Nesto sto vam se desilo a ima veze sa natprirodnim?

stanje
Zatvorena za pisanje odgovora.
Sunshine, a zar ne mislis da vec postoje dve temice o istom??
Meni ne smeta tvoja tema, zato sto su mi takve priche interesantne, ali (ponovo, nisam zlonamerna) vec imas dosta materijala.
Razumem te u vezi horor prichice, ja sam ih napisala nekoliko, pa evo ti jedan savet:
Da bi pricha bila kvalitetna, bolje je da se posluzis sopstvenim strahom. Ako imas neku fobiju, ili blazi strah kada si bio dete, recimo(primer:necije ruke ispod kreveta, strah od budjenja pored jezive nepoznate osobe, koja sedi u tvom krevetu usred noci i posmatra te),ti to razradi i unesi izdetaljisane elemente, sve do tancina, naravno u trecem licu.
To je samo moj predlog, sta sad. Ili rewrite-uj neku vec poznatu narodnu legendu, ne moras nasu, mozes neku americku i slicno. Njihove su interesantne, a i mozes da okreces likove i elementu u pravcu koji zelis. :D
Postovacu ti neke dogadjaje koji su se dogadjali drugim ljudima sirom sveta, a mogu se naci na netu:) Mozda pomogne.
 
La Mala Hora
retold by
S. E. Schlosser

My friend Isabela called me one evening before dinner. She was sobbing as she told me that she and her husband Enrique were getting divorced. He had moved out of the house earlier that day and Isabela was distraught.


I called my husband, who was on a business trip in Chicago, and he agreed that I should go stay with Isabela for a few days to help her during this difficult time. I packed a small suitcase and got right into the car. It was late, and it would take me at least four hours to drive from my home to Sante Fe. Isabela was expecting me to arrive around midnight.

As I traveled down the dark, wet highway, I kept feeling chills, as if someone or something were watching me. I kept looking in the rear view mirror, and glancing into the back seat. No one was there. Don't be ridiculous, I told myself, wishing fervently that I was home in my bed instead of driving on a dark, rainy highway. There was almost no traffic, and I heartily wished that I would soon reach Sante Fe.

I turned off the highway just before I reached the city, and started down the side roads that led to Isabela's house. As I approached a small crossroads, I saw a woman step into the street directly in front of my car. I shrieked in fright and slammed on my brakes, praying I would miss her.

The car shuddered to a halt, and I looked frantically around for the woman. Then I saw her, right beside my window, looking in at me. She had the face of a demon, twisted, eyes glowing red, and short pointed teeth. I screamed as she leapt at my window, her clawed hands striking the glass. I put my foot down on the accelerator and the car leapt forward. For a few terrible moments, she ran along side the car, keeping up easily and striking at me again and again. Then she fell behind and in the rear view mirror I saw her growing taller and taller, until she was as large as a tree. Red light swirled around her like mist, and she pointed after me, her mouth moving though I could not make out the words. I jerked my attention back to the road, afraid what might happen to me if my car ran off the street.

I made it to Isabela's house in record time and flung myself out of the car, pounding on her door frantically and looking behind me to see if the demon-faced woman had followed me. Isabela came running to the door and let me in.

"Shut the door! Shut it!" I cried frantically, brushing past her into the safety of the house.

"Jane, what is wrong?" she asked, slamming the door shut. She grabbed my hand and led me into the living room. I sank onto the couch and started sobbing in fear and reaction. After several minutes, I managed to gasp out my story. Isabela gasped and said: "Are you sure you were at a crossroads when you saw her?"

I nodded, puzzled by her question.

"It must have been La malhora," Isabela said, wringing her hands.

"The bad hour?" I asked.

"This is bad, Jane. Very bad," Isabela cried. "La Malhora only appears at a crossroads when someone is going to die."

Ordinarily, I would have laughed at such a superstition, but the appearance of the demon-woman had shaken me. Isabela got me a cup of hot cocoa, brought my luggage in from the car, and sent me to bed. She was so concerned for me that she didn't once mention the divorce or Enrique.

I felt much better the next morning, but I could not shake the feeling of dread that grew within me all day. Neither of us mentioned La Malhora, but we were both thinking of her when I told Isabela that I wanted to go home. Isabela insisted on accompanying me. I flatly refused to drive after dark. I was afraid I would see the demon-woman again when I passed the crossroads.

We left the next morning, and we hadn't been home more than twenty minutes when a police car pulled into my driveway. I knew at once what it meant, and so did Isabella.

The officers spoke very gently to me, but nothing could soften the news. My husband had been mugged on the way back to his hotel after dinner last night. His body had not been found until this morning. He had been shot in the head and was killed instantly.
 
