Young Writers Society

The world is wild. It always has been. For the small town of Sherwood, this is a long-accepted fact.

But life is easy. People are happy, most of the time. They gather in "The Broken Barrel" saloon to socialize and share gossip. They often get drunk and stay up well in the night, sometimes having fights under the light of the full moon. From time to time, even petty conflicts can turn into vicious duels, and the townspeople get another chance to use their guns.

More often than not, these conflicts end with blood. The people are wounded, well-placed holes flourishing inside their bodies. However, nanobots of various brands, that are present in everyone's bloodstream, tirelessly work to heal and preserve the injured combatants long enough for the ambulance to arrive and fully restore them. Furthermore, the sixshooters possess built-in guiding systems that always aim well away from the chips implanted in every person's head. It is impossible to kill a person with a gun. Duels never end with death.

But on a cold autumn morning, the sheriff is alerted. A body is discovered riddled with gunshot wounds, one of which is to the person's head. It is unclear how the gun's safety measures were disabled, as well as why the person's nanobots weren’t activated.

The very next day a duel goes south, and another gun's safety fails to work, shooting a woman in her left eye, killing her before she could blink with her right one. Upon examination, the gun is not the same one that caused the body from the day before.

You are either one of the townspeople, or a new arrival in the town who plans on staying a while. You are somehow connected to the mystery, though you might not even know it.

The world is wild, but you're a part of it.





The world is mainly modern and somewhat futuristic, with the advanced medical technology being one of the few things setting it forward. Since it's become increasingly difficult to die of non-natural causes, it's socially acceptable to have duels and to display violence. The people use sixshooters only because it's trendy and stylish, so there are also all kinds of weapons available to the average person.

Vehicles run on electricity which is produced via solar panels, so fuel is incredibly cheap. This allows for everyone to have a vehicle of their own, making (motor)bikes the most popular means of transportation. There are energy wells the bikes can "drink" from scattered all over the country, so getting around isn't much of a problem, especially considering that bikes are built to also work well on all kinds of rough terrain.

The people of Sherwood get what they need from a mall on a highway not far from town, but they don't hang out there. They spend most of their time in the town's saloon, which is an establishment that has cheap but excellent accommodation, serves as a restaurant, and also has a backyard stadium for various performances of arts and sports that all the townspeople can partake in.






You are free to create whatever character you want. You are allowed to kill your own characters whenever you desire, but if you wish to have another person's character do the deed, you will have to ask them for permission. If you are bored with your character, you are always free to start a new one.

(Character suggestions: Sheriff, deputy, saloon keeper, local gang member.)

Curtis Wainwright - @Lumi
Shane Rigley - @Savvy
Wolfgang Lariviere - @Wolfical
Samantha Lariviere - @Wolfical
Sheriff Hank Holdy - @Persistence

Code: Select all

[b]Name: [/b]
[b]Age: [/b]
[b]Gender: [/b]
[b]Appearance: [/b]
[b]Personality: [/b]
[b]Other: [/b]

"Hold it right there!" the sheriff exclaimed. His squinting, green eyes met with those of Billy Hawk, who reacted with a similar gaze. The vape loosely hung from Billy's mouth, unleashing a stray scent of some exotic herb he had likely bought on one of his trips abroad. The entire room descended into silence. The sheriff glanced to his left: his deputy Shane Rigley stood ready by his side. He glanced to the right: the armorer Curtis Wainwright looked more inclined to side with Billy.

Sheriff Holdy noticed Billy's untrusting eyes as they fixated on his hand, which he slowly lowered towards his belt and his mock-leather holster. Billy's fingers twitched uneasily, and he curled up his brows to fight the drop of sweat that slid to enter his eye.

And the sweat drop finally won. He blinked, just as Holdy made his move. The sheriff thrust his hand downward, and reached inside his pocket. He pulled out his wallet. "Ya think I won't pay up just because I'm Sheriff?" he said and handed Billy Hawk a twenty-dollar bill.

