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So, I'm in the middle of writing a story about a man who goes around stealing grave stones and replacing them with stones he's made that are practical works of art.

A sub plot to the story is a kid who gets caught stealing paints at school and the final scene of the story is the tables being flipped over to reveal masterful paintings at the end of the story.

The main character of the story is a History teacher at the school who is observing all of this.

At 12/7/08 11:21 PM, MystWilliams wrote: Curious...

anyone still around these days? My writing has been scarice these last few months.... i need a jolt. I'd like to read through and comment if anyone has anything new. If you would prefer light comments than critique, let me know in advance.

Myst

Well, if you want to check out my stories you are more than welcome. I like critical analysis of my writing ... I'm not too into 'this is good' or 'awesome story' type of comments. They don't give me any real information. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.

So, I've been doing some flash fiction of my own not related to the contest I'm running in the general section. Here's some of my work.

Teapot

Tim is coming soon, and I haven't touched it yet. I know I should not. It is tipped over in mid throw, suspended in the middle of our living room, a lash of water droplets streaming out of the spout in a pitched arc. The droplets are throwing the light from our bay windows against the wall. It's there, three feet and seven inches over the glass table that I am walking around while taking care not to step on my wife. Three feet and seven inches. I've passed my hands over it, around, flicked the lights. Still it hovers. Wires, updrafts, smoke and mirrors: there are none. It is simply there, a teapot, three feet and seven inches above the table I set for two; flowers wilting in a vase.

It was an angry ball of teapot when it was thrown, at me, by her. And then it just stopped. There in the middle of the room, tipped over; she just collapsed onto the beige carpet in her red silk dress, the one she wore the night I asked her to marry me when the wind had whipped it tight against her body, and we'd danced beneath the stars. We had been on a cruise ship and our room, tiny, had been like a cocoon that we entered and hardly left until we finally woke up from the dream. I need to go out. I haven't gone out for three days. I've not even been to work since Thursday; the night when the teapot was flung into stillness. The phone rang endlessly Friday. I let it. How do you explain you can't come to work because you have a teapot suspended in the middle of your dining room, and that your wife's on the floor unconscious? Well, that's what I suppose is it is, though, she's not breathing. Through the glass table, I can see her face and a half reflection of the teapot. The table reminds me of a glass coffin, from where I'm standing.

I approach her, a quarter of the round table's circumference. As I lean over I realize I'm looking at her, really looking at her for the first time in more than three days, three weeks, three years. Her bangs have fallen off to the side of her face, soft. Her forehead still has the same three freckles as the day I met her. Her cheeks are still red, her lips still look soft, kissable. Her eyes are closed. Her nose is small, unobtrusive, beautiful. I lean in, my lips inches away, centimeters, millimeters. They are still warm, soft, her mouth still wet, but there's nothing, as if she is asleep. But even then, there's no breath, she doesn't move, the teapot still hangs. And now I know she won't, that this isn't that fairy tale.

I find it odd. There are no flies or maggots, no blood, her lips are not blue and her skin has not faded to white. The anger that was there, in her face, when I told her what I'd done, what I didn't want anymore without knowing what I wanted, that anger, it wasn't there. Just her.
I hear knocking.

There is no smell of death in my nose. No, there is her perfume, her just out of the shower smell, and stale mint tea. It had been forever since I'd mulled those smells over. Hotel rooms, cheap chocolates, fading passions, dim lamps, and lights couldn't brighten the room. The light of a summer's morning, streaks in against the pot.

The knock, again.

What had I wanted? Certainly not this. I wanted her to be happy. No, that's a lie. I wanted to be happy, I'd forgotten what made me happy, even more hadn't allowed myself to be happy. And so, finally, I thought ending it would fix everything. Dinner for two, tea beforehand, a conversation, we'd go our separate ways. We weren't who we were, no she is what she was, always. I've just blinded myself. I can still feel her lips.

Knock, Knock, Knock.

