Scribblings

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Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Tue Mar 05, 2013 2:56 pm

I know that this shouldn't really go in 'Fun and Games' but I figured it gets more traffic than Entertainment.

This thread is for those few creative types on Resplect who, when the mood or an idea takes them, are prone to writing. Post your scribblings here for honest and educated thoughts and criticism
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Re: Scribblings

Post by If I Could Rewind on Tue Mar 05, 2013 3:01 pm

Oh God what have you done. I think I'm going to have to stop playing Mafia for this one Sad
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Tue Mar 05, 2013 3:14 pm

Well I know you Overlord and myself scribble from time to time and I thought it would be a good idea but if mafia is going to suffer.....
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Wed Mar 06, 2013 5:32 am

I don't think you have to write something specifically, just whenever the mood strikes. So still plenty of time for Mafia.

What kind of length of thing are you thinking, Darth?

And Entertainment would get more traffic if interesting stuff was posted there. Moving thread.


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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Wed Mar 06, 2013 5:44 am

whatever lenght you see fit but you might want to post larger stories in blocks
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Sat Mar 09, 2013 9:00 am

So this is a story I wrote this afternoon exclusive for ‘Scribblings!’, based on an idea I had about a month back. 1791 words. Please enjoy and offer (extensive) feedback!

Left Behind:

5:47pm, Monday March 11, 2013
Steve Chesterfield, 28, theoretical engineer, had barely finished writing down his latest flash of inspiration when the woman appeared. Steve jumped to his feet, pushing away from his desk, while the woman put her hands up.
“Whoa there; calm down.” She grinned sheepishly. “Sorry; didn’t mean to startle you.”
Steve’s brain was having trouble catching up to events. “Uh … what …?”
“I have a message for you. My password is ‘raptor’. The password for you is ‘spleen’.”
“Uh, OK …” There was a moment of shocked silence, then Steve figured out what she was talking about. “Oh, right! Just a moment. Don’t do anything.” He moved around his desk to the filing cabinet, his hands out in a placating gesture, not taking his eyes off the woman. He rummaged through the files, furtively glancing back every few seconds to make sure she was there, before pulling out a battered old list.
He scanned the list, mumbling to himself. “Emergency time travel passwords … 2013: spleen … raptor … 2200s …”
He looked up at the woman. “Alright. Explain yourself.”
“Of course. I am a time traveller,” she gave a little bow, “sent by your own future self, as evidenced by the passwords. I am from the seventh of July, 2277. 9pm, to be exact.” She grinned. “I am, in fact, Catherine Chesterfield, your own great-great-something-granddaughter. Call me Rina.”
“Right,” said Steve, processing. “The passwords are all well and good, but they’re not conclusive. The appearing-out-of-thin-air was a nice trick, though. Anything else?”
“If you would turn on the news, in about a minute’s time there’ll be a breaking story about a multi-car accident on the highway.”
Watching her warily out of the corner of his eye, Steve led Rina upstairs to the TV. Indeed, the crash flashed up on the screen just as she had predicted, and she went on to successfully predict several live sporting scores.
Steve had seen enough science fiction to understand how to deal with time travel. He flicked off the TV. “Alright, I’ve seen enough for now.”
“So, you believe me?” Rina smiled gently at him from her spot on the couch.
“Provisionally. I’ll try to come up with alternative explanations, but I’ll act as if you really are a time traveller for now.” Steve settled back into his lounge chair. “So. What is your purpose here?”
“Well, let me tell you about my future. The big technologies are all bio-enhancements. Most injuries and sicknesses can be healed, and death from old-age is non-existent. Even the time travel devices are implanted directly into my body. And the person we have to thank for all of this …” she stood up and pointed dramatically, “is you.”
“Really.”
“Yep.” She returned to her couch, grinning. “Your two major goals are immortality and time travel, right? You even had a major breakthrough in time travel just before I arrived, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah; I realised that exploiting the time-negative properties of antimatter could – wait; that was a major breakthrough?”
“Absolutely. In fact, that’s why I could arrive now. I can’t just hand you knowledge from the future – time travel can’t generate information from nothing – but now that you’ve discovered that key step, I can help guide you towards things you would have discovered anyway, just more slowly. That’s part of the reason I’m here. The other thing is, it’s going to take a lot of money to develop all this technology, and you need to get started ASAP.”
“And how do you propose we get our hands on ‘a lot of money’?”

