Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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At 1/11/06 05:20 AM, Coop83 wrote: I passed one over and said, here you go, that's some fucked up shit you watch.

Hehe, nice. =)

At 1/11/06 08:14 AM, JediMasterQuist wrote: Haha, that was great. I believe you, too!

Haha, yeah I tricked a lot of people there. =)

I so fell for that, hehe. You should make more stories like this more often ^_^

Hehe, thanks. Well, I made this one yesterday. =P

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I've revised a few things in that story I posted earlier, and put it on a webpage.

http://www.dhost.inf..terature/monday.html

(I think I got all the typos out of it :-)

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Nearly all my poetry takes visual style into account, so I ask that if you truly plan on reading these poems that you go to me dA page (link in sig) and look for the titles of the poems i nthe left column a bit down the page and view them there as the NG BBS doesnt allow me to take advantage of space and poetic visual style.

thanks for reading.

people still want maple

promptly, “out of date”
the begging palm
cedes to the ceiling
“of course,” a nod
out the window sodden
willow ripened worn
“exchange.”
watchful strides
sway in concert time,
“rearrange.”
(oh, timely)
“replace, of course.”
“of course.”

the room is conjured completely

like faces taut with horror
the décor, a passing phase
“no, no” sudden erudition
“that’s in style” reveals
the Bauhaus of the two
(with windshield fingers)
“just watch that show,
you know” the words
of western thought
“yes, that show,
(in turn, a look)
of course.”

“we better not divorce”
an eyebrow crawling
like the opening
of the umbrella
“no, we better not,
(lemon slice smile)
because I get the whole
caboose.”

n o t o m o r r o w

the crowd around me is a phasing burning bridge
their faces are a weary fire
swarthy-tired is their attire

shoes are dusty
s h o e s a r e d u s t y

all their feathers drift like broken limbs
the entire community is coated
now birds have really floated

broken pigeons
b r o k e n p i g e o n s

eroding sewers carry wounded crimson tears
like drywall in a flood
pant legs sponge the blood

close your faucets
c l o s e y o u r f a u c e t s

through a speaker stands an awkward silence
after the sun has risen
no words as students listen

blowing papers
b l o w i n g p a p e r s

in slow procession she looms in my direction
feeling the beat to her heart
I know forever we must part

not forgotten
n o t f o r g o t t e n

and all of this chilling
it is cold beneath the ground
I only wish that all I hear were not those final chilling sounds

dieing for you
d i e i n g f o r y o u

seconds connected

leaning nature of wondrous far sight
two life times over of generous tension
and little to show for the perseverance
but a dancing petal of ill fortune
then all is lost as it passes under the sand

never miss a beat of pure colour
and have us slide again some time
not tomorrow, not next week, or month
but maybe in a lifetime or two
recognize my step like you do
but know my notice will be slim

skin against the tanning floor-sand
one sandal was in my left palm
the other for my Dumbo ear
the ocean orchestrated the foliage
juicing the wind as my sandal swayed
the healed pass on, they say; I can feel it

nothing could take me back from it
except my reason I wish I had purchased
and then I heard my ear was missing
a splash against my ankle was realization
there floated my ear on the playing water
it cried away as I squeezed my other sandal

that world unto my mind is without company
the devastation was no destiny or fate
they influenced with what they could
and swallowed that petal with the sand
now whenever I pass the beach
I listen for it; maybe we will hear the truth again

there and then

his childhood kitchen
there
he wept in a stew

a cold stew
then
a rotting kitchen

Benevolent Wind

I swim across the azure waters
dancing for no one to see

I carol with fragile songbirds
melodies for no one to hear

I carry the scent of every flower
sweet aromas for no one to smell

I play tag among Mother Nature
no one can touch me in her dress

I travel the thickest forests
leaves brush my shoulders
branches caught in my stride
the ground swells beneath me

I journey the widest open fields
dodging the blades of grass
picking the weeds as I pass
and the sun warms my back

I am a benevolent wind

but as I rush on through the sky
I rise and fall in haste
the speed
the flight
watch me dance
and hear me sing
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
feel my calm
feel my beat
call me love

call me love

I weave through city buildings
teasingly knocking on windows
sliding through opening doors
exploring entrances and words

I gently lift hair from faces
fresher skin alongside me
pairs of hands cuddle me
in the affection I lay

but as I rush on through the sky
I swiftly jump and dive
the tempo
the voyage
smell me pass
and embrace my palm
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
let me last
call me love

call me love

I am a benevolent wind
a wind for the moment
a wind for your heart

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I'm most likely a noob to many of you but i have good ideas now i don't have flash but i joined hoping to help talented animators with thinking of scripts and with two people the job can get done faster.in my spare time i thought of a script for another retarded animal babies. I am not a flash artist but i am good with editing stuff on MS paint such as sprites.also in my spare time i make pokemon splices (now i know its "uncool" but i've been planning a pokemon parody) I'd be glad to help a flash artist out with ideas and a script.I may be a noob but i have a wild controllable imagination *farts* whoops!
another message from dogboyx brought to you by delicious tasty crap "mmm tasty"

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At 1/17/06 05:26 PM, dogboyx wrote: I'm most likely a noob to many of you but i have good ideas

We try to encourage the ideas to come forth. Right now, the best idea I can try to encourage forth from you is punctuation.

