Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'writing'.
-
Here's the thing: you know that "Welcome" content block in here? I wrote that up for the heck of it, but now, after my completion of The Forbidden Game books ... it gave me an idea for a multi-chapter Halloween special. Whether I post it as an epic or as a serial here in my blog ... it doesn't matter. This will be awesome. *dashes off to use ideas* (PS: If anyone wants to help me in this, comment below. I need at least three other characters to accompany the main characters; they can be based off your BZP self or not, but I'd rather they weren't. Toa Seneca have their own roles to play; I'll be contacting you all. One more note: just because you posted a character below does not mean they get in. I might pick one, all, or none of them; if yours is chosen, I'll contact you.)
-
Hearts of Gold in a World of Grit; Affleck’s “The Town” Grinning skull masks with hollow eyes and all-black clothing conceal the identities of four men as they surge out of a car and into a bank. Guns are held confidently in their hands as they quickly take control of the building. A practiced machine, this quartet robs the bank, leaving no traces of evidence, and fleeing before they can be caught – the men in skeletal visages are efficient, professional, systematic, riveting. Thus, the actions of protagonist Doug MacRay (Ben Affleck) and his thief crew in the opening scene of The Town is a metaphor for the film itself; from start to finish, the movie engages in no superfluities that would detract from its plot or from the performances of the actors in propelling it forward. The end result is clean, engaging, fast, and thorough. The Town has surprising deftness and grace for an American action movie. Affleck wrote, directed, and starred in a film that can and does transition between the shadowy dirtiness and speed so common in violent cinema and the rest of reality, the world of normality. This is a contrast that is artfully executed and clearly defined – Affleck’s character is a man who lives in both worlds; his acting, if nothing else, is representative of the gap. One moment, he is savage, merciless, intimidating – the next, sympathetic, sincere, relatable. But, despite the sharp disparity of these sets of traits, Affleck manages to connect them within MacRay, forging a character who feels real and, unlike many personalities of recent movies, we actually end up caring about when he’s getting shot at. Supported by numerous talented actors (Among them Jon Hamm playing a wily FBI agent, Jeremy Renner a detestable, merciless member of the robber crew), the film’s plot does not have to rely upon excessive and unneeded fighting and violence to continue building. When there are action scenes, they are brutal, intense, exciting – cars smashing, guns firing, bullets ricocheting, wounds exploding in splashes of gore – and are captivated with quick, masterful shots. The camera angles, contrary to battle sequences of notable other films, don’t serve to confuse the viewer, which was a welcomed change. The film’s cinematography overall is well-done; its duller light and drained colors conveys a feel of depression, exaggerated mediocrity that is representative of how the urban jungle of Boston is perceived in the picture. But despite its greyer hues, The Town’s script is delectably colorful – and not only because of the profuse swearing. It performs a screenplay that doesn’t sound like one; no one-liners, no too-perfect grammar, no holds barred on what people would realistically say. It’s a comprehensive script, which constantly connects upon itself, and lends a unified feel to the movie. There are sparse but well-placed instances of dry wit that make audiences chuckle, sometimes even laugh in earnest, which do well to balance the more macabre moments. The tone of the story overall is gloomy – greed and a lusty desire to rise above their pathetic lives are the chief motivators for many of the characters. But not for all – MacRay (Affleck) finds a more pure impetus in Claire Keesey (Rebecca Hall), the manager of a bank he robs who by a strange play of fate he develops a strong romantic bond with. Their relationship is a singular point of hope and joy in the movie, strongly juxtaposed against cops and robbers with no lives outside the endless cycles of dissatisfaction they have made for themselves. It is encouraging to know that even a man as dangerous as MacRay has a soul. After all, The Town, like many other movies, is at its heart a commentary upon human nature. In the world where mankind has crafted a society of violence and self-indulgence with zero fulfillments, all too often people do not ascend beyond their average selves – nor do they try to. But Affleck’s film reminds its audience that people can still find joy and love… it just takes one bank robbery, one coincidence, to discover it. (Written for my Journalism class at school - thought I might as well share my thoughts on the movie here, too.)
-
I got a note from my grandma today, containing an ad that showcased a short stories contest judged by British author Jeffrey Archer (for whom the contest is named after). What really excited me was the grand prize ... a publishing contract with St. Martin's Press, which is what any aspiring author wants to have. Naturally, I wanted to enter, and I was working on what would've been my entry (incidentally sweeping the Summer Library Olympics from my mind) when my mom and I looked up the contest page. And then I saw the rule that crushed my hopes: "Entrants must be 18 years or older."
