At 2/26/06 08:31 AM, CaptinChu wrote: You're on a rampage, yo.
lol
At 2/26/06 08:34 AM, Dumbass_Dude wrote:At 2/26/06 08:31 AM, CaptinChu wrote: You're on a rampage, yo.lol
And that was just uncalled for. Stop being a post-count whore, it will make the world a better place.
I'm finally starting to put some decent effort into chapter 3. I should be able to post the proper version on the BBS in about 8 weeks now. I want to get it right, I feel I owe it to everyone (particularly Myst and TNT)
At 2/27/06 08:38 AM, Coop83 wrote: I'm finally starting to put some decent effort into chapter 3. I should be able to post the proper version on the BBS in about 8 weeks now. I want to get it right, I feel I owe it to everyone (particularly Myst and TNT)
What? 8 weeks for a story? I hope for you it's a long one.
At 2/24/06 10:36 AM, Dangan wrote:i am, look at my profile.
damn man. you should be like a professional writer or something.
wow! where/who do you work for?
your comedic quotes are pretty good (in your sig, profile)
Oh Snype, you're such a fag.
At 2/26/06 06:53 AM, KabouterJaap wrote: Hey, does anyone here wants hid story made with clay? Here are a few samples of my work.
NG loading screen
robot
monster
gyarados
can you make clay squirrels? mines at the top of the last page.
OMFG REVIEW MY STORY!
Oh Snype, you're such a fag.
For YOU
If this is love, then life is horrible.
If this is life, then death is bliss.
What is the point in fighting?
What is the point in trying?
Love is lost to me.
Life is dead to me.
Death is now my world.
At 2/27/06 10:37 AM, KabouterJaap wrote: What? 8 weeks for a story? I hope for you it's a long one.
Not a story, a chapter. I have to shoe-horn my writing into any available free time I get, which is severely limited at the moment. Wait until you read it before you criticise, please (chapters 1 and 2 can be found at around page 20, feel free to post critique on those)
At 2/27/06 05:49 PM, Quisty wrote: For YOU
A rather morbid submission, but a good piece.
I'm very unhappy at my English teacher. She doesn't understand the way my abstract writing works, and in the end, she can't follow it. She gives me a low grade for my work because it "doesn't complete the assignment."
I'd like to get a better grade in English, but I don't want to give up my creative writing style. What can I do?
At 2/28/06 07:01 AM, CaptinChu wrote: I'd like to get a better grade in English, but I don't want to give up my creative writing style. What can I do?
You don't have to completely stifle yourself for the sake of your school work. When I was studying for my GCSEs, I had to read things like Shakespeare, Golding and Dickens. I read them and analysed them for my English work, but I still went to school every day with a copy of one discworld novel in my bag for those quiet moments (French lessons)
All you do is try a different writing style for the assignments and see how that goes. Try asking to speak to your teacher one on one to find out what she doesn't understand, so you can improve your work.
Perserverance is the key to success here.
At 2/27/06 05:46 PM, MrDeadly wrote: can you make clay squirrels? mines at the top of the last page.
OMFG REVIEW MY STORY!
It looks like a good stroy, but i don't want to make the squirrels nazis. I hate that word.
I was rumaging through old papers from 8th grade and I found what is probably the best poem I have ever written.
I sit inside and watch you glow
warm inside from the snow
I can watch you all day long
knowing I don't have to belong
There is nothing I can't invision
when I watch my television
and when the day is over and done
I won't mind watching another rerun
Its a bit geeky I know. The inspiration was a song called Radio Ga Ga, but I am no Roger Taylor. So what do you guys think?
I am a new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend.
I'll have to write something for this guild tonight.
This too will pass.
Memento mori
I sit,
Right here,
All alone,
Watching you near.
I watch the bullets,
I watch them hit,
I watch you hurt,
As they blow off your bits.
End.
This too will pass.
Memento mori
[Doc 5: earth timefreeze- III test of the Gold Brother, (pt. 2,) navi monitered entry.]
Volcano-kid: Well, you wanna join the gang or not, kid?
*: Hmmm?
Volcano-kid: You're gonna have to be tough. You gotta beat one of us.
*: Ok, that seems.... easy enough. I'll choose the easiest to beat first.
(Volcano-kid smiles, and calls out to Meteor Park. The meteor built around the park started to rise from the ground. The slides and roller coasters remained intact.)
