At 11/28/06 05:17 PM, Crashed-Vitals wrote: 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

What sort of script are you looking for?

okey i am an animator dont look for works on my profile beacose you wont find any
=]
i need someone that can write good and funy i need you to write me the charcters including
hair colot fat thin black white and whatever i am douing a survivor parody it is gouing
to be a seiris dont do phisical chalenges beacose it will be boring and i need you
to write the dialog i am looking for up to 3 pepole every one of them will get co autership
if you intrested pm me or contact me via email

saar.shalev@gmail.com

BOLT:

PROLOUGE:
--- The lightning struck hard down on the fields, rain splattered everywhere. "Rain, rain good. Thunder, bad, bad, very bad." said Randy the Farmer.
Randy had went insane after his son and daughter were killed in a tornado. His wife's name was Sarah, and his son's name was Lloyd. Little did Ranmdy know, but Lloyd was alive. Oh very alive.

CHAPTER 1:
--- "Rain," said Lloyd, "Rain is good, as my dad would say." Lloyd threw his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk, the flames burned into flashing embers.
Lloyd was the leader of an organization called Numeral, which divided themselves into three companies; Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. His office was an adonded building in Old New York, after Great War 3, (That was the new name of World War) that is, after North Korea blew it up.
His office was in a circular room that had a torn blue rug, and pale, yellow wallpaper that was ruined and had dusty bookshelves that had only three books, The War Handbook, Hacking for Dummies, and How to Burn a Man Alive.
The door suddenly flew open. A tall, muscular man in a dark blue suit burst in. He was clad with orange-tinted sunglasses with black frames. He had a mohawk and an oxford shirt with a white and blue tie.
"We got another mission from Alara." said the man. "Good," said Lloyd.
The Alara Organization is the prime unit in the Kazag Underground, a "terrorist organization", says the United States, but current "president" Reagen Lantok has nearly dictated every state as a dictatorship excapt for Oregon and Kansas, and northern California.
"What does Alara want?" asked Ray. "Guns need to be picked up from Fort Gugazz in California. Shortage of M-16's and Sniper Rifles, Tanks would help, too." said the man. "Now whats the pay?" said Lloyd. "All Numeral cares about? PAY? Hahahaha! Haven't changed a bit since 14, the day I met 'ya! Haha. Whoo!" blurted the man. "Max," said Lloyd, "I want the pay!" he had pulled his pistol into Max's face. "Now what is the pay." demanded Lloyd. "t- two thousand grand." said Max. "Good," said Lloyd as he sheathed his gun.
"You're just as bad as the USA, what the fuck's up wit' you!?" said Max. Lloyd snickered and said, "The Alpha organization is our strongest company in our army. Get the Alpha Prime League, they'll do the mission. This is the one mission I have to go on."
"Lloyd, leaders are much to valuable to go on missions, we need you. What would you do if they messed up?" asked Max. "I have my ways to take care of 'em." said Lloyd whipping out his gun.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You're gonna kill 'em if they fuck up?" asked Max. "Exactly." said Lloyd.

If it was good, please tell me so I can finish it.

At 12/8/06 06:27 PM, Hycran wrote:

At 12/8/06 06:21 PM, Hycran wrote: That story isn't "wierd", its horrible.

what a jackass i am, this was a critique for the guy on the first page on the bottom haha.

Ouch :( That hurts dude. That hurts.

Seriously though, that was one of the first ever pieces I tried writing :P I've got better since then. I'm still not as good as other people but trust me, I've got better...it would be damn impossible to get worse than that :-S

Does any writing go on in this crew, is it structured cause i was thinking and i tried to make a writers crew and it was alot different than this so yea kinda killed my dreams.

At 12/10/06 12:41 AM, uga-bugga wrote: Does any writing go on in this crew, is it structured cause i was thinking and i tried to make a writers crew and it was alot different than this so yea kinda killed my dreams.

What exactyl do you mean by writing? members post the stuf fthey've writtena nd it gets reviewed, which is the main bit of what goes on here.

We've done collaborative stories in the past as well.

Ok, can i join?

At 12/10/06 10:56 AM, uga-bugga wrote: Ok, can i join?

Everyone's welcome :-)

Since everyone's okay to join, how should I go about posting here? Should I link you all to my fictionpress (sig) or just copy them into here?

