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Hey everyone, I just thought I'd post some of my work. Here is the first part of my Godzilla fanfiction:

Godzilla: Dark Prophecy

October 5, 2013, Yamanashi, Japan, 8:57 P.M.

Dr. Karagato and his colleagues had just made a very important discovery. They were geologists, but they had made a discovery that contributed greatly to archaeology. They had discovered an ancient city within a semi-dormant volcano! This volcano's top opening when it had once erupted and magma cooled, blocking the exit. This city used a large wall of rock to protect it from magma. This city, using carbon dating, was over 8000 years old!! This was well before modern archaeology had believed people had first formed cities Dr. Karagato thought, we have even discovered writing on large sections of the wall that protected the city from the magma.

"Sir!" one of his workers called, running up to him.

"What?" Karagato asked.

"We've discovered pictures on the wall!" the worker said.

"Really? Show them to me!" Karagato ordered.

The worker led Karagato to a section of the wall he hadn't seen before. On the wall was writing in a language he didn't understand. Then he saw them. The large pictures, a diorama, and one of the pictures looked like...Godzilla. Karagato gasped. The scene depicted something that looked a lot liked Godzilla fighting a gigantic creature, something twice as large as Godzilla, something with large tentacles protruding from its back. And underneath it was a large system of the strange writing. It read: %uF057%uF068%uF065%uF06E%uF020%uF074%uF0 68%uF065%uF020%uF067%uF072%uF065%uF061%u F074%uF020%uF064%uF072%uF061%uF067%uF06F %uF06E%uF020%uF072%uF069%uF073%uF065%uF0 73%uF020%uF066%uF072%uF06F%uF06D%uF020%u F074%uF068%uF065%uF020%uF073%uF065%uF065 %uF02C%uF020%uF074%uF068%uF065%uF020%uF0 67%uF061%uF074%uF068%uF065%uF072%uF069%u F06E%uF067%uF020%uF077%uF069%uF06C%uF06C %uF020%uF063%uF06F%uF06D%uF065%uF02E%uF0 20%uF020%uF041%uF06E%uF064%uF020%uF074%u F068%uF065%uF06E%uF02C%uF020%uF074%uF068 %uF065%uF020%uF064%uF061%uF072%uF06B%uF0 20%uF06F%uF06E%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF069%u F06C%uF06C%uF020%uF020%uF061%uF073%uF063 %uF065%uF06E%uF064%uF020%uF061%uF06E%uF0 64%uF020%uF06F%uF06E%uF06C%uF079%uF020%u F061%uF020%uF066%uF069%uF06E%uF061%uF06C %uF020%uF061%uF06C%uF06C%uF069%uF061%uF0 6E%uF063%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF069%uF06C%u F06C%uF020%uF068%uF061%uF076%uF065%uF020 %uF061%uF020%uF063%uF068%uF061%uF06E%uF0 63%uF065%uF020%uF061%uF074%uF020%uF073%u F061%uF076%uF069%uF06E%uF067%uF020%uF074 %uF068%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF06F%uF072%uF0 6C%uF064%uF02E%uF020%uF020 "Does anybody have any ideas what this means?" Karagato asked. There was a general sound of mumbled no's. "Then, it is time to bring in the experts."

October 6, 2013, Yamanashi, Japan, 4:22 P.M.

Ozaki looked around the newly breached top of Mt. Fuji. He was a Sergeant in the Japanese military assigned to help protect the researchers from the crowd. So far the day had been pretty uneventful. There were a few protesters, claiming that we were "violating a sacred city of the gods." Ozaki didn't believe any of that. Heck, he didn't even want to be here. He was here just to get a paycheck. He checked his Type 89 assault rifle, the standard issue in the JSDF. Then he looked at the new crater to check if the researchers were back yet. Nope. Then, he heard a rope snap and a scream. He ran to the crater's rim and looked down. The rope that the archeologists used to climb back up had snapped. No one seemed to be hurt, except one person was unconscious. "Don't worry! We'll get you out of there!" Ozaki yelled down to the scientists. He then turned to his fellow soldiers and told them to go get another rope. "And stronger this time," he added.