Gomatez Olympus: YOU CALLED?!
(Standing over 50,000 feet tall, Gomatez is the largest member of the Brothers Clan. His entire body is composed of Martian soil from Mons Olympus.)
Gomatez Olympus: EARTHEN BORN HATCHLING. YOU MUST DEFEAT ME IF YOU ARE TO JOIN.
</style change.>
With that, the giant golem rasied his hands high into the air and threw them to the grounds. The entire city was leveled. Scared but brave, the child ran straight towards him. He noticed that his body was lighter than usual and he could run and jump faster and higher. However, he couldn't make the leap to the top of him
The battle moved on to the theme park. Children and their parents were smiling on a fantastic roller coaster ride while Gomatez continued his agression. It was then the boy noticed something: The Water. When the fight took to the water slides and the usual 12ft pool that ends them, he noticed that the water had the viscosity of custard. Though improperly timed, he experimented by throwing water up in the air, and found out that it could be used as a platform. The tides turned, no pun intended.
Utilizing a 500 gallon bucket of water, <gravity decreases to almost non-existent during a time freeze,> he jumped in the air, making a platform below him as he jumped. It was then he noticed what he identified as a power source; a ruby, rectangle topped and bottemed dodecahedren-shaped gem on his right cheek. He created his last platform of water, and with a leap into the sky, he reached the ogre's face and smashed the jewel into pieces.
Grandfather Ericson took notes. He said, "You can come down now." And the child was just down there. It wasn't like he jumped there, or disappeared in a poof of smoke... He was just... there. "Lets leave this place. You are now officially welcome in our multiple stations."
Test: B+ (Highest score yet.)
[Supplementary document, vocal and visual record.]
"This is Henry Gander, live at the scene of a freak earthquake that shook the city. Seismologists are baffled, as no P or S waves reached any other city around it. The earthquake reached 9.0 on the Richter scale, making it the largest earthquake in the world. Mayor Moony mysteriously disappeared from his office five minutes before the eartquake. Back to you, Jan!"
"Thank you, Henry. In other news, the meteor in Meteor Park has completely disappeared. No signs of alterations have been made to the rides, and officials say that they're safe to go on. Police are investigatin the strange phenomena. They are not ruling out thievery."
Sorry I have been so busy. Having moved out of the folks home, the responsibilities are killer + university... but anyway... I am going to try and make an effort to catch up and keep more frequent.
And with my apologies I bring a story... it is still the first draft though...
City Bus
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Smile, and nod. Smile, and nod.
With a dry mouth and gum between your teeth, it isn’t so much the casket to your right and the audience to your left that has your mouth unwilling to open for words, it’s the fact that words do not form without a lively tongue. My tongue died.
My back is as straight as a surfboard with its nose in the sand. I’m sinking in the sand. I am standing knee deep in flowing time and ankle deep in brown, drying clay. I am standing with my legs beneath the ground, and my head in the clouds. I am standing at my girlfriend’s funeral. And all I can conjure in my mind is the cement that seems to be filling my mouth.
I wonder if my jaw will grow heavy, like a rifle does a marksman upon his target.
Only recently did I ask her father’s permission to propose – he hesitantly gave his blessing. I had it planned for next Monday. In the darkness, with popcorn in my hand, Gummy Bears in hers, teenagers making out behind us, murmuring old folks who keep looking back at the teenagers, and a ring.
Thinking about throats tightening around sandpaper.
In the darkness, I slip the ring on her finger. She would say nothing, holding in her emotion, and knowing that I was doing it purely for her, knowing that I do not believe in the false commitment an object holds. The movie would soar. Every joke would be twice as funny; every tear, twice as sad; every twist, twice as exciting; and every smile, twice as fulfilling. And then, after enjoying the best movie of our lives – our movie – she would scream out with joy in the parking lot, and jump up under my palms. ENACT cheesy starlight kiss.
Thinking about the exotic, scratching tongues of grave markers.
He is staring at me. She elbows him. He just stares, like a clock face does the opposing wall.
Tic, Toc.
The first time I met him he said I wouldn’t make it. I remember insulting him: do not be so loutish as to encapsulate your conformity and let societies conditioning pioneer your ability to appreciate the very existence of communication. But that was all in my head. I recall clicking in when he said, tune into reality and get a real job.
Tic.
