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I was suggested by cap'n chu to post this here.

it's a poem i wrote in english class today (B-).

It's called, "Living is hardcore"

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Why does these fools daunt you so?
Their features are strong, yet their futures are bleak.
why do you let them toss you around, to and fro?
do they not know this holy earth belongs to you, the smart? the meek?
they wish you dead, so that they be rid of you presence,
defy their inferior orders.

Living is Hardcore.

Every day they curse your name,
they don't want you around
not one will acknowlege your goodness, their all the same.
they stand for war; you kneel for peace
they live to fight; you fight to live
"those who wrong deserve death";"love the sinner, hate the sin"
for every day you live, your experiences make you strong,
to that I say:

Living is Hardcore.

Here is a little story I thought up. I am looking forward to any feedback and criticism.

Enjoy!

Fourteen years of work. In reflection of the time lost. "Work" is exactly what it wasn't; perhaps just something that was done just to receive a paycheck. It contained no challenge and it was impossible to maintain any feeling of passion for the job or to derive any form of satisfaction from a job well done, because the job was never done an endless stream of facts and figures waiting to fill the endless grid of the computer screen. Around you are a sea of faces that fill a grid oh so similar to that on their screens. You try to remember back to when you first came to The Company, so full of the promise of advancement and opportunity. It must have been six years since the endless routine had completed the disillusionment. Deep down you still feel that if you ever quit the job, you'd be making all the time spent working a complete waste. Holding on to the juvenile belief that there must be a reward for the patience, the repetition, the simple challenge presented by continuing to do a job without one. You search for some way to perhaps change your circumstance to find a way out but with so much left to do it turns into a quest to make the simple unchallenging job, even easier, even faster. At this you find some success. With an almost childish pride submit your suggestions and proposed changes. You find yourself being called into a meeting, a long dark room filled with men in black suites who have an almost faceless quality to which you find yourself presenting your changes. These changes impress these faceless men; they congratulate your ideas, they congratulate your many years of service. You find yourself in a spacious office with a large oak desk and a large window that displays an endless grid filled with faces and you have none.

At 3/20/06 03:43 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: I'm on the case.

If you can pull off a good story about that I will be your disciple and start a religion in your name Doc.

Check this out if you are intrested of joining a Newgrounds story.

At 3/21/06 12:04 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote:

At 3/20/06 03:43 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: I'm on the case.

If you can pull off a good story about that I will be your disciple and start a religion in your name Doc.

Well, I don't know about good, but it's bound to be pretty bizzarre and/or disturbing.
Unfortunately I won't be able to start it until I get more coffee, seeing as that shit is habit forming as hell. I've had an unpleasant migrane ever since I missed my daily cups.

At 3/21/06 12:40 PM, Andersson wrote: Check this out if you are intrested of joining a Newgrounds story.

Signed up!

wow its been a while since i posted here last, how is everyone? oh and doctor, is the new series of doctor who starting this saturday? (heard it from a reliable source)
oh and i have a few stories to post here, i'll start in my next post.
glad to see your all still alive :p

Dangan

At 3/21/06 01:01 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: Signed up!

Nice. Here is where all chapters will be posted. Old ones as new ones. =)

At 3/22/06 07:58 AM, Dangan wrote: wow its been a while since i posted here last, how is everyone? oh and doctor, is the new series of doctor who starting this saturday?

Nope, so far all they're saying is that it'll return this spring.

01-17-04 - A thing

I was awake for hours last night
From dusk until the next day's light
Not a blink of rest had I
Yearning for the way we fight

Bites and claws and venom's blight
Justified in our own sight
How pained we must have appeared
They don't know why we have to fight

Almost nightly, our private dance
We knew the risk, we knew the chance
One of us right, or one of us wrong
One now with life, but no romance

The light is meant to quell the storm
But our fabric is far too torn
No needle nor thread will sew a cure
For this gift, or your scorn

Answers lie somewhere not here
Somewhere with sympathetic jeers
I'm probably never coming home
But that's what's going to stop the tears

My words would poison, hurt, and maim
The life now given to our shame
There is now no more us or we
Write only to tell me the name

At 3/22/06 12:18 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote:

At 3/22/06 07:58 AM, Dangan wrote: wow its been a while since i posted here last, how is everyone? oh and doctor, is the new series of doctor who starting this saturday?

