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Atmosphere Awards!

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Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

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#1

Posted 27 February 2013 - 01:22 AM Edited by Ziggy455, 22 August 2013 - 09:40 AM.

I noticed lately that alot of people have been itching for a communal effort in something like Short Story of the-whatever the f*ck people chose. Anyway. I've decided to host a new short topic entitled Atmosphere. It goes like so: I will upload a music track -a la youtube- and you must create a story that the music evokes in you. We all judge on the winning story at the end of every week. The winner chooses the next song.

I write to music and I believe music is a universal gem that all writers have used now and again for inspiration, and I don't know if anybody else feels it but I believe this feels like it's a little different. So I'll lay out some groundrules.

WriterStoryVotes
Ziggy455San Darkos3
TyphusKing Richard2
Mokrie DelaUntitled0
orbitalraindropsA Childs play thing0
brownbear--0
AceRay--0
Coat.Rust in Orbit0
user posted image
Winner:

Rules

No Fanfic-Based stories.
500 words minimum.
Any theme goes, it is your interpretation of the song that allows the theme.
No rape stories.
One story per song.
Can't vote for your own story.


How this works!

Each person uploads their story. Every three to five days -depending on activity- we will all vote for the best story.

Alright. First song:



Check out the user: Graven, the GFX guy who made the TROPHY Picture! Thanks Graven!
Check out GFX User: WarChief for his additional efforts to Atmosphere Awards!

Championship RanksRankWinning Stories
orbitalraindrops1st place!Mount Uluru(1)


Songs used so far:

Sword of Damocles - Torque (Ziggy455)
Lycia - Bare (orbitalraindrops)
Freedom - Anthony Hamilton (Ziggy455)

Danni
  • Danni

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#2

Posted 27 February 2013 - 06:19 AM

Excellent idea, Ziggy. This should host some true gems. Should this be posted within the thread, or should we make our topics for it?


Typhus
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#3

Posted 27 February 2013 - 08:29 AM Edited by Typhus, 27 February 2013 - 08:33 AM.

Joe-Jack's Sock-Puppet Fans


Joe Jack Gnikatg was an awful human being.
Every day, he would run past me, pumping his little legs and stop at the gate of our school.

"I won!" He claimed. "I won! I beat you in the race! I won!"

"I wasn't running." I always retorted.

But that didn't matter. He felt he had won. Who was I to crush his fantasies?

At first I was amused by him, he was interesting enough to talk to. He loved TV. There was this one show he absolutely adored about a drug dealer and every so often he'd wear the shirts and lend me the DVD's - always being sure to remind me that he was the 'bigger fan' of the show.
So he won.

As we grew up, he started to mature. In appearance if not personality. He grew out his black hair so it sat in wavy curls atop his head and all about his chin was the tiny sprouts of a future beard.
As he changed his looks, he changed his friends. Soon he was smoking marijuana. And all he could do was talk about his TV show and the way he enjoyed getting high and watching the TV show whilst getting high.
I advised him against doing drugs. I told him it would f*ck him up.

"You're just not open minded." He snapped. "I'm far more open minded than you."

So, again, he won.

The years went by and we drifted apart somewhat, occasionally connecting via the internet. And whilst I had grown up, he had stayed the same. Same hair, same beard, same obsession with his meth dealing hero, same willingness to pollute his mind with drugs.
But then he said something that made me think he might have actually grown up.
I saw on his Facebook status that he had just published a book.
How about that?! I felt happy for the guy, finally he was growing up and moving out of his comfort zone.
I e-mailed him, sending him my congratulations and asking about the story.

"It's about doing drugs." He wrote, his words jumbled and poorly crafted. "And it's about a drug dealer."

That was weird. It sounded just like that television show he enjoyed. Just like the videogames he played with such compulsive vigour.
But he assured me that he was a real writer and he even had real fans. They were coming by his house later on and I was welcome to join in.

"I'd be honoured." I replied and prepared to leave.

I arrived at his house and was met by his Mother. God, she was a piece of ass. Age had not ravaged her beauty like that of Tom Jones but merely heightened it, like that of Emma Watson - without the blood-drinking, of course.
I made my way down to the basement to where my friend was and saw a circle of chairs. He was in the middle, and apart from a fat guy in glasses, they were all empty.

"Come in, come in!" He smiled. "There's not much room but you can stand in the corner, if you want."

I complied and watched silently, waiting for him to read some of his book.
But instead, he took out a laptop. It turned out he hadn't published anything, he had just posted a story on the internet.

"But more people like my story than your story!" He bitched. So he won.

But I didn't write a story.
And, beyond that, I was curious to hear about these "people" who enjoyed his work.
When I asked him about this, he became defensive. It wasn't until I raised my voice that he relented and agreed to 'introduce' me to his 'fans'.
He reached inside his trousers, pulled out a sock, put it on his hand and started chatting with it.

"Your story's great." Said the sock.

"Thank you, it is great, isn't it?" He replied.

"Yes," the sock responded, "you've got real talent."

I cut him off here and shook my head in disgust.

"I've got more socks." He whimpered, but now I was pissed and there was nothing to stop me from revealing what I truly thought of him.

"You're not a writer," I began "you're a c*nt. You're a whiny, attention seeking c*nt. You think you're so much better than me and whilst you smile through your teeth and feign humility, it's pretty f*cking clear just what an unhappy, empty person you are. You're not a writer, you're not even close to being a writer. And if you were, you'd kill yourself in a week - tops. Because you are completely f*cking incapable of taking any kind of criticism without responding with insults or childish justifications for why you f*cking suck, which you f*cking well do. You're a loser, you're a complete f*cking loser and you're a bigger loser for claiming that you're a winner. Now, what I'm going to do next is walk up those stairs, take your Mother out for a nice meal, bring her back to a sleazy hotel room and f*ck her brains out, then I'm going to let her come back here, wait a few weeks and send her a letter confessing that I have syphilis."

I spat in his face and walked up the stairs.

"You also f*ck other men." I added, leaving his basement for the very last time.

