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WATCH ZEE TENSES!!! ZEE TENSES! FALLACY! A&~A, something can't be happening and not happening at the same time! look closely at your first three lines, laddy!

Otherwise, it was a nice little tale.

At 4/14/10 06:32 PM, Birdbeard wrote: - as a creative outlet.
- because they want to tell a story.
- because they want to be remembered.
- to make a commentary.

These are my reasons. Number one would be the telling of the story, as i find i'm a better storyteller than an actual writer. Creative outlet ties a bit with that, Commentary is important too, and i think most people want to be remembered for some thing, so this is mine.

However...

- or because of some other reason.

Satan raising reason, to be specific. I'm hoping also to allow the educated layman to be able to warp time-space and reality till it suits him. Telekinesis FTW,

Alright, whoring time.

As i would like to be considered, i'd like you guys to peer edit my story which i hope to make into a fine entry.

http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1160 153

This is the farthest into editing i have ever gotten, and it would be interesting to at least see what is said

Thanks.

Day one drew to a close. Despite its dangers, I do have to land every so often, inspect the aircraft, then catch a wink or two before setting off again. I was able to find a patch of dirt to land. My jet is able to land horizontally, perfect for missions like this. But landing is easy compared to inspecting the ship. I have to put on a suit that is heated, again, to the extreme, so when I step outside into the world, I can work. Thank god the jet doesn't break down often.

After a tasteless meal of meat-porridge, which is exactly as disgusting as it sounds, I slept for a good four hours. It's the best amount of sleep you can get out here. On the fifth hour of my snooze, the alarm sounded, and I had to rush to the controls: the ice was on the move. It threatened to close around me, swallow and crush me. My jet is reliable, though, and I was able to escape back into the star burned night.

Strange. I didn't think I wanted to live that much...
---
Unlike last time, the Geiger counter was on. No real radiation, aside from the occasional leak from old nuclear power plants. The world isn't really worth saving at the moment, so we leave the radiation to seep into the ice and, if it ever thaws, it will be our drinking water. Not that we can do anything about it...

I was very close to the ocean when I saw the first signs of life. There were a group of lights traveling across the glacial wasteland.

"Do we have men out here?" I asked to those back home

"No we don't." came the reply.

And so I landed. As I sat there, stationary, the cold biting around me, I noticed these lights came from what looked like giant robots. They were great, hulking iron giants with large claws protruding from their forearms. Each one had the head shaped like a skull with blue, burning eyes. They looked at me, registering a hunger as powerful as any machines muster. They turned on me, claws ready to snap close. I cheesed it. Being ripped apart by searing cold robots was not my way of leaving this earth.

But they must have been made by something, so I kept on searching. I followed their tracks as much as I could, slowing to the point where I could trace where they had come from. They had walked miles upon miles of ice, never finding a soul as I had, and I was working with a jet.

I felt that I would not be welcomed by a man who used robots to kill survivors rather than save them. So, with that done, I headed home. Maybe I'll check it out on another run. I just hope his robots wouldn't come looking for me...
---
On the way home, I crossed an old ocean. It might have been the Mediterranean, but I can't really be sure. All I really saw was the rocket.

It towered over anything and everything. They had drilled from the surface of the ice to the bottom of what used to be the ocean, and then built back up. It was a gigantic, black edifice resembling a great volcano that would spew forth fire from the earth's core. It was more solid, I found, than the world around it. The ice could try to push it but it still would not break. It was one of the few times I was in awe of the achievement of scientists.

I've probably made clear that I do not trust scientists anymore, but after they built this, a gigantic jet engine to propel us towards the nearest star, maybe they're onto something. They told us, of course, that it may be possible that we would become a moon of Jupiter, which was now the sun of many other gas giants, but that we have to try. I did not like it when they were sincere, that if we did X, Y would happen, no questions asked. But as we do not understand the universe as much as we thought, maybe now there is room for error. But for what little scientists have done for us, if this works...it could mean that men of science have redeemed themselves once and for all.

Or maybe that's just the freezing cold talking.
---
As I flew down, down, down towards the runway, I couldn't help but feel uneasy. Something wasn't right. The door slammed open to let me in, and I was right on track. I was a bit more optimistic on the way home, but now that had all faded.

Faded, I realized with a rush of adrenaline, like my gas had just done.