I may be a noob but i have a wild controllable imagination *farts* whoops!

That was uncalled for, just to let you know.

Welcome, we will help you with your writing etc, just post some of your work and we can get cracking.

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Writer's Guild: Writer

Writer's Guild: public (we can be both right?)

hello there fellow writers :)

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Wouldn't mind Knowing what you guys think.

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As Phil walked in to the room he was a little suprised to find Steve sitting at the desk, apparently studying. For most people, Phil imagined, it probably wasn't that odd to see your roommate working a fortnight before the week of the exams- but Steve wasn't really an average room mate.

Still suprised to find him there Phil asked, "What are you studying?"

Without looking up from his work Steve replied "Oh I'm not" then looking up with a devious smile, "doesn't it look like I am though?"

Obviously a little confused Phil thought for a moment. "But you're sitting at desk reading through a text book and highlighting things..."

"Don't forget the little Yellow tabs sticking out the side of the book, those are the important bits"

"Yeh.... What are those?"

Looking up at Phil as if wondering how he could not know before setting back to work he replied, "They mark Important pages so I can open the book at the right page".

It occured to Phil that maybe his room mate wasn't as ridiculously intelligent as he had first thought. Maybe he does actually have to study every so often and he's just denying it to irritate me, he thought to himself.

"So you are studying afterall?"

Laughing, Steve replied "Oh, God no."

At this point Phil was sceptical so he decided to try and talk his friend into a confession. After all, everyone has to study... even Steve.

"Ok then, wha are the little yellow things marking then?"

"Doodles and things"

Clearly shocked and without laughing he asked, "doodles?" He could not keep his eyeborws from raising though.

Steve was still as calm as ever. Originally Phil had thought he'd been stuck with your run-of-the-mill stoner when he first met him but as soon as class had begun at the start of the year he had realised just how wrong he was. Steve smiled as he spoke, but continued to do what he was doing.

"Yes- all year I've drawn on nearly every page of my text book and the little yellow things mark out some of my personal favourites."

Sure that he must be screwing with him, Phil glanced over his room mates shoulder to see what he was really doing. Sure enough, the page was filled with sketches and Steve appeared to be highlighting random words on the page so to make a giant highlighted penis. Phil laughed at what he saw but Steve still didn't turn around.

"So if this is what you do, how the hell do you always do so well in exams?"

Stopping mid way through the yello highlighted testicle he had been working on he paused as if to think for a second before getting back to his drawing.

"It's mostly because I'm so fucking awesome but I guess Karma could have something to do with it."

"Karma?"

"Yes"

Phil still wasn't exactly sure that he wasn't being messed around but he finally decided that he was too curious about Steve's explanation to let the conversation end there. "Ok, so how exactly does Karma have anything to do with it?"

With a very slight smile on his face Steve began his explanation. "Y'see, right before this school closes for our study leave I'll take this book- filled with all my drawings- and swap it with a copy belonging to one of my more studious classmates. Since their copy will obviously have alot of these ever so annoying yellow tabs as well, they won't notice the switch until it's too late. They'll get home, settle down to work for the next week only to reveal my art"

At the word art, he feels the need to use air quotes.

"At this point I think it's quite obvious what happens, the busy little student is filled with a sense of peace and awe so overpowering that they come to realise they have in fact worked sufficiently hard for the last month or so and hence do not need to cram anymore. Since the person is a smart fucker anyway, they enjoy a nice relaxing week off before strolling back to school feeling well rested and ready to ace their exams. And so, through Karma, I am rewarded for my noble deed"

Steve still wore only a small smile but at this stage Phil could not have been more sure that he was pulling his leg. He still wasn't 100% sure about Steve but he knew enough to know he wasn't that full of shit.

"Well that's one interpretation, heres another. The guy finds he has a book filled with sketches of crude figures in the most twisted and bizarre sexual act that your mind can concieve..."

At this point Steve had let his smile break much wider than it had before and interupted with a shrug of his shoulders and, "What can I say, I'm a romantic."

"... and he flips out, screams and spends the next week desperately trying to rewrite all of his obsesive notes inside the week. He works without sleep before crawling back to school and failing the tests which by all rights he should have passed easily"

Clearly Steve's plan was obviously something very similar to what had been suggested.

"Hahahahahah, yeh.... but can you imagine the look on the little shits face?"

"Who cares? You won't be there to see it anyway.

"I don't have to see it. It's enough for me that I know it's happened"

"You're one twisted piece of work, you know that?"

"Tell it to my collection of other peoples text books. You want to go get a beer?"

"Of course."

This was the first time I tried writing anything like this, feel free to comment either here or in the orginal thread- I'll check both.

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At 1/18/06 04:57 AM, weirdoo wrote: Writer's Guild: Writer

Writer's Guild: public (we can be both right?)

sure you can... we havnt really followed that in some time though. = )

hello there fellow writers :)

I look forward to reading some of your work.

..........................................

>>> Sorry I have been scarice again lately... school/social stuff never gets easier, or less time consuming it seems. Did the collab halt again?

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At 1/19/06 02:54 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: >>> Sorry I have been scarice again lately... school/social stuff never gets easier, or less time consuming it seems. Did the collab halt again?

Never got off the ground... Scribbler is out and about... but not here.

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Hmmm, any comedic writers interested in doing a blues clues parody. Heres some artwork drawn by me.

