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i love writing and i love reading. This is for all the TLers like me out there. If you have a dusty original fic or fanfiction on your HDD, just post it here and share with your fellow TLers.
one thing though, flaming a writer will not be tolerated! if you do that, i will ban you from the blog and send a pm to a mod. constructive criticism is fine and welcomed, help another improve, point out things that you disliked, that's all good. 'LULZ U FACKIN RETARD CANT WRITE' isnt.
+ Show Spoiler +Shinji walked into the dark room. He was dressed in a black trench coat with a black hat, orange glasses, a black tie, a white dress shirt, a red tie, black pants, and a red vest over his shirt but under his coat. "So, what's the big robot?" he asked before the lights were turned on.
"How can you see?" exclaimed that stupid blonde scientist.
"You don't need to know," he answered.
"So, this is the fucker's work, eh?" he asked.
"That's correct, and we need you to pilot it, Shinji," answered Gendo Ikari.
"The hell I will, asswiper," he answered.
"If you don't, humanity will perish!" shot back Gendo.
"Humanity can kiss my ass," he answered, stunning everyone.
"But Shinji, you are human!" said Misato.
"DON'T YOU DARE ASSOCIATE ME WITH YOU STINK-SUCKING MAGGOTS!" roared Shinji, frightening everybody. "Anyways, I know all about the dead sea scrolls, SEELE, EVA and that crap marathon," he said stunning his father. "I have to admit though that Keel guy was a nice meal. Sometimes you just want evil blood you know?" he said grinning like a maniac.
"How…. What do you….?" stuttered Ritsuko.
"Ah, yes, my father took care of Adam weeks ago," said Shinji "my REAL father. And if I'm not mistaken he should be here soon."
"You're not mistaken, son," said a dark voice. A man stepped out of the shadows and the shadows disappeared after him. He was wearing almost the same attire as Shinji, except the coat and hat were blood red, the glasses orange, and the vest black. Shinji took out a huge gun and shot him in the head. Everyone was petrified, but the man suddenly got back up, and had a pouting look on his face. "What was that for?" he asked.
"You were 3 minutes late," answered Shinji while the man repeated the same action that Shinji did against him. "That was for shooting at your father, you spoiled brat," said the man. Shinji got up and said "Everybody, this is my father Alucard. As you can tell, we're quite the unusual kind, but that's just because we're vampires. By the way, where's mom?"
"She's upstairs taking of that giant thing with her hallconnen" answered Alucard.
"Oh. Now the real reason I came here," he said and disappeared. He reappeared behind Gendo, grabbed him, and started drinking his blood. After he finished he shot Gendo twice, once in the head and once in the heart. "Is Walter finished?" asked Shinji.
"Yes, I believe that that gooey white thing in the basement is dead now. What did you call it, 'Lillith?'" he asked.
"Well then, our job's finished," said Shinji and disappeared.
"Sure is," answered Alucard and disappeared too.
On the surface the Angel laid dead with three big bullet holes in its red core.
this 1 is just a brainfart i had a long time ago , it's funny and a little ridiculous and i feel it's a good way to start this off
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+ Show Spoiler +We were awakened during the night. The shrill scream pierced the air, clear even in the roaring of the thunderstorm.
I saw a horrible monster, gray slimy things dripping from its long claws, its head dug deep in... I don't know how to describe it. Flesh, opened in ways never thought possible, outlined in dark streams of rain and blood.
I rushed at the monster, armed only with the flashlight I grabbed on the way out. By the time it reared its bloody head, I was already in the air. And as it raked my eyes out, I threw us off the cliff into the rocks below.
The rest of the group, 9 out of the original 12 who came on this island to forge a new life, stared in horror as the body on the top of the cliff gurgled her last words.
"The mafia has come"
To be continued.
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Brunei Darussalam622 Posts
Yikes op, I don't even know what to say to you. Your dialogue feels forced as hell, your he said and she saids are an utter train wreck, your pacing and narration are fucking non-existent, I have no idea who the characters are, and your plot is more discombobulated than a Chile miner pulled fresh from underground.