My engines suddenly gave, and I found myself free-falling to the ground. I slid upon the ice, grinding metal and snow until I finally was able to stop, a mere fifty meters from the entrance of the gate. I could hear the people inside panicking, and I was of course one among them. I knew, however, that I would just have to put on the suit and run into the archology as fast as I could. But as I looked behind me in shock, I found that the suit wasn't there, my bed wasn't there, and the entire behind of the jet was not there...at least, not for another couple hundred meters.

And it was cold.

I don't know why I did it, but I knew that I had to stay warm; otherwise I would freeze instantly as soon as a small gust of wind blew into the cockpit. I was wearing very heavy fur clothing, and I was covered in oil from the repairs and tweaking I had done to my jet while it was still functional. A small wire on my left leg was shooting sparks, and thanks to it, I found inspiration for what I was to do.

In a fit for survival, I set myself on fire, and ran towards the entrance.

I ran, and I ran and I ran. I ran towards the only source of light on this world, aside from myself. If there was pain, I didn't feel it. One thing I do remember not feeling was coldness. There were few times in my life I could be this warm and still be walking, so in retrospect, I should have savoured this moment. Yet, when I heard the door slam shut behind me, I realized in how much danger I had put myself in. There were people ready, though, and fire extinguishers were not in short supply.

Standing over me was Denis. In his hands he was carrying a fire extinguisher. He was looking down at me not with the contempt I usually see him doing (from my standpoint), but in fact, a concerned look in his eyes. I would have thanked him, I guess, but I had already passed out from the smoke inhalation. Or at least, that's what they told me.

Why did I do that? Why in this sunless world did I want to continue living? I would explain, but the proof is all around me. It was in those robots still trudging along on a dark, cold planet. It was in the archology as well. Man will go to whatever means to survive. The only thing that separates us from animals is that they tried, and failed, but we didn't. It is a constant drive to keep on living, and life cannot get so bad that the people willing to live it don't live it.

Yesterday, the sky lit up as they fired up the rocket. We all felt the planet move. Alpha Centauri is four light years away.

If I know people, we'll get there.

[As Gumonshoe as requested stories for a anthology, i'd like to get this peer edited so it is flawless. This was submitted for a CBC writer's contest, but didn't win (i don't know how it did, actually). As of now, it's Canadian spelling, and insofar, has had an editor looked at it, but it can't hurt to have more opinions. Because of the Character limit, it'll be published in two parts.]

I was only five when the sun went out.

They said it was impossible. They said it wasn't supposed to happen for another couple billion years, but it didn't. It went out in five years. I'm forty-seven now, and there is still no sun in the sky. It's just a block of cinder now. The scientists said that was impossible too, that the universe wasn't old enough for those to exist, but they did. My mother always told me that science can't explain everything, and as of now, I do not trust the science. Anything is possible.

The earth is a ball of solid ice. Not long after the sun went out, the oceans had begun to freeze, or so I had been told. Apparently I had been sleeping throughout all this. When I woke up, there was only night. The scientists had seen this coming a few years in advance, I'll give them that. It was long enough to build shelter near the hottest place on earth, and hope to ride out our constant tumbling through space. It was the best we could make of a hopeless situation.

The night sky is so clear now. As all the water in the air froze and fell to the ground, there are now no clouds to block out the night sky, and to see what has become of our solar system. It was a spectacular sight to see the moon crash with Mars, or when Venus began to orbit us, and the scientists say we may some day revolve around Jupiter, our new "sun". But, as I said, the scientists were wrong before, and now we have no sun.
---
My mother and I are very close. Each day, I take my children to see her. She cooks meals for them, food that we are able to grow in the archology, before they go to school. It was by sheer luck that I am here, as my mother worked as assistant for a very important scientist, the one who designed the archology. He was there to take the place of my father, though he was no father to me.

To earn a living in this city of ice, I help look to see if anyone else has survived. I pilot a jet, heated to the point where it would incinerate your finger if you touched it, out into the wastes that are so cold that if you breathed in the air...well, you'd be lucky if you didn't freeze solid before you could even think. I go out into the desert for weeks at a time, and despite how warm you keep the jet, you always have to bundle up.

No survivors yet.
---
A group of workers left today. They're going out into the ocean to help drill through the ice. They got to the bottom and now are building upwards. They say they want to make a rocket-like-gizmo to propel the planet towards the nearest star. I, personally, don't think it will work. But who listens to a pilot? They didn't use planes to leave, anyway. It would be too dangerous, and they took too much equipment. I'm used to not having my skills used for the big things; it's no secret that I despise the scientists.

