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At 12/9/08 01:05 PM, JackPhantasm wrote: Fucking finals.

I might not be able to do this one guys.

Maybe, I have some time today.

If more than one person quotes this and tells me to do it I will do it.

AW SNAP.

Giantdouche:

I'm almost positive you are going to have to write another one. It is much too long. You could trim it down and enter it with just a little bit of work.

Also, you may be a little confused about which story I'm entering. But you already knew you were confused, didn't you?

At 12/9/08 01:41 PM, GiantDouche wrote: I went over by exactly 420 words to protest against the man. Hope you still accept it. (WARNING: NOT FOR PUSSIES) I've had this for a while, and if it doesn't count somebody tell me so I can write another one.

If it's over the limit you need to cut it back, and possibly consider using paragraphs so that I don't hate you.

At 12/9/08 03:01 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: If it's over the limit you need to cut it back, and possibly consider using paragraphs so that I don't hate you.

That sucks the nutsack. What's the prize anyways? I'm not going to cut this one back, I want to know if it's worth the effort to write an entirely new story.

At 12/9/08 07:22 PM, GiantDouche wrote:

At 12/9/08 03:01 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: If it's over the limit you need to cut it back, and possibly consider using paragraphs so that I don't hate you.

That sucks the nutsack. What's the prize anyways? I'm not going to cut this one back, I want to know if it's worth the effort to write an entirely new story.

Xboxlive arcade games I think, courteshy of Sekhem. See the fourth post on the last page.

At 12/9/08 07:24 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: Xboxlive arcade games I think, courteshy of Sekhem. See the fourth post on the last page.

It's not bad. I'll consider it. You can't really submit an entry can you?

At 12/9/08 07:31 PM, GiantDouche wrote:

At 12/9/08 07:24 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: Xboxlive arcade games I think, courteshy of Sekhem. See the fourth post on the last page.

It's not bad. I'll consider it. You can't really submit an entry can you?

I'm judging, that would unfortunately be a ethical quandry, so the story I posted earlier is just an example. I may post another before the end of the competition.

Can I write the story about two flee's that live on my ballsack.

Every time I ejaculate.

They travel through time.

At 12/9/08 08:27 PM, JackPhantasm wrote: Can I write the story about two flee's that live on my ballsack.

Every time I ejaculate.

They travel through time.

With more effort that could be a real winner ... wait, two flee's?

Grammar is very important to me so I purposefully used it incorrectly.

At 12/9/08 08:27 PM, JackPhantasm wrote: Can I write the story about two flee's that live on my ballsack.

Every time I ejaculate.

They travel through time.

I WANT TO READ ABOUT THIS

-Testimonial of the One Who Was Never There-

Three walls, no roof. Home for the past eleven days.
One window with a view is all that's necessary.

Tired. No sleep again last night. Can't remember the last time since the bird flew away and birthed me into this world.

No food. Gone for two days. That cold wave happens again and helps to step outside the body.

Heat can play tricks on the mind. Hydrate to stay sane.

Quiet now. It is the time where shadows disappear. Not long now.
This is when they said he would be. That is what they passed down. They know all, and they have no reason to lie. They are the watchers who see but are never seen.
And I am their right hand.

Time cannot live here. It has no place. Thoughts serve no meaning. Doubt is the lifeblood of the weak. Focus is vitality.
To be a wall of pure stone is how to breathe. At this moment, even the Earth seems to become singular with the being.
The slightest glint could be the last words ever spoken.

The sound of a machine. Wheels stopping on sand.

*click*

Gaze and glass merge to become one. Long is the light and heavy are the minds of those who embrace it. What once was beyond my knowing is now mine to judge. I wasn't given this. I was reborn into it.

A man with no name, his hands stained red from the seed, now rests within the narrow espy. His mind is sure of the day to come, confident that tomorrow is certain, immortally content in his ignorance. He surrounds himself with fools entranced by visions of a throne. They have no faces. There is only him.

Flesh and metal fuse and pulsate, familiar with each others' company. Live in this moment.
Nothing else exists.
This is all that matters.
This is the world.

Years pass every second. That voice in the dark recess continues to stay silent. It is the voice of reason, it is the voice of chance. Abundant with impulse yet free of desire. It is the call, they said. It is your authority, it is your weapon. It is the fulfillment of a lifetime of pain.
It is purpose.
It is salvation.
It is God.

