Okay, so I have no idea if this will work out. It doesn't really hurt to try. Anyway.
You can choose 3 options - Write, Give a prompt, or Draw. Or all three. As many times as you want.
The Writer: Reply to this post asking for a prompt
The Giver of Prompts: Do that. Give someone a prompt, or a small list of prompts that they can choose from.
The Writer: Reply to the person who gave you your prompt with what you make of the prompt. Your word count pretty much determines what quality you want your art piece to be. 50 words is prolly only gonna get you a sketch or something, whereas a multi thousand word short story is prolly going to have a pretty cool piece with it. You can add to the bottom of your post if you have any preference as to what is drawn, otherwise it's up to the artists interpretation.
The artist: Call dibs on something a writer has done. Just reply to them with 'do not reply' somewhere in it so people know you're drawing their thing. Then when you're done, edit your post to have the finished piece it.
As this is more of a writing site, it is possible that not all written things will be drawn. I'll try to do quite a few, but I don't know how many I'll get to. If it all goes according to plan, I'll be participating in writing, prompt giving, and artistry. I might favor the more violent sounding ones more.
If I respond to your written piece to call dibs on drawing it, I may or may not include a Pictarto Stream link for people to watch if they so desire. I like, literally set it up today, so it'll probably be buggy. Which is why I'm doing it here first. It's my ulterior motive to doing this. Expand my range of art stuff and figure out exactly how pictarto is supposed to work so I can use it more professionally later on.
And remember common sense of don't reply to a do-not-reply post, and follow site rules regarding nsfw and all that jazz. Ask if you have any questions!
Sure, I'll draw this one. If you wanna watch.
"Your word count pretty much determines what quality you want your art piece to be. 50 words is prolly only gonna get you a sketch or something, whereas a multi thousand word short story is prolly going to have a pretty cool piece with it."
This is a 318 word quality drawing... that took almost 3 hours to make. Would love to see a multi thousand word quality drawing... but how long would it to take to make!
Jokes aside, I assume another 318 word story wouldn't get the same level of work put into it's drawing, since this is the first one you are putting here, which undoubtedly puts some pressure on you for making it pretty darn good.
Also, I really doubt the drawings scale in some linear fashion regarding the length of the story they are made for, but, I'm sure that it does still play some role in how much effort the artist will put into the drawing.
P.S. Feel sorry for whoever has to follow this drawing up w/ one of theirs, since I know my 'drawings' don't come anywhere close. (Granted, I'm sure someone willing to draw something would probably do better than I could, but still!)
P.P.S. Also +1 for giving the person with the gun yellow eyes as described in the story.
It mostly took nearly 3 hours because It's been a while since I've draw a human with skin tone and face proportions and everything. ^^' Most of the time, I can completely skip the sketch stage. And I wasn't about to just leave it half finished. Plus, this I get to expand my art range abilities.
And you never know. Maybe a multi-thousand word short story could get something like these instead - 1, 2, 3
Anyway, don't worry about drawing skill. It's a writing site afterall - it's not really expected that anyone has much art talent. You got what you got, and I know I'd be glad at any art for my writing even if it's just a little doodle.
(I tried my best to draw them as they were described in the story, but there wasn't too terribly much detail so I improvised on most of it. >_> If you saw the gunman from the front, you'd see the tie there too.)
This thread sounds like a blast. So let’s start off with some prompts.
Prompt from Enterpride: "We'll fight them, sir, until hell freezes over, and then we'll fight them on the ice."
I grin as I spot demon nearby while I rip into the creature next to me. Ichor coated my arms and drenched my clothing, burning. I didn't mind much though. It screamed, such a piercing noise that I had to take a step back and cover my ears. When it flapped its wings to get away though, no, I couldn't let that happen. Those creatures had taken my family. I grabbed it's foot and yanked back, hard enough to send both of us tumbling back. My head hit the rocks first, blinding me with pain. A moment later, I heard a sickening crack as it's head follows too, having had farther to fall from being up higher.