October 6, 2013, Tokyo, Yamaniashi, Japan, 8:29 p.m.

Ozaki was sitting by a door in the JSDF Special Forces Headquarters. He then shook his head, remembering how he got there. He had just gotten home from guard duty. No one was hurt from the rope-snapping incident, and the rest of the day was uneventful at best and downright boring at worst. He had just gotten home and lay on the couch. He was about to go to sleep when he noticed that there was an envelope on his coffee table. He got up and tore open the envelope. It read: "Sergeant Ozaki Kuchki, You have been called to the JSDF Special Forces Headquarters. Be there at 8:30 sharp." Then Ozaki looked at the clock and swore. It was already 8:15, and it took him about 10 minutes to get there. Fortunately, he made it there in time, with about a minute to spare.

Then a voice said, "Come in." Ozaki stood up

Cheers for the feedback, SprintT. Not sure what you mean though. For those of us completely new to writing, how do you mean "dry".

How can I make my writings more moist?

At 12/17/07 05:26 AM, Boltrig wrote: Cheers for the feedback, SprintT. Not sure what you mean though. For those of us completely new to writing, how do you mean "dry".

How can I make my writings more moist?

Try to paint a picture at a nice speed that fits the story, try not to jsut throw facts at the reader.

Not-a-Panda, good story. Made me laugh.Sistine, thanks for taking a swift leadership over the club whilst we investigate gunground's abscence. Everyone else, clicky,clicky.
Also, still working on my story that I posted earlier(which nobody commented on GRRR!) and I will repost it(later)with the add-ons.

And merry Christmas. (lol)

At 12/17/07 04:56 PM, blamninja1 wrote:

:Sistine, thanks for taking a swift leadership over the club

sweet

i love gettin props for shit i dont remember doing

Thanks :3

okay, since gunground is too not getting on for me to ask his permission, im gonna go ahead and post my story.

Breathing Death

The sky is bright and smiling. Clouds drift lazily through a gentle breeze and trees rustle their leaves in the shine of the noon sun. Birds flit about joyfully and chirrup little cries of glee to each other as they ride the warm drafts. The sidewalks outside are lightly trafficked, as are the darkly striped roads that vanish in the distance. The time for commute has temporarily passed, and the relative peace will remain for several hours more. I see all this from my windowed perch, up from the city streets by several stories, not enough to be dizzying but just enough to give a respectable view. I smile at the beautiful day and decide to relish the weather with a light stroll.

I step down from the large sill below my window onto shining hardwood. A carpet blankets the center of the floor with vibrant colorations and seemingly-random spiraling patterns. I waltz, still smiling, to an open door on the other side of the room, and the hallway opens to my vision, carpeted and decorated with grandiose paintings. Nothing to go awry...

And then I wake, eyes still shut tight, just trying to keep the screams of frustration inside. I lift my lids, slowly, regretfully, and gaze up again at the same blank ceiling. Flowers and faded emblems criss-cross like dancers on the walls. A gaping hole in the wall that once held a window is now not even a frame, blown open savagely by explosives, pebbles of rubble scattered below. Garbage of all sorts litters the scarred and gouged wood floor.

My cot sits in a corner, old, hard, of no comfort. I huddle upon it, the greasy, thin sheets ineffectually draped across my pallid frame, trying to come to terms with the facts, that what I had seen was a mere dream, a ghost of times long past, and that this painfully familiar barren room is all that I have left now...

Outside, the city is still. If it has risen as I have, then it won't show. The bloodied streets are clogged with abandoned cars and military roadblocks. Lifeless monoliths of buildings stand tall in all directions, peppered by square holes and collapsing wings, massive and foreboding and empty. Evacuated by war. Like mine.

I stand up on two unsteady feet and hobble to the makeshift window. I've not taken a look outside in some time, enough to warrant a quick check. I glance out and frown. Just the same depressing, disappointing nothing that I've grown accustomed to. Nothing but the vile afterburner of a war-torn city.

