At 10/3/06 03:29 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: Tick tock

It has been some time since I have read your work, and this my friend is a beautiful commentary. I can see you are growing as a writer TNT (aka Fox) because not only are becoming more observational, but you are fine tuning your voice.

I will have to keep up my visits and hope to stumble across a short of yours. I find it brilliant how much your writing has grown.

awesome work.

and so very true. i feel slightly enlightened.

I really only have one piece that is short enough to post and in prose format (screenplay format will not work here). It's the shortest short story I've ever written, wrote it about five years ago, and, if carefully adapted, could be a nice little flash-animated character study. It is still too long for the post though, so it will come in two parts.

METRIC - Part 1

82 meters. Well, 82.36 to be exact. That’s the number in the corner. That’s the distance the rear element of my scope is to the eyeball of my enemy. My target. My forefinger curls around the ergonomic trigger and I mouth the word bang. My muzzle suppressor is damaged, hit with a 7.62, so I can’t actually kill my target right now without giving away my position. He’ll be dead in 3 minutes. I’ll be dead in 5. Ok, 5.75.

82.45, 82.59, 82.71, he’s leaning back. My crosshair is fixed on his cornea. It’s my second favorite flashpoint. My first is the throat just below the Adam’s apple. With this rifle I can pop a target’s head off at the right angle, it’s quite a sight. Slightly harder to get a shot like that on the women. I still manage though.

With my eye on the scope I am alone in my own little world. My own line of sight, my little tunnel of pain. Don’t worry though, I’m covered. I’m not alone out here. My spotter’s covering me with his A-Pag, the squad’s covering my spotter with their weapons, the gun crews are covering my squad with the Thudd guns and Overwatch is covering all our asses with the orbital strikes. In fact, its about to rain fire again in a couple of seconds…17.9 to be precise, I‘m a numbers kind of person. We get the call over our commlinks. Duck and cover, incoming orbital barrage, which is kind of paranoid since the BatSats are so accurate, we’re in no immediate danger, it just gives me and the rest of the guys an opportunity to lay down some fire. It has been a good 12 minutes 27 seconds since a shots been fired and I can‘t speak for all of us, but I‘m getting itchy.

Here they come, the flak flares from the enemy’s line fly up to intercept the shells. They’re getting much better at deflecting the barrages. The flares burst and send AP shrapnel all over the place at 30-45 meters above the target area. The shells fall between the burst for the most part but some of them blow in the air. The sound is incredible. Its not so much loud as it is persistent. We feel it more than hear it, each impact shakes the ground and I grip my rifle to keep my target, who has moved up to 81.88 meters. As the third shell impacts, the gun crews decide they may as well try and hit the bodies flying through the trees. It’s a fun game, but I’m more focused on this guy, my 81.88, 81.94. I’ll call him Jerry, no Gerald. I like to name my targets if time permits it. It stops me from being able to simply kill anonymously, guiltlessly. In my head I give them a name, life, family, all the frills and amenities, favorite color, worst nightmare, political views, the works. And when my round takes affect, their life flashes before my eyes. Go ahead, think I’m nuts. But I have my reasons, I’m not some kill-happy sicko and I don’t intend on becoming one. It keeps me from losing my reality. I need my reality, I need my numbers.

But I digress. Gerald has fallen back and to the right at 83.07 meters, trying to retreat to another dugout most likely, and that’s the number when I squeeze. The round ejaculates from the muzzle and my rifle sighs with relief. 74.22 meters to target. Gerald trudges through the cold forest, rifle over one shoulder. 64.71 meters to target. Gerald’s young and homely wife is waving goodbye to him as he leaves for the front. 57.40 meters to target. Gerald trips on the stage, graduating from Secondary school. 48.35 meters to target. Gerald wins a rather prestigious spelling contest. 32.04 meters to target. Gerald learns to ride a bike. 25.91 meters to target. Gerald’s dog saves him from his violent and drunk stepfather. 18.15 meters to target. Gerald takes his first steps on shag carpet. 09.86 meters to target. Gerald is born. 00.00 meters to target. Despite the fact that Gerald’s back is turned, I can tell that the round exits his skull through his right eye socket, taking most of the bone and brain with it.

The orbital strike is relentless, but then, something very unexpected happens. Did I miss something? Was I absent for a briefing? Is my commlink broken? No, because over it we all hear the Foxtrot November Alpha code. Mindlessly, hundreds of my fellow soldiers hurl themselves from their positions and up onto the open ground, charging forward toward the enemy line. The Thudds give us suppressing fire, but I had to question this order. This had to be a mistake. With my eyes off the scope I could see that everyone else wholeheartedly disagrees with me. I only have time to blink before my CO grabs my exosuit and pulls me up to him, yelling in my face about how I must be deaf and stupid etc. I don’t shrug but I want to and I just follow the rest of the pack. My spotter is already 7.26 meters ahead of me. I scramble to catch up. I start noticing that there isn’t too much fire coming from the enemy’s line. This barrage seems to have done its job very well. The only problem being that it has yet to let up. This could become an issue in a few seconds, when the first of our men reach the other side. Until then, we all press forward.

METRIC - Part 2

Sure enough, the barrage stops just after 17 of us have taken up position in the first line of enemy dugouts. 5 of those 17 are killed by its tail-end. I’m still 43.79 meters from the first hole. To think this line had been a stalemate for 3 months before the order was given. And now we were going to take it with such a crude, precarious tactic? It almost seemed like a joke, was it April fools? Sorry lads we were just kidding, you weren’t supposed to actually follow the charge order. Nope, no joke. They say a thinking soldier is a dead soldier. Perhaps they’re right. Two rounds impact the ground at my feet and another whizzes by my cheek, left side, heating my skin. I hunch and zig to the right, scanning the tree line for a target. There, he’s dropped his rifle and is going for the Gauss turret. That thing could cause some serious damage. I land on my knee and press the rifle to me. I find him in my scope. Oops, her, sorry. Couldn’t quite tell through the smoke for a moment. Line her up just before she reaches the Gauss. Shaina, 2 kids, 8 and 13, divorced, O-negative, perfectionist, mediocre painter, blue eyes. 38.62 meters, squeeze. Shaina is born.