As I sit here now, recounting this story to you years later - my mind wasted away by my degenerative orgy of sexually transmitted infections, I feel a great sense of remorse. For both the things I did and the things I didn't do.
But mostly I feel regret at f*cking Joe Jack Gnikatg's Mother, because she was a poor lay and raised a dipsh*t cocksucker of a son.
Still, considering I saw him on a street corner a few months ago, bragging that he would let men defecate on his face for $5 an hour, I think I got off pretty easily.
In fact, you could even say that I won.

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

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#4

Posted 27 February 2013 - 11:34 AM

QUOTE (Danni @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 06:19)
Excellent idea, Ziggy. This should host some true gems. Should this be posted within the thread, or should we make our topics for it?

I think either can do; post a topic or put the story here. If you decide to make a topic just put SSOTW Entry under the title. smile.gif

Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    МОКРЫЕДЕЛA

  • The Yardies
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#5

Posted 27 February 2013 - 11:34 AM

I think you should ammend the "no gta based content" to "no fan fiction content" - and have original only. Interesting concept - I added a song to the end of JIF, but i'm not sure anyone appreciates it (I even secured the artist's permission lol), and I think music is a big part of the way i write. I'm a musician too (i play bass, but can play some guitar,) and the way i write is like watching a film in front of me, and i write what i see. Music i try to avoid, referring to, but it's there in my mind, a sort of score to my notional movie.

Typhus, i don't know what to say - that made me laugh! Nice and cynical!

untitled.

The mechanized infantry marched on no feet. The army rules the skies, sending hyrdojets into the red sky, armed with enough firepower to level a city. It was the Eastern Republic States that had woken this giant. The countries that had long since been the Middle East and Asia crossed the inhabitable Fields of Death, which separated The United States of Europe from the eastern world, standing where several countries had, their names and culture long since forgotten.

The carriers hummed their war song as they inched through the sky, jets and battle-ready condors dancing around the huge structure which seemed to defy gravity. The view from the ground - if anyone could survive there - would have been spectacular and surreal, but the only life on the scarred surface was made up of robotic soldiers, exchanging ordinance in a staggered stalemate.
The war was one of silos and buttons, but eventually those missiles ran out. Peace had, in some ways, killed the world, for the reduced amount of rockets had led to the mechanized battle of the sky, under the glare of a dying sun. Self-survival projects - simulated plants and regenerative food which showed real promise - had been abandoned in favour of weapons and fighter vehicles.

The ERS had started the attack, crossing time zones so, while they were all prepared and awake, the USE and USA were still wrapped up in the false security of their beds. The USA had countered in their typical manor, flexing their muscles and showing off their size. But as with many men who were overtly muscular - strong even - they lacked the agility and power (there's a difference between strength and power) to completely head off the attack. Europe was better equipped, with their military waking up from all corners of the continent. The war over the Fields of Death was a giant standoff, energy weapons being depleted against unwavering shields.

The giant carriers were the first to fall. Their shields, capable of resisting even aggressive solar flares, were pulled down, much to their confusion. A new weapon had been unveiled, and it was the URS that had it, a giant Electro magnetic generator, capable of de-stablising enemy shields.
The carrier's engines took a direct hit from the fission-missiles and the humming that was the soundtrack to their involvement stopped. The rear of the giant platform dipped and fell, pulling the rest of the monstrous vehicle down.
That led to the fall of the first City - Brussels. The carrier fell right into the heart of the city, flattening the skyscrapes and century old buildings. The resulting shockwave from the impact leveled the outskirts and suburbs.
Finally, the reactors went, throwing their potential energy out at once. That explosion leveled what remained of the city, and a new 'field of death' was born.

The sky was now full of aircraft; everything the USE had they threw at the enemy, but it just wasn't enough.

The war waged for weeks, but when the last carrier fell, there was nothing left. Europe itself had been destroyed, completely leveled. Whatever value it had was lost, and the only achievement the ERS could claim refereed to an ancient religion very few still believed in.

The sight from up here is both amazing and horrific. The planet, once a mosaic of green blue and grey, was now red and black. The seas had lost their hue, and the land was utterly destroyed. Perhaps in a thousand years, life might resume, but from up here, I can't see a single bit of green. Even the clouds are gone - as if that makes sense.

Very few believe in time travel, and no one has achieved it. Apart from me. I'm watching from this abandoned space station, asking my self the question:
How the hell can I warn them this is going to happen?

The human species, so set on war, never changes. War is their biggest product, and no mortal words can change that.

orbitalraindrops
  • orbitalraindrops

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#6

Posted 27 February 2013 - 11:46 AM Edited by orbitalraindrops, 27 February 2013 - 11:51 AM.

Mount Uluru – tangerine granite against a black sky.
Ash falls heavily, swirls of it pulsating in the coarse wind, creasing, gliding and falling.

They dance. Thousands of them. Naked, sweating ebony bodies. They know the end is coming and they are embracing it. It was forseen. The sun hangs heavy in the sky. Larger than it normally is but then if the Apocalypse is coming you’d expect the sun to make a righteous appearance.

The air is heavy and stale. A thousand Eagles fly around the mountain, crying and shouting. The pearls of sand retain the heat of this dying world. They scorch the Aborigines soles. Admist the writhing crowd stands a totem. A small wooden structure elegantly carved. Nurtured from fine Australian Oak. It sits planted in the centre of Mount Ulurus peak. On top of it stands Alawa, Shaman, Mystic, Father and Son. He was the first to come here. The first to spread the word. He has the best seat in the house and rightfully so. His body is leathered. Pruned and wrinkled from toiling for years under the Australian sun. He wears nothing but a scarf of slain animals around his shoulders. He holds his arms spread eagled upwards towards the sky.

Bright red Tribal paint is smeared across his belly and genitals. A stark contrast to the ebon skin. He holds a staff made of wood and bone, dried seaweed wrapped around the tip. He points it at the sky.

