Summary: This is a group with no leaders, just contributors.

Pictures create more words than we, humans, can. We are born to visualize, not imagine or hear. Yet, our brain is filled with awesome ideas that we can visualize. The problem is that drawing is something that not all of us can achieve. We want to put that idea and market it to the whole world but without the artistic skill to draw, it will be virtually impossible.

But maybe words. But you just said that “pictures create more words than we, humans, can.” Then, we will try our best to put our imagination onto paper. Who cares if the setting of one small scene can take up a page as long as it’s important?

This is a collective constructive criticism thread on literature. There is no ranking system or any signs of inequality or favoritism. Even I, the author and founder of this thread and also chat moderator and room owner of Mockingbird County, have the same power as the people who post in this thread. This is like a friendly book group with no leadership at all. We just read, write, and criticize our fellow writer friends’ pieces of work. There is a list of all Writer’s Block contributors but they are treated equally and categorized fairly.

Whenever you post any literature, it will be bound to criticism. Do not object or condemn it. This is what the thread is all about. If you think this is dumb, then there is no point of writing, lest posting in the thread. If for whatever reason your work is not criticized at all or ignored for a page or more, feel free to “bump” your work in this thread once by linking the post. If this does not happen, bump it again once this thread gets a new page.

It is our choice to choose what genre we want to write. Fantasy/Sci-fi, philosophy, satire; it’s your choice. Even the things you want to write: communism, sexuality, religion – is okay except for anything that could be offensive according to Kongregate.

We (this may not include myself) can host friendly writing contests based on theme, story, fictional/real universes, or anything but you will not be forced into it. Never will you in the midst of contest(s) need to stop writing and let them go on. You can still write as long as it is not spam or flamable content. Contests should be led by the writers who started it. They could put prizes if they want but as long as it goes along with the rules presented here and Kongregate’s.

If you want to rant against a person, feel free to use a thing called MSN or AIM. This thread is not for ranting but for criticizing and writing.

This is a thread that goes with the wind. There are some rules that we need to abide but there should not be a problem to even deal with. It is self-ruled and organized by ourselves. We are not anarchic besides the obvious rules presented here but because we have a purpose: to write, read, or criticize. Real anarchy has no purpose and is easy to go back into another form of government. We do not.

Contributor List: http://docs.google.com/ViewDoc?docid=dgqnkbdm_6hcn32pdm

Reminder: If I ever forget to update the contributors’ list, spam me with a shout or whisper. If anyone interested on updating when I am procrastinating, feel free to spam me too with a shout or whisper with your e-mail address.

Why didn’t anyone think of this before….Wow, amazing idea, but do the stories have to have a certain mood?

This is a great idea and i would be glad to participate.

I AM SO IN! :)

Wow, amazing idea, but do the stories have to have a certain mood?

Nope. You can be as apocalyptic as George Orwell or fun as Douglas Adams.

i think i try this out so just right like a story or paraghraph then it gets critsized but dos it have to be sci fi or something elas?

Hmmm maybe…

Brb, Ima go quote something I wrote some time ago.

---

In the distance were trees and plains, but there were mountains and animals. The birth of life, so aptly named, when they were taught about Spring in the beginning classes six years ago. They were taught what Spring was, but were never shown what it was in reality, just pictures and images. Gasping for breath at the surprise, Sora forced himself to climb faster, unwilling to waste any more time before reaching the top.

The air got gradually colder by the time Sora reached a trap door. It was made of heavy wood. Heaving hard against it, Sora managed to open it, just to be greeted by a blast of icy air smashing into his face. Being careful not to cut himself, he climbed up and closed the trap door. Looking around, he stood in silence. The tower gave him an unobstructed view of the scenery of nature stretching all four corners of the compass. To the south was the oceans and to the north the mountains. The east and west all led to towns, snow covered tracks laden with footprints and horse tracks.

What amazed Sora most was the deafening silence. Occasionally, a songbird would cry out a melody before falling silent. Sitting in the center of the tower, cross-legged, Sora closed his eyes, letting the surrounding scenery consume him, letting the beauty of the world engulf him, letting nature share its stories. The blowing gusts of wind howled into a heart warming cry, like an orchestra. Then, he was pushed onto the ground.