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It seems ironic that the first free interwebbing time I've had in ages falls on a friday night.
So I'll be sitting around here, perhaps writing a bit of my latest project, hell I might even sign in on MSN and see what all the old chaps are up to.

Oh, and I'll try to post some feedback on recent work.

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And now some feedback at random.

Rabies-
Your story has some very good aspects, unfortunately these are mirrored by equally bad ones, but I think with a bit of work you could become an excellent writer.
Bad news first - your use of punctuation is really quite bad. There are an awful lot of commas where there shouldn't be, and a few too many strange instances of ",..." cropping up at the beginning. The end result is that the piece reads in a bizzarre and disjointed manner. There are also quite a few typos, but that's nothing too serious, just remember to proof read and edit your work in the future.
So your main target is to sort out that punctuation, I suggest just taking a close look at a few books and just seeing how they handly similar sentences to yours. If there's one sure way to fix a problem in writing then it's to look at how others do it.

And the good - you tell a story well. At first with the whole mafia thing I thought it might turn out like a typical Goodfellas-style rehash of ideas people have used before. I was pleasantly proved wrong in this case.
Although your writing doesn't break the mould in any spectacular way (and believe me it doesn't have to - tried and tested formulae often make for the best stories) it's fresh and gripping enough to make me want to read on, this also goes for your dialogue.

All in all you're on the right track. There's a lot of work to be done, but I think it'll pay off if you stick at it.

Subpar-
Once that piece of yours got going it was, in fact, pretty cool.
I've found the style of short story you used to be quite common, especially in this club, but you put a bit of a spin on it, something I can't quite put my finger on - it was almost as if your story was mocking all the others of the same format.
It's the ending that pulled this off, the fact that the guy just threw his briefcase at a pedestrian and went back to bed. It was anticlimactic to the point of brilliance, one might go so far as to say.

I think you could have done without (or with rewriting) most of the opening though, a lot of the sentences and descriptions felt pretty forced, but once you got going things started to flow very nicely. All in all it was an entirely pleasant surprise. Almost like an incredibly drawn-out joke, all the philosophising about dreams and the futility of life, with the punchline being "Fuck this, I'm going back to bed."
Whether you intended any of this or not remains to be seen, this is just the way I interpreted it.
My critical analysis: a winner is you.

As for myself, I may or may not have mentioned, but my current piece is entitled "The Snowfields", it's an idea that just sprang into my mind over Christmas while I was driving through the East Norfolk wastelands on a quest to rendezvous with my clan.
Anyway, it was pretty foggy, and everything was covered with snow, so when I looked out across the fields to my left I saw pretty much nothing but white and immediately thought: Snowfields.

The basic theme is pretty much the same as all my other stuff; gritty, bleak, future-type adventure/thriller (although not particularly sci-fi, surprisingly). It's set in a similar world (perhaps the same one) as the one in my other ongoing epic, only in a desolate arctic climate rather than a futuristic metropolis. It's almost a western, insofar as it follows a wanderer who travels from town to town, trying to survive in a harsh climate.
At the moment I have a bit over 1500 words done, and pretty much bugger all has happened in terms of plot (as I have mentioned before - I'm shit at short stories).
It'll get posted some time...

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Twenty-Two Ways to Witness a Smile

I

two fingers
tracing smiles
on each other’s
palms

II

pearls without links
hit by stage lights
and ovation

III

red cushions pressing
together
with a hand on a cheek
red cushions rise
together

IV

rose petals augment
a horizon sun fall

V

amid a crowd of faces
westworks seem carved
omit children and a smile

VI

a simple allusion
an act of circumference
I am uncertain which to love
the ready eyes
or the playing smile

VII

only one tug of two strings
was the denouement
to a charming burlesque

VIII

on the wooden-worn porch
in the shadow of a willow
a smile passes
there and gone
the winsomeness
not weary of dogsmen
an ineffable root

IX

I am before yield signs of gold
the type that jump ‘round
on the bed next to my wall
I am, also,
a product of a smile

X

the heart flutters when
a wind can move a man

XI

when smiles travel
they touch the ends
of ears

XII

a child is born
a smile must be born

XIII

in the busyness of a fair
it begins to rain
run for cover
it always rains

XIV

smile

XV

it can be eager
caring, loving, overbearing
sexy, gorgeous, cute
or cuddly
whichever it may be
or twenty things more
I assure
it is always
contagious

XVI

in pure darkness
whether nature or imposed
the soul can feel
feel the warmth
of a sudden sated smile

XVII

between all sheets lays a smile
between all lips lays words of sheets

XVIII

imagine a thousand curtains
shielding the sun
depriving the sun
imagine a clover in your palm
holding your luck
tempting your luck
imagine
blindness

gone.

XIX

at the sight of a grin
mirroring thin eyebrows
dressed with hue and trim
and hung endlessly, tirelessly until
it breeds a smile

at the sight of a smile
like a waist along a bed
or a toy that is unsaid
the motive is honest, and
it multiplies laughter

than curiously, eminently
resembles a Valentine’s heart
or its just Cupid’s arrow

XX

lemon slices cradle on a counter
lick, slurp – pressed within lips
ambience pours through wallpaper
and bodies fluctuate the heat
like bedrooms in the winter
does a smile actually happen?
or does it never disappear?