At 12/18/06 10:26 AM, Scarab-Stalk33r wrote: Since everyone's okay to join, how should I go about posting here? Should I link you all to my fictionpress (sig) or just copy them into here?

Either will do mate. Whichever suits you best.

At 12/18/06 10:42 AM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: Either will do mate. Whichever suits you best.

Ok, cool. I'll guess I'll copy some off fictionpress and then post new ones here when they're new.

At 12/18/06 10:45 AM, Scarab-Stalk33r wrote: Ok, cool. I'll guess I'll copy some off fictionpress and then post new ones here when they're new.

I look forward to reading some :-)

This is the first story from my Urban Legends collection, which is really fictionalising real-life urban legends. Please enjoy, and please leave feedback. Part 1.

Brian Trish was a happy man. A glorious house in a suburb of Markham, Ontario, a well paying job in the upcoming software business, one gorgeous wife and two healthy children were all products of Brian’s ever-lasting lust for life. His only motto was “two cars in the garage” and the rest would be sorted. He had doubted himself growing up in the marvelous city of Toronto, but by the time he had finished college, he had met his sweetheart and was at the right age to experiment with the hot new industry of computing. The success was everywhere: the colours on the walls of the house, the double bed, the fabulous meals cooked every night, the increasing amounts of paychecks he would receive. Indeed, he was living in the poorest area of paradise.

Sandy, loving wife and mother of two was dazed after seemingly never-ending promotions through life. Her life had started in the United States, but had decided to move to Canada to avoid her parents and past troubles. After two years in Markham, the family house was extremely lush. She was proud of this, especially since Brian was always busy at work and the kids couldn’t talk; it was a silent success. Since the kids started school, Sandy had felt alone. Even at night, next to her loving husband. I suppose a part of her wanted to go back to the US, but another part wanted to stay in Markham. Where it was safe.

Brian and Sandy awoke one morning like they would if it was any other morning. Brian started his daily crawl to the bathroom, and hopefully the shower, while Sandy started down the stairs to prepare breakfast. As usual, Jon (aged 10) and Ira (aged 8) were going to be asleep for another half hour, all ready to be woken up by their father in his shirt, tie and his boorish black trousers.

This morning, however, Brian went downstairs after getting dressed to see his wife. “Good morning.” he said, “What’s for breakfast?” asked the hungry working man. “Sausages and eggs.” she replied, rather dully.

“What’s up tweety pie?” Brian asked, “Sometimes it’s like I don’t know you anymore.” That was true.

“I guess I’m just ill or something…don’t worry about it.”

“I have to worry about you.” Brian told her. They exchanged a kiss, as they often did when a moment of true love transpired.

“I’ll get the kids.” Brian sighed and started back up the stairs. Sandy looked back; she wasn’t sure if she knew him anymore either. It was something in the air, but she could never put her finger on it. It would stay that way until he finally put his finger on her secret.

After two hours had passed, breakfast was consumed (rather heavily by the males of the family) and the kids started getting ready for their school bus. Brian started away early today since they’d been some trouble around the highway in town. Sandy just sighed; she didn’t see enough of her beloved in the most usual cases. While thinking this, she didn’t even batter an eyelid at a slightly odd question from Jon, “Mommy, what kinds of monsters are there? You know, I know the popular ones but what about the rest?” Sandy looked slightly startled, “What makes you ask that dear?” as she rearranged his clothes.

“Well, I had a dream about a man that could fly and eat people.” Jon claimed confidently, “Has anyone ever done that?” Of course, Sandy flashed her default mother response, “There’s no such thing as monsters.” But Jon’s younger sister piped in, “What about goblins and spiders?” Well, everyone knows about spiders, but goblins…slightly disturbed Sandy. “Goblins don’t exist Ira.” she exclaimed. “Then, what were those things on the sidewalk last night that me and Jon…” she cut off halfway through because of the look on her mother’s face.

“The bus is here.” Sandy sighed in relief. “Go on kids. Have a nice day.”

“We always do Mom.” they yelled back as they both waved.

Now Sandy had nothing planned for the rest of the day. She rubbed her shoulders as she looked around for a moment at the Markham family house and suddenly felt a horrible sense of entrapment. She brought out the wine bottles in the kitchen and poured her first glass of the day and sighed.