The trapdoor forced itself open as Sora’s heart plummeted, annoyed at himself. He had woken up so early to see something happen, and now he would lose the opportunity. There were no second chances. Being careful, Sora slipped behind the trap door, hoping that whoever was coming up didn’t notice him.

Copyrighted Laxaria, 2009.

Oh, if only this had been in November! This would have been a great tool for NaNoWriMo to keep me going. (Along with just closing school; that helps even more. ;P)

Once I get my computer back, I’ll type something up — I do have a story going through my head, but with November being so far away, I might just start writing it soon for fun. (Who says a 50,000 word goal can only be done in November, eh!? ;)) It’s something I haven’t done before with writing (The way it’s presented. Not genre-wise.), so I wouldn’t mind the critique and criticism. Might even give a shot at giving it out; I’ve never been great at it, since most people tell me I ramble a bit, but it would be good practice for both sides for me. ;)

A great idea, Jude; I’m hoping this takes off, even if only with a small group. :D

-Deriaz

Originally posted by JudeMaverick:

Wow, amazing idea, but do the stories have to have a certain mood?

Nope. You can be as apocalyptic as George Orwell or fun as Douglas Adams.

I love them both!

IN!

Originally posted by shadowpig60:

i think i try this out so just right like a story or paraghraph then it gets critsized but dos it have to be sci fi or something elas?

No restriction besides the obvious Kongregate rules and yes, you got that part right.

Like Lax, I’m gonna steal the intro from a blog I already made because I’m tired and lazy.

---

Years ago, the evils named the trolls lurked the World Wide Web. They have terrorized the people who live there and destroyed their homeland.

The webmasters decided that they should appoint moderators – heroes of the World Wide Web – to create peace and equality over the World Wide Web.

One particular moderator achieved new grounds and is one of the best ones so far. His story was well-remembered by many and amazes all of the moderators and the folks.

His name was Vito. He was born in Kongregate where trolls made trouble in the chatrooms and after seeing the damage, he wanted to be a moderator immediately. He approached the wise_old_man and asked how to be one.

“You must get the Sword of Moderation, it will be a hard journey but it will be worth it. Only the brave and the clever will succeed. I see that you have the potential of being one but it’s all up to you. You must go to the Dungeon with a Generic Boss and kill the Generic Boss to get the sword. Good luck.”

He sets off with his belongings and went inside the Dungeon with a Generic Boss. He picked up a Green Leaf which can damage 0-1 points. He thought, “This is a good weapon for me, I must say”. He equipped the Green Leaf on his right hand. There was a treasure chest nearby. He opened up and got 10 gold. He thought of the things he can buy with the 10 gold… A cucumber, a spoon, a fork…

He saw a door and a sign was above the door, saying “The Generic Boss’ Lair”. This is it, he thought, I must prepare myself for battle. He opened the door and was engulfed by the shadows.

Suddenly, light shines Vito’s eyes and what he saw could be the most hardest generic boss ever. It was a young chick (baby chicken) which can damage 0 points. 0 points was a big number to him because Vito’s health points was 10.

He slashed the chick as hard as he could and damaged the chick 1 point. The chick cried and attacked back and damaged 0 points. He slashed again and damaged 1 point and the chick died.

Vito leveled up to level 2 and his health points became 15. He was very proud of his achievements and cried for joy. A treasure chest popped up and he went to the chest to open it. There it was, the famous Sword of Moderation which can damage 1-2 points. He picked it up with honor and equipped it.

He exited the Dungeon with a Generic Boss and ran to wise_old_man, saying “I did it! I did it!” The wise old man replied, “Now, it is time to make the Kingdom of Kongregate proud. Go to Prinny Land where you will meet General Moderator JudeMaverick and he will instruct you the hardest missions you will ever see.” Vito hugged the wise_old_man and said goodbye to him.

He walked into the sunset…

And this is just the beginning…

---

Added new ones:

http://judemaverick.deviantart.com/art/Science-and-Religion-Failed-Us-115248695

http://judemaverick.deviantart.com/art/Is-My-Flirting-Method-Wrong-115250996

Lax, that’s actually pretty awesome. Loved the vivid description of the scenery and the cliffhanger. Post more of it soon!

Mmhmm. I’m in.

---

Let there be nothing and there is to be. In my mind’s eye I see blackness, cold and fury. Depression clutches at my essence and tugs me further across the line from sanity. Darkness.

