Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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Balls.
Thats my writing guild application, see the storyline. I find inbetween the two l's there is like no space but im sure you can learn too love my story

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May I please join. If the answer is yes then I will post one of my storys up here.

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I got a cool story which im gonna put up here so here it is

The Cavemen

In a land before writing, before a systimized anything.

For many years there has been a blood feud between cavemen and raptors.The cavemen have tried to steal the raptors eggs for almost 100 years now. The raptors have been trying and have succeeded in cutting down much of the cavemen population.

One day in the cavemen year of 432, they were ready for a raid. They hoped to get 2500 eggs at the least. They had an army built for war. There leader, Nagut-Ag was a fiersome man. Not only was he a natural born leader he was also one of the most skille knive throwers, with having 7 years of war training at the age of 28 he was ready to lead an army

The army was set up in a row order there were about 900 bonesman in the front normally about 9 rows of these from the lease skilled to the most skilled.. NExt were the knivers there were about 1600 of them. After that the archers who stood with crossbows were the most important troops with 700. With a total troop count of 3200 they have about 7 times that of the raptors but this does not mean victory.

Not finished i have the whole thing finished but my arms are tired

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It's been a while, but here's a story I just finished.

Winston

I had a dog named Winston; a beagle dog, that died a few years back. I got him from my grandma as a gift for my eighth birthday. We bonded instantly. I remember before I had a chance to uncover my eyes Winston had already released himself from my grandma's grip and came scurrying over to me, jumping up and down against my leg. The moment I felt his tiny little paws against me I lit up. My eyes wide and mouth stuck with a corny grin, I reached down and scooped Winston into my arms. He licked my face and I pressed my head up against his. We became best friends.

You see, if it weren't for Winston my childhood would have been terribly traumatic. I was pushed around at school a lot, never wanting to participate in the sports games during recess, and never showing much interest in girls. It gave the other school kids plenty of ammunition to bully me around with. But, everyday I would come home and Winston would be waiting at the door for me. I would burst through the front door, drop my backpack, play with Winston, and lose track of time. Those were the good days, even if school was bad.

After three years I turned eleven and Winston had grown much larger. He was no longer the pup I pressed my head against when I was eight, and I was no longer that little eight year old boy whose face he licked when we first met. We were both maturing. As Winston aged he became more aggressive. He wasn't mean, he was just becoming a horny male dog. I would constantly catch him in the act, pleasuring himself on our family sofa or against the television set. My dad would swap him on the behind and tell him no in a monstrous tone, and Winston would just yelp and run away. This would have been fine if it weren't for the fact that I was also turning into a horny male. As you can see, I was a young, eleven year old boy, who was witnessing my best friend being punished for having the same feelings I was at the time. I understood what Winston was going through because I was going through the same thing. At night I would lay in bed and hump my pillows, or stick my penis between my two bed mattresses and go in and out of it. Sure, at the time I didn't realize it was a normal thing to have these sorts of feelings, so I was worried about the actions I was taking, but I never felt alone because I had Winston at my side going through the same emotions. All of this continued for a few months, until I started thinking more about it, and more, and more, until I couldn't get it off my mind. The more frequently I masturbated, the better it kept getting, and then I reached the point of ejaculation. I didn't know what it was at first, but I had seen Winston do it before, so I knew it must have been okay. I didn't like the texture or the smell of it, and that's when I got the idea, the idea that is the focal point of this entire story, the one idea that ended up shaping my entire future.

It was my responsibility to feed and clean Winston, and every two weeks I would toss him in the tub and give him a bath. He always enjoyed playing in the water, and would even sit still when I was scrubbing him or rinsing him off. Well, when bath time came around I filled the tub halfway, put Winston in, began to undress myself, and got inside the bathtub with him. I remember worrying whether or not my parents would come in the door and see me in the bathtub with Winston, wondering what I was doing, but they never did. I started cleaning Winston like normal, thinking over the idea I had, until Winston jumped up against my chest. His hind paws were pressed firmly against my thighs, slipping on and off them from the soapy water, and rubbing against my scrotum. It felt good and started to excite me. Winston stayed on me for a while, looking at my face with his big tongue hanging out of his mouth. I gently pushed him off my legs and he turned around in the water with his behind facing me. I was fully aroused at this point, and decided it was time to try out the idea I had. I grabbed Winston around his belly and pulled him close to me, pushing his butt down into the water. I was feeling around for his butthole with my penis, but couldn't find an opening. I could tell Winston didn't know what was going on because his playful nature quickly turned to that of confusion, and he kept trying to get up and free himself from me, instead of sitting still like he normally would. I held him tigther around the waist and started pushing him down hard on my penis, attempting to thrust myself into him the best I could. After ten minutes of trying Winston finally turned around and bit me on the arm. I let go of him and he jumped to the opposite side of the bathtub. He turned around and just stared at me. I got out of the tub and dried myself off, I picked up Winston and dried him off too. After that incident we never really had any problems. We would play like normal, sit around on the sofa like normal, and go walking around the block like normal, but Winston would never let me give him a bath again. Any time I tried he would back away from me.

This was fourteen years ago. I'm twenty-five now and my dog Winston is dead. He was hit by a car when I was twenty-two. After I grew up and recollected the events of what I did as a child, I understood that I was just a young, horny boy, thinking that my dog Winston had the same feelings as me. Although our feelings were similar, they were definitely not the same. But, I can't fully say I regret the actions I took as a child, because like I said earlier, it helped to shape my future. You may think it strange that intercourse with a dog could help shape my future, but let me explain. You see, I never had sex with Winston, I tried to, and trying something and failing opposed to trying something and succeeding will give you completely different results. If I had succeeded in having sex with Winston, then today I would probably be some guy in therapy, taking tons of different medications until I found the one that was right for me, and then killing myself shortly afterwards. But instead, I'm some guy wearing a suit and tie, shaking hands with important people, changing the world and drinking expensive, imported wines that have names I can't pronounce. I have more money than I know what to do with and more cars than a man should ever own. I have achieved all of this because I tried fucking a dog and I failed. I failed at doing something in life that a person who is destined to fail would have succeeded in doing, and because of me knowing that, I have succeeded.