The only thing funny or ridiculous about this story is the fact that you suckered me into actually skimming this piece of flaming leprechaun shit. You call this a brain fart, and I'm going to have to whole-heartily agree. No matter what format you have that story saved in, I suggest you immediately destroy it. Then open a book that isn't a 25 cent hand-me-down sci-fi/fantasy and read a few pages. Be sure to actually look at the words too and try to remember their patterns and how they form sentences before you ever attempt writing anything again.
Hope this advice helped!
User was warned for this post
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On October 22 2010 03:23 Dienosore wrote: Yikes op, I don't even know what to say to you. Your dialogue feels forced as hell, your he said and she saids are an utter train wreck, your pacing and narration are fucking non-existent, I have no idea who the characters are, and your plot is more discombobulated than a Chile miner pulled fresh from underground.
You call this a brain fart, and I'm going to have to whole-heartily agree. No matter what format you have that story saved in, I suggest you immediately destroy it. Then open a book that isn't a 25 cent hand-me-down sci-fi/fantasy and read a few pages. Be sure to actually look at the words too and try to remember their patterns and how they form sentences before you ever attempt writing anything again.
Too harsh. The story wasn't great and the writing style/skills need a lot of work, but you have to start somewhere.
Also ban please.
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Brunei Darussalam622 Posts
Sometimes you just gotta hear it. At least the only way he can go from here is up!
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There was this one dude who was all "sup" to this other dude. The other dude said "nm, bro." Then they bumped fists and walked their separate ways.
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5/5 on Gummy's short story.
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On October 22 2010 03:36 Gummy wrote: There was this one dude who was all "sup" to this other dude. The other dude said "nm, bro." Then they bumped fists and walked their separate ways.
lol gummy, 5/5 XD oh and that story i wrote when i was like...11 or 12...so yeah. Like i said, this is just for fun, this story was gathering dust on my hard drive and i found it and lol'ed, so i posted it ^_^
also, banned from blog, ty
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Im going to post a story written by an old friend of mine. Online, he is known as Basin.
+ Show Spoiler + Laundar stepped out into the auxilary deck. There were three men manning all the stations. They were difficult stations. These men had at least three years. They were all black men. Menacing black men. Shit, he thought, I hope this doesn't make me racist. He drew his laser beamer and beamed the first one in the face as he turned around. The other two drew their deflector fields and switched them on. Shit! He did not know they would have deflector fields. Now he knew he had to use the omega contingency. But this early? That was madness. Madness of the maddest kind. He had no time, they had their Thorem Instigators our and were firing at him. He had been hit twice while he was thinking, and only now noticed. He had incredible concentration. The kind of concentration only a trained Leveler could have. He was a level seven Leveler. Those levels had been hard faught. There was incredible damage to his plating, and a beam had punctured his left frontal lobe. Luckily he was trained to perfom all bodily and psychological functions with either side of his brain, just in case. He moved fast, ducking behind an air duct and firing three precise shots as he moved. The light fixture swung down and impacted the second black man in the back of the head, causing severe fracturing. He crumpled like an empty toilet paper roll in the hands of Dan Lanlee, the toilet paper bandit. There was a moment of eye to eye contact as Laundar peeked out to assess the situation. He was becoming delerious from the blood loss, he began to realize, and depth perception was less than acceptable with half of his face missing. He had to take the shot! Bringing his arm out from behind the air duct, he felt it disintigrate as an Instigator beam burned his hand off. He choked in a scream as he moved to strike, catching the gun with his left hand and spinning backwards into a parallel firing position for minimum exposure. Counting his blessings as two beams zapped past his head, he swore an oath to three gods. His finger was faster than lightning as beams fanned out in front on him, tearing shreds in the area around his target, but the deflector field that blocked his vissage refused even to flutter. Laundars vision blotched to white for a second and he found himself on his knees, gun on the floor in front of him, wind knocked out of him as his armor crumbled under consecutive laser shots. The bigger black man was moving in for the kill, he realized, he had no time. Use the omega contingency, a voice in the back of his head screamed. He used it like he had never used anything in his entire life, including when he had used seven hundred tubes of toothpaste to stop the zombie lord on Drakan 5. Zombies hate toothpaste, make a mental note of that. So he suddenly hit a large button on his forarm and seven warriors appeared around him in extremely defensive positions. They were his team, but he had hoped to keep them inside the concentration cube until he had infiltrated the mission. Once they were expelled from the black hole contained within it would inevitably disperse. Ricker, his token black friend, fired an extreme hellfire missile that exploded on out and around the deflector field, charring the last defender to a black, black pulp. Thank god, thought Laundar before he collapsed, Ricker killed the last one, that means I'm not racist.