7:28pm, Friday March 15, 2013
Steve and Rina sat in the crowd; the game between the Falcons and the Manticores was about to get underway. It had been a hectic week, but Rina’s weather predictions had been consistently accurate, and as she guided him as he further developed his time-travel theory, Steve had begun to believe her wholeheartedly.
The Falcons were the clear favourites, the undefeated premiers from the previous year; but Steve had laid his life savings on the Manticores earlier that morning – they were going to make a comeback just after half-time and stage a tremendous upset. Steve hadn’t even planned to attend a game with such a foregone conclusion, but Rina had convinced him to take a break from work and enjoy the unlocking of his future.
The first half was a tense affair for all but two members of the crowd: possession passed back and forth, neither team gaining a significant advantage. One Falcon player made a break in the dying minutes, but the Manticore defence pulled him up just short of the line. The siren sounded; the teams were nil-all.
As the teams left the field, Steve stood up and stretched; and looked down as Rina grabbed his arm. “Hmm?” he asked, languidly.
“It’s nil-all,” she said uncertainly.
“Yeah?”
“The Falcons are supposed to be ahead.”
Steve’s stomach dropped. “What?” he asked vaguely, his mind racing.
“The Falcons need to be ahead, so the Manticores can come from behind. But no one’s scored yet.”
“But what does that mean?”
“I don’t know!” She looked panicked; her eyes wide. “You said ... your future self said the Manticores would win! He told me to tell you to make the bet.”
“Well …” Steve tried to think; it felt like there was a pressure on his brain. “Maybe he was right, and he just forgot the details. It had been over 250 years for him, after all …”
“Yeah, that could be it …” Rina still looked worried, but she relaxed slightly in her seat.
It was a pathetic reassurance, but they tried to cling to it as the Falcons scored, and then again. Steve and Rina watched helplessly as the clock ran down, and the Falcons celebrated yet another victory.
Steve and Rina returned home in a state of shock – Steve despondent with the loss of his savings; Rina on the brink of despair with the failure of her future knowledge. They went downstairs into Steve’s lab, and he began to go through his theoretical notes. Horror began to dawn as he realised one crucial fact he had overlooked.
“You told me that time travel resulted in stable loops,” he said to Rina.
“Yes; that’s what Steve – future Steve – told me.”
“Well, I don’t know what he was thinking, but going through what I’ve worked out so far …” he tossed his notes onto the desk, “there’s nothing to differentiate between a stable time loop, and branching timelines!”
“But my predictions – they were coming true!”
“That was on Monday, just after you arrived. The timeline hadn’t had time to diverge.”
“But, the weather–”
“It’s a big system; one extra person isn’t going to change things noticeably within a week.”
“But …” Rina looked around wildly, “why would you have sent me back if you knew I was going to a different timeline? You would have remembered that I’d never shown up in your own past!”
“OK, OK, calm down; let’s figure this out,” Steve laid a reassuring hand on Rina’s shoulder, but his own shaking hands betrayed his nerves. “Your Steve wouldn’t have remembered you in his own past … he remembered the Manticores winning … does memory-modifying technology exist in the future?”
Rina focussed back on Steve. “Yes; you didn’t invent it, but we’ve got it.”
Steve tried to work through the scenario. “So maybe my memory gets wiped at some point … making me forget that you visited me … that would align me with the Steve of your future, and let us maintain a single timeline.”
Rina exhaled loudly. “That makes sense. That’s got to be it.”
“Alright, so now–”
Rina stepped back. “I’ll just go to the future and check; I’ll be right back.”
“Wait! No!”
It was too late. Rina was gone.
Steve went numb, and could doing nothing but wait; hoping desperately that he was wrong, that Rina would appear any second with a relieved smile on her face.
The minutes ticked by, and Rina did not reappear. Steve’s faint hope faded, crushed by the overwhelming realisation that Rina wasn’t coming back.
As he sat silently, staring at the wall, one tiny spark of hope came to him. Rina had time travelled away, but she hadn’t left the timeline yet – she’d gone to the future, not the past. If he could survive long enough, he could meet her when she arrived in the future.

8:59pm, Saturday July 7, 2277
264 long years had passed, but Steve had survived. With his savings gone, he hadn’t had the funds to ever develop time travel, but he had managed to invent life-enhancement technology good enough to last the centuries.
He was waiting in an empty apartment. Rina had left from this point in her original timeline, when it had apparently been Steve’s own lab. It stood to reason that when she returned from his own past, it would be to this location.
Steve glanced at the clock; after two and a half centuries of waiting, these last sixty seconds were nearly unbearable.
Rina popped into existence, and Steve couldn’t restrain himself. “Rina!” he called, jerking forward, reaching for her. She turned to look at him, and recoiled in horror.
“What … who are you?”
“It’s me, Rina; it’s Steve. You would have only just left me.”
“What … happened to you?”
Steve had seen better days. His face was mostly gone; his brain shielded within a metal casing. His torso was intact, but shrivelled with age. One arm was a crude mechanical claw; and the other, while still flesh, was wrapped in a wire support cage. His body terminated at the waist, enclosed within a wheeled pod. It was rudimentary, but this cobbled-together cyborg conversion had enabled Steve to survive the long centuries.
“I … my body started to fail. I was almost completely broke, so I had to scavenge this together. But it worked! I found you again!”
“No, this isn’t right.” Rina looked around wildly out the window at the grey skies, the filthy city. “This isn’t how it’s meant to be! The world … was perfect. What happened?”
“That was another timeline.” There could be no trace of pity in Steve’s mechanised voice. “I tried, but … that world is lost to us. Time travel can create new timelines, but it can’t return you to the old ones.”
“This isn’t …” Rina shook her head. “I can’t accept this. I can fix this. I can go back.” She grasped his withered hand in both her own; looked into his robotic face with a determined glare. “I can save you.”
“Rina; no! Stop!”
His voice echoed in the empty air.


Never put off until tomorrow what you can avoid doing entirely.

Supreme Overlord, Hank Wimbleton (from Madness Combat), Epic Serial Killer, Endured Unto Infinity
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Re: Scribblings

Post by The King of Eggs on Sat Mar 09, 2013 10:28 am

I'm confused. What causes this insane desire to survive to meet Rina? also, 250 years and he hasn't created a way to stop her from time traveling? There's a 50/50 chance that she would've been terrified enough by his presence to run immediately




Other than that not bad, 8/10


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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Sat Mar 09, 2013 4:24 pm

I find myself feeling defensive, which isn't ideal, so I'll try to address your queries dispassionately.

Rina is, as far as Steve knows, the only time traveller that he'll ever meet; so it's kind of a big deal for him. She had built up a big fantasy of how his life was going to turn out - bringer of a new age - which was then crushed, so that was a defining moment of his life. Plus, longevity/immortality is a worthwhile goal in it's own right (in my opinion, so therefore Steve's). While the story emphasises the loss of the time traveller, there's nothing to say Steve's done nothing else in his lifetime.

I confess that it didn't occur to me at all that blocking time travel would even be possible. To explain it away, Steve's minimal resources have gone into simply getting him to that point, and since time travel was never made practical in this timeline, he doesn't have the knowledge of exactly how it works or how to stop it working.

As for his presence, the story requires Rina to be horrified and understand the situation rather than to be terrified and run! I don't think it was out of character for her to stay, at least briefly, in that situation.

Thanks for your thoughts! Feel free to add more if they come to you.


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Re: Scribblings

Post by The King of Eggs on Sat Mar 09, 2013 5:46 pm

The King of Eggs wrote:There's a 50/50 chance that she would've been terrified enough by his presence to run immediately


What I meant here is more of a he should have been prepared to stop her, not as a complaint to the story


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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Sun Mar 10, 2013 10:50 am

You've got some fascination with Time Travel don't you? Ok here is my first big issue, if somebody someday comes up with a viable way to time travel people would want to invest that so why gamble all your money on a sporting bet (obviously just to add to the story I know but still) also if the weather is a large system that can't be changed by just one person coming back but a sportingf event isn't, it stands to reason that unless the character interacted with the players that the event would go down the same as the last time, two more fans in the arena can't throw a game.