Is this all the world is now? Pain. Fear. Cruelty. Do we need a new leader, a new Christ to lead the people away from this path. Do we need someone to eradicate the world of all the useless people.

Yes we do.

As I clutch at the sharp blade hidden beneath layers of unyielding cloth, and stagger against the frigid everwinter that is outside, and make my slow journey through the London fog, I envision my destiny, my goal. My ideal to rid the world of evil.

I will not be a murderer. I will be the deliverer.

History shall be made through my blade as great empires come and fall. Let it be known I am here. I shall be the all seeing one who justifies for myself as to the nature of this world’s kindred spirits.

Call me mad. Call me a murderer. I am justice.

I AM DARKE.

Originally posted by JudeMaverick:

Lax, that’s actually pretty awesome. Loved the vivid description of the scenery and the cliffhanger. Post more of it soon!

:P that’s a part of what ive been working on, so no I won’t post any more other than random excerpts.

---

It was night. A chilly night. He huddled closer into his coat. Around him the winds howled into the tar black sky. Thick, menacing clouds blanked out the stars and moon. Lightning dashed from cloud to cloud, flickering the bottom of the clouds. Thunder boomed proudly out towards the horizon. The rain came down heavily, smashing into the ground, leaving nothing but a muddy mess.

Drenched, cold, lonely and hungry, he tried to gaze out towards the horizon, but saw nothing. Below him were the crashing of rough choppy waves against stone hard rocks. The smell of sea spray filled the air.

“Should I?”, he wondered, pondering about it. There was no reason not to. Everyone had left him to the gutters, starving and lonely. Friends whom he once treasured were now but strangers. Family. “Who needs them!” he cried out towards the distance, to be replied by an explosion of thunder.

“You don’t know me!” he screamed out again, to be met by the growling of winds.

Life is harsh, an unfair reality, he thought. People who have no talent whatsoever become the great leaders, while the hardworking do nothing but a layman’s job. Its never the person who scores the best or the highest, but the person who cheats and lies.

He threw himself onto the ground, absent mindedly picking up a pebble before tossing it into the furious sea, instantly swallowed into the dark abyss. Life is like that pebble, fun and carefree, until someone hates you and throws you away just for the sake of it.

Rubbing his temples, looking back towards the old memories of his bittersweet childhood. Well, mostly bitter, childhood, but he couldn’t help smiling at first. His first crush. His first date. His first kiss. The first joys of making a friend and sharing what he loved and treasured. Slowly, as the sweeter memories faded, the torments came back. The school pranks and bullying. The jokes and names. The embarrassing trips and unnecessary peer punishment. The tests which he failed yet so worked hard for. His wife storming out of the house. His friends betraying his trust.

“What of life?” he muttered. He closes his eyes, letting the air flow around him.

It was night. The chilly night. And another delicious dinner, thought the roaring sea, as small lights flickered near the shore, sirens blasting, the cries and pleas of hope drowned by the sorrow of night.

I’ll work on something for this….

How about a poem?

---

It’s windy today,
I must say,
It bends the hay,
And ripples the bay,
But it doesn’t blow inside.

It’s rainy today,
I must say,
It it drenches the hay,
And adds to the bay,
But it doesn’t rain inside.

It’s snowy today,
I must say,
It covers the hay,
And freezes the bay,
But it doesn’t snow inside.

It’s cozy today,
I must say,
With bread from the hay,
And drink from the bay,
It sure is great inside.

Creative Commons License, MoonlaughMaster 2009.

---

I’m working on a short story so look out for it!

I’m totally getting in on this. :D

Sorry if it’s a bit long, but here’s a short story I wrote for a writing contest a little while ago.

The Longest Road

“No matter how far you go, you can always come back to yourself.”

I don’t know where he heard that, but he used to say it before every mission. I think it was almost like his private prayer that he’d make it back.

Sitting in the belly of the ship that was flying us to the battlefield which would claim many, maybe most, of our lives, I thought back on the man who had sat next to me for so long.

He had been sitting there way back on my first voyage, when all I could think about was how stupid I had been to join the Imperial Guard, and he had motioned that I sit next to him. He hadn’t spoken until we were almost in contact with the enemy, and the first thing I ever heard him say was that silly quote.

