MxM A General Thread, - The Road || Literate

[AssenttothisorRage]

This post will necessarily be short because most of the plot is you-dependent. That said, there are some things. All the stories below are archetypically the same, - so if you're not fond of a few, the rest are unlikely to interest you and I appreciate your time. That said, what are they about? Broadly speaking, I'm interested in writing about people going places that they shouldn't be in; be this a physical, proverbial, or patent space. What does this mean in practice? In practice, it means the elder orphaned in panhandle towns, criminal drinking and stairway pasts. Things and people that can both be graves and corridors to something else through a single dense, internal network. Migrants, soldiers, sailors, and clergy taking to whatever frontier proved to them closest and the least like the homes they are leaving. Additional details to follow. Who is writing what? I am, - hello, - I write multi-paragraph posts and play many characters concurrently. I ask that you do roughly the same and keep track of everyone everywhere until we agree to call it quits. I have no attachment to any style or characteristic of writing and, so, welcome any writings or writers provided they do justice enough to whatever they are writing about. The most important thing to me in a plot is a consistent response, - and so I offer that and expect it in turn. It's not a job and I won't be anal about it, but please understand I'll post you posts with the real hope that they'll be sent back to me with something new and fun, and done so regularly. And the rest doesn't matter that much, so the stories themselves are below.

Underfoot and there it was

There's an iron cruiser at Point Harbor coming on up the river, - and the river has proved itself broad and wide, and a proud opponent to the ship. As fatal as its defense had proven, the battleship advances. Along that river rides a runner with news for the church and state of the town soon to face an invasion. While Rosalera had been lawless, fighting on the desert range had brought both the law and also the rail onto the shanty port. The town is bracing itself. A local garrison has been set up to sandbag and prepare a fort, - the army is an effective, inefficient thing with an uncredible history in the area. A church has been raised over the well to bring this earth-end onto a system, - the church itself has been split open by a central altar struggle. And Arizona Rangers have begun upon the hills where old gold running routes become mines. Overall, a bad time to steal in or steal out and many are coming to fact. The town, avoiding the cancerous growth of a railway node, had been a regional spoke of banditry and refuge for the better turn of a century. As difficult realities begin to assert themselves, some will certainly stay and others will certainly go and this is where our story is. There are a few characters I've got in mind and you're welcome to change them with yours:

- Cash Montez, local well-digger and pipe-layer who had come here to flee conscription. He is medically exempt, but an unfortunate history of labor agitation meant that fact was overlooked and the warrant's out for him. Pillar of a bridge, known cheat, and the most honest man in town. Hard to arrest without shooting the place down.

- Kissel "California" Key, rich brood born on the west coast. Violent history in uniform and regarded by many medals. Sent to organize the town's defense and pacify the people. Not unkind, but willing to kill someone before he lets them become like him. Internal military drama, - deciding what and how he's willing to give up or give in to to keep the peace. He has a mission and also a heart.

- Sutherland U., quartermaster with the Road and Rail service, corrupt to his molars. Beloved by his wife and hated by the fleet. In charge of balancing company interests with the substantial working population being pumped into the town. Old acquaintance of Key. Dirty person. Deep pockets.

- Grace Asci, pastor sent to Rosalera. Regards her fate as punishment for something that she did. Unfond of the people here but purposeful anyway. In a careful relation with the prostitutes of the town, trying to nurse her covenant into becoming something better than a bottle.

Your characters (suggestions):

- The sheriff and the banditry ! Three major factions are plenty enough for me, so whether or not you want to lean into this is entirely up to you.

- Enemy sailor, - not a perspective I'm currently considering but one that could be fun to contrast.

- Townsfolk, ranch hands, barn raisers, merchants. People making scrupulous livings out where they ended up. Lots of room in this.

Overall, a political story with a preferred romantic air to it between any of the choices above. I would like to tailor each character individually, so don't worry about the specifics here. This is a slow burn plot. This story takes place around 1919, - in an alternate setting based off the American Southwest. Imagine a conflict roughly analogous to the Great War; you're welcome to fight in it.