It was out of nowhere, I recall, that they swept through and attacked. We fought. If one could call the meaningless slaughter of untrained citizens--women and children included--armed with baseball bats and hockey sticks a "fight", then yes, we fought. And then, bloodlust apparently satiated, they just up and left, likely to repeat the malicious cycle on the next town they came to, leaving us-well, me, as far as I know-with nothing at all. No one survived-after all, no one can breathe death...and this dead city reeks of it.

So how did I live, I ask myself? How could I have survived the slaughter, the poison, the corruption, the orgy of greedy destruction? I don't know, not really. Flashes, explosions, screams of the innocent, that's all I know about what happened...

But I've changed, I can tell you that.

Less feeling, less sleep, less appetite, and far, far more thought. All thought, all ideas, come to me in multiple dimensions. A filth-ridden rat scuttles by and I see a potential food source, a threat of disease, an instrument of amusement, a weapon, a tool, even a cloth with which to cleanse myself.
Everything I see, everything I hear, everything I smell...its all sharper, brighter, honed, as though something takes everything natural and cleans it, polishes it before the sensation finds its way to me.

And it's not just me, either--even the city that I once so relished seems changed...

It's lost its familiarity. Once I could navigate the winding alleys and despairing ghettos as a sewer rat would, weaving through the city like a vigilante with an obsession, and now even the open streets confound me with their emptiness. Their emptiness...The death, all around me...it strangles me, a ghastly shroud of blank non-existence constricting my airways as it does my heartstrings. I can barely stand it...

So leave.

Maybe I will...

The streets below me disappear as I turn to the door. Then I turn again before finishing a step, on a realization, and gaze out the window one last time. I don't know where I'm going, but there's green in the distance, something green and foreign, I can see it. As the familiar scent of death floats to my nostrils as it does nearly every day, I realize that I've never been there before ...

My mind made up, I find the ground floor and tentatively open the double doors, try not to recall the last time I had to tread across these foreboding grounds, and look out on the human world from a slightly lower perspective. Innumerable days have passed since I last vacated my single room. As I glance about, nothing seemed even vaguely familiar, despite my window vigil. A stench floats to my nostrils. I cringe. Step back...then see what I'm standing in. Blood...a pool of death, and in it, a wavering illusion of myself, of my past, of everything I've come to fear...

I leap back, shrieking, and shake my bare, callused feet. Thick and sticky, the blood flies from my soles in fat drops, spawning dark patterns across the bleach-burned pavement. Once nothing remains but faintly reddish smears, I notice something else: I'm panting. Heavily.

Scared?

"Sh...shut up..."

I cough lightly, lift my head high, and look around like nothing happened. My throat clears itself, closing to an unexpected smell. I can smell it, something hiding, masking itself in the overwhelming stench of the raw, unclotted bloodshed resting like a fog on the earth all around me. I gaze again towards my distant query and begin anew towards the green, far more wary of the red everywhere around me.

Cars surround me as I travel, cars of all sorts, all colors, and all levels of destruction-some near perfection, some merely battered, and some protruding trunk-up from the stained pavement, windows shattered, doors ripped to pieces, and nose smashed across the street. It's not just cars, either; an enflamed hull of what used to be a tank, heavily marked with faded emblems of political preference and several naked women, is blown open. Black smoke billows out of it, escaping into the serene red sky like a liberated bird hailing from some dark abyss.

However, as I travel farther from my building, I cannot help but notice that all the lanes and alleys and inner workings of the city are less and less crowded by remnants of the pasts' transportation, the congestion decreasing as the distance increases in a trend utterly new to me. Slowly, gradually, the scattered cars and military paraphernalia disappear.

The roads break off, the buildings grow tiny, and everything in the once-towering necropolis of a city seems to hunch down, forsaken to silence, as I leave my home of so many years. I pass the final building...the road ends.

Or rather, it dies, replaced abruptly by reddish, lumpy dirt. An odd stench, that of something dying, emanates from the muck, blocking off near everything else. I glance forward again, and as the wondrous greenery of the newfound countryside swallows the previously gray and menacing horizon, the road snakes off into the distance like a worm on cocaine, following the curves and bumps like a skilled goat. I stare down at the red dirt again...