The same day, that very evening, he pulled me aside with intense eyes of grief and threatened me indirectly, but soon began to beg me, “Don’t ruin my family.” I was basically a kid just out of university, though his face spoke to me for ages after. I never seriously considered the threat I posed upon his household. He loved his daughter. She was happy with me. He let that be enough, but he never gave up. He even went so far as to offer me money. I nearly took it, but then he tried to use the bargain against me.
Toc.
He can blame me forever – he deserves that much. I much rather be his well, and not his shelf. Drop your change. Make a wish. Sandwich and cigarettes for the pale, if you please.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
Well, there is always next time, I reply.
Shit! that was stupid.
Her uncle looks at me with eyebrows like a fork face down. His face is tightly shaven. His skin is the colour of russet potatoes under the sun. A glowing recent visit. He opens his mouth to respond, but, of course, he doesn’t.
Stupid.
Thinking about devoting my future time to superior motives.
I considered joining her once, not that she invited me, but she could have – seems selfish really. We could have been Romeo and Juliet or even Mickey and Mallory. We could have been together. Then again, I have never been certain if I love her so much as to not want to live without her. I never really considered being so committed. Or maybe I am being selfish too.
There was a time in my life that I focused my energy on completion. A time I both seek to forget and detour to remember. This was long after drugs gave me a reason to live. When an orgasm seemed like a light switch next to my blood pumping poison through pain. Releasing the strap on my arm was like struggling to hold your breath under water, then just letting out an exhausted exhale, and enjoying the rush of water filling your lungs. Rehab would be realizing you couldn’t breathe.
Thinking about dainty white robes, and gravel dragging slippers.
Endlessly, orange, white-capped bottles dropped into the sink. A cap pops, and two-faced capsules slide towards the anus drain. A bottles breaks, and coloured pills ride the high-sided tank. Nothing matters but the moment. Nothing matters but oxycodone. A taste of beer doesn’t control the drive. Mix and match will be the task, as the oxycodone can’t be found.
Blood on wrists makes me uncomfortable.
She seemed so innocent. I thought that is what I liked about her. However, when I found out she smoked more pot than I did, I liked her more. Somehow the contrast between her personality and her façade intrigued me to a pedestal. Wanting to be with her was not enough. I had to be with her. I had to come back down to earth. Even in this contrast, we were so alike. She was kind hearted, low-key, and had the same kind of dry humour I have. She was just an all around nice person, beautiful in all ways. Yet, beyond that, she burned my cynical personality - tagging along with jokes and insults. At times, she was even more fruitful than I in such categories. She was cruel, and kind. She was latent with pessimism, but laden with optimism. She lived. She died.
Ropes around necks are too direct.
I would give her gifts periodically. It was never anything elaborate or expensive. There was just times I longed to give her something and hear her words. See her smile in that way. I gave her my childhood teddy bear once. She liked that one. I would sneak into bed early in the morning, with a small sentimental gift, or maybe a gift I made. She liked my paintings. I liked hers too.
</continued>
On one of my daily runs I found a rock that looked like something out of a Narnia book. It was much too beautiful to be among the sand. I brought it back to her. It had a black fog in its depth beneath the purest navy blue eyes could ever see. It was almost perfectly smooth the entire circumference except a small notch that added to its personality. She looked at me and said, “life,” she paused, “life is both precious and useless at the same time.” I laid down beside her without a word and we just enjoyed each other and our thoughts. I loved it when she thought to slide her fingers between my own.
Moving traffic is timely and inaccurate.
On the anniversary of her grandfather’s death I took her to a hospital. I remember how disappointed her face was when she realized we weren’t going to his grave. I could tell she was angry, but she tried her best not to let the fire get the best of her. I felt bad when tears crashed down her check in the hospital parking lot. It would be worth it, I kept telling myself.
We found our floor. She was too upset to even ask or wonder what we were doing. I am sure the depression only got worse as she saw elderly people – grandfathers and grandmothers; great-grandfather and great-grandmothers – lying lifeless in their cots and being pushed slowly around in toothpick wheelchairs. I even caught a few smiles as we strolled past.
I opened the double doors to a lounge. It all seemed more like a nursing home than a hospital. A group of nearly twenty patients sat idly in their what seemed to be uncomfortable chairs. I sat. Yes, uncomfortable like the plastic seats of elementary school. No wonder I have a bad back.