Missing my denizen from somewhere

He's not very good at this and doesn't pretend otherwise. Elijah drove off to his college and drove right past his turn when it came up. He stopped only to get gas and then drove more until Maine was miles behind him and the next station miles ahead. While he's passing through Wissecesset up in central Idaho (bugs !), he meets an unfortunate man who lets him use the motel's shower and puts a price down on his name, because he's got a package he needs to take west. The two head off together. This story is character driven and will depend largely on flashbacks and so forth. The two characters as they are now are roughly sketched as:

- Elijah, - former inmate, unclear act, a young man but only but. His family loved him quite a fault and he got away alright and took a gap year that became six after getting into trouble over some moderately serious bullshit. After finally setting himself up for uni, he ends up fleeing his home state and drifts out wherever the wheels go.

- Marshall, - comparative history professor. Divorcee, on a fact finding trip. Generally in Idaho to cause trouble with some smugglers of stolen museum pieces. Misses his wife bitterly but will settle for more and less. Driven by the notion of education, - Vietnam veteran.

This story is sometime in the 80s. Takes place wherever whenever.

Shortly (not today)

Breaking one rule means following ten because we always look past failures but cannot unsee faults; the only difference between the two involves irregularity. Sasha is a policeman in Chicago right around the time of the riots. He's a strike breaker, a poor man, and a general bribe-taking piece of shit without too much comfort or hatred in or for the world. Boozehound, which is how he meets his people. Gets into a heated row one night with a few orderlies who trash him and then realize he's a cop. He, for the first time in his times, has to beg for his life at the hands of another and is fundamentally fucked by the experience. Joins the National Guard, begins a crime-cleaning sweep. It turns out shooting people you don't like is easy and all, but explaining away a string of badge shootings at various labor conferences isn't all that simple. Faced with the prospect of an investigation, Sasha begins to spiral and must choose between giving it up or giving it in, - you know, assenting to it or raging? Like the name? This whole thing and thing?
Here, your (suggested) character choices are more numerous than anything I can really summarize, so I think spheres of perspective will prove more interesting than individual faces.
Play (if you will):

- A striker

- The good cops, the worse cops

- Media or made figures

- Persons relevant (family?)

The pleasant suffer what they will

It's about time to call it quits, - but we don't kid ourselves. Oryol, - Isha, Kostin, Mateusz? - is a Hungarian gun runner stealing from the state. It is 1989, most things are collapsing, and the stocks of nations built on oppressing themselves are open. Oryol has been at it a while. His latest lucration has been transporting ammunition down into the Balkans where it is sure to be put to good use against people willing and unwilling to fight. It's eating him up inside and, for a caustic turn, he doesn't care. He lived his early life in poverty and won't go back to it even at human expense. He is neither alone nor unique in a business sold unto people. Oryol is joined by Gabor and Karsel, - each with their own ties to the place they are feeding shells to.

- Oryol is already explained and largely unclear to me, - but I know I do want him to be and so would like to leave his past largely undefined until something makes sense in-vivo.

- Gabor, literary man. Very fond of reading and chivalry. Somewhat evil when you aren't looking and plain boastful if you are. An alright person in a strange place with a strange conviction to the belief that they are going to hell, - so why bother? Closest to Oryol.

Karsel, - Danish daughter of a banker. Arrived for a bureaucratic posting and ended up underpaid and bored. The principle financer and broker for Oryol, and deeply invested in seeing him either fail or follow through on his promise to turn the planet into a minefield.

This one is darker than the rest, and the theme of morality is most central to the development of the characters. You can pick any of the personage presented or introduce your own. There's space.

More plots ! More else ! All elsewhere. All ours. These are only outlines. Ultimately speaking, I ask you approach each of these ideas with an initiative because things are boring in the mirror. Some of these stories are geared to be romantic and others are not, - let it be known to you that I prefer to write predominantly homosexual pairings. This applies solely to romantic and sexual interactions had between characters and nowhere else. I'm alright and eager for sex to serve some component of the story, but it is by no means promised within. And we will discuss this case-by-case.

