Menu

Welcome!

Sonic Fan Games HQ is the largest resource for Sonic the Hedgehog fan gaming on the web and home to SAGE, the annual Sonic Amatuer Games Expo! We specialize in engines, sprites, music, gameplay, levels, gimmicks, the whole eight yards! Got a project you want to show off? Need some help with your game? Or maybe you just want to connect with creators and fans alike! No matter why you're here, hit that register button below to join the fun and start creating today!

  1. Hey Guest!

    We just updated our SFGHQ Rules & Guidelines. Give them a read, it might just save your life!

    Dismiss Notice
  2. Hey Guest!

    Our pals from the SHC are going to be running the Sonic Hacking Contest a little later this year, a bit after SAGE! You should totally check it out by clicking here!

    Dismiss Notice

Story [SERIES] STAR-CROSSED

Discussion in 'Creation Labs' started by Clouder, Jan 16, 2018.

  1. Clouder

    Clouder The one and only

    • Messages: 48
    • Likes Received: 25
    [​IMG]
    Hello, all! I have the beginnings of a new story for you! I’d rather not give you that much info just yet, so dig in!

    Note: I will tell you that this story takes place during a time when some words were thrown around a lot more often. To capture accuracy in the dialogue, some of these words may show up later. You have been warned.

    Here’s the first chapter:
    The room was almost pitch black, illuminated by two lights. One was the light of a crackling fireplace, and the other? The glowing end of a cigarette, planted between the lips of Art Oswald, young film director. Despite this limited light, the man sat in front of the fire in a large leather recliner, quietly reading a book as a jazz record crooned love songs around him. Bookcases lined his study walls, except for one solitary telephone sandwiched between two of them. These shelves contained nothing but classic literature from all over the world, neatly organized in a library some guests said rivaled Alexandria’s. Despite this vast trove of knowledge around him, Art had engrossed himself in How To Win Friends and Influence People, a newer book than some of the classics in his library. As his slender fingers were about to turn the next page, Art’s phone began to ring. He let out an annoyed grunt as he forced himself up from his chair. He shuffled over to the phone, snatching it away from its hook.


    “Congratulations, Oswald! The Scorned’s Wail won the Oscar for Best Picture.” Art recognized the cheery voice of his producer, Howard White.

    That’s what you called me for?” barked Art, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth.

    “Well… yes, I’d thought you’d like to know,” sputtered White. “Your third Oscar at your age, well, that’s just plain impressive!”


    “And I could not care less about what some random suits think about my work! Not to mention you ruined my reflection time for that drivel! Good night, Mr. White!” Art slammed the phone back on its hook. Art made sure to deliver a good stamp to the cigarette, burning a hole in his Persian rug, before returning to his faithful post in front of the fireplace. He lit another cigarette and returned to his book. That was the life of Art Oswald. When not feverishly capturing one of his wonderous stories on screen, he preferred the quiet solitude of his study over the brilliant flashiness of the Hollywood lifestyle. Art drew another burdened puff of his cigarette before closing the book. He rose up again and placed the book in its on the vast shelf. But instead of picking up a novel or any of the famed writings in his collection, he opted for a small, worn scrapbook wedged in between Think and Grow Rich and Alice in Wonderland.

    The scrapbook was bound with rough leather and had no label on any part of the cover. Art returned to his chair and opened the book. A single business card fluttered to the ground. One would expect such an old, well-worn scrapbook to contain many a photograph, but this one was almost empty!

    There was only one ragged photograph sandwiched between the last page and the cover. It featured two little boys, both no more around the age of five or six, in front of a farm. The one on the left had messy raven hair, obscured by a large cap, and was tanned from hard play outside. He was donned in a simple white shirt and shorts held up by suspenders. The boy on the right, however, was an African-American boy with curly black hair and a dark complexion to match. His outfit was a less glamorous pair of patched-up denim overalls. Despite their differences, the boys had an arm around each other, grinning widely for the camera. Art took out the photo and stared at it intently before drawing his attention to the small business card now laying on the floor.

    “JACK J. SCHULTZ — PROFESSIONAL PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR,” declared the card. Art picked up the card and looked at the back, where he found a phone number. He might be just the help I need, Art thought to himself. He made his way over to the telephone, and began to dial.