Standing up, I walk over to the door, several paces, open it. Tim is there, in his bowling shoes, shiny, in his red bowling shirt, pressed, that he wears every Sunday. He peeks in before I can block his view. "Oh, I see," he nods, eyes alive. He pushes his way in; walks over to the table casually. I'm ready to scream at him as he reaches out to take the pot, to do what I know is wrong, to break her, to call the maggots and the flies, to open the windows and let her smell out for once and always. To do what I've asked him to do. He takes it away easily like it's meant to be taken away by him and with one movement of the arm catches the drops of water in the spout. The sun is still streaming in through the window. Then, "She threw this at you?" I nod. "Life goes on. We'll clean this up, have a funeral and then you can do whatever it is you were supposed to do to begin with." I stare at him. "Come, the pins won't wait." He quiets the voice inside of me that's scraping against my throat, clawing to get out at him, to hurt him, to tell him these things don't happen. But that look. I can see they do.

I'm outside with my bowling shoes on, bowling bag in hand opening Tim's passenger door. My house stands framed against the bright blue sky, I can see into the window, where the teapot was; where a vacant space remains surrounded by empty possibilities.

THE END

Winter Break

A clapping snare drum. Piano and guitar roaring. Freddy belts, Lock your door while the rain is pouring, through your window pane! But here snow is falling, has long since covered the road. Twin lights in the rear mirror, fast, way to fast. Going to hit me. Gas, I'm leaning into the peddle, the wheels slip. My car is spinning, slipping down the embankment into the gully between the highway as the radio screams, "Baby now your struggle's all in vain." And in that instance, as my car skids on ice, I see the tree racing towards my passenger door. The on the road car passes me, a ten year old green ford, doesn't even notice. Then-

The car hits the tree, and I'm flung towards the right, until the air bag rockets out, and punches me in the face. All I can hear is the thump, th-thump thump on snow falling onto the roof of my car.

Then I'm trying to blink the world strait. I'm trying to move my hands to my head; air bag's in the way; push it away; my head is splitting. Something's floating in the air, something that's like ash or smoke. Smoke? Yes. I'm trying to get to my seat belt, leaning and the world lurches and spins. God, my head. I'm heaving, retching over the gear shift. I get the seat belt undone. Pushing against the door; stuck. The smoke is in my throat, coughing makes my head hurt more, forces pain behind my eyes. Push against the door, harder, frantic, my head aching. Blast of cold as the door is opening, the snow yielding. Push; out in the deep snow.

Snow is caked to my rising body; I'm freezing; my coat in the back seat; and the car... not on fire. Stuff in air is from the air bag, which is ripped open, and snow. I'm freezing and my head. Leaning in to get my coat, again the lurching. I'm willing myself not to be sick. There's the coat. I'm pulling it out; so cold. Arm misses sleeve. Shivering too much, try again. Three times more. Finally. Then the other, and hat, and gloves. I look around.

The tree is black against the blacker sky that snow swirls out of, dizzy. Car lights are on: headlights and inside. It is so dark, and the light hurts my eyes. I look away, shivering into darkness. I can hear dog noises. I lift my head towards the other road, the one that goes to my school, not the one I was on that goes home to mom, dad, hot chocolate and Christmas dinner. I get up to find the dog, and a phone, and then I'm almost over again into the snow. Stumbling and falling up an embankment, feet catching in the thickness. I look both ways before crossing the street. There is just endless snow. Then, I trudge towards the dimly lit farm house; no fence, gratitude.

I pull my hat tighter over my head; and lean into the wind almost falling. It is black and white, everything, white or black, fading to gray, disappearing to darkness. Everything is covered. Stumbling through the field towards a tree I mean to pass, which rises out of the ground, its branches laden with snow.

Beneath it I trip and fall face first. Let the storm to bury me, I'll sleep for a moment, then continue. Remembering a day. Seven years old; laying out in the snow, almost deep enough to hide me, face up to the bright blue sky for hours. It's deeper now, deep enough for a person my age to hide away in, to burrow deep and just go to sleep.

Let them find me when everything thaws.

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

Child Apocalypse

Ben is dead at my feet, only four years old. Broken shards fruit bowl around head, in his skull. A knife still clutched in his hand, point down, a knife meant for my back, more me. I'd expected it of Beth, our delusional greedy five year old, but not Ben, not my fishing buddy, not the kid who used to pick up the grass left behind by the mower, putting it in his yellow dump truck to help, smiling at me saying, "I'm helping daddy! I'm helping!" This was betrayal. Yes, I admit I was surprised to see Beth drop the radio into the tub with Susan, my dead wife, but it didn't hurt like this. Beth had been the little girl, had in many ways been Susan's, it had not been the betrayal that this was. Four years old, Ben wouldn't see another sun rise, all because of that ridiculous child army that managed to take over Cleveland. Who takes over Cleveland? It's like invading France. Why bother? But children didn't understand that; they just wanted and took what they could.

