Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

At 11/3/05 02:22 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: He was not in any condition accepted to be small.
"Condition" is quite out of place here, "accepted" as well to a lesser degree. This sentence should probably read more like:
Under no conditions was he to be thought of as small.

No, that is wrong, that would mean that people were under no conditions accepted to think about him as a small man, when it should be that he ain't accepted to be small.

But that's still a bit dodgy, it works, but I would propose a sentence more along the lines of:
Never would one consider this boy to be small of stature.

That works better, the other sentence you purposed would mean something else.

He was not the weak fragment of his father that his men although thought he would become.

"Although" is misplaced here, it should really be at the beginning of the sentence:
Although he was not the weak fragment of his father that his men thought he would become.

Hmmm, I don't know. I think it is better as it first was.

But so it was, he possessed inheritance that he could not keep for himself without men of his looting it or consume what was not theirs on their conditions.

^A very awkward/confusing sentence.

Hmmm, I think it is pretty clear.

I'll just give an example of how it could be worded:
But so it was - the boy's inheritance could never be kept for himself, for those who served under him would no doubt seek to steal, and manipulate his birthright to serve their own ends.

Kinda right, but it's his father, at that time the king, who couldn't keep his own men from his fortune.

Other than that I would just look at not repeating "his" too often, and keeping your repetition of "and" to a minimum.

I will think about that.

At 11/4/05 11:58 AM, Myst_Williams wrote: Haha... sure man. Writing is writing. : )

But you can't write properly unless you are relaxed. I am in the situation where my creative juices are ready to flow and the fireworks are going off, causing all kinds of headaches.

I'll go and buy my own to make me feel better.

Have you read my story yet? I'm also requesting to join the Writer's Guild, if you don't mind.

I guess I'll join the Writer's Guild. Here's part of a story I was going to make but the thread it was in Phailed.
I woke up, I had no clue what was happening. I stared around at what looked like a huge hallway. The hallway had what seemed like an endless amount of doors. I got up and approached a door trying to find a way out. After opening the door. A huge fire spread around. Explosions were all around me. A wierd blob-like thing flew over my head. A few bombs blew up as I tried to run for cover. I hid in a small ditch that was covered by ruins of buildings."U hear 2???" I saw and heard someone say. Yes that's right, I saw and heard their words. "Yeah... Who are you?" I said, seeing my words as more explosions around me." I'm PowerPwnage. Who are you? For some reason I forgot my name. But something kept telling me my name was ElectroMagnetic. So to avoid seeming like an idiot I said "ElectroMagnetic."

So...what do you think?

At 11/4/05 03:53 PM, Fragment wrote: Have you read my story yet?

I hvant gotten to it yet, but maybe someone else did.

I'm also requesting to join the Writer's Guild, if you don't mind.

Welcome.

At 11/4/05 05:03 PM, ElectroMagnetic wrote: I guess I'll join the Writer's Guild.

Welcome to the club.

Welcome ElectroMagnetic, although your story is better than some I have read, it really does not capture me. Not only are you rushing things but your words are just, not the rights ones. "U hear 2?" I mean, what is that about. First off, you should never use number to convey words such as "4ever, h8, etc." It just kills your credibility. I also believe that the hallways part was great but you killed it by, once again, rushing...

I could go into more detail but you get the general idea.

This is an unfinished piece I'm looking to revamp, so comments on this would be greatly appreciated. (Its an excerpt from my novel) ... So here is the first part, I may post a few more selected sections, but only so much of a work can go up on the internet... sorry guys.

--Prologue

Icrone, a rock, that some say will free the world of evil. Others believe it will destroy all that is good. But all that use magic knows the powers it possesses. Harnessing the power is another thing entirely. Few mages or wizards have, had, or will that power. The fate of Istem hangs on this rock. Our story begins with a few of those who did have enough power to use the icrone; five hundred years ago…