A snap, a crack of lightning, maybe thunder. It is the middle of the day. No rain. Just the unrelenting heat and Ash. It is Twelve noon. Forever recorded by those to come as the day that Earth died. Alawa bellows. Uncomfortable words tumble out of his cracked bleeding lips. Words stained forever by doubt and hope of retribution. He is asking for forgiveness. Forgiveness of the sins of man. Forgiveness for the sins that killed the Earth.

The clouds rumble and shake spewing forth boiling Ash. Still the Aborignes dance. The earth beneath there feet begins to part, collapsing in on itself. Still the Aborignes dance. The Eagles cry in fear and attack each other, there beaks, teeth and claws ripping into the flesh of each other. Still the Aborignes dance.

Twisting, gyrating, spinning, falling. Many are sucked into the earth, killed instantly. Others are flung hundreds of metres into the air, swept by the Ash storm off the peak of Mount Uluru. Alawa still stands. Eyes upwards looking the worlds ending straight in the face.

The Aborignes circle around the totem. There dance still retains its urgency. So primal, so much lust and love and desperation all combined into the movement of there bodies. A young mother chokes on Ash, a new born held to her breast. Her hips gyrating to the pulsing beat that the Sky emits. A Warrior, tall strong, Skin black and face scarred. He arches his back and throws himself off the mountain. Shattered bodies everywhere. Crimson blood soaked into orange sand. Alawa admires it all. Soon they will all go to the dream time. Man killed the world and as the world died it in turn killed man. Beautiful. Alawa lets out a smile. The ash storm is gathering in intensity. More of the Mountain is crumbling away into nothing. It won’t be long now.

_____________________________________________


Typhus story made me Lul so hard. I Want King to read it.

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

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#7

Posted 27 February 2013 - 12:12 PM

I vote Typhus. inlove.gif

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

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#8

Posted 27 February 2013 - 01:13 PM Edited by Ziggy455, 27 February 2013 - 01:18 PM.


Death Cries

“Take him and go!” The sounds of screams and yells began to rumble all around. The wooden exterior of the house was not built to withstand such cries; cups, plates, and frames began to violently tremble, crashing to the floor as the front door began to splinter and crack. In the brief moments of their lives, Nikolai and Kaira both felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Nikolai's stern face; hiding his anger and sadness at not seeing the bundle in his arms grow up to be the beautiful boy he had known and loved.

“I will not leave you, my love.” Said Kaira; her eyes blurred with constant tears that spilt down her face and onto the sheets of the bundle that was now thrust into her arms. Crash! Something flew in through the dining room window! It crashed across the floor and from the broken crevices of the bottle there spilt the fuel that exploded, wiping out pictures in a thunderous roaring burst of heat. Kaira jumped lightly and moved slowly down the basement steps as Nikolai followed after her.

“Kaira, come here,” said Nikolai as he pulled her close; the sounds of an approaching war was as thick as the fire that began to coat the dining room ceiling and beyond, “I love you, I always have and I always will.” Such a confession of love only made the young woman cry out in a hurt yelp as she knew what was to happen. “I love you too, Nikolai, I always will.” And for a brief moment, a calm washed over them as they shared a final moment together. The very essence of love was shattered as Nikolai gently pushed Kaira further down the steps.

“Go now! Follow the lights! Michael will be waiting at the end in a pick-up for you.” Said Nikolai, running up the steps; the front door splintered as more fuel cocktails blasted through the living room window. “Go now!” he yelled, slamming the basement door, and quickly shoving the large green rug over it. Karik; his blade, glinted in the firelight from across the dining room table. My old friend, it seemed to say as Nikolai grabbed its firm grip; the black material that floated on it with a mystic quality calmed the man in final moments of peace.

The door splintered open, falling flat on the floor in a wooden mess. In the doorway there stood faces of both anger and fear. The sword was ready. Nikolai was ready.

“Come for me!” he screamed as three villagers jumped in. These were familiar; John Coondo, the local General Store owner, his brother Phil, a lazy, obese, dungaree-wearing fool, and finally Daniel Candle; a junkie. All three had shovels raised high. John lunged forward with an overhead swipe, Karik split through his torso like butter and he hit the floor in two pieces, his upper torso, and the rest of him. Phil screamed out in shock and ran straight for Nikolai, his sweaty, large body flopping as he ran forward with great crashes. Nikolai jammed Karik deep into the fat man’s solar plexus, pulling Karik back out and moving out of the way quickly Phil continued to run, crashing straight into a wall and falling forward with a final gasp of breath. Blood began to seep into the rug. Nikolai himself was covered in the crimson stuff.

The junkie was weaker; he ran forward with a swipe, but the shovel itself was too heavy and he fell to the floor with a cry. He looked up at Nikolai with that familiar feeling he had once felt himself. “Noooooo-“ Karik was quickly rammed through the poor man’s head. More people ran inside.

Karik was yanked out of the dead junkie’s head with a cringing slice and was poised, ready for the next three. The fire began to spread from the dining room to the main hallway. As another two ran in, they backed away from the roaring fire that now covered the entire dining room. Nikolai did not care for the heat; his eyes were on the prize. Five men; he knew them all.
Steven Merchant, Ryan Christe, Daniel Jones, Arthur Hands, and Jackson Tatum were his next victims. Steven was carrying a pitchfork, Ryan was spinning a small knife, Daniel had no weapons –the poor fool-, Arthur carried a meat cleaver that was old and rusty, and Daniel had brought his own katana from his house. A thunderous crash came from the living room; more were coming in the back door!

“You men should leave.” Said Nikolai as a person ran from behind, screaming to high heavens as flames licked his body. Karik sliced through him, spraying blood on the five men who had just entered.

“Get this f*cking freak!” screamed Steven, pushing Arthur forward. The young black man lifted his cleaver high and ran forward; the rustic blade even glinted in the firelight for a brief second before Karik sliced off Arthur’s forearm. A bloodcurdling scream mixed with the raging crescendo of the ever-moving fire that was slowly surrounding them. “He chopped off my-“ Anoter quick swipe through the cranium as he lay on the floor silenced him. No time was wasted- Stephen ran forward, the pitchfork dug into Nikolai’s leg as it pushed him back to the stairs. Nikolai screamed as he sliced the handle as fast as lightning. It was too quick for Steven’s eyes to comprehend. The blade sliced through the wood and with the pitchfork still deep in his thigh, Nikolai shoved Karik deep into Steven’s stomach; moving close to his ear.