Other than that I enjoyed it, I too am a fan of Time Travel (at least when it's done properly) and his apperance in that last part couldn't help but bring images of Davros from Doctor Who to mind.

Also if you wouldn't mind I would like the scribblings people post in here to come with some kind of 'context' sentence. How did this come about what were you thinking about at the time that made you want to write this?
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Sun Mar 10, 2013 4:02 pm

Note: the 7th of July in 2277 will indeed be a Saturday. Figured that out myself! (This page seems to agree)

I do indeed have a fascination with time travel. And why wouldn't I? It's great for complex stories (not that this one is too complex, but still) and for having foreshadowing (ditto) - although since it's such a powerful ability I often have trouble coming up with actual challenges to time-travelling protagonists.

Believe it or not, I have considered both of those points. The sporting-bet-failure was just to add to the story, you're quite right - I needed a obvious divergence from the original timeline for Rina to notice, and the loss of resources contributing to a darker future for the second timeline was just a bonus! Investing (I'm assuming stock market here?) may seem an obvious choice over sports betting, but it's really all just gambling on (what should be) a certain result. (Plus, Gray's Sports Almanac?)
The above is all mostly moot, however; the only one who can benefit from time travel is the traveller themself, as everyone else gets left behind in their original timeline - including Steve-1, who engineered the whole thing and gave Rina her information in the first place. I have ideas about his motives, but I won't go into them now since I might want to write a prequel someday.

I actually have no idea how volatile the weather is (butterfly effect!), but I am guessing broad strokes would be enough to keep thins under control-ish for a week. I'm of the opinion that tiny differences will quickly cause huge divergences in human behaviour - a few seconds out one way or another will tweak conversations, alter movements, causing different trains of thought that snowball out of control. In a week, these changes should propagate to cause at least small changes in althete's mindsets, which should easily affect split-second sporting outcomes (like passing a ball); leading to a different outcome. That's also why I made the eventual winners heavy favourites - only a small portion of the sample space results in their defeat (which the original timeline happened to occupy); the rest end in their victory (which the second, and probably all subsequent timelines occupy).
Note: much like in the story, the discussion of the game took longer than I expected.
I think this idea of divergence could fuel a story all it's own - it has been done before, but I think most examples have some key similarities between timelines (like phrases, meetings, children born) which shouldn't happen by my theory.

OK, so context. (Would you normally like to read that before or after the story?) Well, this particular story came about because I thought 'I should do something for Scribblings' (I know I told Rewind he shouldn't but I make the rules, dammit!). I was originally trying to brainstorm something new when I remembered this idea, which I had stored in an 'Ideas' file to refer back to. This happens to be the first of those ideas which have made it to a true story.

As for the idea itself, I was watching a quite good anime series that I fear to name because this idea was directly inspired by its ending (ideas on what I can/should say about it are welcome - Alex at least has seen it and can look inside the tags below - if he doesn't pick it up himself). Anyway, this story moves into a happy timeline - but one fan theory states that the original, unhappy timeline is still there (and missing their protagonist as well!). I didn't think much of this idea; I think the movie 'Primer' states that 'it's the last iteration that matters'. Indeed, in time travel like that in 'Back to the Future', the old timelines get overwritten. However, it did get me thinking, that old timelines, if they endured, aren't very happy places (since they require time travel to fix them), an they'd be even worse if you knew about time travel, but the traveller had left your timeline, never to return. Upon thinking this through, I realised you could get another shot (since in this model timelines only diverge upon going to the past, not the future, as seen in this diagram of 'Back to the Future') - and it would be even worse if you met up with them in the future, only for them to leave again. I think this kind of ending is actually a first for me; I usually prefer optimism.
Name of Anime Series:
Clannad
Also, there's a potential for a sequel/sidequel of sorts. In 2013, Rina leaves Steve (who knows she won't come back) ... and then reappears, just like she said she would. It's timeline three! Don't know if I'd do this one; by this stage it's more your vanilla 'set right what once went wrong' time travel story.

It's only slightly touched upon, but the idea of the 'utopia'-style future with biotech and particularly immortality is pretty much my standard 'real world future' for my stories, and what I hope will be the reality (although I'm not sure what's a realistic timescale). I actually didn't realise until I started reading the responses here, but there's a few of my opinions/ideals that I assumed 'should be' universal and so made it into the story (divergence, good future etc)


I have a set of three short stories that I've written previously, then a longer sequel. Some people here have already read them, but I wonder if I should post them here (and if so, all at once or in stages)?



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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Mon Mar 11, 2013 2:45 am

ok I would prefer context before a scribbling, so that when you're reading it you can more easily judge what they were trying to do/say and give fairer judgement. Also I've previously given you detailed reviews on your three stories but I just the other day read the last one and haven't got around to giving you a review of that one. But I'd possibly like to see reviews from Rewind and Alex before you consider posting another scribbling
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Tue Mar 12, 2013 6:37 am

ok I've been waiting for maybe Alex or Rewind to post a review, I know they've been on so I'm assuming they aren't going to, as such we'll move on.

This is a little something I came up with one night after experiencing a long period of those nights were you just can't turn your brain off.

Sound of Night

Some nights I lay awake
Listening
To the sound the darkest hours bring
A sound no wall or door can drown
No pillow dampen
No plug can cease
For the sound does not exist as sound
But as silent cacophony
Heard by you and you alone
For in the darkest hours of the night
When all is silence
That is when your thoughts are loudest
Like a storm in your cranium
They rage through the night
Battering your brain
Until in sheer exhaustion
You slip into blissful slumber
As the light of morning rises
And dispels the sound of night
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Tue Mar 12, 2013 8:52 am

Darth Skywalkerbacca wrote:ok I've been waiting for maybe Alex or Rewind to post a review, I know they've been on so I'm assuming they aren't going to, as such we'll move on.
We don't have to move on; they can post something at their leisure.

I find poetry like that interesting, but it's hard to give concrete opinions. For example, the 'storm in your cranium' line jumped out as a little awkward, but since it's poetry, who can say what should replace it?

Do you draft/edit that, or once you get the spelling/formatting right is it done?