Nope, so far all they're saying is that it'll return this spring.

well i have sources saying it will start either this friday/saturday or next week. (which makes more sense because its the 1st of april.
the weird thing is, on my calender it says british summertime begins this sunday,
and here i am thinking "WHERE THE FUCK DID BRITISH SPRINGTIME GO?!?" O_o

Been a while since I posted here... anyway, I did a free write post in general. Here's a copy of what came out. I kind of like it.

A walk and a half

Two figures are standing in a park talking to each other. One older and one younger.

I'm not quite sure what that means, but I'm sure it means something. And something that means anything must be worth saying at some point. Otherwise, its not really worth anything and if it isn't worth anything it can't mean anything.

What I do know, is that it was a walk and a half to get where I am today. But to say something like that I have to know exactly what a walk is. But what is a walk? Is it the distance between to points or am I speaking metaphorically. It obviously isn't a measure of time, because we don't walk everysecond of the day. So for the momment I'm going to assume its a measurement of distance, and metephorical measurement of distance at that.

It was more than a whole thing and less than two hole things. It was three half things, which I find interesting.

Well I don't mister, and I'm tired of your rambling. I'm leaving.

But to leave you have to know where to go young man.

I don't have to know anything, I just have to be able to walk and if it means walking a walk and a half to get away from you I will.

You may find you end up right back where you started on the other side of things. How do you think I got here?

I forgot the style that I used

Two figures are standing in a park talking to each other. One older and one younger.

I'm not quite sure what that means, but I'm sure it means something. And something that means anything must be worth saying at some point. Otherwise, its not really worth anything and if it isn't worth anything it can't mean anything.

It was more than a whole thing and less than two hole things. It was three half things, which I find interesting.

Well I don't mister, and I'm tired of your rambling. I'm leaving.

But to leave you have to know where to go young man.

I don't have to know anything, I just have to be able to walk and if it means walking a walk and a half to get away from you I will.

You may find you end up right back where you started on the other side of things. How do you think I got here?

At 3/24/06 12:43 AM, FlashSpark wrote: Hope you enjoyed them.

Though they really were short stories, you seem to have a certain knack for wirting formw hat I can see so far.

Am I accepted?

Welcome to guild compadre :-)

Feel free to post some more stuff. I would be interested to see what you can do with a longer piece.

well....this is pretty intersting a group for me to have found, but im a little confused as to how things work around here. Do we post stories and such on here?

How exactly does this place work?

At 3/24/06 01:41 PM, CrimsonTearsOfSorrow wrote: How exactly does this place work?

People come here and post their work if they want it reviewed or even just read.

Then, when people have time they review any pieces that have been posted and then post a critique of the piece. Simple really.

If your interested you are most welcome to join.

This is what you get when you combine me with insomnia, exam revision and Caffeine overdoses.

The aim was to try and write somethign that showed how Humanity was the worst monster that cna be imagiend caus eof what we do etc. Read, Review, Critique.
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Deep within the forest there stood a house. It was of sturdy construction made from bricks from the quarry on the other side of the forest. The inhabitant of the house was as normal as can be expected for a pig. He was hardworking, loyal, brave and strong. A finer pig could not be found anywhere in the kingdom.

Once upon a time the pig had had two brothers. They had both fallen victim to the creature that haunted the forest they lived in. In the dark of night, when the moon was at its peak, a rhythmic noise could he heard from within the forest. The rhythm had always reminded the pig of the clock that stood on his mantelpiece, with the second hand ticking away. Tick tock. Tick tock. That was the noise that was made as the pendulum swung from side to side as it did its duty of telling the time. Whatever caused the sounds of the forest did not have such an innocent task. The rhythm rang out as though it was speaking. Murder and bloodshed echoed through the forest when the forest spoke.

Pig thought himself safe from whatever danger lurked within the forest until one night when the moon was full and the embers of his fire burned gently in the fireplace. He was sat watching the embers die out when the rhythm of the creature reverberated around him. Murder and bloodshed! Murder and bloodshed!

Pig jumped up from his seat and ran to his window. All he could see was the trees that surrounded his home dimly lit by the light of the full moon.