There were moments upon waking when he was confused and unsure of his surroundings. There was a second when he thought that part of his face was still missing. Then she removed the bandages. Nothing had ever looked quite so beautiful. Mellissa was a majestic specimen, which played a considerable role in his decision to recruit her for his team. It was a major bonus that she was also somewhat skilled in nano-cellular reconstructive procedures. His team tended to lose a substantial number of limbs considering the impressive armor he had purchased last year. After the Diablo mission he had collected enough money to significantly upgrade his forces. It was pretty sweet. Her eyes glittered before him as she spoke. "Hey sir, you gave us a bit of a scare this time. Did you have any idea how big that hole was, I can't believe how much blood you lost! Johnson, Ricker and Roy went on ahead. Brokov, Seagal and Luc stayed back to guard the perimeter and search for gear." Suddenly he had so much energy. It was like he was fucking awesome. He got up and drew his Beamer, pushing the woman aside. There was a mission to do! Suddenly he realized something about the mission, a mission changing revelation. There were really two missions! "Go, tell Brok and the guys to capture Normanheimers daughter too. She has vital information we never thought about. I'll explain later. Ricker and I will take Normanheimer", there was no information, Normanheimers daughter was just very hot, he would make something up later. "What if you guys get hurt?" "Then we die, Lisa, we die.", he was already running towards the primary objective. That old bastard had stolen everything from him. There were also six bounties on his head. He was still deciding the most lucrative way of dividing the pieces once he got the old bugger. Normanheimer was a smuggler by trade. A bacon smuggler. Ever since the world health brigade had outlawed bacon on penalty of death it had gone deep underground. He loved bacon, but money was money, and he was running out of it. He had seen what bacon could do to a man, but damn he loved that stuff. Hell, maybe he could get some bacon out of this stupid ordeal. Shot in the face, again?? That was seriously fucked up. Like raising a family of racoons fucked up. In space. Suddenly the mission slammed him in the face. Ten enemies appeared before him with super guns. Mach 50 super guns, the new model, oh shit! There were loud booms as sonic waves decimated everything around him, his ninja roll barely evaded a dropping ceiling as he moved towards then. By the time they were dead he had broken a sweat. No fucking deflector fields this time, you stupid cunts. There was no way for his team to reconnect after the missions, the super guns had completely destroyed the passage behind him. He hated those things, they weren't hard to fight, but they sure packed a punch.
Mission Control turned around, Rodriguez was riding him about the Diablo mission again, trying to tell him that it was not a good mission. He was mission control! He didn't make bad missions! If anyone made bad missions it was rodriguez when he had been mission control. God he hated those stupid fucking missions. Not only did rodriguez make terrible mission plans, but he picked the stupidest missions. If Mission Control hadn't spoken up with his extreme plans instead, then they would have been investigating a Mongoose disturbance in the fifth sector. That was very far away. Five sectors could take up to five days to travel, even at super warp. There were no chances for profit in that way. Super warp was expensive. "You're a dick Rod, just lay off and let me control this mission." "You remember when we both got shot in the face during that stupid mission? And then diablo burned Tyrone alive! It's your fault we only have one black guy left! YOU'RE FAULT! And now we almost lost the commander!" "Because you keep shouting in my ear while I'm trying to do this mission! Will you lay off for a second!" "Alright you guy show me your fucking skills!" "Just lay off for a bit, please. Guys can you read me? Laund, hows the situation looking? Everything tracks ok up here." Laundars voice tricked through the transeiver, "Looking real good down here, how much distance to the mission objective, mission control?" "seventy" "What the shit? That is a very high number, whew, what a mission." "You're telling me, ha ha... wait a second! Theres a blip in the radar behind you, I think it might be Sylar. Get down!"