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Im a writer and i would like feedback on some of my short stories. My friends tell me they're great but i've yet to be commented on from a neutral party. This is part one and two. If you like em tell me through here, or pm. I wrote the 8th part tonight. Thank you all.

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Dirty Syko, slightly odd but very well written so...... Well done?

Heres my work, first chapter.

The following is all lies except for names, IE Fiction

Influences - Music (yes music CAN influence stories) such tracks as "Half a world away" "Wonderwall" both by Oasis... "Love of the loveless" by the eels, "Hear you me" by Jimmy Eat World... "Homies" by insane clown posse and who could forget "Are you talking to me" by Fieldys Dreams. People include my father, Simon Smith my best mate in the world, my brother Joel, my good friend Zoe, James Thompson and my cats... I love you all. In some surreal or abstract (or direct like my dad and Simon) you have all been big parts of my life and i hope you always will be. So without further stuff, here is my narrative. As stated above its mostly fiction but nothing in there is totally made up. Enjoy.

Bored Teen

1: I wish i were a stoner

Bored again i sit in class wondering... What the fuck is the point in algebra? I don’t ask this question though as every time I have its been met with a cynical response and a fierce word about swearing. Sometimes I try to escape from these nightmarish lessons by sneaking in my mp3 player and listening to my metal music whilst idly doing a bit of work, enough to keep her off my back, but little enough to maintain the image of a bored rebel, something I wish I could be bothered to be, I don’t have the energy or resolve to rebel. I just sit and scowl. Top sets are supposed to be for the gifted and talented, and having a place in these godlike sets is meant to be a privilege... Don’t get me wrong I’m glad to be getting good lessons but sometimes i get so tired of things being expected of me that I wish I could go back to basic work with apostrophes and low level numeracy... 12 x 4 usually looks more inviting than the long incomprehensible shit I sit through, the sums plagued with X's and Y's... But its not all bad, sometimes we have a supply teacher, or even better a trainee teacher... These teachers have what I think of as "New teacher-itus" the symptoms of this comical disease are 1: Expecting orders to be followed the first time. 2: Getting angry when they're not. 3: Being shocked when the rudest and "baddest" of the kids in the class refuse to move or leave the room after repeated warnings. Trainee teachers are fun.

The bell rings to signal the end of maths and I hastily scrape together all my sheets i've done the first few bits on, and stuff them inside my book and dump it on the teachers desk. I walk into the corridor to the screams and shrieks as people are pushed about and sworn at... The usual secondary school stuff, I have a headache. My second lesson of the day, history...

After a boring and pretty frustrating day at school I come home feeling in high spirits, but too tired to be particularly bouncy. I fire up my computer and stick on some of my favorite music, comprised mostly of Oasis tracks. My home page is BBC news as i like to be well informed, you cant argue and be disagreeable if your a moron (although most of my school seem to manage it.) The news seems to be more anti marijuana stuff, claiming the same old stuff. I don’t understand why they keep repeating all the same stuff, im sure weed IS responsible for partial memory loss and paranoia, but most people have come to accept that anyway without Mr. generic looking scientist declaring it to be "slightly more likely". I have never been particularly interested in weed, but I’ll admit to have trying it on a few occasions, the next day will be a training day and a Friday, a good opportunity to get a bit stoned with some close friends. I spend the rest of the evening listening to music, idly talking on msn and drinking. Right now, life is good.

I am yanked out of blissful sleep by my alarm clock, it is, much to my annoyance still set for 7:50am. Grunting and scowling at the world in general I pull the batteries out and drop it on the floor, it makes a satisfying "clunk". Josh one, Alarm clock nil... Unless you count waking me up as "one". I arise at the more convenient time of 12:03 and roll out bed. I notice my phone is ringing - it must've woken me up. Its my best friend Simon... He's at the door, and has been for about 25 minutes. I smile at his irritation, he makes me laugh.

I open the door to him and he pulls out a small bag of potent buds, A rizzla and some tobacco later we're sitting at my kitchen table..... We should roll up now... I don’t know how to roll... Neither does he... We didn’t think this out very well. After debating over the best plan of action we decide that internet tips won’t help as it still requires a lot of skill. I remember my dad has an antique rolling machine in his study, from the days he smoked roll-ups. I open his study door and immediately the mess covering the floor is made apparent, cd's and books flood over me... After wading my way through the river of crap, I make it to the desk, and quickly locate the rolling device.

5 minutes later, we're back at the table with a small amount of hash and a few rizzlas... This is obviously a device for experts as neither one of us can figure it out despite picking it up and shaking it in frustration. We decide maybe this time the internet can help us, 20 minutes and a faulty connection later we work out what we're meant to be doing. We manage to roll up a "small" with the contraption... Sitting on my bench in my garden trying to light it up, it wasn’t much fun due to the wind and the rubbish lighter Simon has bought over. Finally a spark! Its lit, and finally we begin to pass it around, 2 minutes later its all gone and neither one of us feel remotely stoned. Scowling and defeated we decide its not worth the bother, so we turn on the playstation 2 and begin a fifa 2007 competition.

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2: Doing Time

The arts corridor is ahead of me, the music room to my left and the drama room straight ahead. I can still taste the sort of burned toast taste in my mouth as I didn’t have time to clean my teeth - I feel like a tramp. I go up the stairs averting the arts hall and, hands in pockets slouch towards the maths room. Rumors are flying around about our teacher Mrs. Guide, the general opinion is that she's away, meaning we get to doss. I get myself in the right frame of mind. I don’t need to do much. Suddenly she appears at the end of the corridor, there is a general disappointed exhalation of breath. She struts to the door and throws it open in her infuriating majestic manner, god i hate maths teachers. As I vaguley look for a place to sit where I can avoid taking responsibility for anything I notice a seat at the back, and fall gratefully into it.

