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So I've had a wake up call the last few days and it turns out I really want to get out of trucking. I drive around new york and new jersey and its very stressful for me.
Now heres my dilemma - I want to do a traditional animation (frame by frame on paper,) and get it done in the next 5-8 months or so. im planning on it being around 2-3 minutes long. but i need someones help with an original story. i want your story so i can just dive into storyboards by the next week and get this shit moving. you will get credits at the end and all that good stuff.
ANY SUBJECT IS FINE: just post your short story in spoilers below or send me a PM if you are a little shy. this isnt exactly a contest, but i will choose the one i see best for my style.
EDIT 10/12 tumblr blog for the animation. thebarrierdoor
I hope to submit the short to a festival next year, though im not sure which one or ones. Im planning on living conservatively as i still need to drive part time to pay for rent and all that good stuff, but this will be done in that time frame. THANKS!
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Can we do one of those things where each post gives you one sentence which connects to the previous one?
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His hands were rusty; the once-crisp sonata slipped through his fingers like Jello on chopsticks. It had been nearly three hundred and ten days since Jack had played Clementi on a keyboard; normally he played the markets on one. Soon, the clock would strike midnight and the cherubic building manager would knock at the door, smiling through the tempered glass window, and let him go into the snowy courtyard, and then it would be three hundred and ten days.
He’d first seen her face through the other side of the tempered glass. She was playing La Campanella, a piece which suited her personality well. To a neophyte like Jack was then, it sounded deceptively simple and clear, especially when compared with Liszt’s other virtuosic monstrosities. But beneath the façade lay at least five years of long hours spent alone in practice.
Or, at least that’s how long she’d said she’d played. Of course, Jack had no idea whether she was lying or not. He just knew, from that day onwards, that he wouldn’t mind seeing those bony white fingers dance over the keys a lot more often. Day in, day out, Jack would sit in the practice room and listen to her as he labored over problem sets and class readings. Some days he would just walk right in and sit in a chair and listen. Her only annoyance was that he would often knock far too loudly for her liking.
They didn’t talk much, at first. The music filled that in. Some days it would be a sunny Mozart sonata, other days it would be somber Rachmaninoff. One day she began to play an intimate piece. Jack asked her for the title, and she said that it had none, at least not yet. It would be named for a certain guy, eventually.
So Jack did the only thing someone with basic knowledge of chords could do. He sat by her left side and clunked out an accompaniment to her melody.
She’d started him off on a basic curriculum. He was a quick study, and within half a year, was playing reasonable pieces from her childhood. She said that his sound, his style, reminded her of how her own childhood teacher would play.
When they moved in together later that year, they bought a small upright for the apartment, but they still preferred the beat-up Steinway in the third-floor practice room that overlooked the now-blossoming courtyard. They got so good at some duets that they could play them with their eyes closed and lips locked. For the entire summer, Jack would sneak dinner in from the cafeteria after his lab shift let up, and they would play until the knocking came at midnight.
Third year rolled around. She noticed a change in Jack. He no longer brought problem sets and books to the practice room, but a stack of business cards, a laptop, brochures and pamphlets, the paraphernalia of worldly ambition. And he no longer appreciated those romantic nocturnes, the slow waltzes. He went straight for Chopin’s etudes. They argued more and played less. Twice the cherubic building manager had to knock and tell them to keep it down. She bitterly thought that he’d never asked that when they were playing Schubert.
They played their last duet as autumn rains fell on the flagstones outside. The piece got louder and faster as they went on, mainly because each tried to outplay the other. It would be their first and last argument about the piano. Jack picked up his business cards, his laptop, his brochures and left. He narrowly ducked the book of duets as he walked through the courtyard. Dark blue ink ran all over his fingers when he picked it up; the book was printed in black. He made out his own name for a fleeting moment on the piece of paper taped to the inside cover before the rain washed everything on it away.
He graduated in three years. Found a job at a prop shop downtown, a cookie-cutter place named after the street the office was located on, got a promotion, got an account, and bought a loft in a trendy section of town, filled it up with all the usual items, but no piano. His neighbors bought one, though, and their ten-year-old would unknowingly drive him crazy by playing the very same pieces which she had started him on.
The next winter, Jack for some reason found himself at his alma mater again, this time handing out brochures and business cards. It took fifteen minutes before the false eagerness which the undergraduates displayed was too much to bear. He took a walk outside, and for some unconscious reason, he found himself below that third floor window again. Strangely, he felt no sadness, even though he remembered everything. The memories had faded to black and white.
The same cherubic face, the same sign-in sheet. Room 301 was available. The Steinway was no longer there, having been replaced by a Yamaha. Still, it was a decent machine, and soon Jack was playing again, first slowly and with trepidation, then with increasing confidence.
Suddenly, knocking. Five bony fingers behind tempered glass. Jack opened the door to no one, but he didn’t mind. At his feet lay a new duet. It was untitled.
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On September 28 2012 07:55 GreYMisT wrote:
Can we do one of those things where each post gives you one sentence which connects to the previous one?
Yeah that usually doesn't make for a great story in my opinion.
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Your career plan is to try to sell anime.. I suspect that is kind of risky. I hope you are ready to work hard. There will be stress with this job as well. that is if it works.
