Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

The story continues at https://www.facebook.com/notes/city-of-angels/city-of-angels-sunrise-sunset/391115614311209 !!!

For more City of Angels, visit https://www.facebook.com/cityofangelsseries?sk=notes ; or visit the YouTube and see some early stage concept videos https://www.youtube.com/user/CityofAngelsSeries/videos

Seriously considering making this into a game. If you're a programmer who'd like to take this on, contact me!

At 4/25/14 04:35 PM, TheCrimsonScythe wrote: whoa.... you have some skill, man. This is simple outstanding, literally snap out of me with excitement and curiosity, asking for more.

Looking forward for more things, and good job! :)

Thanks for the compliments, glad you enjoyed it. New chapter is up. http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1365246

Stay tuned for more updates to the City of Angels.

Original Story by Joey Anaya
Characters Created by Joey Anaya

John loved one thing about this town. Los Angeles is a city of resurrection. It's a city without memory. It doesn't matter who you were yesterday, or who you are today. Tomorrow, you're nobody, or dead. He was nobody. He lived in the periphery. You'd seen him a million times, and never. He could hardly be blamed, given the short life expectancy of those around him. Solitude saved more lives than the stakes in his hands.

The sunrise seemed to wait for him each morning, afraid to peek over the hills until it knew he was inside. This day was no different. John, carrying a large black duffel, marched slowly up the sidewalk to his apartment, a cloud of smoke following him as his leather coat billowed in a soft breeze. There were no sounds, save the dull hum of early morning traffic on the nearby highway. There was always traffic, as though everyone in this city had somewhere important to be, and refused to believe anyone else's destination merited attention. John lifted a bloody hand to the door, leaning for a moment as he searched for his keys. Another plume of smoke, and a short jingling was heard as he produced a set of worn copper keys. Turning to flick his cigarette to the curb, John spied a single ray of light pushing through the morning smog, like an escaped prisoner. His attention returned to a large set of locks, and the Hunter slowly disengaged each lock. The door opened, and like a shadow he slipped in as quickly as he had slipped out hours earlier. The door shut quickly, and a series of loud clicks could be heard as he locked himself inside. It had been a long night, and like so many mornings, he didn't expect company.

A single chair and card table were the only furnishings in an already humble living space. John slid his bag across the floor to the table and took off his coat, revealing a torn and bloody black t-shirt. Hanging the coat onto a lone coat near the door, he made a beeline into the kitchen, returning shortly with a bottle of Glenfiddich and a single glass. All men have routines, and the Hunter was no different. John sat down in the lone chair and opened the scotch, staring at the glass before bringing the bottle to his lips. After a swig that was perhaps longer than it should have been, the bottle returned to the table. John wiped his mouth and leaned over, opening his duffel bag. It wasn't often he brought so many weapons with him, but everyone likes variety. With one hand searching the confines of the bag, his other hand managed to fill the glass with scotch, the amber elixir redefining the term "half-full". As quickly as the glass was filled, his other hand produced a worn, hand-bound book. John placed the book on the table, opening to a dog-eared page whose spot had been saved with a pencil. Another drink and the hunter began writing, the pencil making short, deliberate strokes on the page. Like every war, battles are won not only by the actions on the battlefield, but also by the preparations made in the war room. Half a page later, he replaced the pencil in its familiar groove and closed the book, tossing it back into the bag. It made a clunking sound as it landed on the various stakes and crosses inside the duffel. With an almost imperceptible wince of pain, he softly examined his injuries before leaning back and slowly finishing his drink. He stood, grabbed the bottle, and walked toward his bedroom.

The sun slowly began to drop behind the skyline, the tall buildings in downtown acting as fingers, trying to catch the Promethean orb. John's alarm buzzed, but found him already awake and in the shower. Hot water fell on his head, and he stood, hands against cracked white tile, letting the deluge push the previous night's work out of his brain. It's no good to dwell on the past, and with as much past as he had, John needed all the help he could get. His hand slid down the wall and slowly wrapped around the knob, shutting off the water. The Hunter pushed wet hair out of his face and over his shoulders, concealing a tattoo at the base of his neck. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and placed himself at his bathroom sink. He lathered his hands and face in soap before reaching into the medicine cabinet. His hand returned, grasped firmly around a straight razor, and as though on auto-pilot, quickly dragged the blade over his face. After a splash of cool water, he strode out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

A loud whistle pierced the silence of his apartment. Fully dressed, John walked into his kitchen and removed a kettle from the stove. These were his days; quiet, repeated movements, small preparations, and long, solitary hunts. After a cup of coffee, he walked over to his duffel bag. Reaching inside, John pulled out a leather holster, slid it over his shoulder, and placed two stakes into the pocket. He strode quickly to the door, grabbing his coat on the way out. Shutting the door behind him with a snug thud, he wrapped his coat around him quickly, in time to see the sun disappear, its crimson haze staining the Western half of the sky. With a smile punctuated by a cigarette, John flicked his lighter, took a drag, and walked off in search of trouble.