I slide down the dirt into the first dugout. My comrades are already pressing forward to the next row. The enemy is falling back for the most part. I sling my rifle and draw a side-arm, ready for close combat. I cross the next mound and hop down beside a private from my squad, Campbell, demolitions, two rounds to the chest. One got through the flak. A Doc’s working on him but I can see it in his eyes, Campbell is dead. A flash of white to my left draws my weapon like a magnet. Sure enough, we haven’t swept this place thoroughly yet. An enemy soldier, left behind. I squeeze off three rounds vengefully. He drops. I turn my attention forward and push off with my right foot. I need to stay at the vanguard of the attack. I feel my aching quads strain to lift me out of the hole, and they do, they obey. But there’s something else, something wrong. Could it be the ringing in my ears? Why am I upside down? Why can I no longer feel my quads?

That little bastard. I could kill him again I’m so angry. I guess I can’t blame him entirely. He was just doing his job, his duty. It’s partially my fault for not noticing the grenade in his hand when he dropped, not noticing it roll out and stop 8.34 centimeters from my right foot. The trees here are very tall, did I never notice that before? I must be much more tired than I feel. The Doc is talking to me, and working on me. I can’t feel my legs and I strain to see where they’ve gone to. I’m actually very lucky. My legs are still attached, burnt and numb, but I still have them. The problem is the piece of KC10 assault rifle that’s lodged itself up under my rib cage. As I breathe, more frantic by the passing moments, I can feel my left lung scraping against the twisted metal. Not too much pain though, the 26ccs of dimethatrin has taken care of that. Did I mention its been about 2 minutes 22 seconds since Gerald fell? You do the math. 18 rounds left in my rifle. 27 in my side-arm. 2 minutes 28 seconds now. The snow is getting warm, or maybe that’s just my blood melting it, that could be where the steam is coming from, but I’m having less luck moving my head to look around. I’m content just looking upward for now. 2 minutes 36 seconds. Doc is holding my hand, he has that helpless look on his face as he takes the letter from my pouch. I try and remember what I wrote in it. I wonder. 2 minutes 42 seconds. My husband’s going to be so angry. 43 seconds. 44 seconds. 45. And I’m born.

The End

At 10/3/06 03:29 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: Tick tock

I just read it on theshadowsun.net before I knew you posted it here... I like it.

It's well written, and brings up a good point... and I like how you inserted "Tick tock" between each paragraph. It's a constant reminder of the passing of time, even as you're reading about it, and it only proves how right you are. I actually rushed through this piece the first time because I was thinking about all the other things that I had to do tonight. Then I realized how ironic that was :-)

At 10/3/06 05:30 PM, edgelife2001 wrote: METRIC

I just read through both parts, and it was fantastic. Despite the fact that almost everything in the narrator's perspective revolved around numbers, the writing came across as anything but bland and mechanical. It also says a lot about the character for such a short story... I like how she imagines the lives of those she's about to kill. It's a bit unusual (especially when you start saying that someone is "born" to signify that he or she is dead) but that's what makes it great. I've never read anything quite like this.

You seem to have a knack for war stories (this plus work on Over There and Band of Brothers)...good job :D

Thanks!

At 10/3/06 05:24 PM, MystWilliams wrote: It has been some time since I have read your work, and this my friend is a beautiful commentary. I can see you are growing as a writer TNT (aka Fox) because not only are becoming more observational, but you are fine tuning your voice.

I will have to keep up my visits and hope to stumble across a short of yours. I find it brilliant how much your writing has grown.

awesome work.

and so very true. i feel slightly enlightened.

Fucking Hell!

Myst!

Where the hell have you been? I've not seen hide nor tail of you for ages :-) Welcome back mate.

And thanks for the comment. I quite agree that I'm finding my voice. I re-read some of the things I've posted early on in the clubs life and cringed at some of them.

I'm glad you liked "Tick tock" though. It means a hell of a lot when someone as good as you says they were slightly enlightened by a piece :P

At 10/3/06 07:50 PM, subpar wrote: It's well written, and brings up a good point... and I like how you inserted "Tick tock" between each paragraph. It's a constant reminder of the passing of time, even as you're reading about it, and it only proves how right you are.

I wasn't entirely sure about that to begin with. I thought I may have overdone it slightly, but if you think it works then I'll take your word for it.

I actually rushed through this piece the first time because I was thinking about all the other things that I had to do tonight. Then I realized how ironic that was :-)

haha. That is quite ironic actually. Don't you jsut love the way life works out at times? :P

At 10/3/06 05:24 PM, MystWilliams wrote: It has been some time since I have read your work, and this my friend is a beautiful commentary. I can see you are growing as a writer TNT (aka Fox) because not only are becoming more observational, but you are fine tuning your voice.

A nice observation you made about TNT there, Myst. One I wholeheartedly agree with.

Before my own writing runs aground once more, can I ask that you look at the first couple of posts on page 173 and give me some more detailed feedback, as you are the master of in depth commentary and I could do with it (Thanks to TNT and Andersson for their comments also)

By the way, about your story Coop. There's a thing I thought about but forgot (or something) to tell you.

You say "deceased" in it a lot of times.

The first time you said it, it worked out perfect. I actually 'noted' the good use of wording right there.

But then it's used over and over again, it seems a bit repeatitive in the end. See if you can write "dead" instead, I believe it would work out fine. =)

At 10/4/06 11:43 AM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: Fucking Hell!

Myst!

Where the hell have you been? I've not seen hide nor tail of you for ages :-) Welcome back mate.

I have been warring off the many tides of life... I am sure you can imagine the scenarios. And thanks! I am trying my damn’dest to step in as much as I can, as a bit of free time has been heading my way lately.

And thanks for the comment. I quite agree that I'm finding my voice. I re-read some of the things I've posted early on in the clubs life and cringed at some of them.

haha... I cringe at all of my old work, and new work, but that is the life of a writer.

I'm glad you liked "Tick tock" though. It means a hell of a lot when someone as good as you says they were slightly enlightened by a piece :P

I found it arose many considerations in me... which I loved about it.