"Nah, you don’t have to, Hank." Billy smiled over the table covered with cards, dice and empty bottles. "It was a friendly game anyway. Besides, I'm celebratin'. And I buyin' every one of you a drink for my new deal with Wolfteck International!" The overall silence stopped as people cheered and wooed as loudly as they could.

Hank Holdy nodded. "Much obliged, Billy." He then put the wallet back in his pocket and sat himself back down.

Billy poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a sip. "Say, Sheriff. What do ya say about a good-old-fashioned duel? I ain't had one in over a year."

"I'll have to take a pass on that one," the sheriff replied. "It's more paperwork than it's worth."

"Oh, come on, Hank." Billy winked. "You can have your deputy do it. You won't be able to, anyway." He took another sip of his whiskey.

"Billy-boy, I haven't lost a duel since that George thing. You don't stand a chance."

"Ya sure about that? Ya sure you ain't gotten rusty? Me – I'm as shiny as my gun barrel, Hank. And my gun barrel is pretty damn shiny."

The sheriff squinted again. "You're on."

Everyone stood up and surrounded the two men, whispering. The saloon keeper quickly slid the table away and made sure nobody stood behind either combatant.

The sheriff unbuttoned his holster, and Billy Hawk did the same. "Ya ready?" Billy asked. The sheriff nodded.

They stared at each other, Billy's finger twitching nervously, another drop of sweat running down his forehead. The sheriff inhaled. He quickly thrust downward and grabbed the handle of his gun, a split second before his opponent did. As he raised it, he placed his finger on the trigger. He shot once before he aimed, hitting Billy in his thigh.

Billy took longer to line up his shot, but his shiny barrel fired into Hank Holdy's stomach.

The sheriff was pushed back as he felt the bullet go through and out of him. He shot Billy in his shoulder, then in his chest, then in his shoulder again until he could no longer hold his weapon. Billy dropped to the clean saloon floor, wetting it with his blood.

The sheriff chuckled and sat on the floor himself. "Just like old times."

Billy laughed through his coughing pain. "You got me good," he spoke wearily, blood oozing through his mouth.

A noise was heard from the wall, which opened, and a pair of small drones dispatched and flew for either man. As soon as they reached their wounds their metallic bodies opened, revealing a dozen different tools guided by tiny pistons. They glued themselves to the men's wounds and put themselves to work. Another pair of drones dispatched from another side and headed for Billy's other wounds.

The sheriff got up, the drone still working on his belly. The anesthetic had kicked in already. "Take care of this, will ya?" he said to his deputy. "And, Deputy? Why do you look like a tree?"

"Sheriff!" Wolfgang Lariviere burst into the saloon. "Sheriff! There's been a murder."

Curtis Wainwright

"Wellllll damn," said Curtis to no one in particular in the crowd gathering around the Rigley farmhouse.

Lil' Chastity, properly named for her age and not her mind for the neurotic and perverse, rode up on her bike and dismounted, the engineheart still runningpounding. "Are the rumors true, y'all?" She took off her hat and put it to her chest. "Did Diane really--"

"Ain't polite to talk about those who can't hear, Miss Evans." chastised Curtis.

"Then it's true," she said. Her tears welled. "This is gonna break the heart of every mother's child in town, I swear it." She pondered for a moment. "I wonder if anyone'll be willing to be tested for broken heart syndrome..."

It was then, when Curtis had turned his head down to give the girl a stern glance, that he noticed a friend of hers had come along with her--newer of a face, without a name. He cleared his throat. "My apologies, ma'am. I'm Mr. Wainwright, an Ammosmith by trade...but by the looks of things, likely an armorer by nightfall." He sighed. "The Sheriff and his boys ain't come out yet, but from the hen-peckin', I can gather that it was Deputy Rigley's sister-in-law alright. Most precious soul in the whole damned town. Always bought ammo that made kissin' noises when they hit."

Samantha and her husband were within earshot. "A pity if you ask me," she said. "I much prefer the ones that play out music. Such art in dueling! A six shooter! To pick only six notes!" She nearly swooned.

Her husband raised an eyebrow. "You're certainly taking Diane's passing rather swimmingly, dear. Perhaps you should put on a grim face for the rest of the town."

