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Riisiing Moon

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Year 15

About Riisiing Moon

  • Birthday 09/10/1996

Profile Information

  • Gender
    Male
  • Location
    Currently? On BZP, of course!
  • Interests
    He remembers the bubble wrap.

    When the server is flooded, it is because he wants to go for a swim.

    HahliHusky writes his signatures.

    James Cameron directed his avatar.

    When he linked to a website with forums, Black Six gave him a proto boost.

    His member description is 'Member Indescribable.'

    He leads an underground league of fledgling newbies training in the dark arts with a presence in thirty-two countries, and Madagascar.

    His topics in NMQ&A are statements.

    He once posted spam, just to see what it felt like.

    His blog is praised as a source of knowledge in regions without Internet access.

    He is...the most interesting BZPer in the world.

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  1. Man I thought we were cool

    1. Razgriz

      Razgriz

      Why'd you go and die brotha

       

    2. Razgriz

      Razgriz

      And now you're returning to life while I'm off at work

       

       

      real cold man

  2. Yo.

    1. Show previous comments  3 more
    2. Riisiing Moon

      Riisiing Moon

      i am rising's guilty nostalgia

    3. shadow pridak money gang

      shadow pridak money gang

      i am tyler's ###### are you doing here why haven't you hugged me yet

       

      you huggable mormon huggerpants you

    4. Riisiing Moon

      Riisiing Moon

      DUDE I NEED TO WRITE SOMETING LIEK NAO PM ME

  3. A Bench--Riisiing MoonHere so soon after postage 'cause it's for an English assignment, so I'm hoping to get a review semi-soon.
  4. Here's a short story I wrote for my AP English class. There's a sculpture park with a bike path in my neighborhood, and the assignment was to head over there, pick a sculpture, and write a 750-1K word essay on it. I was biking through to pick one, but I saw this picture-perfect scene of a bench and a garbage can that I went with instead. Let's hope my teacher gives me points for creativity rather than fail me for not picking a sculpture. In, out. In, out. In…He forgot what to do next, then recalled and breathed again. Each lazy, swaying step was punctuated by the guttural intakes of air. The otherworldly sensation of motion was relieved only by breath, that periodic assurance that he was in fact still alive and even conscious. The crunchy scent of autumn leaves pervaded the place, the only noise that flooded his numb mind, save for an occasional taxi speeding along McCormick probably headed to O’Hare to either temporarily or eternally abandon this forsaken city. Barely aware of his own legs, he paused to stare at a bench half blanketed in that faded brown tree fodder. He blinked and processed the scene—the bench was as alone and isolated as the sculptures in the park, and yet strangely not as intimately haunting. While the moon cackled in the heavens and no other humans roamed these fields, the statues seemed alien; demonic, even. But the bench was meant for people, and he supposed there was some reassurance in that. The statues rejected him. The bench accepted him. He sat absently upon it and focused again on his breathing before he lost himself to that eternal oblivion. It was welcoming, a sort of sea he felt himself slipping— WHRRWHRRWHRRWHRRWHRR He leapt a distance he didn’t know he was capable of and fumbled madly in a desperate search before his brain processed what it was looking for. His phone appeared in his hand, drenched in a sweat that reeked of scents both physically and emotionally revolting. A picture of a well-groomed, muscled man in aviators and a ski cap atop a mountain danced over the screen’s dreamy light, giving him an eerie thumbs-up. He flipped the device open and faintly wondered why such an odd idea as a mobile telephone occurred to Joey Motorola. He tried to say hello, but it came out as “Grglurgbl.” “Yo, it’s Tyler.” “Yeah, I know.” Was that really his voice? He’d never paid attention to it. “Right, yeah. Hey man, I heard about you and Carol—just wanted to make sure everything’s alright?” “Huh? Oh yeah, we broke up. She kicked me out.” He sounded so far away from himself. Where was he at all? “What? Aw man…Aw, I’m so sorry! You even got a place anymore? Your old one’s foreclosed now right? That’s really rough, man.” “Thanks for the sympathy.” “You need a place? Come over, Sheila’s asleep, she won’t mind.” He felt his mouth open—or more specifically felt the drool drip down his chin and realized his mouth had been open for far too long. He pushed himself back into his body (an action he would forever regard as high on the top ten list of the most difficult he’d ever performed) and decided that might not be a bad idea.But he couldn’t really think of why. The bench was meant for people, after all. He knew the dejection it would feel if he left it. And human beings did not currently hold sway in his own activities. He would be the world’s sole denizen on this everlasting night. Tyler could dwell in his realm, each of his days seamlessly flowing into the prior and the next, just getting on living, and he would make tonight his bare necessity. The bench held this gracious acceptance that was synonymous with this night, and before he recalled the device in his wet palm he fell into it. “So d’you need a place?” “Uh, nah, man, I’m alright.” Tyler seemed to blink over the phone. “Wait, where you gonna stay?” This rage filled him that he’d never felt, and it took him a moment to recognize that that was in fact what it was. This was his world, this bench, and no man could intrude on that, could challenge that, could steal him away into his on home. He would not surrender to another’s will when his own place was here. He was his own statue, the bench his own home. Vaguely reflecting on how the human spirit’s will is revealed in only the most pathetic and desperate of times, he threw the phone and watched it fade into another world, another man’s domain, in an epic display of uselessness. He felt himself irrelevant to everywhere but here, useless to all but the bench. He conjectured that some longtime, luckier couple was watching him through a monitor somewhere, bonding through his own furious tears. He was somewhat of a cliché, at that, but at least he belonged somewhere. Time would pass before he could fall asleep, but at least the bench didn’t make him feel so lonely.
  5. Actually, that arouses a good question. How long do your guys' full-length stories usually span?
  6. This app makes me so pressured to publicize my inntermost thoughts.