Trouble would have to wait for a pint. John's boots found a rhythm as he loped down the street. The roar of buses, bike messengers, car horns and street vendors searched for the melody that always found this town at night. He paused for a moment, waiting for a lull in traffic before crossing the busy thoroughfare. A man in a sandwich board with ruddy hair and a grim disposition marched in circles on the opposite sidewalk. In chipped black paint, the words"THE END IS NIGH" flashed each time he turned. As John passed him, he slid a dollar into the man's hand. The doomsayer stopped long enough to smile at the hunter, who was already nearly gone. It wasn't long before John found himself in front of a heavy steel door. The green paint had almost completely chipped away, the rust attempting to claim sole possession of the entrance. Above the door a sign that read "Oliver's Pub" flickered half-heartedly. John stamped out his cigarette, pulled the door open, and disappeared into the dim bar.

At 4/25/14 06:04 AM, alafujah wrote: Dude, this is awesome

Thanks, glad you like it. New chapter will be up today.

At 4/20/14 09:37 PM, Tsukubane wrote:

At 4/12/14 05:36 PM, theaccadaccafan wrote: A short is anything ranging from 3-12 minutes long in the animation world. The script can include anything you want it to, as long as a story or message is told. Every story HAS a beginning, middle, and end, so make sure you include it. It helps to create a timeline of events using index cards to keep the flow proper. It can end however you'd like, as long as the ending is definitive.

So would a complete story would be: two people argue, they fight, then one person wins
Because it has a beginning middle and end. And you said definitive ending, what exactly does it mean to have a definitive ending?

Yes, that's a story. It's more thorough to have their motives behind the confrontation expressed, however. As for a definitive ending, just make sure that there are no feelings of, "Well, what happens next?" when you finish.

Dead Enders.

At 4/12/14 11:06 AM, Tsukubane wrote: A script for a short animation. How short should the short be? Would the script include actions and the dialogue? Does a short still need story? Should it have a beginning middle and and end? How to end a short? Why is writing a short so hard?

A short is anything ranging from 3-12 minutes long in the animation world. The script can include anything you want it to, as long as a story or message is told. Every story HAS a beginning, middle, and end, so make sure you include it. It helps to create a timeline of events using index cards to keep the flow proper. It can end however you'd like, as long as the ending is definitive.

For an example, I posted a thread in the Writing Forum called "City of Angels - Initium". That short story is based on a 10 page script I wrote. The scene is really only 5 minutes long, but it has a beginning, middle and end, and it tells a story. That's all you're looking for. Here's a link: http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1364105

It's obvious you've worked hard and care about what you're writing. I felt interested, invested even, once I got to later chapters. It was a bit slow-going at first, but you found your rhythm sooner than later, which is good. It goes without saying that it needs a little work, but honestly, ALL novels go through multiple re-writes, and I imagine you already know what needs fixing regarding the overall pacing and grammar.

You're a good writer. It seems like there may not have been a compendium for this, and you're writing off the cuff. It works at times, but having a source bible will make it easier to write for characters and situations, especially if you want this to have a more over-arcing plot and not an episodic feel to it. Keep it up, I like it.

Being a good writer depends greatly on the focus of the piece. Fiction or non-fiction? Genre? Perspective? Existing source material?

Being a GREAT writer? Well, that's all about passion. How invested are you in what you're talking about? Do you believe in what you're telling me? I mean, anyone can use spell check and a thesaurus, but engaging, exciting writing - and believe me, if you're not excited about it, I won't be - it all comes from the energy you put into it. Like all art forms, it requires the type of dedication that comes from love or hate.

I've written first person stories. Third person. Screenplays. Graphic novels. Love letters. Break-up letters. So here are my tips:

1. If it's non-fiction, for God's sake, take advantage of the hard work countless authors have put in before you. You're allowed to share opinions and beliefs with other artists, as long as you find an engaging way to share your thoughts. It's a lot easier when you see how others have relayed fact and opinion. I'm not telling you to plagiarize; that's a no-no.