People call me ungrateful. They ask me what kind of man bites from the hand that feeds him. Without the scientists, they say we wouldn't be alive. The scientists are good, they say. They don't hurt us. There's been no war for forty-two years. But what kind of life is this anyway? But something is keeping me going. Every time I try to put my finger on it, I just end up proving myself wrong again. Why should I keep on going? Why should I even live? Life is nothing but a constant drag and I hate it.

Oh well, I guess I'll think about that another day.
---
I entered into the door of my one room office. It's such a shithole. My desk was a simple steel-and-wood mediocrity that we salvaged from an old grade school building. The wife jokes that I'm a principle rather than a pilot. Pilots or principles don't come with the accessories I do: white brick walls and dull concrete floor, making me feel like I'm in one of the old Saw movies. The fact that a very aged pipe system above me continuously drips water on my desk doesn't exactly do much for my mood. I know the murderer wants me to a complete a task that has some meaning to my life, and god damn, I seriously just wish someone would just wire me to some gizmo that would rip me to shreds.

My job, when I'm not flying, is to process my readings.

Average temperature of earth now-a-days is minus one hundred some degrees Celsius give or take a dozen. The scientists tell me that because of all the moving tectonic plates, the movement of the earth through space, the atmosphere, bullshit etcetera, that we will never reach absolute zero. I really don't care if we do. It's still cold outside.

In about an hour, they said, I was supposed to fly over what used to be the Swiss Alps, hopefully seeing survivors, and if not, maybe just see how much radiation is there. I swear, this job will have me growing a third testicle by the end of this, with all the scientist's warnings. They say that anything the sun protected us from is now just barely being stopped by our ozone, which hasn't had a chance to recuperate from the damage we did...Then again, climate change was all the rage, and the sun going out wasn't. I don't know what I should be angry at.

"Willis..." A voice crawled behind me

"What?" I asked. No man who tries to take the place of my father has a place in my life. Denis has no place in my life.

"How are you?"

"Fine." I said

"Just seeing how you are before you go out." Denis was about to leave, but God doesn't grant me favours easily "Oh, by the way, don't forget to turn on the Geiger counter this time."

I whirled around, annoyed by his obvious doubt in my trade "I turned it on last time."

"Then where are your readings?" He asked

I froze, realizing that I wasn't right this time. I left the room quickly, not wanting another confrontation. You can't be wrong around scientists. They'll hold it against you, knowing they're right in their subtle little ways. Enough of this. I have a plane to fly.

One other thing that I hate about my office: it's cold. Every day, it's always cold.
---
Everything went smoothly as I lifted off. The plane flew down the runway, the doors to the outside world opening just in time. It's relieving to get out into the world, being cooped up in that mind-melting temperature they need to keep my jet at so it doesn't freeze as soon as it gets out into a world that hasn't been touched by the sun in four decades. The bliss only last a few moments as I am thrust into the cold night, so cold that it doesn't even register with me. I turn up the heat, but I'm used to this constant freezing that we're all compelled to survive in. My mother told me that I used to shake like a leaf when I was exposed to anything under minus ten degrees Celsius. Oh, now a days, I would kill to fly in minus ten degrees Celsius. Cockpit temperature usually drifts between twenty and thirty below, and that doesn't count how cold it is outside.

My thermometer says -95 degrees. Warmest day all year.

It's a desert outside. Not a bit of soil shows, as the oceans froze and expanded, covering the world. It all happened in a matter of minutes, I am told. The sun went out; the winds got cold within seconds. The oceans began to freeze, pushing the continents together, or swallowing them entirely. The earth shattered as earthquakes rocked the very foundation of our planet. They told us that many died that day, billions. Those who got into the archology still had to deal with the walls closing in around them, or the threat of the ice breaking through the glass canopy that covered us. People were trapped in the ice, and swallowed. Sometimes out of nowhere the pressure of rock against rock would finally give, and what was once a passage became just a crack.

This was how I lost my father.

The scientists said we would be safe in the Archology.

At 4/13/10 10:29 AM, sinfulwolf wrote: I'm at a loss on what to say... is this your work? Or that of another? The signing at the end leaves me a bit confused as to this, and I can't really say anything if it isn't yours.

It is. T.S.Millar is my pen name.

"Last call for tickets" The bar keep sounds. Tickets. My association with like-minded individuals allows me to use these tickets, to which i have used three, for three glasses. Three glasses of red wine, though i bought a beer myself. A glorious occasion to drink to the renewal of another year. Another time to drink, for it is the last day. The last day before the plunge to exams.