No, the dirt isn't red...it's stained.

Stained...right, isn't that what I said? Stained red by something...something ominous.

(continuation)

I inhale the foul stink, exhale it, inhale what seems to be purer air this time, and then step cautiously. The dirt compresses, spongy, under my weight. I steal back my foot and shiver once the sensation hits me and look down, tremors still coursing down my spine. A footprint, half an inch or so sunken into this new substance. I shudder. Bubbles rise around the awkward shape, biting at the cracked edges as air is released from some chamber somewhere out of sight.

I return my gaze up and look around. A hill, very high, somewhere off in the distance. Massive. Probably a local landmark. At least, back when there would've been people around to use it. I glance down again.

"The road leads to it..."

I think, then close my eyes for a moment, two, and then breathe in deeply. From everywhere at once, images inundate my mind as smells and sounds from miles around flood my scent glands. Death still lurks on the wind like a foul emissary, as before, but there's something else, something warm and rank and decisively inhuman. If ....whatever it is... is still skulking around here, it must be avoided. I get a distinct vibe that this new survivor is the final thing I wish to rendezvous with...

You're scared again, aren't you?

I mumble at myself to shut up, eyes still closed. When nothing more than a foreign smell (which I take to be that of the rotting animal dirt) comes, I realize the conversation is over. I shake myself, expel such thoughts as had raised the subject, and step into the red filth again, resolute, tenacious, confident, ignoring the lifeless sponge that was compressing around my bare foot like some demented mud creature.

But as I trek on, I soon see that the countryside...it is the same deathless emptiness, just not so...well, not so barren, in a sense. The dirt roads, the lone trees...they've always been like this, almost. The only difference...well, it's the same as in the city. No intelligent life anywhere. Grassy fields still coat the rolling hills, but there's a distinct lack of stinky animals eating and shitting all over the place. And the grass is caked red in places, dotting the natural flow of the wind in the grass with a sick defamation...

It appears, unfortunately, that a rather familiar fate has befallen my country brethren. All of the crop fields, speckled about the numerous pastures like sprinkles on some twisted cake and once laden with a generous burden of agricultural surplus, have been maliciously burned to the ground, the fertile mud mixed with dark ashes in a sickening stew of the aftermath. The few houses have been razed to the ground as well, the outdated wooden frames as susceptible to the flames of war as the life-giving plants that surrounded them.

I turn and find myself standing, forlorn and forgone, before a great pile of thoroughly destructed rubble, the blackened remains of a once noble life all gathered here and defamed like trash for all the world to see. Or all that's left of the world, anyways. In small numbers, scarce figures of familiarity are present, the scorched head of a child's doll here, an eiderdown coated in thick ash there.

I shake my head, slow, despondent, and move on.

Society, it seems, in trying to hold itself together with precious few strings it can find, never really succeeds in anything more than furthering its own depressingly inevitable destruction. Politics, corruption, treaties...they are nothing but the same fatal loins that their Destroyer hails from. He will always come, and not a single person will ever succeed in even slowing His tedious march of an advancement, let alone halting its progress altogether. Such thoughts plague my mind, throwing bombshells back and forth across a mental battlefield as I trudge down my path again, eyes down and body numb.

I find myself suddenly perched on the hull I had scouted out, and halt.

"What was the point?" I think aloud, "Did it ever really matter?"

Depends; who are you asking?

I jump. "Who...who are you?"

Whoever you want me to be.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

No response. Whoever...whatever it is, it's gone now. I look around, nervous. Had they really always been talking to me? It all seems so vague...I think this as a torrent of wind whistles through the wheat germ and grasses at my feet, that same rank smell rising to wrinkle my nostrils as it continuously had earlier. The connection is made and my panic doubles. I whip my head around again. Who is this thing?

Reluctantly, and with a feeling of forgone sadness, I ignore the painful knot in my stomach and tread on, ever searching in the horizon for the answers to questions I didn't even ask.