What had they wanted this time? It could have been anything, I know, and yet that one thing, those many things wouldn't have been enough for every child, enough to turn my own Ben. Would it? There had been disappointments. I'd been unable to get Beth that pony, that life size Barbie doll, that plastic car with a real motor. I'd missed Ben's play, sure, but I gave them everything. Everything I did went to them. Pay check after pay check, and hardly ever a thank you, hardly ever an I love you. Susan and I hadn't had sex in months. Our children had become a wedge, an excuse not to do things, a reason to listen to horribly trite cartoons every Saturday and not go to concerts or bars or parties; to be in bed by nine, so that we could get up and make money to feed them, send them to school and pay for their happiness.

I kick a shard of bowl across the linoleum and head for the garage. I'll get a couple golf clubs, a weed whacker and then drive off into the country, running over whatever tries to get in my way. The house is dark; electricity's off on the entire block. The children cut the lines last night, so I have to grope my way into the garage to where I know I have a flash light. I hunt out the weed whacker and find a shovel along the way, so I grab both. I open up the side door to the minivan and pop them within reaching distance from the driver's seat, next to my clubs. Then I grab the left over water and snacks from the kid's soccer games and some food from the kitchen.

The engine's on before I even think about opening the garage door. Doors are shut and locked. Hopefully the kids will be short, not gum up my tires. Hopefully I'll run into a gang of teenagers who are just old enough to be on my side, and we can fall into a convoy and set up in the woods and hunt; children if we have to. Hopefully I make it out of the suburbs alive. It strikes me I should feel bad about killing my children, but somehow I don't. They had it coming. Me or them, it always was, and they upset the balance, not me, not Susan. We'd fed them, kept them dry, and this is how they tried to return the favor, a radio in a bath tub, a knife in the back. Some kids. I put on my helmet, the one I used to wear when riding my motorcycle that I had to sell so that we'd have space for their bikes. My finger's on the garage door opener, pushing it in. The rumbling isn't there. The power's cut, damn.

I can hear tiny fists on the garage door, the sinking sound of an ax into wood. Thank god I always pull in backwards. The door will break easily, it's been rotting for years and the last owner had meant to replace it. I back up, then floor it. As the garage door breaks from its track, I can feel what I believe are bodies thumping under my wheels. I can't see anything with the garage door on top of the van, so when I feel the van leave the driveway I swerve hard, sending wrecked wood flying. There's a band of children wielding guns, knives, chains, baseball bats and shovels in the road. I push the petal to the floor. I turn on the radio, it's on NPR. NPR is playing jazz.

I'm whoring out the Storybook Project (a collab for Artists and Writers)! We need stories that would work well as illustrated books. If you have anything that would fit, or want to write something specifically for the collab, please check the thread!

Thanks :D

I write occasionally when I have the time, and while I don't claim to be a master I've been told I have at least some semblance of talent in my words. Currently I am working on something I've been writing for a friend's amusement that I could definitely use some objective critiquing on. Aside from that I haven't been doing much and could really use something to spark my muse. Perhaps this "guild" is what I need.

Wow, two writers area, except this one is bigger.

I'm trying to get an animator but so far I don't think I'm going about it the right way.
I'm kinda hoping that posting and hanging around the BBS that I'll be able to make some connections...
:\

On the other hand I do already have some voice actors who've voiced interest if the project gets some more support.

Then again are Audio Skits allowed on the Audio Portal?

At 12/13/08 04:23 AM, Xorias wrote: Then again are Audio Skits allowed on the Audio Portal?

Yeah, you just have to post them as Voice Acting or give them some sort of beat and put them in miscellaneous. If you check out my favorites you'll see Scribbler, a guy who used to visit this club all the time, did exactly that.

I'd go the voice actor route honestly and try to get popular that way, then maybe pick up an animator later. Radio before TV you know?

At 12/14/08 08:40 AM, gumOnShoe wrote:

At 12/13/08 04:23 AM, Xorias wrote: Then again are Audio Skits allowed on the Audio Portal?

Yeah, you just have to post them as Voice Acting or give them some sort of beat and put them in miscellaneous. If you check out my favorites you'll see Scribbler, a guy who used to visit this club all the time, did exactly that.