A few chivalrous types questioned the tears that fell from her face. One even handed her a tissue.
A nurse brought me my guitar.
Who likes John Lennon?
Not a single person said no. I started with Imagine.
Guns aren’t easily accessible, and much too explanatory.
At times I could barely stand her voice, both in the literal and non-literal sense. Her voice had this innate nasally sound to it that sometimes just put me off the wrong way when I was already not impressed with her, or at times just not impressed in general. She would disturb me during my time of work with pots and pans, loud movies and murmuring music. If she were upset with me, she would do it deliberately and not answer to me calls for silence. She would go into fits when she felt our relationship wasn’t going anywhere and would ruin my apartment. I would step on broken glass, find ripped shirts and be missing pages from my computer-side stack. My notebook would be frail and thin. Those were the days I hated her. If she got mad enough she would yell. If she were really mad she would curse. If she were sorry she would talk dirty.
Plastic bags could be the choice.
It would be wise to devise a foolproof way to know right off the button who would become a problem in your life, and who wouldn’t. A permanent tattoo on a persons arm for every failed relationship crossed my mind. Take it even further and don’t just weed out the failing lovers, but weed out disease. A friend once said to me, if you want to rid of aids you permanently tattoo AIDS on the forehead of all those diagnosed. Who would have sex with them then? I remember thinking it was good but not perfect. Outlaw it. Consider having sex with AIDS attempted murder. Or do them both.
Thinking about the possibility of me having sponges behind my eyes.
My parents were married for twenty-two years before they divorced: a commoner’s act. I would assume they were only together for a couple of those years. It was not until after they divorced I discovered the wall cracks in their Final Supper. I suppose I knew all long really, but I was just an impressionable kid. They could have convinced me of anything.
It’s pathetic to blame your parent’s break up on yourself.
My mother whispered subtle words of my father once. He tried to abort me. He kicked her. I hate him. He was not like that before the pregnancy, but since then, he always has been. Being blue like a shy child in a busy park, or like a child holding plums to his eyes. Being red.
It’s pathetic to blame your girlfriend’s death on yourself.
“She was happiest with you. With you she had looks I hadn’t seen since she was young.”
My eyes swell. I can’t cry.
I only wish she wasn’t there, I reply, forcing a slight smile, like one end of a canoe.
She used to walk around my apartment with only my shirt on. She was so 80s. It mind as well been our apartment; sometimes she stayed months at a time. She was so yearning. I’d wake up at lunchtime on Sundays and find her in the kitchen, mostly naked, but covered. She never swore, but one Sunday late-morning I broke her the news.
I didn’t get rejected.
With one cheek filled with macaroni, “are you fucking serious?”
It was the cutest thing. And her smile, it held more pride and more excitement than my entire being. It was then I knew she loved me. Neither of us ever said it to the other. I am uncertain if it was that we never had to, or never found ourselves equally committed. She jumped into my arms. I could feel the rubber in her cheek as she hugged me.
Thinking about every scar that slashes her for every minute that passes without rain.
READ Rideau Street.
My feet, placed a dwarf’s step wide, kept my balance. Every seat was taken, but I was the only standing, like an empty hallway for a peculiar man without company, but watched with scrutiny. I wrapped my arm around one of the poles that stemmed from a gay pride, sandpaper seat. My arm was straight, parallel with the pole, but my hand was awkwardly wrapped around. I leaned my head against my fingers. Feeling safer, I tightened my feet more comfortably. A dwarf can step.
</continued>
READ Rue Besserer.
The bus jerked from time to time comparable to my wrist near scissors. I stared out the window, as if I was gazing into the sun, looking for answers while risking my sight. However, generally the city bust swayed like a small boat would upon a calm sea. Except, instead of seeing beautiful, tropical fish, and the aqua-tinged green waters, I saw coal roads splattered with a synthetic colour of the sun and aged whites marked by patterns that all interconnected or led to sprouting cement walls attempting beauty with dates. All numbered and placed. All easily found by identity.
READ Daly Avenue.
Traffic came to a dime, and I nearly smacked my head against what I thought to be my safety.
A novel slid, or should I say dragged, towards my feet. It had an eerie resembling sound to nails on a chalkboard, but with a touch of sneakers dragging against the walkway not long after the snow has passed and sand and salt eroded from the ground.
RE-READ Leonard Cohen. Clever.