“Goodbye, Deputy.” He said, pushing Steven off Karik gently. Ryan and Daniel sprinted forward, the katana went straight for Ryan’s neck; his head shot off with such a force that Daniel screamed in shock and fell into the dining room. The raging beast had grabbed him with its roaring hot claws and was no devouring him. Jackson kept his katana ready. The young boy was only fifteen. Nikolai stood up and yanked the pitchfork head out of his thight; it wouldn’t be long now. He was coming.

“Get out of here, Jackson.” The young child’s eyes scanned the horrific scene around him; Decapitation, mutilation, burn victims. He dropped his katana and ran from the house. Outside more screams echoed; the second floor bedroom collapsed into the roaring, flaming abyss that used to be the dining room. Nikolai scrambled up the smoky stairs with Karik as a walking stick.

The click of a megaphone echoed out through the screams of the fire, and survivors of his onslaught “Nikolai!” It was him, alright. “Nikolai, if you do not come out I will come in and we will finish this.”

Let him come, let him finish this. Upstairs, smoked poured through all of the rooms. Niko jumped into Marcus’ room and slammed the door shut. The large room was half-painted for a nursery; Kaira had pleaded with him to paint it pink before the baby arrived but somehow Nikolai knew a son was to be born and so half a walk was painted bright blue.

The sound of heavy feet thudded up the stairs. “You have killed eight people, Nikolai. You have made this worse on yourself!” yelled that familiar voice, a voice Nikolai had only hatred for.

He sat down in the middle of the room and closed his eyes. This was to be a quick death. CRASH! A Molotov smashed through a window, splitting and exploding in a glorious visual firework that coated the north wall, setting fire to the baby’s crib and toys in the corner. Nikolai stood up with a limp, he gripped Karik tightly as he turned to the window. The door slammed open; in walked the man.

Arty Gabbles was a largely-built man. Under his black vest there was a vast amount of naturally-built muscle. But beyond the physical peak of human strength, Arty displayed an intense intelligence. His curtained fringe and black katana were well known. He pointed his sword straight to Nikolai.

“This ends now, Nikolai, give me the baby.”

He ran forward with a scream, he sliced down with his katana; his leg burning. Chink! The two clashed, and with a thunderous kick, Nikolai was launch back close to the fire that slowly began to eat away at the room, swallowing toys and painted walls whole. Arty slowly circled Nikolai as the injured man stood up.

“All you had to do was give me the baby, Nikolai, and you’d have been fine.”
Another yell came from Niko and then a left swipe, a punch in the thigh from the fierce Arty dropped him onto one knee; fresh blood poured from the burning puncture wound. The black katana dropped down but Karik was raised; another chink echoed out. Nikolai screamed and gritted his teeth, shoving the large man back with a stumble.

“You will have to work for your meal,” said Nikolai, his blade pointed at the confused man. Arty’s face swapped from confusion to a small grin as he span his black blade.

“Is this how you want it to end?” said Arty as he circled a poised Nikolai once again.

“Yes.” Karik swooped down again, a left slice, a deflection. Nikolai shot his leg back away from Arty’s second punch. The black blade shot forward, Niko fell back, parrying the blade away to the right. It was forced down and entered the floor next to Nikolai’s head. Arty yanked out the blade as his enemy rolled over, going in for a second attack with Karik. As the blade was raised high, Arty pulled out the sword in the wood and lunged; the black katana was thrust deep into Nikolai’s arm with a piercing scream.
The man’s grip on the katana did not lessen. Karik swiped down violently, slicing yet another forearm; this time it was Arty’s. The large man fell back and screamed as loud as the fire that now began to surround the two; another crash came from further in the house. It was falling apart!

“My arm...” said Arty confused.

Blood began to pour down Nikolai’s arm. He looked down at Arty as fresh blood trickled from his head; a wound he had sustained when being kicked back. As quick as a flash, Arty slammed one of his steel-cap boots as hard as he possibly could on Nikolai’s shin. A thunderous crack exploded and Niko fell to the floor in extreme agony. Arty scrambled forward; his arm bleeding fresh blood each second. Must stop the bleeding!

Arty shoved his fresh stump deep into the fire that was spread all around. The pain he felt, he considered it to be worse than having a hundred thousand needles gently pressed into your skin. He screamed louder than anybody had ever heard. The remaining villagers around the house all heard it as they backed away from the roaring exhibition that used to be a family home. Arty pulled out his black stump from the fire. Eyeing his work, he was glad to see no blood was free-flowing. Nikolai cradled himself in pain as his splintered shinbone poked out of his baggy jeans.

Arty stood up; his picked up Karikisha – his sword- and walked towards Nikolai. The ground violently shook. “Let us finish this; I will take my time considering you’ve just taken my arm!” he yelled as he raised his blade a final time. Nikolai rolled once more. He pushed himself up and grabbed Karik. Karikisha swiped down, chink! Both injured men found each swipe to be a nauseating and tiring effort. The katana’s lazily connected with metallic scrapes. Niko fell back, Arty lunged forward; a deflection hit from the left knocked Arty off balance and then Nikolai found his opportunity.

“So long, old friend!” said Arty as Nikolai raised his sword forward with a piercing scream. With both hands raised, Karik glinted in the firelight, ready for its final kill. Arty kept his blade lowered. Karik swung down and with a chink, Nikolai was parried off balance. Arty lunged forward; the blade shot deep into the man’s stomach. Arty forced Karikisha all the way. The two came close together as Arty embraced his victim.

“So long, my friend,” Nikolai smiled as fresh blood trickled out of his mouth and onto his blood red t-shirt.

“We’re...going...together.” said Nikolai as his eyes rolled back. The house began to rumble; and then suddenly the floor beneath the two gave way into the fiery abyss of the first floor. Karikishi fell from Arty’s hand as he screamed and fell through the floor and hit the roaring hot floor below. In the heated hell that Arty had now fell into; two blades fell into the gaping hole from above and landed in his arm remaining arm and shoulder pinning him down. The villagers fled in fear as they heard the man’s final screams.

