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Event 6: My Writer, the Character



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Thu Feb 13, 2014 5:34 pm
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mongoose says...



My writer, hurm...

I suppose that I should be grateful of her, I should accept and acknowledge that without her I would not be here, I would not be displayed through the pixelated typed words. yet, I struggle to even accept the feeble mind which I spawned from. Yes, I may be a child genius through her eyes, a boy who scribbles the equations and theories of the great minds that this earth has ever known at only eight. I am thankful that she provided me with such an intelligence, but what she did not come to realise is that my superior intelligence would harm her.

She did not think that I would have the ability to branch beyond her words and venture into the mixture of her thoughts, invading her dreams. She did not expect me to gather the knowledge of her secret. That I am simply a depiction of what she wished she could be. Of how she wished to have the intelligence of a higher being to be able to provide the answers to the curious and to help the weak with her solutions. She got me wrong though, her frizzy hair must have numbed her brain from the truth of what I am and what I can become.
She does not picture the deaths that I do, no she still relies on her instincts to care.

She is not my God.
She does not rule my actions.
It is I who invade her dreams and twist her thoughts with my own character, the character that spurred from her impossible dreams, the one who broke free of the dictating keyboard.
I am Haji Budahba,and no one can control me, it is not the writer who has the power, it is I.

She is weak, I am her strength, the one who dares to fight out her anger. The one who kills the characters, it is I who is empowering her to do more.

My writer may not be as intelligent as I, and I would not exist without the keys she pressed, but I care not for the girl who sits in the dark typing in silent isolation.
If you eliminate the impossible, however improbable, whatever remains must be the truth...





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 5:39 pm
manisha says...



Gratitude


Spoiler! :
Like a game of tag with the wind he galloped across the green stretch, his auburn mane swept back by the speed. Young and yet to be broken, he was already the revered one.

It was with these words that she blew life into me taking me from the pool of imagination and etching my eternal existence onto paper. She has forever thrown me out in the world through her words. Now, I gallop not only in her mind but also in minds of all those who find me in her ink.

Lights are switched off, the earphones are plugged in - it is her bed time. She curls up into a seed, lying on her right side. She thinks that writers go to bed early because they love the world of make believe more than reality. I like to believe she did it because she enjoys thinking about me. Her greatest creation, she called me. She is always telling people I have taught her many things- love, loyalty, strength. What she always forgets is that I am so because she is so. Which is why I’m created so that I can remind her of all that she really is.

When the thoughts about tomorrow’s class test had calmed down, she reaches for me in her mind. She imagines me flying across the mountain planes cutting the wind. She is my rider, clutching onto my mane as I leap over rocks and barriers. Just before she drifts off, she whispers my. Like a caress. Her word unlocks a new world and I am in her dream. She has the most beautiful mind. So complex and delicate – like intricately carved glass.

When she is not thinking about me I like to see all the things her mind has to show. Looking into her mind scares me sometimes. Never before have I experienced emotions of that intensity. I fear for her. No human can possibly harbor such feelings and wish to remain sane. She cries when she kills one of her creations or laughs like a maniac when one of us does or says something funny. It was out of those whirlwinds of insanity that I was born from. Her greatest creation

She is standing in front of a wall length mirror, her fingertips touching her face. She thinks a lot about her looks these days. Probably has to do with the boy my rider is based on. Then she is thinking about me. Every time she thinks about me, her hands go to the locket that hangs from a silver chain around her neck. She clutches onto it.

‘If only I was as beautiful as you,’ she whispers. You are beautiful, I wish to tell her. You are a goddess.

Today she is going to kill my rider. Why she does it, I do not know. The ones she kills are the ones that remain in her head, still breathing. For that sake, I hope she kills me too. She would cry when I die but also be proud of my heroic death. The pen is scratching over the paper -word after word -the story being laid down. The words are barely legible as her hand tries to jot her sprinting thoughts.

‘She is something, isn’t she?’ my rider says.

‘She is,’ I say, though it might have just been a neigh to him. Gale is looking at her with a strange expression. He likes her, I think. Well, the feeling is mutual. I know she likes him.

‘Why is she crying?’ Gale says suddenly, looking worried. He is trying to peer at her face through her thoughts. She is indeed crying. Not those tears that rip at the soul. The kinds that remains stuck in the eye like dew drop or the kind that runs down the face to join the curve of her smile. She was crying because she was overwhelmed.

‘I think she has finished the story,’ Gale says. She leans back on the chair and breaths slowly.
‘Word count- 90,000,’ she reads out. I feel her mind gush with thoughts of me, Gale, and every other being she has ever created. Gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers, staring at the words. Gale gets on my back and we are racing. She turns the notebook to page one and begins to read.

‘No, thank you,’ we both say.
If Novels are a bucket of imagination, Short story is a bucket of imagination made to fit a mug.





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 6:06 pm
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LadySpark says...



Just a little something I cooked up for ya.

Spoiler! :
According to the way my writer wrong me, I'm supposed to be in love with a girl named AnnaLea. AnnaLea is everything my writer says I could want (and more, as if that means anything). She's got the big green eyes and dark chestnut hair, and she never stumbles or bumps into anything like I do. She's calm and collected, flitting around the edges of my story like a fairy. She never really does anything, but she's always sitting at home, waiting for me to return from my adventures and sweep her into a kiss.

I've always gone along with it, because Peyton wants it that way. When her fingers flash across the keyboard, typing out my daring adventures, and my homecomings, I know that she can't wait for the moment when I walk through AnnaLea's door and hold her close, calling into the night how much I missed her. Unfortunately, I've always found it just a little bit silly. When Peyton first began writing my stories, I wanted someone to join me on my lonely adventures, not a girl to sit at home and wear dresses. I always felt so alone that I refused to be written, because I was afraid that I'd be on top of a mountain, reciting an inner monologue I know kept Peyton up all night, and not enjoying any of it.