At 12/18/06 10:59 AM, Scarab-Stalk33r wrote: This is the first story from my Urban Legends collection, which is really fictionalising real-life urban legends. Please enjoy, and please leave feedback. Part 1.

Interesting.

Fairly well written, and, overall, a good piece.

You left me slightly intrigued as to what the kids actually saw during the night. Obviously it's not goblins, but I don't get the impression that it's just an over active imagination. It comes across as soemthing along the line sof Dads been dealing in drugs or something to support the family more. I'm probably way off there, but that's the sort of thing it comes across as.

As that was part one, I'm guessing there's more to come, so I'll save further comment till I've read a bit more.

It just occured to me I didn't ceck for tags. oh well, if you'd prefer it with tags, the full story is The boy was grinning again.here.

The area of Box Grove seemed so big once you were driving around the labyrinth. Brian had complete faith in his vehicle, no more than five years old and a fine example of foreign engineering. Brian still had an hour to get downtown. Plenty of time for a quickie or two, he thought as he started his car towards one of Markham’s many residential parks. The parks had clean air and gave one time to think. As Brian drove around the curvy roads of Box Grove, he felt his knuckles tense up as they usually did at this time. He needed his cigarette now. It was only a small road just off 14th Avenue, but it would fulfill his privacy needs. He cracked the auto’s slightly blackened windows for air while he lit up a few bad boys. He slipped off the otherwise life saving seatbelt to make sure he wasn’t murdered by it, the thought of which made him giggle slightly. The first exhale, Brian knew, was always the best. Within two minutes, he was on his third cigarette. While he prepared a fourth, he suddenly heard a sound. It made him jump a little bit because he was surprised to see two young boys standing next to his door, and he never saw them approach.

It was one of the boys tapping on the window causing the sound. Brian only wound the window a little bit more before talking to the youngsters. More money grabbing kids, Brian thought with a degree of anger from being interrupted during his quiet time. Suddenly, Brian felt terror. Two boys had just appeared by his car, and he had noticed the “tapper” was grinning broadly. He couldn’t see them, but he still edged out “Yes?” at which, the “tapper” grinned even broader than before, showing off a set of pearl white teeth which extended Brian’s unfounded terror. “Sir. We need your help.” he calmly said, reminding Brian of a young man he knew, which was odd since these lads looked around Jon’s age. “Me and my friend need a lift to school. It’s quite late you see.” Why did this child speak much differently to an adult than any ordinary child? He showed no fear at all, unlike Brian, who was blaming it on the cigarettes. The only words Brian could push out were “Hmmm…well.” He suddenly noticed something as soon as he finished speaking; the other child looked confused and at an angle, shocked, as if he expected Brian to simply open his car door. “We’re just two little boys, who need a ride.” the first one started again. Two little boys? Brian was unnerved further at this comment, “Wh…what school?” he attempted to ask. “The one down the road.” the grinning boy answered as he pointed towards 14th Avenue. This perplexed Brian; he could think of no schools in the area along 14th Avenue. As he thought this comment over, he noticed the grinning boy’s accomplice become nervous again. It hadn’t crossed Brian’s mind that something was out of order, but maybe it was. After all, Brian was usually a strong, confident individual who was now petrified by a bunch of kids. Once again, the first boy began “Come on, sir. If you let us in, we’ll be out before you know it.”

Brian locked eyes with the first boy. Somehow, his hand was slowly reaching towards the door lock. He was about to unlock the door until he made himself yank his arm away, hoping it didn’t look too obvious to the youngsters. Brian forced himself not to look in the children’s eyes. Then he snapped. That was it. The children had no pupil or iris within their eyes; it was blackness. He noticed the silent boy wear a face of horror; was he reading his mind? The first boy however, looked angry. “Sir. Let us in.” he said in his calm way. Brian was freaked out enough; he slammed down on the accelerator, screaming down the road. He watched the boys in his mirror, unaware he was heading straight towards a wall. “Shit.” he thought, remembering he had taken away his lifeline; the murderous seatbelt. The car hit the wall, forcing Brian Trish through the windscreen and head first into the wall, dead.

The boy was grinning again.