I usually play anthropomorphic characters in most of my plots as they make it easier to toe the line between themed periods and historical fiction, - because, to be clear, these stories are NOT meant to be authentic, descriptive, or genuinely representative of any particular places or times and are not to be approached as anything close to realistic, and the anthro factor plays into that. There exists a vast truth to every decade that I am not nearly educated enough to approach, and intend for every aspect of these writings to sensitively reflect that. These are all our stories; not their stories. This is important to remember. That said, human characters are fine by me, - preference still withstanding.

And, that also said, expect dark subjects that vary by story. I'm sure most of it is inferential, but there is a clear discussion to be had prior about what you're ready and not ready to write about. I'm comfotrable with most graphic content, as long as its not purely sexual in nature.
If you care, I care and that's about it. The rest is(n't) history.
I don't mind OOC chatter, if that's what you're here for. I like to talk.

Here are my writing samples:

Sample 1, - Underfoot

Only one ship left harbor that day and her name was the MARIA, - the letters were not there anymore but most townsmen knew her by name. The women of Rosales, - fleeing the Mojave sun, - ducked under their storefront awnings when they heard her growling by. Turning from her as though she were a whore and they pictures of faith themselves. Unrighteous and still pure by choice. That was important: by choice. The MARIA had laid anchor last night and sailed out again at sunrise without crew or cargo aboard. Her sardine traps were all tied up and the sea was grey and deep beneath where the sand bank blended into a black bottom, and a storm was quickly forming. At the mouth of the river inlet, - not at the port but right nearby, - an iron battleship was listing and he was fierce and tall. His masts, with their ruby eyes and electrical ears panned out over the mountains. Shadows casting shadows over the eclectic water. A contingent of marines was boarded there and crouched in its belly, singing, marching. Soldier songs filled the street. Montez, squinting under his hat could only just see it swaying softly. Side to side, he was a slow dancer and went where the waters took him. The cruiser was named the Condor.
"Bad for business. Totally damn loud, Ought to pack it up, pack it in." Arabel complained. Her hands on her quilted lap. "And cheap. They don't pay those soldiers nothing and they chase all those who do."
"We should go in, Miss,"
"Paws off me," Arabel stopped Cash. Standing from the seaside bench as dust shook off her fur. "Won't stop me from getting some sun."
Cash shifted on his feet. Pressing his heels deep against the leather of his soles. Happy to have the ground beneath him as the seawall and the sea made love, - dirty, crying love. Mud mixed into the inlet where the Rio river slathered. "Sure. But it'll rain soon."
"I know that."
It would. Clouds were gathering. A dry wind whispered over the main street to replace the voices that deserted it. The town today was empty although it was a Tuesday, - and, apart from a father counting his ledgers nobody bothered them or passed them. Cash put a hand up to his throat, massaging the soft collar to work some blood back into his body. It had begun to pool in his head from the killing rhythm of the ships.
"Damned loudly. Makes people real frightful. You talk to Uncle Yeshum about it and you'll right see why, - but you're young and don't know why. And that's awfully damn sad as well."
"Don't swear, Miss."
"I employ you." Arabel murmured. "I could throw you into this sea."
Cash nodded along. He knew all this.
"But you wouldn't."
"And why not, you?"
"Bad for business."
"Damn right." She took up her knotted blanket. While the bear was fond of detracting Cash she did not detract the weather and when it proved Cash correct she was all but ready to go. The white stones in the street hummed. The heat a century had sown in them had begun to spiral out. Rising like ribbons of smoke unseen and felt. Cash adjusted his holster.
"Let's go?"
"Yes, Cash. Go."

....

