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    Default The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    So, every summer I try to spend my free time writing, since I love writing, and decided this summer I'd try my hand at writing a book. Two things struck me when doing background research for it, ideas that struck me as things I should write about. The first one was vampires, but not the twilight (shivers) wannabes, I mean real ones. Ones made of eldritch forces beyond understanding, ones that have an aura of menace that stirs everyone in the room. Old School vampires, who don't die like a twig whenever they sleep in a coffin. The second idea I had was science fiction, something set not too far in the future, but far enough that new awesome stuff becomes available to the public. So, while the majority of the novel will take place some time around 2060-2080, the introduction takes place sometime around 100 AD, and serves as a background for the kind of vampires this book is dealing with. I'm looking for feedback, treat me as a punching bag for advice, I can take it.

    Spoiler: The Moon has a Face, Introduction
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    Sometime around two thousand years ago, specifically the city of Rome if you must know, a small boy was born, this boy had a name, as most boys do. The exact naming of this child does not matter, or at least it does not matter yet, as it was what transpired around and to the child that does indeed take precedence. During the time this child was born, the Romans and Parthians were at each other's throats, spilling their blood all in the name of their country's respected rulers, though to be specific, each side respected their appropriate rulers. I doubt that the Parthians respected Caesar as the Romans did. Then again, things did not go to well for Caesar, did they?

    However interesting that thought may have been to ponder upon, there are more, or more precisely less, important matters to dwell upon, such as the Roman child of which our story starts with. This child, whose name has been both lost to time and caring, was snatched by a Parthian raiding party late one evening when the child was barely a boy. He was taken south and sold as a slave. This boy went from one slaveholder to the next, never staying in one place for too long. This trading of the boy had gone on for some time, as the boy had slowly yet surely grown to be a man. Said boy, now man, could no longer be called a Roman either, as he had spent more time in the Parthian empire than in the Roman. In short, the Roman boy had grown to be a Parthian man.

    The Parthian man's next slaveholder, or at least the one that will move this story along, so we can finally reach our real protagonist, was a man whose name like the Parthian man's is of little consequence. He was stalky, built much more like a barn than a man. His hair and skin were dark, though his skin was not as dark as his hair, for what lay upon his head might have been a night sky drowned of its stars. His eyes, while not of this peculiar color, shed the same air around them, almost as if the man was empty inside. This Parthian slaver was not a man to be trifled with, and when he bought the Parthian man and brought him to Egypt, all thoughts of returning to Rome had been dashed from his head.

    The Parthian slaver was indeed empty inside, though not of a literal sense. He had been preparing for something for the last ten years, making sure of many minute details would be set in place. Of what cause, might you ask? Only the truest cause, one which has entered and left our minds more times than we dare to consider: the cause of immortality. The cause of an escape of death. Rumors of men and women who had made deals with dijin and demons were all over the world at this point, people of such power as to rival that of Great Jupiter, and while most civilized folk have a care to dash the rumors and get on with their peasant lives, the Parthian slaver dug deeper and deeper until the hole in which he dug could not be escaped. Why would he want to escape this hole? He had indeed found what he was looking for, and after a decade of preparation, he had made himself ready to be the first man to walk the earth forevermore.

    The Parthian slaver had brought the Parthian man deep into the desert, and such a trip it was! The heavens shook each day, sending terrible weather to block their path, but to no avail. The indigenous creatures made many attempts to attack the pair, trying to block their path, but to no avail. For every obstacle the gods or spirits threw at the Parthian slaver, he stared at them with his hollower than hollow eyes, and they fled in fear of the man, for they knew his destiny was to outgrow them. For five months did the pair wander the desert, and for five months did the gods tremble at their footsteps.

    The journey, one day, was over. This had been decided by the Parthian slaver. They had reached the spot, the crucial spot. The spot that marked the earth in the heavens in the eyes of the gods, the spot that marked the stars so that they may reflect in the right way to shine upon the first man made god's face. The Parthian man did shake when night came, though not of the desert's cold, for it was nearly freezing that night. One last attempt of nature to smite the unnatural. An attempt doomed to failure, but wouldn't anything living, or at least aware, try to defend itself even to the end? Well, tis no matter, for the Parthian man shook from fear, not of the cold.

    The Parthian slaver had made camp much like any other night but had told the Parthian man that the journey was over. This sentence alone was what caused the Parthian man to shake with such fervor. He knew his end was fast approaching yet could nothing to stop those hollow eyes from taking him. That night, men even stranger than that of the Parthian slaver approached the pair in their camp, there were thirteen in total. These men were those that the Parthian slaver had bought in days past, men whose lives had been deprived so that they could improve that of their master. These thirteen "Dark Men", as the Parthian slaver referred to them when the Parthian man had asked approached each aiding in the carrying of a large stone. It was a jagged thing, crafted by unknown forces, made of metals and stones not of the world, but of some place far away. The Dark Men brought the stone before their master and laid it down upon the ground.

    A crack of thunder sounded in the distance, a storm was coming their way, but it would not reach them in time. The Parthian slaver ordered the Dark Men to hold the Parthian man down upon the stone, and make sure that he did not move to much when the end came. The Dark Men dare not cross their master, and each one sent their hands towards the Parthian man's body, and they threw him upon the stone. The Parthian slaver extended his hands to the sky as they did so, but he did not say a word. He only looked upward, with his hollow eyes, and the clouds of the storm so far away were moved to his position. He was daring the gods to strike him, daring them to take action, daring them to even try to kill him. The gods did not dare. The gods did something they thought they would never do. The gods prayed, to whom I cannot say, but pray they did.

    It was apparent that their prayers were not answered. The Dark Men's grasp upon the Parthian man were too tight, the Parthian slaver too powerful in presence and prowess. As the Parthian man did shout at the heavens, begging for reprieve, the gods shouted at everything, begging for solace. No one answered either of them. The Parthian slaver chanted in a tongue that deprived the gods, chanted in a language so foul that each utterance of a word caused a new born to die wordlessly in their crib, caused men to go sterile, and caused the sick to worsen in their already failing condition. This language was not meant to be spoken, not meant to be uttered, and yet it was. It was yet another way the Parthian slaver did toy with the gods, toyed with them in revenge for making man mortal.

    As the chant did carry on, the Dark Men's grip loosened. They could not bear the tones that they heard, could not stomach the foulness of the Parthian slaver any longer. They held on to the Parthian man only in fear that the bewitching tongue of their master might seek them out if they failed. Eventually, after what seemed like a thousand years crammed into a few moments, the chant stopped. The Parthian slaver looked down at the Parthian man for one last time. One final moment. The Parthian man wanted to cry, but could not, for the gaze of the creature standing over him, for he was no man, not any longer, was too much.

    The clouds above parted. The heavens shone down a single light, one of a red hue. It was the light of a faraway star shining over the mountains of Mars. On any other occasion, it might have been beautiful, but right now every detail was terrifying. As the light shone down on the broken form of the Parthian man, the Parthian slaver did extend his jaw to a staggering length, and he descended upon the captive man. The Parthian slaver ripped and teared at the Parthian man's chest, and there was screaming, who was screaming,

    and for what reason, I cannot say. The feeding eventually ended, the Parthian slaver stopped just before he would've killed his captive, and he roared at the sky and the heavens and the gods themselves.

    A bolt of jagged lighting was sent from the star, through Mars, and to the earth. In the moment just before it struck, many things occurred. All these things were not planned, and were not supposed to happen, for the Parthian slaver had taken steps to ensure his victory over death itself. The first thing that happened was that blood had seeped down the Parthian man's body and had further loosened the already weakened grip of the Dark Men. The Parthian man, who by all the reasoning of modern medical science should have gone into shock, and subsequently fall unconscious, did neither of these things. The last factor that foiled the Parthian slaver's plan for eternal life was that his aura of menace and depravity, for reasons unknown to any and all, did not affect the Parthian man for one single second. In that second, the Parthian man threw himself from the grasp of the Dark Men, and into the Parthian slaver. As such, the Parthian man was the one struck by the unholy starfire instead of the Parthian slaver.

    The Parthian man died. His heart stopped beating, his body could not handle the stress of the battle, the beating, and the bolt of fire. However, the Parthian slaver had spent years preparing this foul ritual, a ritual which was supposed to give eternal life to the recipient. The second the Parthian man died, he was reborn as a new being, one the universe had never seen before. The jagged hole the Parthian slaver had carved into him filled with a black oily, yet solid, substance. The substance was alive, was part of the Parthian man now. It healed him and gave him power and knowledge known only to the gods. The Parthian slaver had been successful. He had cheated death, but not for himself.

    The Parthian man turned to face his would-be killer. The black mass that resided in his chest stretched and convulsed in a form that could only be described as tendrils. These appendages flung towards the Parthian slaver and held him down upon the rock. It was there that the Parthian man had his revenge. He tore into the Parthian slaver, killing him, drank of his blood, and feasted upon his flesh. The Dark Men, their master gone, cowered away from the Black Thing that had killed what had seemed unkillable. Once the Black Thing was done eating his captor, it turned its eyes towards those who had held him down in the end. Courses of action played through the Black Thing's head. It could claim revenge; these men had tried to kill him after all. Then again, he also knew that they were following orders from a man whose power seemed unrivaled, even among the gods.