The lesson begins and today its angles... Or something. I take up my usual maths routine and cock one ear in her general direction so I have at least a flicker of understanding when sheets are passed around by a half hearted student, and begin to stare at the clock. Only 58 minutes and 12 seconds left to go... The seconds are everything when your in maths. I turn to Simon in the next seat who unlike me is looking at her, but apparently nothing else; as his eyes have glazed over and a dreamy expression has crossed his face. I wonder what he's day dreaming of, and try it myself... But I’m too tired... Too tired to make the effort to make no effort because I’m tired... I am very tired. So I prod him sharply in the ribs and being a deep conversation about something conveniently and comfortably irrelevant to whatever strange and irritating coding had been thrown onto the board, by the depressing spectacle of my mathematics teacher. Looking back on it i forget what we talked about, but it passed roughly 19 seconds before my name was snapped, cutting through the air like a whipcrack, or something descriptive like that.

I could fix her with my innocent and mildly shocked face and utter a slightly startled "what?". But it seems pointless, I’m not fooling anybody. So I turn a surly gaze on her as she tells me to not do something. I blandly agree and promptly turn back to Simon and we pick up on where we left off. Seconds later she snaps at me and asks whether I listened to her. I’m not sure whether I did or not, I doubt it but I decide telling a shameless lie is a better alternative than the truth which would probably be seen as impudence or some other closely related offence... After a hasty and a forced apology she resumes talking, so do I. She's had enough and before I know what’s going on I’m in the corridor, whistling "She’s Electric" by Oasis. I've been sent to the "Withdrawal room". A room bearing "serious consequences" and a stony faced teacher. In this prison like room, one must sit in silence with the other captives and do monotonous work set by the teacher who sent them.

So I wander off down the hall in search of withdrawal room, find it and give the grave, guard like looking teacher the note. "I've been naughty", I confess. Her steel eyes convey her definite lack of joke appreciation, so I sit down. The room is totally square, unnervingly so... There are annoying laminated badly cut pieces of paper on the wall saying retarded and shallow things such as "Attitudes are contagious, is your worth catching?" "Shut the fuck up, sign!" I think, I have triumphed over the inanimate piece of paper. The work I’ve been set to do is copying up some key targets, so I mindlessly copy them out into my book; coming to the conclusion I’ve pushed my luck far enough today to not do any work after being kicked out. There is only one other offender in the room, an ugly year 7 kid who's tall and broad enough to be in the top of the school... He doesnt appear to be doing anything, I lean over to see what he's actually doing before being snapped at to stop fidgeting. I stop.

45 Minutes later I'm standing back in the maths room being told about respect and the usual crap... I’m not listening until I hear the key phrase "hour detention." And I feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach. There will also be a phone call home while I’m in detention... Annoyed and partially remorseful (the phrase, "your just sorry you were caught!" comes to mind upon reflection.) I leave the maths room, slump down in form and have to endure the taunting of Simon and another friend Robert at being sent out. I take comfort in the fact that if it were either of them who had been sent out... I would laugh at them to.

Back at home I sit down in my chair and prod my mouse to bring up the screen... I've left my messenger on while i was at school and consequentially there are several boxes flashing. I find the Eels in my music list and stick some of that on... For the rest of the evening my thoughts go back to the detention and my stomach sinks, ah well.

The next day is as boring and uneventful as ever, but I’ve brought a book along to read while I sit learning my lesson. "Dave Gormans Googlewhack Adventure". The day drags on and I sit through Geography, English, RE and double Science. The three o'clock bell sounds and I unwillingly traipse down to the maths corridor to find the merciless witch. I tell myself to not be bitter, I deserve it. It doesn’t help. She tells me to sit down and do some graph work to finish off my coursework, I guess it’s not too bad. I have never liked graph paper... Since I was young I’ve associated it with rulers and extraneous bits of stationary. The maths room seems like a prison during lesson time, but the numbers and presentations that hang on the wall seem to mock me now. I have nobody to distract me from the graph paper and the noise as she scratches her pencil on her paper, I don’t think she knows anything other than her work, she takes her work too seriously to have a life outside of it... I wonder if its odd to pity somebody who is holding me in detention but I decide not to think about it, and finish my graphs.

I trudge home an hour late exhausted, but not feeling too low... My maths coursework is out of the way at least. I remember that I never got to read my book, I only just finished in time... This fact seems to prod me sharply, insisting I don’t leave in too high spirits. I turn the corner and see my house, suddenly I remember I forgot about the phone call home. Its time to incur wrath of my parents... I stand and look at my house. "Ah fuck it" I think... turn around and head to Simons house... His parents will be much more welcoming...

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ATTN: MystWilliams
It's WithoutCease.

Hi.

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At 12/26/06 10:46 PM, Ebolarama wrote: ATTN: MystWilliams
It's WithoutCease.

Hi.

I was going to deliver that message for you today btw =) IThinkIWasDrunk last night - sorry.

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At 12/27/06 09:54 AM, IThinkImDrunk wrote: I was going to deliver that message for you today btw =) IThinkIWasDrunk last night - sorry.

heh, ty
i just got impatient is all lolz.

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Here is a bunch of stuff I've written over the last few months in their final form. Enjoy:

Man and Machinery
Diego Rivera, Fresco, 1932

The empty spaces are full
of the drumming: grind, grunt, slam.
Ash men work the volcano.

Their hands are extensions
of metal arms,
lubricated with sweat.

They shower
with steam and grease
to be cleansed of self.

When they are finished
they become the shadows
that work the molten metal fires.

Those who still scrub cling to
illuminated orange assembly lines
as if they too were being assembled.

To be here is to struggle,
to push and pull until
the factory excretes a car.

\>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Once Housemates

We put these bricks up
haphazardly, that roof too
for the same reasons all do,
to be with each other.

We ignored the frost covered grass between us,
and turned into jagged icicles ourselves.
We dripped and froze silently
till we hung deadly sharp.
Then we fell, we killed.