And the congregation, - small for now, but satisfied, - sat alarmed short row on row to the thunder inside the church and out. Their minds minced between the thoughts of Spring harvest and salvation soon approaching a fiery speech before them. Where lightning pummeled the hills about them Zane's voice struck on their ears. There were a dozen and none the same and too unclean to be educated, - but they were there and that was a first. A lone marine stood guard at the gate and was a better sentinel than God, - for God could bring to him sad souls but could not keep them out from where they might turn altars and cause trouble. Most of the men in Rosales knew the Church for its grain bank. Give a man a dole of grain and he'll only pray when he's hungry, - so those arriving without their Sunday hats and wears on were told to return better dressed. Jackal, - Jack, - stood with a Winchester tightly to his chest. As soon as the first drop of rain fell he'd have cause to go inside. But, for now, he hung back, his chin over the gunstock. Watching someone approach.

"Hello. You're not from here."

A tall cat said. Jack the soldier nodded.

"I'm not. Corporal Allan, fourth Marine. Are you coming to see the Priest?"

"The who?"

Jack blinked.

"The priest. This is a Church. Do you know what a Church is?"

"Yes. You kill Christ inside one."

Jack fidgeted with his helmet. He had only been with the pastor shortly but knew his patience was hard. What he would do to these townfolk, what these townfolk would do to him, Jack did not want to know.

"Where'd you hear that from?"

"Mama said so."

"Sure. Come on in inside."

Jack trailed in after him with a burning, blunt wet spot on his snout. Far down the hill, Cash rushed. Now that Arabel was safely away, he tore off for his third work down by the afternoon barset. He figured he should wash off and dress first, but the emptiness of the town promised that the saloon was full. The Keep would be wanting him there. Distantly, the simple wooden skeleton of the Church glowed redhot and white with its windows, some of the first real glass in town. A cruel noise sounded over the streets as a bolt hit the Condor and sparked it brutal and bright. With his head still hurting, Cash ducked away as the sea grew angrier.

"How's it outside, soldier?"

"You shouldn't talk during a sermon." Jack explained to an old man. Moved and somewhat astounded by the ignorance of the town. It filled his heart with good feeling that he was helping them, the helpless.

"But is it raining?"

"Yes."

Jack looked up. The pastor stared at him.

Sample 2, - Homosexuals ... Older style

There were a time where Isle touched others and allowed their wonderful warmth to waste for it was bright and deep outside, and the sun was also rising. Their hands were on his as steady and as unamusing as the pines, stood too straight to have any fun, a now thing passed between them (here) and them (out there) of some selfish call for comfort. Now, Isle treasured it. He curled his hand around the heat that rolled into his palm, pressing it to his shoulder where Ulric’s body had met his and, so, where it had been had. Not even Faroque dared something as simple as that; they, isolates of an equal world, preserving their doles of soul with blood first and then distance foremost. Isle could taste the sweat and smell the man whom to him had given a gift, a touch. He blinked slowly.

“Why?”

The bandage was rough even through cloth, but the wound did not burn anymore. The dull ache of a clean wound covered it. As pain rinsed through his chest, Isle blinked around in a sink-stupor. Seeing only a strange place and a strange man and smelling the strong smell of run-off blood. An agony phantom.

“Why would you, - ?”

And he did not understand. Isle's lips pursed deeply, the room slowly shifting over itself to accommodate the warmth of the oven. The dust on the floor shivered with a wind. Names scattered like marbles between the hum, people Isle had once known who also smelt of blood. Whose insides were like watery flowers from the broad ends of cannons, petals strewn out over gardens. The fall of footsteps down long halls and smoke-smells from the stone library. Isle blinked and it was gone, as though they had always been impermanent. The outstretched wrists, Ulric’s eyes faced forward, it felt ridiculous. Red splotches clawed Isle's eyes.

“Your word is your word?”

The tenor hung. The cot creaked as Isle sat on it, kicking his bag under the bed and throwing the weapon over to Ulric.

“Suit yourself, then. You promised.”

He wanted silence. Only silence, necessarily. Wiping off the felt from his face, he tossed his tunic off and worked it into something akin to a pillow. Steadying himself on the edge of there.

"Let's see how you like it.