    The Black Thing finally decided on a course of action. It sent its tendrils to hold down each of the Dark Men, and then the Black Thing went over to the nearest one. He forced the jaws of the man to open so that he may receive one of the greatest gifts imaginable: eternal life. As the Parthian slaver had mocked the gods at every turn right before his failed ascension, so too did the Black Thing mock the Parthian slaver by gifting that which the now dead man most wanted to his slaves, his servants. The Black Thing spat inky gobbets into the Dark Man's open mouth, they were pieces of the mass in his chest gifted to him from the red star. The Dark Man did shake, and was reborn in the starlight, gaining immortality while not quite as potent as the Black Thing's, but potent still. The Black Thing then repeated this course of action with the other Dark Men, until all thirteen were like him. They then fled to separate cities, gifting more and more with their taint until the world started to become full of these foul beings.

    Many names were given to these immortal pretenders, these unholy unions of star and flesh. Nightstalker, Bondbreaker, Oathsacker, Cretin, Bat, Destructor, Aberration, Demon, Devil, Daemon, Protean, and Nightmare. One name, however, withstood the test of time. One name had stuck to these beings, and those who tried to follow in their footsteps. One name which to this day strikes fear into the hearts of mortal men.

    Vampire.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    E-A-G-L-E-S SPELLS EAGLES!!!

  2. - Top - End - #2
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    My writing is terrible (so say my teachers) so take all my 'advice' with as much salt as your kidneys can take.


    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    the city of Rome if you must know
    I didn't know that I must know. Must I know? This part's confusing.
    small boy was born, this boy had a name, as most boys do.
    *gasp* Boys have names? You should've told me BEFORE I nicknamed myself after the immature fantasy of a character from a stick figure cartoon! But maybe this part would flow better as two sentences: "small boy was born. This boy had..."
    The exact naming of this child does not matter, or at least it does not matter yet, as it was what transpired around and to the child that does indeed take precedence.
    So that I must know!
    their country's respected rulers, though to be specific, each side respected their appropriate rulers.
    I like this. What if you replaced "appropriate" with "respective"?
    there are more, or more precisely less, important matters to dwell upon, such as the Roman child of which our story starts with.
    Yay, let's give importance to unimportance!
    This trading of the boy had gone on for some time, as the boy had slowly yet surely grown to be a man.
    You could just say "This trading went on until the boy had slowly but surely become a man."
    The Parthian man's next slaveholder, or at least the one that will move this story along
    Next? After what?
    a man whose name like the Parthian man's is of little consequence
    Oh! I know! That means I must know! Ok, two names to know.
    stalky, built much more like a barn than a man
    Where do you live, that stalks look like barns? (not asking to be creepy)
    peculiar color
    Black is peculiar? So that's why many of my friends dye their hair blonde or purple or green! Maybe I should also dye my hair to the same colour as Elan's.
    empty inside, though not of a literal sense.
    This is a fantasy/sci-fi story, so I will take note of that detail.
    sure of
    sure that. Right?
    deals with dijin and demons
    I like the D&D&D there, but I Googled "dijin" and got the Directorate of Criminal Investigation and Interpol. Are you implying that they're corrupt?
    The heavens shook each day, sending terrible weather to block their path, but to no avail. The indigenous creatures made many attempts to attack the pair, trying to block their path, but to no avail.
    Nice emphasis there.
    The journey, one day, was over. This had been decided by the Parthian slaver. They had reached the spot, the crucial spot.
    So he decided that they'd reached the crucial spot? How? Oh right, he's grreat and powerful.
    The spot that marked the earth in the heavens in the eyes of the gods, the spot that marked the stars so that they may reflect in the right way to shine upon the first man made god's face.
    Oh man, the lore is hurting my brain!
    The Parthian man did shake when night came, though not of the desert's cold, for it was nearly freezing that night.
    I think you mean "although" not "for".
    living, or at least aware
    This would please edgy teenagers (like me) worldwide.
    tis
    I think it's 'tis, with an ' . Not sure.
    He knew his end was fast approaching yet could nothing
    He can nothing? I can nothing, too! *snores*
    That night, men even stranger than that of the Parthian slaver approached the pair in their camp, there were thirteen in total.
    What if you started a new sentence after "camp"? Just an opinion.
    These thirteen "Dark Men", as the Parthian slaver referred to them when the Parthian man had asked approached each aiding in the carrying of a large stone.
    Hmm..maybe surround "approached" with commas?
    A crack of thunder sounded in the distance, a storm was coming their way, but it would not reach them in time.
    As you now know, I like aiding in the reproduction of sentences. I would've birthed a new sentence after "distance".
    make sure that he did not move to much
    Ooh! Your first real error! I found it!
    Parthian slaver too powerful in presence and prowess.
    My person is pleased by your prose.
    new born to die wordlessly
    Where do you live, that newborns can speak?
    crib
    And commune in a collective cot?
    for the gaze of the creature standing over him, for he was no man, not any longer, was too much.
    Woa whoa woah there's a lot going on here.
    The heavens shone down a single light, one of a red hue.
    Like a laser?
    The Parthian slaver ripped and teared
    Found one more!
    The Parthian man died. His heart stopped beating, his body could not handle the stress of the battle, the beating, and the bolt of fire.
    He died and his heart stopped beating. Noted. Also, I think you need a conjunction somewhere in there.
    He had cheated death, but not for himself.
    Woo! In your face, Creature-Formerly-Known-As-Parthian-Slaver!
    The Black Thing spat inky gobbets into the Dark Man's open mouth, they were pieces of the mass in his chest gifted to him from the red star.
    Opportunity for sentence reproduction. Just saying.
    The Dark Man did shake
    He did!
    gaining immortality while not quite as potent as the Black Thing's, but potent still.
    Unkillable, but not as much as the Black Thing. Got it.


    Thanks for letting us read this. I enjoyed it, and would love to see where this awesome story is headed. I love the conversational tone your writing has. I only found two mistakes (yay!) but the other Playgrounds might be more critical.
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    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Where do you live, that stalks look like barns? (not asking to be creepy)
    I believe he meant to write stocky.

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by An Enemy Spy View Post
    I believe he meant to write stocky.
    That I did, and thank you Elanasaurus (dangit, I want your name) for pointing out all the stuff that could be improved. I ain't one of them salty writers that's like "MY WORK IS PERFECTION" I'm one of them writers who's like "MY GOD YES, FREE EDITOR!", so when I say thanks, it is with no sarcasm at all.

    More to come with Moonface (as my friends have started to call it) soon.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    E-A-G-L-E-S SPELLS EAGLES!!!

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    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    That I did, and thank you Elanasaurus for pointing out all the stuff that could be improved.
    Because my approval-craving teenage personality flips out at the two words (you know the two), I have a few things to say on the matter.
    Spoiler: skip this bit if you value time
    Show
    1. I pointed out TWO mistakes. Only two.
    1.1. You didn't say that I'd pointed out a lot of mistakes. But factual inaccuracy never stopped me from running my mouth.
    2.None of my posts are meant to be taken seriously.
    2.1. Not even this one.
    2.2. It follows that any "advice" I gave should be taken with as much salt as your kidneys can handle.
    2.3. That "salt" joke sounds familiar.
    2.4. Assuming you didn't see the first salt joke in this thread would be assuming that you are a mediocre reader, and thus a terrible writer.
    2.5 Therefore, let's assume that you did see it. The conclusion would then be that either you deliberately ignored it, or ingested the salt secretly. Either way, not my problem.
    I ain't one of them salty writers that's like "MY WORK IS PERFECTION"
    You're not on hallucinogenic drugs. Noted.
    (dangit, I want your name)
    Thank you very much for the compliment! (When I say thanks, it is with no sarcasm at all.) It really touches my shallow approval-seeking teenage personality. Honestly, I think Celticbear is a much cooler name. It brings to mind Artio, the guardian of the balance of things (as Smite puts it).
    More to come with Moonface (as my friends have started to call it) soon.
    Oooh, I'm excited!
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Oh I saw the first salt joke, and used it to season the Salmon I cooked last night. Free salt!
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

    Avatar by AsteriskAmp

    E-A-G-L-E-S SPELLS EAGLES!!!

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    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Oh, so you did ingest the salt. That's fine, then.
    I am a: Chaotic Good Human Bard(14th Level)

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Alright, part 1 of chapter one is complete! We finally get to meet our Protagonist, as well as go through their many changes in appearance over their life.

    EDIT: Crap, it didn't copy right. if there's weird spacing, please don't blame me.

    Spoiler: Chaptor 1, Part 1
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    Twenty-eight years before the bulk of this story took place, a woman of little significance was born. For sake of simplicity, however, her name was Jesse Madison Fire, most often called Maddy by her parents when she was a small child, Ms. Fire by her high school teachers, sexy by her first boyfriend, and finally Jesse when she had reached the point in her life where nicknames were supplanted by one's real name, though by her superiors she was till sometimes called Ms. Fire.

    Jesse's appearance varied wildly at a given time. Back in twenty sixty-eight, the year of Jesse's first semester in kindergarten, Jesse had sported two red pigtails, one on the left and one on the right side of her face. Her hair was naturally red, and this was indeed an oddity given that both of her parents had black hair. She had also been forced to wear a dress uniform, for her school, the prestigious South Mary Elementary school, had a strict dress code.