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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Tue Mar 12, 2013 9:29 am

I will agree I never liked that line but usually I just type stuff up and leave it as be. I sometimes go back and edit when I'm in the mood but not often.
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Thu Mar 14, 2013 1:28 pm

I'm open to commissions, if anyone wants to tell me what to write. Or if you have an idea that you don't have time for, and think I could do it justice.
Has two advantages (for me, anyway):
1. Less ideas I have to come up with
2. I feel compelled to write it (I'm letting someone down if I don't)


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Re: Scribblings

Post by Walt the Alt on Thu Mar 14, 2013 3:47 pm

Suggestion child demigod unaware of immense destructive power realises during class during some emotionally important occasion. Destruction of everything ensues. Gogogo. Be as descriptive as you like. Lots of imagery. Interpret as desired.
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Sat Mar 23, 2013 1:17 pm

Context:
This story was inspired, of course, by a commission by Walt (as Eggs). I sat down this afternoon and knocked this out over the course of about 4 hours. It was an interesting exercise in description; I made an effort to ‘show, not tell’. Possibly the hardest part was maintaining the intensity as the scale escalated. It was also tricky to come up with synonyms (‘terror’ and ‘horror’ in particular). As always, feedback (whether positive or constructive) is always appreciated. Titles and endings I tend to have trouble with, so that in particular I would like to hear opinions of.

Rebirth:
They were all staring at him. He tried to speak, but his tongue would not obey his commands. Their gazes were oppressive, the sea of eyes weighed him down. A cold sheen of sweat broke out, and his face flushed. He glanced around desperately; anything to avoid the faces watching him – the desks, the doorway, the ceiling, the woman standing to the side–
“Are you alright, Jason?” asked Miss Miller, concern in her gentle eyes. “Just introduce yourself to the class, and tell us a little bit about yourself.”
Jason nodded jerkily, and tried to clear his throat. “M-my name is Jason Crawley. I m-moved here from–”
He cut off abruptly; his heart was racing, his vision was blurred with tears. His head sagged; he stared at his poorly-tied shoelaces, unable to face the class any longer.
“Okay, thank you Jason,” said Miss Miller, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You can take a seat, just over–”
Jason flinched as something struck the side of his face. Someone screamed, and their voice was quickly joined by a chorus of terror. Jason looked up; through his tears he saw the class in a panic, most were already out of their seats and were heading for the door, the others were frozen in horror. He turned to Miss Miller – her head was simply gone, while her hand still lay on his shoulder in a macabre parody of kindness. Jason leapt back as Miss Miller’s body crumpled to the ground, her neck stump oozing blood; and he finally found his voice.
His scream echoed through the classroom, high-pitched and piercing, overpowering even the cries of his classmates. As if in sympathy, the windows shattered, and gale-force winds mixed papers and glass into a maelstrom. The last of the petrified students broke and fled for the door, only to be slammed against the wall as it flew off its hinges.
Jason, his scream exhausted, and miraculously unharmed, finally found some measure of courage and cautiously approached his classmates. There were five of them, lying in a broken pile; their limbs twisted by their collision with the door, their skin torn apart by the hurricane of glass shards.
Jason reached down to the closest one, a small, fair-haired boy whose face was contorted in pain. He grasped the boy’s hand, then staggered back as his body simply fell apart, his hand crumbling in Jason’s own. The others had time to scream one last time, before they too disintegrated, turning to dust, and scattering in the wind.
Flecks of former-classmate flew into Jason’s eyes and mouth; he coughed and spat, screwing up his eyes, and stumbling blindly around the devastated room. He ricocheted off a desk, collided with a wall, and then tripped; sprawling over Miss Miller’s decapitated corpse. He recoiled, pushing himself back in mindless terror – and as he scrambled to his feet, he felt his body lurch as he tripped over a windowsill, and started to fall.
Jason’s mind was blank as the ground rushed up towards him; the white noise of the wind in his ears a welcome respite from the horror of the classroom. His mouth even quirked – not quite a smile – just before impact; and then the world erupted into fire and sound.

The North Tower Primary School was gone, and in its place was a smoking crater. Fire crews approached the edge cautiously; the ground had been turned to molten slag. The first news helicopter to arrive on the scene hesitated momentarily, then bravely flew into the thin haze. Their camera scanned the blackened ground, and quickly found the only splash of colour; a pale blur against the darkness. The helicopter retreated back to the edge, and a rescue helicopter took its place. Winding down a harness, an emergency services officer secured the shivering boy, and hoisted him up to safety.
The helicopter blew apart; the services on the ground scattered, trying to dodge the flying shrapnel. The news helicopter focussed on the recently-vacated airspace, and was the first to see the boy, hovering unsupported in midair. Zooming in, the camera operator could see the boy; the faint smile on his face, the subtle movement of his fingers–
A shockwave blasted out from the centre of the crater. Vehicles were tossed backwards, crushing bystanders and throwing their drivers around like rag dolls. The helicopters were hurled away and dashed to pieces against the sides of buildings. The streets descended into chaos, civilians running and screaming as debris rained down upon them. Several skyscrapers, their foundations shaken by the impacts, began to collapse, bringing death and destruction to those inside and beneath.
A dull whine began on the horizon, and grew into a roar as three fighter jets screamed over the devastated city blocks. They streaked overheard, giving the crater a wide berth, before wheeling around for another pass. As they approached the crater once more, the two outermost jets jerked inwards and collided just behind the centre one, exploding in a ball of flame. The third jet shuddered as it zoomed towards the crater, and tilted downwards, spiralling out of control before slamming into the ground.
As the fireball subsided, silence reigned, and Jason Crawley floated higher to survey his handiwork. Gone was the terrified expression on his blood-spattered face; it was replaced with a grotesque imitation of a grin. He rotated in midair; now facing the ground, he held his arms out before him, then cast them wide. The ground below him was cleft in twain; a large crack appeared in the glassy surface of the crater, and widened into a huge fault line that quickly spread into the untouched areas of the city. The warm glow of the magma flowing beneath the Earth’s crust reached Jason even as he soared high above.
The buildings on the edge of the growing rift collapsed inwards, and the cars far below began to flee the destruction. Geysers of molten earth sprayed upwards, smashing apart more cars and buildings, and setting fire to the wreckage. More cracks branched out from the main chasm, and spewing lava engulfed the panicking masses. Multiple great spurts, each larger than the last, burst forth from the fractures, and quickly overtook the massed exodus. Within minutes, the city was covered in cooling lava; plumes of ash spreading out over the surrounding countryside.