I've always been a people-person. And AnnaLea never met that requirement for me. So, for a long time, I ran around, feeling unfulfilled and bitterly lonely. Until I realized, I was never alone. Every time I looked up, I could see the shadow of her, floating over me, her hands molding me into the character she dreamed of. The perfect man.

At least to her.

And the longer she spent making my adventures more daring and more thought provoking, the more she re-wrote my inner-monologues and the better they got, the more I fell in love with her.
During one of the monologues, when she was practically screaming from fury, I realized what was going on. I didn't love AnnaLea, I loved her. And Peyton knew it too, because she did away with AnnaLea all together. And suddenly, there was someone to join me on my adventures written into the pages of story. It wasn't Peyton, but in my head it resembled her. And I became less lonely, with the tiny girl that tripped over rocks and shouted when she was upset.

I still miss Peyton, sometimes. And I know deep down I will never love AnnaLea or Molly or anyone but her. I'm willing to try, though. Because I know Peyton would want it that way.
hush, my sweet
these tornadoes are for you


-Richard Siken


Formerly SparkToFlame





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 6:29 pm
dragonfphoenix says...



Fiera wanted to enter this, so I had to let her. *ducks backhand*
Spoiler! :
Taking things is fun. When you “borrow” something from a friend and then watch them panic when they try to find it, their reactions can bring some pretty good laughs. My creator is no exception.
Yesterday I decided to prank him by hiding his smartphone in the best possible way: I stole his memory. He set it on his dorm desk, under a notebook, and I simply put the memory down there with it.
I can’t say I’ve ever had more fun. He was absolutely frantic. He did the standard pat down of all his pants pockets and didn’t find it. First place he went to was his dirty laundry pile in the closet. I had fun casually sitting on the rim of his glasses, getting a bird’s eye view as he flew through three feet of clothes to lay that closet floor bare. Not finding it, he dug through every piece of clothing again. Even the socks. Seriously, he couldn’t tell the phone wasn’t in there without turning it completely inside out?
After shoving all the clothes back in and wedging the doors shut (don’t ask), he went to his bed and pulled off all the sheets and blankets. No luck. So he stuck everything back on, one piece at a time. First the fitted sheet, then the flat sheet, then the de-cased pillows, then the pillowcases, then all the blankets.
Frustrated, he went to one of the most logical places in all the world. His shoes. All two of them. He practically rebuilt the things tearing them apart like that. His aglets are now made of duct tape.
Next came the dresser. For this event he pushed everything off the top of the dresser and sorted through it. Everything went back on top, arranged left to right by smallest to largest density. That done, he emptied all the drawers, tossing the contents onto his bed as he went through them. Then he took all the drawers out. He found a few pennies (the oldest was from 1983), a nickel, and a dime, but no phone. So back everything went, much more organized and cleaner than before.
Finally he made his way over to the desk. And somehow he managed to pile all the papers on top of the phone. That desk was empty except for where he’d stacked all his papers. So he moved everything back, and went through all the drawers. Pencils, paper, highlighters, phone charger, stapler (never on hand when he needs it), calculator, ruler—all of it out, spread across the floor like forgotten spoils of war.
He finally gave up. Methodically he gathered up all the stuff off the floor and put it away, then sat down at his desk. His first thoughts were about being productive, but by the time he picked up the notebook he was honestly considering flipping his mattress. As he flipped open the notebook, he glanced idly at the desk, staring straight at the revealed device. He fell completely still, staring at it for a good five seconds before dropping the book and snatching up the phone.
The moment his hand connected with the device, he remembered that he’d put it there. Instead of getting mad at me, however, he just slipped it into his pocket and went back to working on whatever he was going to do. He had no idea I’d stolen his memory from him.
I didn’t breathe a word of this to him all day. But when I saw the contest, I just had to.
His reaction was priceless. His eyebrows got all knotted, and he let his mouth hang open in the dumbest way for a minute or two while he thought through it. Eventually it clicked, and he glared at me accusingly.
I threw it right back in his face. He hasn’t touched my story in weeks, and he wants to get mad at me for this? School or no school, he’s got time to read books, he’s got time for my story. Maybe next time he’ll learn that ignoring me has its consequences.
D.F.P., Knight Dragon





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 7:15 pm
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deleted30 says...



Here's mine! This was fun but also very, very weird. I've decided I don't like writing about myself. :smt003

Spoiler! :
The Writer

by Lucrezia


There she goes, walking down the street. Laughing with her friends.

I watch, licking my lips—an old habit she gave me. She gave me everything, from my red hair to my green eyes to my appreciation of old sneakers, to my parents (who turned out to be spies, because that’s what she wanted) . . . everything.

It’s hard to explain the differences between our worlds. In hers, everything is simple and boring. And in mine—the land of words and heartbreak and adventure—anything is possible. My world, unlike hers, does not have a name. Hers is called California in the place known as America. My world is fuzzy and unclear, and if we do posses a California or America of our own, I’ve certainly never seen it.

Some people in my world call them—the writers, as I now know—Gods. I’ve always been more logical than that. They are just people, like me, only they possess this magical ability to create life in our world. I’ll go to sleep one night to find my mother holding twin girls the next morning. Babies.

The following day, the babies will have become bratty twelve-year-olds, while I’ve not aged at all.

Then, one day later, they’ll have disappeared altogether. She calls that tweaking or, more crossly, deleting. And that’s all a part of the great wonder known as editing.

I watch her walk, watch her laugh with her friends. She doesn’t know how big I’ve gotten. Too big for her to control. I’m able to jump from world to world now. My parents have scolded me for it, but I don’t care.

I have to know her. Have to see her to understand. And I have been understanding, more and more. I’ve been figuring out, slowly but surely, whose world is real . . . and whose isn’t.