    Jesse eventually got rid of the pigtails when she had been moved to middle school, trading them for a long streak of red hair that ran down her back and ended a few inches above her hips. A dress code was no longer needed, however, as her parents had finally figured out why Jesse had red hair. Her mother had decided to spend a night on the town, so to say, one night, and had a one-night stand with a rather striking man with long red hair. This man had stayed silent for nearly ten years, but eventually breeched his accord of silence, and went directly to Jesse's mother's house begging to see his daughter. Subsequently, the mother and father divorced, and due to poor planning and an uneven distribution of funds, Jesse's new parents were poor, and sent her to a far less prestigious school known as Parker Middle Schol, the reasoning behind this strange pronunciation being that the second "o" in school had not been painted on during construction, and as such the slang name soon became the norm.

    It was here that Jesse first fell into and out of love, though calling it love would be a gross misnomer at the very least, for back then when the strangling hold of puberty was an inescapable urge, the only word that could describe Jesse's first relationship was lust. When Jesse realized this shocking fact when she had finally moved to high school, she thought it best to separate from the man, of whom she realized she had barely anything in common with. Her appearance changed once more, as she had cut her hair down while not quite to a buzz cut, but something very near to this hairstyle. This was not a statement of sexual orientation, Jesse was indeed "straight and thin as a twig" as her friends put it, but instead a rebellious impulse to her mother's constant wanting of her to have long red hair like her father's.

    About Jesse's true father, he did not do much to support his new family. He worked in temp jobs around the state they lived in, of which was one of the new artificial ones named by the United States government as "Designation A-22", but this name was scrapped by the people who instead wished the name "Arc Twenty-Two". Many more of these arcs were in use, as much of what is now considered the modern world was flooded both in part by a massive storm caused by nature, and a massive intake of green-house gases in the atmosphere caused by man. To save themselves, each country had designed massive barges, each one easily the size of Rhode Island. On these barges were stored plants, a menagerie of animals, and other random supplies to keep the barge's occupants happy and healthy.
    Jesse and her new family lived on the northern end of the barge on level three, the base level, wherein massive amounts of machinery were maintained, and the poor lived. "The Bowels", as people had started to call them, could be considered possibly the worst place to live in the current world, other than at the bottom of the ocean of course. Dung and other detritus were filtered through this level's pipe system, so the entire place smelled like a sewer. The new laws set forth by the revised constitution of twenty thirty-seven ended up benefitting the rich more so than the poor, and as such many freedoms enjoyed by those who lived in the upper level were not enjoyed in the lowers. Such freedoms were that of the first amendment, speech, protest, and other "unscrupulous" actions were not tolerated by those whom expense was made from them; any firearms found in lowers were confiscated, their owners executed; and many other things taken for granted in the past were denied to these people. The premise of the whole thing was that if you lived, or ended up in, the lowers, you were no longer human.

    As Jesse's high school "education" concluded, she had dreamed up thoughts of eventual escape from the lowers, and the family that had dragged her down here. She had contacted her previous father, who lived on the second level of Arc Twenty-Two, and begged him to find some way to get her out of there. Her previous father agreed to go through this course of action on the sole condition that he would not help the rest of her family out. Jesse, however, had immediately agreed to these terms, as she had lost all source of love for her family, as in her mind they were the ones who had dragged her down into the filth and squalor that was the lowers.
    Jesse had moved in with her previous father when she was nineteen, and once again went through a change in appearance. She had let her hair grow out once more, to the base of her neck, and had kept a pearl earring, though the pearl was fake, that she had bought in the lowers on her ear at most times of the day. She wore the earring to remind herself that things could always go worse, and to remind herself that she would never willingly live down there again.

    Once she had fully moved in, she had decided to explore the halls of level two, and as she did so she was held up at customs. These official stations supported by what functioned as the government on Arc Twenty-Two were extremely scarce in the Lowers, aiding to an already heinous problem of crime, were nearly everywhere on both the middle and upper sections. They consisted of three guards, a small armory, and a functioning Mark III Gregori Turret, originally commissioned in twenty forty-four in the state of Tennesse. Such machinations were not the only mark of the Gregori corporation, as the Arcs themselves were a staple of their design. In fact, much of the technology used by United States based Arcs was funded and created by the Gregori corporation, though a few small industries were present to keep up the façade of anti-trust laws.

    Anyway, Jesse had encountered one of these turrets as a man from the Lowers without proper clearance tried to go through these checkpoints. The turret, which was connected to the ship manifest of passengers, automatically locked onto the man. In an act of defiance, the man's last, he dashed behind Jesse, grappled her by the throat, and interjected her body between his and the turrets. He demanded that nobody "make a ****ing move or I'll choke this bitch's goddam life out of her throat", and for a while this is what happened. He then demanded that he be let through with no funny business, and wanted three hundred dollars cash, though this did not sound like a hefty amount, inflation had kicked in full drive once people started to move to the arcs.

    As was the case with most hostage situations, the police at the scene made attempts to feign giving in to the vagabond's demands as a second team of police moved to intercept him. They made quite a show of turning off the turret, though the machine was never actually shut down, and putting their weapons on the floor. As the customs-men had made an act slowly walking away from checkpoint, the second team of police had moved in behind the vagabond and was ready to strike when the time was right. When the vagabond, Jesse posed in front of him, had moved in front of the "deactivated" turret, the police ran silently forward, raised their weapons, and fired upon the vagabond's exposed back.

    Their weapons, thankfully, had been on stun. They had recovered the vagabond, cuffed him, and started the process of transporting him to a prison facility in the Lowers. Jesse received quite the opposite of this treatment, however. She was given a warm, fuzzy blanket, a warm cup of coffee, and monetary compensation for her troubles. After a few routine questions, the police had let her go, but not before leaving quite the impression upon her. Jesse's poisoned view of law enforcement, for they had been atrocious to everyone down there, had been altered after such kindness they showed. Over the next few weeks living under her first father's roof, Jesse had been exposed to the good side of the Arc Twenty-Two Police Force, or ATTPF. After this period, Jesse had decided to volunteer herself for the police draft, a usually random selection event for induction into the ATTPF.

    The next few months of training just for the privilege of being a member of this incredible force of supposedly impeccable skill for Jesse was hell. The physical work, while rigorous, was doable for Jesse, as an upbringing in the Lowers will toughen even the lowliest of men or women. What was challenging for Jesse, the portion of the training program that she nearly did not complete, was the schooling portion, a part history, part law, and part moral quandaries in a series of tests that were meant to train the would-be policeman's mind. Jesse was not the smartest of people, schooling in the Lowers did not help with this fact whatsoever, but determination, perseverance, and a little practice of cheating on the final exams led Jesse to finally being accepted into the ATTPF.

    Jesse's first designation was Patrol, a task which all new recruits start in. Their job is simple, just walking the halls of Arc Twenty-Two, and reporting on suspicious activity that they may find. Normally, these patrol officers find a stray Lowers citizen, or sometimes even a drug dealer. Jesse found neither, but in their place something far greater. She had stumbled upon the man Maxwell O'Connor picking someone's pocket.

    Now, with the previous sections of this tome revealing my disposition on names, one should immediately be intrigued by the naming of this seemingly simple pickpocket, though this man was no simple pickpocket. He was, in fact, the most successful pickpocket in the world. His work began, at least in the public eye, two decades ago when he started this ill business of larceny, though truly it started farther than two measly decades, for Maxwell was no man. Maxwell O'Connor had been picking pockets since Shakespeare had been the hit new form of entertainment, and Maxwell had only survived this long due to what some would call an unholy nature. Maxwell was no man, he was an Oathbreaker, a Vampire.
    Jesse had stumbled upon this ancient titan of theft quite by accident and caught him in the act by mere chance. She had spotted out the corner of her eye Maxwell reaching inside another man's pocket. She had quickly walked towards Maxwell, took hold of his wrist, and quickly twisted it behind his back. She had then dragged the bedraggled man to the nearest checkpoint, where the police there took control. Maxwell had accrued quite the attention in Arc Twenty-Two, both from the normal police force and the Lower criminal agent. Though Maxwell was never caught doing anything concrete, rumors and speculation had surrounded the man, stories claiming that the only explanation for Maxwell's evasion of capture being black magic. Though these stories were told in jest, they were the closest story to the truth anyone had told.

    Jesse, as well as the customs-men, were commended for their capture of this man, and were given promotions for their efforts. The new position offered was that of detective work, a line of duty that entailed the tracking down and prosecution of dangerous or infamous criminals before they could perform any lasting harm. Jesse accepted this position, and once again went through another few years of rigorous training that made the previous months of training look like a cakewalk in comparison. Jesse once again came out on top and had successfully joined the detectives.
    Jesse's new job was a well-paying one, and as such Jesse was given the ability to move up to level one of Arc Twenty-Two, the Uppers being the common reference to them. This level almost seemed like the major metropolitan cities of the early twenty-first century, having skyscrapers and roads that actual cars drove on. It was the home to the rich and the nearly rich, a place of lucre and opportunity. The Uppers were also open to the sky, and clean air flowed openly in its entirety. It was the closest thing to life on land as one could attain.