At 9/22/06 09:53 AM, Coop83 wrote: Guys, I could do with your opinion on my interpretation of Death - Pratchett has done his, I've pulled mine out of a slightly more bizzare concept:

First, I would like to note, that the last paragraph was my favourite. And I am sure you can imagine why, as I like satisfaction.

So, from the standpoint of the story and yet the writing, I think it is a valid insert. I quite like the intrigue it brings forth. One thing you have mastered is manipulating the writer's curiosity, and by god, I’m curious!

I find it odd that paper, quill and signatures hold value in the "spiritual world" haha, but that is the fun of these things (and by things I mean genres)... I think I had the right to snicker at that idea, and I think you, as the writer, meant for it, or, at least, don't mind it.

I feel a bit of the beginning was skimmed over quicker than it had to be. I commend you for trying to tighten your development, but I always found the greatest beauty of your writing to be the description and fluid detail. If I can make any sense of the awe I found in your writing (more before, but flavours still present), I would compare you to Caravaggio... consider drama, detail, and his use of light... that is your writing, to me.

There are a few awkward sentences, that, though syntactically correct, could read better, but these things are miniscule, and I feel no need to interrupt your writing with my individual taste... as I believe, for those that are most wavering, you will re-write by your own eyes in editing.

Now, in simplifying your writing, I found that you have added some pedestrian tongue (and I hardly mean that as an insult, but rather as: OK... you are not Stephen King... you are more Tolkien... live and breath you haha)... an example of this:

...making him look like a more evil version of William Shakespeare

Now, this may be again an idea of taste, but I find this a tad tabloid... wouldn’t the comparison be stronger if you made it more direct? ex//

...appearing like an evil William Shakepseare … or the like…

I know, it is hardly different, but you do not need to state that it is a "version of"... because the common idea of Shakespeare is not evil, thus it is clear. "making him look like" also seems pedestrian. And I point this out not because you should change this one line (that is entirely up to you), but so that you are aware of these things (as I feel it happens more than once) when you are editing this piece.

Let me also say, at this point, that critiquing makes me sound as if I dislike a piece. I would like to note: I Like It! I am simply doing what i can to help. : )

Let me think… aside from the points mentioned, I can hardly find anything of it to critique. I haven’t read enough of the story to critique the story itself… but I feel compelled to read more… so I cannot wait for a further instalment.

Awesome work! My interest lingers… blind… and longing.

At 10/6/06 10:44 AM, Andersson wrote: You say "deceased" in it a lot of times.

Thanks, I'll bear that in mind (If someone wants to buy me a Thesaurus for Xmas, I'd be most grateful)

At 10/6/06 10:55 AM, MystWilliams wrote: First, I would like to note, that the last paragraph was my favourite. And I am sure you can imagine why, as I like satisfaction.

Bert has more of a role to play in this story than Ned does.

So, from the standpoint of the story and yet the writing, I think it is a valid insert. I quite like the intrigue it brings forth. One thing you have mastered is manipulating the writer's curiosity, and by god, I’m curious!

I'm sitting on a riverbank, dangling tasty little morsels on a hook in the pond. I've got you hooked, lets hope this works with more readers :)

I find it odd that paper, quill and signatures hold value in the "spiritual world" haha, but that is the fun of these things (and by things I mean genres)... I think I had the right to snicker at that idea, and I think you, as the writer, meant for it, or, at least, don't mind it.

I got the idea from Futurama - Hermes the Buereaucrat has a life ruled by paperwork. What if the afterlife was the same?

I feel a bit of the beginning was skimmed over quicker than it had to be. I commend you for trying to tighten your development, but I always found the greatest beauty of your writing to be the description and fluid detail. If I can make any sense of the awe I found in your writing (more before, but flavours still present), I would compare you to Caravaggio... consider drama, detail, and his use of light... that is your writing, to me.

It's a double edged sword, as I'm not aiming to sound like Tolkien (waffling for half a book about one wooded glade in something which would be depicted in a film scene of no longer than 20 seconds) but I want the reader to see through my mind's eye.

Now, in simplifying your writing, I found that you have added some pedestrian tongue (and I hardly mean that as an insult, but rather as: OK... you are not Stephen King... you are more Tolkien... live and breath you haha)... an example of this:

...making him look like a more evil version of William Shakespeare

I thought this was the funniest thing I have ever written.

Now, this may be again an idea of taste, but I find this a tad tabloid... wouldn’t the comparison be stronger if you made it more direct? ex//

...appearing like an evil William Shakepseare … or the like…

Having come up through the English school system, I can empathise with lots of people who loathe and despise the bard for making their English classes hell. I had a heated debate with the whole English teaching department at high school as to why we should not study Shakespeare in favour of a more contemporary piece, such as Tolkien's The Hobbit. Shakespeare only wrote those plays to get in with the popular crowd - much like a sports fan cheering for the team that's doing well, then turning on them when they do bad (See also Boston Red Sox)

I know, it is hardly different, but you do not need to state that it is a "version of"... because the common idea of Shakespeare is not evil, thus it is clear. "making him look like" also seems pedestrian. And I point this out not because you should change this one line (that is entirely up to you), but so that you are aware of these things (as I feel it happens more than once) when you are editing this piece.

Maybe I do allow my feelings on the subject to boil over, but that is my medium. (Can you spot any other opinionated musings?)

Let me also say, at this point, that critiquing makes me sound as if I dislike a piece. I would like to note: I Like It! I am simply doing what i can to help. : )

That is what good critique is.

Let me think… aside from the points mentioned, I can hardly find anything of it to critique. I haven’t read enough of the story to critique the story itself… but I feel compelled to read more… so I cannot wait for a further instalment.

I am continuing as fast as I can. Sadly, my inspirations are coming along faster than I can get them onto disk. I need to find more time to work on the story.

Awesome work! My interest lingers… blind… and longing.

Good, I won't keep you waiting too long (I hope)

At 10/6/06 10:55 AM, MystWilliams wrote: I know, it is hardly different, but you do not need to state that it is a "version of"... because the common idea of Shakespeare is not evil, thus it is clear.