  7. This quote is totally making it into my sig. Haha, interestingly enough my favorite part of the writing process is character development--but that's something I prefer to reserve for longer pieces of fiction rather than short stories, which for me are explorations of the human psyche. Short stories are how I make people terrified or emotional, and epics and novella are where I develop complex and conflicted chars. There's happy moments in those, too. I guess the reason I prefer more emotionally questionable themes to happy go-lucky ones is because they're a lot more complicated--it's a lot more stimulating for me to have the reader fret over a dying char or shiver at the description of a ghoul than it is to talk about how fairies frolicked through the meadows the day the angels woke to give kisses to fair maidens throughout the land of Lovington. This is just for the weekend write-off. I gotta write stuff for my privy lexis and Velox's prompts and challenges at some point--got a neat idea about a casino called the 'Hotel California,' in reference to the line 'you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.'
  8. Hey! I joined the Ambage, so thought I should let you know to put me on the memberlist and such. :P Due to religious reasons for the next couple of months I won't be able to attend the Saturday events--how would the consecutive write-off achievement work for me?

    1. Velox

      Velox

      Hey, sorry for not getting back to you. But yeah, just send me an IM on Skype and you can write any time. =]

  9. Isaac swore. For the fourteenth time. And for the seventh, walked up the door, inhaled sharply, and backed off. There was some cosmic force shoving him toward that door, and he believed that one was from heaven—the one pushing him away every time his hand gripped the frosty handle was from somewhere else. His breath was frosty in the air, his soul ever colder. As his brain screamed at him in that incomprehensible agony only a mother’s son can feel, he let his body take control and stumbled through the door. “Mom, I’m home.” She smiled warmly. He smiled back with a warmth that felt somehow deadened by the snow outside. And he felt guilty for that—since Dad had been gone, his mother had somehow absorbed his own warmth. But he was left to his own distance. “Hey, Mom.” “Honey, do you…” She coughed, spat blood on the sheets. Isaac bit his lip. “Did you get the medicine?” Her voice was frail, alien. That disturbed him. He dreamt about banishing the unholy demons that did this to her. “Nah, Mom…they wouldn’t take change.” She blinked. Awkwardness was the only word in the English language to describe the sensation that overtook Isaac, but that was something devoid of emotion. Something as cold as a Chicago winter and a doctor’s heart. What overtook Isaac had depth and sorrow, grief and guilt. It had shame. For him and for her. And that hurt. “Oh…well that’s okay honey. I love you anyways.” He laughed. Weak, but sincere. “W-we’re gonna make it, ma. Right?” Her eyes shimmered. That force from outside returned and manifested in her tears, which in her still-youthful confidence refused to flood from her eyes. She could not hold them in, but they stood there stoic and bold, in eerie contrast to her dying form. She was a shell, but she was not hollow. She held love and she rejected the cold that Isaac had carried in. “Yeah. We’re gonna make it.”
  10. More of a portal, but a wholly physical one. The line between the divine and the mortal is sort of blurry in the book, which is one of the underlying concepts--the Mist, effectively, is a god, or a hive-minded group of gods, but it rests in the physical world. There aren't any all-powerful humanoid beings resting in intangibility beyond the clouds, and there are no anthropomorphism--the Mist has no emotion and resembles humans in zero ways of any kind.Go for it, and lemme know when you got a plot built around that.
  11. Oh yeah. Get me up there.
  12. JKK--The skeletons are not those of Drawa's friends, no, they're just bodies he finds in the desert. Interesting idea, though, I gotta consider that.Aufaire and Drawa's home world are connected by the canyon, within which the Mist resides. The Mist visits denizens of both worlds in extremely rare cases (most of which result in death), but resides exclusively above the Inland. If you want me to paint a mental picture, basically there's a bridge atop the Inland, veiled by the Mist. I.e., the Inlanders never see the sky. Beyond the Inland there is a cavern, and on the other side is Aufaire in its entirety, or more specifically the southern desert of Aufaire. It's thematically dark, yes, but the Mist does not block out the sun. I like the way you think, but perpetual night is pretty restricting, and though it can be fascination for a good amount of time the attitude of bleakness it possesses gets old and boring to read about. Colors have a lot of impact on the reader, even though the tangible words of text are black and white.
  13. I, Riisiing Moon, do here state my intention to join the Ambage, in sickness and in health, in rain or shine, until boredom do we part. I will devote my writing skills in their unfiltered entirety to its ranks, among which I will gradually climb until I emerge as its indisputable dictator. I wish my future minions much luck in the race to inevitable death beneath my pencil-equipped hand.Respectfully yours,--Lord Riisiing Moon
  14. A Tale of Makuta--Riisiing Moon.My entry for the LSO SSC LOL ABBREVIATIONS. Thanks in advance!
  15. Hey, just posted mine in SS, you better watch your back. Haha, why the misgivings?
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