I remember a bird from last winter: Sounds
of falling newspaper were in its wings
and its terror was her terror too.
Neither understood the other.
Windows sealed, I let the bird go
by closing it off until
only a narrow blind stairway,
the exit, was open.

Now,
My girlfriend and I shut doors with others
who once called themselves friends,
who helped put up these stones. Hoping
that when we built this place
we left a door out of each other.

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Yom Kippur at Temple Emanuel

Those mahogany pews belong
in a church, along with the blood
red upholstery that barely softens
the lines of restrictive pews.
The sanctuary feels small.
This Saturday the Ner Tamid,
our covenant with God, shines electrically.

The air is cold; windows cracked open.
The roughness of my suit
scrapes my arms, makes my legs itch.
I ache for nourishment.
Fingering through the prayer book,
I know none of these words past their sound
and I wonder who around me might.

We have crammed close to the exits
perfume choking us,
like passengers on a train
ready to leave with service’s end.
In the back, I sit light headed
with five hundred of my congregation;
Tallit and yarmulkes absent.

This sanctuary feels like a coffin.
The dead tarnish like brass on our walls.
It feels familiar…
to be packed together once more,
bone against bone, starving.
Did we choose to be living rot,
skin tight against pelvis, ribs and skull?

I blink and the skeletons are people again
reading from the prayer book as one,
saying to never… but I’ve forgotten
what it means to read Torah
and Talmud and Mishna and Nevi’im.
I swallow back the taste of cheeseburgers
and close my prayer book in silence.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

7th Grade
Reynoldsburg, 1999

It was the year cartoons
were broken for me.
It was the year my dad lost his job,
the year I failed English, and
the year I started taking pills
for acid reflux, lactose intolerance,
and allergies.

It was the year I lost count
of the jokes made at my expense
and the fights that I would lose.

It was the year I crawled away, somehow;
hid, curled up, crying in the storage closet
surrounded by empty violin cases.

It was the year I understood
the worst part of myself,
the part that would kill
if I was unable to lock it away.

There was the long hallway
in between band rooms:
plain white tiles, plain white walls,
a plain white ceiling.

In my hall, I remember being late,
the taunts from behind that I ignored,
quickening my pace.

In some other school,
in some other lunchroom
two kids killed their classmates.

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Do you like writing imaginative and creative stories? (for fun!)
Do you like creating something with some pre-set rules?
Do you like cooperating?

Then you might want to join our relay/team- story group^_^
We’re planning on writing one or several shortstories together.
One person starts writing, maybe 20 sentences, less or more, then leaves it over to the next person to continue writing. And so it goes on…..
We will set rules before starting: for example which theme, or genre the story’s supposed to be.
And each person, when starting their piece of the story, also has some pre-set rules.
Maybe a few words or sentences that he/she is supposed to use in his/her piece. Or maybe a very vague sum of events, for example “now, introduce a new character”, “in this part, something scary will happen” or “this part has to be related to mushrooms somehow ” XD

AND everyone gets to write an alternate ending ;)

We’re planning on making this sort of like a club, and I will be the leader.
Everything will be handled by E-mailing.
We’ll decide rules together, maybe divide into smaller groups..
And choose tempo… Everything from one part every second day, to one part per month.
You feel like joining?

Just send me a private message
and let me know these things:
*What would you like to write about?
*Any thoughts on HOW you want to write? (for example, how often?)
*Any suggestions?

Then, I will tell you as soon as we have enough members to start :D :D

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At 12/29/06 12:31 PM, Ms-Bowser wrote: Do you like writing imaginative and creative stories? (for fun!)
Do you like creating something with some pre-set rules?
Do you like cooperating?, etc.

What...?

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hello, we are budding writers, both in non-fiction, and of a journalistic nature, depending who you ask, and we would like to join.

On a related note, would it be agreeable if we posted a short story we are writing for reveiw?

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I like writing short funny, stories. Can I join the writer's guild?

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Here's one of my short stories. It isn't very good. I wrote it awhile ago.

Ben, Dom, Harry, and the Attack of the Killer Bunnies
By DoughBoy95

It was a bright and sunny day in Spring. Flowers were blooming. Kids were playing happily outside for recess. Three of those kids were Ben, Dom, and Harry.
Ben, as evil as he is, decided they should escape school. They ran down to the fence around the field.
“Let’s jump the fence,” Harry whispered.