Hehe, I'm like Coop, I too think that line is really funny! XD

Let me think… aside from the points mentioned, I can hardly find anything of it to critique.

Hm, Coop could you post my PM with comments in here? It'd be good to have all the comments at one place. And besides, I wanna know what I first said when I comment the other parts. =)

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

When you open the book.

It didn't cost much at all. In fact it's like getting the money back, or like finding out that the book is for free once you are going to buy it.

There's some excitement about it, you feel like you've just sucked up another person's life experiences and all of his expertise. You increase.

Now you've bought it. You got it. Or, found it. It's like finding out the answer to a riddle.

It's heavy. You are holding it in your right hand.

It isn't really heavy like a piece of metal, or a big rock or anything. But in some aspects, it's like a brick.

The size is a little bit larger.

It weighs heavy with words; knowing, intelligence and information. Power.

You know that if you'd smack it in the head of someone, they'd drop.

They'd drop not because of t he weight nor 'cos of the power in your punch, but because of the book's power. Not your strength, the book's strength.

You open it up a little from its middle.

The brown-yellow pages are full of characters. Text.

You browse through the pages and inhales through your nose while holding your face by the side of your palm where the book is resting.

From the last page of the book, to the first.

You don't turn the book around, you don't tilt it.

The book isn't for moving around a lot. Carry it with care.

You've inhaled every word, each letter on the pages.

You now open the book again. This time from the top.

You read "Living Text", and now begins to read it. Again, from the top.

At 10/6/06 01:28 PM, Andersson wrote: Hm, Coop could you post my PM with comments in here? It'd be good to have all the comments at one place. And besides, I wanna know what I first said when I comment the other parts. =)

No sooner asked than delivered

At some point in history, Andersson Wrote:

Nice! It was very good.

Haha, out with the undescriptive comments and in with my thoughts:

I liked the way how everything was described precisely. You must have done some kind of research (or if it's just from role game playing) to know what it's all called.

I also enjoy how the events turned quickly. It had a lot more plot than I expected.

I thought it'd become some boring caravan trip conversation to end with some half-fun moral.

But, it was nothing like that. It was really good in fact with the man from... hm... the other side. Yeah, coming and wanting him to sign a paper.

Infact, there are some orders whom believe that the descended walks over to a 'court of life' where they will get a mission; to look after a living (Usually a relative).

They write down what happens to this person and tries to communicate with other living beings' 'guardians' and together they affect the living men (and women) so that they'll do good.

In the end, when this person dies, the 'guardian' may have a huge script of things about this person, and eventually he'll be able to give him a good 'work' when dead; instead of being sent to hell, he'd work as a 'guardian' which'd be some kind of angel, more or less...

In Sweden (not sure if this exists in other countries), folk says that a person has a "skyddsängel" when they avoid an accident they should not have been able to avoid.

You say that some guardian from the heavens watched out for you.

Skyddsängel:
Skydd = Protection
Ängel = Angel

=)

May I join? All I have by way of writing sample is a little non-serious piece I thought up recently. Hope it cuts it.

I walked through the halls in my school, going nowhere in particular and not focusing on anything. I was cutting class you see, and as is the case with people who cut class, I was doing nothing in particular. Wandering around aimlessly, I noticed how ugly our lockers were
“Blech” I thought, “Why the hell are our lockers pastel yellow? I mean for god’s sake-”, my internal monologue was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a girl crying. Having nothing better to do, I set off to find the source of this crying. What I came upon horrified me. A bunch of my school’s resident thugs were harassing an innocent girl. What really pissed me off about this was that the girl was beautiful, deep-blue eyes, stunning breasts, shimmering blonde hair, stunning breasts, all-around beautiful face, stunning breasts; it was like they were vandalizing a priceless piece of art. Overcome with a sense of moral righteousness, I walked up to the leader and the following conversation:
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m teaching this ho a lesson, bitch.”
“You’d better stop it.”
“Make-me, bitch.” Taking this as a formal invitation I leaped at him and began punching at what I believed to be his groin, seeing the plight of their leader, the other thugs joined in, and soon, I was getting a vicious beating. Realizing I was not going to get very far like this, I looked for anything to help me. Fortunately, there was a fire-extinguisher on the wall. I pulled it off and smashed one of the thugs with it. His skull crumpled up like an aluminum can.
Feeling empowered, I set my sites on the rest of the thugs, one of the bastards whipped out a pocketknife and attempted to stab me, but I was too quick for him, I grabbed the knife and slashed the thug’s throat, relishing the site of his blood squirting out of the wound. However, I could not enjoy the bloody shower for long, as I still had 3 of the bastards left.
“Bet you’re wishing you hadn’t harassed her now aren’t you?” I cackled maniacally, one of them seemed dumbstruck, so I stabbed him in the gut and smashed his skull into the wall, “He’s still alive, but not for long” I chuckled as I threw his maimed body on the floor.
The next thug turned out to be a real pussy, he immediately went down on the floor and started begging me to let him live, but that I could not do. There was no way I could morally let such a violent sadistic bastard live, so I threw him on the floor and stomped on his neck, causing him to cough up blood and make disgusting gurgling sounds. Leering over my latest victory, I was nearly caught unawares by the thug leader, who was coming at me with a plank of wood. Thinking quickly, I pulled out the jug of gasoline and matches that I had just remembered I had, and set him ablaze.
Now covered head to toe in blood, and grinning like a maniac, I walked over to the girl to help her up. The ungrateful bitch cringed!
Knowing there was no other option; I raped, killed, and ate her.

A transformation of a Futurama script into a Captaisn log. Enjoy :-)
--------------------------

Captains log: Star date: April 13th… point 2

Whilst on routine patrol around Vergon 6 we detected an unknown vessel attempting to break the security cordon around the planet. I anticipated an all-out tactical dogfight, followed by a light dinner...ravioli, ham, sundae bar and possibly some chateau le Blanc…

Combat was delayed however as we engaged in a tactical game of chess with our adversaries. They adjusted their course and headed straight towards us. It was a well calculated move straight out of Sun Tzu's classic text The Art of War…or my own masterwork: Zap Brannigans big book of war! The enemies’ tactical move paid off however and they gained the upper hand and managed to successfully dock with the Nimbus in docking bay 4…I have reprimanded the ensign on duty there and confined him to quarters where he is now responsible for ironing my Velour underwear.