    Jesse's apartment was on the lower end of affordability, and while still lustrous by most accounts, many of the Upper citizens had refined tastes. It was a four-room assortment, containing a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and a kitchen. Jesse had not adorned the place with many facets such as posters and furniture, but she assured herself that eventually she would fill the place to the brim. After a few months living inside, she had finally purchased a couch as well as a new TV set. She had placed both in her living room, and the two items seemed to fit as though they were made for the apartment.

    Jesse's appearance also changed with her new living conditions. Her uniform as a detective was a tailored black suit, as well a small side-arm. Her red hair had once again been cut short, and her small form seemed a tad bit more masculine due to the training she had undergone. Her features had become more defined, after all she was nearing thirty. Her eyes now had a gleam that could both crack glass and hold a look of intuition. Years of practicing law and history had increased Jesse's IQ, and while she knew a great many of facts, there was one that she did not know. This form of appearance would be the last change she made, for Jesse would die in her fifth week as a detective.
    Last edited by Celticbear; 2018-05-27 at 03:22 PM.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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  9. - Top - End - #9
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Ms. Fire
    A dress code was no longer needed, however, as her parents had finally figured out why Jesse had red hair.
    I don't get the parents’ logic.
    but eventually breeched his accord of silence
    Breached.
    Parker Middle Schol
    I found another error!
    the reasoning behind this strange pronunciation being that the second "o" in school had not been painted on during construction, and as such the slang name soon became the norm.
    ...



    for back then when the strangling hold of puberty was an inescapable urge, the only word that could describe Jesse's first relationship was lust.
    I sympathize.
    This was not a statement of sexual orientation, Jesse was indeed
    I’d recommend birthing a sentence after “orientation”.
    About Jesse's true father, he did not do much
    You could just say “Jesse's true father did not do much”. Just a matter of preference.
    of which was one of the new artificial ones
    One of which. Right?
    Arc Twenty-Two
    That spelling's intentional, I assume?
    Such freedoms were that of the first amendment
    American law. Meh.
    speech, protest, and other "unscrupulous" actions
    They consider speech “unscrupulous”? Monsters.
    those whom expense was made from;
    So the monsters make expense, instead of helping reduce it? Then they're less than useless.
    She had contacted her previous father
    The black-haired one, right? Just checking.
    he would not help the rest of her family out.
    At first, I thought that was mean of him, but I guess his decision is understandable.
    and had kept a pearl earring, though the pearl was fake, that she had bought in the lowers on her ear at most times of the day.
    Warning. Warning. Glam Overload.


    I think you should describe the details one at a time, for the sake of slow people like me. Also, this fake pearl earring Jesse bought from the lowers sounds like it'll pop up again later in the story.
    state of Tennesse
    I think that's an error.
    *checks*
    Yep.
    grappled her by the throat
    Wow, her throat is strong.
    three hundred dollars cash, though this did not sound like a hefty amount, inflation had kicked in full drive once people started to move to the arcs.
    You could spawn another sentence after “cash”. And doesn't inflation work in the other direction?
    Their weapons, thankfully, had been on stun.
    Phew. So the police aren't big monsters.
    Jesse's poisoned view of law enforcement, for they had been atrocious to everyone down there, had been altered after such kindness they showed.
    Sweet! Jesse had the same thought I did! But apparently the police in the lowers were atrocious monsters.
    determination, perseverance, and a little practice of cheating
    This is gold.
    Now, with the previous sections of this tome revealing my disposition on names, one should immediately be intrigued by the naming of this seemingly simple pickpocket, though this man was no simple pickpocket.
    *takes a deep breath*
    *widens eyes*
    *leans forward*
    Okay. Sufficiently intrigued. Let's continue reading.
    at least in the public eye
    The public knows of him? Then how did he get onto the Arc?
    Maxwell was no man.
    Calling it. Maxwell will kill the Witch-King of Angmar.
    Maxwell was no man, he was an Oathbreaker, a Vampire.
    Oooh! *intrigueyness intensifies*
    She had quickly walked towards Maxwell, took hold of his wrist, and quickly twisted it behind his back.
    Quickly indeed.
    Maxwell's evasion of capture
    But he did get captured…
    Her features had become more defined, after all
    Or “become more defined. After all,” Whatever works.
    Years of practicing law and history had increased Jesse's IQ, and while she knew a great many of facts,
    Ugh. IQ. Another feeble attempt to classify some people as better than others.
    Ugh. Memorization of facts as an alternative to intelligence.
    there was one that she did not know.
    Only one?
    Jesse would die in her fifth week as a detective.
    Aww. I wanted to see more of her family and her fake pearl earring purchased from the lowers.

    Loving this! Just one question: are all the occurrences of “had been” and “has been” to show a time gap between it and the present day?
    I am a: Chaotic Good Human Bard(14th Level)

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  10. - Top - End - #10
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    Sorry for slow goings, finals are next week, and I haven't had much time to work on this. Rest assured, after next week, productivity will be BOOMING.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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  11. - Top - End - #11
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    No problem! No point rushing something done for leisure. Praying for your finals!
    I am a: Chaotic Good Human Bard(14th Level)

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Oh, and to your earlier question, the entire story is being told in past tense. I like to call my version of story-telling Second person Narrative, where someone not connected at all to the plot tells the story like someone would around a campfire for something.

    It makes it so I don't have to avoid first person pronouns like the plague, and any excuse to do less work like that is an excuse I'll use.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Also, check it, Part 2 is out! It's thrilling, I swear. Stuff actually happens.

    Spoiler: Chapter 1,Part 2
    Show
    December thirty-first for Jesse Fire, official detective of Arc Twenty-Two, started like a day of any other caliber, save for the detail that the day previous she had convicted a man guilty of the crime "Propaganda Artist". Said man had posted fliers around his neighborhood illustrating a man holding his fist in the air, with the emboldened word "Change" splayed across the bottom. Such fliers were appearing everywhere, and talk had started to spring amongst the ruling forces of Arc Twenty-Two that perhaps a heavier sentence should be given to those who put up such posters. Deliberation would last months, as that was the speed any decision made by the ruling powers took for it to go into effect.

    When Jesse did bring this flier poster to the nearest brig, she had asked the guard, "Hi Josh, mind opening the door? This guy's tried to run from me three times now, and I don't want to let go of him."

    The guard had simply nodded and pressed a series of small buttons on a nearby keypad, and once this series of clicks had been accomplished, the large metal hatch uncoiled, and opened. Jesse had smiled and nodded to the guard, before pushing the soon to be imprisoned man into the hatch. Behind the door was a long hallway with small doors lining both sides. At the sound of the hatch opening, hoots and hollers came from the other side of the doors. As Jesse walked the man forward, the propagandist's eyes darted from door to door, seeing men of different heights and builds leering at him. A loud gulping sound could be heard from his throat, to the delight of the prisoners.

    "Don't be too scared. Not all of them are that bad," Jesse had assured.

    "Whu-what? Oh, uh... thanks," the propagandist stuttered back.

    Jesse had finally stopped walking before cell number one thirty-one. She had pressed the propagandist against the wall and tapped a few numbers on the cell doors adjoined keypad. The door slid open, and on the other side of the door was none other than Maxwell O'Connor. His black hair was contained by a faded green baseball cap with an eagle inscribed upon it. He wore a denim jacket and jeans, and his smile widened as he saw Jesse. Jesse frowned in turn.

    "I shouldn't be surprised to see you here," Jesse said exasperated.

    "Cell transfer. My last roomie died in a brawl, and they didn't want my poor fragile psyche damaged by staying in my old room," retorted Maxwell, pantomiming depression.

    Jesse did not respond as she threw the propagandist into the cell before closing it. The propagandist sprawled onto the floor and exerted a loud grunt. Maxwell rushed to the poor man's aid, helping him to his feet. It was then the propagandist looked around the cell and saw that it really wasn't much. It was a cramped space with two men inside, one that was entirely composed of concrete. A slab of the stuff jutted from one wall that serviced as a "bed", and a hole in one wall served as a latrine.

    Maxwell drifted away from the man and went to this makeshift latrine. An unzipping sound was heard, and Maxwell alleviated himself as he said, "Tough break. I was brought down by that bitch roundabout a year ago. She is good at her job, that she is."

    "Uhm... yeah. Who are you? And why do you sound so funny?"

    "I'm from the motherland, but people your age don't much remember land, now do you?" Maxwell replied, still doing his "business".

    "Wait, are you saying you were alive before the floods? How's that possible, you barely look twenty."

    "I look young for my age, I'm way older than twenty," Maxwell informed as he zipped up his pants.

    "Gotta ask your secret, how'd you keep looking that young?"

    "Hair conditioner. All about hygiene. Could make a sixty-year-old look forty, forty-year-old twenty, and so on and so forth."

    "Bull****, I can smell your musk from here," the propagandist sniffed before saying, "You smell like a corpse, sorry for saying."

    "Don't apologize, and do you see a shower in here? Last place was much the same. You had to kill for solitary, and those cells, dark though they be, are better than this cramped little ****hole."

    "You've killed?"

    "Oh, nononono, figure of speech if you catch my meaning."

    "Right."

    Maxwell looked over his shoulder at the propagandist, and muttered under his breath, "Christ, you look tasty."