-
Since I finally got inspired to write again, and actually have a plot idea for this one, I began to write a story today. Here it is; At precisely six-thirty-three in the morning of the twenty-third of October, her Greatness’s airship Circinus was attacked. The morning on that day was a grey, misty one, with crisp dampness to its taste. The Circinus seemed to be flying through a singular, massive cloud, so thick was the fog; sightlines for those aboard were very short. The sun had risen around an hour previously, but its current position in the sky was unable to be discerned now, due to the solid grayness that cloaked the dome of the heavens. Nonetheless, Captain Ajax Calloway knew the precise time onboard his vessel – a brass pocket watch, with fine, delicate gears, assured that. The watch had been a gift from a dying man, and Calloway therefore wore it with pride, as general proudly wore his medals. According to the expertly crafted timepiece, clasped in one of his gloved hands, it was currently six-thirty-one. Calloway was nimbly built and in his mid-forties, with a face that was chiseled into hard lines by years of working against the elements, as was to be expected of an aviator. The man had been aboard the Circinus ever since the age of eighteen, when his father had volunteered him for the service. The airship was more his home than any place on land, and most of his life had been spent airborne, here. He stood now atop the foredeck of his home, with long duster coat billowing with the wind. Calloway’s feet, clad in boots with spiked metal cleats on the soles, stood confidently on the wooden deck. Short-cropped iron hair rippled in the breeze, and his arms lay crossed over his chest. Calloway’s dark, beady eyes roved restlessly over the Circinus; he watched as crewmates in leather overalls, heavy woolen shirts, and goggles went about their duties, from clambering up the rigging to the crow’s nest atop the airship’s blimp, to checking the pressure levels on the steam-driven propeller engines. The Circinus was a small warship, whose usual duty was patrolling the borders of various territories under the dominion of the Great Protectorate. But this voyage was of a different purpose. Because the Protectorate’s larger warships were away at war to the west and south, the Circinus was one of the only combat ships that could be spared from duty to carry out a special mission of importance; so important in fact, that Calloway had been given it directly by the Great Protector herself. They were to fly into hostile territory under flag of truce to attempt establishing diplomacy with enemy generals. On this day, the Circinus was about two weeks out of port, and roughly half-done with her voyage. The sea was far below, and the nearest land was at least a hundred miles away. The skies were featureless – nothing but thick, impenetrable grey, lit by a latent sun. Calloway felt uneasy to be so blind; a paranoia that had been cultivated in him through his long years of combat service. If one cannot see the surroundings, the captain thought to himself grimly, then one cannot see an enemy. “Sir,” A voice broke the captain’s thoughts, “Sir, Mr. Vole says he saw something from the crow’s nest. North-Northwest.” It was midshipman Mark Davies, a young man of thirteen who in Calloway’s view displayed great promise for advancement in the world of aeronautics. Davies was a thin, sprightly youth, with eyes like an eagle’s, and the agility of a spider on the ship’s perilous rigging. His work ethic and constant verve set him apart from the other midshipmen of the Circinus, as well as his natural ingenuity and understanding of airships. “Did he describe this ‘something,’ Mr. Davies?” Calloway asked as he put away his pocket watch, exchanging it for a spyglass to try and discern any movement in that direction. He saw nothing through in the grayness. “Yessir,” Davies responded, “He said it was large, and that was the only reason he saw it… it blocked out the sun for a moment, captain, and obviously the lack of sunlight for even a flash was suspicious. Mr. Vole thinks it was another airship, sir. On estimate, he guessed that it was a frigate.” “A Frigate?” Calloway scowled. “Even if Vole is incorrect, we can’t take the risk of doing nothing – even a frigate on the smaller side outguns us massively. Tell the blimp crew that we need to descend, and quickly.” But before Davies could convey his captain’s orders, there was a flash of amber in the clouds. The gray fog illuminated for the briefest of instants with bright firelight, accompanied by a deafening roar. The flashes and the roars were those of cannons, fired in a devastating broadside. And now it was the Circinus’s turn to suffer. Nearly four-dozen heavy iron cannonballs rocketed through the morning sky, propelled at huge speed and power like metal demons with will only to destroy. And that they did; the enemy’s broadside raked the Circinus from a three-fourths angle, causing damage to the lower hull, the deck, and the engine pods. Wood shattered, brass bent, broken steam-tanks hissed, the whirring of engine gears halted abruptly. Splinters showered through the air, impaling unfortunate men with the merciless nature of chance. Sections of the rigging were shot at their bases, and the tightly-strung ropes twanged like guitar strings as they snapped free. The captain’s cabin, with its finely crafted windows, was peppered by some of the broadside fire as well, and shattering glass joined the cacophonous symphony of destruction. Calloway, who had been knocked from his feet by the impact of the broadside blast, came to stand with agility surprising for a man of his age. A glance around revealed the damage to his beloved ship; perhaps six men felled that he could see, their limp forms lying on deck and