I'd go the voice actor route honestly and try to get popular that way, then maybe pick up an animator later. Radio before TV you know?

I just may give it a try.
Kinda makes all the "scene background" remarks in the script pointless for it but you have to kill a race or two to commit genocide.

...

Why did I choose that kind of analogy?!

Yayyy!!! I'm glad I found this place. I have lots of writing already done. While my expressive way of relaying how I feel massacres the English language (See "Yayyy!!!" at the beginning of my post), I'm hoping my writing is a little bit better. I still do that sometimes, though.
I havn't told you all what I write yet... I write backstories for songs. Have you ever read the flavor text on a trading card? That's basically what a backstory is, except it goes with a song. I'll give you a link to the song, as well as my story that goes with it. Please tell me whether you like the story or not, and if you want, rate it on a scale of 1-10. 10 being best, 1 being the worst.
I'm so happy I found this! Until NG gets a Writing Portal, I can post here! I can also post here after a Writing Portal gets put in, too. Enough of my rambling. Here is the writing. By the way, the writing is mine. No one else's. All mine. Don't use it without asking me.
The song is "Star Wolf's Army" by BowserThedestructive.
Link to the Song: Star Wolf's Army
A grey wolf stood over an arrangement of pilots, barking orders and constantly howling. It had taken Wolf seven years to form this army, and he would not fail this time.
He spent countless hours hand picking and training each recruit, until each pilot was capable of destroying that wretched Fox in their sleep.

The time had come, and Wolf was ready.
He inspected his ship of terror, the ship of the blood-red wolf, the ship he would ride into chaos, and smiled a deathly smile.
"The time is here. Fox will be MINE!"

Wolf and his army sped into the dark reaches of space. They were flying to Sector X, which, thanks to that moronic fox, had been purified of it's acidic qualities. Finally, they arrived.

Wolf stood on top of his ship, and yelled to his pack.
"Fox lies in that base, that sorry excuse for a hideout! Today! We will crush him, destroy him, and make sure he NEVER flies again. DEATH BE UPON ALL WHO OPPOSE US!! WOLVES, LET US FLY INTO THE DEEP, AND COME OUT WITH THE FOX HELD HIGH! OUR MOMENT HAS COME!! GO! FLY! WE SHALL TAKE HIM BY FORCE, AND HE WILL NOT RETURN HERE EVER, EVER AGAIN!" Wolf screamed at the top of his lungs, and let out a blood thirsty howl. His army. His plan. Foxe's death. This was perfect.

Wolf led the assault. Crimson red ships flew every direction. They poured into Foxe's base, firing plasma, lasers, bombs, and all manner of weaponry inside. Explosions rattled the very air, and the shock of the blasts reverberated throughout the base.

Little did his band of fighters know that, in exactly 5 seconds, Wolf would tear the base apart with one, single bomb. Wolf said to himself, "Sacrifice Is necessary, and began the count down.

5.
"Get ready everyone! Fox will be here soon!"
4.
Wolf's claws reached closer and closer to the fatal trigger.
3.
Foxe's base was torn apart. In the center of it all stood one blue, hopeful ship.
2.
The blue fighter ignited. It's engines screamed, roared, they were begging to fly.
1.
"MHWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FOX, YOUR TIME IS UP! SAY GOODBYE, STAR FOX!"
Wolf rammed his claw onto the trigger; The bomb dropped. His Army was decimated in one single blow. He was all that remained. Or so he thought.

That one jet, that single, recurring nightmare in Wolf's life, was flying high. Unscathed by the bomb, it's pilot whispered into his intercom. Wolf only heard one thing: "Wolf, you'll never catch me."

A ray of plasma slammed into Wolf's hull. The smell of burning iron filled his nose, and the sound of a fierce laughter emitted from his intercom. How could this be? Everything was perfect. He had his Army. He had a plan. He had EVERYTHING. And it was all ruined by one single fox.

Nothing, not even Wolf's Army, could stop one single Fox.
As Wolf plummeted toward the ground, the very little which existed in Sector X, only one thing was in his mind.

He would be back. And he would win.

Hey, these are pretty good. Keep it up & you might just sell something!

At 12/29/08 02:53 PM, GOTHCLAWZ wrote: Hey, these are pretty good. Keep it up & you might just sell something!