A man with no name makes words of common passing and comes to rest in a seat of ill begotten ways. He faces the East, and with it the sum of his fears. This is his reckoning. It has to be. That is what they told me.
And they have no reason to lie.

I cannot hear. I cannot feel. I cannot remember my life or the path that lead me to this place. My name becomes the sound of balance and will echo far into the abyss. My blood does not flow, heaven becomes clear.
Somewhere in the distance, a butterfly beats its wings.

He sits still.

The voice makes itself known to me, and only to me. Silently it calls out and baptizes me in its forgiveness.
Everything.
In the universe.
Stops.

I look the Devil in the eye.....

.....and slowly squeeze the trigger.

At 12/9/08 10:56 PM, THEJamoke wrote: Stuff

You're my idol.

I actually wrote this a while ago, but it took some time to whittle it down to it's length now, so it is not as good as when I first wrote it (It was about 700 words long)

It's untitled, but if I had to title it, it'd be something along the lines of...

"Baroque"

It began long ago, before the sun rose on a summer night of the mid 1700's, and a dreary town was alleviated by the sweet song of promise held before a man's lips; The tale that day, uttered loudly by a man with a costume set ablaze in color and flair in front of a large tent of red and white color. In the midst of it, a large, circular bump jutted out of it like a knuckle.

The man, cloaked in a fluctuant robe of bright red and deep blue patches and a flamboyant top hat calmly let out a yell of "feast your eyes on a meal of delight, as a man shall be blasted all the way to the moon!"

A staggering crowd circled slowly around him, mouths wide in a certain astonishment caused by the man, and they held their eyes in a strange disbelief; the man unveiled the large tent, pulling it apart and disassembling it in a swift motion.

Behind him, an oblong shaped piece of metal housed on two sets of old, dampen and moldy wooden legs, and a spherical base was separated from the rest of the gray, contorted oval only by a ring of gold, and from the beginning to the end the object had florid designs , fading to the black end where a circular man sized opening was.

The man continued to stir the crowd, yelling aloud; "Its name is Das Barock," the man projected loudly in the most charismatic tone he could muster, "And it is the largest cannon assembled by man... And it's powered by..." The man continued in a breathtaking way.

"... A book."

He stopped only to hear the astonishment from the crowd that amassed by him; from the beginning, only ten, to a growing crowd of near a hundred. The group eventually hushed while the strange man took in a deep breath and began another speech. "The man who shall be flying to the moon tomorrow," He said, again pausing dramatically.. "Will be none other than one of you."
And the man then threw the tent back over the cannon, this time not taking the time to carefully hide the shape to the point where it became nothing but a vague tumor inside a tent like before. This time the secret was not held, and the shape was present, remaining there as a reminder to anyone brave enough to accept his challenge.

The next day drew slowly, and the tale of the cannon became stranger still.

The day was in full bloom, and the dreary town and the people of it seemed to all center for the brief time around the man and the machine.

The man called loudly for anyone brave enough to be shot from the cannon. A calm looking man with long gray hair and oddly enough, red eyes stepped forward. The man accepted his offer and prepared the cannon, book in hand, only for it to be taken right from him by the very same man.
The strange man chased him, eventually tiring him, until no one was there, and the man suddenly stopped.

"I will give the book back for matches."

The strange man took out the matches to light the cannon, tossing them at the same time the man tossed the book to him. The man jerked his arm back abruptly, pulling the book back on a string. He struck a match and lit the book aflame, and the strange man uttered only one word. "Why?..."
The man stood and steadfastly replied.
"No one flies around the sun."

I found my flash fiction entry.

That's pretty good Ass-crumb. It gets a little confusing at the end. It might be me, but maybe it could flow a little toward the ending, which would help get the point across better.

If it wasn't this, it would have been super fetus, so you better be happy with this!