Though this moment races through my mind, i pride myself on what comes after. The handsome graduate, a PHD swirling through his mind, asking if I would like another drink. Praise be to my will, as i say "No". It's a praise i don't often endow upon my self, as i usually lack the will to make the decision. I would have, in any other circumstance, roared agreement, and took another swig of my beer to empty my gullet, ready for the next swig of a foreign glass.

But my mind already swirls. Too much, i says. I have reached the limit, and must go home. I stumble out the door, my thin jacket draped around my shoulders, as i lament my goodbyes to my friends. But i feel...i feel the drink has clouded my mind...has clouded my vision. For the one thing i wish is for companionship.

Rewind to a few moments before. I joke with a comrade, and a very attractive one at that. We joke about our superiority, and she asks if i wants her autograph. i agree, asking the autograph to be made out to God. She obliges, writing "To God, Thanks for this Suit. Xo" and then she signs. Is this a pass? Does she think of me this way? I cannot tell her signature...who am i to pursue such? When it is time to go home, i ask if we could go together, as we live near one another. She leaves before i do, or do I leave before she? The drink...it clouds my head. and my thought.

A few years back, two great friends of mine, a male and a female, who were dating, broke up. It caused a rapture in my life, both socially and mentally. I spurn monogamy now. For my relationship, which had ended a few months previously, scarred me, and this break of friends both wounded and distraught me, i wonder: Did monogamy end it, or did I? Both? Just me? Just Monogamy? It is hard to tell...it is hard to know. All i know is that gambling with the relationship of another is foolhardy, and boiled down, I see it as Monogamy is...

But why, as i walk home alone, do i long for companionship? I walk the empty streets, no friend, foe, or bystander to greet or meet me. all that is there is the city, the pavement, and the night. In the city, the night encroaches not upon me. Not like where i grew up. where my light, my home, were to be my fortress. I and my lights would defend against the encroach evil that was the night, the stealer of consciousness, and the ending of the day.

But who was i to fear the dark or long for companionship? I resolve! I resolve to not hurt another! I resolve not to gamble with another person! I resolve all of this, and yet i still receive the love...the love of the other sex, and the love of the same sex. I receive the love of family, the love of friends, and sometimes the love of respect; the love of knowledge...

As i unlock the door, i worry...am i still human? Am i still subject to the laws of this world, of human nature? Am i really petty enough to just throw away the relationships that bear not the twin fruits of closeness and love? Who am i to deny those friendships? Why should i, an outcast in my youth, take the same stance with others?

I sit at my computer and write...Please oh please, i think in thought, i wish to long not for the flesh of another! I wish to be released from these human bonds...

alas...I am human...which is a loss, if we wish for anything more...

~T.S.Millar

No offence to any writer here, but they seem to start to degrade... I mean, it takes care to come out with something good, but when you start formatting it like a roleplay, that talent gets a bit lost.

I should know, it happened to me quite a bit back in the day.

You've got my attention...

At 4/10/10 12:39 AM, Reptyle wrote:

Sir, there is no such thing as crappy erotic crossover fanfiction. The concept is so inherently great that even the poorest of executions becomes wonderful.

By which I mean it often loops around from bad to hilarious.

I wish to argue Creative Darwinism. Meaning: the best stories (potentially our stories) will make it above and beyond petty fanfiction.

I assume anyone who has written fantiction here has taken time to make sure it is not petty!

otherwise, i have no real argument...

if that was the truth, then Fanfiction.com would've gone under long ago.

intrigue, mystery, mastery of the language and a minor twist.

Try putting the first three into the first paragraph.

At 4/9/10 07:22 AM, TrevorW wrote: I believe that when a group of people, such as us, are confined to the limits of a small forum for long periods of time there are bound to be some bouts of drama. Conflict is human nature, even if minimal in desire to some. Besides is an argument bad if the sides are logical?

I agree. If you coup up someone in a house, no matter how large, they'll get a bit edgy, and that's the point i feel we might be. We can get on the newgrounds stage to tell some stories that actually had TIME to think of plot, characters, theme and conflict!

Also, i heard a quote that said: The opposite of a true statement is a false statement. the opposite of a profound truth could indeed be another profound truth.

And Coop, I'm thinking they're one in the same. i could go all philosophy on, over and in it, but it's 11:30, and i'm lacking in coffee.