I’m invisible to everyone here. No one sees me, not even her, the “God” of our world. The writer. But I’m getting stronger each time out and I hope, desperately hope, that today is the day I finally break free of this curse of invisibility. Just enough to take care of her.

I’ve been plotting it for some time now, around the time she made my one true love, Esmeralda, die. She killed Esmeralda. And why? Why would she do that? To hurt me?

I know she likes to watch us in pain, in agony. She’s a sadist. She’s determined to wreak havoc on my life, on all of our lives. She’s caused me so much ache and loss in the short few months since I’ve been created—the betrayal of discovering my parents are spies, the heartbreak of losing Esmeralda, even the loss of my twin sisters.

I’ve been following her for a while. I’ve seen her at the grocery store, seen her at the park, seen her with friends as she is today.

Before she left with them, she got in a big fight with her parents. She was so upset. It’s amazing how, after something like that, she’s still able to put on a happy face with her friends. Smile with them and laugh.

If I focus hard enough, really concentrate, I can catch a glimpse of her thoughts: . . . they hate me my parents hate me oh God oh God I said some awful things to them . . .

I lurch backwards, bringing myself back out of the wonderland that is her mind. I don’t like it in there. I don’t like hearing her thoughts—they’re too fast. I can’t catch up with them. And the ones I can catch up with, the ones that have enough punctuation to understand, I wish I hadn’t. Because often, she thinks about me. Thinks of the future pain she plans to inflict. And I get a look at my future, my fate, all the horrible things that lie ahead.

I hate her. I absolutely hate her.

Her friends are talking, boring as ever. She’s nodding along but I know her mind is elsewhere. I can see the misery in her eyes and it makes me feel a brief, but very real, pang of sympathy. More than that—empathy. I understand her. I relate to her.

But I can’t think of that right now. I have a mission to complete.

I look down at the gun stuck inside the top of my jeans. It’s growing hard, firm. Becoming whole.

I took the gun from my parents’ room. I had a feeling today would be the day. And it is. The gun is becoming as real as she is, and once the last of its transparency is gone, I’ll be able to use it to shoot her.

I take it from the top of my jeans, where it had been stuck between my pant and my hip. It’s getting heavier. Another minute or so and I’ll be able to use it.

My heart skips a beat at that thought. Are you sure about this?

Yes, of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?

Because you . . .


There is no reason. No reason at all to second-guess myself, to wonder if I’m making a mistake. Because I’m not.

Before my eyes, the gun finishes its transformation. A gun of this world instead of my world. A gun of the superior world, the world our creator sprung from. I wish I lived here instead.

She pauses along the sidewalk, telling her friends to go on without her. I watch, cocked and locked gun in hand. I realize that soon, somebody is bound to notice the floating gun, which seemingly isn’t being held up by anything . . .

But I don’t care.

She sits down on a nearby bench, her long gold curls brushing against her waist as she does so. Then she looks up, toward the sky and the sun. She starts to cry.

Dear God. I swallow down another annoying pang of sympathy or empathy or whatever the hell it is, aiming the gun precisely at her head. It’s empty, this street, this neighborhood. No one will even see her die.

No one but me.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth as my finger touches the trigger, readying to pull it. I feel unready, somehow. Again, those bickering voices in my head return—voices she forced on me.

Are you sure about this?

Yes, of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?

Because you love her.


What? No, that’s nonsense. The only feeling I have toward her, toward this horrible girl, is hatred. Bitterness. Utter despise.

And love.

But I can’t . . . it wouldn’t make sense, it wouldn’t . . .

Suddenly, she looks up, wiping her tears. She looks into the distance, toward her friends, and I see her smile to herself. A small, but exceptionally beautiful, smile.

And I realize I can’t do this.

I drop the gun and walk away.





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 7:30 pm
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WritingWolf says...



This story actually starts off like a regular story, and the main character is only actually narrating what I'm doing for a short bit. I hope this is okay, since technically he still is narrating what I'm doing, just not for the whole piece.