The days were never-ending for Sandy. It was only 10:30 and she was on her third glass of wine. She quickly slurped it, forgetting it was supposed to distract her from the isolationist Trish family house. No amount of electronic distraction would occupy Sandy, who before getting married was a popular girl of many branches. It’s a shame she couldn’t admit to Brian she just wanted to be with him to rebel, not to mother two kids. While the house itself was an above average masterpiece, Sandy never felt comfortable alone; it was as if something was watching her, something that could disappear whenever she turned. As always she’d be watched by the figure everywhere: while she drank, while she cooked her lunchtime pasta and while she did the laundry.

The Trishes were a liberal family. They had money to pay the tax hike that came with liberalism and respected most if not all minorities. In a neighbourhood like Box Grove, it wasn’t uncommon to get a few knocks at the door per week. Someone would collect for someone, while someone sold cookies for someone else until the residents had no money left. Sandy was usually fairly generous, offering something in the region of $10 or $15. Brian was the same, a sort of attempt to give the kids a vague sense of right and wrong, despite the liberalistic ideas being practiced.

This is why Sandy Trish wasn’t surprised when there was a knock at the door. She was in the middle of reading a lifestyle magazine (which didn’t really interest her in the slightest) and got out some money which she knew she’d need, no matter who it was. She propped her gigantic purse up against the table next to the door, unlocked the door and opened it as she normally would in this situation. She was fairly surprised to see two young boys standing on her shaded porch. She was about to ask what they wanted till one of them talked first, “Excuse me miss.” Sandy was not surprised at the politeness of this attention grabber; after all she’d heard it several times before, “We’re new to the area and we seem to have got lost on the way to school.” The boy grinned in a strangely eerie way, while the other boy faced the floor, only glancing upwards several times. “Oh dear.” replied Sandy. She was not quite as surprised as one might think; this had happened once before (the Trish house always looked the most inviting). “May my friend and I use the phone?” the same boy asked. The second boy raised his head a little and looked at the woman in the eye. Suddenly a thought came to Sandy.

Spiders and goblins

The kids seemed nice, she’d let them in and they’d be on

those things on the corner last night

way like nothing ever happened, same old routine. “Come in.” she said calmly, trying to hide a shudder whether it be from the wind or whatever else.

The children stepped in through the door, politely thanking Mrs. Trish, although the quieter boy’s thanks was more of a murmur. Sandy let them be to their own devices as they picked up the phone and she set off towards the kitchen, perhaps to fetch a drink as she often would. Suddenly, something caught her eye: the mirror on the wall. The children were not using the phone. The talker was grinning directly at the mirror while other wore a blank face. They had black eyes, but before she could say, she was dead. Killed by the other worldly force.

I will get part 3 here soon ^

Balls.
Thats my writing guild application, see the storyline. I find inbetween the two l's there is like no space but im sure you can learn too love my story

May I please join. If the answer is yes then I will post one of my storys up here.

I got a cool story which im gonna put up here so here it is

The Cavemen

In a land before writing, before a systimized anything.

For many years there has been a blood feud between cavemen and raptors.The cavemen have tried to steal the raptors eggs for almost 100 years now. The raptors have been trying and have succeeded in cutting down much of the cavemen population.

One day in the cavemen year of 432, they were ready for a raid. They hoped to get 2500 eggs at the least. They had an army built for war. There leader, Nagut-Ag was a fiersome man. Not only was he a natural born leader he was also one of the most skille knive throwers, with having 7 years of war training at the age of 28 he was ready to lead an army

The army was set up in a row order there were about 900 bonesman in the front normally about 9 rows of these from the lease skilled to the most skilled.. NExt were the knivers there were about 1600 of them. After that the archers who stood with crossbows were the most important troops with 700. With a total troop count of 3200 they have about 7 times that of the raptors but this does not mean victory.

Not finished i have the whole thing finished but my arms are tired

It's been a while, but here's a story I just finished.

Winston

I had a dog named Winston; a beagle dog, that died a few years back. I got him from my grandma as a gift for my eighth birthday. We bonded instantly. I remember before I had a chance to uncover my eyes Winston had already released himself from my grandma's grip and came scurrying over to me, jumping up and down against my leg. The moment I felt his tiny little paws against me I lit up. My eyes wide and mouth stuck with a corny grin, I reached down and scooped Winston into my arms. He licked my face and I pressed my head up against his. We became best friends.