But we have a good group here. I haven't seen anything overly immature since i came here. then again, i don't think NG forums have that high of a bar for maturity, so calling someone an ass for lambasting their story earns you utils.

I'll make it sweet and simple, seeing as there's been a lot of text recently...

It'd be fantastic. I feel that good writers aren't seeing their ideas realized in other media, and at the same time there's not a whole lot of GOOD storytelling out there... or at least nothing that hasn't been done a thousand times before...

My solution: bloody revolution. Kyrgyzstan had it right.

At 4/9/10 02:09 AM, PinballWizard976 wrote:

But anyways, I feel like I've spent way too much time discussing the use of this forum, instead of actually using it (oh the irony). So, maybe everyone should just chill the hell out a bit? Let's just write for gods sake.

For argument's sake...without Drama, where would we be as story tellers?

Eh? EH?

I like how you took apart the words themselves. very nice.

Title also was a grabber too.

At 4/5/10 10:59 PM, Nemo wrote: Hey everyone. It's my first time in this forum, but I figured with a B.A. in English I might enjoy talking with people about literature.

Well drink it in, cuz it's the only thing an english major can get you! AHA HA HA HA...says the philosophy major...

If you write, it'll be welcome!

At 1/31/10 04:31 AM, Nateofwar wrote: -----
A man finds himself one day in a world frozen in time. He has no clue as to how or why he got there but he is there. For a few months that don't pass he wanders the frozen time. He doesnt age he doesnt hunger or thirst or need to sleep. He falls into a madness from the loneliness. He sees and hears things that arent there. Later that day he is attacked by a dog. A dog he thinks doesnt egzist. After killing the dog and realizing that it was real he runs into its owner who explains what had happend. He explains that scientist in the late 1950s that would cause soviet warheads to explode before they reached america by sending out an electric frequency that would detonate the explosives inside. Long story short the frequency the machine produced would affect people with a certain genetic defect to be frozen in time ( i have no idea how to explane that so i think its better that i just make it so noone in the story knows how it works).

Eventualy after meating others who have been frozen in time they find that the machine is still pulsing the frequency from a location an the apalachian mountains(CLARIFICATION: the machine freezes people from different time periods but it freezes them to the same point that the machine was first turned on in the 1950s). Sadly they are positioned in East LA. The physics of the time frozen world make for a very interesting treck across the USA. Durring there journey they discover that not all people removed from time retained there sanity and have socialy devolved to the point of them being animal-like in nature.

Lol, sounds good, Robert Ludlum!

It actually sounds pretty interesting. If it were me writing the story, though, i would put a lot of emphasis that this incident might lead to war between Russia and the States...or if not that, a lot of headaches. it's good to have a bit of overarching urgency along with the urgency of the actual matter. the more suspense the better.
-----
So, my idea for Historical Fiction. I know i said i made 4 universes at one point, but this may now be my 5th.

The story is set in 1756. The battle of the Plains of Abraham have taking place, although it's a different significance than we have learned in the history books. The Battle was waged, on the plains of Abraham, by a coalition force of French, English and the remainder of the 13 colonies against the powerful Native American Confederacy, which is comprised now of the Huron, Iroquois and various other native American tribes, to form a never before seen first colonial empire. The story opens in the heat of the battle, which is well into its fourth day, as the troops are now loading the last surviving colonists onto boats to send them back home to Europe. In the end, the Army fails, and Quebec is raised to the ground as a new Native American Colonial empire takes root. The main character in this part of the story is Pierre, a French soldier who's not all that good at soldiering. He is one of the few who make it onto the ships before the Iroquois shock troops can make it into Quebec. He is beaten, bruised, and a little ashamed.

Back in Europe, war has ripped asunder the power-balance of the continent, with the world dominated by Prussia and the Ottomans. The French and English hold onto what land they can, Spain is being encroached upon by the new nation of Grenada-Morocco, and Russia, which is splintered into city states, is being slowly taken over by Sweden. This theatre of the story is shown by a prince of Prussia named Alban. He is third in line for the throne, as he was the offspring of the Prussian Queen and a very wild noble of France (Which subsequently lead them to war with one another, causing Prussian dominance in all of southern France). Alban therefore has gone for a life of adventuring, serving in the navy of Prussia, which due to recent naval victories against Britain, is now the most powerful in the Atlantic. The stories from Quebec are troubling him, but something else is troubling him even more when he visits Turkey.