Dark, smelly, and suffocating was the sinister room. Black rough stone floors twisted up in strange curves to become walls. Tortured stone formed a lopsided dome high above. It was completely still, deathly still. The only sound was the rasp breathing of the wizards. The walls seemed to swallow all of the gray light that came from the tall-contorted double doors. In the center of the room the floor spiked up to hold the only source light chest high. The magical glow came from the unnatural orb upon the stone. Great was the dagger orb; a sphere made of pure icrone. It is a legendary artifact that could banish the great evil that tormented and ravaged the land or the exact opposite.
Long, the people of Istem had endured suffering. Harsh was the sound of a whip striking a slave was a too familiar sound. Starved, they grew food they could not have. They built barracks and monuments they could not sleep in. Sickness claimed the weak and the strong alike. Death ruled the land. There was no cheer or hope in the putrid lands. The skies were always dark and any light that came from the sun was a deep gray.
But now, now the wizards would change this. The dark years would be only nightmares long forgotten. Yes they were the dragon lords of blue, gold, red, and green. Now they wore black cloaks to help disguise them. Each cloak seemed to be tinted red, blue, green, or gold when the light hit just right. Long and gray beards hung down on top of robes. The long mustaches grew into the beards hiding mouths and chins. Eyes were tense and focused saw things not there. Their skin was paled because of the long underground journey and little food.
The four great wizards stood in a circle around the dagger orb. First the blue tinted man drew his dagger. Simultaneously the other three drew theirs and together they placed the cold steal on the orb. The swirling colors of the orb slowed and separated. Greens, blues, reds, and yellows went to different sides. Black swirled in the top surrounded yet very dangerous. The blackness was driven back by the other colors, which were pulsing intensely.
Closing their eyes the wizards began chanting incoherently. All the colors except the black grew brighter until they were solid white. The spike holding the orb up shrank back into the floor. But still the orb remained aloft while the colors fought the darkness. The walls quavered and tried hide from the blinding light poring from the sphere.
A black robed man ran into the room, the light parting in front of him. Finally the blackness was purged from the orb and the wizards fell back. Roaring the black robed man shriveled back against the wall. “You fools! You idiots! I will I have my revenge! You’ll be sorry!” All was gone. The room had disappeared. The orb had disappeared. And the robed man was gone.
Outside the clouds dispersed across the sky. The sun shined on a black and charred land. Rubble from the castle was scattered everywhere. Yet in the middle of the ashes and rocks stood a single blade of green grass sticking up out of a rock.
Three of the four wizards lay dead upon the rocks, for the spell had taken every ounce of energy left in their bodies. As the dust settled around the Blue Dragon Lord he could see the slaves looking around. He had one last thing he must do to complete his mission. Climbing upon the boulder with the one blade of grass, high above every thing else, he spoke. His voice boomed out over the land and all heard. They were stirred by his words.

:: 500 years later… ::

“It is good to see you again old friend.”
“And it is good to see you too. Much has changed.”
“Istem is always changing. There are rumors of late.”
“Yes that He is returning, but that is not why you called me here, is it?”
“Yes and no. The rumors are not without base, but I need your help to possibly stop things that may be unstoppable.”
“You have my attention.”
“The real reason I called you here is because of the chosen.”
“But there hasn’t been a chosen in nearly three centuries.”
“I know, but now there are two. I cannot reach both. I need you to head north towards a small village named Koeth. There is a young man there named Grish. He is one of them, but he may have moved west before you reach him. I will ride north-east to meet up with the other. There is not much time. Something is happening. I will be in contact with you.”
“I understand. I will make all haste, but what is it that you think is happening.”
“I don’t have the answer, but it’s not good. We don’t have much time. Till we meet again.”
The two robed figures parted ways, each heading different ways down a long arched hallway.

A little more...

Oh and I hate JK Rowling for stealing ideas I had three years before she published >:( (but thats later)