Jason gained altitude, rising ever higher, until he could see the entire continent. The atmosphere was thin, and although his body shook uncontrollably, he didn’t feel the cold; nor did he feel the pain in his lungs as they struggled to breathe. Clouds swirled beneath him, starting out white and fluffy, but soon darkening, and crackling with electricity. The storm beneath him swirled slowly, a terrible omen for the civilisation below.
The clouds expanded and thickened, spreading out over the entire landmass, and dumped torrential rains on the helpless population. Lightning forked in the sky, unleashing mighty fury on the tallest buildings, which quickly fell under the ceaseless onslaught. The rest of the world watched powerlessly as the continent was ravished by the brutal tempest.
Their sympathy, well-intentioned but meaningless, turned to dread as sea levels worldwide began rising. Giant waves smashed down upon coastal cities, and the rising waters expanded irresistibly inland. Within the day, even the tallest mountains were swamped; and apart from a few scattered boats in the middle of the oceans, the Earth’s population had been reduced to zero.
But Jason was not yet done. The skies had calmed, but the waters became turbulent, and began to drain away. The last ships capsized, drowning their occupants. As Jason watched from high above, the very Earth spilt in two, the oceans boiling away into the vacuum of space. The Earth’s core, a giant, glowing ball of iron, tore itself to pieces, and the remaining fragments of the planet followed suit.
The last humans, inside the space station that, until recently, had orbited the plant, had been watching the cataclysm unfold beneath them. Safe within their spacecraft but now free of the Earth’s gravity, they flew off on a tangential vector, into the depths of space. Their path was clear – until Jason, now floating unharmed in the vacuum, bared his teeth and swung his arm around. The astronauts could only stare out the window, and the moon filled their field of vision. The space station smashed apart against the unyielding lunar surface, and then Jason was the only living thing in the solar system.
The sun went nova, blasting superheated plasma outwards and tearing the planets to pieces. Every star in the sky lit up as they, too, exploded; and the lights streaked together as they melded together and swirled across the sky. Entire galaxies of star fragments flew together at impossible speeds, flying towards Jason, brightening as they approached. For an instant, Jason’s entire field of vision was filled with blinding white light, then all was blackness.
Jason held out one hand, feeling the entire energy of the universe contained in a single infinitesimal speck. Then he closed his fist, crushing even that immense power out of existence. With nothing left, Jason floated in the void. Unable to feel, unable to see, unable to die; Jason smiled. The solitude of the infinite abyss would comfort him, forever.


Never put off until tomorrow what you can avoid doing entirely.

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Re: Scribblings

Post by The King of Eggs on Sat Mar 23, 2013 1:33 pm

Wow. That was good. The imagery. I approve.


ذا كنت تستطيع قراءة هذا الخروج ثم يمارس الجنس ، تمزح فقط أخيه الله واحد صحيح.



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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Sun Mar 24, 2013 11:41 am

well (insert picture of Will Ferrell here) that escalated quickly.

What the hell was that? He was in his classroom then a few hours(?) later he'd destroyed the universe. I don't think when Walt said everything he meant everything everything.

Don't get me wrong I enjoyed it though I found it a bit to short I'd have liked you to extrapolate more on the carnage but you're a busy man I understand that, one thing that you really need though is to explain the feelings that started it all, why was he terrified in the first place.
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Sun Mar 24, 2013 12:37 pm

Yep, that's about the gist of it. I quite like the idea of splitting the Earth in two - but if he's gone that far there's no reason to stop, so absolutely everything it was. Plus, I'm a literal guy.

With the carnage, especially as it got bigger it was hard to come up with anything more than 'it was destroyed' - hence I kinda blurred all the galaxies together.

And he was terrified because of public speaking; more people are scared of it than death, so I thought it didn't require any further explanation.


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Re: Scribblings

Post by If I Could Rewind on Sun Mar 31, 2013 2:54 am

First point - YES, I really liked that although I would have liked more. Not necessarily more content but I feel like you could have stretched that whole story to double its length easily without losing any of the suddenness. Doing this would add a little more context to the story while also adding some depth or reason to everything.
Basically this
Darth Skywalkerbacca wrote:
Don't get me wrong I enjoyed it though I found it a bit to short I'd have liked you to extrapolate more on the carnage but you're a busy man I understand that, one thing that you really need though is to explain the feelings that started it all, why was he terrified in the first place.
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Re: Scribblings

Post by Supreme Overlord on Tue Jun 04, 2013 10:03 am

Mind Screw Meadow:
In the infinite darkness, there is a flash of light. Code rains, data swirls, and seven figures coalesce into existence. Their faces are veiled from each other, yet their auras of power surround them, taking on a tangible presence. There is a boy, unsure of his place, yet destined for greatness. A deity, given mortal form. A man with the heart of a beast, who shares a bond with a woman skilled at smuggling information. An animal, with the mind of a human, ever interfering. And two great lords of awesome power, allied against the rest.

“Welcome to my domain!” A voice booms out, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “You have been chosen, you seven souls, to play a game of my own devising. There are those among you who desire your destruction. You must find these traitors, and be rid of their stain. Choose amongst yourselves, pray to me, and every day I will heed your prayers and erase one of your number from existence. But be warned! Your enemies have power of their own. Can you destroy them all … before they destroy you?” The voice fades away, the ghost of insane laughter echoing in the darkness.

The seven glance warily at each other, trying to process the situation. One shifts, as if to speak; but then they freeze as another voice manifests itself. It does not have the booming power of the first voice – in fact, each figure hears it only within their own mind – yet it is strangely persuasive in its own right: “Look, look at him.” Each of them are pulled forward as their heads move of their own accord, to look towards the figure emanating an aura of destiny. “Do not trust him. He is the traitor. Destroy him, kill him, erase him from this dimension. Let him live at your own peril.” Then this voice, too, fades away.

There is silence, and then the spell breaks. The woman springs into action first, casting a prayer of destruction at the man she loves. He stands firm as it washes harmlessly over him, revealing his immunity, before directing his own prayer at the boy. His girlfriend laughs at her own joke, and joins him in the assault.