Typhus
  • Typhus

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#9

Posted 27 February 2013 - 02:14 PM Edited by Typhus, 27 February 2013 - 06:58 PM.

Mokrie

A very interesting story. And one I read very slowly, being sure to take everything in, all the little details and make sure I understood everything correctly.
I like your use of language for whilst it is a futuristic setting, you almost romanticise the language of war in the same manner as Tolkien would - a heavy emphasis on locations and a firm grasp of different warring states and their respective psyches.

The twist at the end was very welcome, not entirely shocking but it fit in well. And whilst I would usually carp about the 'war is bad' message at the end, I think you did a good job of explaining the reasons behind that perspective, in that society had traded scientific wonders for new and more effective means of destruction.

All in all a very effective, concise piece. Well done!


Orbitalraindrops

Very nice work. Now, I won't lie, there were some minor spelling errors, but it's nothing major. I like this story a great deal because it deals with the 'other' natives. I'm sure you're aware of the stereotype of the 'noble savage', the wise old Native who cries a solitary tear at the excesses of the 'white man'.

F*ck that! I like the warrior natives - the Aztecs, the Mayans, the doomsday seers and their blood rituals. And that is why I enjoyed your story so much.
For whilst their dancing in the face of impending death may be viewed by some as insane, you still imbue them with an elegance and bravery that makes me respect them even as they fall to a fiery death.

Great job, man wink.gif


Ziggy

Not too shabby but it has a few problems. The minor stuff like spelling errors isn't important, you can work on that and it'll improve. But the biggest issue I have with this is the focus on the violence - call me a weak-kneed Southern belle, but at times it seemed voyeuristic. Arms were sliced off, torsos ripped into, bleeding stumps quarterised.

Gore and death are powerful literary tools for shocking the audience, but indulged in too often they yield only indifference. Case in point, Stephen King's book Misery most contains a writer tied to a bed by a deranged fan, but when that fan gets violent - the violence is all the worse for the quieter moments where we've seen her nearly snap, only to pull herself back from the brink of lunacy at the last moment. Too much bloodshed would have killed the drama and I think that may have happened here.

However, it's not all bad Ziggy. Not at all, the moments between Nikolai and his wife weren't bad. You seem to have a good handle on dialogue and I can only recommend trying quieter, more chatty piece to play to your strengths and hone them further.
All in all, it's nothing to be disappointed by. Your descriptive work is certainly proficient and as I said, you show potential when it comes to dialogue.

I think I'll conclude by saying that this makes me intrigued to see what you do next and for that you should be happy smile.gif

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

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#10

Posted 27 February 2013 - 02:40 PM

QUOTE
Ziggy

Not too shabby but it has a few problems. The minor stuff like spelling errors isn't important, you can work on that and it'll improve. But the biggest issue I have with this is the focus on the violence - call me a weak-kneed Southern belle, but at times it seemed voyeuristic. Arms were sliced off, torsos ripped into, bleeding stumps quarterised.

Gore and death are powerful literary tools for shocking the audience, but indulged in too often they yield only indifference. Case in point, Stephen King's book Misery most contains a writer tied to a bed by a deranged fan, but when that fan gets violent - the violence is all the worse for the quieter moments where we've seen her nearly snap, only to pull herself back from the brink of lunacy at the last moment. Too much bloodshed would have killed the drama and I think that may have happened here.

However, it's not all bad Ziggy. Not at all, the moments between Nikolai and his wife weren't bad. You seem to have a good handle on dialogue and I can only recommend trying quieter, more chatty piece to play to your strengths and hone them further.
All in all, it's nothing to be disappointed by. Your descriptive work is certainly proficient and as I said, you show potential when it comes to dialogue.

I think I'll conclude by saying that this makes me intrigued to see what you do next and for that you should be happy 


I don't know who you think you're talking to. I'm a winner! I won! I won this round. tounge.gif

In all seriousness I totally agree. I believe I got so caught up in the passion of the violence that my actual story became diluted because of it. I understand what you mean. I'm going to plan ahead with my next story; hopefully that should get rid of such mistakes.

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#11

Posted 27 February 2013 - 08:20 PM

Keeping it in this thread, in my opinion, is going to make it way too cluttered with all of the stories, votes, and other such things. I say let's do it like how we did the SSoftM game. Just a thought. smile.gif

Mokrie Dela
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#12

Posted 27 February 2013 - 08:24 PM

QUOTE (Typhus @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 14:14)
Mokrie

A very interesting story. And one I read very slowly, being sure to take everything in, all the little details and make sure I understood everything correctly.
I like your use of language for whilst it is a futuristic setting, you almost romanticise the language of war in the same manner as Tolkien would - a heavy emphasis on locations and a firm grasp of different warring states and their respective psyches.

The twist at the end was very welcome, not entirely shocking but it fit in well. And whilst I would usually carp about the 'war is bad' message at the end, I think you did a good job of explaining the reasons behind that perspective, in that society had traded scientific wonders for new and more effective means of destruction.

All in all a very effective, concise piece. Well done!


Thank you. The message i went for at the end was simply: "it's in our nature to kill ourselves" (papa roach reference) - it's inevitable, its what we do, and will always do. Even seeing where it'll lead wont change out nature.

I loved orbital's opening, had a wonderful poetry to it, kind of like the well thought our narration that I can hear Morgan Freeman saying!



@ziggy: "I vote typhus" - One word: brilliant! haha

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#13

Posted 27 February 2013 - 08:31 PM

QUOTE (Danni @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 20:20)
Keeping it in this thread, in my opinion, is going to make it way too cluttered with all of the stories, votes, and other such things. I say let's do it like how we did the SSoftM game. Just a thought. smile.gif

But that then runs the risk of having piece get bumped down the page constantly and get little-to-no exposure.
I think one thread keeps everything nice and neat and actually encouraged people to add to it rather than having to worry about whether or not they want to start a thread.