Ben and Harry jumped over, but Dom stood there looking at the ground.
“What are you doing?” Ben screamed.
“Er... Guys...” Dom started to say.
Out of a hole in the ground, rose a bunny. This was no normal bunny. This bunny had razor-sharp claws and fangs.
“OWWWW!” Harry screamed in pain, “My arm!”
Harry’s whole entire arm was missing. Blood was gushing everywhere.
“We have a bigger problem!” Ben shouted.
Ben was right. More killer bunnies were coming out of the hole.
“HELP!” Harry impatiently moaned.
All three of the boys ran as fast as they could to get back to school.
When Ben, Dom, and Harry got back to school they went straight to the nurse.
“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!!” the nurse yelled angrily.
The nurse bandaged up Harry’s arm and sent them back to class.
When Dom, Ben, and one-armed Harry walked into class, Mr. Murphy was teaching Math. Probability, BORING!
Mr. Murphy heard the door close and looked up.
“Look who decided to join us for Math.” Mr. Murphy said.
“Sorry, Mr. Murphy,” Ben mumbled. “A bunch of killer bunnies ate Harry’s arm off.”
“Okay, class. What’s the probability that Ben is telling the truth?” Mr. Murphy asked sarcastically.
“ZERO PERCENT!!!” The class screamed.
“Now sit down!” Mr. Murphy commanded.
Dom, Ben, and Harry walked slowly to their seats. They would probably be in for recess forever.
“Ha HA,” the whole class laughed. “You got in trouble!”
Ben, Dom, and Harry struggled through the rest of the day with kids mocking them and making fun of their “excuse”.
At the end of the day, Harry heard a noise in the ceiling.
“Did you hear that?” Harry asked.
“What?” Ben and Dom said.
“That noise in the ceiling!” Harry replied.
CRASH!!!!!!!!
Most of the ceiling fell and from it came little rodents. Killer bunnies!
“AHHH!” the class screamed in horror.
What happened next made everyone’s face go pale. The killer bunnies started to eat Mr. Murphy. Blood was everywhere and Mr. Murphy moaned in pain.
Dom, the smart one, had an idea. Two seconds later Dom was out the first story window. Ben and Harry followed.
“Great idea!” Harry said.
Harry, Dom, and Ben started running. They were going to buy some supplies. Then, they would go find the killer bunnies.
Ben, Dom, and Harry separated. Harry waited at the park, while Dom went to the Guns and Ammo store and Ben went to the hardware store.
When Dom walked into the Guns and Ammo store, a bell rang. Bing-a-ling-a-ding!Dominic had his fake ID ready in his pocket.
“Bob’s Guns and Ammo shop, how may I help you?” the clerk said glumly.
“Do you have machine guns or grenades?” Dom asked.
“Both,” the clerk answered.
“How much?” Dom paused. “Actually, I’ll just pay with my credit card.”(also fake.)
“Fine,” replied the clerk.
Dom took the weapons and headed back to the park.
Dom got back to the park in two minutes, but Ben was already back with the flashlights.
“Let’s go,” Harry said.
Ben, Dom, and Harry went back to the field at school.
“Where’s the hole? Ben questioned Dom.
“Over there,” Dom replied and pointed to a hole.
Harry took a flashlight in his only hand and Ben hooked a bunch of grenades onto Harry’s belt. Ben put a flashlight in his pocket and took a machine gun.
“Don’t pull the tr...” Dom started.
Ben pulled the trigger. What the bullets hit amazed them. Ben shot down 4killer bunnies.
“Where did they come from?” Ben asked in shock.
Dom got the same supplies as Ben.
“Let’s go!” Dom said ignoring what Ben said.
The tunnel was dark and damp. The sides of the tunnel were slimy, probably with mold. Ben, Dom, and Harry were walking with their flashlights on for awhile. So far, they had not encountered any killer bunnies.
Harry started to complain, so they rested on a rock. That’s when they heard the noise.
Chick-Ching! Bang-bang-bang! Ben fired and hit a killer bunny in the forehead.
“ROAR!! ROAR!!”the killer bunny screamed in rage.
“Nice shot, stupid,” Dom screamed .
One of the shots hit Harry in the ear. The ear jumped off, slapped Ben, and ran off.
“Okay...” Ben said. “That was weird.”
The three weirdos started walking again. Dom noticed little indents in the wall.
“What does this do?” Dom thought out loud.
Dom pulled on the indentation and they were swallowed by a dark hole.
“AAAHHHH!!!!” Harry yelled.
It took two whole minutes for them to fall to the bottom of the hole.(Ben counted for fun). When they got there, they were greeted by 2 million unhappy killer bunnies.
“Maybe if were really still...” Ben started. The killer bunnies started to close in.
Harry gave a grenade to Dom and he threw it at the wall.
“AVALANCHE!!!!!” Harry yelled with delight. “Let’s run.”
Ben, Dom, and Harry lived and the killer bunnies never bothered anyone ever again.

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I suppose this is the best place for asking a question like this.

Does anyone know what steps to take and any advice to give on having a story published?
A book I'm writing is starting to get along in speed and I'd like to know what I need to do if I wish to have it published when finished.

Cheers

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Hey Murf... You DO realize that you did not write The Triangle Inequality, right. I did. First of all, I do not like you posting things without my permission. My name is on that, along with the names of a lot of my friends and none of us want our names to be used without our permission. Second, you DO NOT take credit for something you didn't write. That story is very special to Sierra and I and you have no right to take credit for it. Third, where do you get off saying that it's up for grabs? You told me that you'd try to make credits for it, not say it's yours and offer it to other people. I'd really appreciate it if you took it off and never posted it again without my consent.
Sarah Bryski

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At 1/8/07 04:55 AM, PelvicThrusters wrote:
Does anyone know what steps to take and any advice to give on having a story published?
A book I'm writing is starting to get along in speed and I'd like to know what I need to do if I wish to have it published when finished.

Usually writers have editors which they give their works to for review / approval before they publish it, so if you're serious my guess would be to find a publisher

Correct me if I'm wrong

******Note to all the aughtors who write here*******

As a flash artist I come here to look for a story on right?

I came here to see if there is any good stories and what I got is a library of novels with NO names, introduction, plot summaries, genres or anything

If I would want to find a story about a topic that Im interested in, I would have to read through the whole novel before I would have any idea whats it about.
Im sure atleast some stories have genre outline etc but majority that I found did not.

A 2 line summary / discription of whats your story about BEFORE you start is not that hard to do, and it makes other ppls jobs a lot easier

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You raise a good point on wanting to know what the story's about to see if it's worth reading but we weren't quite clear on if you wanted the whole thing in a nutshell, or just a quick summary, like one would find in a movie trailer. So we're going to do both, if you don't want the end spoiled for you DO NOT read the next paragraph. Oh! One last thing. this story is built on Edgar A. Poe's definition of a short story which is that a story must be short enough to read in one sitting, must have very few characters, and must have next to nothing after the resolution. Poe being the father of the short story and all, we think we'll go with what he says.

This is the first section of our story. we can't give you the rest quite yet because...well...to be blunt it's not finished yet. but what we do have for you is what we've done so far, and what we plan to do. Our protagonist (who is as of yet unnamed, not sure if we'll ever name him) is a man who's girlfriend was kidnapped by an organazation of hitmen under the front Webcorps. In order to get her back alive he needs to kill twenty people on a list that Webcorps has given him, using the supplies, contacts, and field oporator( codenamed Sterling(as in sterling silver)) to do so. We join the protagonist late in the adventure, on hit number 18, in a remote monastary in Spain, he Hits a guy he thinks is a preists, but is actually a mob hitman in hiding. next hit is in russia, but we're still working on that....check back later for that one.