To this day, all I can remember of that battle is a blur of reds, screams, and blind terror. I don’t even remember what we were fighting. Some Great Enemy of the Imperium, I’m sure. I have no doubts, though, that, without his help, I would have been just another bodybag – just one more of the innumerable dead.

But no, he was there for me. I don’t know what he must have gone through to keep me safe, because I sure wasn’t trying to do it. I was too busy trying to hide behind myself.

There was another thing I remember from that fight. I remember hearing his name, over and over. “Private Delaway, Private Delaway, Private Delaway…”. It might even have been me saying it. And I remember his smile. I remember how his face lit up, and how the grin spread from ear to ear as he turned to me to tell me the fighting was over, that, somehow, we’d won. I think it was the smile that stopped me from losing it completely.

Private Delaway… Even now, his name springs to mind almost as readily as my own. Private Delaway and Private Carmellan. Wherever I was, he was always around. I didn’t really notice it until later, but he didn’t just keep me alive on the battlefield that day. No, he made it his job to keep me alive in the Guard as well.

He was a big man, tall and broad, dark and quiet, but kind and amiable as well. More than once he defused a situation that I was unwittingly igniting, and more than once he ended up taking the brunt of the punishment as well. I learned though. Despite being a difficult pupil, when I saw what he was doing for me, I soon learned how to avoid setting off the situation in the first place.

I remember one time though… I had gotten these three huge guys so riled up, they were just waiting to beat me into a pulp when Delaway stepped in and deflected their aggression. His intervention left him with a badly broken hand – undoubtedly better than what I would have gotten on my own. Rather than be grateful, however, I turned on Delaway afterwards and yelled at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” I screamed. “Can’t you just let me be? I can handle myself!”

Delaway stood almost rigid, holding his injured right hand in his left. Still staring straight into my eyes, slowly, and I could see the pain behind his eyes, he pulled a thin white ring off his broken finger and held it out to me.

“Here you are then. If you think you can handle yourself, take it.”

Angrily, I grabbed the ring from his outstretched palm and stormed off. Despite being angry with Delaway, I could tell the ring was important to him, so I decided to keep it. It never really fit properly, though. I apologized to Delaway later, and he forgave me, but he didn’t ask for the ring back. I never mentioned our argument after that, but I never picked fights again.

At the cost of another, I learned and I grew.

A thundering metallic scream was heard throughout the ship, followed nigh on immediately by a jarring shake of seismic proportions. The disturbance jolted me from my thoughts, making me jump.

We were entering firing range.

With the ship shuddering under enemy fire, the immediacy of the situation reasserted itself. I realized that this would be the first time I’d be in a real fight without Delaway.

We had been in Orion Platoon, Squadron Crius, under Sergeant Emerson, and we had fought the Eldar before. We were winning. Delaway patted me heartily on the back.

“See what I mean? I told you they weren’t so bad. You’ve just g-”

Suddenly, a team of Swooping Hawks dove from the skies and tore a neighboring squadron to pieces, the explosion that accompanied their arrival cutting Delaway off mid-sentence. Before we could do so much as turn towards the sound, however, another team, this time of Warp Spiders, materialized not 15 meters from us.

As we started to raise our weapons to defend ourselves, they had already begun firing, the monofilament wire flowing like water out towards us. Unlike water, however, the wire didn’t splash when it hit one of us. No, the wire cut straight through. Taking cover was no use either, because the cursed stuff cut through the rocks and the trees. They would have gotten all of us if it hadn’t been for the Leman Russ we were clearing the way for. As it lumbered up behind, the Warp Spiders heard it coming and flickered out to a more secure location.

It was only once the Russ had arrived and our enemies had departed that I realized what was wrong. There was no cheerful word, no smile. Amongst many other wounded, Delaway lay in three places on the ground. The wire had cut clean through him, cauterizing the wounds as it went. His scream of pain had gone unheard amongst the myriad screams from the others.

As I moved towards him, I could see his mouth moving soundlessly, and it was only as I got to him that I realized what it was he was trying to say. It was that damned quote. He only managed to say it through part of the way before his eyes, which had always sparkled with an internal light, went dim. I don’t remember the rest of that battle either.

Lost in thought, I sat, staring at my hands, and, in particular, at the thin metal band he had given me. Many things were spinning through my mind. I had never really known Delaway. I never asked why he always said the same meaningless thing before going into combat. I never asked him anything about himself. And I never asked why he did what he did for me. Now, I’d never get the chance.

