User blog:RuckusQuantum/Something I want to share...

I told you that Underscore that I'll elaborate what I requested him: The deletion of my stories. Well, I think you might be surprised by what I had decided -- deleting all of my stories from the site -- but this...

I know guys, you might be confused, by I did this for my own good. My old stories are of mediocre quality, and I'm -- honestly and unpretentious -- aware of that. Some of you might have read it already. Were they any good? Were they up to the QS? (Maybe yes -- barely -- but still...) Were they worth wasting your time? I'll tell this; I want to keep this to myself: I hate my stories.

Yeah, you may think it's so dumb of me, but then I realize... Why should I write like this? My stories are of average quality, and admit that. Seeing those stories makes me cringe now. It has been... A year or two? And still, I'm stuck at development hell. These stories remind me of what I used to be, and I want these stories gone for good. I want to be better, better at writing.

You see, if you understand me, then good. I don't want people setting eyes on bad stories, or average quality, just like mine. I want people to read something worth reading, something beautifully written, something... better than "better"...

And deleting my stories is the first step to that -- it's my first step to improvement. I hope you guys understand me. It's for our own good.

TL; DR My stories are deleted, I'm moving on, and I want to write better.

Anyway, I'm now writing a novellete, titled The Labyrinth of Shadows. As the name implies, the setting is in a labyrinth. Read the prologue below. As I say, it's still unedited, so overlook the errors for now:

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Time to finish chapter 71." Fred looked away from his stainless-steel Rolex Daytona, picking up a 590-page red book from the side table. The book felt quite heavy on his hands, but he didn't mind, as that was his first Dan Brown novel. The Da Vinci Code, a mystery thriller so famous it had greatly offended the Catholic church, and stirred speculations and theories. I finally got my hands on you; you caused quite a controversy 10 years ago, he thought as his friend handed him the book.

"So. . . where are we?" he opened the book wide, and analyzed the chapter; he noticed a cryptic cursive text written on the lower part of the first page, "What the hell is this? Anyway. . . 'As the Hawker levelled of the ground, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon carefully lifted the rosewood box. . .'" He murmured the rest of the chapter.

It took him three minutes and seven seconds to finish the chapter, yet he look well fascinated, like he had just finished the Robert Langdon series. I should try it, he thought, pulling out a rectangular mirror from the drawer. He laid the mirror beside the cryptic text -- the reflective side facing the the text -- and read the text in the reflection. It was instantly readable; it's English.

"Lord, it does work," he interjected, almost shouting in amazement, "''An ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll, and helps us keep her scatter'd family whole, a headstone praised by Templars is the key, and atbash will reveal the truth to thee.' Oh Lord mercy, Da Vinci is really cool for inventing this."

He put the bookmark between page 394 and 395, and closed the book shut. He set the book on the side table, turned off the lamp, removed his glasses, and drifted off to sleep. The poem, it's iambic pentameter, probably; the stone head of Baphomet, idolized by Templars; atbash cipher -- A is Z, B is Y, C is X, and so on; when the plaintext "ATBASH CIPHER" is converted to ciphertext, it will appear as "ZGYZHS XRKSVI". But what is this scattered family thing? he thought, trying to fall asleep, but he couldn't stop thinking about the poem.

All of the sudden, a loud, shattering noise rang on his ears, instantly waking him up. Godforsaken stray cats again. Without hesitation, he fetched a long, green bamboo stick under his bed, and crept slowly out of the door. He didn't mind to put his glasses on -- he couldn't see a thing, anyway.

I'm tired of doing this. Only a faint, blue light from the window illuminated the place, barely enough to let him see. Tiptoeing his way downstairs, he heard an unnaturally loud meow. Is this even a cat? This one's a monster. Readying his dangerous stick, he strafed towards the couch, where the sound was coming from.

Crunch!

"Oww," he shrieked in pain; he had stumbled upon a shard of a porcelain vase, "this cat's a dead meat! That was a good 15 bucks." He ignored the small, deep, and bloody wound on his right foot, and swept the razor-sharp porcelain shards out if his way. Damn, this cat's creeping me out, he thought. Naturally, the meow might scare him -- the vigorously loud meow sounded it could scare everyone dead. Is this really a cat? But something was wrong. . . something he realized just now. It couldn't be. . . . He stopped moving for a while, and listened carefully to the meow for a whole minute. It sounds a bit robotic and jittery. . . he neared the sofa, readied his stick, and saw something he didn't expect to see, something that made his heart skip a beat. A.. . a. .. an iPhone?

Too late. All of the sudden, he felt a painful sting on his neck. The sting was too painful it made him fall down to his knees. A tall, black figure emerged from the shadows behind him, and walked towards him. Fred looked up on him, but he couldn't see anything, but two, red glowing dots. What is this? What does this mean? The figure tapped what looked like a syringe -- it seemed like a blurry, white blob -- and put it hastily inside his bag.

The shadow pulled something out of his pocket, and talked to it. "Our plan's successful, master. Let's wait until this man faints."

"Who are you?" Fred asked, struggling to stand up, only to be stopped by a head-splitting headache.

"Why do I need to tell you?" he said, "I am not obligated, anyway."

"Who are you?" Fred asked, finally able to stand up, but his vision blurred, and his ears rang, "What's happening? Why are you here? What have you done?"

He walked past me, and picked up the iPhone 6 on the floor. "That is a sedative. It would not kill you. And I need to tell you something," he stopped playing the meow tone, and threw the phone inside his bag, "the scattered family means the royal bloodline, the Merovingians, the Plantards and Saint-Clairs, the descendants of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Surprised, right?"

How did he know that? Fred fell down again. He couldn't move his body; he felt dead, restless, and helpless. Is he a human? The man's red glowing eyes looked down on him, obviously mocking at his vegetable body.

"I know everything, kid -- I know you are a genius. I can read everyone's minds," he bragged, "a minute more and you'll fall asleep. Don't worry, this is not kidnap for ransom -- I can buy this whole planet, honestly. I just want you to have fun for a while; you can play with my friends -- their names are Life and Death."

Nothing. Fred could do nothing. He lied there on the carpet, waiting as a the red-eyed man kicked the door open -- ultimately unhinging the door -- and motioned his hand mid-air, like he was calling someone in. Two people dressed in white shirt, white pants, and face mask came in abruptly, and carried Fred's almost-dead body. I can't feel anything. A black van with elegant Löwenhart rims pulled into the driveway, the doors suddenly sliding open. A matte-black Lamborghini Aventador LP700-4 coupé trailed the van. The two men threw him inside the van like he was utter garbage, and enclosed him right away. Tell me I'm dreaming. . . The events appeared to surreal for him, but he had no choice but to accept this as reality.

The silence inside the van helped him drift to sleep quickly. Fred did not want to, but he could not help closing his eyes. I need coffee. Just to stay awake, he could have hurt himself; it did not seem to work out. Slowly, his eyes turned heavy, and reluctantly, he fell asleep.