For a while I've wanted to write a multi-chapter story, but I can't think of a good plot, and I'm never motivated enough to actually write it >.< So, if anyone wants to write a story with me, I'm good with almost any genre, except for romance, and I'd like to write something mainly aimed to teenagers/young adults. So, any takers? EDIT: As there seem to be quite a few takers, here's a few clarifications: This will be a multi-chaptered story, with multiple authors. We'll figure out a basic plot out-line together, and then turn the leashes of our created world to one author at a time. If you wish to be a part of this, either post in this thread or send me a PM/VM, and I'll send you an invite to the group meant to organize this thing. More detailed information under the spoiler tag. Spoiler You can ask to join the group until SUNDAY AUGUST 28th, 11:59PM PST (GMT/UTC -08) or until all 15 spots have gone. As all of the spots have gone, unfortunately I am NO LONGER ACCEPTING MORE WRITERS To those who already posted in this thread, I'm assuming you're in, and I'm sending you an invite to the group. If you however do not wish to take part in this (or you'd rather work on a story one-on-one with me) let me know ASAP. Authors: 1. Chesterfield Snapdragon McFistycuffs 2. Midnight Star 3. Britishism 4. axel-chanviii 5. Saximaphone 6. What? 7. Rat 8. Aqua101 9. Kingdom Hearts530 10. P 11. Jayn 12. Daxa 13. Ventus 108 14. Te Deum 15. PaWn
I've managed to make my four-year-old cousin use the phrase 'awesomesauce' by accident. =/ That's awesomesauce.
Can someone explain to me why one-way flights cost nearly twice as much as a round trip? I mean seriously, wtf?
I just realized that every time I go on a different computer I'm gonna hafta write my entire username... Yay for hindsight?
Skip to the part about Sam Merlotte and Sam Winchester "But one things for sure, he'd probably feel compelled to strip off this shirt and show off his abs while running around in the woods. Everyone else does it."
I nearly managed to drown, almost buried myself under too much sand, and narrowly avoided a allergy attack. [And the thread's title is 0% sarcastic x3] /facebooking
I've kinda got a problem. I don't have any recording equipment, and I can't really download anything onto the internet as far as I can tell. So I was wondering if anyone was willing to do a joint reading with me through Skype Voxli, or any other easier option, record it, and download it? My time-zone's GMT+6, I'll PM my Skype to those interested.
Holy Mother of God it was good. But now I feel like my childhood is almost completely over. I'm not sure if I like that feeling.
but I'm sobbing so damn much right now.
Falling asleep on the computer chair? It's really f*cking painful T_T
This was written as a response to the first Prose of the Season Challenge (Neverending) This was interesting to write, as I've never actually written my own stories before (even though this was heavily influenced by a certain series that may or may not be included in my siggy). Also, that certain part at the end is quite possibly the closest I've ever come to romance... Comments, especially constructive criticism are welcome. Title: Holiday in the Ardennes Genre: War, angst? Rating: PG-13? Warnings: Some violence in detail, death, one mention of sex (well, two if you count the warning itself >.<) He tries closing his eyes, but the flashing doesn’t stop. He clamps his frozen hands over his ears, but the high-pitched whine followed by a loud ear-shattering boom still pierces through his senses. He wants to huddle next to his friend in their foxhole, but he knows no-ones there, and hasn’t been there for what feels like months, days, seconds, years and hours all at the same time. Where he is time doesn’t matter anymore. His world is dominated by the cold, the yells for cover and medics, shivering, eating cold food that doesn’t feed, sleeping without receiving any rest, and that God forsaken whine followed by the nightmarish boom. The short lull of calm in the middle of the shelling just makes things worse. He knows that it’s bound to start again in a matter of minutes (Hours? Weeks? Seconds?), but his heart keeps whispering to him, “Maybe this time will be different, maybe this time they’ve really stopped,” and he begins to feel relief sagging his shoulders, he raises his head out of the foxhole, pushing the fallen branch off of him, listening to the frantic screams for a medic and commands to stay down. He stands there, looking around in a daze as others get up, either to help the wounded or mirror his own confusion. As time passes fewer men are pulled back into their makeshift shelter, and even the most skeptic poke their heads up to assess the situation. He has managed to convince himself that it’s all over right in time for a sharp, yelled, “Incoming!” to break his mind yet again, and he falls back into the foxhole, not sure if he was pushed or if his reflexes have become so automatic that a simple word can override the dullness of his mind. He stares at the place his comrade (his friend, his brother, his world) used to inhabit, and he wants to remember their joint laughter. Their stories of home, boot camp, women, and everything they could ever think of told through shivering lips. The tiny bit of heat radiating from their bodies as they held on tightly at night. Their determined looks when they swore