After docking the Captain of the ship made their way to the bridge. Thinking that I had risked all and lost, I ordered the complete evacuation of the Nimbus, but I was not quick enough! The commanding officers of the enemy ship had made their way to the bridge and now held us hostage! Using my diplomatic skills that I learned at the DOOP academy I managed to ascertain that the Captain of the ship was a woman of unsurpassable beauty and deadliness by the name of Leela. My first mate, Kif, however, turned into a quivering wreck as the boarders entered the bridge. It is my recommendation that he be given shore leave to calm his nerves.

After a discussion with Leela and the crew of the ship, now known be called the Planet Express delivery Ship, it was determined that they came aboard with no hostile intentions, and had, in fact, only come to bask in the glory of the Big Z man, Captain Zapp Brannigan. One of the officers of the ship, a small brained idiot known only as “Fry” was apparently a fan of mine. He inquired about my time spent on Octillian and how I defeated the rampaging Kill-bots that threatened the inhabitants of the planet. Kif, now recovered from his shock, leapt at the chance to show off the medal I was awarded for my efforts of sending wave after wave after wave of my own men to their certain deaths in order to save Octillian.

Captain Leela and her crew, now impressed beyond all measure with my exploits adjourned with myself and Kif to the dinner hall where we engaged in chit-chat over a light lunch. Captain Leela told us of their mission on Vergon 6. I offered to help by sending wave after wave of my own men to their certain deaths, but was rudely interrupted by one of my own crewmen who yelled out that someone in the room “sucked”. I can only assume he was referring to Kif. Though what Kif did to this crewman is unknown to me.

After the interruption Leela explained the nature of their mission. Apparently they were going to collect two of every type of animal on Vergon 6 to protect them from extinction. When I learnt of this, I informed them that they could not land on the planet for they would be breaking Brannigans law, which is the rule that states that the Democratic Order Of Planets prohibits interfering with undeveloped worlds. Leela then made a comment about the planet having being mined by DOOP in the past, which was why the animals needed saving. She did have a point, but I do not pretend to understand Brannigans Law. I merely obey it. Leela however failed to see this and insisted that they be allowed down to the planet to continue their mission. Naturally, I refused and had them thrown into the brig for questioning my orders.

After finishing my ravioli, Kif and I retired to the observation deck where we discussed what approach should be taken to deal with Leela. After much debate and research into whether or not Leela was in fact female, we decided that the best way to approach the matter was to seduce Leela as stated in Brannigans law B10.81. Kif then eagerly went to fetch my formal shorts. I then returned to my quarters to prepare for the seduction of Captain Leela.

Upon entering my quarters Leela was immediately taken aback by the sight of the Big Z man in his formal shorts! If it had been any other woman she would have been putty in my hands, but not Leela. She was far too strong willed for that. She refused to be seduced. So, in a tactical turn from my latest piece ‘Zapp Brannigans guide to the opposite sex’ I pretended to be insecure and feigned loneliness by mispronouncing words such as Shampag…Champing…the bubbly wine I had last night. This tactic worked a treat, and soon, Leela had fallen for the Zapper!

After a night of hot steamy Zapp Brannigan style love, I awoke to find Leela leaving my boudoir. She was headed down to the planet to complete her mission. I let her go, knowing that half way there she would come crawling back to the Zapper when the craving for the sweet, sweet taste of candy overcame her.

It wasn’t long after that when we got a distress call from the planet from Leela and her crew, saying they had run out of fuel. But I saw through her cunning plan. She was playing hard to get, but I knew she was crawling back to the big Z like a bird on it’s belly! After some small talk and banter where Leela showed her physical attraction to me, and who can blame her really, it was decided by me that we should assist the crew of the Planet express delivery ship. However, we had to enforce Brannigans law on them as they had on their ship one of the native animals of Vergon 6 which hadn’t be quarantined, and therefore, we could not assist till it was removed.

Leela appeared to take offense at the request to remove the vile creature on their ship and started to insult me and stated that originally she thought I was a pompous buffoon, then discovered that I was a “pitiful child” on the inside, but then she realised that on the outside, I was still a pompous buffoon. Despite her childish name calling, I could not help but wonder which one of the three me’s it was that rocked her world? We then lost contact with the ship and waited…and waited…and waited, until we saw Leela’s ship fly away into space.

To conclude this report we have failed to uphold Brannigan's Law. However, I did make it with a hot alien babe. And in the end is that not what man has dreamt of since first he looked up at the stars?

Captain Zapp Brannigan, over and out!

At 10/11/06 04:55 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: To conclude this report we have failed to uphold Brannigan's Law. However, I did make it with a hot alien babe. And in the end is that not what man has dreamt of since first he looked up at the stars?

Kiff, I'm asking you a question!

*Kiff groans / sighs*

A nice piece - why not try that with other Futurama episodes, like 'War is the H-Word' *nudge*

The problem is, you allowed most of the jokes to be lost -" In the game of chess, you can never let the enemy see your pieces" *Zapp crosses his legs* to name but one

At 10/12/06 05:26 AM, Coop83 wrote: A nice piece - why not try that with other Futurama episodes, like 'War is the H-Word' *nudge*

I may do eventually if I get time.

The problem is, you allowed most of the jokes to be lost -" In the game of chess, you can never let the enemy see your pieces" *Zapp crosses his legs* to name but one

Yeha I know, but It's kind of hard for me to put a visual joke like that into a captains log style thingy-ma-bob. I'll have an attempt at it next time I try one though.

At 10/12/06 11:01 AM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: Yeha I know, but It's kind of hard for me to put a visual joke like that into a captains log style thingy-ma-bob. I'll have an attempt at it next time I try one though.

It's a different type of thing to write, I must admit. The fact that it's a Futurama rip off (fan-fic) means that a lot of people can empathise with it.