Then, out of near-nowhere, the country has vanished like a wraith into the distance behind me and the foul dirt road opens into a large highway, looping in and around itself and peppered with houses on all sides of it, settled through years of gradually migrating further and further outwards, taking up more and more space on the roads till there was no more. I grasp with startling realization that I have been here to before, lived here even, at least in a sense.

I have found the suburbs.

Once, as a small child, I had journeyed out with my parents...we were on some trivial quest to promote my father for something; he was seeking some position in something, and we went about telling people about him and shaking important peoples' hands and giving out various trinkets that bore his resemblance. We often traveled to peaceful little neighborhoods -- not unlike what stood before me -- for just those reasons.

But as I halfheartedly see, this place is as nothing, nothing more than a miniature city. The houses are barren and wrecked, and the streets are littered with the remnants of a small-town society. The filthy bunches of leaves around the sewers are stained with the bloodshed of innocents, just as in the city I left. Windows are smashed in by surviving looters and forlorn, makeshift graves are abound in the dirt yards.

Looking back, I remember the apparently necessary travels as trifling, an annoyance, even; we were out for several days at a time, just walking around and making speeches and sitting around in stuffy conferences, and in the night, we would stay in crummy hotels, usually with no television and only one bed. Then we'd get up and do the same silly thing all over again. This went on for some time, I recall; months, in fact, unending and repetitive.

And then...then they attacked. Everything fell to pieces. My home, my family, my people...

Now, high on the rooftops of the city I have come to so resent, my perch laying bare to my eyes each of the three worlds around me, tears well in my eyes as I regret, regret, and regret. I barely even knew this world before it was held to a fire and roasted, before everything I knew was stolen from me, and as the banshees and wraiths of the past unbridled screamed at their restraints and at their all-too-early demise, the tormentors did nothing but laugh in their faces and spit at their feet.
Really, everything in this destroyed nation is the same. The raging hurricane of invasive "liberation" has left my entire world acrid, empty, dead.

War really does something to a country...when the victors see those that they trampled, they only see one less thing to worry about, one less factor in the equation of modern day stress. But not our side. No, the only people who see our side of this...this genocide are the few who pretend to care and then actually see the state of affairs here and run off screaming, clutching their fat wallets close.

Tears flow freely from my eyes, falling down miles to dissolve in the polluted city air. Wind swirls up around me, ruffling my clothing, and as it does, a scent, rancid, one that has grown familiar, seizes control of my attention. I know what it is. I whip my head around to face my adversary--

(continuation--again)

--a second too late. His laughter echoes through my head, and I come to realize that now it is me rushing through the wind, flying downwards at speeds too high for me to guess. The air shrieking in my ears tells me that it is far too late, that I don't stand a chance falling from this height. I laugh whole-heartedly, glad that someone decided to make the decision for me. The wind steals my laughter, but it still rings in my ears, something I haven't heard in far too long. I turn to face downwards, hurtling towards my final destination, staring it in the face...

And, for once, I am totally and utterly fine with breathing death.

FIN

Wow awesome story so far.

Well, if anyone's interested, I started work on that story about the dude who can generate metal and kick arse and drink tea and shit. (Unfortunately, he's out of tea)

Now, I know what you're thinking, 'Ryan you procrastinating handsome young man, you said you would 'finish your current shit first'.

I know that's what I said, but unfortunately, I lost all my current shit when the preverbial toilet was clogged but then fixed again, but unfortunately, I had to flush all my shit.

See where I'm getting at?

"so far"?

im done with that story, for the most part XD

in any case, thanks.

Well I didn't know if you were tweaking it So sorry. I liked it though.

Why don't you remember? I remember it very... wait what were we talking about? :D

Inspiring... man.. just inspiring.
Also, i noted that you use "forlorn" alot.
A few other interesting grammatical things, but otherwise, inspiring.

last

Albatross. Alone. Above. Above all this destruction. I survived, just like that Albatross. Following me, it seems. Keeps following me. Can't find any food, all of it is gone, even the animals and plants. My ipod ran out of batteries yesterday. Yet i don't seem as bored anymore. A few days here, alone, has made me a little crazy. Oh well, doesn't really matter any way, because I found another cancerous lump on my breast today. Also I am having stomach pains. I'm pretty sure I'll die soon. No hope left any way, no one is going to rescue me.