"I'll put on a grim face when one of those bullets takes out my piano, sweetie." She patronizingly patted him on the cheek.

Curtis let out a deep sigh. "Out of curiosity, with the boys in brown inside this long and the stench of blood obvious in the air, how many of you will want body armor?"

Wolfgang raised his hand, but the three ladies did not. Curtis grinned. "Grand. Samantha?"

"Yes, Old Shaggy Flashbang?"

"Tell the Sheriff I'll be in my shop if he needs my statement, though I was at the tavern with him at the time of the incident, so...there's that." He climbed on his motorcycle and revved the engine into the distance of town.

Wolfgang Lariviere

A substantial powdering of dust from Curtis' motorcycle settled on Wolfgang's impromptu funeral attire. He didn't notice it, due to his wandering mind, until Samantha started swatting at his chest irritably.

"Folks ought to roll out before they rev," she said. "How preposterous of him!"

Wolfgang agreed, and pointed out the dust on her own black dress. "He got you too, dear."

Before Samantha could utter a complaint, the door of the farmhouse creaked open and they saw Shane Rigley framed in the doorway. For a moment, Wolfgang wished dearly for that armor Curtis was talking about. Shane's chest was heaving, and his eyes smouldered with the reflected orange glow of the sky. His six-shooter was stuck haphazardly in his belt.

When Shane saw that the only people left outside were Wolfgang and Samantha, however, he calmed down a bit. He even cracked a half-hearted smile. "Was kind of y'all to stop by," he said.

Samantha hurriedly patted down the front of her dress. "Is there anything you need from us, honey? We'd be glad to head down to the store and get something for you."

"Naw, you don't need to do that," Shane said, closing the door behind him. "But for Charles' sake, I would like something."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to hear first-hand what happened to his wife. Guess you two're the perfect pair to ask, as I heard you was the one who reported it, Mister Lariviere."

"Unfortunately, yes," Wolfgang said. "Was something I never want to see again, poor thing."

Shane sat himself down on the top step of the porch. He looked to be pretty exhausted. "Tell it to me straight," he said.

Wolfgang rubbed his dusty pants nervously, and gave his wife a somberly-expectant look. "You're the talker, dear," is what his perpetually frowning eyebrows said.

Samantha sighed. "Wolf and I were on our way to the Broken Barrel in the early evening," she said, clasping the wooden stair post, "for yet another night of piano and gambling."

Wolfgang remembered the new tie he had chosen to wear. It was crisp and white. In a few hours, it would be blotched with red. He'd lean over to inspect the body, and the tie would slip from his suit, and brush against her bloodied cheek. He would pull back, but the blood would have already ignited on the fabric, and would spread like scarlet flames on the white, blazing and burning and eating up the tie, until it would reach his neck and choke him in a burning noose.

"Isn't that right, Wolf?" Samantha was saying.

"Oh? Oh, yes dear." Wolfgang reached up and loosened his tie a fraction of an inch.

She caught the bothered look in his eye and continued the narrative without question. "By then a handful of folks started gathering 'round the body. Wolf had a mind to check her pulse, as he told me, but when he leaned down all he did was get his tie red. With that we hurried on helter-skelter to the Broken Barrel, knowing the sheriff'd be there."

Wolfgang figured he must've missed a good part of the story when he had zoned out. He hadn't heard Samantha speak of the cloud of buzzing flies that had drawn their attention to the dusty alleyway where Diane lay. He hadn't heard her describe the utter shock of seeing sticky, dried blood caked to to the ground, or the gaping black holes in her body and in her head, devoid of joyful little nanobots but affluent in blood.

"Thank you, Miss Lariviere," Shane said. "I appreciate your telling me everything."

"That's all we got, honey," Samantha said. "You'd best find that that terrible creature that kilt her."

A few moments of silence passed before Shane uttered, "It was gonna be her birthday tomorrow." He shook his head and went inside, closing the creaky door behind him.

A spark went off in Wolfgang's heart at that moment, and for several seconds he stared off into the orange sky, fuming in anger. Then he turned back, reached for Samantha's arm, and pulled her towards him, holding onto her tightly.