If we keep this informal, keep it fun, I see no reason why it can't be a big success smile.gif

orbitalraindrops
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#14

Posted 27 February 2013 - 09:42 PM Edited by orbitalraindrops, 27 February 2013 - 10:11 PM.

Aw cheers Typhus! smile.gif. Positive feedback, especially from a writer such as yourself does mean the world to me. I have had that concept for a story for a quite a while though to be honest. The idea of natives dancing in this animalistic ritual manner as the World ended really appealed to me. When I heard the song though I knew that the story could fit in perfectly and I just put the song on repeat till I finished it.

As for the thread itself there have been some pretty good responses to it so far. I think your onto something good here Zig smile.gif. I like that it's quite light hearted and fun. I doubt I could write more than 1000 words in one sitting so this is the ideal starting length for me.

I want to see what/ if other people post first before voting. Brief thoughts on each story so far -
Typhus - Your story was topical and had me literally laughing out loud just because it really summed up "Joe John". I especially love the reference to sock puppets/ accounts. I think you really nailed a certain someones characteristics. Especially with the "I Won" attitude. I love dark humour especially when it's aimed at someone as irritating as "Joe John".
Ziggy - Yours had a slight Tarantino esque feel to it with the katanas and uber violence. It's the type of thing I'd want as a light read. Gory, fast paced etc. What I most enjoy about reading your work is actually how you strive to become a better writer all the time. Seeing someone having such a passion for something does make me feel inspired as weird as that sounds.
Mokrie - Yours really reminded me of when you'd get those compendiums of science fiction short stories and I really enjoyed reading it because of that. The three different world states also reminded me a bit of 1984 which is one of my favorite novels by the way so that helped as well. I liked the little twist at the end. Very Philip K Dick.

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#15

Posted 27 February 2013 - 09:57 PM

QUOTE
you strive to become a better writer all the time.


It's all I try to do. I want to be a better writer, and you don't become one without criticism and an open mind. I think my biggest flaw is my inability to find my own niche when it comes to planning a story. notify.gif It infuriates that I can never plan out a simple story. Writing just from my head is a flaw I need to get rid of.

As for this topic, I think it's short and sweet. You got a music track, you got a keyboard: Done. There's no intricate tables, no moderation. It's more about critiques and inspiration.

Mokrie Dela
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#16

Posted 27 February 2013 - 11:52 PM

QUOTE (Ziggy455 @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 21:57)
QUOTE
you strive to become a better writer all the time.


It's all I try to do. I want to be a better writer, and you don't become one without criticism and an open mind. I think my biggest flaw is my inability to find my own niche when it comes to planning a story. notify.gif It infuriates that I can never plan out a simple story. Writing just from my head is a flaw I need to get rid of.

As for this topic, I think it's short and sweet. You got a music track, you got a keyboard: Done. There's no intricate tables, no moderation. It's more about critiques and inspiration.

that's what i loved about one shots. Theme, write, done.

I'm gonna pop in and out of here with the same attitude - write, post. No edit, just natural work, either fluid genius or torrential literary diarrhea.

@orbital - thanks man, pretty flattering compliment there!

Ziggy, very nice idea for a topic. Kudos.

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#17

Posted 27 February 2013 - 11:54 PM

QUOTE (Mokrie Dela @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 23:52)
QUOTE (Ziggy455 @ Wednesday, Feb 27 2013, 21:57)
QUOTE
you strive to become a better writer all the time.


It's all I try to do. I want to be a better writer, and you don't become one without criticism and an open mind. I think my biggest flaw is my inability to find my own niche when it comes to planning a story. notify.gif It infuriates that I can never plan out a simple story. Writing just from my head is a flaw I need to get rid of.

As for this topic, I think it's short and sweet. You got a music track, you got a keyboard: Done. There's no intricate tables, no moderation. It's more about critiques and inspiration.

that's what i loved about one shots. Theme, write, done.

I'm gonna pop in and out of here with the same attitude - write, post. No edit, just natural work, either fluid genius or torrential literary diarrhea.

@orbital - thanks man, pretty flattering compliment there!

Ziggy, very nice idea for a topic. Kudos.

QUOTE
torrential literary diarrhea


whatsthat.gif Whether you plan or not, writing is always torrential, literary, and a form of diarrhea.

GTA-King
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#18

Posted 28 February 2013 - 02:39 AM Edited by GTA-King, 28 February 2013 - 03:26 AM.

@Typhus: I really enjoyed your story. It really spoke to me. ph34r.gif

I hope you're really not that bitter though, considering I have already spoken my peace.

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#19

Posted 28 February 2013 - 03:19 AM

Wait. Are you actually voting before declaring an end to the week?

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#20

Posted 28 February 2013 - 07:02 AM

ah f*ckiong c8nt licking piece of sh*t.

I just f*cking was goint o get my mother f*cking story which was mother f*&cking excellent and I f*cking saved over it so its now a blank sheet. Its on my USB so I can't get it back from the f*ckin recycle can so its lost forever now. And it was really f*cking good too, probably one of the best things I've written in a while. I feel like stabbing someone in the f*cking brain right now.

Has anyone got any ideas for how I can get it back? Please, I need some help or I'm going to go crazy.

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#21

Posted 28 February 2013 - 09:46 AM Edited by GTA-King, 28 February 2013 - 10:18 AM.

@AceRay: What program did you write it in, and have you closed it yet? If not, maybe you can go to "Edit" then "Undo" and your text will come back.

EDIT: Oh, you saved over it. Yeah... I really don't know what to tell you there. Bummer man. confused.gif

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#22

Posted 28 February 2013 - 10:10 AM

QUOTE (AceRay @ Thursday, Feb 28 2013, 07:02)
ah f*ckiong c8nt licking piece of sh*t.

I just f*cking was goint o get my mother f*cking story which was mother f*&cking excellent and I f*cking saved over it so its now a blank sheet. Its on my USB so I can't get it back from the f*ckin recycle can so its lost forever now. And it was really f*cking good too, probably one of the best things I've written in a while. I feel like stabbing someone in the f*cking brain right now.