    “Hello, is this Mr. Shultz? Yes, this is Art Oswald. No, I don’t care about the Oscar— I’d like to meet with you about a special matter, not blather on about award ceremonies, okay!? How does tonight at Angel’s Alley sound?”




    Angel’s Alley was a bustling nightclub, frequented by Hollywood’s elite. On stage, a composer played one of his award-winning showtunes, accompanied by an actress with the voice of a songbird. On another end of the dimly lit club, several actors engaged each other in spirited games of billiards. Finally, there was the bar, where rowdy men celebrated their new Academy Awards with a few beers.

    Art sat alone at the bar, making sure there were at least five seats between him and anyone else. He quietly sipped from a glass of wine, gazing at the photograph still in his hand. Deep in thought, he felt someone take a seat next to him. He turned an ireful gaze upwards to see who dared to enter his lonesome presence. His gaze met one pair of crooked, spectacled eyes that gazed back. Those eyes belonged to a rather goofy looking man with a bushy mustache compared to Art’s neatly groomed strip of hair. And to top it all off, the man had a brilliant crown of brown, curly hair.

    This man extended his hand towards Art. “Jack Shultz, P.P.I.. You rang, Mr. Oswald?”


    Art ignored the man’s gesture and instead placed the photograph on the counter, sliding it towards Shultz. “I need to find this man,” Art said as he pointed to the black boy on the right.

    “With all due respect, sir, I think that’s a boy,” Shultz said as he drew his hand back in embarrassment and peered at the photo.

    Art ignored his comment and kept talking. “His name is Sidney Jones. He was my best friend back home in Kansas. That is, until his family decided to move to Harlem.”

    Shultz lit a cigar and took a puff. ”And about what year did they leave?” He questioned.

    “If my memory serves me right, it was the Summer of ‘23.”

    Shultz pensively puffed again. “So you’re telling me that you want me to find a negro kid who you haven’t seen in almost thirty years, who was last heard to have moved to the other end of the country!? I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald, but that’s simply not in my jurisdiction, nor is it my forte. Personally, I’m more about finding killers, thieves and rapists.”


    Art sighed. “Well, who can help me out? You have to know somebody.”


    Shultz’s eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, you’re in luck! I have a cousin named Chester who lives in the Bronx. He might be just the man you need to see.” Shultz handed Art another business card, near identical to the one from earlier, albeit with a different name and number.

    “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve never been in this place before. Might as well make good use of the time and see if I can finally snag a date with Judy Garland. She can ignore my letters, but she can’t ignore me in person!”


    And with those words, Shultz departed for the stage. Art returned to sipping on his wine, wondering what he should do next.

    No voting on this one, folks! The next chapter should arrive some time next week. In the meantime, discuss! Tell me what you think!
     
    Last edited: Mar 11, 2018
  2. Clouder

    Clouder The one and only

    • Messages: 48
    • Likes Received: 25
    Chapter 2 is here! Phew, what a long week!
    Perched on the peak of a palm tree-laden mountain range was Casa De Clark, the immense estate of billionaire tycoon Charles Clark. A gothic castle composed by the top architects of the day, Clark seldom welcomed guests of any kind. California’s wealthy elite spent a good deal of time puzzling about what lay inside the depths of Clark’s abode.


    Art was about to find out. He rang the doorbell, causing pipe organs on the outside to sound off the tune of an ancient Gregorian hymn. A few minutes later, the massive front door opened to introduce a tired-looking man in a disheveled suit, and a noticeably unshaven stubble.


    “Bah! I told those guards not to let people around this place-- Oh!” the man’s eyes lit up upon realizing who was at his doorstep. “Mr. Oswald! What brings you to my humble abode?”

    If this is what he calls humble, then what does extravagant look like? Oswald wondered. “Hello, Mr. Clark. I need a favor from you. Do you, by chance have a private plane I could borrow? I need to be in New York City to attend to an urgent business matter.”

    Clark stroked his chin. “Business matter, eh? I might have just the thing you’re looking for. But I too have a need you can meet. Shall we discuss this over some coffee?” Charles inquired, beckoning Art inside. Art entered the building, and followed Clark through the labyrinth that was Casa De Clark. Each corridor had marble floors in a maddening black and red checkerboard pattern. It’s like something out of the Mad Hatter’s house, Art thought to himself.