The sound of the forest grew louder and louder. Murder and bloodshed! Murder and bloodshed! The screams were coming closer.

The shutters slammed shut and pig ran to the door to check it was secure. The bolt was broken. Fear ran through his mind as he thought of what monsters may enter through the door if it were not locked. He stood for a minute transfixed on the thoughts in his mind. Murder and bloodshed, murder and bloodshed! The screams were coming closer.

Pig ran into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. He reached for the bread knife that lay on the kitchen table. Brandishing the knife he prepared himself should the monster come to claim him as his next victim.

For some time all he could hear was the rhythmic voice of the forest screaming out for murder and bloodshed as it searched for a victim.

Pig backed himself into a corner his eyes staring at the door waiting for it to burst open. His hand gripped the knife in his hand tightly. His knuckles began to turn white as the voice came ever closer. Murder and Bloodshed! Murder and Bloodshed it screamed as a Pig readied the knife.

Boom, Boom! The beast was outside the kitchen, hammering on the door to break the lock. Boom, Boom! The door frame splintered. As the rhythmic blows to the door continued the voice of the monster got louder. Murder and Bloodshed! Murder and Bloodshed!

Pig squealed as the door came off of its hinges and the shadowy form of the beast entered into the kitchen. Its eyes glistened in the dim light it stepped forward towards Pig. It was now or never. Pig lunged forward at the beast with the knife and pierced its skin on the leg. It let out a howl of pain. Pig ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Out of the kitchen, out of the house, into the forest and towards the town.

He ran for his life. The moon dimly lit the path ahead as the monsters voice erupted from behind him. Murder and Bloodshed! Murder and Bloodshed! The creature started to give chase. Pig knew that he could not outrun the monster. He dived into a thorn bush, hoping the creature would pass by without seeing him.

Silence reverberated around pig as he waited for his fate to be sealed, one way or the other. The voice of the creature grew closer until it was right on top of him. He could hear its footsteps. He could hear its breathing. He could see its face.

The only hair it had on its body was on its head. It stood twice as high as pig and twice as wide. It wore clothes that were muddy brown and ripped and torn. Its lips were red with the blood of it victims. In its hands he carried a knife.

It gazed around the forest breathing heavily, its red eyes glistening in the moon light. The clouds in the sky slowly began to cover the moon removing the only illumination that pig had to see by. The creature became lost in the darkness and all Pig knew was that the breathing was getting louder.

The shadows crept away from the creature as the moon re-emerged from behind the Clouds. Pigs eyes widened as he saw fully what it was that faced him. He squealed with horror at the realisation of what stood in front of him. It was a Human.

The Human turned round at the sound of Pigs squeal and bore down upon him with a strength and ferocity that Pig had never seen before. Pigs squealed reverberated around the forest until the echoes died down.

The knife was covered in blood. It was plunged into the heart of Pig. The Human picked up the Pigs corpse and carried it off to his lair to feast upon the succulent flesh. As

At 3/24/06 12:43 AM, FlashSpark wrote: Here are a few of the ones I wrote. The one titled
'Curved Blade' was voted best won the top award.

I like "Another One Bites The Dust" most. Nice writing. =)

At 3/24/06 04:27 PM, FlashSpark wrote: I surely will I have a short story in current production.

Sweet. When you can get it posted and I'll review it for you if you like :-)

I'll be posting a little summit I wrote today and yesterday later. Comments will be appreciated when its posted :-)

The office was small, comfortable and had a potted plant in the corner. Every Head Teachers office that Mr. Collins had been into had a potted plant in the corner. He figured it was some sort of union thing.

“Now then Mr Collins” said the head teacher as he flicked through the report in his hands. “I hear you’ve been having some problems in your class with…” He looked down at the report to find the name “a Jonathan Ramsay?”

“Yes sir” replied Mr Collins “That’s correct.”

“And just what exactly is the problem?” continued the Head Teacher.

“The problem is that he’s an undisciplined brat who deserves to be caned at least twice a lesson” thought Mr Collins but managed to prevent himself from verbalising his thoughts.

“Well sir, the problem is that every lesson he seems to go out of his way to make trouble for me. He’s disruptive, rude, bad mannered and has absolutely no respect for authority.”