Can I get some some thoughts on how people respond to the characters in this piece? Not finished yet.
------------------
The door to the cell slammed open. Hermann looked up at the Officer standing in front of him. He wore the uniform of the American military; Hermann recognised him immediately. It was Colonel Roberts, the man who had been assigned as his watcher and tormentor.

“Morning Hermann,” he said with a smile on his face. It was a sickening smile. It was the smile of man who was in a position of authority and was more than happy to abuse it as he saw fit.

“Good morning Colonel,” replied Hermann, trying not to show that he was tired. If he showed any sign of weakness in front of Robert’s, or any of his comrades, everything he had fought for, everything his comrades had died for was for nothing. If he weakened, the enemy had won.

“Ready for breakfast Hermann?” Roberts’ voice was cheerful. It always was. No matter what he and his friends did to Hermann they were always cheerful. It was the one thing that Hermann detested about them all, they were happy to stand there and watch as he was kept apart from his comrades, his friends, and left to rot in the accursed cell.

“I am ready Colonel” said Hermann, walking towards the door.

“Hold you horses there Hermann,” Roberts stuck his hand out across the door and blocked Hermann’s path. His face was plastered with side wards smile “Gustav wants to see you before you go to Breakfast.”

Gustav! The very name of that traitor bit into Hermann like a sword to the heart! He dared to declare himself of German descent? He dared to identify himself as German when he sat so readily with the enemy and helped to sentence those who had given everything for the Nation to death!

“Why?” asked Hermann for the sake of sheer courtesy. He had always tried to be courteous to his captors. It infuriated them. It was obvious why Gustav wanted to talk to him. He wished to mock him once more and pretend to understand Hermann’s problems. He wished to sit and try to find out why Hermann had done what he had done. He wished to understand Hermann’s mind so he could use it against him in the trial.

“He wants to talk with you Hermann. And lucky you, you don’t even have to go anywhere, he’s right outside. Come on in Gustav.”

A slim young man walked into the room wearing an American uniform of the medical Corps. Gustav was a psychologist, brought into the prison specifically to analyse the behaviour of Hermann and the other prisoners. His reports had formed the basis of many of the prosecution arguments for the charges brought against Hermann and the other prisoners.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a while then,” he turned to Gustav and nodded once, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Gustav saluted and Roberts returned the salute in the traditional manner. Hermann, despite his hatred of his captors, could not help but be impressed. If there was one thing he approved of, it was discipline, and despite his hatred for the men that held him captive in the prison, he could not help but be impressed by the military discipline displayed by his captors.

Hermann turned to face Gustav who was watching him intently.

“Would you care for a seat?” he mocked whilst indicating the end of his bed which was clear.

“No thank you Hermann,” replied Gustav, “I’ll stand. I’m not going to be here that long.”

“As you wish” Hermann muttered a she sat down on the chair next to the wall. He cocked his head to one side and examined Gustav closely. He was anxious about something. It was easy to tell; it showed up in his posture. Whenever Gustav was anxious he would stand up straighter than normal and he would refuse to sit down.

Silence filled the room until Gustav cleared his throat and spoke.

“You’re aware that today is the day that you receive your sentence?”

Hermann laughed. How could he not be? Ever since he had arrived at the prison and been put on trial he knew that he was going to end up hung for defending the rights of his country.

“I am aware,” he replied solemnly, “I am also aware that today is the day I will be sentenced to die Gustav. I hope you are happy with what you have done. You have helped to condemn the few who were willing to fight on for a new and better world. You have condemned the future of our world to Death! You Gustav shall be responsible for the blood which will be spilled today!”

Hermann’s voice began to rise as he spat out his tirade. But Gustav paid no attention to it. His mind was focused on the task at hand.

“It’s not too late.” He spoke in a cold voice that told Hermann that it most certainly was. He was going to die today, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“It’s not too late?” Hermann let out a shrill laugh. “Must you mock me Gustav?. You know, as well as I, that today is the day I am to be sentenced to death!”

Gustav didn’t move. He didn’t blink, he didn’t seem to breathe. He just stood and looked at Hermann from behind his spectacles. Hermann refused to break his gaze away from Gustav.

“You cans till save yourself Hermann. If you renounce what you did and confess you’ll only get jail time,” came Gustav’s eventual reply, “It worked for Albert, it can work for you.”

Hermann stood up and walked directly towards Gustav, almost foaming at the mouth with anger. He stood nose to nose with the American psychologist and stared deep into his eyes as he spoke.

“Do not speak to me of that traitor! He should be here in my place. It is he who should be facing death, not I! I am a hero to the German nation! I did what I did for the good of the Reich! I did what I did for the German people! I did what I did for the likes of your grandparents!”

Gustav was unmoved. He just stood, and looked into Hermann’s eyes. If Hermann hadn’t known better he would have thought he saw pity in those blue eyes.

“When today is over, one thing shall be known throughout history! And that is, that I shall die a Hero of the German people! Statues will be raised in my honour! I WILL DIE A GREAT MAN!”

Gustav, still unmoved, reached out towards the door and knocked sharply on the door. It opened and Colonel Roberts stepped into the room. He was still smiling.

“Come on Hermann. Time for breakfast.”

With one last glance at Gustav, Hermann walked out of his cell, his head held high and marched straight towards the dining hall with Colonel Roberts a step behind him, whistling the star spangled banner.

Heres a sample. can i join?

Six stories up and the window was open.
Death on impact was most surely certain.
But something that night made me close the curtain.
What was a brother
To do?

At the time I was a big 15.
Everyone at school had always seemed mean.
A family of four that was poor and lean.
What was a brother
To do?

We lived in an apartment the size of a hall.
No heating to protect us from winter and fall.
My parents busy spending time with their buddy alcohol.
What was a brother
To do?

I backed from the window and I turned to a frame.
It contained me and sweet Tommy, he was small but lame.
He smiled at the darkness and he put a stop to the pain.
And I belived in what my brother
Could do.

His smile warmed me up throughout the winter snow.
He made the family just seem to glow.
He was the only part of my life I couldn’t let go,
And I stepped back from that window.
I had to step back from that window.
The thought of leaving Tommy made my stomach say no.
My back turned to confront the window…
What was a brother,
To do?

