Bluefur, The Novelist
10/29/2020 6:53 PM
77 wins / 72 losses
Recent PostsProfiles on 10/16/2020 2:51:16 PM
Unfortunately, Putin hasn't been answering my calls, but I did let the bear carry a picture of his boyfriend on its back. It's what Putin would've wanted.
Profiles on 10/16/2020 2:27:40 PM
An act of defiance was the point of my editing. Mission accomplished, yes?
Profiles on 10/16/2020 2:18:41 PM
Awesome, thank you! I liked it so much I added some personal touches. Hope you don't mind. :)))
Corona Tag! on 3/16/2020 10:34:12 PM
I get nervous when there's a penalty waiting somewhere for me to do something wrong. You caught on to my intentions, surprisingly. Findle is really the "mob boss" here - Jonathan is just a poor farmer. Jonathan's nervousness around Findle is because of that. Findle also intentionally yeeted that stone into the sky. Yes, the guards do work for Findle. I was going for the impression that they worked for Jonathan, and were placed around the small house to protect his wife. Findle deludes himself into seeing things through a "hero lens". It feeds into his self-satisfaction. That was the content of the other 400 words, but... yeah. No, Findle is a character I made up at the doctor's office, when I started writing this thing. His name is inspired by Kindle. I don't know what Kindle is, but I've heard of it. Thanks for letting me off easy. And for the "ur writing is okay". It's reassuring to know. I will take the opportunity to run now. >_> @Pineapplekitty
Corona Tag! on 3/16/2020 9:31:26 PM
With the Revival Gem corrupted and chucked into the outer atmosphere, the battle was officially over. The wispy trails of black left in its wake slowly diffused, settling its dreaded reality over Findle - the supposed hero of this story. To the world, hero he was not. But, determination was a necessary prerequisite for heroism, and so he persevered in his futile cause. As there was nothing left for him in these barren post-battle (post-thrashing, really) cliffside rocks, he rode back to Jonathan in pondering silence. Jonathan Smith was his wealthy client - a mob boss, to be frank. Jonathan Smith had a lovely wife, and that lovely wife’s life was dependant on the success of Findle‘s ability to retrieve a blessed Revival Gem... the gem that was currently rocketing its merry way up the atmosphere. The idea of fleeing to the other side of the Allapakian Mountains briefly entered his mind, but he shot it down. Heroes didn’t run. Dismounting his horse, an old chestnut mare, he walked through the posted guards that eyed him with a dagger-like glare. He placed his hand against the door of the shack and it immediately slid open with a gentle creak. “Findle, is it?” Jonathan’s voice was a croak from where he knelt beside his wife’s bed. His face was ghastly pale, beads of nervous sweat glistening with tiny sparkles in the harsh summer light. It was like looking at a mine’s walls: one would almost think they could reach their hands out at his forehead and pluck a polished mineral shard from it. Findle nodded, shifting his feet awkwardly as he worried how badly breaking the news to the soon wifeless man would go. “Findle the Hero, yes.” He would have given voice to a self-pitying laugh if he wasn’t so nervous. He noticed Jonathan stiffen too, likely caught in apprehension for the news the self-proclaimed hero was to bring. Jonathan always told people that save for his wife, he had nothing he considered of greater value than the simple grain that every villager had in their homesteads. Findle would soon become not much of a hero to Jonathan, either, whom had so trustingly placed faith in his abilities. Taking the initiative, he started, “I’m so sorry, Jonathan, but the gem-“ “Stop,” Jonathan said and Findle obeyed. “Just stop. I get it already. You got to play hero but that’s all just silly talk, glossin’ over the truth. I should’ve known- no, I did know. There’d be no “hero” coming to save us, never was. All just you and your silly fantasies.” Findle was taken aback, but he nodded nonetheless. He had heard words like these countless times. His clients stopped being angry with his failures after a while. Now they were just resigned. “Are you... not going to try to kill me?” Findle tilted his head, puzzled with the mild temperament of the mob boss. Where was the yelling, the grabbing of his shirt collar, the kicks and the punches? “HAH! Kill YOU? No. No, I just want you to get the fuck out and leave Em and I alone. You’ve done enough.” Emily. Findle really liked Emily. He wanted to save Emily, he really did. She was the nice big sister next door who tossed apples over the fence for him to feed to his grandmother, sickly ill at the time yet filled with spirit when it came time to lecture him. That’s why, as Findle stepped out of the house and grabbed onto his mare’s saddle, he paused to turn to one of the guards. “Take care of them,” he noted, then rode off to his next destination. He spared no glance back. ------------------------------------------------ Can I have an exception and just leave it at this? That thing called "quitting"? I don't really know if I can continue.
Corona Tag! on 3/16/2020 10:02:06 AM
hahaha how does one kill a penguin Is there a time limit? I'll probably either just do my bio research paper and dump it here or actually think of something (I've already thought of something). But I'm kind of sick right now, so I won't be able to start writing for a couple of days. Please don't take my points. They are my pride and joy.
Dreema, the Ultimate Troll on 5/4/2019 9:20:19 PM
Make me fabulous.
Dreema, the Ultimate Troll on 5/4/2019 8:49:00 PM
Hmm. I'll need to experiment more to find the answer.
Dreema, the Ultimate Troll on 5/4/2019 8:43:10 PM
I don't want to lose my childhood.
What the hell happened to my trophy? >.< on 4/21/2019 7:36:50 PM
I indulged myself in gross fits of sobbing for weeks after I realized it was gone. Parasites have feelings too.