The Head Teacher remained silent for a time as though reflecting on what he had been told. Mr Collins could see the clock on the wall in front of him. The second hand was slowly ticking away, counting down the time till Mr Collins would have to face Ramsay again. He’d hoped that the Head Teacher would actually do something about him but from what he’d heard about the Head Teacher; he wasn’t the sort to do anything. He was man who believed in second chances…and third, fourth, fifth and sixth chances as well.

The Head Teacher finally broke his silence and replied to what Mr Collins had said.

“I see…” he muttered “What exactly do you think should be done about this problem then Mr Collins?”

“He should be hung, drawn and quartered and then his parents should be castrated to prevent them from creating anymore demon children” was what he wanted to say, but he decided better of it.

“Well sir, I believe that some disciplinary action is in order. Personally, I believe that he should be excluded, temporarily at first, but if he continues then he should be removed from the school completely.

The Head Teacher went silent again. Mr Collins could hear the clock ticking away in the background. It was the only noise in what could only be described as an awkward silence.

Eventually the Head Teacher broke the silence with his answer to Mr Collins’ suggestion.

“Ah…I see.” He paused again “Tell me Mr Collins, have you tried talking to the boy?”

“Talking to him? The boy barely speaks intelligible English. He spends all his time conversing in Ebonics or texting people on his mobile phone!” Mr Collins shuddered. The very thought of that mobile phone was enough to make him weep. Ramsay was one of the people who had the annoying sound effects for a text message alert. Mr Collins could no longer watch war movies for fear of hearing the sound of an incoming missile which would remind him of Ramsay.

Mr Collins was cut off from his thoughts by the Head Teacher.

“Well Mr Collins? Have you tried talking to him?”

Mr Collins cleared his throat.

“It depends on what you mean by talk sir. I’ve had words with him yes, asked him to stop his behaviour, that sort of thing, but that’s it.”

“So you haven’t tried talking to him to determine the exact reason for his restlessness in your lessons?”

Mr Collins jaw dropped. Was he really hearing this? Was the Head Teacher suggesting that he should be some form of psychiatrist to the student from Hell! Surely not?

“I…I’m not sure I understand you Sir” he stuttered.

“Was I not making myself clear? What I am suggesting is that you discuss with him the reasons why he feels the need to disrupt the lesson. Is it possible that you aren’t paying him enough attention and his behaviour is a cry for help?”

Mr Collins Blinked. The Head Teacher was smiling…it was an unusual sight. It was the sort of smile that frightened children and gave them nightmares. His hair was slicked backwards. It practically oozed with grease. His hooked nose held his round glasses in place as he peered over them into Mr Collins eyes.

“With the greatest of respect sir” Mr Collins began trying to maintain eye contact “I don’t think talking to him would be any use. The child should be removed from the lesson at least.”

“Mr Collins, we are teachers, our job is to teach children so they are prepared for the world when they leave. If Jonathon is removed from the lesson, then who will teach him Pythagoras Theorem?”

“Of course sir. I see what you mean. After all, Pythagoras’ theorem is in such common usage in the fast food industry when they flip the burgers.” He snapped at the head teacher with venom he normally reserved for Mr Mitchell the science teacher.

The smile dropped off of the head teachers face. His raised an eyebrow and sighed.

“Mr Collins, I’m afraid that I don’t find that tone suitable for a member of staff at MY school to take! Clearly you do not feel my suggestion is a good idea but it is not much to ask that you at least respect the views of your superiors!” spat the Head as his Face turned a bright shade of pink.

Mr Collins bit his lip trying to stop himself from retaliating with another scathing comment. The silence that surrounded them was only broken by the clock o ticking the time away and counting down the time till Mr Collins was reprimanded.

Mr Collins decided to take the upper hand and stood up without taking his eyes off of the Head.

“I can state that in every school I have worked in this wishy-washy psychological crap that you spout does not work. It only encourages the children to behave badly as they know they will not be punished. If this is how you insist on running this school then I must regretfully inform you that I will not be teaching here any longer. In other words, Mr Michaels, in case you are as ridiculously imbecilic as you appear to be, I QUIT!” he yelled loud enough for the receptionist next door to hear.

His face was red and the veins on his neck were exposed. His breathing had deepened. He had never been this angry in his entire life but the fact that the head teacher was not willing to back him up when it came to disciplining students was the last straw. He maintained eye contact with the Head Teacher for a few more seconds then turned to leave the room before the head replied.