"Hey, is anybody out THERE?" I scream into the oblivion. No answe, as usual.

I read somewhere that Nuclear fallout can last hundreds of years, and increase cancer rates. It can also decrease fertillity. Not that that matters, there's no one else here, is there?

"IS THERE?" I scream again. No answer but echos.

Damn echos. And that damn Albatross. He's following me, I can tell. Just waiting for me to die. Then he can eat me, leave only my bones to mark my grave. At least I'll have my bones. Maybe i won't. Maybe I'll just disapear. Maybe I will simply disintegrate from the earth. If a lone survivor falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

"Well? Does it?" I scream yet again. This time i get an answe.
"Tweetle-dum, Tweetle-dee. Who are you talking to? Certainly not me"
"PEOPLE! I FOUND PEOPLE! You are a person right?" I scream so loud I nearly pass out from the effort.
"People? What is this strange phrase? The only words I know for your type is "Opressor", or "White-Snake", nothing more." Replied... what?
"Where'd you learn such horrible things? My name is---" I sudenly trip, falling into a basement. Whoops, didn't relize we were entering a city.
"I hear them from, how do you say it "White-Skins"? Something like coo-lard full-okes," replied... again I wonder what I am talking to.
"Such horrible words haven't been used in some time, by the way, WHO ARE YOU?" I scream again.
"I am the last one of my kind, a demon on wings, harnessing the wind to save the lives of the dead," replied, ohmygod, I just had a conversation with an Albatross.
"You're not real!" I say abruptly ending the conversation.

I keep walking around. Apperently what I thought was a city was just...

"SHUT THE HELL UP! 'Mister Albatross, God of the Wind', Leave me alone!" I screach, to myself I suppose. It still doesn't stop.

... Some little town, out in the middle of no where. Oh well, no food. Just keep walking. How many days since the Skyfire? Ten? Twenty? Or many more? I shall not know, for I lost my calender the first day after the TV went out which was ... Toowoo (I think thats the word for one more than one) Days after the Skyfire. I try to practice math and science and writing and history and all those other stupid subjects, but they're incredably boring, even without some old whiney bitch teaching them to me. Oh well, another day, another mile.

"The God of the Wind knows what day it is!" screamed My Albatross.
"Oh really? What day is that?" I reply, halfheartedly.
"Today is Everyday. It's today tommarrow, and it's yesterday today. But tommarow it will be yesterday which is really today!" he replies gleefully.
"That doesn't make any sense!" I rebuke.
"Yes it does! No wait, it doesn't!" He pause, "On second, no wait, third thought, it DOES make sense."
"Just leave me alone." I mumble, half to myself as I fall down, exhausted, and sleep.

I wake up, the sun has come, the sun is gone. I remain the same.

"THE GOD OF THE WIND HAS COME FOR YOUR SOUL!" carols My Albatross
He had been saying that for several suns now. I lost all my math skills, can't even do... uh... something.. uh.. plus? I don't really know. Oh well, doesn't matter. I have easily traveled farther than every Albatross that ever lived.

"THE GOD OF THE WINDS HAS COME FOR YOUR SOUL!" My Albatross reports, but this time he flies at me, missing my head by mear inches.

"THE GOD OF THE WIND HAS COME FOR YOUR SOUL!" Wind-God Albatross threatens, right before diving at me. I can barely see, considering my sevear malnutrition. But i knew this was the last time. I think i felt something on my head...

End? Of course.

At 12/18/07 07:32 PM, cooldude76 wrote: Inspiring... man.. just inspiring.
Also, i noted that you use "forlorn" alot.
A few other interesting grammatical things, but otherwise, inspiring.

i did, didnt I?

well that's what I get for writing and revising it in segments, rather than as a whole.

though i probably will tweak it as it appears on other websites, i meant no real new content or anything.

thanks.