staining the wood bloody. One of the blimp support masts had been shot entirely through, disconnecting the rod from the deck in a jagged mess of wood. Some of the metal braces had been bent monstrously out of shape. He turned and saw that two of the six propeller engines had been disabled, as well, and all on the same side – if they tried to move now, the ship would only fly in circles. But the Circinus’s twin blimps, surprisingly, had remained undamaged, and that could only mean one thing; whoever it was that had just fired upon them didn’t want to sink the ship. They were instead… after something aboard. Calloway knew in an instant what it was they wanted. If they obtain what it is they seek… then we are all doomed. A surge of energy rooted from his desperation grew; with a defiant cry, the captain sprang into vivid motion. Leaping over the injured Mark Davies, who lay upon the deck clasping at a cut on his side, Calloway unsheathed his cutlass and shouted out orders to his crew. “Gun crews, prepare to return fire! Faster, faster, get those cannon primed, NOW! You there, pick up that ###### rifle – that’s the wrong end! Faster, all of you! Mr. Harley, tell your crews to rappel down and repair enough of our damaged engines to regain stability. Garret, swivel us to follow the enemy with our broadside; they’re trying to close on our flank. Gunners prepared? Excellent… wait for my command.” As he gave the instructions, Calloway’s dark gaze never stopped roving across the misty skies around him – the enemy ship, having come closer, was visible now and again as a shadow in the fog. The lookout had been correct – the opponent appeared to be at least twice the size of the Circinus, and judging from the initial broadside, outgunned them three to one. But Calloway, despite how he rationally knew that he and all the rest of his men would die, would not give up placidly. He was a fighting man, and that was the method in which he desired to fall. Having only one side of working engines did give the Circinus one advantage – it caused the airship to be constantly rotating in place, faster and with less forward motion than it could’ve done relying on the rudder. As such, it was impossible for the enemy ship to outmaneuver her or to fire – if the frigate made to swing around the back of the Circinus, they would be faced with her broadsides, and in avoiding these, had no time to unleash their own cannon volleys. Calloway waited for the opportune moment, when his ship’s gunnery was facing perfectly, and when the silhouette of the frigate was very clear. Then, describing a curt arc with his sword, Calloway bellowed, the order to fire at his crew. They obliged, and with a chorus of bangs and a fireworks display of orange light, the Circinus unleashed its full fifteen-gun starboard arsenal. The metal round-shots blasted through the grey misty skies with a vengeance, whistling in the air at their imposing target. They hit without the creaking, harsh sound of breaking wood, to Calloway’s disappointment; the frigate evidently was equipped with a heavy but effectively protective ironclad hull. The Captain cursed to himself; he should’ve aimed for the blimps, which were much more vulnerable and vital to the ship. He didn’t have time to tell his soldiers to change the guns’ altitudes to hit their new targets, however, because the deck rocked once more from an enemy volley of cannon-fire. This time, the shots were fully directed at the Circinus’s fuel tanks. There was a loud hiss of escaping air as the first tank was punctured – compressed steam, the ship’s power source, rushed out of the hole it had been provided. Another tank, that held water, took a number of shots, leaving ample exit routes for its contents. Liquid cascaded onto the deck below, making the wood slippery, and drenching the guns, rendering their paper-wrapped gunpowder cartridges useless. Calloway too was soaked by the downpour, but this did not stop him from continuing to shout orders to his crew. “Equip yourselves!” the captain yelled as he sheathed his sword, and reached inside his heavy coat to draw one of two revolver pistols. Thankfully, the leather of his duster had protected the guns from the rain, and they were both fully functional. He glanced back as the men obeyed him – Calloway picked out Mark Davies, despite his bleeding side, holding a bundle of rifles in his arms, and helping to distribute them among the men. The midshipman kept one for himself, and Calloway’s weathered face formed into a grim smile. But his eyes did not stray too long on this sight. Making sure that he was unwatched, Calloway turned his back on the rest of the ship, dug into his pocket, and pulled out his pocket watch once again. Its round, brass frame glinted coldly in the gray light, and its needlelike hands ticked away, blissfully oblivious to the conflict raging around it. They shall not take this, Calloway said to himself, I will not let them. His focus, however, was pulled away as he detected the shape of the other ship drawing closer in the corner of his eye. The captain hurriedly glanced up to see it, and then moved his hand, as if to pocket the watch. He stopped, looked down at the thing, and scowled for a moment. A tear beaded in one eye. Then, without further preamble, Calloway tossed the brass watch over the side of the ship. He did not watch it fall. The cries of his men rang out as the oncoming frigate’s silhouette grew clearer and closer. The Circinus’s crew was not one of cowards – they shouted taunts and brandished their weapons at the enemy vessel as it came closer. Calloway returned to join their repelling line. At long last, the opposing airship came close enough that some of its detail could finally be seen. Its hull was painted in all black, with similarly dark blimps. Vague