I picked up the book and turned around to identify the culprit: the person who would let such a beauty hit the disgusting floor of a city bus. Never have I seen such a grave sinner.
Never have I seen such a grave sinner with deep December-stone eyes, wavy blonde hair that faded into the light, freckles that pebbled across her cheeks and nose, and a smile that beyond moves a man inside.
Don’t stare.
I once thought eyes were eyes and that complimenting a woman’s eyes was the most unoriginal and insincere thing a man could do.
Your eyes make me think of a Trisha Romance painting. Maybe a child playing in the snow by a frozen bird feeder, or maybe a grandfather walking down Niagara’s main street in winter as a horse and buggy strolls by, I unexpectedly spewed.
Stupid.
Her eyes looked away, but that smile crept up on her. Her teeth, a little large in proportion to her face, only added to the innocence of her beauty. I glanced at the title and deliberately smiled too.
She grabbed her novel from my palm, “thanks.”
READ Rue Willbrod
A seat opened beside her. I sat.
You’re very wholesome looking.
Stupid.
I mean I know I am probably not your type, but maybe you would be willing to consider new things.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d be willing to catch a simple-minded romance on a big screen after eating at a restaurant used to impress you.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d like to spend time with me this Friday.
“I don’t like men.”
I stopped and thought, maybe we could arrange something, but she flinched a smile before I found the semi-humorous words.
I wonder what my face looked like when she said that.
“I’m kidding. Maybe, I’d like that.”
READ Laurier Avenue.
Her sister slowly approaches me. They have the same face, but her sister has darker hair, darker skin, and a tad more age.
“She loved you.”
Jesus wept.
Her sister held me like a mother would her young son after witnessing a horrific act. Children are so innocent, so moral. Intuitively they recognize wrong from right. I recognized wrong.
I just wish she wasn’t there, I sob in the now dampness of her shirt. I hate hearing my crying voice. I haven’t cried in years.
“She’s glad she was.”
In true pain crying can feel as good as sex – not as in ecstasy, but release. In true pain crying is deep breaths of UV tears until your lungs fill to the brim and are quickly squeezed before they flood, and the atmosphere drains your sorrow leaving salt residue and scars in the lining of your lungs.
Her father could be staring through me and not at me. He could be thinking about helping cross-sea poverty stricken children, or about giving back to the immediate community. Maybe he is thinking about sitting down and confessing his sins to me - apologizing and crying with my newfound tears. Or maybe he isn’t.
I guess I really did ruin his family.
I love her.
Currently, and there after
Stress is sliding the blinds
and breaking the lights
while becoming a human-filled puppet
of a bear, or a cat (now)
being hunted by blowing fans
and flashlight men.
Awesome Myst! This is by far a great thing to read. Nice to see you around here again. You club rocks, so don't leave it ^_^
Myst_Williams, not very important, but ehm, any news about the draft I gave you?
At 3/6/06 05:40 PM, Andersson wrote: Myst_Williams, not very important, but ehm, any news about the draft I gave you?
What draft is this? More of your poems, or are you two making something together?
At 3/6/06 05:38 PM, Quisty wrote: Awesome Myst! This is by far a great thing to read. Nice to see you around here again. You club rocks, so don't leave it ^_^
I don't plan on it. Thanks. = )
At 3/6/06 05:40 PM, Andersson wrote: Myst_Williams, not very important, but ehm, any news about the draft I gave you?
Ya, I read it a while back. If you want an honest opinion on the piece as a first draft... it needs a lot of work. A few places misuses words (or could use better word choices), while fragments also become a problem in a couple places. There are two major flaws though with the piece:
1) the rhyming. You rhyme a couple times, and it sounds cheesy... cutting the rhyme and wording those lines better would work much better.
2) the last few paragraphs, when the action starts, the piece become hard to follow. It is nearly impossible to understand it fully without reading it a few times over... this is something you don’t want. You want your prose to be so efficient and detailed that a quick skim is well enough to give an overall impression to the reader.
On the positive side of things, there are two major points:
1) the story is intriguing... I am very curious to see where this leads. Who is this guy? Why is it she failed to clean him? et cetera...
2) the actual scene is quite good... the setting, the actions and events - they are all quite good.
Thus the problem lies in not refining your writing. In not editing it enough times over, or something along those lines.