Can someone explain to me why people feel so very eager to get their post +1 here by posting their work here instead of in the user page where users can choose to read or not, rather than here when it's just wasting space.

At 12/18/07 11:24 PM, Phantom wrote: Can someone explain to me why people feel so very eager to get their post +1 here by posting their work here instead of in the user page where users can choose to read or not, rather than here when it's just wasting space.

Because they want to make sure people read it, however arrogant that may seem?

At 12/18/07 11:24 PM, Phantom wrote: Can someone explain to me why people feel so very eager to get their post +1 here by posting their work here instead of in the user page where users can choose to read or not, rather than here when it's just wasting space.

Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

At 12/19/07 07:41 AM, SprintT wrote: Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

I just think it's pointless flooding the thread with poems and stories I won't read anyway. I'm too busy for that now.

At 12/19/07 08:34 AM, Phantom wrote:

At 12/19/07 07:41 AM, SprintT wrote: Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

I just think it's pointless flooding the thread with poems and stories I won't read anyway. I'm too busy for that now.

Ok? We arent posting here for YOU, sorry to awake you from your egotistic fog. We post here for others to see it, if you are to bussy don't come here.

At 12/19/07 11:59 AM, SprintT wrote: Ok? We arent posting here for YOU, sorry to awake you from your egotistic fog. We post here for others to see it, if you are to bussy don't come here.

Look noobie, I don't know if anyone explained the term hierarchy to you, but if you knew it, it means don't fuck with your superiors, just because you can write a frizzy, long ass poem doesn't make anymore of a writer than my dog, writing takes talent, imagination, inspiration and dedication, if that was too much for your puny brain, I'll repeat, talent, imagination, inspiration and dedication. If you prove to me you have all of those, you can diss me all you want, but until you do, you are a drop of urine in a large kiddy pool, so do not fuck with me and what I have to say, you have not reached that level quite yet.

I did not spend all this time of my life sitting in front of a monitor, reading classic books, ruining my eyes so that some wretched fuck like you can push me around, I'm beyond that, got that? You better, or by fucking god I'll make your name the synonym to asshat in these forums.

I am not here to be fucked with, I am here to try and contribute my talent to those less talented, but if they try and push me around, they've got another thing coming. So noobie, shut the fuck up.

-Phantom.

At 12/19/07 02:03 PM, Phantom wrote:

a bunch of egotisctical shit that has nothing to do with the topic at hand

that really is what you said.

no one gives a shit about the hierarchy right now because--listen close, now--no ones challenging it. Or you. youre acting like he suddenly stuck his dick up your metaphorical ass.

Before you decided to bite his head off, he was explaining that you shouldn't complain about writing in the Writers Club (see the connection here?).

People post stories on their user pages, but unless they are fortunate enough to be a fabulously popular user, it is going to get relatively limited exposure. On the other hand, people can post them here--which is the only legitimate place in the forums, if I recall correctly--so they are seen by more people, and in specific, more experienced writers.

It's what the damned club was created for, now get over it and learn to use the scroll down button.

At 12/19/07 11:59 AM, SprintT wrote:

At 12/19/07 08:34 AM, Phantom wrote:

At 12/19/07 07:41 AM, SprintT wrote: Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

I just think it's pointless flooding the thread with poems and stories I won't read anyway. I'm too busy for that now.

Ok? We arent posting here for YOU, sorry to awake you from your egotistic fog. We post here for others to see it, if you are to bussy don't come here.

NO! SPRINT! DON'T GET HIM STARTED! HE'LL-

At 12/19/07 02:03 PM, Phantom wrote:

I have proceeded to verbally rape you in the worst possible way.
-Phantom.

Too late.

Ah well, always nice to see Phantom take the English language and turn it into a deadly weapon.