"You have no where to run now!" shouted the drunk man piloting a giant robot made by his father. The giant robot smashed a house flat with its huge foot, the drunk man rolled out of his chair with laughter, and accidentally fell on a button that made a laser pulse out of the robot's giant palm, incinerating three houses and melting the concrete and cement from the street and sidewalk, "oops," the drunk man said, "I spilt my beer," the beer had soaked into the robot controls, what happened next could only be described as 'sheer awesomeness.' The fifty foot metallic terror took off on his boot thrusters and plowed through two skyscrapers, sent cars of all types flying, and burnt a pathway showing exactly where the robot had flown, "sweet," the drunk man had found another beer, and started to drink it, soaking his already beer soaked beer as the robot continued to plow through countless homes and random objects, "there you a--re...I'LL TAKE ALL O' YA!" the drunk man piloted his robot straight into a brewery, the beer unleashed in an unrealistic tidal wave that demolished smaller structures and swept the legs off of people. In the drunk man's mind, he had just beat the level fifty-two dolphin Nazi's that had been plaguing the realm in the seventy-eighth dimension. Now, he took aim at flying seals of doom, which in reality were American air force bombers, "IMA EAT YA" the man fell onto the controls, making his robot shoot its automatic turrets at the planes, making them ignite into balls of flame. After the man had rolled off the console, the robot pulled out a twenty-five foot sword and proceeded to cut buildings and tanks into shreds. Without an operator, the robot fell onto the ground with a huge *thunk,* causing the ground to roll in a wave that collapsed trees and formed streets into shattered pieces of debris. When the drunkard regained his consciousness, he vomited on the control panel, making the jets from the boots ignite, burning an orphanage and thrusting him into a lake. This incident was covered up by the government, and blamed on Chuck Norris, whom wasn't sued because the government wasn't brave enough to sue.

At 12/10/08 06:46 PM, zbox101 wrote: Stuff

I might have actually read that, except for the fact that skimming through it I saw Nazis, robots, drunk people, and Chuck Norris.

Not to mention a distinct lack of paragraphs.

At 12/10/08 10:10 AM, wweerrdd wrote: That's pretty good Ass-crumb. It gets a little confusing at the end. It might be me, but maybe it could flow a little toward the ending, which would help get the point across better.

It actually was better. As I said, I had to cut some shit out so I could submit it as a 600 word story, and even still it's exactly on the limit of 600. If I get any good feedback I'll probably post the unnabridged version some time in the near future as a newspost or something.

At 12/10/08 07:19 PM, Peaceblossom wrote:

At 12/10/08 06:46 PM, zbox101 wrote: Stuff

I might have actually read that, except for the fact that skimming through it I saw Nazis, robots, drunk people, and Chuck Norris.

Not to mention a distinct lack of paragraphs.

Well it doesn't matter what you think, and I honestly don't care. I wrote that in less then five minutes with the intention of writting something as retarded as possible, based on the fact it had to be between 300 and 600 words. I don't care if anyone has an opinion on something I can make better for this story, I wrote it because I was bored and felt like writting something, and this was all too convenient.

Two days or something like that right?

If you're going to submit, you'd better get on it. I think I counted only 8 or 9 submissions on my last perusal.

I wrote this a while back, may aswell submit - it sucks large penis.

Retribution

The room was dark and damp, it was cold and felt lifeless, like something had been here once, and had left from fear. It seemed like; life wasn't meant to exist between these walls. I wouldn't be here for long, just long enough.

Danny looked at me in the face, like he was disgusted with me, like he wanted me dead, but I couldn't be sure. He had asked me if we would live and I told me that we probably wouldn't. The prospect of this was worse than being dead already. The inevitable scenario that both of us would be dead, soon, was hard to take.

We both lay there, it was very dark but I could see allot. I could see more than I wanted to, Danny sat against the wall breathing heavily. I stood up and walked over to him, I pushed my right hand into his face, with force, he gave little struggle. After a minute some blood pored from underneath my hand, I then released my hand and could clearly see that Danny was dead. As I lifted his lifeless body it seemed somewhat lighter than it had been before. I used to take him down here all the time, who knew this was where I would end it.

I turned round to the gate at the front of the room; "I have killed him", the man came down and opened the gate. We then threw his body out back and our lives continued.
They continued like nothing had ever happened. No one would ever know, nor would they care.

Thomas Briggs.

That's the kind of shit I'm writing for English GCSE. Enjoy :3

It isn't 300 words, but it is close.

Kind regards -
Thomas.

He had asked me if we would live and I told him that we probably wouldn't.

Corrected...

Is this okay? http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1004 294

I know it's poorly written but I figure that I might as well give it some attention.

This is a short story, set during the Irish Civil War">. The original draft was 455 words long, but I edited it a bit in the process of typing it onto here, so it may be a bit different..