Sylars first attack destroyed a small puppy. They were fighting in the laboratory, where a large number of lab puppys where being held. Laundar had been able to avoid the flying table that his enemy had hurled at him. The most legendary bad guy was here, on this ship? He was still in a state of shock as a second object came whirling at him, and then another. His armor softened the blow and yet he flew backwards a dozen feet. He remembered the story of Legend, who faught Albiet in the war of 2019. They had clashed as titans, now he too would clash as titans with a legendary bad guy. He moved his gun but his hand would not move his gun. It was Sylars secret tricks! He had read history books about these. He was very luck that his mind fielder was undamaged and voice activated! "Mind Fielder Activate!", after a long drawn out transformation scene that changed nothing about his appearance he was able to move, Sylars secret powers being useless within his sphere of premise. But from behind the range of the fielder, his advesary began shooting amazing beams from his finger tips. Laundar moved fast and was behind cover, but would cover truly cover him against Sylars moves? He really wished he was Jeff Stenson right about now. What would Jeff Stenson do? He asked himself this question. Suddenly he was seven times smarter and could jump really high. He jumped onto the scafolding above and began shooting down at Sylar, who took his shots with great contempt. Death had never taken sylar, and science be damned they had no idea why. But he could be slowed, even captured. If he could just get close enough to engage his last containment cube. He dove for a rope and swung towards Sylar, but the scary man was on the move. He was flying right up towards Laundar. Sylars fist caught him in the face and he fell to the ground, his mind fielder smashing like glass. Sylar landed beside him and smirked. "Very good try, my friend, but I've dealt with this kind of thing before. I am Sylar after all. Now I am not here to fight you.", Sylar declared, "I am here to kill you." He thinks he has a chance, Laundar thought. "Of course I have a chance! I am Sylar!" Shit, he can read my thoughts, don't think about the disintigration virus in my blood that I happen to be immune to! "Disintigartion virus? Are you kidding? That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, nobody is immune to that virus!" Care to test your luck? Eternity can be a long time after all. Suddenly there were bullets and Sylar was gone. His team was here, well half of it anyways. They had Normanheimer with them. "Shit man, was that Sylar?", shouted Ricker "Yeah bro, Sylar. And he's after me, quick turn on your Mind Fielders and lets get out of here!"
wow, not the best formatting. and im not going to do anything about it. read if you dare.
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regarding op story..
i have no idea what just happen..
regarding gummys story
i feel like i understood it too well..
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I swear to god I wrote this before reading the thread...
+ Show Spoiler +In the idle coffee shops of the artistic quarters of any given metropolis, the wilderness can sometimes be romanticized to the point of synonymity with solitude and its connotation of steady artistic production. It was in this such environment that one writer diagnoses another with writer's block and that the prescription is a vacation of the city to a place that is warm but spare, and isolate; the actual recommendation of this sort of vigilante medicine was to hire an office on a part time basis, "what with the economy and all" the art doctor gestured vaguely, "it should be cheap, lots of vacant spaces". The patient, as it were, refrained from pointing out a certain vacant space that the unsolicited advice was issuing from. He departed some thirty minutes later, having exchanged enough superficial observations about literature to fill to the limen his need for human interaction. But try as he might, he thought of kicking a stray dog during the walk home, he could not deny the charlatan his point: "I'm really fucking blocked".
Safely out of the public eye, he stewed about the apartment with the full admission of failure slung across his shoulders. Several writing schedules were meticulously formulated over several weekends and scuttled immediately in the fearsome war cry of a forty-hour work week. More depressingly, he stopped having dreams.