2. If it's fiction, take the original thought, the first idea you had, and CREATE A SERIES BIBLE. This is basically a go-to compendium of the fictional history behind your subject and setting. Character bios, history, language, traditions, etc. This will help you in two ways: You'll never have to ret-conn, thus providing credibility, and you'll be able to disappear into the world and characters you've created to find compelling stories.

3. Start a blog. No, I'm serious. You can do it for free, and it puts you in the habit of regularly updating your position, experience and thoughts on any subject. Plus, it's a great way to get honest feedback about how you write, thus giving you a chance to hone your skills and adjust depending on your target audience.

4. DO NOT TAKE CRITICISM PERSONALLY. Seriously. As an artist, and guess what, you are one, it'll be easy for you to take harsh criticism as a personal attack; after all, they don't like something YOU made, which is essentially an extension of your own mind and personality. Here's why it's dangerous to think that way: Humans are idiots. No, really, we are. All of us. Our programmer didn't bundle tact and empathy into our software, so most of us trundle about, speaking only for the sake of hearing our own voices, and never know we've just destroyed someone's fragile creation that they cared enough to share with us. Someone will tell you how they feel about your piece without realizing how hard you've worked on it, and it can be as bad as insulting your mother. The other problem you'll face is trolls. People who are too afraid to develop their own individuality, hiding behind a computer to tear down someone who was brave enough to make something and share it with the world. They don't risk anything because they've never made anything, so they feel safe in ripping it apart because you'll never have the chance to do it to them. These people are cowards, and there are too many of them to get worked up about.

You're already a good writer because you cared enough to try and become better. That's step one. Now go and write. Anything and everything. There's no wrong way, as long as you care about what you're doing.

Original Short Story by Joey Anaya
Characters Created by Joey Anaya

He had always been a bit odd, even for a Hunter. Never one to question orders, and certainly not one to shy away from his calling. Nevertheless, Samael felt his reassignment to the Spanish colonies didn't seem the best use of his abilities. After losing Roanoke, he'd planned on returning to Scotland. Britain never seemed to run out of blood rats. The Mal'akh had other plans. Maybe it was his insistence on working alone, or his taciturn nature. Maybe it was his love of a stiff drink and a good brawl.
 
Maybe after seven hundred years, they thought him a bit old-fashioned.
 
He found the Spaniards attempts at domesticating the natives humorous. Given his station, you wouldn't assume that he'd find irony in what the Church of Rome was doing in the New World, but then again, he'd always been a bit odd. He also never anticipated their small settlement on the river would expand as quickly as it did. When you put that many people in one area, in the wild, ungoverned parts of the world, it's only a matter of time before the blood rats start to arrive. Samael hoped that he'd be able to act as a levee, stemming the tide of another lost colony. And so he found himself, once again, going through the motions. Seven hundred years, and it was a reflex. Even if his spirit wasn't in it.
 
He was especially fond of tracking. It suited his quiet, observant nature. Searching for traces of a vampire who'd, only hours earlier, drained three friars and a fat priest. As he found himself at the mouth of the old forest, he lit his pipe. Even smoke was afraid of him, fleeing as quickly as he exhaled. He took another long draw before continuing onto the dirt road that led to the base of the hills. That's where he'd find the blood rat; that or he'd find a nest. It had been too long since he'd found himself outnumbered, and he missed those days perhaps more than he should have.
 
There were no sounds, save for the rustle of leaves as the wind circled around him. His bare feet moved quickly, yet deliberately, each step in the place it belonged. His pipe billowed smoke through his long, black hair that fell on an even blacker cloak. Samael stopped, kneeling and inspecting a trail of blood. The wind picked up again, shuffling his cloak and revealing a kilt with weapons in nearly every fold of tartan. Knives, stakes, as well some devices he'd created himself. The Mal'akh weren't happy about his uncanny intelligence, but they never argued with his results, either.
 
"Baobhan sith." It had been ages since he'd had a reason to use his native Gaelic, but he found it an appropriate language in describing the demons he all too often faced.
 
In the deathly quiet of those woods, the snarl that emanated from behind him would have been enough to send most people flying. It was a low, guttural groan from a beast he'd heard too many times to count. Samael smiled, snuffed out his pipe, and stood up. As he turned to face the blood rat, his cloak flew off his shoulders and fluttered to the ground. Before it hit the dirt, he already had a stake in both hands. This vampire wasn't special. The son of the local magistrate, he had been turned late one night on his way home from an illicit encounter with one of the natives. He was still wearing his shirt and breeches, and his boots looked as though they'd been recently shined. For a race of demons with no reflection, blood rats are notorious in their obsessions with self-image, something the Hunter never understood.
 