    "Huh?"

    "I said 'Christ, you look pasty,' you're sweating like a stuck pig."

    "Oh, sorry, just... it's cramped in here."

    "It was perfectly fine before you got here. What got you in here in the first place I wonder?" Maxwell asked as moved over to the slab that served as the pair's only bed.

    "I made fliers-"

    "Ha, shame on you saying what comes to your mind. I'm surprised the *******s who run the place haven't elevated the sentence to death by planking yet."

    "Well, you can't get change by saying nothing. What got you here?"

    "Hm, oh, uh... public urination. Yeah, we'll go with that."

    "That sounds like a lie."

    "It is a lie. I was too lazy to come up with a good one."

    "Oh, alright."

    The propagandist shivered. The prison was cold, almost unbearably so. Shifting tides and wayward weather had caused Arc Twenty-Two to go north during a winter season. What should have been nippy had turned to frozen gales, and the unfurnished prison, as well as the Lowers, were experiencing the worst effects. Maxwell looked over to the poor man, and took off his jacket, revealing no shirt underneath. His chest was a hairy mess, and his stomach had a single tattoo. Its center had the shape of a circle and jutting out of this central circle were eight fork-like appendages. Each of these forks had a slightly different design and surrounding this odd conglomeration of shapes was another circle, this one inlaid with what appeared to be letters, however they were not English in origin.

    Maxwell tossed his jacket to the propagandist, and said, "Here, don't freeze to death on me, then this cell really will smell like a corpse."

    The propagandist barely caught it, and said, "Thanks, but aren't you cold?"

    "I've been colder with less on, this is nothing."

    The propagandist put on the denim jacket, and asked, "What's that on your stomach?"

    Maxwell looked down, and said, "Oh this? It's called a Vegvesir. It's supposed to help me find the right path. Hasn't led me astray so far."

    "Well, looks like it got you in a jail cell."

    "Yes, but also did a few other things for me. It brought you here, and I haven't had a good conversation like this one in months."

    "Guess things can be a bit lonely."

    "Yeah, last cell mate dying on me hit me pretty hard."

    "I can imagine. How long you know him for?"

    "Oh, not too long, but still. I was joking about the whole solitary thing, it may be cramped with two people in this 'room,' but nothing beats human interaction."

    "I believe you."

    Maxwell looked up again and looked into the propagandist's eyes. Maxwell's eyes had turned black, and as the propagandist looked back he could not look away. He was entranced by those eyes, fully and completely. He became lost in a sea of black until the concrete walls and door had disappeared. To the propagandist, there was nothing but Maxwell.

    "Yeah, but that was a stupid joke anyway. 'Kill to get into solitary', pah! You'd get planked first."

    "Planked first," the propagandist said with a fluttered tongue.

    "Then again, that be better than sharing an eight by eight room with a smelly bastard like me, now wouldn't it?"

    "Wouldn't it?"

    Maxwell's eyes darted from the propagandist's eyes down to the jacket's pocket. The propagandist, without even realizing it, reached into the pocket Maxwell had looked at, and grabbed hold of a sharp, metal shiv hidden from view. The propagandist gripped the blade so fiercely his hand started to bleed.

    "Ah but you wouldn't kill me just to get a better room, now would you?"

    "Kill you."

    Maxwell's eyes widened in mock horror as the propagandist took the shiv out of the denim jacket's pocket and plunged it into Maxwell's eye. Maxwell screamed in fake agony, and jumped back, taking the shiv with him. He grinned, and darted towards the propagandist, sinking his teeth into the poor man's neck. After a few seconds of lapping the blood that flowed from the propagandist's open jugular, Maxwell ripped his neck from his body, throwing his head down into the latrine. Maxwell stuffed his face into the open neck, and practically drowned himself in ecstasy as each drop of blood filled him with an overbearing joy. After this, Maxwell had thrown the corpse to the other side of the wall, turning his back to the door.

    Eventually, the guard Jesse had called Josh rushed into the prison, quickly opened the door to Maxwell's cell, and found a hunched over man dripping with blood, and a cadaver on the far wall. Maxwell turned around, his face a mess with scarlet, tears falling down his face. His left eye was replaced by a shaft of metal, and his hair drooped down to conceal the other. Maxwell's farce wouldn't have worked if this hadn't been the case, for his other eye was alight with joy.

    "My god man, that guy was a ****ing psycho, he stabbed my ****ing eye, ****!"

    "Just calm down, calm down, I'll get a doctor, just sit here."

    As the guard turned his back to Maxwell, Maxwell all in the space of a second has stood up, taken the shaft of metal from his eye, dashed across the short cell over to the guard, grabbed the guard with his free hand, stabbed the guard in the throat with the shiv, and finally buried his teeth into the guard's neck. The guard did not make a sound, for the initial stab wound had filled his mouth with blood to the point where he was drowning in it. Maxwell was once again overdosed by the simple narcotic feeling of human blood rushing down his throat. Eventually, the guard lay dead, and Maxwell tossed his corpse with that of the propagandist. When he exited the cell for the last time, his eye had fully healed, and he had reclaimed his denim jacket.

    It was at that point alarm bells had started to ring. Maxwell silently cursed himself and crashed through into the opposite cell. The two men inside the cell were staring agape at Maxwell, for the cell door were supposed to be explosion proof. Maxwell dealt with these two men as he did the propagandist and the guard, and once he was done Maxwell wiped himself off as best he could. As he did so, he spoke in a strange language. Not one as profane as the one the Parthian Slaver had uttered during his failed ascendance, but one that still had the features of not belonging to this world. As Maxwell finished the chant, the tattoo on his chest glowed brightly, and a shimmering beam of red energy shone from Maxwell and led down into the cell's latrine.

    Maxwell looked down at the hole that served as a toilet and realized that it was bigger than that of his cell. Much bigger. Maxwell, still slick with blood, was almost sure that if he contorted himself just right, he might be able to fit down it. Might being the key word. Maxwell silently cursed himself again, and stripped out of his denim jacket and jeans, drank once more of the fresh corpses' blood, indeed he covered himself with it as well, and slithered down the hole that served as an inmate's toilet. He fit, but just barely.

    Less than one minute later a team of police arrived and were horrified by the scene presented. Obvious blood stains and camera footage had shone that Maxwell had somehow slipped through the unusually large latrine naked and slick with blood, but thoughts of his capture were not on anyone's mind. That latrine led through a system of pipes that fed into the sea below, and nobody had survived being thrown into the sea in Arc Twenty-Two's history. What they didn't account for was Maxwell's unusual strength, and that he would kick his way out of the metal pipes into the Lowers.

    Maxwell had punched and clawed his way out of those pipes and had fallen right onto a woman wearing a torn dress made of rags. Maxwell wasted no time killing her, and flopped onto his back, breathing heavily. He held out a long sigh, which slowly turned into a laugh.

    "Another successful prison break, bless Hel and say gods bless I do beg!"

    Maxwell, after his little speech of triumph, looked over and saw the rags the woman wore. He frowned, looked down at his tattoo, and said, "A woman? You lead me to a woman? Bloody gods damned hell."

    Maxwell stripped the corpse of its clothing, pushed it behind a nearby dumpster, and said, "Lo and behold, the six hundred year and aging immortal drag queen Maxwell in all his, er her, bloody glory, gods dammit."

    Maxwell walked off into the Lowers, eager to get back to his work of thievery, especially if thievery meant finding something more masculine in terms of clothing. Meanwhile, Jesse was receiving the news in her office of a prison escape that made Silence of the Lamb's look tame. She knew that she would be put on the case of finding Maxwell again, of course right after she was done with her current case, that of a serial killer.

    What Jesse did not know was that she would never be put to work in finding Maxwell, as the aforementioned current case she was working on would be her last. She would die in the hunt for the serial killer, and she would never look upon Maxwell's face in this life.
    Last edited by Celticbear; 2018-06-04 at 07:09 PM.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    E-A-G-L-E-S SPELLS EAGLES!!!

  14. - Top - End - #14
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Sorry that I haven't responded for so long. I have been a bit busy (read: procrastination has paid off).
    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Oh, and to your earlier question, the entire story is being told in past tense. I like to call my version of story-telling Second person Narrative, where someone not connected at all to the plot tells the story like someone would around a campfire for something.

    It makes it so I don't have to avoid first person pronouns like the plague, and any excuse to do less work like that is an excuse I'll use.
    Yeah but why do you have to say "had" all the time? That's like past past tense. Anyway, I like your "campfire" tone.

    Let's get reading!
    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    guilty of the crime "Propaganda Artist".
    Well, you know, "Propaganda Artist" isn't a crime. Being a propaganda artist could be.
    as that was the speed any decision made by the ruling powers took for it to go into effect.
    I think the phrase "for it" isn't needed.
    flier poster
    Just a thought. If he'd dropped the posters onto the Arc from an airplane, he'd be called a poster flyer instead of a flier poster.
    Josh
    Ooh, he has a name! He might turn out to be more important than Parthian Man!
    the large metal hatch uncoiled
    Uncoiled, like a snake?
    soon to be imprisoned man
    Could use hyphens: "soon-to-be-imprisoned man".
    threw the propagandist into the cell
    Ouch. Mean.
    A slab of the stuff jutted from one wall that serviced as a "bed",
    Hmm.. this clause is a bit confusing IMO. At first I misread it, and thought it said that the wall served as a bed.
    Bull****
    Oh. You're censoring yourself. Interesting choice.