Turning the white ring over in my hand, I realized how much he had rubbed off on me. I had picked up his knowledge, his attitude, and even his mannerisms. I’m not sure if he ever saw me silently saying his prayer in time with him. I put on the ring. It fit.

The ship shook again and a muffled groan pulled me from my thoughts once again. I looked up to see what had caused it.

A terrified looking kid was lying on the floor in the middle of the room, dressed in armor that was too big for him. He had clearly been thrown from his feet by the sudden motion and was now trying to pick himself up without losing any more respect in the eyes of those surrounding him. I wondered how I had missed him earlier.

Soon, though, he was back on his feet and was looking around the room.

As his gaze passed over me, and the empty space next to me, I nodded and he came to fill the space. We sat in silence for a time, neither speaking, until I heard the buzzer warning us that we would be making planetfall in moments.

Taking care to speak just loudly enough to be overheard, I broke the silence.

“No matter how far you go, you can always come back to yourself.”

And that’s that! :D

I’d be glad to hear people’s thoughts on it, and, for future and editing reference, how does one add the lines?

Edit: I’m working backwards up the post reading the stories of others, so I’ll post my comments on them after this point. :D

MLM: I love the way your poem flows together, and how each of the things you describe has a seperate effect on the story-world you’re telling us about. I’m not a big fan of poems, but all things considered, I liked it! :D

DSR, looks like the introduction to what could be a cool story! It’s kind of hard to say a lot based on that, but I’m intrigued!

Jude, I love the parody-esque style of your intro. The story seems like it has all sorts of potential, and could be a lot of fun to read. Sounds like it might wind up featuring a lot of Kongregate personalities as well, which would be fun. :D

Lax, Not only are both of your stories interesting and well put together, but they’re both well written and quite different. From the taste we’ve been given, I’d guess that these will both be stories to watch out for. :D

Thanks for the comment, I appreciate it :P

I loved that story. It was well written, and it actually had a moral. Very well done. You should put creative commons on it.

I’m working on a short story.

Good to hear, MLM! Any idea when we can look out for it?

You should put creative commons on it.

The most common usage of Creative Commons 3.0 is the Attributions-Noncommercial derivation. This requires the user to link it back to the author or original source and not use for it commercial reasons.

From what you’ve been using, you’re using a very old Creative Commons :)

I’m more of a Creative Commons Attributions-Commercial derivation kind of guy so I will be linked more despite the inability to get more money. This is a great way to rise in popularity.

Jude, I love the parody-esque style of your intro. The story seems like it has all sorts of potential, and could be a lot of fun to read. Sounds like it might wind up featuring a lot of Kongregate personalities as well, which would be fun. :D

The stories came from the deprecated blog, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Moderating: A Well-Known Example of a Moderator

The series did not finish due to the impatience of human beings and their inability to not appreciate Hitchikeresque writings. There is a reason why dolphins were never understood by human and this was it.

@MLM’s Poem: Great use of rhymes! Nobody ever can withstand the homesickness disease.

MLM has an interesting poem, but it is quite plain. There is little speciality of it, very little hidden meaning or hidden agenda.

Most of it can be taken at surface value.

A good poem should be structured. Don’t think that because you are writing a poem means you must have rhyme. You need to also have some structure, some agenda, some sort of inner meaning to the piece other than just words that flow nicely.

Want to read some good poetry? Robert Frost is someone you should look at. :)

---

It sucks to be your friend,

Sacrifacing my sweat and blood, my energy and time,

My tears and cells, my health and strength;

Suffering your pain and anguish, your mood swings and tantrums,

Your complaints and laments, your consistent nagging.

But, I would not have it any other way.