Serol jumped off his horse, ran to the door to the main building, and through the mob of people gathered at the door. The wind that rushed in from the wide open doors brought everyone’s attention to Serol, whose deep brown hair was being blown about. Serol shoved his way through the crowd into the middle of the throne room; a place of little interest, having only dull tapestries on its walls. The laughter in the room stopped, as did the Jesters who had been roaming the room. It was a great insult that Serol, dressed in working clothes, had just burst into the king’s throne room. Some stared at the high ceiling as if help for this poor boy might come through the roof. Others began to laugh, believing this to be a new act of the jesters.
However the man at the other end of the room did not find anything funny about the situation. He was not old or young, but in his early thirties. He had a crown on his head, but if a glimpse of him was caught in the market he might have been taken for an everyday person. In fact, he was the king of the land by ancient ancestors whose blood did not flow strongly in his veins. His features were soft, those of one who has never seen a battle. He was a king of peace, not war. Instead of a sword he carried a scepter. He did not believe. He did not believe in magic. He did not believe in the existence of elves, dwarves, dragons or what he deemed other bedtime stories. What he did believe in was what he could touch, feel, or what he had experienced in his lifetime. He became angry and confused at this interruption. Seeing no good reason for a peasant boy interrupting his merry making he decided to teach the boy a lesson. “Who are you and what do you want disturbing my court? Speak or leave!” commanded a strong and deep voice that did not quite fit its body.
“Your majesty, I am Serol, son of Leorl, one of the foot soldiers under your command. I have brought news from Nieroc, the great wizard.” Gasps followed. Nieroc was widely respected though his advice was not always heeded. “Evil black dragons are coming from the north. They are just over the forest now if not here already. You must be ready.”
“Remove this child! I will not tolerate the stupid pranks of this foolish young boy!”
“I’m not joking,” Serol replied in a stern voice much bolder than the king’s. His eyes seemed unfocused as if seeing things to be and not his surroundings. “If you do not assemble the warriors you will all die!”
“Leorl, where is Leorl?”
“O great king, here I am.” A man of the same age as the king stepped forward. He had dark hair and gray eyes like his son, Serol. He wore leather armor and carried a sword and three daggers like the soldiers.
“Leorl, is this boy yours?” The king said this with such disgust he could have rotted an egg.
“Yes he is mine.”
“Explain to your…”
A tumultuous roar drowned any further words out, while infecting the strongest of hearts with unbelievable fear. Sudden realization crept into the minds of the unbelievers as they saw the truth. The Black dragons had come and though those inside could not see them, the people tried in vain to hide themselves like the peasants in the market place.
In a few moments, after hearing much of Serol’s shouting, the amateur soldiers were being rallied to the doors, which had finally been shut. All those unable to fight were shepherded to the cellars where they would be the safest. Serol and others that were in training stood at the top of the stairwell for a final, if necessary, stand.
The wind died down and the room was filled with an unearthly silence. Some stood in shock, while others stood with grim faces. Swords were drawn and bowstrings were taught in wait. The few moments seemed to stretch into hours of tense, demented time. Death’s silence reigned. Beads of sweat trickled down the men’s faces. Out of the silence came the faint screams of the wall guards as they fell to an unseen foe.
Time resumed its natural flow as the wooden gates splintered and ash from the gate was cast at the defenders. The massive doors were blown off their hinges with a tremendous sound only to disintegrate into the air from the dragon fire behind them. Smoke filled the air bringing tears to the unprotected eyes of the soldiers. The ash and embers infiltrated the lungs of those close to the door and burned their insides. Many fell to the ground before even seeing their enemy.
Dark shadows could be seen gliding through the hole where the gates had stood seconds ago. Bows twanged as they let go their shafts. The arrows flew straight and true and many would have found their mark; however, the dragon riders had magic on their side, putting the king’s defenders at a disadvantage. Halted in mid air, as if frozen in time, the arrows were engulfed in black flames and sent into the shocked soldiers and tapestries.
In a last effort the men with blades led a charge yelling their city’s name, Nesoroth. Desperate, the men had no chance up against the dark riders. Not one of the king’s soldiers got off a single blow. The black flame flared up across the stone ground toward the soldiers and licked at the soldiers’ legs until soon they were surrounded by it. Agonizing cries filled the air as unholy black fire consumed their flesh. Serol’s dad was among those who fell.
It was too much for Serol. A mounting anger surged through out his body. There was nothing he could do, but he had to protect the others around him. He began to focus on his sword, his mind cleared. He felt the adrenaline rushing through his veins. To the onlookers, he seemed to suddenly be engulfed by a white flame.
Rushing forward and the black flames receded, cowering before him. His feet made no sound but his sword began to sing the song of retribution. The blade cast strange patterns of light on the walls as it began spin in Serol’s hand. Once dull, the sword looked as if it could slice through steel. Metal faded away into white light while the speed of the blade sped up each moment. None of the dark powers that the riders possessed could not breach Serol’s magic. As he ran his feet missed the, and his ground his newly discovered power grew with each twirl of the blade.

... read on next post ...

With a downward slash, his sword cut through the closest dragon rider easily. Black blood spilled to the ground eating away at the stone floor, yet strangely leaving the blade unharmed. Serol went into another mad dash towards the next rider. Before he got off a swing the room was empty except for himself and a hole in the floor where the rider died.
All of the king’s soldiers were dead, including Serol’s father. Numbness clouded Serol’s mind as he drifted away from the ghastly scene before him. He felt as if he was watching everything that was going on from outside his body. He saw the young boys who had stayed by the stairs. As they came out, he could see the tears streaming down from their eyes after seeing their parents die in front of them. A few had expressions of awe etched into their faces, as they looked towards Serol the boy who had warned them and had done what the royal guard could not.
The boys dried their eyes as the women and children came out of the cellars. Seeing the boys kneeling in respect for those who had fallen and their grim faces the women realized what had happened and they broke down while the children pleaded for answers their elders were unable to give.
Serol felt he was not in the room but hearing a sad story. No one noticed him as he stared into oblivion. He began to feel lightheaded and dizzy and as pain entered his body. He was being pulled back. In all of the confusion he let go of his sword. The clang brought many people’s attention. He fell to his knees and then he hit the ground. The last thing he saw was an empty throne before his eyes clouded over. The room grew dark as he slipped away from the waking world. He had no dreams or thoughts. Nothing that was going on mattered. His pain began to subside. He withdrew from the world before anyone said a word. Light from a high broken window was shining down on the floor around Serol.