Heron's Writer

Spoiler! :
A new story, eh? Why she always gotta call on me for these stories? Aren't characters supposed to stay in one story? I suppose that don't gotta apply to minor characters. Just a few slight changes and they'll work just find in another story.
Well, lets see what I'm doin' this time 'round. Still a farmer as always. Uh, more heros. My writer's always givin' me these unbelievable stories. I'm a farmer who just happens to have a princess and her friends stop by looking for a thief? Who's gonna believe me when I tell them that? Oh well, not like I have much choice in the matter.
At least this time around I have a family. Two sons and a daughter, good. Oh, and a beautiful wife. Lovely, maybe my author will reuse them next time too. But then again, one of the changes is almost always in the looks, but that's okay. She don't needa be pretty as long as she's kind 'n friendly. I should probably go meet 'em. Hmmm... good idea.
I thought while sitting at my desk. I had just finished reading my new assignment. Most readers would be surprised at how often minor characters were reused with slight changes. But then again, most writers would often be surprised too. They don't usually realize it when they reuse minor characters.
Maybe one day I'll become a major character. That'd be nice. Havin' my own story 'n whatnot. The Adventure's of Charles Major. Hey, that'd be a pretty cool name, Charles Major. It give me this sound of confidence 'n authority 'n such. Maybe I'd even be able to get rid of this accent? Such were my desires as I left my compartment in Minor Characters Hall Two. I was in room 204. My wife was in room 218, so it wasn't a very long walk. On all official records I was known as The Farmer, but I much rathered go by whatever name I'd recently been given in a story. And for the upcoming story I would be Heron Storehom. My wife would be the lovely Mrs. Charletta Storehom. But on the official records she was The Farmer's Wife. She had just been created, so naturally, as all other minor characters, she would be named after her first role. I had no idea what she'd want to be called.
I tapped lightly on her door. She opened it and said "Good day Heron! How lovely of you to stop by. I was just on my way to go and watch The Writer. Care to join me?" I was surprised by this. It was not common to find such a newly created character who wanted to go and watch their writer. "Sure, I'd love to, Mrs...." I said. "Oh do call be Charletta. It's so much prettier than The Farmer's Wife" She said with a laugh. I held out my arm to her which she promptly grabbed and the two of us walked down the hallway like a happy couple. It made me feel important to walk with her like this. Like a spy at some extravagant party, who had his partner casually holding onto his elbow, as is the fashion at such parties.
We strode to the elevator, which was already waiting there. I pressed the button marked with an O, for Observatory, and off we went.
We came out at the top floor. There was a long white hallway, with lots of doors. Each door was a different color. They all lead to the observatories for different writers. We where looking for room 419.
The door directly to our left was 108. We had quite a long ways to walk. On our way we passed many different sort of characters. Most of them had the royal blue hue that represents major characters. Some were yellow, which was the side characters that usually only show up once and are never mentioned by name. And there were a couple of semi-major characters, glowing green. All the minor characters looked normal to him, but he was told by others that they had a pink hue.
There was a wide varieties of characters. Mythical creatures, cyborgs, ancient looking kings and queens, some more modern teenagers, and all other imaginable things. But that is what should be expected in The Character's House, where all characters - from books, movies, role plays, games, and everything else - lived while not in use. When a character was summoned by it's creator it would go to The Use Chamber on it's floor. While in use the character maintained no memory of it's time in The Character's House, or in any other story.
"So, have you received your orders for our next story?" Charletta asked me as we walked. "Yeah, it's just a matter o' waitin' to be called. I hear we ain't comin' in until closer to the end of the book. And there's only about fift'n thous'nd words done so far. So we gonna have a long wait." I said.
We entered the observatory. There was only one other character currently in it. A villain, he had a maroon glow. Hey, isn't that the guy from that novel about The Center an' whatnot? He was that villain trapped in somethin' called a pocket, right? He musn't be to happy about that, bein' trapped an whatnot. I think as we approach the screen.
The Writer was sitting in a small classroom at her church. Which most people would find strange since it was Wednesday. But you see this writer was a homeschooled teenager. And it just happened that on Wednesday she goes to a co-op that meets at her church. At the moment she was in a programming class.
How could she do this? Goin' off an' learnin' to speak stupid languages like python when she has a story to write! What does she think she's gonna do with this knowledge? She's a writer for cryin' out loud. I think to myself while watching the screen. It appeared to be her father teaching the class. He was explaining what a function was and why it's so important to programming.
There were five other people in the room. Another adult, The Writer's two sisters, a teenage boy and his little sister. Not a very big class.
The Writer was sitting between the other adult and her older sister. She had just missed what her father had said and was desperately trying to read her sister's notes to figure out what it was.
She's too distracted. Can't keep up with what he's sayin'. Dat's why you oughta stick to your writtin'. Then ya can go at your own pace. Don't gotta worry 'bout no one else, but for us characters of course. I think, I don't bother making any actual comments. The only person the hear me is Charletta, and there isn't a thing she could do about any of this.
The Writer was scribbling down notes on a sheet of paper. Her notes were scattered all over the page, and arranged in an order that only she could understand. She had bits of code here, some definitions of words there, a couple of childlike drawings at the edge, and some homework assignments at the bottom.
Surprisingly enough it was actually drawing paper. She must've forgotten her lined paper today. She must've forgotten a lot of stuff, seeing as her pencil was a PaperMate. She usually only used Ticonderoga. A strange habit, but she claimed that their erasers were better than most other pencils.
She was beginning to space out. He was going over some things that she already knew.
It wasn't long before class was over and she stood up. The wooden chair making a screeching noise as it slid backwards. She quickly pushed it back in place. She folded up the paper she had been taking notes on and shoved it in her pocket.
She hadn't needed her computer today so it was still in it's case. She grabbed it and left the room.
The camera followed her down the hall, but we didn't stick around to see where she was going. She wasn't doing anything interesting, and Charletta just wanted to see what kind of person had created her. Now she knew.
We headed back to our floor. I dropped her at her room, said good night, and was off to my room.
I had just sat down when the intercom in my room turned on and said "Would The Farmer please report to The Use Chamber immediately." What do you know? Not sucha long wait after all. I thought as I got up to leave again. It was time for me to do my job.
~You can only grasp what you reach for~





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 7:41 pm
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TimmyJake says...



Anndddd.... my addition! :D

A Story He could Never Have

Spoiler! :
I suppose I haven’t been around for very long, and sometimes I go away for a long time, only to reappear later when I least expect it. I live a crazy life, full of twists and turns. I get anxious when I don’t know what lies ahead… when I don’t know what will happen to me. And I find myself thinking… Will he do something with me today, or will I continue sitting here, mothballed in his mind?

I admit that I do peek over his shoulder while he writes; wondering what lays in store for me later. What am I doing tomorrow? Am I going to fall in love with a beautiful girl? Or even worse, am I going to be kidnapped? The next day is a completely new book for me, and I have no control over what transpires inside his mind. As fast as he types, I live. No faster. No slower.

Watching him walk his ordinary life, I finally begin to realize why he created me and the dangerous adventures he thrusts me into. His life is so… normal!
In the morning, he gets up. Then he goes to school. He comes home and eats dinner, while playing on the internet at some writing site called YWS, and then goes to sleep. Every day is the same, like a scratched cd, a repeat of the day before. Over and over, never changing.

So am I a figment of his imagination. I am really just my creator in a world of his making. I have the adventures he never could, and experience things that are impossible in his world. I cast spells, fight dragons, fly through the sky, and make new friends. All of that in one day.

So I finally know why he stays up at night, his eyes riveted to his computer screen, while his fingers type anxiously away at the keyboard. He is creating my story.

The story he never could have.
Used to be tIMMYjAKE





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 7:42 pm
niteowl says...



Based off Anna, the protagonist here: On the Edge

Spoilered for mild language.