Copyright, Laxaria, 2009. All rights reserved.

wheres the art

Heres my favorite poems from a project last year…

Spidery Willow
She sits ever so silently, listening
Her long green hair drapes ‘round her face
She bends and sways, now she’s whispering
Her brown bark covered with spider’s lace

Lawnmower
His face is grim, his mind is set
He wields his scythe without resent
They all fall, cut at the base
A tidy lawn sits in their place

Party in the Sky
Large and shimmering the disco ball hangs high
Illuminating the far corners of the sky
The stars all dance to its melody
Bright and beautiful in its solidarity

And heres some by Shaun, written for the same project…
Marriage
My husband sits in the lounge room,
Right in front of the TV
He is getting fat, he is lazy
His vision is getting hazy
He never helps, he is selfish,
And he never lends a hand
I do all the work,
While he calls himself the man

Thunderstorms (the rain and the roof?)
I could hear the winter rain on my roof
It splats, it spits, it pops
It never stops
It pitter-patters, all night long
It drums, like it is a song
It drizzles, it scatters, and it starts to hiss
As the roof and the rain start to kiss

C&C for both is much appreciated…

A Calf of Liberty and Freedom

Chapter 1: ULCCR

America is a great nation, one can say, and a place for liberty, freedom, and justice. It is also the home of fellow capitalists such as Bill Gates and Bernard Madoff who made America a better place. Liberty and Justice are fundamental aspects for many Americans for it allows them to watch pornography with ease and enable suers to sue a dodo for being extinct. This is what young eight year patriotic boys, who reads video game magazines and have no idea where Canada is, think.

To understand these undoubtedly lovable eight year olds who can smash your hand and fingers to find out where the terrorists are so they can waterboard them in the name of America, let us examine a generic example. The example is George. He loved America, every bit of it from the American Revolution to the war of something that America won. He hated those wars America lost; they’re a fraud. America is always right, he thought. President Bill Clinton didn’t do much about wars as he is a liberal tree-hugger that thinks war is bad. Jeez, what did Bill learn from Call of Duty 5? You could spill blood, oh yeah, burn those zombies Nazis, defeat the goddamn Japanese with whoever the Soviets are in that game! George W. Bush looks cooler. He doesn’t care about his economic policies but only war. Yeah, war. That’s like totally cooler. Ronald Reagan is cool too. He beats up the commies whoever they are and broke down the Berlin Wall. It’s so cool. Girls and other Democrats should learn from us, boys: war is so much better than economy and fanciful tree-hugging!

In 2010, this sparked a political movement and party called “New Warmongers for the Shits and Giggles Party”. This involved with the extermination of liberal tree-huggers and fiscal-huggers by the eight year olds who were at that time 21 year olds. Technology has been much better in those days; they had the Tax Revolver which shot the fiscally conservative with more taxes than they had dealt with in their entire life. The “bullet”, persay, is a tax bill with words that reads, “The American government requires you to pay 1,000% income tax revenues now or you will be assasinated by samurais with teleportation skills.” Remember, a person can be inflicted with it more than twice. The average taxspan in a lifetime is $1,000,000,000,000,000 USD.

In 2050, America was defeated by the only nation that survived, Papua New Guinea. The American imprisoners were forced to hug trees and one stated that “it was painful to goddamn hug the trees… we’re supposed to kill each other like in Call of Duty 10 and Medal of Honor: America vs. United States because we’re doing good to the people…” Earth was completely obliterated; dolphins had long ago flown to other planets and restaurants at the end of universes, plants died from hug starvation, girls were more economic-oriented, and the list goes on. It was virtually unhabitable and scientists estimate a ridiculous 35 billion years to restore Earth into its perfect, original nature.

The Earthlings decided to leave their planet/country and move to Mars. For no other reason besides the uncreative imagination of the author writing this story, Mars created an atmosphere comfortable to move. By the year 2065, all Earthlings, not most, had moved to Mars. Nobody lived at Earth anymore and it was left to recover again after the Earthlings left Mozart discs to let it restore quicklier. Industrial factories began popping up in Mars at 2066. Trees (that actually was at Mars too because of the “vivid” imagination of the author) began to die and rivers (that too) also disappeared. Smoke became the new sky and people began to work under The President. Posters like “The President is Surveying You!” was admired and Mars prospered and no opposition occured despite the absurd, harsh nature of the government.

In 3000 AD, Mars was renamed as United Laissez-fairez Capitalist Countries and Republics (ULCCR).

50 billion years flew past through time. The ULCCR became a strong planet and the communistic Dolphinia planet was their ally. They weren’t much important despite the planet being consisted of dolphins trying their hardest to reproduce. And yes, no opposition have ever occured at all. This is not when the phrase or the like, “except for one!!!!!”, comes. It is in fact after this sentence.