    Eventually they reached Clark’s personal study, where there was already coffee in the pot brewing away. It was a grand room with no windows, relying on a meager seven candles for light. In one corner, a homeless-looking man played classical music on an old harpsichord. Clark poured himself a cup, and sat down. Art looked at the pot. “Don’t you have any milk, or sugar maybe?”

    Clark shook his head. “I like my coffee how I like my domestic servants… you know the rest. Pahahahahaha!” The tycoon took great delight in his quip, spending a good five minutes doubled over in laughter. “If I knew you were coming, I would have gotten sugar straight from the islands just for this day. Oh well.”

    The tycoon turned to the corner in which the man was playing the harpsichord. “József! We have guests, do we not?” barked Charles. “Play something more… uplifting.” The man grumbled something in German and started playing some show tunes.


    Art wistfully poured himself a cup of black coffee, and took a seat in front of Clark’s desk. “Alright, what did you need from me?”


    “I have a niece named Camille looking to break into the acting industry,” Clark began. “I was thinking, you’re right here. You’re fresh off your third Oscar. How ‘bout you give my dear Cam a leading role in your next film?”

    “With all due respect, sir, my ideas take time to grow and develop. I can’t just create an idea out of thin air for one person,” replied Art, fiddling with a cigarette he pulled out his pocket.

    Clark grabbed a lighter off his desk and lit Art’s cigarette before pulling one out for himself, lighting that one as well. “Well, if you want that plane, you have no choice.”

    “I’m sorry, but I simply don’t work that way. Motion pictures are like nature, they should develop naturally.”

    “35 million dollars say otherwise,” crooned the billionaire.

    “You’re surely joking, right?! No picture in history has cost that much to make!”

    “Oh, I’m so serious! I’m giving you a chance to cement your legacy. With your genius, my money and my Cam’s looks, you can leave everyone else in the dust! Goodbye, Welles! Goodbye, Fleming! Goodbye, Capra! My name is Arthur Alan Oswald, and I am here to stay!” Clark’s rousing speech was a little too rousing, catapulting himself from his chair and slamming his desk repeatedly.

    Then it hit Oswald. “Hold on… I’ve got it! My next movie! It’ll be one of those noir films, but the female lead is the genius detective this time, and the man is just average, but he takes all the credit... We can definitely play with the genre here, by not only flipping the roles, but playing with them...” Art continued.

    Charles smiled. “Son, I have no idea what on God’s green earth you’re rambling about, but I think you just earned yourself a plane.”

    Art heaved a thankful sigh. “Great. Thank you so much. Now I just need a pilot...”

    There was a twinkle in Clark’s eye as he gazed at a desk portrait of a youthful version of him in a plane, rearing for takeoff.


    “I think I have just the guy for the job…”





    “You can try to convince me all you’d like, but I’m still not sold on the idea of you piloting me across the country,” Art worried.

    “Nonsense! I used to fly myself on weekend trips to Vienna all the time,” Clark assured.

    The two had traveled down an outdoors path which led to a small, wooden shed with a landing strip overlooking an ocean cliff. Clark worked to push the shed door open, revealing a brilliant and grand plane with sapphire blue wings.

    “A real beauty isn’t she?” Clark said as he motioned Art to come closer. “I call her the ‘Blue Titan’. Had her custom built-- It ran me almost a good million!” Clark opened the door of the plane, revealing a plush velvet cockpit interior. Art put out his cigarette before climbing in. Charles followed and shut the door.

    “You got your bags packed?” Charles asked.

    “Everything I need should be in here,” Art responded, pointing to the small satchel slung across his shoulder. “I kept everything light this time. We shouldn’t be in the city long.”

    “Fair enough,” Clark replied, now checking the control panel of the plane. “You never did tell me exactly what you’re doing in the Big Apple, either.”



    Art sat down in the co-pilot's’ chair. “I’d rather not state that.”


    Clark gave an annoyed grunt and started up the plane. “Shall we depart?”

    Art nodded, lighting another cigarette.


    Charles sent the plane taxiing down the runway, towards the cliff. “Aaaaaaaand we’re o-- wait, hold on… I can’t lift the plane up!”