Thanks =D They destroy every law we know about the English language, though. Spacing
is fun to break into little pieces, especially. Here's another =D This one smashes spacing, grammar and capitilization. I have a tendency to neglect naming my characters sometimes... I actually have 10 of these backstories, 1 that is about to be finished, and the first chapter of a non-short story. It even has a plot! ;) Every single one of them (except for the one that isn't finished) is on my profile page. Drop on by and leave a comment =D Or comment here =D I don't really mind, as long as you comment. Now.

Song Title: Moments of Inspiration by KTRECORDS.
Song Link: Moments of Inspiration

A brave Warrior stood against a group of 4 Goblins. Surrounded by a rocky crevice, there was no running away. This fight was to the death.

The Warrior was in a terrible situation. He was cornered by this putrid band of thieves, his back to sharp, piercing rocks and the thieves' backs were to an open space. He had to think of something, and he had to think of something quickly.

He had two things; His sharpened sword, "Phoenix", and his will to fight. The goblins were inching ever closer to him, knives and daggers pointed at our brave fighter's throat. The Warrior analyzed his opponents. Goblins, probably unintelligent, and obviously had a love for gold. Broken swords were laid across their backs. Apparently, gold wasn't all they loved. Smashing was a favorite pastime too.

"Give us gold and weapon NOW!!" shrieked the lead goblin. A headdress made of damaged daggers, smashed pendants, and crushed helmets adorned his head. His knife was the longest of all, and was gold. Whether it was painted or not, one could not tell. Our Hero was unresponsive, still thinking of a way to get out of this alive.

"You no talk? Well, we take you down then!!" The goblins charged forward, daggers aimed to kill, they were almost there, only a few seconds until an untimely death befell our Warrior...

"WAIT!!!"" Finally the Fighter spoke. A flash of inspiration had come to him, and right when he needed it most. "Fine, you win, O Powerful and Terrible goblins. I shall give you my sword. Please, I beg of you, take good care of it. It is a prized treasure of mine." The Warrior threw his blade to the ground. It landed close to the lead goblin.

A mischievous grin spread wide across the face of the monsters. "We destroy sword now, fool. You never cross paths with goblins again. Wait, you die now, no worry about that." The group howled with laughter. A raised hand silenced the two henchmen. The lead goblin produced a battle hammer from his back. Not everything there was broken. "Say goodbye to precious treasure, Warrior!!!"

With a loud crash, the goblin's hammer devastated Phoenix. The sword lay on the ground, smashed in half. "Pick it up, Gan!" The lead yelled at one of his cohorts. Gan picked it up, and let out a terrible shriek, screaming "OWWWWWW!! OW OW OW!! THE SWORD BUURRRRNNNNSSS!!!!!" Phoenix was glowing a vengeful shade of red. It emitted a fiery glow, and it seemed to repel the goblins.

"You try to give me cursed sword?? FOOL!" The Leader dashed to the sword and snatched up the two halves. That was a mistake on his part. "HOOOOTTTTTTT!!! SWORD HURT BADDDDDD!!!!" Phoenix clattered to the ground, and fire poured out of each part. The flames reached each other and embraced. Slowly, in a miraculous feat of Magic, Phoenix was repaired. The goblins stood in awe. The two henchmen dashed away, leaving only their leader to face the Warrior.

"How you repair? Me smash, YOU NO REPAIR AFTER SMASH!!"

"I didn't repair Phoenix," said the warrior with a smug expression on his face, "It was reborn. Sadly, you don't have that power. This is for calling me an idiot!!" With a deft stroke the Warrior sliced of the goblin's headdress. "And this is for destroying Phoenix!" A fiery slash cut the goblin across the heart. It was almost over. "Why?" whined the goblin, coughing up blood as he spoke. "We just play joke on you! We not really kill you!"

"Those weapons say differently." was the Warrior's cold reply. Blood pouring from the goblin's heart formed a small puddle. With one final, vengeful, killing blow, Phoenix slashed its way through the center of the Leader's body. Just as Phoenix had been reduced to two halves, so had this cruel goblin. The Warrior walked away, carefully stepping over his defeated adversary. Dealing with goblins is tough, thought the Warrior.
Good thing, then, that inspiration only comes when you need it most.

So i have a couple of stories that are perfect for animeteing. I have been posting around the bbs and can't find anyone. Does anyone have any ideas on how to find or get an animator?