XXI

A man
sees a woman

XXII

aqua tinged cheeks in golden rays
tend to drug the mood of company
though not the same as sighting’s stupor
but rather that of bed ridden legs
and with a stop by a white office
and floating heads of compressed information
advice was not sought, but taken
“smile more, my friend”

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At 1/24/06 02:05 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: Twenty-Two Ways to Witness a Smile

That is a pretty intresting poem... I got to take a better look at it later. =)

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At 1/24/06 03:21 PM, Andersson wrote: That is a pretty intresting poem... I got to take a better look at it later. =)

thanks... tell me what you think.

I am trying to write like mad as I am applying for a specialty writing course and you need a portfolio of works as only a certain number of people are accepted for the class. *crosses fingers*

the portfolio is due in two weeks, so you can imagine how much writing I am doing right now. haha.

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At 1/21/06 05:09 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: Subpar-
Once that piece of yours got going it was, in fact, pretty cool.

:-) Thanks for the feedback.

I've found the style of short story you used to be quite common, especially in this club, but you put a bit of a spin on it, something I can't quite put my finger on - it was almost as if your story was mocking all the others of the same format.

I can't say I was trying to mock anything, really... of course, the ending was meant as a kind of joke -- a mockery, I guess, of all that depressing drivel in the beginning about how this poor guy's life is boring and meaningless. But as for the style of writing, I guess that's just the way I write. Of course, this story is different from my others, because there is very little action, and much of the narrator's thoughts. I've never done an ending like that before, either. But if I were mocking the style, I'd also be mocking myself, at least a little bit.

It's the ending that pulled this off, the fact that the guy just threw his briefcase at a pedestrian and went back to bed. It was anticlimactic to the point of brilliance, one might go so far as to say.

To be honest, I wasn't actually sure if the ending would work. When I turned this in as an English project last week, I didn't know whether the teacher was going to laugh, or get pissed off. But apparently she laughed, because I got an 'A' on it. (The only real comment she gave me was that certain parts were maybe a bit too wordy.)

I think you could have done without (or with rewriting) most of the opening though, a lot of the sentences and descriptions felt pretty forced, but once you got going things started to flow very nicely.

Yeah, the opening seemed kind of... I don't know... dull. When I read through it earlier today to make a few revisions, I noticed that it didn't flow very well at all. Not because the descriptions were bad, but because the sentences seemed so disconnected from each other. Toward the middle and the end, it started to get better, though. It's all about transition. If you start a new paragraph talking about something completely different, it just throws everything off.

All in all it was an entirely pleasant surprise. Almost like an incredibly drawn-out joke, all the philosophising about dreams and the futility of life, with the punchline being "Fuck this, I'm going back to bed."
Whether you intended any of this or not remains to be seen, this is just the way I interpreted it.

As for the "punchline" style ending, I didn't actually have that type of ending in mind when I started the story. But as I got further into it, I realized that it would probably be more entertaining if something ridiculous happened at the end. (Basically, I made shit up as I went along and it worked.)

My critical analysis: a winner is you.

^_^

Thanks again for all the feedback, Doc.

Also, I read the stuff about the story you're writing... it sounds pretty interesting. How long do you think it's gonna be when it's done?

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At 1/25/06 08:34 PM, subpar wrote:

Also, I read the stuff about the story you're writing... it sounds pretty interesting. How long do you think it's gonna be when it's done?

Blah... I don't have a damned clue. Everything I write takes the format of a novel, and this piece is no exception. At the moment it's nearly 2000 words, and the first indication of a plot device is only just beginning to creep in (which probably won't turn out to be anything of importance at all).
Actually, I think I'll post the first main "chunk" of it now, it's 100% unedited, so don't be surprised if there are a few typos and shitty sentences cluttering it up.

Snowfields

White. A blank sheet, as all tales should start.
Nothing but snow.

