Intro.

How the hell could I forget her name?
Rosie. An image of untamed beauty. Silky smooth skin and the fiercest gaze a man could ever lay eyes on. She had a body to rival even the most famed model. Yet she could never be as arrogant and proud. She was perfect in her own way. The jaws of men dangled, foaming with saliva, their pupils expanded with indulgence. She held sway over the hearts of everyone around her, yet she couldn't care less. To her we were children of her sermon. As she spoke to us we sat vigilantly at her feet, soaking in her words of poison. Her honey-glazed lips piercing and swollen, never creased in the corners. She had a smile to make your heart rise and beat wildy in your throat. Your veins froze at her touch.
She was not cold but quite the opposite. Warmth. Always warmth.
I hate her now. She was the rue of our clan. Our people followed her to eternal hellfire. A tomb of darkness and decay and hatred. Where our souls withered and turned to ash, calling out for a chance to redeem ourselves. Our chance came when the White Lights shown brightly on that Saturday afternoon. A cure for our gruel and grim state of imperfect immortality. No longer would we walk as ghouls-- but as the men and women we once were.
Rosie... Dear Rosie... I'll kill you someday.

I'd gladly be open to criticism. I'm not sure what kind of fanfic you all are use to, but for now I'd like everyone to read the Intro., tell me what you like or dislike, and whether or not I get enough responses will decide if I continue.

Well, that was interesting...
Not in a bad way, I like it, but It doesn't give much background story.
It kinda sounded like a poem.

Interesting, I want to see what Rosie was doing with ghouls and why she was there... :blink:

Not a poem ShadowStrike, an intro. But I'm glad you found it somewhat amusing. I guess I'll just have to write up a chapter or two before lights-out.

The Petal and the Thorn

It the mornings Rosie would wake and have an orchestra play outside the common house where we all stayed. It made our mornings buzz by. We'd all walk around slouched and drooling at the mouth, unaware of how her presence in our conscious was not only overpowering but satisfying. She was a drug in every way. After breakfast we'd make our way to the chapel, where crystal chandeliers hung and glinted off the flickering candles that adorned the inside of the room with an ominous glow. You felt as if you were lifted off the ground and carried up to the piers of the chapel to sit on the rafters with the pigeons, the music still floating up through the open glass windows and carrying on out into the church like a single drop of blood into water.

As soon as lunch was ready we'd head back into the common house and gather round a large wooden table with thirteen gloriously designed plates all spread out in a circle with savory food laid out beside them. Small paper cups with the Promise inside them were handed out to each of us but Rosie. She said her spirit and body were much too well adapted in the Old Ways for her to take the Promise.
Lies...
Had it not been a hallucinogen in our cups we'd have noticed how wretched the common house really was. Aside from being an abandoned crackhouse with no windows, no furniture and no electricity, it was located in the heart of D.C. Where all the cons and criminals took refuge from the White Light.
Yes, if we'd denied the contents of the cup, we'd have known Rosie was unsightly and disfigured. Her skin was parched and cracked, and in some places, left with opens sores that were riddled with infection. She had no use for lungs or a heart. Not as a ghoul.
If we'd avoided the drugs we'd have noticed how that heavenly music we were hearing had an occasional skip forward a few seconds or a sudden decrease in pitch as the old record player playing the music was disturbed by damage.

I know now the food we ate, which appeared as professionally made as possible, was nothing more than processed rat meat. We'd been living this life of imagined perfection. Rosie was the seed of our misconception. The false roots of our belief. The leaves that fed her lies. The stem of our guidance. The petal and the thorn.

You have a very colourful writing style.

well done, I look forward to reading the rest.

Back When Love Was Blind

Back when I once loved Rosie with ease, when her words to me were always soft and caring and promising of a future of peace-- We would go out and scavenge in old dumpsters, in capsized buildings, or toppled buses. What we were searching for was unclear. But these were the orders she gave us and we willingly unquestionably abided by them. We'd search during most of the morning and evenings while the sun still gave us sufficent light. During the night, on some special occasions when she'd be particularly delighted, we'd head out with flashlights, rummaging through litter and debris, or patrolling through abandoned yet mutant infested homes or markets.
I remember one day after we were released to go on our routine search, Rosie actually accompanied us. Thinking back on what I can remember of that day, she seemed so determined. She preached to us of the Old Ways. Back when a man and women could walk outside their home and announce how they hated their president, without fear of being shot or maimed. How each and every being, whether old or young, was given freedom of thought and speech. That each American as they were called, had their own set of rights. How the streets of D.C, while still a harbinger of violence, was free of mutation and radiation and war. She always preached to us of how she wished to bring back the Old Ways. That the White Light was the only resistance. Through the Promise we would transcend into sainthood, like her, and become of the Old Way. We would liberate the lost of their oblvious state of mind. We would unbind them from their shackles of oppression. We would bring the White Light down around itself and become a nation of prosperity and peace.
How sweet and promising her words were. It was so easy to believe her with a mind half-baked. So easy to believe in her words when my heart blinded me.

Very nice Dren. Easy to read but still gripping. :thumbsup:

I'm working on the remainder of the story now. Thanks

Great story! :goodjob:

Knocking On Death's Door

I remember collapsing on the chipped stone steps of the crackhouse, the raining beating down on my back as it whipped in from the west. My eyes were swollen shut and I kept tasting something metallic I can only label as my own blood. My breathing was rapid and even as I winced at the pain of my cracked rib. I rolled over onto my back, letting the steps dig into my spine as I layed there helpless.

"Oh, my word." she said. I remember hearing her feet patter down the steps as she knelt on the steps by my side and lifted my head. "You poor thing. What are you doing out here in the middle of D.C this late?"

That's all I can remember of the night.

I woke up two days later feeling like [censored] and suddenly aware I was in a warm, terribly ill-kempt, yet satisfying place. I never heard the voice in a competent state of mind again. Instead a lovely blonde girl came to my side daily with platters of food and nuka-cola to drain it down. I stayed in that same bed for three weeks, after the blonde women removed by bandages and declared me 'fit to fight'. I never saw her again.

I woke up the following morning with plans to leave after thanking the lady for treating me. We'd grown quite close over the short amount of time I knew her and I was curious where I could find her outside of the place I'd rested in for so long. She never came so I went curiously out into the hallway, realizing then I was in a torn-up little house with hardly no actual care done to or for it.

As I neared the exit and reached for the handle I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned with a jolt of surprise. Only to see it was her. Her glowing smile caused me to do the same. "I was just heading out. I'd like to thank you for treating me these past three weeks. And free of charge. I was just going to head out if..."
She interupted me briefly but poking her finger up and closing her eyes, motioning politely for silence. "Rosie told me to give you one last dose of medication before you leave."
"That's quite alright. I'm sure I can..."
"No. She insists. Please take it."
She smiled once more, persuading me to agree. "Oh, alright. I suppose one pill for the road couldn't hurt."
She reached into her nurses gown and retrieved a small white pill, opening her palm to show me.
I plucked it from her hand and popped it in my mouth, still determined to carry on with my original plan.

Oh how I wish I hadn't taken the damn pill then. If only I'd waited a bit longer.

After I took the pill and said my goodbyes, thanking her once again for the good treatment, I made my way out of the building and down the stone steps I'd collapsed on the night Rosie found me.
I'd almost forgotten how terrible D.C was as I glanced up from the sidewalk, seeing Tenpenny Tower nearly destroyed and monuments around it a testament to the carelessness of man.

We'd gone insane.