I would like to join. Consider me. I am not so good with stories, but i can give you semi-good stories from when I was 10-13.

:: NG Monthly Writing Competition, January 2009 ::
Newgrounds Fan Fiction Competition: http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1017 547

Entries Due: Feb 1st

Thought I'd give it a try, even though fan fiction is risky and all.

ok, so ive started to hang around the BBS lately because i'm trying to get some of my work out there. I haven't had the time to actually write up my stories yet because college is a real workload, but I've written down a few ideas for sotries.

In fact i'm planning a project sometime in the future - whenever I get a lot of free time - called '14 Shorts in 4' (inspired by Adam Phillips 30 shorts in 30 days) where i write 14 short stories over the duration of four weeks, or one story for every 2 days for a month. I'm well on my way to having each story idea down on paper, but im refusing to allow myself to start writing them until I start the project.

Here are two stories that came from my planning that I submitted to the Storybook Collab, but haven't been picked up yet, and I was wondering if you folks wouldn't mind giving me some critisism on them (or if you like them a lot, work with me on a flash about them :P).

Bear in mind that they are more of a summery than a story because I've been so crammed to write lately (and i don't want to write them up and miss using them in the story in case they dont get picked up for a collab!), but I'm sure you will get a good idea about them.

Story One: The Best Gift - http://arthur-swordswinger.newgrounds.co m/news/post/279125

Story Two: Words like Daggers - http://arthur-swordswinger.newgrounds.co m/news/post/279128

As mentioned above, critisism is welcomed, and feedback in general is requested. I'm willing to create new material for an animation or collab. I'm more of a serious writer with a message then a comedic writer as well.

Thanks guys, I hope to hear back from yas :D

If anyone is looking for something to read......
http://themanthelegend.newgrounds.com/ne ws/post/279609

With all the Video Game parodies on NG, I'm sure that other people besides me wouldn't mind more serious interpretations of Video Games. Fully developed stories, movies with heart, movies where it isn't all just for teh lulz. Personally I like both, but I'd still like to see more of the latter. I've been mulling an idea around in my head for a while, but since I don't have flash or animation skills, I haven't really done anything. The idea is for an alternate ending to the first Metal Gear Solid, without giving too much away it involves a certain plot twist from the second game, just slightly altered.

Anyone who's interested, feel free to contact me. In the meantime, I'll be writing out the story. I'll post when I make significant progress or feel blocked and need advice and such.

Hey guys, I was wondering if I could get a critique of this shit?

Im sick of feeling like the world
Is about to crumble and fall
Oil prices, war, famine, poor
Its messing up my head
Its making me see red
Enraging and engaging the enlightened set
Mind going overdrive, set the preset
Forget
Fuck it, I'm going into oxygen debt

Here is a little Sci-fi/fantasy twist of a story. Its still in the thinking stage. But the rough idea of it would be Science vs. Magic. Psychics vs. Wizards.

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

His parents were going to kill him.

Aaron ran down the city streets. Moving around people and dashing through crosswalks. Angry drivers mashing down on their horns if he didn't get through quick enough. But he didn't care about them.

Nothing was much worse then an angry parent at this age.

"Damn city is too noisy..." Aaron said as he turned a corner into an alley. A little short cut he came upon when he was in middle school. Only now he wasn't being chased by five other, much bigger, kids. He drew to a halt and leaned up against a wall to catch his breath. As he drew in a breath he turned his head around the alley. No one in sight. He pulled his book bag off his shoulders and set it on the ground. He tugged on a string of leather around his neck and pulled out his Symbol.

A carving of a Wolf. Too realistic looking to have been carved by amateur hands.

He grabbed hold of the Wolf and closed his eyes. Letting out his breath in small bursts, his heart beat slows, and his mind clears. The sounds of the city soon vanish. Soon he began to repeat the Spell in his mind. A spell that let him tap into the essence of his Symbolic creature. He always thought they were called Spiritual Guides, but his teacher said he could call them their Symbols.

The words soon drowned out as he heard the piercing sound of a Wolf howling in the distance. The spell had finished. Aaron opened his eyes...

They were the eyes of a predator.

He picked up his pack and ran down the alley. His feet fell faster yet they barely made a sound on the pavement. His heart pumped faster to help keep up with his extra speed. His senses were heightened, and he could hear everything going on withing a mile of his surroundings. One thing he hated about pulling upon the Wolf's essence was the heightened smell.