There was no trail to follow, few landmarks and even fewer settlements. The villages he had passed died as they melted into the mist, blanketed over with snow, just as his footprints. Now the snow fell once more, bringing with it a harsh wind, dragging at the wanderer's feet, driving him to shelter. It was too early in the day, the nights were the time for rest, only the heaviest blizzard could force a day camp. And so the wanderer pressed on, white beneath his feet folding into white horizons, white sky. When the time was right he would rest, perhaps eat a little too. The wanderer pulled a canteen from his coat, he unscrewed the cap, savouring the slight warmth of the water as it passed his lips. A reminder of something past.
There would be a settlement soon, there always was. Surprising, in such a barren place, but true nonetheless. People had adapted to the snowfields, it was that or die. He had once had to do the same.
The last waystation was eleven days past, little more than a reinforced convenience store and two outbuildings. They had had heating, enough meat to spare, seven people in total.
There hadn't been time to talk, the wanderer disliked talk. With his piece said he would wait for a reply, favourable or no, he never engaged in further conversation. There had been a young man at the settlement, born and raised there presumably. He hadn't asked. The kid wanted to know of traveling, like many others, usually his age. The wanderer always said the same thing, told them "It comes along". He hadn't spoken often after that. If asked more he would usually grunt, giving yes or no answers when he could. The settlement hadn't had much to offer other than attempted small talk. Once, some months ago, possibly years, there had been an entire underground warehouse stocked with exotic foods and supplies. The inhabitants had been less than acceptant, the wanderer had liked that, less talk, more action. If he had settled he might well have become like them.
It had taken a week of hunting to gain some measure of their trust, a further month before they agreed to lend some supplies. The food hadn't much interested the wanderer, but there was a surplus of small heaters stashed away, one of which was now attached to his canteen, a further two in his pack. A fourth had died some months back, and the current box wasn't likely to last more than a few weeks longer. No, it wasn't food, water (there was plenty of that in every direction) or even shelter he needed now. It was warmth, not the feeble glow given out by the heaters, but constant, maintained warmth. It was more important to him than any kind of currency, one of those things that wasn't essential, but always needed. A comfort, yes, that was right, something to pass the time and forget yesterday and tomorrow. If he was lucky the next settlement might have a boiler, or some other industrial heater. There were always flint fires, but material for those these days was so rare it was worth more in trade than as a brief source of warmth. Proper material that was, not just the pelts of wild beasts that would smoulder with just enough heat to purge the poisons from the flesh they had once contained.
The wanderer drew his coat tighter and presed on into the blizzard. The wind had intensified, bringing with it the dull roar of shifting snow, masking the crunch of his boots upon the field. The winds had come earlier this year, if his sense of time was still accurate that was. It was hard to tell sometimes. On several occasions he had thought the season was summer, only to learn from settlers with time-keeping devices that it was merely a mild spring or fall. The winds started around winter, usually calming down by late spring. These were the hardest times to be alone in the wastes. Wild beasts seemed to be driven away in the cold season, migrating, perhaps to some more sheltered climate known only to them. Many thought the creatures retreated to the caves along the edges of the arctic basin, or the more scarce networks occasionally found among central outcroppings. No one ever tried to prove or disprove this theory either way. The remains of other wayfarers were often found near the lairs of whatever cave-demons had slain them. The wanderer put this down to bad luck, or incompetence for the most part. The caves were dangerous, no doubt about that.
But demons? They were a myth, existing only in the minds of settlers depraived enough to conjure such things from the darkness of their own imagination. More likely than not the unfortunate victims that formed the basis of these tales had been killed by like-minded others, unwilling to share their shelter with a potential theif, or murderer.
That was the irony of it all.

---

Some miles on, and the dawn had yet to break. By the wanderer's reckoning he had been on the move for a day and a half, only having slept and eaten once. There was always the chance that he had slept through an entire day, but that was unlikely. Even supposing he hadn't frozen to death, his own internal body clock was too finely tuned to allow for such a lapse. No, this would be one of the long nights, the wanderer would sleep twice, perhaps three times more before daylight shone again. That was hard going, even in spite of the blizzard - it was still much easier to make out a settlement in the day than after dark.
He grunted, and came to a dead stop. The wanderer looked around, seeing only his tracks scattering into the night. After a moment of further observation he dropped to one knee, sliding his pack down into the snow to one side. From within he produced two items; an insulating blanket, and a dented set of magnifying lenses. The wanderer wrapped the blanket around into a makeshift cloak, clicked open the caps of his lenses and brought them to his eyes.
There was nothing to see, not at first. The wanderer blinked hard and pressed the lenses tighter to his eyes. He was patient, taking the surroundings in as they came.
More fucking snow.
He sighed and rotated to the right. Still nothing.
It was a good few minutes before he decided there was, in fact, nothing out there. The wanderer cursed, stuffing his belongings back into the pack. There was a popping sound, and the leather sack proceeded to split neatly along the front seam.
The wanderer stared as half his belongings toppled out into the snow, the scene immediately calling to mind an image of stillborn beasts escaping their mother's womb. Only slightly more morbid.
"Okay," he breathed, the sound strange to the wanderer's own ears. "Okay, alright... shit."
The wind blew again, it's mocking voice piling up new drifts against the slain pack and it's master. Something blinked.

The wanderer thought he had imagined it, but then it went again. A red blinking, some sort of light right in front of him. With his belongings momentarily forgotten, the wanderer rose into a crouching position and edged up to the light. It seemed to be coming out of the snow... under the snow. The surface would be still, hardpan, with a carpet of flakes. And then a small patch, no bigger than five inches across would suddenly take on a strawberry-pink glow, before blending back in with it's surroundings.
The thing didn't look dangerous, but then again it hadn't been there at all until the wanderer had spoken.
That's what you get, his irrational mind chastised. Break your goddamned vow of silence and the little red blinkers are here to talk about it.
But this was the only one, this queer little strobe in the desert sea of the arctic basin.
The wanderer bent down and brushed the snow aside. There wasn't much improvement; the thing was well and truly glued into the hardpan, whatever it was down there.
As he shuffled back to his pack that strange feeling of unease returned. Just what was this thing? In all his years in the wastes the wanderer had never seen anything like it. Sure, the light was probably just an electric bulb or neon, that explanation was obvious. It was the other questions that spooked him; when, where, who, how, why? Even as he dragged his belongings over to the point of interest, the only plausible explanations were the ones based on guesswork, and more likely than not, an overactive imagination.
The wanderer removed a second sheet from the torn pack, this one he clipped to a ring on his right glove, spreading two of the corners wide and close to the ground. Next, he took a bundle of heavy metal pegs from a side pocket, these he drove through loops along the edge of the sheet with an equally robust claw hammer, setting the foundations of his lean-to in place. With the first stage out of the way, it was the work of a moment to jam the low tripod frame into the snow and tie back the thrashing length of canvas caught by the wind. The wanderer dragged himself into the sheltered space - just barely large enough to accommodate one person lying down - and tugged his pack in after, rolling out a thick beast hide to mask the rigid chill of the hardpan beneath him.
The opening he tied shut as well, the wind wasn't likely to change direction, but there was no point in risking the unnecessary.
Safely cocooned in his insulating bubble, the wandered looked down to the one patch of snow left uncovered. The blinking was still there.