----<><><><><> END SECTION <><><><><>-----

K thats it... I can't bear to post anymore at the moment, but I would like comments please.

w00t my creative writing peice is ready, probably like at least 1,000 - 3,000 letters, not sure

Zing an arrow shot past Giles head as he was charging at the goblin fortress on his horse. He was an elf, and this war had been going on for 3 long years of hatred. As giles rode towards the fortress on hishorse, the 'goblin goon' came and started crushing all of the elvish troops with its ginormous club. The goblin goon is a failed goblin experiment at a super soldier, they used them anyways. As giles was the best elvish soldior, he knew the weakness, so he took out his bow, ignited the leather coated tip, and shot the GG in the eye, the beast was stupid, mind you, so it covered its eye, knocking its self over with its brute strength, and then the elvish troops came and *censored for it will put bad pictures in your mind* and then they burned the door of the goblin fortress and ran in.

alright well for now, thats all ive got, i'm making a sort of story series on this, im open to suggestions

Ok, I have this hot idea on my mind for a great story, but right now I only have little material. I'll give you a small rough draft.

Gentile's Drama

Welcome To Gentile High School, Buffalo, New York. What a fucking piece of mediocricy, a crappy high school seating in the middle of crappy white suburbia. Football champions four years in a row, sexy blonde cheerleaders, and nice teachers that will ask questions before even daring to doodle the Big Red F. What a dump. This is my junior year, and I'm proud to say that I've had enough. How much is too perfect? The truth lies here in Gentile, home of America's Most Promising Teens and about twenty America's Sweethearts. I've got to do something about it.

My name is Jared Carlowen. I'm 16 years old, blonde, athletic, a virgin, and yet another image of America's view of perfection. The good thing is, nobody knows what goes on inside. Nobody knows I joined the Gentile Mafia two months ago, that I've bought over a dozen of firearms, pounds of ammo, and that I'm also planning to end Gentile Class of 2006 with a smear of blood and a chunk of brains in the white-washed walls....

Hell, call me The Lone Braveheart!

End...for now

So, what did you think? I would really like some reviews or your thoughts on this, I'm planning it to enhance it to a whole new level. If you think this is far too inaproppiate, I would gladly call it off.

At 11/4/05 11:29 PM, yoyodog76 wrote:

Zing

Oh snap!

And Then It Showers - Introduction to the Novella

The stench - that cold, dry stench was all I could manage to focus my thoughts on in that small, bright-white office. The stink seemed to linger in my mouth, which was growing dryer by the second. My mouth, a sum of paste, begged for liquid, and with that feeling on my mind I finally came to, and realized the man in front of me had already begun to speak.

The sun’s light, funneling through the window like layers of ice, masking the faces of the furniture with individual hues of intensity, grasped the few particles of dust that feathered throughout the air. I stared aimlessly into it, unable to look the man directly in the eyes.

The man, whose white coat seemed perfectly camouflaged for the room, and gave the impression of a suspended head, lifted from his seat, sounding like that of closing subway doors, to merely travel around his desk towards me. I could tell his migration was an attempt to comfort my racing mind with merely his presence, but I think we both knew it would not do any good. He sat upon the edge of his working space, and – without words, but with emotion – told me what I dreadfully feared. Though he knew the words were terrible for my ears, and he attempted to comfort me, there was a certain odd professionalism about his demeanor, and somehow he upset me more than he did comfort. It was like clock work, routine; an awkward arrogance that looked down upon my position with eerie pity. His head turned towards the ground with a slight smile as humor got the best of my uncomfortable, and uncanny placing in the room, ‘quoth the raven.’

Life can be funny – ironic. Though the irony is laced with pain, and undoubtedly, whether the man’s words accurate or not, followed by the teachings of a karma invested religion – be it outright, or conformed with age. Like wine, let it age. However, life can be crude with its comedy, and deservingly so we are as Mother Nature hinders year upon year, and swings to only find us even more oblivious than before, and as each one of us seems to take granted, not the objects or subjects of our being, but the being itself. Curiously, I wonder what power seems to explore the entity we each embody. Though, even when life can be crude, ironic, funny, awkward, dreadful, with a choke, it can be quite the opposite, and every being would rather be, than not at all.

I got up from my seat, my lips pressed tightly, my brow firm and low, and headed towards the door. The man, that arrogant, yet gentle man just sat there and stared at the ground, and it was then I realized how an emotion that is routine can still be just as meaningful as the first time. I nodded, as did he. I left that odor behind me, and it was nevermore.