A third voice, similar to the first, but layered with subtle nuances, attempts to add his own prayer to the attack, and in response the wild-hearted man casts a note of warning into the sky. The mortal avatar delivers a slight admonition towards the fated boy, and then the third voice speaks clearly: “The boy is the one who will deliver your doom! Act quickly and with conviction, before he has the chance to unmake you all!”

One of the great lords stands tall, gathers power into his gloved hands, and discharges it directly into the ground. He surveys the others regally, careless of the energy directed all around him, and does not speak. The meddlesome beast cowers, but regains enough conviction to cast a prayer of his own against the boy.

The boy, now wreathed in both the aura of his destiny and the malicious prayers swirling around him, refuses to bow his head, and instead pleads for his life. “Don’t erase me, please! Erasing is the only way I can be killed!” The others do not heed his words, and continue their attack. The incarnated god adds his prayer for the boy’s destruction, and even the voice weighs in: “Immortal? No. He is a traitor to your kind. Be assured, I do not attack him for his own sake, but rather for the sake of all you mortals.”

The woman, mindful of the immense power directed at the boy, downgrades her attack. A fourth voice appears, nuanced like the third: “He is but a boy! Spare some mercy. Has he not suffered enough at your hands?” The counterpart responds, “He is a traitor!” “Innocent!” “Traitor!” “Innocent!”

Bewildered and overwhelmed by this schizophrenic display, the seven figures turn away and regard the child of destiny once more. The other great lord, taking action for the first time, directs his own prayer against the boy. The voices take notice, and fly into a panic.

“Stop, fools! Cease this attack, or you will have an innocent’s blood on your hands! For the boy is Arthur Penhaligon, heir to the House, and he is a powerful ally to your cause!”

“Go, quickly! He is at the brink, and soon you will be rid of an enemy! For though he appears as a harmless boy, he has the soul of Darth Vader, the Sith Lord who betrayed the Jedi, and he is a terrible foe!”

With this revelation, the lovers slow their attack, and turn curiously to the boy. They demand answers, and the boy responds thusly: “It’s true! I’m Arthur! I can kill people, and I can’t be killed! Please, have mercy!” The mortal deity ceases his attack, and advises caution.

The voices return, and this time they are joined by a third:

“Why do you ignore our brother?”

“He cannot aid you in your struggle …”

“But none can explain our purpose better …”

“Than me! You think the gamemaker is the only force at work in this land? He is but an insignificant speck compared to us, the Trio! We are the true power behind the throne, and you mortals cannot comprehend out true form. But I will tell you this: one of my brothers lies this day and forever, one will speak naught but innocent truth. Alas, I cannot reveal which is which; the choice of trust belongs to those of mortal blood. As for myself, I have the power to speak truth or lies at my whim; although for now it amuses me to speak truthfully. One more thing I will tell you: my brothers always target those amongst you with the greatest power, but I cannot speak of their motivations.”

Valiantly trying not to get distracted by the mad voices, the lovers resume their interrogation of the destined boy. They declare that the boy’s story is nonsensical; that he should have claimed the power to kill, and then laughed at the foolish traitors trying ineffectually to kill him.

The situation seems to have stabilised; the inhabitants of this strange plane, both the figures and the voices, begin squabbling among themselves, but without real heat. They maintain their prayers, but simply speak to each other, trying to gain information that would break this stalemate. For a brief time there is tranquillity, at odds with the energy that still permeates the very air. This blissful pause, however, cannot last. There is a tipping point, a moment where the balance is gone but the storm has not yet broken, when the avatar casts his prayer once more against the boy.

Then a shockwave blasts through the crowd, and the godlike voice of the gamemaster booms out again once more: “You dare defile my name? Heed well my wrath, slave; think not that you can guess my name, nor refer to me by any false title. Behold, this puny mortal’s true form!”

The veil shifts around one of the figures, then falls away. A dog is revealed, standing tall on two legs, and speaks in a distorted, but still intelligible voice: “Herro, everyrone! Ir’m Scooby-Doo! Ir’m an invrestigrator, and I’rr herp you frind ra bad gruys!”

The voice of the gamemaster blasts out again, cutting off the dog: “Yet one among you honours me, and works to conceal the sacred glory of my name! You shall be rewarded!” The incarnated deity glowed, wreathed in a holy light; but otherwise there was no difference as the booming voice faded away.

In the silence, the voice of the third trio member casually rang out: “If you desire the erasure of one of your own, act with haste.”

The beast-man pleaded for someone, anyone, to pray for the boy’s destruction, and with little hope delivered his own small admonition against him. His girlfriend refused to give her assistance, unwilling to condemn an innocent … but it was too late. An awful silence, the antithesis of sound blanketed the landscape.

A new voice whispered in the darkness: “So bored …”

The boy, surrounded by the glow of prayers desiring his end, rose into the air. There was an awful shudder through the ground and air, and the glow intensified. His veil was torn apart, and for a brief moment all could see: he was indeed just a boy, he had been telling the truth. Then the glow whited out, and by the time it had faded back to nothingness, Arthur Penhaligon was gone.

“You fools! What have you done? I warned you!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha …”

The darkness deepened, until the figures were hidden from each other, and they all stood silently, awaiting the actions of their enemy in the night. But when the pale illumination returned, all six figures were still alive, and the turmoil began again.

The voices rang out once more: “You have committed a grave error once, but do you trust me now? Heed my words, the avatar is your enemy.”

The new voice responded: “Cousin, restrain yourself. You are mistaken.”

“It is you who is mistaken. The avatar is the one you must destroy.”

The wild man, heeding the words of the voice who had defended the innocent, cast his prayer against the god in mortal form. In response, the incarnated deity claimed to be the one who had protected the man from the destructive prayers. Undeterred, Scooby added his own prayer against the avatar. As the crowd argued amongst themselves, a voice spoke once more: “None of my cousins can be trusted. Heed their words at your peril. Of course, you cannot trust me either, so it is safest to ignore us all. I will not speak to you again.” All six figures felt the rush of energy as the power behind the voice dissipated into the abyss.

They could all feel the inevitable approaching, as this ‘game’ drew towards its conclusion. The wild man cast his lesser prayer towards the incarnation, convinced that every little bit of power would be effective. In response, the avatar went mad, casting curses against the gamemaster, claiming to be the power behind the last voice, and finally prayed for his own death.