Now, if you didn't want the first part of the story spoiled for you, but still want to know what is going on, read the next one.

this is about a man. an ordinary man, like me, or you. except for one thing. he's a navy seal washout and he's got to kill twenty people all over the world in order to get his girlfriend back from the evil organazation of hitmen called "Webcorps" join him for his last three hits, and ask the question "who could live their life after somthing like that?"

Right, story time
Father Chavez was not all that he appeared to be, he thought as he walked down the monastery corridors. In fact, he was almost nothing that he appeared to be. Chavez was posing as a man of the cloth, because he was seen trying to kill a politician. That’s what he does for a living, you see. As a mob hitman he’s paid to kill influential marks and make sure that they can’t cause any trouble for his employers. He was good at it too, otherwise the boss wouldn’t have spent so much money to fly him all the way to Spain, and disguise him, and make up that phony letter from the Vatican, just so he wouldn’t get sent to jail.
It was an easy life, nothing to do but eat, sleep, and every once in a while he would go into his room and “pray” with his favorite bottle of communion wine. There was one other thing he had to do, and as Chavez walked through the door to the chapel he was reminded of it. Confession, the only hitch in his relaxing lifestyle. Chavez hated listening to the woes and pities of the local village people. It was a good thing that there was a screen in between Chavez and the confessor, or many would have noticed that he occasionally nodded off.
This time it was a lean, almost gaunt man, of regular height. One look into the man’s somber, melancholy face told “Father” Chavez that he was in for a long sit. The man’s eyes alone were enough to make someone commit suicide; they were just so empty and dead, like if they fell out of his head and rolled around on the ground, they would make a hollow sound. He motioned to the confession booth and the man silently obeyed.
“Father, I have sinned” The man said in labored Spanish as soon as they were in the booth. His grammar and diction were good, but he still spoke the language like a clumsy foreigner.
“Would you prefer to speak in English, child?” Chavez said in English, doing his best not to let any of his Brooklyn accent show through.
“Yes, thank you,” the stranger replied,
“Then tell me of your sins”
“It feels like an age ago, but I know it was only a few months. Someone very close, whom I loved very much, was taken from me”
“They died?”
“No Father, she was kidnapped, we were walking down the street, when a white panel van pulled up and took her, father, it was horrible”
Oh boy, another sob story “That is truly horrible, my son,” Chavez said, trying to see if he could get the man out quickly “but I see no sin on your part.”
The man shivered for just a second and put his arms around himself, inside his jacket. Wait…jacket? It was the middle of summer. A little red flag went up in Chavez’s head “I wasn’t finished father.” The man said “In order to get her back, I have to kill twenty people, on a list they gave me…” another shiver, and several little red flags went up in Chavez’s head “I’ve killed seventeen so far” no more little flags, just one big one now. It said one thing: “OH SHIT!” Chavez was severely shaken up, not just one murder but SEVENTEEN? And he wasn’t finished yet!
“Ah…Ahh…Say forty-three Hail Mary’s and then pray for forgiveness.” Chavez said very quickly, this time his Brooklyn accent showing right through.
The man continued, seemingly oblivious to Chavez’s discomfort “But you know the worse part of it all?” he said as he pulled his hands out of his jacket, revealing a hand gun, and pointing it at Chavez, The man looked at Chavez, through the screen, through his priestly disguise, through his soul with those dead eyes of his.
“You’re number eighteen.”
He fired two shots, right between Chavez’s own eyes. The pistol was silenced, of course. It was a special model, which had the silencer built right in, so you weren’t carrying around a gun that was twice the normal size. The man took a few moments to ask God for forgiveness, He didn’t know that Chavez was a fake. The faux-preist wasn’t even a Catholic. He was, in fact, an Atheist, but the fact remained; he had killed a man who had devoted his life to God (in his mind at least). After the man finished placating his conscience, he exited and was immediately faced with a monk.
“Will the Father be out soon?” the monk asked in Spanish. The man hesitated for just a moment. He had been given specific instructions not to let anyone see him at any time. Someone had seen him, and he was dangerously close to the body. He should kill the monk, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. This man wasn’t on the list, he was just in the wrong place at a very wrong time. The man could hardly kill someone just because they were standing in the way.
“He is praying,” the man said in his semi-broken Spanish “He told me to say that no one is to disturb him until he leaves the booth” the monk looked disappointed, but the man had no time to solace him, the faster he was away from the body, the better. He quickly walked away, towards the exit of the monastery.
As soon as the man was out of earshot, the monk said something in Spanish that could only be interpreted as the equivalent to “Praying…Riiiiiiight” he was not ignorant to the Father’s long prayer sessions that coincided with disappearances of communion bottles, but he did not disturb Chavez, the brother knew that his love of wine would undo him in it’s own time. So, without any further words the Monk went off to the wine cellar to count the bottles.

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At 1/12/07 03:30 AM, vlad1950 wrote: As a flash artist I come here to look for a story on right?

My friend, click no further than right here It's a basic outline for a Flash series. Oh, and btw...I already have every main voice role cast :)

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Here is a poem I did for my English class. The class seemed to like it. What do you guys think?

Wolf

Walking through the night by the moon light
The cold silver lights my way

I feel the hold of the snow, biting my padded toes
The cold silver lights my way

The solitude helps me think, it is my mind’s ink
The cold silver lights my way

The chill can’t make me kneel, I am happy to feel
The cold silver lights my way

I love nature’s sounds, and all of its rebounds
The cold silver lights my way

A new chill grows inside, wanting warmth, and I must abide
The cold silver lights my way

I howl at the moon as if to mourn, the silence of the forest is torn
The cold silver lights my way

The cry echoes back and I set off
To meet my pack, my friends, my love

The cold silver lights my way

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This was a school assignement. We were supposed to write something about our country. Before reading this keep in mind that I'm from Norway so I know I don't write that well.. Anyway, it would be nice to get some comments on it, even though it may not interest you....
Thanks in advance :)