Silent Killer
Night rolled over Dublin. In a quiet road, away from the ever present booming of the gunshots in the distance, a Free State sniper lay in wait. He had been there since the morning, and was desperate for a cigarette. It was far too risky, however. That would reveal his position, and might prove to be fatal. Had his brother been there, he would have taken the risk. His brother had always been a risk taker. But his brother was gone now. He had become corrupted by the media, and joined the Republicans.

Slowly, the sniper saw a waft of smoke drift over the parapet on the opposite roof. Instinctively, he raised his rifle, and shot. This gave away his position, so he quickly darted to the other side of his parapet.

Quietly, he watched an armoured car, one of his own, drive past, and saw a civilian, but also an informer, point towards the enemy sniper's position on the opposite roof.

As an instant reply, two shots rang out, and the man in the armoured car, and the informer, dropped to the floor, mortally wounded. The man in the car draped out of the turret, blood oozing from his chest. Then, the sniper recognised the man in the car. It was Sean, his best friend in the company. It felt like a shot to the head. Filled with rage, he aimed at the enemy on the roof, and fired.

He heard a muffled cry, and a thud as the man hit the roof. The sniper breathed out, and rested, while the opposition presumably cleaned his wound. Or was he dead? Only time could tell. He reloaded his rifle, and prepared for his next attack.

After a couple of minutes, he saw the tip of a cap raise above the parapet. Without aiming, the sniper shot at it straight away.

The cap dropped to the floor below. Followed by the opposition's rifle. A great sense if elation and relief overcame the sniper. His hours of suffering had finally been worth something. At the same time, he felt wrong for rejoicing at another man's death.

He climbed up to stretch, standing before a row of chimney-pots. the gazed around, admiring the darkening skyline, with orange clouds silhouetted against the blue sky.

A split second before it punctured into his skin, the sniper saw the head of his enemy drop below the parapet. The bullet pierced into him at nine hundred and seventy-six miles per hour, cutting into his lungs at breakneck speed. the wound was fatal.

He dropped to the floor, slowly stumbling over the parapet. As if in slow-motion, he descended to the floor, and the collision made a dull thud, accompanied by the crack of his neck breaking in two.

The life was sucked out of him, and the blue of the sky faded to black.

At 12/11/08 02:51 PM, fish1892 wrote: This is a short story, set during the Irish Civil War">. The original draft was 455 words long, but I edited it a bit in the process of typing it onto here, so it may be a bit different..

I couldn't have messed up that link worse..

Irish Civil War

I've never really written any sort of fiction before, so this short flash fiction seemed like it would be fun. Also, I'd love to get some feedback...but I don't want this to be submitted under my main, in case it sucks.

Submission:

The mist rolls in early this morning, curling around the old oaks lining our front yard and giving the morning air a crisp chill. Looking out the sliding glass doors on the porch I can just see the morning sun rising above the trees, turning the lake below into shimmering glass. All of this beauty is muted however, as I cradle my dead wife in my arms.

The horizon continues to hold my gaze as I search desperately for some understanding, some comprehension of what has happened. The sound of gunfire and shouting seems to come from another world, not the world of early morning fog banks and vivid sunrises. The splinters of wood and brick that bite at my face and hands come from bullets that are from another day, another time, in a world that is not my own.

Surely these intruders, these men in blue who are attempting to shatter my calm, quiet dawn; they must be a deception. Clearly some movie is being filmed out on my front lawn, one that involves actors and blanks, action heroes and cinema magic. This woman in my arms cannot be my wife; surely it is some prop - a lukewarm dummy leaking red dye all over my kitchen.

The shattering of the glass door breaks the muffled cocoon I've retreated into, drawing me back to reality. We both knew it would end like this, both understood that lives like ours always end in tragedy. Memories come flooding back; snapshots of daring escapes, bank vaults, a brazen lifestyle that won America's heart - I push it all aside. Sharing one last kiss with the woman who was my life, my love, I scuttle across the kitchen and down into my basement. I hear breaking glass, then the clink and hiss of tear gas canisters rolling around our linoleum floor. My linoleum floor. I close the basement door.

Finding the trap door and unlocking the dead bolt is easy - I've done it a million times before, always preparing for this day. On those days, those simpler days, I wondered if leaving all the money behind would be difficult. Now I know it was never the money - it was always just thrown down here, left to rot in the gloomy dark. It was her. It was the thrill of being with her. My partner in crimes more numerous to count. My love.