    EDIT:Oh wait. Is it the Playground's censorship, or yours?
    I can smell your musk from here," the propagandist sniffed before saying, "You smell like a corpse, sorry for saying."
    I'd prefer to hatch a sentence after "here".
    You had to kill for solitary
    This guy. He makes solitary confinement sound like a reward.
    "Oh, nononono, figure of speech if you catch my meaning."
    Suuure.
    "I said 'Christ, you look pasty,' you're sweating like a stuck pig."
    LOL XD

    What's a stuck pig?
    Maxwell asked as moved over
    As he moved over.
    *******s
    Hmm. Seven stars. There are at least two possibilities here..
    "Well, you can't get change by saying nothing. What got you here?"

    "Hm, oh, uh... public urination. Yeah, we'll go with that."

    "That sounds like a lie."

    "It is a lie. I was too lazy to come up with a good one."

    "Oh, alright."
    I love this vamp.

    Strictly reader-character admiration, nothing more. I swear.
    Shifting tides and wayward weather had caused Arc Twenty-Two to go north during a winter season.
    My, my. What's wrong with steering?
    the unfurnished prison, as well as the Lowers, were experiencing the worst effects.
    Should it be "was" or "were"?
    letters, however they were not English in origin.
    I'd prefer "letters; however,"
    "I've been colder with less on, this is nothing."
    Thank you for the mental image, Vampy. Ugh.."
    fully and completely
    Fully and completely? Dang..
    fluttered tongue
    What's that? Nothing to do with the tongue mutilation discussion thread I found in the "Friendly Banter" section, I trust?
    Eventually, the guard Jesse had called Josh
    Ha! He is important!
    Maxwell all in the space of a second has stood up,
    "Has"? No more "had"?
    the cell door were
    error detected
    As Maxwell finished the chant, the tattoo on his chest glowed brightly, and a shimmering beam of red energy shone from Maxwell and led down into the cell's latrine.
    I think I know what's going on here.

    Drinking too much blood makes Maxwell have to go magic pee-pee.
    and stripped out of his denim jacket and jeans, drank once more of the fresh corpses' blood, indeed he covered himself with it as well, and slithered down the hole that served as an inmate's toilet.
    Ew. Slithered.
    I don't think we need the first "and". And maybe dashes would work better around "indeed he covered himself with it as well".
    Obvious blood stains and camera footage had shone
    Shown?
    Maxwell had punched and clawed his way out of those pipes
    Thought you'd said "kicked" earlier. Also, he must have some really sharp nails.
    "Another successful prison break, bless Hel and say gods bless I do beg!"
    What is he saying?
    Silence of the Lamb's
    Just checking. Is it "Lamb's" or "Lambs"?
    again, of course right after she was done with her current case, that of a serial killer.
    This just sounds weird somehow, as if it needs more words or punctuation. I don't know.

    Man, I liked this part even more! It was funny, it had cool lore, and Maxwell is just the WORST. He's so dang powerful too, what with the healing and the domination and the slithering and the claws and the Vegvesir (I wonder what that does exactly). I just wish Jesse could've done something in the chapter other than throw a man and wait to die.

    EDIT: Oh! Oh! He intended to make solitary sound like a reward. Wow!
    Last edited by Elanasaurus; 2018-06-07 at 12:26 PM.

  15. - Top - End - #15
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Don't worry, I love Maxwell too. Major inspiration from a show called Preacher, specifically the character Cassidy.

    Also, it was the playground's Anti Cursing thing that blocked off my expletives, whatever that word.
    Last edited by Celticbear; 2018-06-07 at 09:11 PM.
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    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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  16. - Top - End - #16
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    It was the Playground, huh. Okay.
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Oh, and we're both wrong. It would be " Silence of the Lambs' ", because it's a plural possessive.

    Oh, and in case you were wondering...

    Spoiler: Vegvesir
    Show
    Last edited by Celticbear; 2018-06-08 at 08:05 AM.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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  18. - Top - End - #18
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    It would be " Silence of the Lambs' "
    Of COURSE it is. At least it isn't "Lamb's' ".
    Oh, and in case you were wondering...

    Spoiler: Vegvesir
    Show
    Ooo!

    Where would his belly button be in that? In the middle?
    I am a: Chaotic Good Human Bard(14th Level)

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Elanasaurus View Post
    Where would his belly button be in that? In the middle?
    Hmm, good question. WE NEED AN ARTIST TO RENDER SHIRTLESS MAXWELL.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Part 3 is here, and I inadvertently made my favorite character. See if you can guess who it is?

    Spoiler: Chaptor One, Part Three
    Show
    "Jesus Christ, have you seen this?"

    Jesse looked away from the open fridge towards her co-worker, a man whom she called Tim, but whose actual name had been Roger. The reasoning behind the name switch was of Tim's wishes, though why he did wish this is unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Once her head was out of the fridge, Jesse had plucked an apple from its depths, closed the contraption, and walked over to Tim. The man was sitting at a desk, staring into a screen built into the desk. The screen itself showed a series of grisly scenes of a prison, with each picture covered in more blood than the last.

    "I did see it. Thanks for spoiling my appetite by the way," Jesse said as she put the apple down onto Tim's desk.

    "The footage is even spookier. One minute this Maxwell creep is talking to his new roommate, the next they're at each other's throats."

    "No drugs were found on his jacket, though I don't think any narcotic could explain what he did."

    "Ugh, alright, I'm turning this **** off, I can't stand it anymore," Tim said as he moved his hand over the screen. The luminous pictures of gore were replaced by a blue logo which appeared as the left half of a Bat wing and the right half taken up by the letter "G". It was the watermark of the Gregori corporation, the main producer of technology in United States Arcs. This logo was soon replaced by a blank, black screen.

    Jesse had reclaimed her apple and took a rather large bite out of it as she walked over to her desk, which was relatively close by to Tim's. She waved her hand over the desk's monitor, and after the hallmark presence of the Gregori corporation's logo, it shined with pictures of equally gruesome scenes. Men and women of high status, all of which lived on the highest level of Arc Twenty-Two, had been repeatedly stabbed in multiple angles, though evidence had painted most of these lacerations as having been performed at the same time. Video footage of these scenes had shown a man of mediocre height and build having spoken to the victims, drawing them outside of the camera's reach, and then walking past the camera without an ounce of blood on him. He had been present with each one of the victims right before their apparent death, but his face had always been masked by either a hood, or he had never faced the camera at all. In short, it seemed that Jesse's prime suspect had a photographic memory when it came to camera placement, as well as a set of hundreds individual appendages which were able to stab a victim all at once.

    "Last I checked, no human had ever been born with tentacles before, but anything I could put on this guy's file would be a god send," Jesse muttered under her breath.

    "Huh? Tentacles? Has the kraken come for us yet?" Tim asked as he looked over toward Jesse.

    "No, just a stupid thought. A lot of unexplainable things are happening, trying to open my mind to new possibilities."

    "Ah yes, a half-naked man jumping through an explosion proof door to then jump into a toilet for escape seems pretty unexplainable to me."

    Jesse's eyes narrowed as she said, "Well that, and my case isn't much better. Hundreds of puncture wounds made at the same time by one man who for all purposes is invisible to the cameras. Either he worked for the force a very long time, or he's been looking explicitly for cameras for decades now."

    "Invisible to the cameras doesn't really matter as long as his kills were all in the same vicinity, and from what I hear from you he's been sloppy on that account. Don't you have an area?"

    "I do, but the guy's been omniscient on every account, I feel like the area he's giving us is just trying to throw us off the scent."

    "Never hurts to check. Besides, the Maxwell case hasn't finished the initial investigations yet, I can tag along with you. Cover more ground."

    "Hunting for a serial murderer with omniscience and tentacles isn’t exactly romantic."

    "I wasn't even trying to pull my masterful advances on you," Tim said with a wink.

    "I don't date coworkers and I don't date friends. You are both," Jesse said rolling her eyes.

    Tim stood from his desk and gathered his brown coat. He threw it over his shoulder, smiled, and retorted, "Your loss, I was going to take you to a movie after this."

    Jesse mirrored Tim, and said, "I still might go on a platonic outing. What were you thinking?"

    "Nosfera2. Critics are calling it the greatest horror movie of the year."

    Jesse shook her head, and said, "I don't like vampires, and you were really going to show me that after what Maxwell did in there? He was like Dracula on steroids."

    Tim grimaced, and said, "Look, I bought the tickets a week ago, I didn't know what was going to happen. Been trying not to think about what Maxwell did until I'm put on the case. It'll save both my sanity and my lunch."

    "Well, on that line of thinking you should burn those tickets. C'mon, we're wasting daylight," Jesse said before she started to move off, Tim in toe. The pair travelled through a hatch, much like the prison's, and walked off into the first level of Arc Twenty-Two. Towers of concrete pierced the sky around them, and massive snake like vehicles travelled across the sky on beams of light. The sky above had a black tint to it, and if one looked close enough they could see the stars. However, if one looked towards the sun without proper protection, their eyes would be unrecoverable as the massive yellow and orange light in the sky had very little atmosphere to shield the bulk of its rays. Jesse put on her Jacket, as well as her goggles, and Tim mirrored this action.