You see, if it weren't for Winston my childhood would have been terribly traumatic. I was pushed around at school a lot, never wanting to participate in the sports games during recess, and never showing much interest in girls. It gave the other school kids plenty of ammunition to bully me around with. But, everyday I would come home and Winston would be waiting at the door for me. I would burst through the front door, drop my backpack, play with Winston, and lose track of time. Those were the good days, even if school was bad.

After three years I turned eleven and Winston had grown much larger. He was no longer the pup I pressed my head against when I was eight, and I was no longer that little eight year old boy whose face he licked when we first met. We were both maturing. As Winston aged he became more aggressive. He wasn't mean, he was just becoming a horny male dog. I would constantly catch him in the act, pleasuring himself on our family sofa or against the television set. My dad would swap him on the behind and tell him no in a monstrous tone, and Winston would just yelp and run away. This would have been fine if it weren't for the fact that I was also turning into a horny male. As you can see, I was a young, eleven year old boy, who was witnessing my best friend being punished for having the same feelings I was at the time. I understood what Winston was going through because I was going through the same thing. At night I would lay in bed and hump my pillows, or stick my penis between my two bed mattresses and go in and out of it. Sure, at the time I didn't realize it was a normal thing to have these sorts of feelings, so I was worried about the actions I was taking, but I never felt alone because I had Winston at my side going through the same emotions. All of this continued for a few months, until I started thinking more about it, and more, and more, until I couldn't get it off my mind. The more frequently I masturbated, the better it kept getting, and then I reached the point of ejaculation. I didn't know what it was at first, but I had seen Winston do it before, so I knew it must have been okay. I didn't like the texture or the smell of it, and that's when I got the idea, the idea that is the focal point of this entire story, the one idea that ended up shaping my entire future.

It was my responsibility to feed and clean Winston, and every two weeks I would toss him in the tub and give him a bath. He always enjoyed playing in the water, and would even sit still when I was scrubbing him or rinsing him off. Well, when bath time came around I filled the tub halfway, put Winston in, began to undress myself, and got inside the bathtub with him. I remember worrying whether or not my parents would come in the door and see me in the bathtub with Winston, wondering what I was doing, but they never did. I started cleaning Winston like normal, thinking over the idea I had, until Winston jumped up against my chest. His hind paws were pressed firmly against my thighs, slipping on and off them from the soapy water, and rubbing against my scrotum. It felt good and started to excite me. Winston stayed on me for a while, looking at my face with his big tongue hanging out of his mouth. I gently pushed him off my legs and he turned around in the water with his behind facing me. I was fully aroused at this point, and decided it was time to try out the idea I had. I grabbed Winston around his belly and pulled him close to me, pushing his butt down into the water. I was feeling around for his butthole with my penis, but couldn't find an opening. I could tell Winston didn't know what was going on because his playful nature quickly turned to that of confusion, and he kept trying to get up and free himself from me, instead of sitting still like he normally would. I held him tigther around the waist and started pushing him down hard on my penis, attempting to thrust myself into him the best I could. After ten minutes of trying Winston finally turned around and bit me on the arm. I let go of him and he jumped to the opposite side of the bathtub. He turned around and just stared at me. I got out of the tub and dried myself off, I picked up Winston and dried him off too. After that incident we never really had any problems. We would play like normal, sit around on the sofa like normal, and go walking around the block like normal, but Winston would never let me give him a bath again. Any time I tried he would back away from me.

This was fourteen years ago. I'm twenty-five now and my dog Winston is dead. He was hit by a car when I was twenty-two. After I grew up and recollected the events of what I did as a child, I understood that I was just a young, horny boy, thinking that my dog Winston had the same feelings as me. Although our feelings were similar, they were definitely not the same. But, I can't fully say I regret the actions I took as a child, because like I said earlier, it helped to shape my future. You may think it strange that intercourse with a dog could help shape my future, but let me explain. You see, I never had sex with Winston, I tried to, and trying something and failing opposed to trying something and succeeding will give you completely different results. If I had succeeded in having sex with Winston, then today I would probably be some guy in therapy, taking tons of different medications until I found the one that was right for me, and then killing myself shortly afterwards. But instead, I'm some guy wearing a suit and tie, shaking hands with important people, changing the world and drinking expensive, imported wines that have names I can't pronounce. I have more money than I know what to do with and more cars than a man should ever own. I have achieved all of this because I tried fucking a dog and I failed. I failed at doing something in life that a person who is destined to fail would have succeeded in doing, and because of me knowing that, I have succeeded.