shapes of harpoon launchers and rapid-fire guns, as well as men on its deck, could be discerned through the thick mist. Calloway redrew his blade, and, with a shouted word, swung it down. The air next to him resounded with a dozen or more sharp loud cracks as his crew loosed a volley with their rifles, aiming at the profiles of the enemy’s men. But, despite the accuracy of their weapons and most of the men being fair shots, there was not one cry of pain to be heard from the other deck. Rather, there were numerous ringing noises, like hammers hitting anvils, and a few thuds. Puzzlement overcame the men on the Circinus, and they muttered to one another in confusion, until the terrifying rattle of the adversary frigate’s rapid-fire guns broke the air. The captain and his men ducked down, but not all quickly enough – one man caught five shots in his torso and neck within two seconds, causing a mist of red to explode outward from him. He gurgled and choked for an instant, then fell, his blood seeping onto the deck. The crew rose sporadically to try and shoot back, and ducked as quickly as they might to dodge, but this was ineffective. Two more were taken down by the foe’s guns, and what return fire the Circinus managed mostly flew off-course. Retorting, the frigate loosed a number of grapnel harpoons, the barbed heads of which slammed and stuck into the Circinus’s deck. Calloway risked a look over the side of the rail to examine one. Damnation, he thought to himself, metal cords. They wouldn’t be able to sever the connection now, not with the mere cutlasses and axes that they had. All that he and his men could do now was await the enemy force, and hope that they’d be able to defeat them. It’s an impossible hope, maybe, he reflected, but it’s the only one we have. About a minute passed. Then they arrived. When Calloway heard the timbers of the rail above his head creaking, he immediately leapt up, whirled around, and slashed in the same circle with his sword at the oncoming enemy. The force of the blow, if nothing else, threw the man backwards, off the rail, and down into the water far below. The men next to Calloway were performing similar actions, trying to force back the attackers. Some succeeded, but others did not. Calloway himself was attempting to defend two harpoon lines. He slashed and jabbed at the oncoming men, but they did not seem to be afraid of his sword, and approached unperturbed. The captain was somewhat baffled by this, but did not relent. He took now his revolver in hand, and directed it at the head of one of his foes. The gun fired and hit its target point-blank, but did not slow the man – rather, it ricocheted of his head with a clang. It was not a man. It may have been dressed like a man, shaped like a man, but it was not a man. Calloway realized that it was a Clockwork. They all were. The automatic soldiers were the newest invention on the warfront, Calloway knew – their first usage by the Great Protectorate had been all over the newspapers about a month past, bearing headlines such as “New Weapon to Win the World!” and “Glory of Great Protectorate Newly Realized!” They were the ideal soldiers, and what they lost in cost-effectiveness, they more than made up for in symbolic value. But Calloway knew that the Clockwork Men designs were jealously guarded, for fear of them being used by the Protectorate’s chief nemesis, the Iourian Empire. So how was it that there was now a full frigate of them attacking the Circinus? The Clockwork had gotten closer. Calloway gave it a hefty shove, and it tumbled over the rail. His mind had no more time to contemplate upon the situation now, for more of the mechanical soldiers were approaching him. Gears whirred and springs twanged underneath armored plating as they loomed closer, rifles clutched in their metal fingers. Vapor poured out of their hissing steam-driven motors as they strode forward in identical time, the gas seeping out from underneath their army uniforms. With courage he often forgot he possessed, the Circinus’s captain charged the nearest one, shoved his revolver beneath its chin, and fired. The Clockwork’s metal neck crumpled as its head was thrown backwards violently, but it continued forward nonetheless. Calloway kicked it down to the ground, and stomped on its chest with all his might. But the metal plating barely dented. Calloway cursed, and spun around to grab the rifle barrel of one that was about to fire on him, but another Clockwork came from behind him, and grabbed his neck in its cold iron hands, the motors of its arms stronger than the muscles of any man. It picked him off the ground, and flung him to the ground. He tried to get up, but was stopped when the automatic man that held the rifle shot him in the abdomen. He gasped in pain as the shot, fired from so close, speared directly through his body, cracking a vertebra as it did so. Calloway felt a warm stickiness soaking through his clothes and flooding down to the ground. His nerves wailed in agony with the wound, throbbing and reeling with electrical torture. Lightheadedness suddenly overcame him, and he nearly passed out. Through the forms of the Clockworks surrounding his body on the ground, Calloway watched as the remainders of his men standing were slaughtered by the enemy machinations. Many put up valiant resistance, but in the end, their inferior numbers were not nearly enough to contest the grim power of the Clockworks. Unexpectedly, all of the automatic men ringing him parted, forming into two lines on either side of him. This left clear the way for a man to step through to Calloway. This one was certainly an actual man, unlike the machines around him, but there was something about his air that made him seem somehow larger. He was clad in a purely black leather jacket with silver clasps, the