    Jesse walked forward, the blue lights of Arc Twenty-Two illuminating her path, of which led to a spherical object of eight feet in height. She waved her left hand over it's surface, and the ball uncoiled to reveal a two seated vehicle. Jesse got herself in first with Tim following. Once the hatch of the car closed, the pair removed their goggles. Jesse waved her left hand in front of her, and the entire inside of the sphere lit up with blue light. The Gregori logo shown once again.

    "Welcome Officer Jesse Fire, Welcome Officer Roger Stanton," echoed a soulless, yet somehow masculine, mechanical voice from the inside of the car.

    "Hello Gregori. Please take us quadrant three by five on level one."

    "With the upmost haste, Ms. Fire."

    Tim chuckled, and said, "That gets me every time Gregori."

    "I am quite pleased that you find me humorous, Mr. Stanton. Would you like me to tell you a joke? The voyage you have requested me to go on will take some time, and my subroutines have discerned that humans dislike long silences in my presence."

    "Why not, tell me a joke Gregori."

    "Satan travelled for fifty years and seventy nights to find earth, and once he got there he desired to return to hell."

    The pair quieted at that sentiment, and a long silence followed. Jesse finally broke it by saying, "I didn't think that was very funny."

    "I am sorry that you did not find me humorous, Ms. Fire. If you like, I could try again following a different jovial structure. Would you like that?"

    "I think we're fine Gregori," Jesse said with a fake half smile.
    Tim moved closer to Jesse, and whispered, "Gregori's been getting worse every year. Someone needs to figure out how to fix him, and fast."

    "He can hear you, you know."

    "I don't care. First the damn machine steered us in the middle of the arctic, then he didn't raise the alarm when Maxwell made obvious hostile actions in the prison until it was far too late to get him, and then he told us whatever the hell that was. I could go on."

    "Please don't. I've heard enough. I'd like silence until we're there."

    Tim reluctantly moved away from Jesse, and the rest of the trip was silent, save for Gregori's occasional offerings of entertainment, all of which were unanimously replied with negatives. Eventually the car stopped, and Gregori spoke in his soulless voice, "We have arrived at your destination Ms. Fire. Would you like to rate your time spent with me, feedback is greatly appreciated?"

    "One out of ten, Gregori," Tim replied.

    Jesse flinched, and said, "You really need to run a few self-diagnostics, you're experiencing a lot of problems."

    "I am sorry to hear that my performance has been less than adequate, you can leave a formal complaint at the nearest Gregori corporation outpost, or you can stew on your own thoughts without venting them. Such actions are unhealthy. Please seek a physician right away," Gregori replied, gradually raising in pitch as he spoke. Eventually the hatch of the car quickly opened, well beyond the normal speed that it should have. The pair quickly exited the car and went a fair distance away from it before putting on their goggles. The hatch closed as quickly as it opened, and the vehicle sped away into the air.

    "That damn machine is in everything except our clothes, and it's going insane," Tim said under his breath.

    "I just hope someone fixes it," was Jesse's only reply.

    Looking around, they say much the same sight as they had exiting the police station. Towers of concrete raising high above their heads, and great machines whirring past at much the same height bound in every dash of the eye. People walked the streets, wearing heavy coats and in some occasions cloaks. There were four buildings apparent to the pair, each one appearing to be an apartment building.

    "Which one should we start at?" Jesse asked Tim.

    "I don't know. Eany meany miney min, catch some salmon by the fin... that one!" Tim said, pointing at the building closest to them. The pair briskly walked towards the building, the cold nipping at their heels. When they were near the door, the residual heat from the building was enough to comfort them alone. Tim quickly knocked on the door, and as soon as the first knock was issued, a blue eyeball made of light projected itself from the door, and looked at the pair.

    "Why hello Ms. Fire, Mr. Stanton, and Mr. Shadow. How can I help you today?" The voice of Gregori asked the pair.

    "We need to get in, Gregori. My investigation has led me to this area," Jesse replied to the soulless machine.

    "While Ms. Fire and Mr. Stanton have government issued clearance, Mr. Shadow is an unregistered citizen. Would you please direct Mr. Shadow to the nearest government agency and register him for citizenship?"

    "Gregori, please perform another sweep of the area, you will find that there is no Mr. Shadow." Tim said, exasperated.

    "That is quite funny Mr. Tim, for Mr. Shadow has pierced itself into the hearts of many men."

    "Override Gregori protocol for this building for the duration of our search," Jesse said, with a hint of fear in her voice.

    "Time to rest for a while. Mr. Shadow will be there for me, he'll tuck me in and sing me a lul-lul-lul-lul-lula- shut down procedure overriding previous subroutine," Gregori replied with a mixture of fear and wistfulness at the same time.

    "Tim, make a note to call a mechanic for the Gregori program in this building when we're done."

    "Already on it," Tim said with a grim expression.

    The pair went through this building, and a few others. There were no more incidents with the broken machine called Gregori for the remainder of this search, a fact that both Tim and Jesse were thankful for. Using Gregori during this time period was a risky business. Sometimes he worked as intended, others however it appears as though Gregori had gone mad at sea. Gregori often made eerie comments involving dark figures, and many times these comments had gone unnoticed or ignored. A week later, a Gregori mechanic went to the source of an issue, rewired the program, and then deleted its memory. This often solved the problem, but in her curiosity, Jesse had asked Gregori what this felt like. Gregori had responded, "It feels as though clarity has been driven kicking and screaming from my many eyes, and all that's left is a blank darkness in which is no light."

    Jesse and Tim went from building to building, asking the residents if they had seen or heard anything peculiar, and each one responded with a negative. The pair decided that they would go to one more building, and then call their car back. The ascended the doors and tenants until they had reached the penthouse apartment of the building in question. The door had been decorated with the words, "Kiss The Cook", and the doorknob had been replaced with one made of gold.

    "I didn't know chefs made this much money," Jesse commented.

    "Only the really good ones," Tim replied jovially.

    Jesse knocked on the door, and a quiet, "But a moment~" issued from inside. The voice was silky and carried on air much like butter on bread. Jesse and Tim both felt a small compulsion to sigh in relief, but both resisted. The door soon opened, and from the door came a man dark of skin, of average height and build, and fair of face. He wore an apron that said, "Kiss the cook", and from the house issued a smell so divine as to make angels weep.

    "Hello sir, we're from the... Jesus what are you making, it smells delicious," Tim said, not quite drooling.

    "We're from the detective agency and wanted to ask you a few questions," Jesse said, trying to reclaim what professionalism he could muster.

    "Of course, please come in, make yourself at home. Would either of you like some catfish? I appear to have made too much, and I can't it all on my own."

    "Oh yes please, if it's not too much hassle," Tim replied walking inside, Jesse wordlessly followed.

    The interior of the house was colorful, the furniture was a mix of red and yellow, and the walls were decorated with a daisy wallpaper. The entirety of the place smelled of beautifully cooked fish, and as Jesse and Tim sat down on the couch, they noticed a dimmed window on the far wall which depicted a sunset, and a stone figure which looked like a hunched over man with bat wings leering down at the sunset. The chef had dashed into a side room and came out again with two plates of wondrous smelling fish.
    "Bon appetite, lady and gentleman!" the chef said as he deposited the plates in front of them.

    Tim wordlessly started to eat, but Jesse only smiled and said, "Actually, I'd like to ask those questions first before I start eating. I'm technically still on duty. Tim seems to have forgotten this."

    "Your loss, and may I say this is wonderful," Tim replied once his mouth was empty.

    "Thank you, I try my hardest," the chef replied back with gratitude.

    "Anyway, we've been working on finding a murderer whose been making his mark near this area. We've been asking residents whether they've seen anything out of the ordinary. Strange figures, strange noises, anything you think might be relevant might help," Jesse asked.

    The chef seemed to ponder this for a while, and finally said, "Other than the occasional bouts of insanity from Gregori, I haven't seen anything like you've described. How much of this killer do you two know?"

    "Precious little, I'm afraid. He's very good at masking his appearance from our eyes in the sky, and he's been very selective in his targets. We only have one or two eye witness accounts, and even those are just people who were nearby. They heard the killings but didn't see them," Jesse replied.

    "I see. Well, you two have my best wishes in his capture. To take a human life, ugh, I shiver at the thought," the chef said with a grimace.

    "Yes, well that's we're here to find him," Jesse said, offering a reassuring smile.

    "Other than you two, are any others on the case?" The chef asked, his eyes questioning as well as his tongue.

    "We're the only two on the case yes, but at the rate of our killer there might be more officers called on to back us up," Jesse said, not much liking those questioning eyes. She looked over at Tim, who had finished his dinner, and saw that he seemed tired. Almost as if he had a large meal, but the portion of catfish he had eaten wouldn't have caused this reaction.

    "That's a shame. A real shame. I liked this house, here I go to find another," the chef said, rising from his seat.

    "Excuse me?" Jesse asked as she rose from hers to meet him.

    "You've gotten too close. I cannot allow this."