"You ain't gonna be in no more duels, you hear me?"

She tried to pull away, toward the motorcycles. "Wolfgang, you listen to me -"

"No." He held her to his chest, tighter, and kissed the top of her head. "You'll be wearing Curtis' armor, too."

"Armor is hardly fashionable, dear."

"I find death less so, don't you think? Diane was darned ugly when I last saw her."

The night was turning cold, but Wolfgang didn't want to let his wife go. He was scared that she'd flit away and flicker from sight and then spiral down into some lonesome alleyway, her feathers bloodied with bullet holes.

Raehcal Cuppford

Her birthday was the least important thing on her mind. When the evening sunlight had shone through, Raechal's window, she didn't expect anyone to come up and wish her a 'happy birthday'. Nor, did she expect a crowd of people below her window, screaming and crying out "someone's been murdered!" on the top of their lungs. It didn't surprise her nonetheless make her happy to know that a member of the town had been killed. Maybe it was the nightmare she had recently. Predicting nonsense that made her brain hurt.
Raechal reluctantly sat up in her bed. Church bell were ringing, warning the townspeople. She yawned, catching it midway with a fist. Blinking a couple of times, Raechal stared out the window. She could see the saloon, her horse Charlie tied to one of the stacks, and Old Man Jared sitting. His hat was coming over his eyes, protecting him from the sun. He looked ancient with wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon and skin like rich caramel.
Raechal pushed her feet in their position, resting them now on the cold, wood floor. A small piece of her wanted to stay asleep, forgetting about the town. The drama. Herself. However, this wasn't the case. During the evening, the saloon was the busiest. If she didn't open the saloon, well... broken bottles and blood would be involved. Plus, the fine of Raechal paying for the damage. In the first place, it wasn't even hers. Her grandpa died years ago and only left the saloon and couple hundred dollars lying about. Raechal didn't care much about the money, so instead of saving it for something important, she gave it to her "sister" Raven, who moved to Washington.
Moving around the house while half asleep is not the brightest idea Raechal has had. Her brain had tried to chug down coffee, only smoldered her memory functions of last night. It had "fueled" some tea and dry biscuits for breakfast. Raechal yawned once more, stopping one step at a time to do so. Her brain felt foggy and moist; a swamp. As she reached downstairs, sunlight was the brightest here, creating patches of yellow and dust on the hardwood floor. She enjoyed the sunlight. It gave some form of hope and disaster. Healing and burning.
Raechal stopped in front of a mirror by the stairs, looking into it. Her steel colored eyes looked stormy, gazing off into the distance of some far-fetched memory. Her strawberry blonde hair was tangled and knotted, a pain to brush latter on. She lazily raised a finger to count her freckles, a game her father would play. It brought back painful memories. A stirring inside her heart that sparked hatred between her and the family.
Stepping into the kitchen, Raechal grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. While it was on the stove, I could get dressed, she thought wearily. The workday had already seemed to go slow. Like a turtle in the desert. The heat was unbearable, even for Raechal. Luckily enough, she had air conditioning, which most of the locals didn't have.
She hurried up the steps, skipping two at time. As she neared the top, her pinky toe stubbed against the corner of the wall.

"Cheese harpies," she muttered angrily. It was a great start to a birthday. Stubbing her toe. What else could possibly go wrong? The lights were flickering down the hallway. She sighed. The power company had repeatedly told her that the monthly payment for the electricity was coming up. Of course, Raechal promised to pay it. Eventually. Now, every once and awhile, her lights would flicker.
Entering her room, there was a faint wind moving the pink curtains slightly. Her bed wasn't made. Pillows were on the floor; how they were was a mystery to Raechal. Her closet was half open, thought nothing was inside of it. Her clothes were inside of a brown and faded suitcase that laid to the left of her bed. Unzipping the suitcase, Raechal threw assortment of clothes on the floor. Checkered shirts, jeans with oil stains, torn pages from books, and t-shirts of all colors.
She settled on a pink checkered shirt and faded green jeans. Looking in the mirror, Raechal tied back her hair. Downstairs, the kettle squealed. For a few moments, Raechal saw herself in the mirror. Her true self.
Shaking her head, she headed downstairs, ready to start the new workday.