hem of which rose to just above the feet of the dark boots he wore. Black trousers covered his legs, revealed as the bottom of his coat opened in the wind. His hands were gloved, and on his head was a top-hat, making him look even taller than he already was. But most distinctive to his appearance was a mask that covered his face. It was of beaten brown leather, reinforced with metal studs. The mask roughly conformed to the contours of a human face, with holes only at the eyes, though the shape of a mouth was pressed into the leather. It was a countenance that was fully neutral, devoid of emotion, which served only to make it more sinister. This black-clad man approached Calloway’s form on the ground. Once he had reached the wounded captain, the Masked Man spoke, in a voice wholly not extraordinary, but with a tone that had an edge of steel. “Where is it?” The Masked Man asked. “I… no longer possess it,” Calloway replied, coughing up a bit of blood as he spoke. His voice had been reduced to a hoarse gasp. “Where is it?” The Masked Man repeated, his tone unchanged, but his hand now fingering a four-barreled pistol at his belt. “It… It is beyond your reach,” Calloway spat, “And that… is all that is important.” Without warning, the Masked Man swooped down to Calloway, and, taking a knife, slashed through the clothes over the captain’s wounds. “What… what are you…” Calloway asked, breath ragged. But his words were cut off as a shrill scream rose in his throat, and erupted out of his mouth. The dark man had shoved his gloved index finger into Calloway’s bullet wound, and moved the digit in a slow circle. Calloway continued to scream. The Masked Man pulled his finger out, leaving the Circinus’s captain to groan and gulp for breath. He had gone very pale. The Masked Man stood again, and repeated his question one more time, his voice now angry. “Where. Is. It?” Calloway looked up at the face of his interrogator. His deep gaze smoldered, as if trying to burn into the mind of the Masked Man. The captain, with a massive effort, sat up, and, leaning back on his hands, spoke clearly and firmly. “You will kill me before I tell you.” The Masked Man drew his pistol and shot the captain four times in his head. Ajax Calloway died immediately. With a snarl, the Masked Man whirled around, headed back towards his black frigate. By now, the ship had drawn close enough that a gangplank could be extended between it and the Circinus. It was this bridge that the Masked Man headed for. On the way, however, he encountered a body sprawled across his path. It was the injured form of Mark Davies. The midshipman had passed out earlier in the fight from blood loss from the gash in his side. Thinking him dead, the Clockworks had left him alone. But the dark-clothed man knew different. After a moment of consideration, the Masked Man picked the boy’s body up, and carrying it in his arms, crossed the gangplank back onto his airship. . . . -Nuju Metru
-
I actually managed to finish Chapter 6 of Wings. Also AHH SCHOOL STARTS IN FOUR DAYS
-
So I was at my last session of fencing camp a couple hours ago, and during our break between pools, me and some of my fellow campers were discussing stories we've written or plan to write (about half of us are budding authors, including a fellow Bionicle fan that I might've convinced to join us as a member), and I got into a bit of an arguement with Ben, another fencer. I'd been talking about plot for some of the novel ideas I have, and he wanted to know what morals/messages I had been implementing for them. I told him that I didn't bother adding specific messages; I just focused on plot. He then told me that I wouldn't get published if I kept on like that, but I'm not sure. What do you guys think?
-
Hop on over to EmperorWhenua 2.0's blog for an awesome story based on Snoopy82's epic! We got guest star guest star We got guest star guest star We got guest star guest star We got guest star guest star Does anyone still remember that rap? I feel old referencing it...
-
Lightning Strikes Twice -- Forgotten Fragment
Inferna Firesword posted a blog entry in blogs_blog_1558
So I've finally converted the story fragment I recently dug up into a Word doc. To read it, drop down the spoiler tag, but if you're too lazy to do that, here's basically what happens: Ariadne, Stara's right-hand Matoran, talks to her friend and one of the few, non-Xi-Matoran residents of Xi-Koro, Kouki. However, there is much more to be gained by reading it. I'm not sure where this would have gone; probably somewhere in Chapter 11. » Click to show Spoiler - click again to hide... «Ariadne was quiet as she walked through Xi-Koro’s streets, still turning the story she, Steena, and Turaga Stara had discovered three days prior. Even though they had gained a fairly solid theory about why the Amari Islands was so often plagued by halfling activity, Stara still continued to unleash her spirit so she could spy of Deimos. The Xi-Matoran was the second-in-command of the village overall when Stiaye wasn’t around to assume that role, so the safety of her people often rested on her narrow shoulders. One of her main concerns was of Stara's choice to continue spying on Deimos, despite their theory. Ariadne was worried that she was propelled by her desire to check on Nuju instead of actual spying work. Another concern was that Stara might not be safe as a spirit. Halflings were said to have great power - maybe they could reach through the weave of the spirit realm and harm the Turaga. All of her woes drove the Xi-Matoran to walk up to a friend's front door. She needed someone to talk to, someone to confide in, and Kouki was just that person. Kouki was a newcomer to Xi-Koro, arriving within the last fifty years and liking the climate enough to move in permanently. Despite