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At 1/26/06 06:55 PM, Mick_the_champion wrote: ...anyone know how to get over Writer's Block?

Steal someone else's ideas.

(Just kidding.)

Seriously, if you can't think of anything to write, just write non-fiction. Write about something that happened to you, and then add some lies to make it interesting.

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At 1/26/06 06:32 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: story

I just read through both posts... it's looking pretty good so far.

Like you said, it's starting off kind of slow, but it was still a hell of a lot more interesting than some of the shit we read in my English class :-D

Overall, it's very well written... sure, there are a few typos, but whatever. The only real errors I found were sentence structure things, like single sentences that should probably be separated into two. But that's not a big deal, unless you're a grammar Nazi. As far as the descriptions and imagery go, I really liked it. It was also pretty interesting how you started off the story, with the "blank sheet" line... there's nothing like a creative opening.

Oh, and nice use of the word "fuck" after the second paragraph in your second post, too. I actually laughed out loud when I read that line, because it was so unexpected. "More fucking snow..." Hahaha.

As far as the plot goes, you've already got me wondering what the hell that blinking thing was... (A land mine? A cell phone? A lightning bug?) ... and it's all starting to make me wonder what kind of world this guy is living in. So far, all we know is that he's in some kind of winter wasteland, with practically no civilization. If this were the whole story, I'd just be irritated by the lack of information, but in this case, it just makes me want to keep reading it... well, once it's written, that is.

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Hi all, I'm new to the writers guild but I do love writing I get A's in my creative wrightin class for the most part and I ussually publish something in the school's literarry magazine every year.The question I'm asking is can I join the writers guild? if I can then I have a story to post later for critique.

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At 1/28/06 01:31 PM, Nucksta wrote: Hi all, I'm new to the writers guild but I do love writing I get A's in my creative wrightin class for the most part and I ussually publish something in the school's literarry magazine every year.The question I'm asking is can I join the writers guild? if I can then I have a story to post later for critique.

You are most welcome to join, and post your story here. If you post it tonight I'll even be able to critique it for you. However, if no one gets round to reviewing straight away just be patient for a couple of days. If it still hasn't been reviewed just post a reminder and tell us what page its on.

Also, feel free to look back at stuff that has been submitted and review pieces yourself.

Welcome to the guild mon ami ;-)

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Thanks,I still have some work to do on the story but I'll try and post what I have so far by the end of the night.

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At 1/26/06 09:50 PM, subpar wrote:

Comments

Cheers for the feedback, it seems to be getting a little rare around here nowadays :P
I'll write a bit more tonight, although the next section probably won't be ready for anything up to a week considering how inconsistent my writing habits are. I guess now I'll find out what's blinking under the snow, and whether it's of any relevance or not.

Your comment about a landmine was actually hilarious to me, I had never thought of something like that, and it would just be wonderful for the guy to start digging, only to have his face blown off after all the build up!

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Well here is the first part of what I could fit in here

Thirst, it’s the ripping tearing feeling at the back of your throat. The thirst is almost unbearable for my kind for it signifies our time to feed; I hadn’t fed in a week. The hunt is the most favored part of feeding for me I don’t enjoy feeding but the hunt, the pure adrenaline pouring out of me in unfathomed amounts and then the calm when my prey is caught it’s almost like reaching nirvana. Nirvana of evil that is for once we take our first feeding we might as well have signed the devils handbook, since there is never any turning back. I signed the handbook nearly 300 years ago.
Frankfurt, Germany my birth and death home, the place of my first love and my first heartbreak, both of which happened in the same month, the place of my first and fondest memories. It was also unfortunately the place where I met her, Cara, the women I thought I would love, how naïve the young mind can be, the women I thought would love me. Cara in some ways did love me, not in the ways I wanted her love but it was love all the same. She had moved to our city when I was around six Cara was ten so we became fast friends almost inseparable at that. We spent our days together playing the games children did love playing, tag, hide and seek even blind mans bluff when we got the chance but our games quickly changed from those of innocence to those of young adults. The games of tag for me soon became ‘accidentally’ tripping and falling on Cara in hopes of getting a peak of what was under her blouse. Cara soon noticed and our friendship was never the same; it was broken in ways always being under careful observation to ensure I wasn’t being a pervert. By the time I was fifteen our friendship was for the most part fixed, we would joke and play like teenagers do but Cara’s father was looking for someone to court her, an older man so they could have strong healthy children. The finding of her suitor is when the troubles began; Vincent was the one who ruined everything. It was Vincent’s fault that I had to turn. Vincent’s fault for trying to upstage me for the woman I had grown to love, he was soon to get a rude awaking from a kind he didn’t think to exist.
I had heard legends of an ageless women since I was still in my clout, had constantly been told by my friends of a witch that lived on the edge of town praying on children and animals drinking their blood to gain their youth. I had figured if anyone could help me it would be the one called Exandra. Upon entering her territory for the first time Exandra made sure I feared her, she also ensured I knew that her powers were not the ones that could be mimicked by mirrors and lights, and she made sure I knew she was supernatural and that she would help me for a price. Exandra had instructed for me to meet her on the night of the sickle moon outside the chapel, she had also instructed that I bring an inverted silver cross for ‘insurance’, not being sure what she meant by insurance but as instructed I had brought the cross and met Exandra on March 17th,1704 in Frankfurt, Germany. After arriving at the chapel and waiting outside the door for an hour or so Exandra stepped out of the shadows and placed her hand on my shoulder asking if I was ready, slowly nodding I was lead into the chapel and brought to a pew set away from the others. The pew had a strange light around it, I would later learn that the light was called aura and the one surrounding the pew was evil. Instructing me to lay on the pew with my eyes closed I did as told but as soon as laying upon it I was pinned with amazing force by Exandra and told to relax and that it wouldn’t hurt much.