Im a writer and i would like feedback on some of my short stories. My friends tell me they're great but i've yet to be commented on from a neutral party. This is part one and two. If you like em tell me through here, or pm. I wrote the 8th part tonight. Thank you all.

Dirty Syko, slightly odd but very well written so...... Well done?

Heres my work, first chapter.

The following is all lies except for names, IE Fiction

Influences - Music (yes music CAN influence stories) such tracks as "Half a world away" "Wonderwall" both by Oasis... "Love of the loveless" by the eels, "Hear you me" by Jimmy Eat World... "Homies" by insane clown posse and who could forget "Are you talking to me" by Fieldys Dreams. People include my father, Simon Smith my best mate in the world, my brother Joel, my good friend Zoe, James Thompson and my cats... I love you all. In some surreal or abstract (or direct like my dad and Simon) you have all been big parts of my life and i hope you always will be. So without further stuff, here is my narrative. As stated above its mostly fiction but nothing in there is totally made up. Enjoy.

Bored Teen

1: I wish i were a stoner

Bored again i sit in class wondering... What the fuck is the point in algebra? I don’t ask this question though as every time I have its been met with a cynical response and a fierce word about swearing. Sometimes I try to escape from these nightmarish lessons by sneaking in my mp3 player and listening to my metal music whilst idly doing a bit of work, enough to keep her off my back, but little enough to maintain the image of a bored rebel, something I wish I could be bothered to be, I don’t have the energy or resolve to rebel. I just sit and scowl. Top sets are supposed to be for the gifted and talented, and having a place in these godlike sets is meant to be a privilege... Don’t get me wrong I’m glad to be getting good lessons but sometimes i get so tired of things being expected of me that I wish I could go back to basic work with apostrophes and low level numeracy... 12 x 4 usually looks more inviting than the long incomprehensible shit I sit through, the sums plagued with X's and Y's... But its not all bad, sometimes we have a supply teacher, or even better a trainee teacher... These teachers have what I think of as "New teacher-itus" the symptoms of this comical disease are 1: Expecting orders to be followed the first time. 2: Getting angry when they're not. 3: Being shocked when the rudest and "baddest" of the kids in the class refuse to move or leave the room after repeated warnings. Trainee teachers are fun.

The bell rings to signal the end of maths and I hastily scrape together all my sheets i've done the first few bits on, and stuff them inside my book and dump it on the teachers desk. I walk into the corridor to the screams and shrieks as people are pushed about and sworn at... The usual secondary school stuff, I have a headache. My second lesson of the day, history...

After a boring and pretty frustrating day at school I come home feeling in high spirits, but too tired to be particularly bouncy. I fire up my computer and stick on some of my favorite music, comprised mostly of Oasis tracks. My home page is BBC news as i like to be well informed, you cant argue and be disagreeable if your a moron (although most of my school seem to manage it.) The news seems to be more anti marijuana stuff, claiming the same old stuff. I don’t understand why they keep repeating all the same stuff, im sure weed IS responsible for partial memory loss and paranoia, but most people have come to accept that anyway without Mr. generic looking scientist declaring it to be "slightly more likely". I have never been particularly interested in weed, but I’ll admit to have trying it on a few occasions, the next day will be a training day and a Friday, a good opportunity to get a bit stoned with some close friends. I spend the rest of the evening listening to music, idly talking on msn and drinking. Right now, life is good.

I am yanked out of blissful sleep by my alarm clock, it is, much to my annoyance still set for 7:50am. Grunting and scowling at the world in general I pull the batteries out and drop it on the floor, it makes a satisfying "clunk". Josh one, Alarm clock nil... Unless you count waking me up as "one". I arise at the more convenient time of 12:03 and roll out bed. I notice my phone is ringing - it must've woken me up. Its my best friend Simon... He's at the door, and has been for about 25 minutes. I smile at his irritation, he makes me laugh.