For the past couple of centuries, strangers from the east have been coming the the court of Istanbul and telling the Ottomans of a great empire that threatens to swallow the whole of Europe. When Alban is visiting the court in an effort to maintain very friendly relations, and battered and torn emissary from the kingdom of Persia say that their capital, Baghdad, has fallen to this great empire. What is more troubling is that another emissary comes, this time from the remnants of Spain, to declare that another united Empire of Aztecs, Maya and Inca have thrown out the last Spanish colonists, and their invasion ships are on their way.

A strange messenger then enters the court while all of this is going on, and sheds light on the situation. The empire that is encroaching from the east is known as the Siwang dynasty. In Chinese, it translates into the "Death" dynasty, and it was decreed a few centuries ago that the Chinese would rule Eurasia and beyond, and they are making good on that promise. Alban, concerned obviously at the threat to a weakened Europe, tries his best to grab the attention of anybody who's listening to stand and fight against this new threat. The Ottomans, however, refuse, but pledge that they will try to stop this army whatever it takes.

That's what i have so far.

At 4/5/10 09:19 AM, sinfulwolf wrote:
I've always wanted to see Elves like they were back in original folklore. Tiny little fey like folk who ran about causing mischief and such. That would almost be seen as original in this post-Tolkien world

I kinda have that, and i call them scrailings (It's what the vikings called the Beothuk when they arrived in Newfoundland).

When i mean by mutilating beyond recognition, i mean just that. Eventually you fall so far away from the stereotype in things that you want to change that it doesn't really become a stereotype at all. It becomes, believe it or not, your idea.

Of course, you can't escape from all cliches because that's how we thinking, and as a species, we aren't that original. I can probably point out ten different stereotypes in any one of my novels, but sometimes you should let it as is for the simple reason of you want your characters to sound believable, and at times they may throw out a stereotype.

Gauge it how it happens.

At 4/5/10 10:27 AM, zachdamacman wrote: Nice Work! I found myself easily immersed in the plot description and actually, wouldn't mind reading the full story.

In all honesty, that's precisely what i think i want to do...

The series, which is dubbed "Vigilantes" is set during the 5 years between the First and Second Red Angels.

On the west coast in California is a city called Settler's City. The city is a result of 5 or 6 urban districts combining into one huge city of about half a million people. The reason they can do this is because the city has 2 major industries: High Tech and Jewelry. Each day, tonnes of gold, silver, and precious gems come into the city to be turned into jewelry that is affordable to those who can't pay and overpriced to those who can. but that's just the ribs to the REAL backbone of the economy, where the best and brightest are drawn to the city to produce the most cutting edge in software, hardware, heavy machinery and, of course, weapons technology. But for a city so prosperous, organized crime is ramped, and it is so intense that it threatens to overthrow the city.

The first episode starts out with a strange shadowy figure with spiky hair and a scar over his right eye. He spots a man running through the street with a bag, and he follows silently. The man gets into his car and drives away, at which point the shadowy figure whips out a rifle, and shoots out the tires, sending the car spiraling into a lamppost. The thief scrambles out of the car, but butts his head against the barrel of a nine millimeter. when the thief asks who this guy thinks he is, the shadowy figure simply replies "I don't think who i am, i know who i am. Name's Wolf-Raven. And I'm new here."

Scene cuts to a man in a police station. He has large aviator sunglasses, typical cop hat and uniform, and a large golden mustache. he's searching for links on a computer, when a file is dropped on his desk by a fellow cop. The file details the incident last night, and how some Vigilante identified as "Wolf-Raven" helped stop a petty jewel thief. The cop, who is called Jimmy by his co-workers, begins to search the archives for that name. He doesn't find much, only a phone number to a cell phone. Jimmy calls, and requests a meeting with this shadowy vigilante

They meet in a quiet bar closer to the outskirts of town. Jimmy asks what Wolf-Raven's intentions are, and Wolf lightly explains that he's looking for a bit of action. When Jimmy suggests that Wolf should join the force, he declines, saying there would be way too much Red Tape. Jimmy agrees, saying how he's starting to get aggravated with how much red tape there is in the job. Wolf, however, shares information that he thinks that this specific thief was a feeler for a more advanced thief, and shows Jimmy a calling card off the thief's person.