the fact he wasn’t a Xi-Matoran, it wasn’t unknown for other Matoran to live in the village, so he was welcomed into the community. Some of the more wilder-minded of the tribe believed that his arrival in the Amaris had some connection to Stara’s homecoming, since he had come within months of Stara’s return from exile. Ariadne rapped on the wood door of Kouki’s hut, which lay on the northernmost arm of the village’s formation. It had once been the home of the treacherous Xi-Matoran Sekmet, but even knowing its history had not dissuaded him from living in the place. As usual, the door opened three seconds after the knock, revealing Kouki’s Komau-style mask as his blue eyes peered out to meet her own orbs. Smiling, the Ko-Matoran beckoned her inside: he didn’t get very chatty until he and his host/guest were in the same area together, in this case his home. True to his nature, once the Xi-Matoran had crossed the threshold and the front door had closed, Kouki spoke up. “How is the Turaga doing, Ariadne? Is she spying on the halfling right now?” Ariadne was about to nod “yes”, but the Ko-Matoran had bustled off to brew tea – in Xi-Koro, the signal to make yourself at home – so she had to say so aloud. “Chaka and Scylla are watching over her right now,” she said, sitting down on the Rahi-leather couch in his living room. “They forced me to take some time off; do something for myself instead of hovering.” The scent of herbal tea wafted into the room through the saplings he cared for in his home, serving as a nursery for the young trees until they were planted on the three islands that provided Xi-Koro with fruit and wood. The refreshing smell heralded Kouki, carrying two mugs of the brew into the room, handing one to her as he sat down in a chair opposite of Ariadne. A surprised frown crossed the Xi-Matoran's expression as she watched him sit down, and she added, “You seem taller than you were the last time I talked with you.” The Ko-Matoran examined the Matoran of Lightning, realizing that he was indeed a head taller than her. “Growth spurt, I guess,” he said with a shrug. As Matoran went, he younger than her and didn’t take life as seriously as his kinsmen, preferring the ways of his adopted village than of his tribe. Now that she was paying attention, Ariadne also noticed that he seemed to have more Xi-colors mingling with his natural white, but since she knew she would get the same response to it, she didn’t bring it up, instead sipping her tea to distract herself: piping hot and without sugar, as most of the village preferred, allowing the sweetness of spearmint to flavor the brew instead. “You are worried,” Kouki stated suddenly, setting down his empty cup (how males managed to drink their drinks so fast was a mystery to Ariadne) and catching her amber eyes in the gaze of his blue ones, holding fast. Unable to deny the truth – and she had planned to speak about this anyway – she nodded. “Why do you fear?” Kouki spoke in a slightly formal voice when conversation turned serious, and was less inclined to use the slang Ariadne did. Why was a mystery to most of the villagers, but no one felt inclined to try and change his habits. Because Stara had bidden Steena and Ariadne to hold their tongues on what they had discovered, the Turaga’s right hand did not speak the whole truth, instead voicing only her fear. “I’m worried about Stara’s errands to spy on our enemy,” she said, looking down into her tea’s scalding depths, a murky, clear-amber color greeting her eyes. There was a second drink common to the Matoran here: a thick, dark, bitter-sweet drink made from the seed-pulp of a native plant here. It was one of their main exports to the wider world, but since this one of the few places you could get it, the outer world tended to save it only for special occasions. The Xi-Matoran tended to follow this policy, even though most of them had those plants growing near their houses and could make the brew practically any time they wanted. “Why?” Leave it to a Ko-Matoran to get straight to the point, Ariadne thought, slightly amused. “Her motives,” she stated simply. “She says she’s spying on him, but is she really doing that? Maybe she’s just watching Nuju, instead of doing what she says she’s doing.” She never would have said this directly to Stara, since her biased trial years before had scarred the memories of many of the Matoran that had participated about motives, Ariadne included. While all of the present evidence had pointed at the erstwhile Lightning Toa at the time, her trial had hardly been fair to her, since no one had thought of pulling out a Noble Rode and checking Stara’s story at the time – and even when they had, they didn’t really care, since most had been fully convinced of Stara’s guilt. “You have to put yourself into Stara’s boots,” Kouki said. “She has to worry about the safety of us all; she doesn’t want to tell Stiaye that one of her friends was killed during her journey home to fight Deimos. She fears for Nuju, yes, but she needs to put the village above her own feelings – even though I’m sure she still wants to protect him.” Ariadne was silent, so the Ko-Matoran reached over the table to clasp her hand. “Stara’s been up again halflings before, and she’s still alive. Trust her abilities.” Kouki was orginally supposed to appear in LST, but he got cut from the final draft. He might show up in Wings, but then again he might not. Also, I put in so many references towards him playing another role in the story, I might as well just stick a sign on the door explaing the whole thing. However, I'll see if you guys can figure it out first. -
I'm making a note here: HUGE SUCCESS It's hard to overstate my satisfaction B) (Well, you'd say this too if your epic review topic got the Hot Topic list after posting just one chapter.)