The gamemaster obliged, and the avatar fell to the ground, his veil fading away. As his face became clear, it was revealed that the god he represented was none other than the gamemaster himself; desiring to play his own game for reasons unknown. The fallen god shuddered, then his body was torn apart as the true deity wreaked his vengeance upon the corpse.

Shrugging off the absurdity that had now become commonplace, the man who contained the soul of a wolf cast all his power against one of the dark lords. Lightning flashed, and sound knowledge formed in each player’s mind: the mad voices were all controlled by the gamemaster, like puppets dancing with tangled strings. The dark lord under attack spoke for the last time, and claimed amnesia, beseeching the gamemaster to unmask him. As per his request, Darth Vader’s veil was torn away, along with his life; revealing him as one of the enemy.

Confident in their power, the lovers acted as one, and channelled all their remaining power at the last dark lord. The prayers tore at him, ripping away his veil and revealing him as Galbatorix, the last enemy, before erasing him from this reality
FitzChivalry Farseer and Molly Chandler stood tall as their veils fell away, and embraced, celebrating their survival of this twisted game. They turned to Scooby-Doo, and tossed him a Scooby Snack as his reward. Then all three beings dissolved back into data, their objectives complete.

Alone once again in the void, the gamemaster laughed, and turned his attention toward crafting new plans. The insanity could not rest, the games must continue. The Mind Screw had only just begun.


Notes:
There’s not much to be said here. It’s the story of Mind Screw Meadow, as requested by Eggs. The story is all over the place; I considered trying to just use the bare bones and make it flow better as a narrative, but that would be almost as disjointed for a lot more work. I’m not sure which (if not all) of the following make for a poor story: a Mafia game; a Mind Screw; or the unrestrained idiocy that MSM turned out to be.
I’m still interested in feedback. I may yet do MS2, so improvements would be desirable.


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Re: Scribblings

Post by The King of Eggs on Tue Jun 04, 2013 10:33 am

Supreme Overlord wrote:
Mind Screw Meadow:
In the infinite darkness, there is a flash of light. Code rains, data swirls, and seven figures coalesce into existence. Their faces are veiled from each other, yet their auras of power surround them, taking on a tangible presence. There is a boy, unsure of his place, yet destined for greatness. A deity, given mortal form. A man with the heart of a beast, who shares a bond with a woman skilled at smuggling information. An animal, with the mind of a human, ever interfering. And two great lords of awesome power, allied against the rest.

“Welcome to my domain!” A voice booms out, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “You have been chosen, you seven souls, to play a game of my own devising. There are those among you who desire your destruction. You must find these traitors, and be rid of their stain. Choose amongst yourselves, pray to me, and every day I will heed your prayers and erase one of your number from existence. But be warned! Your enemies have power of their own. Can you destroy them all … before they destroy you?” The voice fades away, the ghost of insane laughter echoing in the darkness.

The seven glance warily at each other, trying to process the situation. One shifts, as if to speak; but then they freeze as another voice manifests itself. It does not have the booming power of the first voice – in fact, each figure hears it only within their own mind – yet it is strangely persuasive in its own right: “Look, look at him.” Each of them are pulled forward as their heads move of their own accord, to look towards the figure emanating an aura of destiny. “Do not trust him. He is the traitor. Destroy him, kill him, erase him from this dimension. Let him live at your own peril.” Then this voice, too, fades away.

There is silence, and then the spell breaks. The woman springs into action first, casting a prayer of destruction at the man she loves. He stands firm as it washes harmlessly over him, revealing his immunity, before directing his own prayer at the boy. His girlfriend laughs at her own joke, and joins him in the assault.

A third voice, similar to the first, but layered with subtle nuances, attempts to add his own prayer to the attack, and in response the wild-hearted man casts a note of warning into the sky. The mortal avatar delivers a slight admonition towards the fated boy, and then the third voice speaks clearly: “The boy is the one who will deliver your doom! Act quickly and with conviction, before he has the chance to unmake you all!”

One of the great lords stands tall, gathers power into his gloved hands, and discharges it directly into the ground. He surveys the others regally, careless of the energy directed all around him, and does not speak. The meddlesome beast cowers, but regains enough conviction to cast a prayer of his own against the boy.

The boy, now wreathed in both the aura of his destiny and the malicious prayers swirling around him, refuses to bow his head, and instead pleads for his life. “Don’t erase me, please! Erasing is the only way I can be killed!” The others do not heed his words, and continue their attack. The incarnated god adds his prayer for the boy’s destruction, and even the voice weighs in: “Immortal? No. He is a traitor to your kind. Be assured, I do not attack him for his own sake, but rather for the sake of all you mortals.”

The woman, mindful of the immense power directed at the boy, downgrades her attack. A fourth voice appears, nuanced like the third: “He is but a boy! Spare some mercy. Has he not suffered enough at your hands?” The counterpart responds, “He is a traitor!” “Innocent!” “Traitor!” “Innocent!”

Bewildered and overwhelmed by this schizophrenic display, the seven figures turn away and regard the child of destiny once more. The other great lord, taking action for the first time, directs his own prayer against the boy. The voices take notice, and fly into a panic.

“Stop, fools! Cease this attack, or you will have an innocent’s blood on your hands! For the boy is Arthur Penhaligon, heir to the House, and he is a powerful ally to your cause!”

“Go, quickly! He is at the brink, and soon you will be rid of an enemy! For though he appears as a harmless boy, he has the soul of Darth Vader, the Sith Lord who betrayed the Jedi, and he is a terrible foe!”

With this revelation, the lovers slow their attack, and turn curiously to the boy. They demand answers, and the boy responds thusly: “It’s true! I’m Arthur! I can kill people, and I can’t be killed! Please, have mercy!” The mortal deity ceases his attack, and advises caution.

The voices return, and this time they are joined by a third:

“Why do you ignore our brother?”

“He cannot aid you in your struggle …”

“But none can explain our purpose better …”

“Than me! You think the gamemaker is the only force at work in this land? He is but an insignificant speck compared to us, the Trio! We are the true power behind the throne, and you mortals cannot comprehend out true form. But I will tell you this: one of my brothers lies this day and forever, one will speak naught but innocent truth. Alas, I cannot reveal which is which; the choice of trust belongs to those of mortal blood. As for myself, I have the power to speak truth or lies at my whim; although for now it amuses me to speak truthfully. One more thing I will tell you: my brothers always target those amongst you with the greatest power, but I cannot speak of their motivations.”