The sun was high in the sky when Raechal stepped outside. People sat under the shade while fanning themselves and only took notice at Raechal when she stepped out. Then continued on a conversation or staring off into space. The town had settled down after the shooting but some form of "false improvada" had taken over. Raechal could hear the tiny whispers of the people.

"They went in with guns blazing. Poor Martha couldn't handle it."

"What about the store owner? The fire must've ignited a flame in him. Didn't he go in there but got shot himself?"

"I guess so but for all I know, the police inspectors are looking in the wrong place."

There were a group of reporters around the saloon door when she reached the doors. A stand-off.

"Can I help you?" Raechal asked while crossing her arms.

The reporters turned around and flocked to her like a moths to a flame.

"Do you know the suspect?"

"How long has the saloon been open?"

"Where were you when the shot was heard?"

Raechal frowned. "I have to open up this saloon in... five minutes so would the lot of you move out the way." The reporters stood still.

"I don't know about the shootings. I only know the sound. Now, excuse me." She narrowed her eyes. The infamous "steel eyes" look she was known for. The reporters hesitantly moved out of the way as Raechal open the swinging saloon doors.
People were already inside, writing on clipboards and nodding. A bunch of fish, in my opinion, Raechal thought. To avoid any other form of attention, she stepped through the side doors of the bar and headed towards the back room. A thin boy with green eyes and sandy hair was staring off at a flickering TV screen.

"Raf, why you here?"

"The shot. That's why. The people out there are poking around and I'd hate to see if they'd get it wrong." Raf sighed.

Raechal sat in a creaky chair in front of a poker table. "Why?"

"Reasons."

Raechal was already fuming with impatience. "What 'reasons'?"

Raf turned around. A crestfallen look shaped his eyes. "It was someone I knew. That's why. And I'd hate to see if they get it wrong."

James

The familiar hum of his motorbike filled his ears as he approached the town of Sherwood. He hoped that despite its size, that it would be somewhat peaceful, but he knew he shouldn't really be hoping for much of that at all. People liked shootouts, and drama, and action, and that kind of culture wasn't going to change any time soon, no matter how cynical or hopeful he may be. Still, he preffered the quiet life if he could have it. (He can't.)

As he rolled into town, he began to slow down, since he didn't really fancy spraying up dust all over the place, even though people weren't exactly crowding the streets. But this way he could take in the sights. He could observe a bit before really interacting, and before really connecting with the town. It wasn't like he was going to research the town since he was in the simplest terms, a casual traveler, but any smart man would try to understand the culture and ways of an individual town, even if he was just passing through.

Speaking of which, everyone looked... downtrodden. Worried, sad, and for some reason, there were reporters? Searching for answers?

He slowed down in front of the Saloon, parking in front of a few miffed reporters with clipboards and notes. It looked like they just got a door slammed in their face, but that didn't stop his curiosity. He reached out for one of them, snapping a finger to grab their attention.

"Ey. What's going on? What are all of ya'll doing here?"

The reporter raised a brow. "You haven't heard? There's been a murder! Right here in Sherwood!"

James's eyes widened in disbelief. It wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely. "How did they die?" It just didn't make sense. Nanobots existed just to prevent this sort of thing. Surely it wasn't a murder. It had to be something else.

"They got shot up all over! And the nanobots didn't work!" The reporter shook his head. "The poor gal."

James backed away a few steps, beginning to seriously reconsider if he should just leave the town and travel straight through it if there really was a murderer on the loose. "Oh." Was all he said in response before turning away and hopping on his bike again. He glanced back at the story hungry reporters and then out at the gloomy looking residents buzzing (gloomily) about the town.

Aw, whatever.

It wasn't like the murderer was a serial killer, right? He wasn't likely to be a target of their villainy. And in any case, he could handle himself without a gun. He didn't need it. Decisively stepping off his bike, he passed the reporters and entered the just-opened Saloon. He got a room, pocketed the key, and eagerly ordered a hearty breakfast that he began to down with the speed of a starving teenage boy.