Well, i made a comical poem to cheer myself up, maybe you guys will get a kick out of it

(to be read with an extreme amount of melodrama)

Room War 4

On this whirlwind of a day
There is only one thing I can say
It was room war four
And destruction there could be little more
With the chaos there was little I could see
The printer and the stapler just could not agree
This servant of sanity could do nothing
The desk was covered money and clothing
There now was cause for alarm in this frightening situation
The Clutter was launching a massive invasion
I tried to fight it back as best I could
But without a weapon there was no chance I would
So instead of destroying this mess with a broom or a mop
I sold tickets to room war five at fifty dollars a pop

Well, tell me what ya think

At 12/19/07 04:13 PM, Centurion-Ryan wrote:

At 12/19/07 11:59 AM, SprintT wrote:

At 12/19/07 08:34 AM, Phantom wrote:

At 12/19/07 07:41 AM, SprintT wrote: Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

I just think it's pointless flooding the thread with poems and stories I won't read anyway. I'm too busy for that now.

Ok? We arent posting here for YOU, sorry to awake you from your egotistic fog. We post here for others to see it, if you are to bussy don't come here.

NO! SPRINT! DON'T GET HIM STARTED! HE'LL-

At 12/19/07 02:03 PM, Phantom wrote:

I have proceeded to verbally rape you in the worst possible way.
-Phantom.

Too late.

Ah well, always nice to see Phantom take the English language and turn it into a deadly weapon.

Is it just me, or isis forum turning into a (I don't wantto say it) flame war? In the words of Ali G, 'Lay down your uzi's' (that may have been a misquote, i'm not sure) and read the stories and give feedback ONLY IF YOU WANT TO. Don't go saying you should just put your stories on your user page (i put one on mine, i got one reply telling me how he didn't read it 'cause it was too long) and don't go calling people egotistical bastards, especially if that person is Phantom.

P.S. Ryan, i didn't see Phantom write that he had continued to verbally rape sprintt anywhere, and quotes are meant for direct use, not as a summary of what they say (but i did see how it was more dramatic)

At 12/19/07 05:50 PM, Seggi wrote:
P.S. Ryan, i didn't see Phantom write that he had continued to verbally rape sprintt anywhere, and quotes are meant for direct use, not as a summary of what they say (but i did see how it was more dramatic)

true, but we just love doing that...its so much simpler, you know?

just watch. some mod is gonna start banning for it before you can say "Do a barrel roll!"

At 12/19/07 08:34 AM, Phantom wrote:

At 12/19/07 07:41 AM, SprintT wrote: Because that is what this cub is for, if you dont want to read it don't. You can skip over it, shame if you actualy might have to press the next page button as well, your hand might get a cramp -_-.

I just think it's pointless flooding the thread with poems and stories I won't read anyway. I'm too busy for that now.

Ok I did not mean to start this.....
Just phantom read what you wrote in the quotes, and you can see why tension would be built. Im sure you didnt mean it in the way that it sounds, but still it sounds kinda egotistic. Again I mean no offence, but bud watch what you type.

As for calling me basically a hack that was uncalled for, and harsh, but I didnt promp it so ill take it. I realize you have done this longer, but other people have skill as well. You arent the only one that wastes their eyes staring at a screen, I have alot of time doing that XD

Now if you would like to discuss this further PM me please, as this is deffinently not the place for this and I'm sure that you know that.

-SprintT

Rather than quoting some one, I'll just post my 2 cents.

I believe that, yes, this is a Writer's Crew, for writing. But Phantom is right; I haven't posted here for days, and I'm sure some other members haven't either. And that's because there are essentially 2 pages of SpintT's poems (which I didn't read; not because I don't like you, but because I don't like poems), and this last page had a bunch of useless writings from people I've never seen before.

So, instead of posting everything here, why not make a news post, and paste the link in this thread. That way, we can keep the discussion the poster's writing, or writing techniques, or even contests and collaborations like me and Skilla tried to do.

So let's stop arguing with each other, stop inciting rants from the notorious Phantom, and let's get writing.

------- new post ---------

I feel there needs to be official rules. I mean, now that there are News Pages, you don't have to post your story in a thread or where ever to get exposure. You can post the link in this thread, or whatever.

I just don't want this thread getting locked because it looked spammy.