Has anyone got any ideas for how I can get it back? Please, I need some help or I'm going to go crazy.

Auto-recovery?

AceRay
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#23

Posted 28 February 2013 - 06:08 PM

QUOTE (Ziggy455 @ Thursday, Feb 28 2013, 23:10)
QUOTE (AceRay @ Thursday, Feb 28 2013, 07:02)
ah f*ckiong c8nt licking piece of sh*t.

I just f*cking was goint o get my mother f*cking story which was mother f*&cking excellent and I f*cking saved over it so its now a blank sheet. Its on my USB so I can't get it back from the f*ckin recycle can so its lost forever now. And it was really f*cking good too, probably one of the best things I've written in a while. I feel like stabbing someone in the f*cking brain right now.

Has anyone got any ideas for how I can get it back? Please, I need some help or I'm going to go crazy.

Auto-recovery?

auto recovery only works when your computer crashes or something and you need to recover a word file from there, it doesn't do anything when you accidentally save over a file.

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#24

Posted 01 March 2013 - 12:47 AM Edited by brownbear, 04 March 2013 - 12:43 PM.

This seems cool, I'll give it a go.

The cold air hung still in the lonely early morning. A pale, bleak sun rose slowly behind the high walls of the city, haunting the streets with an ethereal fog which stabbed with its sharp chill. The towering factories belched thick black smoke over the decaying homes of the poor families in its wake. The sprawling citadel of Babylon was a monument to the unending greed of man. Towering at the centre of the city stood ancient buildings, touching the sky in their timeless beauty. Below them was a sea of hovels, falling apart in the cold and pollution of the city. Plumes of smoke started to rise out of the shacks that wound along the banks of the deep river that snaked through the city. Small bridges were the only way to cross the bubbling, hissing river, so polluted was it that the fumes rotted the wood of the houses on its banks and made ill their inhabitants. The air was thick and black, the vile smoke of the factories mingling with the early morning fog making it so that only the strongest of lungs could breathe steadily while in the streets. Few people walked the streets at this hour; rabid dogs still prowled the alleys hunting for flesh, humans being the only source of meat which would not poison them with horrendous diseases that rats and birds carried. Some poor souls lay huddled in doorways and alleys, their skin and extremities shedding as they moaned weakly, even the dogs would not touch these lost souls.
A crumbling two story shack, built so poorly it was ready to collapse, stood on the quiet mud street. Round the back rolled a number of pigs which slept in a soup of mud and straw, a wooden hatch lay hidden beneath them. It led to a rotten staircase into a long dark room filled with people. Metal baskets holding small fires hung from the ceilings providing a source of dim light. The smell of smoke and rot hung heavily in the thick humid air. In the corner of the room sat three old men, dark skinned they sat upon large silk pillows, grooming their large grey beards and packing pipes full of sticky meconium. Mysterious men from a harsh land far east of Babylon, a land where tradition and dogma were used as tools by the impossibly rich kings, many left for the west, ferrying resin meconium from the eastern mountains into the cities. Dishevelled men lay upon thin straw beds which lay across the room, puffing at long pipes of meconium and drifting into deep sleep. A cloaked man leaned his back to a wall, his young handsome face covered in scars and bruises, his crystal blue eyes heavy and glazed. He gathered the strength to call to one of the men in the corner.
“Sallah” He yelled.
One of the men raised himself stiffly and shuffled along to the man, a long ivory pipe in his hands. He passed the pipe to the man, who handed him a crumpled bunch of paper.
“Tobias, this fifth pipe, you die we throw you to pigs” Sallah grumbled in a harsh leathery voice.
Tobias grunted and rose the pipe to his lips, as Sallah shuffled back to the corner he raised the bowl over a candle flame. The resin in the pipe crackled as it burned, giving of a strong wooden smell, he took it off the flame and dropped his head back, letting out a cloud of thick white smoke. Meconium was the drug of choice for the poor masses, a thick resin which numbed not only the body, but the mind and soul too, a way for men to
escape the horror of their reality. The substance claimed the lives of innumerable poor souls, even those who survived their addiction were mindless animals, twitching skeletons who sat drooling and chewing their tongue.

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#25

Posted 01 March 2013 - 09:10 AM Edited by AceRay, 03 March 2013 - 06:58 AM.

Uh, I’ve sh*t something out in like, an hour, so here it is.

Also, I’m sure that JoeJack is a reference to AceRay aka me. Roll them round your mouth a couple of times and see, they’re kind of similar tbh. I’m not sure if that story is dissing me too for… writing some GTA fanfiction two years ago? I guess no one is safe from the wrath of Typhus! biggrin.gif

Beast Run!

The world flew by at incalculable speeds, the bright neon lights of Arbon City whizzing and flashing in the dark night. The gearshift, clunky and sweaty in his hand, clunked into fifth gear as he passed a black Pontiac and reached almost one hundred and seven miles per hour. A thick bead of sweat rolled down his neck as he pushed “The Beast” to the limit, the whine of the turbocharger humming out of the dual exhausts, enough for any car enthusiast to climax at its instant touch. A yellow Skyline roared beside him and managed to inch his way ahead of the fabled rider just before a sharp turn.

Known to his friends as a friendly paragon, known to his enemies as a ruthless renegade, known to his lovers as a wild stallion, his name sent fear running down the spine of all those misfortunate to hear it; Rudy “Jet” Orosco, champion of the streets. His heavily customized Nissan 350Z, nicknamed “The Beast,” was his dark red stead of the night. Its modified 3.5L V6 bunkered under the carbon fibre boot was hosting a dual cam turbocharger had boosted the brake horsepower up to almost five hundred and fifty and the torque increasing substantially. A suspension upgrade was installed and wheels custom designed by BBS helped with the handling, not to mention carbon ceramic breaks fitted to insure ultimate breaking. A full weight reduction modification job had been committed on the machine, almost causing it lose almost half a ton in useless weight.

