" That's definitely something that you can work on, though.

I think your preference for screenplay writing benefits you, actually, even though you have to modify your style a bit. It makes your imagery like WOW. Very Happy
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