Norwegian Values and Beliefs

The first thing to know about Norway and Norwegians is how they act towards other people. I?fm not lying when I say that a lot of Norwegians are rude and selfish. There are not many people who?fre going to spare a seat for you on the bus, if you come in pregnant or old, and looks like you?fre going to fall on the ground of exhaustion. Why should they? That would just mean they would have to stand themselves.
Most Norwegian would probably just slam the door in your face if you go behind them and are heading the same way. Why should they wait for you to go through? That would just mean they had to stop, smile, hold the door up, and wait for you to pass. A lot of time and strength wasted on helping people. No, that?fs just not the way we do it.
There are of course always exceptions. Don?ft be surprised if someone pushes you on the ground. You lay there, surprised by his/her rudeness and you see people walk besides you, doing nothing. You?fre counting, one, two, three, four, five, and suddenly someone bends over. ?gAre you alright??h and helps you up. That would?fve been something for the history books, a Norwegian person actually bending over and helping a man/woman on the ground. Just don?ft get your hopes up.

Well, you finally meet the family you?fre going to live with in one whole year. Without any useless chitchat you?fre guided to the car and driven to the house. While you?fre struggling with getting the luggage out of the car, Mr. Nilsen and Mrs. Nilsen are watching you thoughtfully and asking themselves if they should help you. They probably won?ft.
The luggage is finally unpacked and you just realize you haven?ft eaten since the morning. Then you hear someone scream in really bad, and barely understandable English. ?gDinner!?h The voice continues to speak as you walk into the kitchen, telling you that they made the Norwegian national food, fa?‹rika?‹l. Or in English, Norwegian lamb stew. You smile, and say something nice to them while smelling the air. I?fll warn you already, fa?‹rika?‹l smells like excrement, and you?fll probably get nightmares from it, but my dad says it doesn?ft tastes like it smells, so I would take his word for it and try it either way.
Now, let?fs not waste any more words telling you how fa?‹rika?‹l tastes, but let?fs skip some months of your life in this new country.

You have finally started to understand the Norwegian language; you know the basics and some polite phrases (which you probably use too often). One thing you may have noticed at this time is that not many people are religious in Norway. The only times you step into a church is either in a funeral, a wedding or at Christmas. Though, if you?fre feeling you?fre missing your Christian life you can go to a congregation, which is really easy to find. That?fs also probably a good place to get some new friends.
Another thing you may want to know of is one of our traditions called 17. May. This is our national day and every year on this day we parade in the street, waving our flags, screaming hurray, and singing.
Last thing, Norway is known worldwide for its beautiful nature and topping hills. You?fre going to enjoy taking a walk surrounded by green, good smelling nature and fresh air. It?fs said that Norwegians was born with ski on their feet. Well, that?fs obviously not true, but it says something of how we are. We love walking, sports, and snow. Some say it?fs typical Norwegian to be good and I?fm saying the same thing. Expect some competition if you want to achieve something.

School is kind of hard to describe. It?fs up to you to decide whether you like it or not. One plus though, is that you don?ft have to wear school uniforms. If we put that aside, this is how a normal school day is. You arrive at 8.40 am. It?fs time for your first class, Geography. You sit down and the teacher walks in. ?gHello class!?h He checks every corner of the classroom from where he stands, and suddenly he gets a skeptical grimace in his face. He opens his mouth, starting to say something, and then slowly swallows his word back down. He looks down, then up again and opens his mouth, again. ?gI see that you?fre sitting two and two.?h The whole class is waiting for him to continue. He hesitates, then continuous. ?gWell, I guess that?fs okay for now, just don?ft make any noise.?h Don?ft be surprised if you hear this sentence over and over again.
The class continues to go on for about 1 hour and 20 minutes, and finally it?fs time for a break.
After the two next classes you hand in two essays and have one test. It?fs finally time to go home, then you just realize; you have a test tomorrow too, and in the second class you have to give a talk. I guess you can?ft relax just yet then. Back to work, at home.

One good thing in Norway is that the gender-equality is higher than any other country. It?fs still pretty usual (compared to the guys) for the wife to be at home cooking and cleaning the house, but in most families they both go to work and send their kids to school or kinder garden.
Norway still has at least one thing more to make equal though, men still gets higher positions and better wages than women, but the women are climbing their way to the top with the guys, so many expects this to be equal in the nearest future.
Most families get no children before the age of 30. This is heavily inspired by the raising equality in Norway. Young women want to complete their studies and take full education, then have children as a successful women and family.
Norway is rich and we are practically swimming in these benefits that the government is giving us. This is because of the oil in Norwegian seas. Each year we earn billions on it, that?fs what made us so big even when we?fre so small.

Many young people start to drink at a relatively young age and alcohol is getting more common for each day, week and month. Many parents find their kids walking the streets drunk with a bottle in their hands. Even though almost everyone knows of this, I believe that it?fs still quite a shock for a parent to discover his or her child drinking and partying. Who knows what else they do?

You have been in Norway for eleven months now and Christmas is coming up. The streets are covered in a thin layer of snow and you meet Santa Claus or ?gJulenissen?h everywhere you turn.
This is a really cozy time for most people. The unwritten Norwegian rule of being selfish and rude has suddenly disappeared a bit and people become a bit more extrovert against other people.
Well, you go to the mall, buys presents to the people you have gotten to know, come home and put everything under the Christmas tree. You notice that tree is starting to fill up and looks for presents that are addressed to you. You find one and start daydreaming of what that person has bought for you. You can?ft wait to open up the presents at the 25.
This is where you are wrong. In Norway you open the presents at the 24, at the night. This is really important, seeing that you get the presents one day earlier.

Finally, it?fs time. You?fre going home! Mr. and Mrs. Nilsen drive you to the airport and say goodbye, with tears streaming down their eyes. You hug them and say that you?fll visit them as soon as you can. Just as they are about to answer your flight-gate opens and you?fre on the plane.
Expect Christmas and Birthday cards for the rest of your life.

Michael Wilhelmsen

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I would like to join the writer's guild but you shouldn't expect a lot of stories coming from my side, you see I write in German but I could translate a story or two in English. Nevertheless, do you mind if I would join the guild?