Jet eased his Nissan into second gear as the corner rapidly approached, the long strait highway that had guided the four riders coming quickly to an end. His grip was firm on the steering wheel as the car drifted at fifty miles per hour around the sharp bend. A slow smile slowly spread across his thin face as he saw the yellow Skyline over steer and spin out, sending it into last place and catapulting Jet into first. Still, the red and yellow Porsche 911 that was trailing right behind posed a definite threat. The driver’s name was Booker, a short but fierce Asian guy whom Jet had met only once before at a party. Booker challenged a poor sod in a 1997 Toyota Supra to a drag race late at night. Jet had left before the results were in but he heard the other driver had ended up in hospital with broken bones, spine and a hundred thousand dollar bill for crashing into a jewellery store.

They’d been racing for over twenty minutes and had already covered almost fifty miles. The Pontiac and Skyline were well behind them now with no chance. It was just Booker and Jet now, Nissan vs Porsche. At first, Booker managed to get into Jet’s slip steam and almost managed to overtake, where The Beast cut him off and sent the Porsche sliding, only for the other driver to correct the steering with remarkable precision, regaining control. Again, Booker activated some more nitrous oxide and sped past Jet, who swore loudly when he saw his smug little face in the mirror. He put his Nikes to the floor and pushed as hard as he could into the custom foot pedals. The magic two hundred was fast approaching and Jet was being pushed into the back of his seat by the intense force. As they slowed for a 45˚ blind corner, Jet decided to brake late and overtake him with a speedy exit. As Jet sped out of the corner, he glanced back and saw that Booker had took the corner too slow, meaning it was just Jet left for the win. He smirked and accelerated harder into an intersection.

Then he crashed into a truck and died instantly.

THE END

Ziggy455
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#26

Posted 01 March 2013 - 07:13 PM

QUOTE (AceRay @ Friday, Mar 1 2013, 09:10)
Uh, I’ve sh*t something out in like, an hour, so here it is.

Also, I’m sure that JoeJack is a reference to AceRay aka me. Roll them round your mouth a couple of times and see, they’re kind of similar tbh. I’m not sure if that story is dissing me too for… writing some GTA fanfiction two years ago? I guess no one is safe from the wrath of Typhus! biggrin.gif

Beast Run!

The world flew by at incalculable speeds, the bright neon lights of Arbon City whizzing and flashing in the dark night. The gearshift, clunky and sweaty in his hand, clunked into fifth gear as he passed a black Pontiac and reached almost one hundred and seven miles per hour. A thick bead of sweat rolled down his neck as he pushed “The Beast” to the limit, the whine of the turbocharger humming out of the dual exhausts, enough for any car enthusiast to climax at its instant touch. A yellow Skyline roared beside him and managed to inch his way ahead of the fabled rider just before.

Known to his friends as a friendly paragon, known to his enemies as a ruthless renegade, known to his lovers as a wild stallion, his name sent fear running down the spine of all those misfortunate to hear it; Rudy “Jet” Orosco, champion of the streets. His heavily customized Nissan 350Z, nicknamed “The Beast,” was his dark red stead of the night. Its modified 3.5L V6 bunkered under the carbon fibre boot was hosting a dual cam turbocharger had boosted the brake horsepower up to almost five hundred and fifty and the torque increasing substantially. A suspension upgrade was installed and wheels custom designed by BBS helped with the handling, not to mention carbon ceramic breaks fitted to insure ultimate breaking. A full weight reduction modification job had been committed on the machine, almost causing it lose almost half a ton in useless weight.

Jet eased his Nissan into second gear as the corner rapidly approached, the long strait highway that had guided the four riders coming quickly to an end. His grip was firm on the steering wheel as the car drifted at fifty miles per hour around the sharp bend. A slow smile slowly spread across his thin face as he saw the yellow Skyline over steer and spin out, sending it into last place and catapulting Jet into first. Still, the red and yellow Porsche 911 that was trailing right behind posed a definite threat. The driver’s name was Booker, a short but fierce Asian guy whom Jet had met only once before at a party. Booker challenged a poor sod in a 1997 Toyota Supra to a drag race late at night. Jet had left before the results were in but he heard the other driver had ended up in hospital with broken bones, spine and a hundred thousand dollar bill for crashing into a jewellery store.

They’d been racing for over twenty minutes and had already covered almost fifty miles. The Pontiac and Skyline were well behind them now with no chance. It was just Booker and Jet now, Nissan vs Porsche. At first, Booker managed to get into Jet’s slip steam and almost managed to overtake, where The Beast cut him off and sent the Porsche sliding, only for the other driver to correct the steering with remarkable precision, regaining control. Again, Booker activated some more nitrous oxide and sped past Jet, who swore loudly when he saw his smug little face in the mirror. He put his Nikes to the floor and pushed as hard as he could into the custom foot pedals. The magic two hundred was fast approaching and Jet was being pushed into the back of his seat by the intense force. As they slowed for a 45˚ blind corner, Jet decided to brake late and overtake him with a speedy exit. As Jet sped out of the corner, he glanced back and saw that Booker had took the corner too slow, meaning it was just Jet left for the win. He smirked and accelerated harder into an intersection.

Then he crashed into a truck and died instantly.

THE END


Master of San Andreas
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#27

Posted 02 March 2013 - 03:06 PM

I'll post mine soon,Can you please this open for another day Zig? smile.gif

Ziggy455
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#28

Posted 02 March 2013 - 04:19 PM

QUOTE (Master of San Andreas @ Saturday, Mar 2 2013, 15:06)
I'll post mine soon,Can you please this open for another day Zig? smile.gif

Voting begins tomorrow, Master. You can still upload your story until then.

Mokrie Dela
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#29

Posted 03 March 2013 - 12:38 AM

QUOTE (Ziggy455 @ Friday, Mar 1 2013, 19:13)

That may be the most appropriate/relevant meming ever...

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#30

Posted 03 March 2013 - 02:47 AM

I vote for Mount Uluru, by orbitalraindrops.
It was a story dealing with a very original theme - a theme I am incredibly intrigued by as a lover of history. And the writing was snappy enough that it never dragged on, holding my attention throughout.




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