that the war would never get to them (now look where they were). The way the shrapnel had torn through the chest of his friend, so quickly (thank God it was so quick) ending a life that had used to bring so much joy to the people around him that the entire company was reduced to a state of unspoken numbness at his loss. He wants to remember so much, but the shelling will not, can not, allow it. He wants to remember his family, his father’s booming laugh and the way he always made him feel like he had his fathers support. He wants to remember his mother’s warm smile and eyes, and the way he held him so gently, yet so tight as he was getting ready to board the train taking him away to boot camp. He wants to remember his brother’s and sister’s playful bickering, and the way they’d looked at him deep in the eye, and made him vow to come back home safely. He wanted to remember his fiancée’s look of pure love, the way she… well everything about her. Her beautiful face, the way she could calm him down simply by being there, the way she’d try to cover her mouth when she laughed (he cherished the few seconds of extra contact he got when he pried her hand away gently), the way she’d quickly tuck her hair behind her ear whenever she was flustered, the way she felt and looked whenever they made love. How she’d fought back her tears when she told him that he had joined the Parachute Infantry right after December 7th, and how she had let those tears fall free when he had proposed to her an hour later. The way she had held his face tenderly, and told him to do whatever he must, before kissing him deeply, saying “Goodbye,” and “I love you,” quite possibly for the last time, before walking away with just one glance to spare, leaving him alone on his family’s front porch. None of those thoughts cross his mind as the shelling continues, still as relentless as ever. His mind knows nothing but that flash and boom, the short pause that gave just enough time for the wounded to call loud enough that their screams would always be heard in their comrade’s dreams, and then again with that flash and boom. A part of him hopes that his mind would just shut down completely, leaving him an empty shell. A part of him hopes for the end. But there was still that biggest part that hopes that the bombs would just stop, and let them be. He never gets to realize that the shelling has ended.
Tomorrow I'm going down to Ottawa (Illinois, not Canada >.<) to visit some relatives. I don't get to see them that often (in the last ten years, this is the fourth time I can spend time with them), so I'm gonna try to be off-line as much as possible, meaning limited KHV and no Voxli. Most likely I'm gonna be back around 4th of July, maybe a bit after. I might answer PM's and VM's though, if you wanna contact me, and I might be on earlier tomorrow (before 3pm GMT-6). Even though this is a fairly short leave, I just wanted to say that during the last month or so, I've been feeling a lot more welcome here, and have felt a lot more motivated to spend time here, so I'd like to thank practically everyone I've talked with recently (and apologize to the endless lyric spamming, but honestly? I can't help it baaaaabbbyyyy!). See you guys in about a week >;3
Oh dear God just kill me now Dx
Source .
Fervid as a flame, does it have a name? Yes- Spoiler Loathing, unadulterated loathing!
Does anyone know how common auditory hallucinations are, and if I should be worried? I've had a few separate cases of it earlier, but it's been at least a year since the last one, but for some reason I've been hearing things all evening I know I shouldn't be hearing, like adults chattering in a low voice (I can't distinguish any words, and even the voices are kinda meshed together) when I know there's only small children in the house (and that happened in a place where you definitely can't hear the neighbors), a weird music box lullaby with a melody I've never heard before, and some kinda noise I'm not even sure how to describe (something between a siren and a wail, and no, it wasn't a kid crying), coming practically inside a wall... Am I being paranoid, or do I need serious psychiatric help?
Hey guys, I shall be definitely reading this masterpiece, and I swear to God I'm not copying Slaughtermatic by reading it in a poor German accent (or since it's fairly close to my Arnold impression, more likely an Austrian accent). I'm also considering doing this fic, but I'm more than willing to let somebody else do it, if they want to. Dunno when I'll be able to do it though.
Answer at about 2:40. Watch the rest, though. Do eeeeeet.
The Spam Zone thread I just did got me thinking whether there was a thread for the Moomins. If there actually is one, I'm terribly sorry, the search didn't show one at least. The Moomins is a series that lasted 78 episodes during the 1978 series, another 40 with the 1990 version, and had several movies made into the franchise (latest which came out last year). Based on a book series by Tove Jansson, this is the series practically every Finnish and Swedish child has seen. I literally grew up with this series from day one: apparently my mother was watching this right after she had given birth to me, so I've got some fond (and thanks to the Groke some terrifying nightmares) memories of the series (specifically the '90's cartoon version).
Holy crap Moomin Pappa is a creeper O.o