I open the door to him and he pulls out a small bag of potent buds, A rizzla and some tobacco later we're sitting at my kitchen table..... We should roll up now... I don’t know how to roll... Neither does he... We didn’t think this out very well. After debating over the best plan of action we decide that internet tips won’t help as it still requires a lot of skill. I remember my dad has an antique rolling machine in his study, from the days he smoked roll-ups. I open his study door and immediately the mess covering the floor is made apparent, cd's and books flood over me... After wading my way through the river of crap, I make it to the desk, and quickly locate the rolling device.

5 minutes later, we're back at the table with a small amount of hash and a few rizzlas... This is obviously a device for experts as neither one of us can figure it out despite picking it up and shaking it in frustration. We decide maybe this time the internet can help us, 20 minutes and a faulty connection later we work out what we're meant to be doing. We manage to roll up a "small" with the contraption... Sitting on my bench in my garden trying to light it up, it wasn’t much fun due to the wind and the rubbish lighter Simon has bought over. Finally a spark! Its lit, and finally we begin to pass it around, 2 minutes later its all gone and neither one of us feel remotely stoned. Scowling and defeated we decide its not worth the bother, so we turn on the playstation 2 and begin a fifa 2007 competition.

2: Doing Time

The arts corridor is ahead of me, the music room to my left and the drama room straight ahead. I can still taste the sort of burned toast taste in my mouth as I didn’t have time to clean my teeth - I feel like a tramp. I go up the stairs averting the arts hall and, hands in pockets slouch towards the maths room. Rumors are flying around about our teacher Mrs. Guide, the general opinion is that she's away, meaning we get to doss. I get myself in the right frame of mind. I don’t need to do much. Suddenly she appears at the end of the corridor, there is a general disappointed exhalation of breath. She struts to the door and throws it open in her infuriating majestic manner, god i hate maths teachers. As I vaguley look for a place to sit where I can avoid taking responsibility for anything I notice a seat at the back, and fall gratefully into it.

The lesson begins and today its angles... Or something. I take up my usual maths routine and cock one ear in her general direction so I have at least a flicker of understanding when sheets are passed around by a half hearted student, and begin to stare at the clock. Only 58 minutes and 12 seconds left to go... The seconds are everything when your in maths. I turn to Simon in the next seat who unlike me is looking at her, but apparently nothing else; as his eyes have glazed over and a dreamy expression has crossed his face. I wonder what he's day dreaming of, and try it myself... But I’m too tired... Too tired to make the effort to make no effort because I’m tired... I am very tired. So I prod him sharply in the ribs and being a deep conversation about something conveniently and comfortably irrelevant to whatever strange and irritating coding had been thrown onto the board, by the depressing spectacle of my mathematics teacher. Looking back on it i forget what we talked about, but it passed roughly 19 seconds before my name was snapped, cutting through the air like a whipcrack, or something descriptive like that.

I could fix her with my innocent and mildly shocked face and utter a slightly startled "what?". But it seems pointless, I’m not fooling anybody. So I turn a surly gaze on her as she tells me to not do something. I blandly agree and promptly turn back to Simon and we pick up on where we left off. Seconds later she snaps at me and asks whether I listened to her. I’m not sure whether I did or not, I doubt it but I decide telling a shameless lie is a better alternative than the truth which would probably be seen as impudence or some other closely related offence... After a hasty and a forced apology she resumes talking, so do I. She's had enough and before I know what’s going on I’m in the corridor, whistling "She’s Electric" by Oasis. I've been sent to the "Withdrawal room". A room bearing "serious consequences" and a stony faced teacher. In this prison like room, one must sit in silence with the other captives and do monotonous work set by the teacher who sent them.

So I wander off down the hall in search of withdrawal room, find it and give the grave, guard like looking teacher the note. "I've been naughty", I confess. Her steel eyes convey her definite lack of joke appreciation, so I sit down. The room is totally square, unnervingly so... There are annoying laminated badly cut pieces of paper on the wall saying retarded and shallow things such as "Attitudes are contagious, is your worth catching?" "Shut the fuck up, sign!" I think, I have triumphed over the inanimate piece of paper. The work I’ve been set to do is copying up some key targets, so I mindlessly copy them out into my book; coming to the conclusion I’ve pushed my luck far enough today to not do any work after being kicked out. There is only one other offender in the room, an ugly year 7 kid who's tall and broad enough to be in the top of the school... He doesnt appear to be doing anything, I lean over to see what he's actually doing before being snapped at to stop fidgeting. I stop.