-
I hate how unoriginal I am in my writing. Everything in there is practically a copy of something else... There are too many blatant Tolkien steals in my book to count on my fingers. Lousy self. -Nuju Metru
-
Okay, I'm pretty sure by now that a few people have noticed the changes done to my signature. I'll get onto the new sig in a second, but I have something else to talk about. Thing 1 Before I gave my sig an extreme makeover, I had a notice for fans of my Heroes and Halflings series, saying that if anyone had questions to ask about the series, I'll try to answer them. I only got two (if there are any more, ask them here and I'll answer them), and I'm neglecting to mention who asked them, but here they are. This is an easy question to answer: Yes, they will. You know, I thought I answered this question already, but apparently I have not. Oh well; I'll just do it now. The idea for the lightning net was taken from the book Magic Steps. In it, the mage Sandry takes remnents of Unmagic gathered at crime sites and weaves it into a net. The criminals she's hunting have Unmagic veining their bodies, and when they step into the net, they can't escape because the Unmagic in their bodies has become part of the net. Now, the idea in H&H was similar, and it was based on the fact that there is electricity in the world around Stara, and -- being biomechanical creatures -- they would have electricity in their mechanical parts as well as their organic parts. By making the electricity in her net recognize her targets as part of them, the net latched onto them, suspended them in mid-air, and would not release them until she made it. I'm not sure how sound my reasoning is, but it sounds cool. Thing Two Also in that little advertisement, I offered to give spoilers for my upcoming epic Wings for those that begged, pleaded, or threatened enough. No one did, but I'm gonna be nice (or infuriating) and give spoilers anyway. » Click to show Spoiler - click again to hide... «New villains in Wings will make halflings look like puppies in comparisonIf you think you know everything about halflings, you ain't seen nothing yetThe Spear of Ajax is "more than meets the eye" (XD)A character you probably haven't given much thought to will play a large role in WingsCameos abound, and a select few will be very familiar to some Debate, dissect, and cower at your leisure. Thing Three Now, for my new sig. First off, thank you Kagha for the banner, even though I still prefer the original, lost, cyber-angel version. Anyway, you may have noticed the numbers on top of the banner. Each day, they will be bolded and given a quote when you roll over them, all from Wings. When they all are bold -- well, I think you'll know what follows. *evil laughter*
-
Find Your Love is complete; now all I need is for Kagha to show up and see the monster I created for him. (PS: Illuminatus, you're off the hook.)
-
HH just gave me all the motivation I need to finish that songfic. =D
-
Well, you guys know the drill. Any bribes, threats, or kicks in the butt that will get me to keep working on my latest songfic, Find Your Love, will be greatly appreciated. (I'm hoping I can complete it by July 5, since I intend it to be a "welcome back to BZP" present for Kagha. )
-
Finish my present for KaghaFinish next chapter for HitMPrep first three chapters of Wings for posting(The keen-eyed observer will notice that I intend to do all this before my birthday. )
-
New short story! Please go read and hopefully review it. It's really a scene more than a full short story, a reimagination of the time Helryx appears on the deck of the Shadowed One's ship and stops him from destroying Xia. I really didn't remember how the original scene played out, and only looked it up as I was writing so I could get what happened correct. But I kept my initial image of it, wherein Helryx had enlisted the Dark Hunters anonymously and, since I had forgotten about them, the Toa Hagah were nowhere in sight. And just expanded from there, with a little help from Janus and Smeag. Some critique on it would be quite lovely, especially on the Shadowed One. I've never written him before (whereas I never, ever tire of writing Helryx because of how awesome she is) and I want to know how realistically he turned out. I also thought, upon re-reading the original scene, that Helryx would go to much more interesting lengths to make a point than just throwing people overboard, so I kept my original idea instead of the real one. Heh. ~ ToM
-
Added Price Of War also. Go check it out. It features the history of Redidax's father, Tetrax. It also separates the History of Bota Magna from the History of Spherus Magna. It's also my 1,000 post special. And, changed my avatar.
-
As I mentioned earlier, I asked if you wanted to see part of my work on my would-be novel, and you pretty much all said yes (well, all as in everyone who bothered to leave a comment saying so ). So, here's a part of that novel's first chapter. It's a tad long, so I'll compress it in a spoiler tag. If there's anything I could improve, please comment and let me know. Thanks. » Click to show Spoiler - click again to hide... «
-
It feels good to be writing again. Reading my work so far, I'm actually happy with what I have, and inspired to keep at it. -Nuju Metru
-
Hey everyone! Here is a little story I wrote a few months ago. I posted it in the CoT forum, but that was before I got popular, and its CoT. Who browses random stories on the CoT?? Anyways, this is a very epic story and it is somewhat graphic. Not very, but it is a little jarring (not as bad for the prologue for my Hunted book ). It's about a page and a third, so I wrapped it in Spoiler tags for the size issue. » Click to show Spoiler - click again to hide... « No. It could not be. Shadix gaped at the massive piece of machinery that had just appeared over the ridge. The tank-like structure rolled steadily on two massive sets of treads. A reflective bulge of glass protruded from the metallic body, keeping the drivers and technicians safe yet visible. Massive spheres extended from where shoulders would have been, and un- proportionally large arms extended from each one. At the end of each single jointed limb were rows of turrets and barrels. Shadix could only watch as the ProtoSonic tank gained speed, ripping through landscape as it drew near to the battlefield. From hundreds of yards away, flashes of light could be seen from the end of the arms. Microseconds before blasts of fire, dirt and debris exploded from the ground, there was the sound of massive tubes letting out their guttural scream of gunfire. Shadix saw peripherally that their greatest tool, the Thunder Roller, was destroyed