Everything reeked in the alley way. But at least he would get home on time before his parents could think of killing him.

Aaron turned out of the alley and onto a street. Oblivious to the audience he had in the alley way.

--------

The homeless guy stirred from his fake slumber. It was almost as if he were dead to the world. It was simple enough to slow down his heart rate and his breathing to mimic a state of death. He cracked his neck slightly, how long had he been there waiting for the kid? He looked down at the cardboard box that laid over his body.

He smiled as he watched the box slide away from his body and to the other side of the alley. He still wasn't used to that.

Psychics usually didn't hang around in day light for fear of gaining attention. But it was time to make a move against those filthy magic users. They would soon find who was the superior species.

--------------------------------------
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Alright! Easy to say this isn't much of a story. I don't want to go too far into it. But if you are interested in the story, or want to give any advice for changes, go for it.

Hey, I was wondering if there were any scriptwriters out there that fancy helping me with the script and story for Penguinz 2?

I already have the story outline and quite a lot of details already done, but really wanna nail the script and I dont have a lot of experience with writing at all. It seems stupid spending hours animating something if what they are saying sounds rubbish :)

Its gonna be a pretty massive game, with an intro and short cutscenes interspersed between levels. I want the production to be high on every level, and with a great story and script the game could be huge :) The first game currently has 3.5 million plays across the internet, and im confident this one is gonna do considerably better.

So, if theres anyone willing to have a look at my game plan and script, and make sure everything seems professional and done well just send me a PM or catch me on MSN via my site plugin ! You will of course be credited for your help and who knows, Tom mentioned scriptwriters may be involved in the next power of 3(4?), so I will be looking for someone to work with then!

Oh wow, I didn't know that this place existed, check my post to this month's writing competition (up soon, still revising). When I was learning to draw, MindChamber suggested the book "How to draw Hip Hop" which was a good source of technique and inspiration. Any suggestions for books on short story writing?

You guys might appreciate this thread I made. Feel free to post in it (I encourage you to do so D:)

I'm so happy! I just had a bunch of writing returned to me that I thought I lost 3-4 years ago when my hard drive crashed. Some of its not the best, but a lot of it is still pretty solid. I stayed up all night editing an old screen play that is surprisingly deep and good.

Visit my userpage for my first chapter of threshold.

Hi. You know as a writer I normally don't look for other people's critique especially other writers. However I would like some input on this flash movie.

--Nightmare--, by Airfaerie95 Type: Movie Rating: Ages 13+

Airfaerie95 did the flash work and she made it based off one of my short stories. I would be more than happy to post the short story here, but I would like to know if the flash based story is good. Then I'll post the short story.

Havn't written much in a few years...
no flash stories
no life stories

but I did this one about a year ago...
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Mortal Kombat: Onaga's Reign