The next day, a jewelery warehouse is robbed by a man who calls himself "Aquinas" (he has his name stitched into his shirt shoulder). Wolf is the first on the scene, and he and Aquinas stage a short firefight. It's short because Wolf-Raven, it is shown, is a very good shot, pegging Aquinas in both legs and a kneecap. However, he manages to crawl away, and Wolf-Raven has to leave before the cops show. Before he goes, he contacts Jimmy, saying where he might be headed, and to meet him at a warehouse near said location.

Jimmy shows up, and meets Wolf-Raven, who is looking a bit shocked. He shows that Aquinas is up and walking, and also making use of both hands quite well. Jimmy opens up the laptop he brought with him and begins searching for answers. within seconds, he figures out that Aquinas is using new technology to fill in his wounds and replace his kneecap with a crude robotic joint. Jimmy then devises a plan, and the two get to work.

Wolf-Raven first sprays Aquinas with automatic fire, giving time for Jimmy to come up and hit him with a nightstick. However, when the stick falls upon Aquinas, it bounces off with a metallic "pang". Jimmy, knowing that Aquinas is wearing some sort of armor, reaches for the sharpest and closest thing he can grab, which turns out to be a hatchet. With Wolf's help, Jimmy damages Aquinas's suit, which powers his knee. He can't slink away this time, however, as Jimmy is holding the axe to his neck.

As the scene cleared and Aquinas, now raving like a madman, is sent to jail, Jimmy meets Wolf-Raven at the same quiet bar again, and thanks him for his help. Wolf suggests that Jimmy should become a vigilante as well, but Jimmy says that there's too much going for him in the force to quit. Wolf tells him he knows how to reach him, and then goes back into the night, leaving Jimmy wondering if he actually has all that much going for him working in the Police Station.

(Jimmy is actually loosely based off of a comic book character called "Axe Cop" Which is written by a three year old but drawn by a professional
http://axecop.com/ )

At 4/5/10 12:44 AM, TrevorW wrote:

At 4/5/10 12:34 AM, Wolf-Raven wrote:

Option 2 is definitely how i want to do things. I have 3 or 4 universes of stories and i like it that way.

As long as it isn't a vampire world, sounds good to me.

hrm...lets see...no...most likely no...shouldn't be...and maybe wannabes in the club in the first chapter.

Believe me, the way i avoid stereotypes is to identify then mutilate. it gets to the point where i can't even remember what the stereotype was.

Hell, i don't even have Elves in the Fantasy novel! POINT FOR WOLF-RAVEN!

At 4/5/10 12:21 AM, TrevorW wrote: A good writer can make you endlessly believe that you are reading something completely original. Though a great writer writes something completely original and then stops.

I do not have fangs! I sparkle though :)

Option 2 is definitely how i want to do things. I have 3 or 4 universes of stories and i like it that way.

At 4/4/10 09:06 PM, zartarix wrote: Hello, I am new to the forum. I'm working on a series of novels of which the first edit of the first book is completed. I focus on Science Fiction and Fantasy works greatly enjoying a fusion of both. I am actually looking for a place to share some of my work so I might start here.

A first edit of your first book? That's awesome comrade! I can't get my first edit out! Given, it's 400 pages of stuff i wrote when i was 16, but still...well, a good chunk of when i was 18, but still.

So, new question from me: Do you think that there's such a thing as too much writing of different stories? Like, if you keep making story universes, do you kind of loose their originality?

Also, don't feed TrevorW. He grows fangs overnight.

For those of you who've noticed I've existed in the forums before, it should be noted that you might not have noticed me around lately (apologies to funnyhome for being a no-show), and for those who don't know who i am, congrats, as you know know the 18,290th best writer in the world (i'm guessing. Maybe i'm not being generous enough). At any rate, i have been writing an outline to a screenplay for a TV show. Do i intend to put it out? maybe in the 1 in 10000000000000 chance that i am going to get influential through writing, i'll think about it. Right now though, it's just writing for fun. Though i have not actually completed any actual script work, i have done a fair amount of character back story, which i will regale you with...now.