in a matter of mere seconds. Shrapnel did as much damage to the surrounding solders as the missiles themselves. The battlefield had changed from a somewhat fair fight into a holocaust. No! They had been winning! Shadix took cover from the rain of death from above behind a sturdy tree. Bullets whizzed past him, some striking the tree and gashing a gnarly hole through it. Woodchips and dust rain upon him, not only from his own tree but also from less fortunate trees around him. Screams of fear and terror resounded in every direction in the forest. The tank had just reached the edge of the previous battlefield, guns still shrieking. Now it was arming missiles. Streams of smoke succeeded missiles as they flew through the air, wreaking havoc wherever they struck. Trees even bigger than Shadix’s were felled in one hit. Massive fireballs mixed with flying sharps of glass and metal desolated areas of young trees along with any comrades unfortunate enough to hide behind them. Shadix’s sweat was mixed with dust and blood. He had taken a blast of vegetative debris after a well-placed missile punctured a tree. He peeked out from behind his tree. The ground forces of the enemy were staying near the vehicle. Smaller, normal sized tanks blazed beside it, letting off a never-ending screech of tank missiles to destroy their enemy. “Shadix!” Ehthak called. He was hiding behind a shredded stump of a previous tree. “We gotta get out of here! This is defeat!” “How do you plan to do that?” Shadix yelled back. The roar of the cannons was deafening. “We run! If we die, we aren’t any worse off! That thing—“ But his dialogue was cut short due to an explosion behind him. The grueling sound of metal striking flesh was eminent through the havoc. Ehthak slumped against the tree, laboring just to breath. “Go,” He said. “and I with you better luck.” Then he, with tremendous power, leaned back from behind the stump and started emptying his gun. Shadix bolted, calling for all to follow him. He had no difficulty finding them, they were hiding everywhere, but most were too afraid merely to move. But many followed him. To his surprise, not many were shot down during their flee. Shadix gained courage as they got farther and farther from the ominous chunk of death metal that was pursuing them. He hoped that the trees might at least slow him down, even if they didn’t stop it. He checked behind his shoulder. He was followed by about thirty men. Some were injured, but most were just battered and fearful. Shadix smiled. Screams of terror racked Shadix’s ears mere seconds later. His pupils shrunk as the people that were following him, the people that trusted him, shrieked in horror. He glanced over his shoulder again. In their wake was a missile. It screamed through the forest, dodging trees and drawing in closer. There was no mistaking it. It was targeting them. Shadix saw a ridge up ahead and pounded his already aching legs even harder. His gun kept battering him during all this. Shadix tightened the belt attached to his gun that was around his shoulder and on his back to compensate. The harsh scream of the missile got louder every moment, and Shadix was sure it was about to explode and send them all cascading into internal resting. He came up to the ridge and jumped. His world erupted. Fire, shrapnel, debris and screams of torment and pain filled every one of Shadix’s senses. He was blasted over the ridge and into cover from the rest of the onslaught. Three other of his comrades that were trailing him closely made it over as well, but the shrieks and screams of death could only show that the rest of the group had been destroyed. Pain from Shadix’s shoulder, arms, legs and hands resounded louder then the cataclysm he had just witnessed. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, along with the rest of his group, and that saved them all from a horrifyingly grueling death. The sounds of screams and gunfire faded slowly. Shadix and his follow teammates sat there quietly, hoping that the ProtoSonic tank would never find it’s way to them. Well, hope ya liked it. This is one of the best pieces I've ever written. ALSO: What emotion does this potray? .:Shadix:.
-
Ugh, I just spent the last hour working on an extremely frustrating short story and had to delete almost all of it because I wasn't satisfied with it. Now I only have a couple of paragraphs or so left of what I think is good in place of at least two days' worth of material. This is what I call a bad writing day, which is something I rarely experience, which is part of the reason it is so dang frustrating to me. Argh! On the other hand, bad writing days are usually just that - bad writing days and by the next day I am back to writing at my usual level of quality again. So maybe my frustrations will soon pass. Hopefully . -TNTOS-
-
After a few years of letting it fement in my brain, the ideas I've been toying with are almost falling into place for a book I'm thinking about writing. The first chapter is flowing smoothly (or would, if I wasn't mildly distracted by English homework[/understatement]), and I was wondering: Anyone care to lend a few opinions of it once I have it in a Word doc? (I'm mostly saying this out of writer's envy towards newbie Forum Mentor Nuju Metru's semi-success with posting the chapters of a story he's writing in his blog. )
-
I have posted a new chapter! I fleshed out it all today and have also fleshed out the next chapter! ~Ignaka~
-
After seeing the trailer for the movie on a video sharing site, I finally got down to placing a hold for it at my local library. I'd known about The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold since ninth grade but always put off on reading it, and I'm glad I did because after making it through the whole story I feel like I wouldn't have been able to truly appreciate the intensity and skill of Sebold if I'd read the novel as a freshman. It's a great read and I definitely recommend it, but not to readers who can't handle the seriousness of its contents. I don't think I can do The Lovely Bones justice with my relatively mediocre level of description, so instead I'll quote an excerpt from one of its reviews. "Don't start The Lovely Bones unless you can finish it. The book begins with more horror than you could imagine, but closes with more beauty than you could hope for....Alice Sebold has done something miraculous here." -- Ron Charles, Christian Science Monitor
-
" . . . that tonight's gonna be a good night."[/black Eyed Peas] Well, I am getting a feeling, this time for a songfic or two. Anyone else think that "We'll Be Together" by Sting and "Sober" by P!nk would make good stories in my H&H series?