(They need to raise the character limit :-\ Continued in next post)

He made his way to the door and stormed through it and slammed it behind him. He made his way through reception and into the car park where his car was parked. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys and opened the door. He sat down in the car, closed the door and then let his head fall against the steering wall out of sheer frustration. How could a supposedly intelligent man believe that talking to children would discipline them? The answer eluded him and he decided to think better of it. His eyes fell on the news paper he had bought on the way into school that morning. He picked it up and started leafing through the jobs section.

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And there you have it. Comments please and if you have time pop back and have a look at the other thign I posted a while back aswell :-)

At 3/25/06 01:46 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: And there you have it. Comments please and if you have time pop back and have a look at the other thign I posted a while back aswell :-)

I have to admit, in my opinion that wasn't one of your best works. It held my intrest, but I felt like there was a fair bit of info missing for me to really enjoy it as a short story.
If you had some kind of build up, telling us a bit about this teacher's character, and just what exactly this student gets up to that's so bad then I think it would really have worked quite well. As it stands, It felt kind of like tuning in to an episode of Eastenders just in time for the last scene and subesquent cliffhanger ending - only without any of the build up that makes that cliffhanger... well, a cliffhanger.

Decent piece of writing in itself though, and certainly potential in a slightly longer story, it just doesn't seem to work that well as a one-off.

As for me I feel like posting some Snowfields, I'll stick the first bit in as well, seeing as it's been a while since I first posted it and the second chunk won't make much sense on it's own. There have been a few revisions along the way as well.
Comments are always accepted with <3 and delicious candies.

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 way station 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 travelling, 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 and trading to gain some measure of their trust, a further month before they agreed to lend some proper 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 unit 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 contained.
The wanderer drew his coat tighter and pressed 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 depraved 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 thief, or murderer.
That was the irony of the wastes.

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 panned 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 roughly 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 over active 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.
He tied shut the opening 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.

Digging through the snow was a hell of a lot tougher than the wanderer had expected. It was packed down hard, exhibiting properties closer to those of rock than anything else. With the temperature so low it didn't seem like the snow actually froze together as ice, it simply collected, and, after enough time had passed, was crushed down under the weight of yet more snow into the hellish hardpan the wanderer was now hacking his way through.
He would drive his knife into the ground, beating it an inch or two in with the hammer, before repeating the motion around the strobing light in a circular pattern. When one perimeter circle was complete he would start a series of smaller ones that conjoined along it's circumference, chipping out these sections with the claw end of his hammer. Once the full circle had been carved out he would begin the whole process again, a couple of inches deeper each time.
It was hard work, probably not a good idea either considering the situation. Who knew how deep this thing was buried? it might take days to shift enough of the snow to get it out safely – and that was a best case scenario in which the flashing light was actually of any use to him at all. The subsequent hours he was spending here could have gotten him to a settlement, might even be the difference between life and death if the blizzard got worse.
All of this didn't matter to him though, for the moment the wanderer had his mind set on a goal, and whatever that goal might turn out to be, he was damned if he was going to give up before he could find out. It was stupid, granted, but for a guy who had spent the better part of his life thinking only of how to survive from one day to the next... This was an adventure.

Two hours later the blinking stopped.
The wanderer knew instantly what had happened, no eyes playing tricks on him here.
He waited. Seconds passed, minutes. Then he spoke.
“Problem?”
And it was back. Just like before, that mellow strawberry hue fading in and out every couple of seconds. There was another piece of the puzzle.
The wanderer would had laughed had he been anyone else.
Here I am, stuck in the frozen hells and I'm obsessing over someone's old flashlight as if the world depended on it, he mused. But there was more to it than that, at least in his mind. The whole thing seemed familiar, somehow important in the ancient past. Years ago, decades, centuries for all he knew, there had been a time when this little light might have seemed commonplace to him. He couldn't remember much of that, didn't want to remember it. Those memories were far to painful to relive, not because they were good, or agonising, simply because they were different. The alienation they provided from the snowfields was unpleasant, it was hard to imagine anything in a different perspective from what he had come to know for so long. But these memories, these things, they provided just that. A nasty little escape from reality.
The wanderer hated to dwell on them, and the mounting feeling that he now had to do just that was becoming unnerving to say the least.
Calm down, he thought. Get back to work, leave the philosophical crap for another day.
Tentatively, he raised his tools and began chipping away at the armoured snow once more.
That's it, back to what's important.
With his unquiet mind back on a leash, it was time to pick up the last thread of thought where he had dropped it.
The blinking had responded to his voice. That was interesting. The thing probably wasn't just a strobing flashlight then, more likely a piece of technology. How it had ended up all the way out here was anyone's guess. Either way, time would tell.