Spoiler! :
She saved my life. Now I wish I could save her. Or even just help her somehow.

I mean seriously! How the hell does anyone live like this? She always claims she has no time to straighten up but she’s always just goofing off on her cell phone games or that stupid writing site. I mean, I guess it’s not that stupid, since it’s the only reason I even exist, but still. She could do something more productive every once in a while.

She’s living the dream, man, and she’s wasting it. She has this beautiful apartment all by herself. No little brother, no mom acting like you are going to spontaneously explode at any second. Hell, she could even have a guy over if she wanted to. Does she have any idea how obnoxious it is sneaking around with Jeff like I’m 15? She really ought to get out there and find someone. Preferably while not wearing those pants from 40 pounds ago OMG GIRL YOU HAVE CLOTHES THAT FIT! WEAR THEM!

Don’t even get me started on those half-empty pill bottles. Did she learn nothing from my story? Does she want to keep going back and forth, from owning the world to wanting nothing but to leave it? She can break that cycle. She never has to see that awful place again. But if she keeps “forgetting” her pills, who knows what’ll happen?

I’m stuck here, not knowing if I’ll ever graduate, if things with Jeff work out, if I ever leave my parent’s house, but she got another chance. Yet here she is, letting all the old bullshit and anxiety hold her back. Come on Author, you’re better than that. Put your big girl panties on and live already!
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

<YWS><R1>





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 8:13 pm
Blackwood says...



___*cough cough cough*
___You there!!! Listen up. The 'lord of everything' is coming through. *Rolls eyes*

Spoiler! :
___
___*Erm Erm*
___Possibly the most boring person you could ever meet. I mean, if the lives of people were on display, welcome to the curious eye, not a soul would linger to stare at this one unoccupied beast.
___I can’t say it is particularly ugly; not large nor feebly small. I can’t understand how it manages to maintain its shape, instead of demeaning into the form of a fat, overfed chicken.
___For the past two and a half months it has done absolutely nothing. A static specimen that will soon go stagnant with idle. It sits there, all day, all night, at it’s stupid little laptop. It just sits there, typing, drawing, reading or assassinating pixels. The most useless sop I have ever seen.

___Though I suppose it will be sad when it returns to its life of study, takes on busy hours of music, and play, yet still find plenty of room to procrastinate. Though it wont let us live all day, every day, 24 hours per day as it does nothing nothing nothing all day!!!!
___But consider the potential it has. On the contrary to its idle state, its mind is ignited with too many ideas, too many ideologies. It has some sort of self-superior notion that it is simply better than everything else. It believes that one day it will rule the world, and that the world will bow to this one self-conceited being. Aim high if you will, dear lord of characters, but I shall laugh as I watch you fall.

___What more is you never ever ask this lump for a happy ending. If you even hint at it, beg for it, it’s going to come back to hurt you. In fact, I was supposed to get the first happy ending since 2009, a feat so difficult to achieve, so miraculous in terms of this beast, it was too good to be true! And aye it was.
___It woke from the stupor of its cheesy daze, turned its head around at the last minute, and gave me the most measly end one could ask for.
___ME! Prince of the never-ending sun! Lion of the empire! I was dared to be set to death, dared to dissatisfy those sympathetic readers. I think it has a fetish, that thing. It likes to see people cry.
___I wouldn’t have minded if it was noble. I wouldn’t have minded if i went slaying seven thousand lions in my name! Or perhaps valiantly killing my enemy and at the same time falling no my miraculous death as a hero like some person did. I would have died for my emperor, my kingdom, my legacy.
___Instead I get the most worthless, cowardly, dead-beat death in the entire book. And to top it I am only one of three who don’t survive! In a cast over a dozen, I most surely suffer the most pathetic fate of the lot. But there is a reason.
___are you even listening to me!? Listen to me you bumbling idiot!

___Anyway... It’s because I’m the favourite.
___Everyone has favourites, and even this thing does. It worked on me, obsessed over me, gave me the second most prominent position in the book beside that wimp of an MC. All because I was the favourite. And the spectacular favourite I deserved to be.
___But being the favourite comes at a price. What better way to destroy your readers than to destroy yourself. “Kill the favourite!” it cries, “The favourite must die.” And so I went. Next thing I knew I was dead. Just like that. It didn’t even shed a tear. Some favourite I must be.
___This is a warning for all other characters out there. Don’t get too confident, don’t get to bright. The brighter you shine, the more likely you’ll die. This thing is a jerk. A merciless cur. No hesitation, no satisfaction. This inconclusive, inconsiderate, inconceivable beast will take you to every unsatisfied fantasy he will never endeavour, and unless you are the image of pure evil, of a fantastic charmer like myself, I doubt you will make it near the centre of it’s pages.
___The most ruthlessly cruel, the most terribly selfish, the most valiantly aspirational writer I have ever met...

___Then again I have only ever met one.
___
Hahah....haha.....ahahaha.





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 8:22 pm
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Hadj says...



Don't Kill me
From the perspective of Adrien in "The Poppy Field" (By me, not yet published)

Here I am. Lying on the grass. My clothes stained with blood. I'm not sure why he did this to me.

What to do, what to do with him...
If he doesnt die, then Alex will never learn his lesson,
But what if i want him back in the sequal..If there is a sequal.
Oh, theres the doorbell, I'd better answer it.
"Hey Marcia! How are you?"
"I'm good thanks, and you?"
"I'm alright. Come in, sit down, I'm nearly finished"
"Have you decided yet? What youre going to do about him"
"Not yet. Its a hard decision, really it is"


There he is, thinking about what to do with me,
like I'm not even here beside him.
Yes the pages can talk, and yes I'm alive if he makes me.

"I really think he needs to die,
"Its important to Alex's development"


Please....

