Deadbeat o3o
Dec 20, 2013
your local bag of chips (so much air in here!)
The children throwing rocks at him, he let out a low, multi-pitched moan like those of a whale. His sheer size was almost that of a whale, anyway. It made one question why children would confront him anyway; was it his usual sweet, docile nature? His meager social skills? Well, whatever it was, it made him a usual target for the antics of the bullies of small, desolate towns like these. 

Finally, he was driven to a peak. He lashed out, swinging around his limbs in his hovering position like the blades of a helicopter, purely a defensive move; he would never lay a foot on a fly. Despite his efforts, though, one of the rocks thrown at his chrome-finished abdomen reflected off of him and hit one of the children back. The parents of these children witnessed the whole event, and took out their rifles and started shooting at his massive, metallic midsection. After a gash to his legs, he let out a desperate, hopeless cry that, with its many pitches and dynamics, gave him the ability to fly into the distance while the parents and children covered their ears. 

Except for one; the child stricken by the rock did not get up. 

Overrun by conflicting fear and grief, he hovered to the top of a nearby hill, and decreed in his most prominent, protruding voice:

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I just wanted to be friends!"

But no one understood him; he sounded like that of a dying God; mournful, overcome by sadness, wrapped in a thick coat of pure, raw power. They'd rather go deaf than hear such a sorrowful serenade. 

Seeing that no one was aided by this hasty change of heart, he rushed into the largest nearby cave he could find to study his wounds. His thick, sturdy, elephant-like legs with their purple hue now confounded numerous gashes and bruises, bullet holes and scars. He looked into the reflective surface of his rather unusual, uh, midsection, and counted the numerous entry wounds from the bullets, the clusters of dents from the rocks and the shrapnel that lay on the floor beside him, frayed from the edges of the bullet holes. Then, he looked deeper to rear the reflection of his head; effected much the same as his legs and spattered with blood (I believe it was... What is that, rainbow colored?). His awkward, misshapen face housed numerous scars as well; this one from a Molotov cocktail, that one from a throwing spear. 

Which one of these wounds hurt the most?

You'd think that a weapon of this Earth could get through the tough, leathery hide and the thick, metallic midsection of this humongous creature? Ha! Try 5000 tons of sheer mass. No human-made weapon could penetrate the defenses of Flying To...

Shoot, maybe I spoke too soon. I digress. Any weapon wouldn't work against its thick build, but if you could look into the heart of this magnificent beast, you'd find that there's almost none left. A raisin, a walnut-sized raisin; shriveled, physically dried out from the true pain that comes from the rocks and the guns and the spears. All he's wanted, in his miserable existence, was a friend. But because of his wavered stance, his physical stature, his appearance, no one wanted to comfort someone so scary, so... Different. 

Well, maybe after a little bit of backstory, you can befriend the hulking mass of sadness that is the...


He's coming soon, folks! Ik it's been a LONG time, but if you still remember him you're officially slightly more amazing than a few seconds ago :D


Dec 16, 2013
Sydney, Australia
ankle_biter said:
I am sorry but I cannot help myself, when I first read remember and the genre was literature I thought about the : Remember Remember the 5th of November.
Actually, I thought the same thing but to the line of 'September' from Earth, Wind and Fire. 'Do you remember? The twenty-first night of September?'

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