At 10/14/06 07:15 AM, nestman12 wrote: Heres a sample. can i join?

Indeed you can. I'm no expert at poetry so i'm afraid I'm not going to be able to give you a very good reveiw on your piece, but for what its worth, I liked it.

Don't fear the Reaper

“Next”

The nasal voice echoed out around the room. It was quite a large room, though there was hardly anything in it. Just a desk, a chair, a door and a potted plant. It was a very nice potted plant, made from the highest quality plastic. It spoke wonders about the sort of person who worked in this office. Namely that they liked the colour black. Everything was black. The table, the chair, the plant and the ceiling were all black. The only thing that wasn’t completely black was the floor which alternated between black and very dark shades of blue.

The door swung open and an elderly gentleman, wearing an Armani suit stumbled into the room.

“Ouch!” he yelped as he landed directly on his backside.

“Mind the step,” said a voice from the other end of the room.

The man, who had just entered, struggled to his feet and looked across the room at the desk. Behind it was a middle aged balding man scribbling furiously into a large book which covered over half the table.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” said the man behind the desk, “I don’t have all day…well, actually I do, but that’s no excuse to just stand around being idle.”

Without thinking the elderly gentlemen began to walk across the almost, but not completely, black tiled floor and towards the desk, but suddenly stopped.

“Wait a second…what the hell is going on here? Where am I?” asked the elderly gentlemen confusedly.

The man behind the desk looked up and peered over his glasses.

“You mean he didn’t tell you?” he said as he arched his eyebrows in surprise.

“Who didn’t tell me what?”

“I really need to talk to that young man. It’s one thing forgetting to file the reports, but not telling the clients what’s happening to them...well…” he drifted off into silence for a few seconds before continuing to scribble notes into his book.

“Talk to who?” shouted the elderly gentlemen, his face turning pink with anger, “What the hell is going on. And where am I?”

“You’re dead sir,” came the reply from the clerk without even looking up from the book.

“Oh, right then, well…wait… I’m WHAT?” yelled the gentlemen as he took a few running steps towards the desk before regaining his composure.

The man behind the desk placed his pen down next to the book with the meticulous precision found only in pedantics and Feng Shui consultants. He pushed his glasses up to the top of his nose before speaking.

“You’re dead sir. You have…how do they put it? Ah yes. You have kicked the bucket, you are six feet under, you have choked the proverbial chicken.” He paused for a second as though thinking, “No…wait…you haven’t choked your chicken. That’s something completely different.”

The gentlemen, now standing in front of the desk with a look akin to that of exasperation on his face, let out a stream of expletives.

“Please watch your language sir. Imagine what your mother would say if she could hear you.”

“But my mother’s dea…” the colour from his face drained, “She’s…she’s not here is she?”

The man behind the desk smiled slightly.

“Not here sir, but she may be where you’re headed next. Tell me your name and I can find out.”

“G…Gareth. Gareth Roberts,” stuttered Gareth, the thought of his mother hampering his oratory skills. Being dead might not be that bad, but being dead with HER around, most certainly would be.

“One moment sir,” said the clerk as he buried his nose in the book in front of him. The office was quiet, with only the sound of turning pages filling the vacuum of silence.

Gareth watched the pages of the book with awe. Every page seemed to be dedicated to a different person and their life. When the clerk stopped for a few seconds he glanced at the name at the top of the page. It read “Genghis Khan” and as he watched he saw words scrawl across the book describing what he’d eaten for breakfast.

“But…Genghis Khan’s dead,” said Gareth, giving voice to his thoughts.

“In a manner of speaking sir, yes he is.” replied the clerk whilst continuing to search the book.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, he’s either dead or he isn’t…isn’t he?”

“Not exactly sir” said the clerk still not looking up from the book.

Gareth was confused. Here he was, apparently dead, and yet Genghis Khan, according to the hook nosed man sitting in front of him, was still alive….sort of. Gareth hadn’t felt this confused since he’d woken up one morning to discover he was in bed with his sister-in law after a night out on the town. But despite this, there was a question burning on his tongue he needed to ask.

“I’m sorry…but, I have to ask. Just who are you?”

The clerk looked up.

“Me sir? Why I am the collector of souls. The eternal watchmen. I am one of the two certainties in life. I am…what is it your reality calls me? Ah yes. The Grim reaper! I sir, am Death.”

Death? Gareth couldn’t believe his ears. This middle aged balding man with glasses was claiming to be one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

“Could you repeat that? I need to make sure I didn’t mishear”

“I sir, am death.” responded the Reaper, “and I do believe I have located you in the book. I’m afraid your mother will be with you also. Now then let’s see…how you died…huh. Unusual, apparently you drowned while bobbing for apples at a Halloween party. Well at least you died having fun.”

“I wasn’t at a Halloween party when I was brought here though. I was sat in my car listening to the radio.”

Death dropped his pen.

“I beg your pardon? Did you just say you weren’t at a Halloween party?”

“No. I wasn’t.” said Gareth, thinking that something had obviously gone horribly wrong. Strangely enough, he wasn’t worried. The prospect of not having to spend the rest of eternity with his mother made any mistake that was made entirely forgivable.

“Excuse me a second,” mumbled death as he walked towards the door, opened it walked out and closed it behind him. A second later the door opened again and Death re-appeared.

“Is everything ok?” asked Gareth.

<Continued in next post>

“No, not really,” replied Death, “I’m afraid one of my staff has screwed up big time. I’m sorry for the trouble that’s been caused with you being brought here. If you’d just step through the door you’ll be returned to where you were before…without memory of what happened here of course.”

“Oh…alright” muttered Gareth as he walked towards the door, and slowly opened it. It was dark outside. This wasn’t the kind of dark that consisted of an absence of light however. This was the kind of dark that consisted of an absence of everything. Just pitch blackness. It matched the décor perfectly.

Gareth was about to make a comment about the darkness, but found himself pushed forward, directly into it. The darkness enveloped him. For a brief second he felt cold and then heard the door slam shut behind him.

Death wandered back to his desk and sat down. He glanced at the book did a quick search and found Gareth’s proper page.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered under his breath, “He is going to end up with his mother.”
----------------
Thoughts people?