"He is one of my favorite characters, I'd rather not finish him.."
"It's just a book"
"And what if I want him back in the next book"
"You're writing a sequal?"
"I might"
"Look, you asked my opinion, and I gave it to you"
"Yeah, I know"
"Its 4, I should go. I'll see you tonight at the party"
"Bye"


I watch him put the pen to the page.
Dont do this...please......
He finishes the sentance,
And I am gone.
Just a corpse, lying in a field of poppies.
Just a word on a page.
Lullabies and storybooks
And poems and other lies
Will make you happy and make you dream
But seldom make you wise





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 8:48 pm
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TinkerTwaggy says...



Gemsworld Timeout

(Feat. Dyrow Wagate)


Writer's Note: the only fictional element in the story you're about to read is Dyrow's presence. Everything else, all the info given, everything that Dyrow narrates is real. It's how it happened.

Enjoy!


"FOOLISH APPRENTICE! You've played RIGHT INTO my hands! HAHAHAHAHAHAH! SO WHAT if you've managed to survive and take all of the Eternal Sources?! BIG DEAL. If you restored the so-called «Core of Light», it' all for NOTHING! Because NOW you have followed me into MY realm! And here I am, all powerful, and You. Are. NOTHING!!"
A maniac cackle came out of my writer's mouth.
I sighed.
It was the fourteenth time Tortwag was fighting against Kaos, the final boss of Skylanders: Spyro's adventures. I knew he was preparing his two newly bought toys – Cynder and Chop chop if I remember well – for the next game, Skylanders Giants, but I was surprised by how much he was enjoying the fight and repeating Kaos' lines at the same time he said them, perfectly synchronized.
Every. Single. Time.
He even learned the little freak's lines by heart, just by listening to them again and again. That was some serious dedication...
He suddenly took back Spyro the Dragon from the portal of power – a weird magic circle toy that allows the Skylanders to fight in the game – and replaced it with his wackiest and favorite one...
"AHHAHAHAHA, MINE!"
...Trigger Happy, a gremlin gunslinger shooting gold coins instead of regular bullets. I wondered who designed him, but he sure had some creativity.
As Tortwag commenced his rampage, I watched in silence, wondering if one of these characters would become another source of inspiration for my writer. I knew that basically anything could trigger his imagination, then he would hastily write down his ideas in a notepad, then modify some of them, mix others, etc. His body wasn't hyperactive, but his brain was definitely working way too fast for these things.
"I have to laugh.
Hahhahhahhahhahhahhahhahhahhah! I HAVE TO! Because even though you somewhat managed to not get squashed, you now face the most hideous... And powerful... Of ALL MY MINIONS!

Oh god, here it comes... Favorite line of the game! C'mon Kaos, say it... Say it!"
Yup, dedication... He also used to talk to his video games, but then again I was talking to my weapons. I could certainly understand that.
The arena from where Kaos and Trigger Happy were standing started to rise from the ground until it reached the game's dark sky. I had to admit it, this was my favorite part of the show as well.
"Meet the same minion who destroyed the Core of Light... And will do so AGAIN. Meet... The BEAST, that sent Eon to his well-deserved bodiless oblivion! MEET! MY HYDRAAAAAAAAA!!!"
A brief scream of excitement came out of Tortwag's mouth, as the Hydra slowly appeared on the screen.
At least now I knew why I liked villains so much when reading my own Fairy Tales.
The Hydra had four heads, each of them representing elements. The first one to show itself on the screen was made of rock and lava, it represented Fire. The second one looked like a green long dragon head with leaf-shaped horns: it was representing the Life – or nature – element. Then an fish-like dragon head showed up, picking up a foolish fight with the fire one before a zombie dragon head showed up. Water and Death. The Life Dragon head suddenly screamed and approached the screen, as if trying to come out of the screen and bite the player.
"Now we're talking! C'mere my Hydra... My new friends are DYING to deal with you!"
As the fight between Kaos' numerous minions – most notably the Hydra – and Tortwag's team of five Skylanders – Spyro, Cynder, Trigger Happy, Gill Grunt and Chop Chop – continued, I noticed the Shift once again. It always amazed me how he could be madly excited about a virtual fight during one second, and focused beyond belief when in a dangerous situation. He was switching Skylanders swiftly, adapting himself to the situation, depending on what enemy minion was on the field and how the Hydra was influencing it with its elemental powers. One by one, the Shadow Skylanders fell, with Kaos ranting about how useless his minions were.
BAM. Shift again.
"All I need is my Hydragon to defeat you fool! THAT, and my Super-strong, Ultra-destructive All-powerful mechanical suit, that is! HAHAHAHAHAH, HAHOHOHOAHAHAHAAAAAA!"
Tortwag once again laughed, imitating Kaos' extremely high-pitched voice. Good thing his mom would only return from her work much later in the afternoon, otherwise she would've interrupted his moment.
BAM. Shift again.
The Hydra was out of supporting minions, but it was now unleashing attacks after attack, more dangerous than before. Tortwag's fingers were flying from Skylanders to Skylanders or from Skylanders to his game controller. He was focused again. He had no time to rest.
I suddenly realized how alike we were. He certainly put a lot of his personality into me. The dramatic behavior, the lust for adventure – although he could only enjoy it virtually –, the swift spirit, always switching from one emotion to the other...
I really wanted to see how my adventures would continue under his wacky direction. It would definitely be interesting.
"You think this is over?"
I sighed. The boss had be beaten, and Kaos' voice was once again mixed with my writer's.
"You think WRONG!" they continued. "In fact I think you think that I think that I cannot win! But I assure you I CAAAAAAN! There WILL come another day... Oh, not now maybe, but soon! And we WILL meet again! And on that day I, KAOS, will introduce you to your sweet, SWEET, OBLIVION!"
As the ridiculous villain's mechanical suit exploded, much to my writer's pleasure, I couldn't help but think what kind of crazy trap would wait for me. New enemies, new allies, new objectives and new trails to surpass in order to prove how valuable and powerful I really was, all this coming from one of the wackiest mind I've ever seen in action.