    The plane careened off the cliff, beginning the start of a long plummet towards some perilous-looking rocks. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Clark muttered angrily before pulling a lever. “We almost crashed because of that?!” Clark pulled up on the steering wheel, lifting the plane into the heavens.


    “I’m sorry, it’s been a minute since I took old gal out for a ride. Next stop, NYC, baby!”

    Now that I think about it, maybe a private plane was a bad idea, thought Art.
     
  3. Clouder

    Clouder The one and only

    • Messages: 48
    • Likes Received: 25
    Previously on Star-Crossed, our hero(???) decides to embark out to the Big Apple…
    The Blue Titan calmly sailed over the clouds, carrying the two men ever closer towards their destination.
    “You know, it just so happens that I intended on flying to New York soon,” Clark began. “So, we’re basically killing two birds with one stone. So what area d’you have matters in, Arthur? Queens? Manhattan?”
    “No, none of those, actually,” Art replied. “The Bronx, and quite possibly Harlem.”
    “Harlem? Psssh, out of all the boroughs!” Clark scoffed. “I would expect better from you, Mr. Oswald.”
    “And what’s wrong with Harlem?”
    “You know what’s wrong with Harlem! Just nothing there but failed artists, commies and nig-- erm, good-for-nothing people who want nothing but government handouts and reefer!”
    Clark lit another cigarette before resuming the start of his tirade. “The commies have to be the most entitled group of people known to man. Can you imagine it? They feel like they, the lower class, should own my hard, earned, wealth!”
    Art scratched his head. “Well, I somewhat see their motive. There are people living in practically shacks in some parts of this country, while someone like you seemingly have so much money that you don’t really have anything to do with it anymore. You keep a personal German harpsichord player in your study, for heaven’s sake!”
    “For your information, that harpsichord player is in fact one of the most prolific composers of our time!”
    “Well, what is he doing in your study, wasting away?”
    “The Nazis would’a got to him, if I hadn’t intervened!”
    Clark took an angry drag of his cigarette and sighed.
    “Do you know what I’ve had to do to get to the point where I am today?”
    “No, not really.”
    “Well, the statute of limitations hasn’t been reached yet for some things, so I’ll just keep it at this: I ruined a lot of lives to get this rich. Everyone has.”
    “I believe I’ve made an honest living, don’t you think? I treat all my cast and crew equal and fairly,” Art retorted. Clark laughed and pointed at a diamond ring on Art’s finger. “What about that gem on your hand? Cost Congo Jim an arm and a leg to mine that for you, didn’t it?”
    “ W-well, that’s not my fault! I don’t make the diamonds, now do I?” Art sputtered.
    “Ah, but you still purchase them, don’t you?” Clark rebutted. “Sure, you’ve never personally wronged those poor savages in the jungle making your jewels, but if people like you didn’t want them, they wouldn’t have to toil and suffer now, would they?”
    Art said nothing. Clark continued on.
    “And that’s the truth of this world! You can’t get ahead without some folks falling behind. If they fall behind, then they never deserved a chance to succeed in the first place! The day you realize this is the day you begin to reach your highest potential, Arthur.”
    “...What if you were to gain from ruining me, Mr. Clark?”
    Art’s question lingered in the air, creating a deafening silence.
    “...Ho now! There’s no use in answering ‘if’ questions is there, Arthur?” Clark finally answered. “We’re like a symbiotic relationship— I fly you to New York, you give my darling niece her first major starring role! No need to even think of me taking advantage of you, Arthur. Now, enough of this philosophical truth talk. Why don’t you play us some music?” Clark motioned behind them towards a record player built into the plane’s interior. Art got up and carefully placed the needle onto the record, the device slowly beginning to drone out an old Jolson tune from the 1910s.

    I've been worried all day long, don't know if I'm right or wrong
    I can't help just what I say, cause your love made me this way…


    Clark sung passionately to the minstrel’s song as Art returned to his seat, choosing to resume his readings from the night before.

    You made me love you, I didn't think you'd do it
    I didn't think you'd do it
    You made me want you, all the time you knew it
    I guess you always knew it…


    The fact that Charles Clark couldn’t sing a lick turned Art’s plane ride all the more agonizing. He should have just taken an airline.
     
Top