This threa dneeds 3 cc's of childrens poetry stat!

Hare and Duck

On the fourth of June, with the sun placed at noon
and the clouds floating up in the air.
Sat a Hare and a duck, neither pulling their punch.
T’was a quite nasty affair.

“You cad” said the duck “you pig, you scoundrel!
You’ve gone and eaten the lot”
“No I haven’t” said Hare “It was that evil Fox!”
“Don’t lie” Yelled the duck “Stop pushing your luck!
There’s none here but you and me!”
“You fool” Cried the Hare “Just look over there!
Can’t you see him drinking our Tea?”

Now on the horizon, as this argument raged,
Sat an animal who watched, as if he was dazed.
He stood up and yelled at the fighters down in the glade.
“Oi! Fellas,” He cried at the top of his lungs.
“If you be wanting ya lunch back, ya’d best start to run!”

With that, Mr. fox, with excellent grace,
Ran away from the friends who swiftly gave chase.
Now the fox, who had now scoffed most of the lunch,
Found himself lacking the necessary Oomph.
He started to slow, then stopped at the creek.
Threw himself in, and started to drink.
And Hare and Duck? Well they ran straight past.
Completely missing the tail sticking out of the marsh.

It seemed Duck and Hare, were doomed not to share,
The lunch they had packed for each other.
“Oh dear” said Hare “What should I tell my Ma?
Should I blame it on my brother?”
“Does it matter” Ducked sighed “Tell one lie or another,
either way we’ll end up in trouble."

“I say!”came a voice from deep down below
“Would you mind,not ruining my home?"
Duck looked down, blinked and fainted in shock.
The voice then replied “Oh poppy Cock!”

Now Montgomery mouse (Monty to his friends)
Was someone on which you could always depend.
He’d help you out no matter what...
Even to help catch a dastardly fox.
Now Hare, Duck and Monty devised a plan.
A plan to take back the lunch
Now Mr Fox thinking he’d gotten away.
Didn’t realise that soon he was soon to pay
for the actions he took against Hare and Duck.
And as you shall see, he has quite run out of luck.

Mr Fox was now sat at the edge of the marsh,
Edging along till he could make a straight dash
He stood up, got ready and ran for the trees,
Tripped on a wire, then scraped his knees.
Down came the cage and Fox was caught.
His efforts to escape availed to naught.

In the trees, Duck and hare danced a merry jig,
As Monty mouse, approached wearing a wig.
“Boohoo” cried fox “Help me please.
I’m trapped in a cage and I’ve hurt my knees.”
“Don’t worry” Said Monty “I’ll let you free
. But ya’ll have to give me that lovely tea.”
Fox picked up the tea, and the rest of the food,
And passed it over to Monty who did something quite rude
He ran away, straight back to the trees!
leaving Fox sobbing and drying his tears.
Duck and Hare took their food and ran all the way home.
Monty then left fox in the cage all alone.

Days and days passed, and Fox was feeling sad
He swore on his soul that he’d never be bad!
For Fox had spent too much time locked up
And when he was released he said “Never again”
He now lives a quiet life and makes lots of friends,
But the memory of the cage haunts him to the end.

So Dear friends what is the lesson of this little tale?
The moral is this. Thieves always end up in Jail

This is an awesome idea how do I join?

At 11/22/06 12:34 AM, badazz5001 wrote: This is an awesome idea how do I join?

Just post some stuff of yours so someone can have a look at it.

Likewise, feel free to have a gander over some of the stuff that's been submitted :-)

hi i need a writer rite now and if you help me then i will make you a flash from you scripts of ideas. please help

hello? help help help help help i freaking out please some one help me!!!

Hi there. Recreational writer here. Haven't gotten anything professionally published (yet), but would like to "jyne up." Here's a little fribble I did for fun trying to start a cheesy romance novel:

An Intro to Jack and Jersey Mica.

Jack sprinted down the school's hallway. "Man, if I survive this," he panted, "I'm NEVER gonna slack off in gym class again!" Sweat poured down his forehead and stung in his eyes before streaming down his chubby cheeks. He hoped the little guy he'd saved from that beating made it to safety.

Only one problem, now: who was going to save Jack?

That bully's footfalls creeped up behind him around the last corner. Jack knew he'd never outrun him.

But twenty feet ahead to his left, he saw light from an ajar door. And he heard some slow 1940s big band music. He didn't think twice. His pudgy, round body cannonballed on through, went a short distance, and he finally stopped, hunched over, put his hands on his thighs, and wheezed to pump badly needed oxygen in his lungs.

"And one, and two, just step in the box, and five, and six..."

Looking up, Jack saw twenty girls or so paired up with hands on shoulders and waists, moving around gracefully. But then they stopped, and stared at this new chubby intruder. The teacher stopped her cadence, and peered at him. He stared back embarrasedly, but he hadn't regained enough breath to say "hi", much less apologize or explain. Then he heard those heavy footsteps out in the hall slow down to a menacing walk.

Jack gulped. But then he felt a gentle tap on his elbow. Turning around, he saw this tall girl with pony-tailed light brown hair and a Green Bay Packers football jersey. Glancing to the doorway, she looked very concerned... and very big. "I need a partner," she said. "Would you...?"

"I'm not a very good dancer," Jack confided.

"I'll lead," she reassured.

"Resume the steps," said the teacher as she went to the door. "Five, six, seven, eight..."

And the Packer linewoman towed Jack in the thick of the crowd by his wrist, lifted it, guided his other hand onto her deceptively narrow waist, and put her hand on his shoulder once his was in place. He found the rhythm and somehow got his feet to move in time. The teacher stood and talked to the goon, who scanned the room. Jack's stomach gurgled.

"No, no," his partner said. "Keep your eyes on your date." And her fingers gently turned his face toward hers, while her shoulder hand pulled Jack closer. He blushed furiously as his gut rested against her smooth but solid belly-dancer stomach under her ample chest. And as her gravity coaxed Jack in, he was glad he listened to her.

"You have lovely grey eyes," he said. She simply smiled very honestly.

He knew he had to exit sometime. But even if he died today, he knew his stand had been more than worth it.