Thrilling perspectives ahead!
"Is there a limit to how much living I can live with my life? How will I know if I've gone too far?
And why did I spend my life savings on sunglasses for a whale?
I shall find the answers... to these questions."





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 9:03 pm
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AEChronicle says...



This was a free write, so it may not flow all to well, and there may be some issues with it. But, to preserve the 'free-write' style, I didn't go through and edit at all out.

Spoiler! :
Sometimes, you have to wonder.

I have found myself in this situation many a time, and it is always the same, I have questions that need answering, wishes to be granted, and perhaps, if occasion requires, a bit of advice or chastening I require. But always, always it is with great joy that I see the Writer’s hand in my life, something which is not often glimpsed in the hustle and bustle of our times.

It’s a strange relationship, I would have to say. I mean, you go about your day, doing what you want with your time, saying the words that come to your mind, from your lips. But in the end, I suppose, you have to realize that it’s not really your time to waste, your words to give. That’s where the Writer comes in. He’s always there, always watching, and, somehow, always directing what I do.

But this was not one of those moments.

Anytime you feel the cold, hard slap of reality across your cheek, it almost forces you to ask a very important question: What have I done to deserve this? Actually, in this case, it was much more of a clenched fist pumping my nose, grinding it like a meat tenderizer. Not that it was anything new, of course, but as my eyes misted over and the blood began to flow down my shirt, I did ask myself that question.

Jake Anderson was a bully in his own mind, ruling the alleyways through terror. But, in his heart, I don’t think that he wished to be the way he was. Rather, circumstance had caused him to act in this manner. The Writer may have had a bit to do with it, I just hadn’t figured out His reasoning yet.

But there’s always a reason.

Always.

The concept was a little hard for me to grasp, though, as I cowered in against the wall and took each new assault like the man I wasn’t. I almost laughed out loud at that thought, something which did not go unnoticed by Anderson.

‘Shut up.’ He ordered when I chuckled, then dealt me an uppercut to the ribs which knocked the air out of my lungs. Unable to stand any longer, my knees buckled and there was cold asphalt against my face. And blood. It didn’t taste very good.

And then I answered the question. Two days ago I had written a note to Kyle’s girlfriend, in Jake’s handwriting, and signed it with his ever pretentious name. Now the tow ‘buds’ were fuming over who did what. Needless to say, we who have been officially titled geeks found it quite entertaining.

The Writer stepped in before Jake could do me any further harm, and with some very inelegant prose dropped Sandra Baker into my lap, literally.

Sandra was one of those cocky types, who have a big mouth. Her hands were large enough to defend it, though, so I guess it’s all right. I had never really cared for her, why would I? She was bigger than most of the boys in the eleventh grade, a bit chubby, and she always looked like she had not taken a bath in a month. I wouldn’t go as far as saying she was downright ugly, but pretty was definitely not the word for her.

Jake was now lying unconsciously on the ground, knocked out when Sandra bull rushed him with her broad shoulder. And now she was sitting in my lap, crushing my legs. On top of that, I still was finding it hard to breathe, and I was almost certain that I was going to bleed out before the end.

‘You look great.’ She joked. Usually I would give half a laugh and a snide remark in return, but it was a bit impossible at the moment, so she helped me to my feet and watched as I gasped and wretched. ‘I didn’t mean too do that to him.’ Sandra added, motioning to Jake. I just shrugged it off, and paid a little more attention to the art of breathing again.

And then it hit me.

Well, not literally this time. The Writer was trying to teach me a lesson, and not for the first time. He’s always doing that, at least, that’s what my mother says and believe me, she says a lot. But I found myself agreeing with her this time. I didn’t need to take Tae Kwon Do lessons anymore; all I had to do was befriend Sandra.

I know, that’s not the answer you were thinking off. Believe me, it wasn’t the one I had in mind either, but He does a good job of sneaking them in at the most opportune moments.

Sandra was smiling at me, a bit of a laugh hinting at the corners of her mouth. I had never given much thought to her, or to a lot of other people for that matter, but it suddenly made perfect sense.

‘Thanks.’ I said to her. ‘I probably would have ended up in the hospital if you hadn’t come along.’

‘I don’t doubt that Slenderman.’

I raised my eyebrows. It wasn’t something I heard often, only from a few of the dorks at school who think they have such a good sense of humor. The title fit me well, though, so I readily accepted it.

Yes, Sandra would become one of my friends, only the third or fourth on the list. And, though this didn’t happen often, I found myself thanking the Writer, for what he had just scribbled into my life. When I returned home, I would be sure to fall on my knees and say just as much.


Dedicated to:
-My God, who is the Author of my story-
I am a machine, but it's only skin deep. Once you break through the crust of my humanity, you'll find the soft clouds beneath. Just don't squeeze to hard, or I'll disappear.





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 10:14 pm
TakeThatYouFiend says...



O.k. this was hard. I am mostly a poetry writer, and have only written two short stories, and they both have the same main character. So I was torn between him and a character from one of my poems. I chose him.

I didn't want to die. That wasn't my plan. He made me do it. After fighting out of that b***** machine and all of those f****** dreamscapes I got out. He gave me amnesia, so I played along. There wasn't much I could do to be honest. And then he blacked me out, which really p***** me off. All because I used a gun. What?!? I have used a gun hundreds of times. And all the time this was in second person, which really drove me mad. It was like he was telling me to do. Yeah, to be fair that's what he was doing, but second person! That's rubbing it in.
But death? I mean, the other stuff was tough, but he was a writer (at least that's what he called himself) so I didn't have an opinion in the matter. But death. I don't want to die. I won't die. Somehow, I will return. And I will have my revenge on him...
You know that studded leather armour in films? Nobody wore that. I mean, how would metal studs improve leather armour?





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 10:15 pm
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Rook says...