As the automatic front doors opened, and I rubbed the antibacterial soap into my hands, gently pushed through, I felt a brush-wind slowly fade around. I listened carefully walking towards the parking lot, hearing the sounds of rushing cars, barking dogs, chatty children, and teenage laughter, I thought about how, at that moment, I truly hated the city. It was then I heard the old woman. I heard her cry. She spoke of her late husband, who seemed to pass only a few hours before. She loved him dearly.

I looked around, having been lost in my thoughts, and in the old woman’s words, and tried to find where my car had been parked. Noticing it only a few cars away, I unlocked it and traveled towards the door. I placed my hand on the handle, and looked back as the daughter helping the old woman into a van. Getting into my expensive sedan and placing my arms across the steering wheel, I rested my head on my hands, and locked my eyes tight while trying to hold in any pent up sadness or anger. I felt my body shake as I lost control, and a tear drop down onto the back of my palm. I sniffed hard, wiped my hand on my pant leg, and quickly turned on the car.

Shifting the car into reverse, I looked behind me and began to back out. I felt my body jolt forward and the car come to a sudden stop. Lifting my eyes, I looked through the rear view mirror to see a van against the rear-right side of my car. My head dropped onto the steering wheel, the polyester grain against my forehead, as the worst day of my life only got better.

Your use of words will never cease to amaze me. You perfectly capture the feelings of the man and his day and everything that happened, it was like I was actually there.

Good job but, what is this about, if you don't mind my asking?

At 11/4/05 11:29 PM, yoyodog76 wrote: w00t my creative writing peice is ready, probably like at least 1,000 - 3,000 letters, not sure

Zing an arrow shot past Giles head as he was charging at the goblin fortress on his horse. He was an elf, and this war had been going on for 3 long years of hatred. As giles rode towards the fortress on hishorse, the 'goblin goon' came and started crushing all of the elvish troops with its ginormous club. The goblin goon is a failed goblin experiment at a super soldier, they used them anyways. As giles was the best elvish soldior, he knew the weakness, so he took out his bow, ignited the leather coated tip, and shot the GG in the eye, the beast was stupid, mind you, so it covered its eye, knocking its self over with its brute strength, and then the elvish troops came and *censored for it will put bad pictures in your mind* and then they burned the door of the goblin fortress and ran in.

alright well for now, thats all ive got, i'm making a sort of story series on this, im open to suggestions

I suggest, and please don't take this the wrong way, that before you continue you expand this. Instead of saying "He was an Elf", imply it through description and give him some life... for instance:

Gile's elfen blood surged through his veins.

Also never actually use #s to get accross anything instead of 3 use three.

As said before you are slightly rushing and what you have there is possibly ten topic sentances to ten different paragraphs. I'm not saying make ten, but you should definatly have more description of the Goblin Goon. What did he look like? What was he wearing? What was his weapon? How big is he? You can do this all in comparison to the elves who he is killing that way you bring more to the story as you do it.

I also suggest that if you want us to hate the goon, or feel sorry for the elves that you give them history or names before you ever get to this section. Part of the problem with just jumping into action is that you don't feel anything if you don't know the characters.

Once again more description could be put where you have instead decided to censor... but if lead up to it like someone is about to do something disgusting or horrible and then break the paragraph it might work better. Also the burning of the gate could use a little more detail. If it is a war... how is that they only have to take out one Goblin? I know you are VERY early in your writing so not all of this may be within your reach to do, but it is something to at least think about as you write. Without detail all we, the readers, have is action, you have to give some description so that we see what you see.

Myst - great stuff, but I have issues with your metaphors/similies and some general description.

I'll quote the great Mr. King on this one:
"Make yourself a solemn promise right now that you'll never use "emolument" when you mean "tip" and you'll never say John stopped long enough to perform an act of excretion when you mean John stopped long enough to take a shit"

It's a good quantity of description, but often the terms you use have too many frills to be effective in context. What springs to mind is the way I used to write exam papers - using as much complexity as possible. Good for first impressions, not so good for continuity.

I suppose now that I'm done dodging burning firework ejaculate for the evening (lol November 5th) I'll sit down and finish my collab section.

Any one look at the stuff I posted near the bottom of the last page?

I am serious beyond belief about that piece so if anyone has any comments I really would like to here them

At 11/5/05 04:56 PM, gumOnShoe wrote:

I am serious beyond belief about that piece so if anyone has any comments I really would like to here them

I'll get on the case.
Once I've done everything else.

Does anyone have any thoughts on what I wrote in the last page? I'd really like to hear some commentary.