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I was sick to death of songs claiming "This is not a love song" when they clearly are, so I thought it was about time to write one that wasn't and here it is..

This is not a love song

This is not a love song.
It's not about the pain.
Though you left me on one cold night
And I know you feel the same.
This is not about my hurting
In fact I'm feeling fine
It's not about our break up at all
It's really about my canine.

Oh dogs!
Oh dogs!
With those wriggly tails
Oh dogs!
Oh dogs!
A love that never fails.

I don't have to buy you presents
I don't go shopping for clothes.
I don't have to search for birthday gifts
All you want is Schmackos

And when I pat my puppy
I know there isn't no other.
This puppy won't leave in the middle of the night
AND SHACK UP WITH MY BROTHER!

No this is not a love song
As you can plainly see
But just in case she is reading this..
At least the dog can satisfy me!

At least the dog can satisfy me...
Going out with jokes about bestiality...

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At 12/26/06 10:46 PM, Ebolarama wrote: ATTN: MystWilliams
It's WithoutCease.

Hi.

Hi.

.
.
.

Oh and heres a story:

Eddy

You never check your pulse enough. Not when you’re rushing for the bus station. Not when you bloat on the couch. Not when she quietly fondles with your ear.

This isn’t about you.

You should not look to fantasize in my words. My decorated memories have served none happiness. It is best that you dream elsewhere. Go act your desires. You’re not getting any wiser.

Check your pulse.

All of this from a man who wears a porcelain mask, limiting observation. Looking through an empty bottle of wine you see disorder on the outside of the base – buckled shapes, and confronting hues of the glass. As your vision centres, as it swallows any distraction, the tip of the groove in the bottom of the bottle clearly duplicates half an inch of your surroundings.

You never see a race horse with blinders sidetracked.

A hand cloth does not confuse its purpose.

Blindness stopped no great being.

‘Can I see your invitation, sir?” the fat-cheeked man asked from behind April adorned iron bars. I lifted the paper from my jacket pocket. It limply opened in his hands.

Call cats homesick.

A fake smile parallels the eyebrows. ‘Welcome, sir,’ was spoken as his jiggling face turned to the side and the gates slowly pulled away from me.

I nodded, unable to form a clear thought, aside from the shuddering leaf stemmed from a lonely branch much too extended from home. With one large sum of rain the leaf tore apart, and twisted towards the trimmed grass.

Nearing, I stepped off the walkway towards the last sighting of that broken leaf. I placed my hands against my knees and gazed into the spongy ground. I noticed my shoes gathering water in the worn grooves, and began off the front yard.

Call a missing leaf nascent.

I was in no mood for a party: constant malaise frequently matured into unsaturated nausea. I bear calamity with equanimity. There is travesty in my trigonometry. I counted seven steps.

I knocked seven times.

Entering the montage of synthetic emotions birthed from radiant and superfluous colours, few eyes took notice to my arrival, and the little glances I grabbed seemed distant and childlike: playful, but estrange. After my coat was taken from me, I hesitated to forward into the crowd. A dull confusion absorbed my mind as my limbs numbed to my frozen joints. I dragged across the foyer.

Call children occupational hazards.

The slender-legged women approached me like a stripper on floor duty, sliding into my lap. I hadn’t noticed her hand until it was too late, and was fixated on my crotch. I slowly moved my eyes to hers and counted her blinks. She tilted her head: her neck crooked like a misplaced portrait. Her stiff porcelain lips touched mine. Her hand pulled out of my pocket. I believe she caressed my waist – or imagined.

Eleven green blinks.

It was then I fell to the sound of the Moonlight Sonata – fell to the notes of passion like a starving wanderer before a feast, like weakness in my voice, like gasping. I’d say I followed the sounds to the ballroom, but the sounds led me.

And there lied heaven.

A woman: a bath lover; a pillow hater; a choir singer; an actress; a lover of rain; a fondler of hair; a personality; a people person; a beauty; an image; an idea; a love; a loss. She was inquisitive, comedic, steadfast, gifted, supple, and once heavily medicated. She had departed.

And there lied hell.

I turned towards the ground before having seen her face. Transparency struck me, but struck me only once, and suddenly I had worsened. I was a man in the highway waiting to be hit. I was a measuring tube for emotional agony. I was desert. I was Antarctica.

Even when I continued to stare at the ground with her back to me, all I saw was her face. I lightly stroked my cold mask, and I froze as if I were waiting for a tear to drip from the tip of my nose. I looked towards her as she gazed out the large windows, and I began faintly towards her.

Call visions defeat.

I think startled by my footsteps she turned around. She was without a mask, and I could see each detail that was embossed in my every second vision. Years stood before me; months consumed my thoughts; weeks, days, and moments were all seen in a blink.

One blue blink.

Music never has an empty day. I was full.

I held out my hand and she placed her soft fingers against mine. Stepping across the marble floor, we leisurely embraced one another and danced to Beethoven’s masterpiece from adagio sostenuto to presto agitato. We hung on to the music and swayed as the pianist’s fingers rest, and she looked into my eyes: recognition or curiosity?

Touching my mask I tightened, and tenderly took her hand as she moved to pull the porcelain over my face. Liberating from my arms she turned towards the staircase and briskly rapped from my reach.

She knocked seven times.

I followed and spoke the words, “you seem familiar.” Though my mouth was muffled by the mask more than I had anticipated and she walked on, losing sight of me in the hallways of the upper floor.

And then the room fell motionless in an alluding stage play for my eyes only, and I knew then the farce I had endured.

Call women insomnia.

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Hi. I'm in If you'll have me. I mostly do political satire (some would work pretty well with flash), but I've done some poetry and other general prose writing (I'm curently working on a short called The Gravety of Nothing).

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Political melodrama,
There goes Carla,
Counting stars and makeing wishes,
Liveing life with all its blisses.

This empty life is getting rough,
It's time to stop I've had enough.

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Will someone please tell me what you think of this (be honest), I want to use it for an English assignment.