A person was discontented with the authoritarian government. He, sorry females (in that time, females were STILL considered inferior and the author is very sorry), decided to escape the ULCCR.

If only, he thought, he knows how. He decided to flip to the next chapter of this book and found out what he is supposed to do: escape from the ULCCR and explore Earth. But what should he call himself? Nobody had a name at that time; they were called “Accountant 00102301” or “Miner 2103210”. It has to be original and different from all these names. I know, he thought, I’ll call myself “Filibuster Maverick”! Filibuster, he assumes, is a neologism and has an idiosyncratic sound to it and mavericks, he read from books, were calfs that embraced liberty and indepedence. Filibuster Maverick would later be the glimmering hope of humanity and all hopes, despite the obstacles such as Dolphinia’s evil dolphins and the ULCCR’s Blue Accountants that could easily kill them if he’s not careful, lied on him.

“Filibuster Maverick”, a person who held the same revolutionary concepts but was not brave enough once said, “we’re counting on you.”

Oooo… New stuff! :D

Jude: While the concept of your story looks cool, the style felt to me a little bit too biting to fully enjoy. I understand it’s a satire, but I just got the feeling that you may have made it a little bit too obvious what you were focusing your satire on, turning it more into an attack than a satire, in my mind. The story could be interesting though. I’m getting some heavily Adams-y vibes coming from aspects of it. :P

OP: Again, I’m not the best with judging poetry, but I liked the poetic descriptions you used. I’m not sure if I liked the poems by the other person that you posted as much, but I think that’s because part of the reason I enjoyed yours is because they are so short. The brevity means that you have to picture it more, or something. :P I think my favourite one was “Lawnmower”. :D

Originally posted by Laxaria:

MLM has an interesting poem, but it is quite plain. There is little speciality of it, very little hidden meaning or hidden agenda.

Most of it can be taken at surface value.

A good poem should be structured. Don’t think that because you are writing a poem means you must have rhyme. You need to also have some structure, some agenda, some sort of inner meaning to the piece other than just words that flow nicely.

Is there always supposed to? I mean, I appreciate your critique, but I think it’s pretty useless. I don’t think that to write a good poem you must have some deeper meaning, some moral. Can’t you just be happy with “words that flow nicely?”

I’m actually rather intimidated to post something. >>;; I’ve read over what I wrote a few times, and it feels so unorganized. I haven’t had the time to read anything here, sadly, but I’ve skimmed, and everything I’ve skimmed has been great.

Which makes me feel almost scared to post something like this. But, you know, you can’t get better if you don’t ask for advice, right?

I’ve never done something like this; a “journal” of a fictional character, hoping to span his life and how his thought process works. Mostly, I do third-person things. I thought it’d be interesting to give this a shot, considering I’ve never written first person before. I also have a bad habit of doing short descriptions, and not expanding on things, or expanding on the wrong things; anything pointed out that could be drawn out is greatly appreciated. As well as just opinions in general. (I left Crush’s description short on purpose, to let the reader imagine him given how he writes and what little he says. But that can change, too.)

So, ummmm. . . Without further rambling, I suppose. . . >>;;

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Crush’s Journal – Entry 1 Segment

The others seems not to mind so much, this foundry. I cannot understand their decisions. I am not saying, or should I mean writing?, that this place we find ourselves in is terrible, but that it seems more to be a barracks than anything else. Created to fight a war, we have been told. A war that we have no stake in.

My name is Crush, designation A00185. I do not understand the name, as my designation is easy to remember; however, it seems that the name has stuck, due to my efforts in our mock battlefields. It is not my fault that they do not move when I swing the grand weapons they provide, nor is it my fault they select the smaller, weaker blades that cannot handle the impact of sheer mass against fine forgery. They will learn, in time; how many times can my companions feel their metal skin crushing into their shoulders, piercing the livewood below, or feel the livewood beneath split open against their metal, before they realize they need pick up a shield or take hold of a larger weapon?

Again, my name is Crush, designation A00185. I stand slightly beyond six feet, seven inches, and weigh in the vicinity of five hundred pounds. My eyes are a shade of bright yellow, and my adamantine has been dyed a deep red, in order—

Why am I describing myself to this small book of pages? It is not as if you will answer me. You do not have a soul, nor a mouth with which to speak back. You do not have eyes for which to make contact, nor lungs with which to breathe to help form your answers. I am something more than you; I write, you listen. It is how you were made, and it is without speaking back that you will listen.