Here's my section, some major backup for story clarification in here:

I awoke to the crashing sound of rain against glass. It was dark, I couldn’t see anyone around. For the first time in what seemed like weeks I felt… normal. No drugs, no one trying to kill me – at least for the time being – and no Elijah. He was the root of my problems, that was for sure. I pondered the matter for some moments, running my mind over the nature of this mysterious man. I hated him, in one way he was responsible for all this, but I doubt I would have gotten this far without him. What had it all been about anyway? The Athorians? This was more than that, I wasn’t sure that they even factored in anymore, things had gotten bigger.
I looked around the room. It was a regular hospital ward, all the beds empty apart from mine, very little equipment to be seen. A phosphorescent blue pattern danced upon the far wall. Water poured down in waves across the windows, some kind of spotlight shining through to project that fluid pattern into the room.
I sat up, feeling my leg vibrate as it’s interior mechanisms worked their magic. The structure felt pretty good, all things considered. Several textured pads in key points gave me some measure of feeling throughout the structure, it responded much the same as a normal limb.
“You like it soldier?”
I snapped my head around in the direction the voice had come from. A slightly balding man in a brown suit stood in the far corner.
Howard Jaspers. I didn’t remember if I’d seen this man before or only heard his name mentioned – but somehow I knew who he was. He stepped forward into the dim cascade of light.
“I thought you’d like it. We’ll have you back in the game in no time!”
This guy was really starting to freak me out. I had just been playing along with things, playing the game, but he didn’t seem like a part of it.
“Who are you?” I asked. It was a stupid question that I already knew the answer to, but I said it all the same. Jaspers frowned reproachfully.
“We both know you don’t really need to be asking me that.”
I wasn’t surprised. I was beyond surprise.
I nodded.
“Jaspers. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
He shook his head.
“Nu-uh, not just yet. You’ll have to stay in the dark just a little while longer. Why don’t you kill me now, by the way? I’m more than likely a danger.”
He grinned at me, the light giving the expression a frighteningly ghoulish appearance.
I swallowed, my throat was dry.
“Alright.” I said, and reached for a small metal box hooked up to some instruments next to me. Jaspers began laughing.
“Hahahahahahah! Robby boy, you never fail to disappoint! Play my game, play it, and win!”
I stood, feeling the weight of the box in my hand. It was solid, sharp corners. More than adequate.
“I’m not playing your fucking game asshole.” I growled at him. “I’ll kill you, and keep on killing the rest of you fucks until I know what the hell’s going on.”
Jaspers tutted and began walking towards me.
“Tick-tock Robby, watch the chrono remember? You don’t even know how to stop playing. And when your time is up, tick-tock my son, tick-tock!”
He placed his hands behind his back, he was nearly at my bed.
“Kill me now, go on! You know that’s what Elijah would do, but oops! His time’s already up, no one to guide you now eh? Tick-tock!”
He took one bounding step forward, thrusting his face close to mine, blowing spittle as he bellowed.
“TICK-TOCK ROBBY!”
I recoiled back, swinging the box into his head with a roar. It struck him just below the temple, there was a tearing sound, and his jaw shifted to the left. I saw exposed metal, sparks. Jaspers’ skin cracked like hard-baked mud, his body slumping down over the bed. Another robot. I dropped the box and ran, out the door, to a flight of steps. There were muffled voices coming from below, normal voices, voices I wanted to join. But did I? No, they didn’t hold the answers anymore. I headed up.

After a minute or thereabouts I reached a door, flinging it open on the mother of all storms. Rain lashed in, the wind and water almost knocking me back down the stairwell for a second. I regained my balance and dashed outside, soaked to the bone within seconds. I was on the roof, thunder sparked across the horizon, dark clouds casting down their fluid maelstrom on the city around me. But there was no city. At least, not for about a mile. Instead, there was water.
I was standing on the roof of a hospital. On an island. In the middle of a coastal bay. In a monsoon.