The changing, the most painful time any of our kind have ever been through, even the strongest mortal feels immense pain while being put through the change. I’ve been told the pain is not as bad for those who go through the change voluntarily but I have never corrected anyone about this myth for I went through the change voluntarily and it still felt as if hot acid was pumping through my veins instead of blood. My hearts beating was slowing and my lungs were refusing to fill. Simply put I was dying and feeling every unfortunate minute of it. Once my lungs stopped filling and my heat stopped pumping I lost my vision, still hearing all of Exandra’s words I was told my body was slowing shutting down and that I would wake from this state within five hours and even after I awoke I was not to move until she returned for tomorrow was Sunday and Mass was to be held early tomorrow for the baptism of a small child and from my pew I would not be visible. Hearing the last of her words my hearing stopped working and I lay there dead not being able to move, see, hear or even have the comfort of breathing. I had nothing but the ability to wait and hope Exandra returned soon.
An hour or so after Exandra left me on the pew I awoke hearing strange voices around me I decided to risk turning my head to see from where they came. After quickly scanning the church I noticed a small child being help by the minister, the child’s parents were at either side of a tub of holy water for which the child was to be baptized with. Hearing the words the minister said as he held the child above the water made me realize what I had done, the mistake that I had made. I was finally starting to realize that since I loved Cara I should have let her choose a suitor that she wanted and not try to influence her choice by being stronger. The thoughts racing through my head brought a tear to my eye for I should have been stronger, I should have resisted temptation, but no I had signed the devils handbook with my blood. The minister stopped speaking and grabbed the child by the heel slowly lowering him into the water. Once the child was submerged he started to writhe and wiggle but the minister left him under for a good ten seconds, then lifting him out and sprinkling him with more water the child started to glow, at least in my eye’s he was glowing, and radiate with pure innocence, something I would never again have. I wept silently until Exandra’s return three hours later.

I'll post the rest of what I have so far soon

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Here is the rest of what I have so far

When Exandra returned she quickly rushed to the pew I was at, and grabbing me by the arm while pulling me up at the same time. I was told that since the baptism had taken longer than expected I had to feed almost immediately and that the one I needed to feed on to gain full strength was the one I felt wronged me when I came to her. In other words I was told to feed on Vincent. Exandra led me to Vincent’s home and showed me to the back yard where he was chopping would for a bonfire. She told me to walk right up to Vincent, and that while I was talking to him to look directly into his eye’s and think the word sleep. Slowly walking around the side of Vincent’s house he noticed me and started asking how I was and saying how he didn’t expect to see me so early in the day still. While he was chatting away I started the process of making him fall asleep and to my surprise the second I thought it Vincent collapsed on the ground. Then I bent down to his body and lifted his head up piercing his neck with my now sharper canines. The instant that I tasted his blood in my mouth I couldn’t stop I kept drinking and relishing every second of it. Vincent was soon drained of all blood, lying lifeless on the ground with two small holes in his neck. As I started to stand up Cara walked around the side of the house and noticed Vincent’s lifeless body on the ground with me standing over it, accusing me of murder and shrieking that she loved him and asking me how I could do it Cara didn’t even notice Exandra creep up behind her and start feeding. Within minutes the woman that I loved was lifeless on the ground next to her fiancé. The reason why I had turned into the monster that I now am was dead at the hands of a woman I had trusted to help me win Cara back. I didn’t know what else to do so I fled.
I ran as far as I could and as fast as I could until I was about ten miles into the woods, for several years I wandered the woods of Frankfurt, feeding off of stray hikers or travelers when needed and other times feeding off of animals when human prey was scarce. I also started to see what things I could do with my new abilities, things like nearly superhuman strength and improved vision and hearing were some things I noticed right away. But I also noticed I could shift my form to that of anything I chose be it an animal, or even a tree stump, walking was something I needn’t do as much either since I could travel short distances by thought. My new powers were one of the few things I liked about what I had turned into; I hated the constant thought of blood and killing that were now intruding my mind. I hated remembering Cara as she was when she saw me standing over Vincent’s dead body. Most of all though, I hated myself for becoming what I had become for doing what I needed to do to survive, in general I hated life. Suicide had crossed my mind many times, the slitting of my wrists would not work because my wound would heal instantly and hanging myself didn’t work either for my spine would repair its self and strangulation would never occur for I didn’t need to breath. I tried to perform some of the acts that were rumored to kill vampire’s as well but sunlight did not affect me, I still wore my cross on my neck so I knew that did nothing and holy water was no different from drinking water. I ended up hiding, I hid in a cave that I had discovered while feeding off of a mother wolf and her cubs one night. I only came out to feed and only fed on humans when animals were scarce. My selective feeding didn’t spare me though, soon the humans had discovered that I was feeding off them and they would retaliate. I ended up fleeing Frankfurt and all of Germany for America the place that I had been told was a promise land and that would take any fugitives. By the time I got on the boat it was September of 1735.
America, not all that it was cracked up to be. The minute I got off the boat and interrogation had begun, They asked my name, place of birth, government in my place of birth and if any relatives had come through with me. After telling them my name they decided it wasn’t American enough and changed it. Once the interrogation was done they then simply let me go, told me to have a nice day and closed the door to the immigration office. I wandered around Boston that night, staying close to the harbor and feeding once on a suspected witch. The next day after some traveling I discovered that vampires here were known of but only as a horror story and a myth, I was told that if I wanted to know more about this myth to go to a man called Ryth who lived in Concord. Teleporting to Concord was easy it was finding Ryth that was hard. Several of the town’s people that I asked fled when I mentioned his name, others started muttering prayers while other yet yelled of how he was the devil and they would not associate with him or anyone who asked of him. Except one, one person seemed to be intrigued that I was asking about Ryth. This man turned out to be Ryth’s familiar. The man, after asking questions of why I wanted to know where Ryth was, soon lead me right to his door. Upon getting there I was greeted with a warm smile and a happy welcome to his home I was also offered a wine glass of blood, Ryth knew and I was pleased of his knowledge.