At the end of one particularly frustrating weekend, in which the nighttime found him drunk on crude vodka martinis, peeling single pages from his latest rough draft and setting them ablaze using a lone candle in his darkened bathroom and then dropping them out the transom window once they became too hot to hold, he wobbled in front of the mirror above the sink, with his pale chest illuminated by a newly lit page. He removed his sunglasses. Eyeing his general reflection warily, he jerked up his half-empty martini glass, determinedly found and met his own gaze in the mirror and toasted himself, "Hey man, at least you're really fucking cool," and nodded with finality. The descending flame affixed to page sixty-seven burned his fingers, and he released it with a shout. The sheet swooped lazily back and forth on its way towards the earth and landed on the remaining stack of pages on the floor. "Jesus" he mumbled and threw back the remaining martini into his mouth and wiped his face with the back of his wrist. He turned semi-circle to the right and gazed downwards and found the little bonfire sprouting on his bathroom floor. He focused on the orange mess and slowly lifted up his right leg to stomp it out. A little unbalanced, his gaze went slowly upwards and then suddenly all the way towards the ceiling. As he fell backwards, his arms went out, and his right arm caught the tile wall and minutely slowed his descent under the screech of bare arm skin melting and hit his head on the floor.
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The city where he lived was entering middle autumn, where it is not yet cold but the sky grays with age. But before the days where the sun sets at 5 o'clock, there are beautifully sunny, clear days that suddenly pop open like a late blossom. He had those approximate thoughts one Saturday afternoon walk, an epiphanous occurrence that merited preservation. It was a small idea he reasoned, on the way back to his apartment, but enough for a poem. He had never written a poem before, and no doubt it wouldn't be very good, but that might be just the thing!
Attempting to race up the stairs of the duplex, in a self-conscious display of vigor, he slipped on the second step and cracked his knee cap on the cement. Aaaaah fuck! With vexation pinking his cheeks he massaged his knee and cradled the thought of murderously kicking down a row trash cans later when he received a text message from an unknown number.
--do you know how to text?
He was taken aback by the stupidity of the question and began surveying the street as though someone might be playing a trick on him, but shortly shook his head at himself for being improbably suspicious. He returned to his phone and texted back, "yes, who the fuck is this?"
--this is your mother.
He promptly called his mother, and the call was more boring than one might expect but not fatally so. To our protagonist, it was depressingly dull. He had by now picked up the bad habit of noticing how conspicuously boring most of life is. His mother had merely texted and then called to say that Fafa's and Nana's cabin had been given to her in the will, finally, by her "stupid-ass" brother in-law who had , at least initially, been enthusiastically voted executor of the estate. "Anyway", she cajoled, "would the would-be writer like to take up the task of visiting the property and reporting back to mom and dad?"
Yes, he replied enthusiastically. A surprise to the mother of a typically moody and unmotivated child. In typical mid-Western fashion, she normally concluded a conversation with "okay then" but her accreted capitalistic instinct from years of being married to a senior vice-president told her to hang up immediately. The writer sprang to his laptop and began creating a list of rugged food that would inspire austere and valuable prose.
He slammed shut the trunk of his car the next Saturday at 4:30AM and got in. The small gap he hadn't noticed heretofore, the one that formed between the rusted out rear driver-side door and the jamb made it sound as though he were riding along a coast with the windows down. He turned up the classical music on the radio, and grimaced. He felt the locks of his plan's finely buffed machinery click into place, from here until Vermilion he would be on schedule, and writing would occur. The cabin was lakeside, meaning that one could get to it by land. He left the city of Blaine behind as the sun was rising, he could feel the omen adding to the already increasing creative amperage as he headed north.
At noon, he sweatily arrived in front of the mailbox denoting his sanctuary to find it was overgrown with forest. Tall bushes with spindly tree-like fingers interlaced so densely over the driveway that the cabin nor the yard could not be glimpsed from the main road. He hadn't been out of the car all day, so he got out to inspect what was already certain, and surveyed the Gordian entanglement with a forfeited hand pressed against his forehead in a long moment and sighed-- an expression usually reserved for maidens in fantasy novels he quickly observed himself, and when an unpleasant lake breeze came up, adding the sinking feeling of newly cooled crotch and armpits, he got back in the car.