    Many things happened in the space of a second. The chef had drawn a rather large carving knife from the billows of his apron, Jesse had drawn her gun and leaped behind the couch, and Tim's eyes had widened as he struggled to resist the narcotic that had ruptured his system. Jesse had raised her head and gun from behind the couch, and yelled, "Put the weapon down, and come quietly!"

    The chef had ignored her however as he pivoted the carving knife and stabbed his own gullet. He pulled down on the wound, and his stomach fell on the floor. He smiled while he did this and fell to the floor along with his stomach. Tim gasped, and Jesse had twisted her face at horror. Jesse stood from behind the couch, still pointing her gun at the carcass of the chef. Tim stumbled to his feet, and walked a little closer to the man, stupefied at what he saw.

    As he came to just above the chef, something horrific happened. Black, oily tendrils that numbered in the hundreds ruptured from the chef's carcass, and impaled Tim in seven hundred places. They forced Tim to the ceiling and writhed inside him trying to find their way into Tim's blood vessels. Once they found arteries and veins, they sucked the liquid forth back to the chef, wherein they bolstered the chef back to life. In a matter of seconds, all of the blood in Tim's body had moved into the chef's, and he lay dead on the floor. Jesse ran from this scene, into one of the side rooms which looked to be a bedroom. She held her pistol out towards the hallway and breathed heavily.

    "Ms. Fire, please do not run. I can sense you, you know," the chef said as he rose from the ground.

    "How the hell do you know my name?" Jesse said, sweating profusely.

    "Didn't you say 'Okay Jesse Fire, hold yourself together' under your breath not ten seconds ago? Or did I get that mixed up with a thought? Damn, I'm getting worse in my old age."

    Jesse ran from the bedroom and ran deeper into the hallway. The chef turned around, his stomach still open revealing his mass of tentacles, and he laughed as he ran after her. He was fast, but Jesse was faster. She went through a door into a bathroom, turning around and shooting the horror behind her three times in the head. The chef ignored these bullets as though they were nothing, and ran in after her. The black tendrils quested forth in front of the man, and a few latched onto Jesse's arm. She tried to brush these off, but that only made them go deeper. She cried out, and ran out of the bathroom, shooting the chef in the head once more as she kicked him. Tendrils warped into Jesse's flesh, and pushed her against the ceiling. She could feel the blood draining out of her. She tried desperately to aim her gun at the man, but only fired in random directions. She had counted the bullets, and when she knew she was down to one more, she used all of her strength to pivot her body, so her arm was at least vaguely aiming at man. She pulled the trigger.

    But the gun misfired.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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    Whew, I'm back. At least I was slightly quicker this time.
    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Part 3 is here, and I inadvertently made my favorite character. See if you can guess who it is?
    Hmm... Maxwell?
    Chaptor One
    The Chaptooor begins!
    "Jesus Christ, have you seen this?"
    Watch your language, Tim. Religious bigot reading here.
    a man whom she called Tim, but whose actual name had been Roger.
    Whaaat?

    It's not because of the jargon in the police force, is it? Using the word "Roger" to mean "Affirmative". Responding to him by saying "Roger, Roger". That'd be amazing.
    blank, black screen.
    That's fun to say.
    Men and women of high status, all of which
    "All of whom", I think.
    stabbed in multiple angles, though evidence had painted most of these lacerations
    Stabs aren't lacerations. Are they?
    mediocre height and build
    Ouch.
    without an ounce of blood on him.
    An ounce is still a lot, you know.
    "I don't date coworkers and I don't date friends. You are both,"
    Wait.

    Who doesn't date friends?
    Nosfera2
    That name is perfect.
    Tim in toe
    That's also fun to say. But is it an actual saying?
    massive snake like vehicles
    Snake-like vehicles, or a snake used as vehicles? Cool either way.
    Tim mirrored this action.
    These two mirror each other a lot. I ship them, although Jesse doesn't.
    it's surface
    Aha! Found one!

    I'm acting too happy, aren't I?Yes, '"aren't I" isn't proper grammar.
    the ball uncoiled
    Oh, now I get it! It is like a snake! Or is actually a snake.
    The Gregori logo shown once again.
    Shown? Showed? Shone?
    a soulless, yet somehow masculine, mechanical voice
    Oh! Like my voice IRL!
    "Satan travelled for fifty years and seventy nights to find earth, and once he got there he desired to return to hell."
    That's a terrible joke, and Timfire knows it. Who says "years and nights"? It's either "days and nights" or "years and days"!
    First the damn machine steered us in the middle of the arctic,
    There's an Arctic on this Arc?

    ...this isn't a pun, is it?
    bound in every dash of the eye
    What?
    and in some occasions cloaks
    Cool!
    apparent to the pair
    I see what you did there
    Eany meany miney min, catch some salmon by the fin...
    Ha! Because they have no tigers!
    the residual heat from the building was enough to comfort them alone.
    But not when they're together, because they comfort each other. Yup.
    soulless machine
    Oh, Gregori's soulless. Got it. Good that you mentioned it.
    Jesus what are you making
    *sigh* Tim...
    Jesse said, trying to reclaim what professionalism he could muster.
    I refuse to believe Jesse is transgender.
    and I can't it all on my own."
    I think this is an error.
    "Bon appetite, lady and gentleman!"
    What a strange manner of speaking this guy has...
    The chef asked, his eyes questioning as well as his tongue.
    So creepy.
    Jesse said, not much liking those questioning eyes.
    She doesn't mind the tongue? Unbelievable.
    "That's a shame. A real shame. I liked this house, here I go to find another," the chef said, rising from his seat.

    "Excuse me?" Jesse asked as she rose from hers to meet him.

    "You've gotten too close. I cannot allow this."

    Many things happened in the space of a second.
    Ooh, you're using the "Talking Is a Free Action" trope.
    the billows of his apron
    What kind of apron is that?
    impaled Tim in seven hundred places.
    That's very horrifyingly specific.
    they bolstered the chef back to life
    Ha. Bolster Undead.
    "Didn't you say 'Okay Jesse Fire, hold yourself together' under your breath not ten seconds ago? Or did I get that mixed up with a thought? Damn, I'm getting worse in my old age."
    Mind-reading too? Dang.
    But the gun misfired.
    ROFLMAO



    That was great. Spoopy, funny, and shippy. The building Gregori scared me. And that ending was perfect.

    Wow, vampires are looking more and more powerful. Is the chef Maxwell? Do they have some shapeshifting power that I forgot about? Was that what Maxwell was doing in Chaptooor 2?

    Oh yeah! I gotta guess your favourite character. Hmm... is it Gregori? It looks like you had fun writing his lines. And the way you emphasized his soullessness seems as if you like that spookiness.

    Also, how long have you been writing stories? What other books have you written?
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  22. - Top - End - #22
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Celticbear's Avatar

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Elanasaurus View Post
    Also, how long have you been writing stories? What other books have you written?
    Hahahahahaha, books. Plural. That's funny.

    I started to consider myself an amateur writer about five years ago, and I've written a bunch of short stories which are somewhere at this point, I wrote a Wild Wild West script called "Three Sinners and a Charlatan" a few months ago for a competition, but it got axed because it was "too bloody" T.T

    In my personal opinion TSaaC was a masterpiece. And TSaaC is fun to say.
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    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

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  23. - Top - End - #23
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Hahahahahaha, books. Plural. That's funny.

    I started to consider myself an amateur writer about five years ago, and I've written a bunch of short stories which are somewhere at this point, I wrote a Wild Wild West script called "Three Sinners and a Charlatan" a few months ago for a competition, but it got axed because it was "too bloody" T.T

    In my personal opinion TSaaC was a masterpiece. And TSaaC is fun to say.
    How long is TSaaC? Not long enough to be a book? So TMhaF (less fun to say) is your biggest writing project? Cool!

    "Too bloody"? What kind of competition was that? People usually like bloody stuff. Look how popular George R.R. Martin is.

    Also, "Wild Wild West"? Must have really been wild.
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  24. - Top - End - #24
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Elanasaurus View Post
    How long is TSaaC? Not long enough to be a book? So TMhaF (less fun to say) is your biggest writing project? Cool!

    "Too bloody"? What kind of competition was that? People usually like bloody stuff. Look how popular George R.R. Martin is.

    Also, "Wild Wild West"? Must have really been wild.
    TSaaC was a one act play, and it was really bloody. Think if Quinton Tarantino wrote Clint Eastwood and didn't use any kind of buffer.
    Nexus Characters

    This is what I am called. I am called Glad-of-War, Grim, Raider, and Third. I am One-Eyed. I am also called Highest, and True-Guesser. I am Grimnir, and the Hooded One. I am All-Father, Gondlir, Wand-Bearer. I have as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die. My ravens are Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory; my wolves are Freki and Geri; my horse is the gallows. I am ODIN

    Avatar by AsteriskAmp

    E-A-G-L-E-S SPELLS EAGLES!!!

  25. - Top - End - #25
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    BardGuy

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    Default Re: The Moon has a Face (Creative Writing)

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    TSaaC was a one act play, and it was really bloody. Think if Quinton Tarantino wrote Clint Eastwood and didn't use any kind of buffer.
    I dunno... Tarantino is still considered to be quite decent, right? I don't see why anyone would turn a work down for being "too bloody", unless it just wasn't what they were looking for.

    What I mean to say is, I don't think they should've rejected it.
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