I crawl through the dark, my gasps echoing off the dirt walls.
Three hundred meters to go
Can't see behind me.
Doesn't matter.
Keep moving forward.
Down to the lake.
Two hundred meters to go
Four minute run to the boathouse.
Two passports waiting in the lock box.
One for me.
Light ahead.
One hundred meters to go
Forth-five minutes to Canada.
Keep moving after that.
Always moving.
Fifty meters to go
Keep moving forward.
Always moving forward.

Scratch that, I have a better one:

One morning in the backyard a dog was asleep for over a day as she haven't been able to do so nights prior due to a strange phenomena. That night the dog was ready to go to sleep while her owners were away in Las Vegas, as it happens a chair suddenly rise up and there it sat a ghost of Jimmy Hoffa. Seeing a ghostly figure of someone she have never seen before, the dogs starts to bark loudly that it woke up the entire neighborhood. After receiving threats from several angry people who were trying to sleep, the ghost disappears but the chair remains which frightens the dog so much that it led to her insomnia.
One day her owners returned from their vacation in Las Vegas when they notice their dog didn't eat the pile food they have left for her.
"What do you think is wrong with her Michael?" asked one of the owners
"I know what might have happen, maybe Nadroj have seen the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa!" Michael answered
"No wonder why you're suspended from the police force, come to think of it why did you name our dog something stupid?"
Later that day Nadroj was sitting on the lawn wondering what was she just saw when the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa suddenly reappears. Seeing this Nadroj starts to back away when Hoffa said "It's okay, I'm not here to hurt you."
Stunned, she decides to come closer to the ghost until Hoffa gestures her to stop.
"Not long ago I was murdered and my body's been buried in this yard, what I want you to do is dig, I don't care where but dig and keep on doing so until you found the bones as I'm trusting you not to eat them." After he disappears the dog immediately starts to dig. That night Michael came out to see if Nadroj is alright when he saw her continuously digging in the backyard and starts to grow worried about the dog. After that night Michael decides to talk to his cousin about this and Sarah decides that they should take Nadroj to a vet noticing that she hasn't slept for over a day although she did started to eat.
"Something's wrong with Nadroj and I'm hoping it isn't too serious," said Michael
"I don't know, maybe she buried something and have forgotten obout it until now," Sarah insisted
"Even if that's the case we still have to worry about her bloody paws, it could get infected,"
"Good point,"
After taking Nadroj to a vet, they were relieved that the paws isn't too serious and should heal in matter of days but were concerned with her state of mind.
"I'm afraid your dog is incredibly insane, she's been acting as if she have seen a ghost, you may have to put her down before it gets worse," said the vet
Hearing this, Michael then asks the vet if he's French. Stunned the vet then answers "Yes, but why?"
Next morning Michael is at the backyard digging with a shovel as Nadroj watches stunned seeing what her owner is doing.
"So that coward thinks that we should kill her huh? I'm not going to let that happen!" Michael growls as he continues to dig until his shovel hits something.
"What could it be?" Michael wonders as her starts to dig further before unearthing the skeletal remains.
"Could it be?" wondered Michael in amazement in his gruesome find before running back into the house and starts calling the news media about his discovery. Not long after some news vans arrives and starts to report a story of a discovery of skeletal remains in a backyard. After seeing what happened, Nadroj became sad and was ready to go back into the house when Hoffa's ghost appears for the final time.
"It's okay, if it haven't been for you no one would've find my body, I like to thank you for what you have done, see ya!" as he disappears
"Is that Jimmy Buffet?" asked one of the reporters after seeing the ghost shortly before it disappears
"I don't know, just caught a glimpse, maybe it is him, I hate his songs..." said Michael before being cut off by another one of the reporters attacking him with barrage of questions on who it might've been
"Good thing Sarah is at work," thought Michael before continuing "She wouldn't be happy about this, especially ever since her divorce."
Meanwhile just outside the home Jimmy Hoffa shakes his head and said "I should've been more careful, oh well," before floating into wherever he's going now that it's finally over.
After the skeleton was taken away by the forensics examiners, the media eventually leaves and for the first time in few days Nadroj's finally been able to sleep at peace.
"That reminds me!" remembers Michael, "It's time to visit Larry..." and starts to head off to Larry's house.

I'll fix it later, right now I got to go.