My new metal toes clicked on the concrete, barely audible above the roar of the storm. The white hospital gown I wore flapped sluggishly against me, producing a wet slapping sound as it made contact. I ran to the edge of the roof, not really knowing what I might do next. And then, right on cue, Elijah’s voice piped up from behind me.
“It’s not over yet. Don’t quit.”
I turned, squinting my eyes against the deluge. There he was, dressed in a raincoat, his handsome face grinning at me beneath the blonde hair.
“Why are you doing this to me!?” I screamed. “Why can’t you just leave me alone!”
Eli stepped forward, still grinning, but with his palms held up in a submissive gesture.
“I’m not in charge, but I can tell you that there’s only one way out of this. Win the game Roberto, keep on going and the answers will come.”
“Why don’t you tell me, I mean WHY THE FUCK DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME!?”
Eli shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. The questions are the answers. But as long as you keep asking them you’re only making things harder on yourself. But I guess you’re right, you deserve some slack.” He took a deep breath and began pacing the roof. “Why did I first come to you Robert?”
“To fight the Athorians.” I answered dutifully. I still felt like I owed this man something. If he even was a man.
“Exactly. And why did I want to fight them?”
“So we could rise above their oppression.”
Eli shook his head.
“Nonono, that’s stupid. Let me ask you something else, how many times has an Athorian ever put you down? How many times have they hurt you? How many times have you actually seen an Athorian hmm?”
I stared down. Waiting for the point to come.
“Now I ask you again: why did I want you to fight?”
“…So you could win.”
“Bingo! We fight to win. It doesn’t matter what we’re fighting for, as long as we want to win. You want to win. And that’s why you’re going to keep fighting.”
I looked back at Eli, my hatred of him beginning to surface once more.
“No, I don’t. Don’t presume you know the first god damned thing about me.”
“And why not? How long is it since you felt like yourself? How long since you didn’t have to be killing someone or fighting for your life to feel normal? Because let’s face it Robert – that’s the only time you don’t feel like you’re going insane.”
Eli walked over and pressed something into my hand. When he spoke, it was with a much softer tone, his smile was gone.
“And now here’s the next question: why am I telling you this? Back to the game Roberto. Make sure you win.”
And with that Eli stepped past me, and off the edge of the building. I didn’t look. Whether it was sparks or blood that came as a result of his suicide, I still felt like I would follow him if I saw. I held up the object he had handed me. Another gun, another way to stay in the game. I looked back over the sheer drop once more, and then turned to the stairs. Four more of those identical men in the yellow coats stood in front of me.
And this time I was on my own.

At 11/5/05 05:41 PM, Fragment wrote: Does anyone have any thoughts on what I wrote in the last page? I'd really like to hear some commentary.

give me some time to get caught up on the collab and take care of a few loose ends and then I will have a look

At 11/4/05 11:46 PM, Fragment wrote: Ok, I have this hot idea on my mind for a great story, but right now I only have little material. I'll give you a small rough draft.

Gentile's Drama

Welcome To Gentile High School, Buffalo, New York. What a fucking piece of mediocricy, a crappy high school seating in the middle of crappy white suburbia. Football champions four years in a row, sexy blonde cheerleaders, and nice teachers that will ask questions before even daring to doodle the Big Red F. What a dump. This is my junior year, and I'm proud to say that I've had enough. How much is too perfect? The truth lies here in Gentile, home of America's Most Promising Teens and about twenty America's Sweethearts. I've got to do something about it.

My name is Jared Carlowen. I'm 16 years old, blonde, athletic, a virgin, and yet another image of America's view of perfection. The good thing is, nobody knows what goes on inside. Nobody knows I joined the Gentile Mafia two months ago, that I've bought over a dozen of firearms, pounds of ammo, and that I'm also planning to end Gentile Class of 2006 with a smear of blood and a chunk of brains in the white-washed walls....

Hell, call me The Lone Braveheart!

End...for now

So, what did you think? I would really like some reviews or your thoughts on this, I'm planning it to enhance it to a whole new level. If you think this is far too inaproppiate, I would gladly call it off.

Mildly fucked up I think best summarizes it, but amusing none the less. When you start up, don't forget to include details of your surroundings. As this is just an intro its fine, but you should really start to focus in on characters if you are going to continue. Its a bit of a jolt to get used to what you have. If you want to get more average people into this you are going to have to ease into it a lot more. Focus on creating hatable characters, and make everything as sweet and abnocious as possible. You used a lot of cliches like American Sweethart, and it sort of takes away. You've got an idea, but like I recomended earlier today, do a bit of expansion and easing into it.

Good start, but I certainly hope you aren't planning on EVER doing anything like this... this is just me being the moral asshole kid that I was brought up to be so feel free to ignore this sentance.

At 11/5/05 12:11 PM, Scribbler wrote: Good job but, what is this about, if you don't mind my asking?

Well, it is only the introdcution, so with time it becomes more evident... but the main character has just found out he is terminally ill. Then it is the state of mental shock ("Where's my car? I'm in my car... what do I do?") and then denial. The rest of the novella leads after this new found information.

At 11/5/05 04:47 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: Myst - great stuff, but I have issues with your metaphors/similies and some general description.

Thanks.