. . . Crush. Crush? . . . Why do we define ourselves by names? I am not the only one with such a name; our artificers and our commanders have begun applying names to our faces as well. And it is like you, little book, that we accept the name, the duty, the new designation without speaking back. Kukri, Bastard, Tendon, Tintoes – I believe the commanders do not favor Tintoes. . . We all have names, replacing our numbers. Why is that? Are they easily confused by numbers? Perhaps they should listen more; our instructors are intelligent in their own rights. . .

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Not a full entry; sorry. Figured I should maybe get some opinions before I moved on. But definitely looking forward to seeing any critiques or comments on it. I know it might not be as well made as some other stuff here, which is why I was intimidated, but. . . All the same, I want to get better. So bah on the intimidation, and on with the. . . Not-intimidation. ;P

-Deriaz

Okay, like Deriaz I feel totally intimidated. I love writing, but I’m only 14, so don’t expect too much. Here’s the beginning to a short story I want to be working on. I jump into the story, really, no introduction. This is sort of a experiment in that I’m trying to use a really strange story structure.

Tell me what you think!

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“It needs work”

That’s always what he said, my art teacher. John D. Stacey was his name, he requested we call him Mr. S. He walked through the room stiffly – he had recently had knee surgery – and commented on the artwork. While I could hear the usually compliments and criticism, he didn’t seem as thorough today. In fact, he seemed pretty different in general.

“Nancy!” Mr. S shouted, “Come with me outside into the hallway.”

I looked up from my painting, towards the door. They were already outside. I leaned towards the door, which was only about 10 feet away from my seat. The voice of Mr. S grew louder and more students starting attempting eaves-dropping on the conversation. My heart was beating, for some strange reason, as I listened in. But I could hear nothing, nothing at all. I leaned back and continued my artwork.

So it had been a couple of minutes, and I was still working on my art. With the teacher gone, most of the class was pretty absent minded, including me. But unlike most of the class, I was still totally curious as to why they had been out in the hallway for so long, and I knew I had to make a move. I assumed it was some sort of social situation, the girl may have been involved with something the school disapproved, or she needed to talk to another teacher about something, the obvious.

F*** it I thought. I got up from my desk, and looked over to one of my friends. He had obviously noticed I had gotten up, like a couple of others close to me.

I leaned over, “I’m gonna see why they have been out for so long, and maybe get a drink of water.”

“Mr. S might act pretty s***tty when he sees you out of the class,” my friend said with a tint of laughter in his voice.

“Ehh f*** it.”

I turned around and started for the door, and fear grappled me. Soon enough I was out of the door into an empty hallway. Completely empty, not a soul. I could hear the other classes, and the lectures of the teachers, but I was focused on the hallway, on the floor. The girl, Alex Long, her sweater was on the floor.

Things were sort of strange now, Mr. S and Alex were gone and I was in an empty hallway, now holding a sweater. I didn’t even know why I was holding it, I was just impulsed to do it. I decided I would head to the bathroom and wash off my face, which was dirty from PE a period earlier. I opened up the door to the bathroom, which was a single. I went to the sink to wash my face off, and looked into the mirror. It was too dirty for me to see my face very well, so I leaned down to wash my face off. As the water first touched my face I felt a cool chill and an icy sting, it felt great. I stretched and as started walking towards the door I realized I needed to take a piss, I yawned. By now it had been a couple of minutes since I had left into the hallways, so I figured I should get moving. I opened up the stall, and looked down to see the dead bodies of Mr. Stacey and Alex Long.

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Originally posted by MoonlaughMaster:

Originally posted by Laxaria:

MLM has an interesting poem, but it is quite plain. There is little speciality of it, very little hidden meaning or hidden agenda.

Most of it can be taken at surface value.

A good poem should be structured. Don’t think that because you are writing a poem means you must have rhyme. You need to also have some structure, some agenda, some sort of inner meaning to the piece other than just words that flow nicely.

Is there always supposed to? I mean, I appreciate your critique, but I think it’s pretty useless. I don’t think that to write a good poem you must have some deeper meaning, some moral. Can’t you just be happy with “words that flow nicely?”

That’s not art.