Samael moved first, a quick strike aimed at the heart. Every once in awhile, he liked to prolong battle, but he'd decided to save his energy for the nest he knew was at the base of the hills. The vampire parried the blow, and it became apparent that this was going to take longer than he'd anticipated. Samael's mind raced through different martial arts maneuvers at a blinding speed, all the while swinging and dodging, merely keeping the blood rat occupied. The vampire took advantage of Samael's lack of focus and landed several grueling jabs, knocking the Hunter back a few paces. Before he could adjust, the vampire threw a right cross that spun Samael around. The Hunter felt cold limbs wrap around his neck, much like a demonic guillotine. He'd dropped his stakes after that vicious blow. All he could do was try and buy enough time to either come up with a plan of action, or make peace with the end of his life. The blood rat forced Samael to his knees. Younger vampires often did this, finding it easier to feed. If he'd been any other human, this would have been very nearly the end. Samael used the momentum of his maneuver and knocked the vampire off balance. The demon tumbled, and Samael groped around until his hand felt the familiar wood grain of his stake. He stood in time to see a very hungry and very angry blood rat charging toward him.
 
Seven hundred years, and it was a reflex.
 
The Hunter's hand reached out and found a hold on the vampire's neck, lifting it into the air. Like countless times before, the stake plunged into the demon's heart. Warm, crimson blood poured out as Samael removed the stake. He released his grip on the vampire's neck and, with a slow grin, watched as its lifeless body fell to the dirt. Samael turned, picking up his other stake as he walked over to his cloak. Wrapping it over his shoulders, he pulled a small tinder box out of his sporran. Before he made his way back to the corpse, his pipe had found its way back into his hands. The Hunter took a long draw before kneeling down next to the fallen demon. The same prayer he'd recited over and again, and soon the corpse had been immolated, removing any evidence of its existence. Samael may have been odd, but he knew one thing for certain: If this colony found out what happened to the poor son of the magistrate, they'd pack up and head back for Spain, something the Mal'akh wanted to avoid. The Hunter continued down the path, pipe in hand. The night had just begun, and he had a nest to flush out.
 
John awoke in a cold sweat. The buzz of his alarm clock synced with the flashing red digits that told him there was only a few hours before sunset. He placed his bare feet on the cold floor of his bedroom, his sheets still semi-wrapped around his waist. Still groggy, he arose and shuffled into the bathroom. It wasn't long before he emerged, still dripping from the hot shower, a towel doing little to hide a lifetime of scars received from several lifetimes of hunting. John slid his closet open, pulling what seemed like his only set of clothes from the empty space. He'd long since traded the cloak and kilt for jeans and a leather coat. Longer still had it been since he'd gone by Samael. He made one more attempt at drying his long hair before sliding on a black t-shirt. The rest of the outfit followed quickly, and before long, he was out the door, lighting a cigarette and making sure he had enough stakes in the dark confines of his long black coat.
 
A thousand years and it was a reflex. 

City of Angels is a project I've been working on for several years. It all began with a simple idea: Can I make vampires villains again? What started out as a short story became a screenplay, which became the basis of a possible TV series. After writing ten 15 minute episodes, the project stalled last summer. I'd really like to see this come to life, in any medium. Stay tuned for more chapters!

-Joey

Hey there creative type person. I am hopes to making an interweb televisions.

Sorry, I like to start off with some really bad humor. I'm in the process of developing a web series that will be airing on YouTube. While it's not terribly difficult to get licensing permission for individual songs, I do need someone who is able to compose background music.

The project is called "City Of Angels". It concerns itself with John Smith, a vampire hunter who is based in Los Angeles. Yes, I know, not groundbreakingly original. However, after the colossal screw-ups of the Twilight franchise, I decided vampires need to be evil, demonic creatures again. Not sparkly fairies. At any rate, the show is an overall drama, with elements of supernatural/sci-fi and a little dark comedy. One of my favorite composers working these days is Christophe Beck. Go ahead and look him up. He has a signature sound, and I want that sort of feel. Music makes or breaks a visual art form. Try watching Star Wars without the music. Totally different film.

Right now this is NOT A PAYING JOB. HOWEVER: You will receive credit as a composer, your name will be on a series that will be viewed by a LOT of people, and you will be part of the New Blood Productions catalog, which means the minute money starts to come in, you'll start getting paid. If you want to see some concept film, check out http://www.youtube.com/user/CityofAngelsSeries/videos. You can contact me with interest vie YouTube, or the Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/cityofangelsseries. Thanks, and I look forward to collaborating with you.