I'll quote the great Mr. King on this one:
"Make yourself a solemn promise right now that you'll never use "emolument" when you mean "tip" and you'll never say John stopped long enough to perform an act of excretion when you mean John stopped long enough to take a shit"

I suppose; however, style is style. You write what you know. I don't know anything about pop-culture... I know classic (I have never read a King novel or anything of the sort). I don't mean to defend too precariously, but that is like telling a young dancer she has to learn hip hop even though she wants to learn the classic waltz. See my logic? That is the way I write, and a lot of the time speak. It is just who I am. Though, don't feel your words were without warrant, as next time I take pen in hand I will try my best to be more effective with my words.

It's a good quantity of description, but often the terms you use have too many frills to be effective in context. What springs to mind is the way I used to write exam papers - using as much complexity as possible. Good for first impressions, not so good for continuity.

Just so that I can fully understand, what do you mean by 'frills'?

And I understand what you mean by the possible lack of continuity. I can write more coherently and with better flow - to me, it is just too simple to write like the guy next door speaks. I do not try to write with complexity... it is just what I know: having only read classic novels in my life, and being an avid poet.

Though, of course, you are a fine writer yourself... and even though I have had much critique for the piece, I would take your words more seriously than some others. So your words will be in mind as I continue the novella.

Thanks. : )

I suppose now that I'm done dodging burning firework ejaculate for the evening (lol November 5th) I'll sit down and finish my collab section.

Haha! And ya, it was good.

At 11/5/05 08:13 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: See my logic? That is the way I write, and a lot of the time speak. It is just who I am.

Yeah, It's not bad per se, I suppose it's mainly just that I myself am very much a novelist at heart, whereas your writing style seems more geared towards the short story, and poetry.

Just so that I can fully understand, what do you mean by 'frills'?

When you embellish a word, or phrase to the extent that it simply becomes complex rather than functional. It's useful to avoid repetition in some places (I do this quite often), but otherwise it can interrupt the flow, and often detract from the meaning of what you are trying to say.

Doctor... if you are as out of it as you said in the general then I don't mind waiting a day untill you are up to critiquing my piece... just whenever you get the chance, we are all busy

Doctor, have you completed a novel? Just curous.

At 11/5/05 08:42 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: Yeah, It's not bad per se, I suppose it's mainly just that I myself am very much a novelist at heart, whereas your writing style seems more geared towards the short story, and poetry.

Ahh, I see what you are getting at. I am sorry, I must have read a little wrong. Yes, poetry, short stories and novels are all written differently. I am writing a novel myself that has a much different style (mostly as it is a thriller). As for that introduction above - it is to a novella... which is basically an elongated short story.

Theprologue to my novel is in my sig "The Death of a Hero" if you ever have the time to read it and give thoughts (you may have read it in here before... I am unsure). Though even that intro is much more complicated than the actual 13 chapters I have completed. The intro is to set a mood, and is based 20 or so years before the actual story. When the story actuall begins (Chapter 1)... the narration changes.

sorry if i didnt put in a lot of description, ive got the creativity, but i cant put it on words, and this was meant to be a sample, i would've lead up to it more, but i didnt have time to write everything out, so i posted what i had, ill change it some more, and repost in a few days... ive got a new idea, but i'd like to redo that first, maybe i could take it somewhere

At 11/5/05 07:39 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: Mildly fucked up I think best summarizes it, but amusing none the less. When you start up, don't forget to include details of your surroundings. As this is just an intro its fine, but you should really start to focus in on characters if you are going to continue. Its a bit of a jolt to get used to what you have. If you want to get more average people into this you are going to have to ease into it a lot more. Focus on creating hatable characters, and make everything as sweet and abnocious as possible. You used a lot of cliches like American Sweethart, and it sort of takes away. You've got an idea, but like I recomended earlier today, do a bit of expansion and easing into it.

Yes, I am focusing on creating the most hatable, goody-goody setting. Sort of like a Pleasantville, with a kid who's had too much. What I do not understand is that you want me to create average joes out here, but want I'm trying to set is a world where good is too good, per say. But I see what you mean. I didn't make a big deal out of it, though, seeing as it was only a draft, but yeah, I guess I'll go ahead and expand it.

Good start, but I certainly hope you aren't planning on EVER doing anything like this...

Never, never. I can't imagine myself killing or seriously hurting anyone, except in an act of self-defense. I live a good life, I have my shares of good days, and my shar of bad days, which it's really a blessing in disguise by evening everything out. This is just my take on Columbine, after watching Bowling for Columbine and thinking that those stupid kids wanted a difference. Fuckers, why didn't you move to New York City or something, what really pisses me off is that they were going to graduate two weeks later...God, that was one of America's greatest tragedies.

this is just me being the moral asshole kid that I was brought up to be so feel free to ignore this sentance.

Opposing random murder isn't over-moral, but responsible over your actions and the ability to control your life. Don't worry.