So what do ya think?

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At 1/28/06 06:23 PM, Nucksta wrote: So what do ya think?

Ok, that's not a bad start. I like the way you began, it left me questions about what the speaker was, what s this feeding he spoke of and what he fed upon. That made me want to read on.

However one thign I've noticed is that you tend to use long and complex sentences when you don't need to. Sometime short and simple sentences are a lot more affective at portraying a message than a long and protracted one, as it can take away from the impact of the statement you are trying to make.

For example

Hearing the last of her words my hearing stopped working and I lay there dead not being able to move, see, hear or even have the comfort of breathing.

Readers will automatically associate the dead with not breathing or moving. There is no need to make that point as all it does is take away from the impact of the statement of him affectively being dead.

The next thing I have is about the speakers powers. He's a newly made Throat-biter yet he automatically knew how to put Vincent to sleep. If you want that to happen, make it look like an accident. Make it look like the speaker doesn't realsie he's doing it as it gives a sense of " What the fuck is happening?" in the story. It makes the reader want to carry on reading so they can find out how he has managed to put him to sleep, why he can do this etc. Build up the tension as much as possible. Try to give us questions which we can't answer at this point in the story. That will make us want to read on.

My third and final point is Show Vs tell. Don't tell me that Exandra returned and ran to the pew. Show me with a description of it. Did she sprint? Did She jog? They are both forms of running but there is a big difference between the two.

Don't just say that Vincent acted surprised to see the speaker and asked what the speaker was doign, give us the dialogue between the two. Dialogue is a key factor in stories. You don't always have to use it much but it can be used in specific areas to highlight a part as important. For example, if I were to try and write this story in the same style as you are, I would have made a lot more about the meeting between Exandra and the speaker. That is an important part, it's how the speaker become a throat-biter. Give us the gory details about her and the meeting with her. Give us the dialogue. it will tell us about the characters and what sort of people they really are.

You seem to have a very good idea for a story here, and you also seem to have grasped alot of the basics. there were a few examples I could see where a full stop/period, was required and there wasn't one but that's not major and can easily be fixed if you go over stuff.

One final piece of advice I will give you is to read what you have written aloud, exactly as it is written in front of you. You'll then ntocie that there are pauses that you had in your head that set the tone or the atmosphere that haven't been transfered to the piece. Reading it out loud can highlight these areas and make it easier to spot and fix these problems.

This really is a good start to a story though. keep it up and when you either edit this or write the next part post it here and I'll review it again :-)

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Thanks for the comments, and the whole thing with him knowing how to put vincent to sleep was because eariler in that part of the story Exandra explained it to him. Thanks for the reading out loud tip too, I'll go over it tonight and fix the mistakes you mentioned plus others I'm sure that I have.

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All posted on the Life.1 forum, since this forum is too small and has a character limit.

For the Kazahana Mass Battle: Shumai's Story.

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I write scripts : crude humor,tobacco use,language,violence,other stuff
I thought up a script for a new episode of R.A.B. (retarded animal babies)
here's a lil' sample of what i thought would be funny for family guy:
Peter: hey where's Mel?
Brian: you mean meg
Peter: No i mean the dude that slept in the trunk last night
Brian: Uhh.. peter that was meg
Peter: oh
Brian: yeah she was bugging me to bring her a glass of water all night
(meg walks in holding a jug of anti-freeze)
Meg: It's okay now i found some!
(Meg drops dead)
Brian: she's dead!
(camera turns to the penguins from madagascar)
Penguin: you didn't see anything!
(appears that the tv turns off but it goes to commercial)

well what do you think?