Valiantly trying not to get distracted by the mad voices, the lovers resume their interrogation of the destined boy. They declare that the boy’s story is nonsensical; that he should have claimed the power to kill, and then laughed at the foolish traitors trying ineffectually to kill him.

The situation seems to have stabilised; the inhabitants of this strange plane, both the figures and the voices, begin squabbling among themselves, but without real heat. They maintain their prayers, but simply speak to each other, trying to gain information that would break this stalemate. For a brief time there is tranquillity, at odds with the energy that still permeates the very air. This blissful pause, however, cannot last. There is a tipping point, a moment where the balance is gone but the storm has not yet broken, when the avatar casts his prayer once more against the boy.

Then a shockwave blasts through the crowd, and the godlike voice of the gamemaster booms out again once more: “You dare defile my name? Heed well my wrath, slave; think not that you can guess my name, nor refer to me by any false title. Behold, this puny mortal’s true form!”

The veil shifts around one of the figures, then falls away. A dog is revealed, standing tall on two legs, and speaks in a distorted, but still intelligible voice: “Herro, everyrone! Ir’m Scooby-Doo! Ir’m an invrestigrator, and I’rr herp you frind ra bad gruys!”

The voice of the gamemaster blasts out again, cutting off the dog: “Yet one among you honours me, and works to conceal the sacred glory of my name! You shall be rewarded!” The incarnated deity glowed, wreathed in a holy light; but otherwise there was no difference as the booming voice faded away.

In the silence, the voice of the third trio member casually rang out: “If you desire the erasure of one of your own, act with haste.”

The beast-man pleaded for someone, anyone, to pray for the boy’s destruction, and with little hope delivered his own small admonition against him. His girlfriend refused to give her assistance, unwilling to condemn an innocent … but it was too late. An awful silence, the antithesis of sound blanketed the landscape.

A new voice whispered in the darkness: “So bored …”

The boy, surrounded by the glow of prayers desiring his end, rose into the air. There was an awful shudder through the ground and air, and the glow intensified. His veil was torn apart, and for a brief moment all could see: he was indeed just a boy, he had been telling the truth. Then the glow whited out, and by the time it had faded back to nothingness, Arthur Penhaligon was gone.

“You fools! What have you done? I warned you!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha …”

The darkness deepened, until the figures were hidden from each other, and they all stood silently, awaiting the actions of their enemy in the night. But when the pale illumination returned, all six figures were still alive, and the turmoil began again.

The voices rang out once more: “You have committed a grave error once, but do you trust me now? Heed my words, the avatar is your enemy.”

The new voice responded: “Cousin, restrain yourself. You are mistaken.”

“It is you who is mistaken. The avatar is the one you must destroy.”

The wild man, heeding the words of the voice who had defended the innocent, cast his prayer against the god in mortal form. In response, the incarnated deity claimed to be the one who had protected the man from the destructive prayers. Undeterred, Scooby added his own prayer against the avatar. As the crowd argued amongst themselves, a voice spoke once more: “None of my cousins can be trusted. Heed their words at your peril. Of course, you cannot trust me either, so it is safest to ignore us all. I will not speak to you again.” All six figures felt the rush of energy as the power behind the voice dissipated into the abyss.

They could all feel the inevitable approaching, as this ‘game’ drew towards its conclusion. The wild man cast his lesser prayer towards the incarnation, convinced that every little bit of power would be effective. In response, the avatar went mad, casting curses against the gamemaster, claiming to be the power behind the last voice, and finally prayed for his own death.

The gamemaster obliged, and the avatar fell to the ground, his veil fading away. As his face became clear, it was revealed that the god he represented was none other than the gamemaster himself; desiring to play his own game for reasons unknown. The fallen god shuddered, then his body was torn apart as the true deity wreaked his vengeance upon the corpse.

Shrugging off the absurdity that had now become commonplace, the man who contained the soul of a wolf cast all his power against one of the dark lords. Lightning flashed, and sound knowledge formed in each player’s mind: the mad voices were all controlled by the gamemaster, like puppets dancing with tangled strings. The dark lord under attack spoke for the last time, and claimed amnesia, beseeching the gamemaster to unmask him. As per his request, Darth Vader’s veil was torn away, along with his life; revealing him as one of the enemy.

Confident in their power, the lovers acted as one, and channelled all their remaining power at the last dark lord. The prayers tore at him, ripping away his veil and revealing him as Galbatorix, the last enemy, before erasing him from this reality
FitzChivalry Farseer and Molly Chandler stood tall as their veils fell away, and embraced, celebrating their survival of this twisted game. They turned to Scooby-Doo, and tossed him a Scooby Snack as his reward. Then all three beings dissolved back into data, their objectives complete.

Alone once again in the void, the gamemaster laughed, and turned his attention toward crafting new plans. The insanity could not rest, the games must continue. The Mind Screw had only just begun.


Notes:
There’s not much to be said here. It’s the story of Mind Screw Meadow, as requested by Eggs. The story is all over the place; I considered trying to just use the bare bones and make it flow better as a narrative, but that would be almost as disjointed for a lot more work. I’m not sure which (if not all) of the following make for a poor story: a Mafia game; a Mind Screw; or the unrestrained idiocy that MSM turned out to be.
I’m still interested in feedback. I may yet do MS2, so improvements would be desirable.

I like it. The voting could've been slowed down, add a bit of dramatic prose here and there, MSM was too chaotic and short to make a narrative, I enjoyed RS death scene, as well as the reward/punishment scene the most, I would be very happy if you continued, MS2 is at least less chaotic.


ذا كنت تستطيع قراءة هذا الخروج ثم يمارس الجنس ، تمزح فقط أخيه الله واحد صحيح.



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Re: Scribblings

Post by Darth Skywalkerbacca on Wed Jun 05, 2013 3:21 am

I agree with with Eggs to a degree, this game does not suit a narrative format, it's very disjointed and confused and at times hard to follow but it was decently pulled off considering what you had to work with.

Obviously I think slowing down a bit would help, the story seemed to happen over a matter of minutes, not days, I'll have to re-read the thread to properly appreciate this though I think.
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