I'm interested in making a story. Shady sands story at a glance looks good for anime to me. What is your drawing style like? Where should it take place? who am i kidding though, i don't even read anime. i'm not your guy... but you know if i was.. a theme and a length and more stipulations would be nice
K i re-read the OP. Don't flame me. im sorry. good luck with your animations
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wow man those are great. for those interested im planning on doing the animation in black charcoal, hopefully around 14 - 18 frames per second.
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This one please and thank you. + Show Spoiler +WTF i get caught jacking off all the time
i'm not unlucky, its just standard probability. i beat off alot. seriously, i beat off like if i keep doing it, i'm gonna win something. its only natural people will stumble in eventually
FOR EXAMPLE
so i'm on this direct flight from claremont (my college town) back to kansas city (my home town) for winter break. since its a direct 3 hour flight, its too short for them to have "in flight entertainment," but its so long that i'm gonna be bored out of my god damn mind. so, of course, i'm like "i guess i'm beating off like 5 times during this flight."
its one of those small sized slingshot airplanes that goes really fast but is really unstable and has one tiny ass cramped aisle. so i'm sitting in my anorexic bucket seat w/ my shitty peanuts waiting for the plane to hit a high enough altitude when i finally hear: *ding* "this is your captain speaking, we have reached a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet, you are now free to move about the cabin." "bink success!" i think to myself, "the time is right." of course i don't rush to the bathroom, no need for that. why not give myself a little tease. i gently, slowly unbuckle my seatbelt. I stand up, and stretch a little bit. I take a nice slow, leisurely walk to the bathroom at the back of the plane. masturbation this good deserves foreplay of its own.
i get to the bathroom, close the door, and sliiiiiide my pants on down and start working myself. oh holy LORD it's amazing. i mean, i don't know if you know this or not, but i am REALLY good at masturbating. I'm in a 2 square foot, dimly lit bathroom, but i feel so good my back is arching and my foot is cramping and i'm nearly ready to start screaming my own name.
then suddenly, TURBULENCE. AGH SHIT. I HATE turbulence. It's not that it makes me feel sick or nauseated. turbulence makes me feel like i'm about to die. So i'm trying to jack off, and suddenly the jerk in the plane floods my body w/ adrenaline and i grab the handle in the bathroom and i'm like "OH SHIT."
do you know how hard it is to cum when you feel like you're about to die??? I mean seriously, imagine jacking off while there's a guy w/ a loaded gun to your head and he's screaming "C'MON CUM YOU PUSSY, DO IT CUM." You'd be shivering w/ eyes closed, tears streaming down your face as you sputter through little snot bubbles just BEGGING your dick to come. "please cum!!!" you'd weep "i wanna cum soooo bad!!!!!"
so there i am trying to think of every dirty thing possible so i can finally orgasm, but all that's going through my mind is "god i need to reconcile with my dad and tell my brother i love him" etc etc and while i'm distracted in a mess of standard pre-death thoughts, i don't realize that i'm about to cum.
HOLY FUCK i say as i fumble and try to grab some kleenex from the box on the counter. however, in my stuttered panic, i just knock the kleenex box over, hit the "stewardess help button," and i cum directly onto the floor. still in a state of panic i'm like FUCKFUCKFUCK I NEED TO TURN THIS BUTTON OFF so of course i (geniusly) press it like 5 more times trying to turn this off. Naturally, the button just goes *ding ding ding ding*, making my situation seem all the more urgent, and i can hear the stewardess rushing to the door since i appear to be in desperate need of help.
"FOCUS SEAN FOCUS," i think, "I NEED TO HIDE MY DICK." so, (this is genius) i pick up the kleenex box from the floor, pull out 5 pieces of tissue, and i just lay them on top of my erection... so it looks kinda like a little dick tent. so, the stewardess, responding to my urgent spams of the "stewardess help button" proceeds to open the bathroom door just like i knew she was going to. She looks on the ground to see my epic protein stain, looks up at my glorious dicktent, and then you know what happens?? we make eye contact.
so she's looking at me, and i'm looking at her and in general i dislike awkward silences. however, this was an all KINDS of awkward silence, so i figured it was necessary to say something. so, i did the best i could. i look her right in the eye and say "... it is what it is..."
???? why did i say that???? what a stupid thing to say... well... i guess it's hard in that situation to "play it off cool." i can't be like "hey i know smoking isn't allowed on the plane, so do you have a stick of gum??"
so she shuts the door, and i clean myself up and spend another 3 minutes trying to clean up the mass of cum on the floor. even though i did a pretty good job, its damn hard to get that shine out of the laminate flooring. i'm finally done, so i open up the bathroom door to see a line of 10 or so people that's been building up since i went into the bathroom like 20 minutes ago (again, it took my a while since its difficult to cum when you think you're about to die). I get to look across the line of all of em, and say the only sensible thing i can think of:
"for those of you going to use the bathroom, i'd make sure you're wearing shoes."
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All the caterpillars were eating leaves together happily. They were awaiting the day when they would grow up to become beautiful butterflies. There was a weird looking caterpillar in the bunch whom everyone laughed at though. He was very sad.
One day all the caterpillars bunched up and started weaving cocoons around themselves, except him. They laughed at him even more. He got even more sad. They emerged as butterflies and laughed EVEN MORE.
Then one day he finally started forming a weird looking cocoon. The butterflies floated around pouring ridicule on him. After a long long long time he finally emerged as an ULTRALISK. Then he went off rampaging, smashing buildings and trees and the like. Unfortunately he still can't get back at the butterflies because ultras can't hit air units.
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EPT