The wanderer rose through sheets of sleep, thrashing his way free of the billowing net of subconscious. He always awoke in this way. He awoke fighting. Fighting the dark, fighting his demons, fighting himself. It seemed to work.
The night had lasted three days, and the sudden shock of white invading the wanderer's vision sent his head reeling. He rolled over, screwing his eyes shut against the fresh daylight. Slowly, he turned, forcing himself to look at the surrounding snow. The open flap (open?) of his shoddy tent revealed the pure white of the snowfields, illuminated once more in all their bleak glory. But that wasn't all, there was black overshadowing the white. Not the black of night, but a streak running across the pale landscape, soft, and moving.
The wanderer jerked back, his right hand clamping down on the long metal pole that always slept beside him. The black moved again, and spoke.
“Calm down,” it said. “If I wanted your stuff I could have taken it hours ago.”
It was the voice of a man, muffled yet crisp.
“Go back, stay far.” the wanderer's own voice this time. His eyes began to make sense of the figure. It was another interloper, no doubt about that, clad in an array of what looked like black scarves, accompanied by a pair of ancient looking goggles, completely obscuring the man's face.
“Why?” the wanderer said shortly, it was the only question that mattered to his still-awakening mind. The interloper waited. He was some yards away, but still a little too close to the wanderer's lean-to for comfort.
A response finally came.
“I'm not after anything, if that's what you're afraid of.”
“Trade then.” The wanderer kept his weapon clutched tight.
“No, not trade.”
“Then... why?”
It was the only response he could fathom.
“Believe what you will,” the interloper said. “I came for nothing, perhaps a tale, perhaps a riddle. Nothing but the words from your mouth.”
The strange new arrival raised his hands in what the wanderer took to be an apologetic gesture. This had taken him off guard. A thief could be scared away, a murderer killed.
But another?

As the wanderer threw off the last shrouds of sleep his mind wandered back to the blinking light. It had been hours, perhaps as much as a day before he had finally given in to exhaustion, still chipping away at the ever-growing hole. The thing was out of sight now, covered over with his fur sleeping mat. No doubt the light was still flashing away, if it had lain dormant while the wanderer was sleeping it would almost certainly have awoken along with the new voices.
The interloper sat across from the lean-to perched on his own knapsack. The goggles glinted, grinning expressionlessly at the wanderer.
“You came to talk. I would also have words with you, but perhaps not as you would like them.”
The interloper cocked his head slightly. The wanderer continued.
“Would you tell my of any nearby settlements, perhaps that you have passed time within, or viewed from afar?”
A pause. The seconds stretched into minutes.
“I ask again, wh-”
“We aren't getting anywhere this way,” the interloper cut in. “Stop talking in that damned formal wastes accent.”
The wanderer's mind reeled from this sudden comment. It was the kind of talk he hadn't heard in years, not since... before.
He replied in a feeble attempt to conceal his surprise.
“You come from outside?”
Outside of course, was the term used by all wastelanders to describe the end of the world as they knew it. None had actually seen this “outside”, but it stood to reason that something existed beyond the cliffs that lined the arctic basin. Now and again you got the few crazies who thought they had been over the cliffs, but that was bullshit, plain and simple. Was it because the wanderer knew better?
“Why, do you?” The interloper said. He was leaning forward now. The wanderer shifted his position, keeping a firm grip on the pole by his side.
“No, you just-”
“Sound familiar?” Cutting in once more.
“Must you be so damned irritating?” the wanderer felt his blood begin to rise. He hadn't asked for this chance meeting, just who was this guy? Why would he go to such lengths just to prove a point?
“I mean for Christ's sake, what are you, some kind of wasteland therapist? Keep your goddamned questions to yourself or get out my sight.”
It was as if the interloper had received a sudden jolt of electricity, he jumped to his feet, slapping his thighs, and, although no sound penetrated his makeshift mask, shuddered with what seemed to be laughter.
“Those aren't the kind of words you hear every day buddy,” the interloper said, after calming down a little. A moment later, with his excitement significantly more subdued, the interloper continued.
“So, what's your story? How does another upstanding citizen like myself wind up in a place like this?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” The wanderer replied. “I'm no “citizen” of anyplace, I just make my way like everyone else. And yes, maybe I wasn't always here, but if that's true then it sure as hell isn't your business to ask, so let it lie.”
“Oh come on, the poor bastards in this place might have given up on life, but not you as well. Don't you want to share some of those thoughts of yours with a guy who can actually appreciate them for once?”
The wanderer bit his lip.
"Alright," he said. "If we do talk, I'll tell you what you want to know, you do the same for me, agreed?"
"It's a deal!" Always grinning.