He clutched the steering wheel of his parked car and stared straight ahead at the road, motionless alongside the forest outside his window, then got out and went around to the trunk. He tugged out a backpack and in an act that exaggerated its weight, he almost dropped it as it cleared the door height. He bent down and looped his arms through one at a time and brought it up to standing height. He straightened his previously unnoticed slouch and tested the pack's weight, bouncing on the balls of his feet a few times. He plucked a baseball cap out of the trunk and slammed it shut with one hand. Fitting the cap to his head he walked towards the woods, parallel to the driveway.
About a hundred feet or so off the road, the forest floor gave way to a steep embankment. He looked along the edge of the drop off for a path downward. Seeing nothing appealing, he decided to go right, towards the driveway. He was forced to make his way to the same point seven minutes later, as the underbrush proved too thick and began to walk further into the forest in the opposite direction. He walked and walked and walked along the edge of the ridge seeing no sign indications that the terrain would give way to a softer angle of descent. The skin on his back began to get sweaty, and his overstuffed pack bounced with every step that wore his shoulders sore and then raw. After an hour, he sloughed off his pack and took out his writing schedule. The realization that he needed to make a decision set in. He reasoned that he could probably be back to the city by midnight if he made for the main road soon. On the other hand, he glanced back to his writing schedule, hadn't completed anything and for once he would take responsibility for the results.
He rose afresh with new resolve and continued in the same direction. Soon thereafter, the forest receded and let out onto a healthy field of knee-high grass. The field was at surrounded by two walls of rock forming a shallow valley. The sky was a luminescent grey, and the light spread evenly diffused by the thin but broad cloud cover. As his eye tracked down the faint path of trampled grass he saw a small figure in the distance: a man in a blue corduroy jacket and cap, sitting a stump before the burnt out remnants of a cabin.
As he drew closer, he could see the man in blue scribbling on a pad of paper. He did not know how far his voice would carry, so he went on walking towards the man and stopped to shout at him from a distance that seemed reasonable.
"Hey!"
The man paused momentarily to look in the direction of the traveler and promptly went back to work. It had been a long day, and the lack of courtesy angered the traveler. He quickened his pace, and shouted at the man in blue again on the walk, who did not bother to glance up this time. By the time he reached the yard of the ruins and the man, he was breathing heavily.
"Hey man," the traveler said as he set his pack down next a large rock and wiped his brow, "can you tell me if this is--"
"No," the man snapped without looking up.
"No? What're you doing out here? I think you need to--"
"A tiger stalks the carousel."
The color dropped out of the traveler's face. "That's the working title for my novel."
"Yes."
"Can I see it?" The traveler reached out for the notebook the man in blue had been laboring in.
"No!"
The traveler snatched the notebook out his hands and began running through the field with it. The pages were blank. Every page he flipped over dissolved into ash. The last page was a mirror. He beheld his own wide eyes and flaring nostrils in it. His hair whipped violently in the wind. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, or wait-- He was summarily exploded by a bolt of lightning.
He was awakened by the sound of his phone ringing, his head felt too swollen and painful to open his eyes fully just yet. He reached in his pocket and drew out the mobile device. Raising it to the front of his face he opened his eyes the tiniest amount, and read the text message from his mother.
--i don't get the title at all.
"Bro, that was like the shittiest dream ever." He croaked to no one.
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Man... I really love this literature and stuffs, but I feel like the narrow column-width of the central margin in the layout is not conducive to the paragraph lengths generally encountered in Literature. What might look manageable and clean in a paperback looks like an opaque block of text on TL and makes reading a work of any density feel like a chore to be rewarded for. I prefer my experiences on TL to rival the heaviest of acid trips in their boundless and uninterrupted euphoria. I do not support the use of illegal recreational drugs.
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