The Black Dog of Hanging Hills
retold by
S. E. Schlosser
He smiled as his sipped at his coffee. It had been an excellent hike. He was glad his friend had recommended coming to the Hanging Hills in Connecticut; not the first place that had come to his mind when considering a vacation. But it was beautiful here. When his friend arrived tomorrow they would tackle some of the more challenging terrain.
“Did you have a nice hike?” asked the innkeeper as she refilled his cup.
“Yes indeed. I had some unexpected company,” he said with a smile.
“Really? I thought you were the only one crazy enough to go hiking in the rain,” she teased.
“It was a little black dog,” he said. “Cute fellow. Followed me all the way up the mountain and down again.”
He looked up from his coffee to see the innkeeper’s face had gone pale.
“A black dog?” she asked. “That’s not good.”
“Why not?”
“We have a saying around here,” she replied. “’And if a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall die.’” He laughed. “That’s just superstition.”
“That’s what Mr. Pynchon said. He saw the black dog twice. The second time he saw the dog, the friend he was climbing with fell to his death. And later, Mr. Pynchon decided to climb the same mountain, and he died too. Everyone here believes he saw the dog just before he fell.”
“Nonsense. It was just a cute stray,” he said uneasily. She shrugged and took the coffee pot over to her other customers.
His friend arrived the next morning and they both laughed about the story of the black dog. They set out on their climb. About halfway up the mountain, he looked up and saw the black dog.
“There’s the dog,” he called to his friend.
And then his foot slipped and he plunged down the side of the hill, desperately grabbing at saplings and rocks, trying to halt his descent. It seemed to take forever for him to stop sliding. There was a stabbing pain in his leg. When he looked at it, his head swimming, it was bent at an odd angle. They had to send in a mountain rescue team to get him down. At the hospital, they told him his leg was broken in two places and he was very lucky it wasn’t worse.
“You know, that was a very strange fall,” said his friend uneasily. “You don’t really think it had anything to do with that black dog?”
He looked down at the cast that extended all the way up to his hip.
“I don’t know. But I don’t really want to find out. Next time, let’s go to Colorado.”
His friend agreed.
 
Who Calls?
(Cree Tribe)
retold by
S. E. Schlosser
By the time he finished his daily tasks, the light was failing. But everything he needed to accomplish before he made the journey to visit his betrothed was complete. He was eager to see his love, so he set out immediately, in spite of the growing darkness. He would paddle his canoe through the night and be with his beloved come the dawn.
The river sang softly to itself under the clear night sky. He glanced up through the trees, identifying certain favorite stars and chanting softly to himself, his thoughts all of her. Suddenly, he heard his named called out. He jerked back to awareness, halting his paddling and allowing the canoe to drift as he searched for the speaker.
"Who calls?" he asked in his native tongue, and then repeated the words in French: "Qu'Appelle?"
There was no response.
Deciding that he had imagined the incident, he took up his paddle and continued down the dark, murmuring rivers. A few moments later, he heard his name spoken again. It came from everywhere, and from nowhere, and something about the sound reminded him of his beloved. But of course, she could no be here in this empty place along the river. She was at home with her family.
"Who calls?" he asked in his native tongue, and then repeated the words in French: "Qu'Appelle?"
His words echoed back to him from the surrounding valley, echoing and reverberating. The sound faded away and he listened intently, but there was no response.
The breeze swirled around him, touching his hair and his face. For a moment, the touch was that of his beloved, his fair-one, and he closed his eyes and breathed deep of the perfumed air. Almost, he thought he heard her voice in his ear, whispering his name. Then the breeze died away, and he took up his paddle and continued his journey to the home of his love.
He arrived at dawn, and was met by his beloved's father. One look at the old warrior's face told him what had happened. His beloved, his fair one was gone. She had died during the night while he was journeying to her side. Her last words had been his name, uttered twice, just before she breathed her last.
He fell on his knees, weeping like a small child. Around him, the wind rose softly and swirled through his hair, across his cheek, as gentle as a touch. In his memory, he heard his beloved's voice, calling to him in the night. Finally, he rose, took the old warrior's arm and helped him back to his home.
To this day, travelers on the Qu'Appelle River can still hear the echo of the Cree warrior's voice as he reaches out to the spirit of his beloved, crying: "Qu'Appelle? Who calls?"



P.S. ZNAM DA JE NA ENGLESKOM, ALI PROSTO ME JE MRZELO DA PREVODIM OVOLIKE TEXTOVE :D All in all, ove tri prichice su mi bile interesantne, imas dosta tipicnih horor motiva, pa pogledaj da li ti je nesto zanimljivo.
Takodje, procitaj knjige "San letnje noci" i "Ukleta zima", dosta ce ti pomoci pri pisanju.
 
Evo sta se meni natprirodno sada desava.

Imam vizije skore buducnosti.

Vidim moda po imenu ser Oxim. Vidim napushavanje autora teme od istog, sto naravno zdusno podrzavam.

Vidim itog istog autora, koji misli da iskoristi ovu temu za svoje interese, ne misleci pri tome da to vec sve ima ovde. Vidim tu ljenguzu kako otvara novu zbog svog cilja, zanemarujuci sve ostalo sto je napisano.

Vidim i celi sf team kako bojkotuje temu, jer je njihov voljeni clan, Mr Sal, imao viziju buducnosti ove teme.

I na kraju, imam natprirodni feeling materijalizacije katanca, koji ce svojim duhovnim mocima mag ove teme, ser Oxim, da implementira u okviru velikog LOCK-a iste.....naravno uz grohotno smejanje celog spiritualnog sveta, koji je nevidjiv za svet Sci-Fi-a....
:):):)

Inace, V.K, dobrodosao u nas mali kutak SF-a, gde se pici samo SF....:):):)
 
Obersturmfuehrer:
ja sam predvideo 11 septembar...imam i svedoke...
2-3 dana pre toga sam rekao - u al je dosadno, nesto veliko ce se desiti....imam i svedoke...

Dan pre nego sto je ckalja umro, pricala sam sa drugaricom bas nesto o njemu, u fazonu kao:"kakva slucajnost sto je on rodjen prvog aprila", i ona mi je rekla:"Ma, dobar je on glumac, ali nece ni on dugo".
I sutradan...ode Ckalja :( Devojka se prenerazila kada je cula. Mislim, sve je to puka slucajnost, ali od sada tri puta razmislja pre nego sto nesto kaze... :lol: :lol: :lol:
 
stanje
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