------------------------

And that's all for now. I might compile A Morally Bankrupt Adventure, one of those "choose your own adventure" threads I made a while ago and post it here for some depraved fun. Alternately I might just resurrect the thread. I want to play with those robots again.

At 3/25/06 05:36 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: I have to admit, in my opinion that wasn't one of your best works.

Didn't think it was, it was just osmehtign I threw together when i was bored.

If you had some kind of build up, telling us a bit about this teacher's character, and just what exactly this student gets up to that's so bad then I think it would really have worked quite well.

hmmm...I'll take that into consideration and re-do it I think. I have nothing else to do tonight so I'll do that an have a read of Snowfields later.

hey guys, just so the doctor knows (Though knowing him he probably knew before me O_o), doctor who starts again in 17 days, (2 weeks this sat).
anyways i realise i havnt been writing much lately, well i wrote an apology poem. i would post alot of the songs i write, but you lot would call me an emo :'(
lol
anyways here it is.

what happend to us?
it was all laughs and smiles
now its tears and scars
the clouds were fluffy and in our grasp
now their faded, departed and out of our reach.
your beautiful smile will never shine again in my direction
because actions have consequences and i made a mistake.
forgiveness is no option, all i can say is a simple 3 words:
i am sorry.

look at you now,
glistening in the sunlight at your sweet 16.
dyed hair, piercings and the pinkest shoes on sale.
still the same girl all the guys fall for under the make-up.
im just basking in a bit of your talent. dont mind me
i'll be gone in an hour i just wanted to see you again.

i'll be there every step of the way, and i know if you could, you would be there for me too.
im writing this little sonnet as an apology for you.
being in a little box called mind makes you think about past regrets.
and this was one i wanted to correct.
so i finish this little poem by saying:
no matter what you do, i'll be watching over you with a smile on my face, and a spring in your step.
if angels could talk to humans, they'd be singing this little sonnet i wrote just for you.

Not bad!

I'm telling ya, you guys should post some of your stuff on this site, you'd get some awesome reviews

Hey, I'm a writer and would like to join. A little bit later on, you'll see it on my sig. :P

Problem is, english is not my natal lenguaje (that would be spanish, since I'm Mexican), so I was wondering if there was any problem on writing in spanish???

Or, if you know any expert on both lenguajes, it would help too.

BTW, I'll be posting the introduction of a Castlevania fanfict I wrote LONG ago, and got translated.

El Cernex

Did anyone else here get the following e-mail?

Hey, I just read the article that you wrote on the 'Writers Guild' thread in Newgrounds, and am pretty impressed. You should post it on http://www.theshadowsun.net , you'd probably get some really good feedback

I'd like to know whether to regard it as spam or not....

At 3/30/06 06:08 AM, CaptinChu wrote: Did anyone else here get the following e-mail?

Hey, I just read the article that you wrote on the 'Writers Guild' thread in Newgrounds, and am pretty impressed. You should post it on http://www.theshadowsun.net , you'd probably get some really good feedback

well considering the following is the same:

At 3/29/06 10:46 PM, valentine_wiggen wrote: Not bad!

I'm telling ya, you guys should post some of your stuff on this site, you'd get some awesome reviews

I think we should just disregard it. It's just someone trying to get more publicity for their site.