Well hello there. Fancy meeting you here. What do I mean? Oh, just that it’s strange seeing a reader such as yourself down here in the hell set aside for fictional characters. But, since you’re here, I’ll let you in on a little secret. The tables will be turned today, yes, they surely will. Feel free to follow along, I’ve just got some waiting to do before my writer comes home from school.

Why don’t I introduce myself. I am a character that fortis (my writer) introduced on page 17. I was also killed on page 17. I had about half a paragraph to be myself. I was described as being the “dark figure” that “stood on the edge of the castle wall, its bow drawn and aimed at the oncoming army.” I did get one arrow out, but before I could notch another one, I was hit by an enormous blast of energy that shot out of the sky. I managed to say “What the-“ before it actually struck me, and that was my one piece of dialog. I don’t have a name of course… I call myself “Fatality number three,” or F#3 for short.
Oh! Here she comes!
--
Fortis bustles through the kitchen, looking for something—anything—sweet and fatty and unhealthy to munch on. She stares at the dishes in the sink: she knows she needs to do them, but she really doesn’t feel like it. Instead, she heads downstairs to write and waste time on a particular blue-backgrounded website. She pulled up the novel she had been working on the last couple days and was surprised to find it edited. Every time the main character’s name was mentioned, it had been replaced with “F#3.” There was also an entirely new chapter that detailed on how F#3 took over the kingdom and burned all the scribes and writers in the land in horrifying detail.
Fortis looked around, frightened, and said, “what the—“
~END~
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses





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Thu Feb 13, 2014 10:33 pm
Spotswood says...



Writers block...the biggest and most obnoxious putridity that every mother's son who calls himself writer experiences whilst in various psychological states, whether it be depression or just straight-out desperation.

What would He do?

For me, I know not what brings on this wretched curse, the bane of my miserable existance, and each and every hour that passes where I must face such fills me with extreme agony and pain, like a heavy heap of coals that are shoved into my delicate chest.

I pen as best I can, the time ticking away...tick, tock, tick, tock...The hours wade on as the orange sun makes its way across the skies above the once-glorious city of Boston, which has since been tainted ever since, well, Goldbyrne, one fruitless day becoming a prospective night of sorrow. It is almost as if Time itself is mocking me, taking away my very sanity...driving me to Madness.

Yet, the best of us are mad...

He is mad...been mad for fucking years, absolutely years. He's always been mad...KNOWS he's mad, like the most of us truly are. Sometimes it's hard to tell, especially when one IS mad, even if they, themselves, are not mad.

I see him sometimes, in my dreams. Ever since I was a boy, I see a man in my room, pen in hand, pad on lap, just writing...writing until his fingers swelled and knuckles bled. Yet, he never looked up at me, daring not divert his gaze from that forsaken Pen, the object of my affections - the very thing that brings me both extreme ectassy and deep disgust.

As the years continue to roll on, others dying around me while I continue to unwillingly persist in this miserable hole that so many erroneously reffer to as "the miracle of life". I see Alma, the lady of death, before me in her pale and crypt-like beauty, the agony and fear that she brings destroying my sanity even more. Dark thoughts have filled my dreams of late, she and so many other demons of my subconcious haunting me in a neverending nightmare of painful regret and shattered dreams. And time...oh time...how it has always frightened me, taking form of the massive clock in the Trayers' foyer and, even more grotesque, the one that Mr. G told me to burn down in the Jungle. The sun, while relatively the same, sinks on the horizon, but I grow older, becoming shorter in breath and another day closer to death, but I cannnot choose whether to live or die...tis' not up to me. My world is not one of sheer coincidence, but one of fate.

I did not choose to be here, my parents not controling my existance either. Patronage is nothing more than an illusion...the real power lying with Him. Twas' He who birthed me.

He has KILLED everything I have ever loved. Twas' not the gun that killed Goldbyrne...twas' not the noose that killed Maris. I didn't even kill that goddamn marine, the body of whom Mr. G and I threw into Boston harbor. It was He who did that, not they. He will end me too. If I choose to end my life and follow through with such, tis' truly he who makes the final kill. I don't actually have control over my life, yet it makes me feel safe in a sick sort of way.

I am, and always will be, nothing more than His narrator...not the one whom the story is about, but the one that guides it, the shallow man who tells it, just like Carroway, Uncle Tom, and the Pilgrim before me, me being a member of a line of crucial, but bland narrators.

We are all His children; I feel as if he loves us in His own special way. But we are also His puppets. He is the Frank Underwood of authors and takes pride and amusement when He kills off his pawns. At the same time however, he knows what is best.

Protagoras once said that man is the measure of all things, but I do not believe that to be true. He, the watchful eye, the architect, the weilder of the pen (which is just as much a malicious weapon as it is a sweeping paintbrush). No, the measure of all things is He, using his Pen to create worlds of magic and miracles, but also ones of chaos and destruction. He happened to put me in the latter, unfortunately. It's all because of His mirthless dementedness...His Madness...

Sometimes I, Finn Seymore, actually question if I am even a writer at all, let alone a human. When I write, He writes. It makes me depressed. I want to kill myself. It's funny, if I kill myself, with the illusion that it is at my whim, it really isn't. It is Him killing me.

I am He, and He is me. I am but a splinter of His soul, as is everyone else I meet, regardless of their importance. Even the insignificant individuals who are never seen, but implicitly populate my world and its history, are parts of Him. We are all a part of something greater.

And as the sweetness seeps from mine soul, the bell of death begins its toll. And as the last vestiges of mine sanity are gone, the green hills of the Republic role on and on.

He is mine, and I am His.

He is the Writer...
Last edited by Spotswood on Thu Feb 13, 2014 10:43 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Often, the best way to improve is swallowing your ego and realizing you're a terrible writer in all aspects of writing, then working to improve it."
-R.U.








I am not a person I am a natural disaster
— TheWordsOfWolf