My main character is my Alias, Wolfgang Ravenna, or as he is known by his codename, Wolf-Raven. Wolf-Raven's parents were part of the KGB during the fall of the Soviet Union. Wolf's father was a double agent, and in return for his service in sabotaging Russian efforts in Afganistan, he was given safe passage to the US to raise his son. However, on Wolf's 16th birthday, his parents are assassinate by Mujahadeen operatives, who, if you know your history, are now called "the Taliban" . Using his parents as a starting point, Wolf-Raven joins the US army. In basic training, he is found to have above average combat skills and superior mental processing, causing him to be shipped off to Iraq immediately after basic training.
In Iraq, he is put under the command of a monster of a captain, who is Wolfgang's commander in the second battle of Fallujah. During which, said commander ordered Wolfgang to kill a group of civilians, to which Wolfgang refused and killed his commanding officer. Using allies of his parents, Wolfgang escaped into the Chechen mountains, where he took up the name of Wolf-Raven. During his three year time there, Wolf switched sides multiple times, working for two opposing rebel groups and the Georgian army. Finally, after being captured by the Russians, they offer him the chance to return to America if he can destroy a prominent rebel stronghold. He does so, but not while betraying his only friend in the area, Sullivan. True to their word, the Russians offer Wolf-Raven safe passage to New York.
In New York, things get bad. Wolf-Raven has obviously made enemies, which include Taliban operatives, two US agents seeking him to be court marshaled, Chechen Rebel groups, and white supremacists. for 4 months, they chase him across the north-eastern United States until the Supremacists capture him, torture him, and leave him to die. However, he is picked up by a man and driven to a mansion commune where Wolf is able to live. He lives soundly in this mansion for a couple of months making friends and exploring his interests, all the while trying to put his soldier days behind him. I wrote a book about this, which was called "Red Angels", which told of Wolf and other members' lives in the mansion. However, the supremacists form a group called the YSB (Youth Supremacist Brigade), and mount an attack on the mansion, imprisoning Wolf and the other mansion dwellers. However, Wolf and his friends escape, going off to lead separate lives on their own.
The second book of the Red Angels series picks up 5 years after the end of the first, in which Wolf-Raven is apparently working at a McDonalds. this is actually a cover, as he has been sent to kill the manager, who is actually a ringleader in a small drug ring. Wolf goes back to report to his employers, who are part of an non-governmental organization called the Underground United Nations, which specifically aims to achieve what the UN, because of structural, moral or legitimacy problems, cannot do, like send peace-keeping strike forces into countries or take out domestic problems, like crime.
During a walk with his friend Jarrid, he meets another former member of the mansion, who updates him on his life. this begins a goose chase to find the other members, however marred along the way by bombings, shootouts and attacks by the YSB. When everyone gets together, however, the YSB bombs the mansion, killing two of the most prominent members of the group. Wolf-Raven and his closest friends vow revenge, hence the start of Red Angels, part 3.
About a month passes, and Wolfgang and his friends have been busy. They have been rounding up members of the UUN and any of the Mansion members that went back into hiding. They track the YSB down to another mansion in the same area which belonged to a former rival group. With this group of assembled people, the group goes in and defeats the YSB once and for all.

However, what i will post here are short synopsis of each episode. If anyone actually wants a taste of Red Angels, just say so. keep in mind it was written a while ago, so it may not be top of the line.

At 4/4/10 03:21 PM, funnyhomeboy wrote:
What.

There, I said it.

Happy now?

Ecstatic.

By the way, good poem. I don't know if you intended this or not, but i got the feeling that it...how do i explain this...rhymed out of order...or something to that effect.

Song for Arbonne by Guy Gaverel Kay. it's one of the few books I've actually read and reread because it's just so good.

At 4/3/10 08:14 PM, rubber-dum-dum wrote: Hello one and all, I'm new to the forums. I created myself a writing thread.

So, I was wondering, anything I should know?

Don't feed anything
Take writing seriously, especially if it's humor.
Did i mention not to feed anything.

Well, Exam season is in full swing, but i've been writing scripts for a hypothetical TV show. Aside from that, not much in the way of work...i'll need to frequent this place more often...

*picks up head out of the mass of papers and schoolwork*

Say what?

At 3/18/10 02:16 PM, Birdbeard wrote: Hello, I'm new to the writing forum. I didn't even know it existed until today. I am studying Creative Writing and English Literature at University right now, and its good to know my favorite website has a place where I can come to share some of my ideas.

I just posted a poem on the forum: Scylla..., a draft and idea from the book I am writing. Check it out and tell me your thoughts. I am open to all criticism. :D

The fact that, like me, you are taking a course for the sake of enhancing yourself and not your resume has already earned you my unbridled and ravaging respect. I should know, as Philosophy and Political Science aren't areas that are flooding with jobs. But sorry, i'm pros for life, except occasionally, then it ends badly, like stuffing thousands of Equatorial Guenians into a stadium and trying to execute them. [/offensive]