Now, I believe you wanted me to edit/re-write this... if that was the case, I am not sure I can, because our writing style is so diverse, I would end up changing most of it. Not because it isn’t good, but because I have different taste. And this piece needs to stay true to the artistry of the original writer… also, it would be hard to write a piece if I have no idea where it is going… as it is your idea.
However, if you are keen on my re-writing it, I would be glad to… I just feel it would be a difficult task, and that I wont be able to do your story justice.
I hope my thoughts helped… if you have any specific questions, I will gladly answer them all – or if you want specific references to problems in your piece, I will gladly point them out.
First off, that's a nice review. =)
At 3/7/06 07:54 AM, Myst_Williams wrote: However, if you are keen on my re-writing it, I would be glad to… I just feel it would be a difficult task, and that I wont be able to do your story justice.
Hmmm. I sure wouldn't mind a rewrite of it. I'm pretty open for suggestions, as a rewrite by you also would mean better wording, grammar and so on (things that you pointed out for example).
As you could see, I didn't work much on the piece itself. Most of the work was done in my head, so to say.
However. My idea of the story is to first off make it through the scene you got. A lot of ideas actually popped up right now. Hehe.
Anyways, I thought about making it into a story about the main character, the city and life in the underworld.
You will get to know the main character better and better, all while he gets through his life as done so many times in the past. Not the honest way, that is.
I believe the story can become very good, and I'm aware of that I must rewrite it. If not more than once...
I hope my thoughts helped… if you have any specific questions, I will gladly answer them all – or if you want specific references to problems in your piece, I will gladly point them out.
Hmmm, well it did help, and I would really like to co-author with you on this story, I am open for suggestions, rebukes when my English grasp fails or the story itself.
Oh, and I got to add that some sentences must get quotation marks on them since it's the main character thinking. I missed that out pretty vast... Heh.
So are we ever going to see this peiece you are both talking about? Because it would be cool if we could all review it. If not, maybe Andersson can send it over to MSN, that is if he wants to.
Glad to see you're sticking around here, Myst.
At 3/7/06 05:44 PM, Quisty wrote: So are we ever going to see this peiece you are both talking about?
Haha, well maybe a little later since I want to read through it atleast once before I post it. If Myst_Williams posts it though, I wouldn't mind. I can't tell him not to. ;-)
Because it would be cool if we could all review it.
Yeah, I guess you'll get to see it sooner or later for reviewing.
If not, maybe Andersson can send it over to MSN, that is if he wants to.
Hmmm, that could work. =P
Greetings I would like to submit my application to the Writer's Guild
Although possessing a lack of experience strictly pertaining to Newgrounds I have a keen interest in writing short stories, which I hope may be deemed worthy to put into flash form by a talented animator as my skills in manipulating flash are somewhat lacking to the degree of extreme embarrassment on my part. It is to that purpose that I greatly desire a place in your guild, thank you for your time.
At 3/9/06 03:09 AM, Jak-o_the_mist wrote: Greetings I would like to submit my application to the Writer's Guild
Application accepted, show us some of your works and we will venture some critique
im a writer, i have a bunch of ideas that im developing, but im not bad at animating, i just cant seem to force myself to animate a lot. i end up with little clips that ive started to animate, but arent finished. can i join?
At 3/9/06 12:03 PM, Dayl wrote: im a writer, i have a bunch of ideas that im developing, but im not bad at animating, i just cant seem to force myself to animate a lot. i end up with little clips that ive started to animate, but arent finished. can i join?
Welcome to the club compadre. Feel free to psot anything you have written or to look back at thigns that have been posted and critique them.
All we ask of you is that if you post something to be reviewed, please be patient. We do have lives outside of NG and can't always review things quickly, but rest assured it will be reviewed eventually.
If you feel as though its been forgotten and a couple of days has past since you posted your piece, post a gentle reminder with a link to the page the piece was on and somebody will review it for you :-)
Welcome to the guild :-D
Please have a look at this:
I suppose I am a member. I will drop in time to time, usually to continue my Brothers Clan Story. I know how it will end and stuff, I have all that figured out, but I've never gotten to writing it. So, I decided to have it critiqued here on Newgrounds.
So, please tell me what you think of the story so far.
Select between 5 monster racers, upgrade your monster skill and win the competition!
4.18 / 5.00 3,534 Views
Build most powerful forces, unleash hordes of monster and control your soldiers!
3.80 / 5.00 4,200 Views
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