(I do not own Mortal Kombat or any of its characters; they are owned by Midway and the guys that work there)
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Long ago, long before Mortal Kombat even began Outworld was ruled not by Shao Kahn...but by a creature known as Onaga. Onaga was a powerful dragon like creature. He was so powerful one could consider him a god. In fact none of the elder gods wanted to anger him in anyway because of his immense power. His power could rival those of the gods. He had been known to kill elder gods whom one thought could not be killed so easily. He killed them without much trouble at all. He had an advisor who helped him with his plans and whatnot. This advisor was none other than Shao Kahn. Onaga could have conquered any realm he saw fit but often chose to "wait until the right time". He could have had Edenia for himself but he chose not to waste time with that pathetic realm being as the people there would pose little challenge. They were no threat.
Onaga was feared and respected throughout the realms. Even his own personal servents feared him because he was known to fly into a murderous rage at the littlest things and send the hapless servant halfway across the room...well ....at least half of them anyway. The other half went flying across the other side of the room. Shao Kahn did not approve of his master's approach to dealing with disobedient, foolish subjects. It wasn't because he felt sorry for the subjects....What Shao Kahn wanted was Onaga's power. Oh, to know such glorious power!! It was then he decided to kill Onaga and take this realm for himself. Then he could build an army BIGGER than Onaga's. With Onaga dead he would take his power and be able to conquer whatever realm he chose. The Gods and mortals would soon fear and know his name.
"Kaaahhhhhhhnnn!" Onaga bellowed. His loud voice booming through the fortress. Even the guards themselves cringed and felt a tinge of pity for the advisor. But still....better he than them. Kahn cringed...not because he was frightened but because he had a deep seated hatred for the Dragon King. Kahn groaned and went to see what the stupid reptile was yelling about now.
"Yes mighty Onaga?" Kahn said respectfully keeping a healthy distance from Onaga's massive claws. One blow would more than likely kill him he knew. But he also knew Onaga would not want to risk killing such a valuable ally. "I wish to conquer...but damn those elder gods they are resisting my attempts!" Onaga bellowed. "Why not simply eradicate them as you have done--" was all Kahn got out before a heavy claw swiped at him knocking him from his feet. "Do you take me for a fool Kahn? Don't you think I have tried?" They have made a barricade that even I cannot get passed....something about rules and a tournement they are thinking of." Onaga bellowed. 'This has never stoppd you before from such attempts you stupid stupid reptile!' Kahn thought. He quickly dismissed those thoughts though. He didn't know if Onaga read minds or not but if he did...
"Prepare me a feast for I am hungry!" Onaga roared. Kahn held back his contempt and set to preparing the feast. He dismissed Onaga's personal chefs for he wanted to prepare this meal personally. He had acquired the deadly poison that would kill Onaga instantly. With him dead then Kahn could take over the realm of Outworld and have Onaga's power at his disposal. Kahn set to work making sure everything was perfect. Right down to the wine. Kahn put a sprinkle of the poison in his food and into the drink as well...he had put enough in there to kill 10,000 Onagas...he only hoped Onaga wouldn't invite him to eat with him. It was a chance he had to take. Once the preperations were made he had some servents bring out the food. Onaga being as ravenous as he was and the respect he had from ally and foe alike knew no one would dare poison his food. Or so he thought. As soon as Onaga had finished his first course a searing pain shot through his entire body. He called for his advisor thinking Shao Kahn would come to his aid. Shao Kahn came over leisurely. He had a smile. Why was he smiling? "Now Outworld will be MINE!! Do not worry O "great" Onaga...the realms will be in the hands of a more competent ruler....MINE!" Shao Kahn then sat to watch the final shuddering movements of the once great Dragon King. Onaga's last thoughts were full of hatred and vegence. He would be back....somehow he would be back...he'd have his revenge against his conniving advisor. Although he had to admire his courage. No one had dared to try and kill Onaga...yet Kahn made the attempt and had succeeded. Still Khan would pay dearly.
With the Dragon King dead he yelled for the servants to dispose of the body. But first he made sure Onaga had no means of coming back....not while Shao Kahn was in charge. He had the body sealed in a crypt with no means of entry or exit. Kahn settled down into the large throne finding it rather comfortable. Just as he got settled one of the guards came to him and said he had a visitor asking to see him. "Let him come in." Kahn said somewhat arrogantly. Surely it wasn't a challenger. All the realm knew Kahn had put an end to Onaga. It would be foolish to challenge his position.
"The mighty Kahn defeats Onaga." The young man no older than 16 smiled wickedly. Shao Kahn's eyes narrowed at this brash young man. "I hope your parents won't mind paying for your funeral boy...because that is where you are headed if you don't tell me what this is about." Kahn growled. The boy merely smiled. "It was not an insult O' emperor...nor was it a challenge. For all the realms know you eliminated the mighty Onaga. They fear you now." He responded sincerely. Kahn relaxed and continued to listen to this boy. He may be useful Kahn would wait and see.
"Allow me to offer my allegence to such a powerful ruler. Long have I desired to serve you Shao Kahn and I ask only that you may grant my wish." The boy bowed low. Kahn was amused. "Granted." Kahn agreed. "But be forwarned boy....I do not tolorate failure!!" He added with a snarl. They boy nodded. "A reasonable request. Know that I will not fail you." He added. Kahn glared at the boy both amused and angered by his comment. "Your life will be forfeit if you fail me." He reminded the brash young man. "What is your name boy?" Kahn asked.
"My name? Oh forgive me my emperor.....my name is Tsang Tsung....and I am highly skilled in the black arts." Shao Kahn smiled. "Welcome then Tsang Tsung. You are now my chief advisor.
Tsang Tsung smiled to himself...everything was going exactly as he planned....

The end.

I usually write humor and I have great Ideas, just no one picks me up.