45 Minutes later I'm standing back in the maths room being told about respect and the usual crap... I’m not listening until I hear the key phrase "hour detention." And I feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach. There will also be a phone call home while I’m in detention... Annoyed and partially remorseful (the phrase, "your just sorry you were caught!" comes to mind upon reflection.) I leave the maths room, slump down in form and have to endure the taunting of Simon and another friend Robert at being sent out. I take comfort in the fact that if it were either of them who had been sent out... I would laugh at them to.

Back at home I sit down in my chair and prod my mouse to bring up the screen... I've left my messenger on while i was at school and consequentially there are several boxes flashing. I find the Eels in my music list and stick some of that on... For the rest of the evening my thoughts go back to the detention and my stomach sinks, ah well.

The next day is as boring and uneventful as ever, but I’ve brought a book along to read while I sit learning my lesson. "Dave Gormans Googlewhack Adventure". The day drags on and I sit through Geography, English, RE and double Science. The three o'clock bell sounds and I unwillingly traipse down to the maths corridor to find the merciless witch. I tell myself to not be bitter, I deserve it. It doesn’t help. She tells me to sit down and do some graph work to finish off my coursework, I guess it’s not too bad. I have never liked graph paper... Since I was young I’ve associated it with rulers and extraneous bits of stationary. The maths room seems like a prison during lesson time, but the numbers and presentations that hang on the wall seem to mock me now. I have nobody to distract me from the graph paper and the noise as she scratches her pencil on her paper, I don’t think she knows anything other than her work, she takes her work too seriously to have a life outside of it... I wonder if its odd to pity somebody who is holding me in detention but I decide not to think about it, and finish my graphs.

I trudge home an hour late exhausted, but not feeling too low... My maths coursework is out of the way at least. I remember that I never got to read my book, I only just finished in time... This fact seems to prod me sharply, insisting I don’t leave in too high spirits. I turn the corner and see my house, suddenly I remember I forgot about the phone call home. Its time to incur wrath of my parents... I stand and look at my house. "Ah fuck it" I think... turn around and head to Simons house... His parents will be much more welcoming...

ATTN: MystWilliams
It's WithoutCease.

Hi.

At 12/26/06 10:46 PM, Ebolarama wrote: ATTN: MystWilliams
It's WithoutCease.

Hi.

I was going to deliver that message for you today btw =) IThinkIWasDrunk last night - sorry.

At 12/27/06 09:54 AM, IThinkImDrunk wrote: I was going to deliver that message for you today btw =) IThinkIWasDrunk last night - sorry.

heh, ty
i just got impatient is all lolz.

Do you like writing imaginative and creative stories? (for fun!)
Do you like creating something with some pre-set rules?
Do you like cooperating?

Then you might want to join our relay/team- story group^_^
We’re planning on writing one or several shortstories together.
One person starts writing, maybe 20 sentences, less or more, then leaves it over to the next person to continue writing. And so it goes on…..
We will set rules before starting: for example which theme, or genre the story’s supposed to be.
And each person, when starting their piece of the story, also has some pre-set rules.
Maybe a few words or sentences that he/she is supposed to use in his/her piece. Or maybe a very vague sum of events, for example “now, introduce a new character”, “in this part, something scary will happen” or “this part has to be related to mushrooms somehow ” XD

AND everyone gets to write an alternate ending ;)

We’re planning on making this sort of like a club, and I will be the leader.
Everything will be handled by E-mailing.
We’ll decide rules together, maybe divide into smaller groups..
And choose tempo… Everything from one part every second day, to one part per month.
You feel like joining?

Just send me a private message
and let me know these things:
*What would you like to write about?
*Any thoughts on HOW you want to write? (for example, how often?)
*Any suggestions?

Then, I will tell you as soon as we have enough members to start :D :D

At 12/29/06 12:31 PM, Ms-Bowser wrote: Do you like writing imaginative and creative stories? (for fun!)
Do you like creating something with some pre-set rules?
Do you like cooperating?, etc.

What...?

hello, we are budding writers, both in non-fiction, and of a journalistic nature, depending who you ask, and we would like to join.

On a related note, would it be agreeable if we posted a short story we are writing for reveiw?

I like writing short funny, stories. Can I join the writer's guild?