It was dirty work, fighting these things. Guns didn't even slow them down, unless they were cursed by the devil himself. The best we humans could do was keep them occupied until someone stronger came to properly take care of the job, and it looked like my job was almost done. Just had to wait for the demon I spotted earlier to finish the angel he was dealing with. I push myself to my feet unsteadily, the golden ichor dripping down my arms. I examine them. Damn that frickin burned. The angel shrieked at me again and I stepped back again, unsteady. I'd forgotten my silencers today, that canceled out the shrieking. I lifted a hand to my ears and when I looked at it again, it was red. I'll probably go deaf soon. Actually, I was sorta surprised I hadn't already.
Finally, the demon makes it's way over to where I am, and I relax a bit. Perhaps a bit too soon, because I feel a pain in my chest. When I look down, I see that there's a discarded piece of rubble sticking through my chest, crimson mixing with the gold as it flows down my torso. I sigh as I fall, my vison going dark and all sensation leaving my body. What a pain.
When I wake, I shiver. It's a bit chillier than I expected here in hell. Every devil that lives here adds to it's heat, lending to the stories that hell is an inferno. But since they're all fighting up above in the angel war, hell seems to be getting colder.
I'm honestly rather pissed right now. It'll take decades to be able to become a demon, and I'll miss a hell of a lot of fighting.
There's a number of other humans here too, new arrivals from the war above. A demon that looked like one of the higher ranks came over to us.
"What do you think of the angels?" he yells in a military tone of voice.
"They're bastards and bitches that took our families!" We cry back.
"You're missing something!"
"Say it again."
"Sorry sir!" we say louder.
"And how long will we fight those angel bastards and bitches?"
"We'll fight them, sir, until hell freezes over, and then we'll fight them on the ice," we all call back.
Heheheheh, I like it. It's all glowy. ^_^
Some more prompts for ya'll.
~A dyslexic boy wakes up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve to go to the bathroom, only to find Satan putting presents under his Christmas tree
~A man discovers that anyone that says “I love you” towards him, earnestly, promptly dies in a freak accident. He decides to become a hitman.
~Multi-dimensional travel already exists, but no one visits our dimension because it’s “that” one
~You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
These seems fun. I'm going to call the dyslexic one, but I probably won't be able to write it until like tomorrow.
Haman stared at the shifting mass of black in front of him, trying to make sense of it. Nothing would stay, letters turning to symbols turning to insane glyphs that bounced around the page.
“Again,” Father’s deep voice asked. No, that wasn’t the right word. Commanded. Father didn’t ask, he commanded.
Haman nodded, trying to focus through his tear-filled eyes and the ever-shifting mess in front of him to find what he was supposed to read. Breathing heavily through his nose and trying his very hardest to think, he began slowly reading in a quiet voice.
“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will know…”
Haman didn’t even see the strike coming, he simply felt the brutal stinging in his shoulder as a great blow knocked him from his feet and sent him spinning through the air.
“Renew! Renew!” Father screamed, as Haman toppled to the ground with a terrified scream.
Haman hit the ground with a painful thud, refusing to look up to meet Father’s burning gaze. He lay there, staring at the cold, concrete floor, trying to keep from crying, knowing that it would only worsen Father’s fury.
“You’re trying to test me. You’re trying to test me, and I won’t let you break me.”
Don’t look up. Don’t respond. Don’t make a sound. Haman knew to do these three things, and to let Father go through his rant.
“Lord the father, please give me the strength I need to get through this. Boy, Pslam 119:28, now.”
Haman nod your head, feeling relief flood through him as he remembered the words, rushing to spit them out before he incurred his wrath again.
My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word,” Haman said loudly.
“Good,” Father nodded. “Good. I try so very hard to teach you the way my Pa taught me, boy. But you resist. You resist every time. You won’t even read the Lord’s scriptures without twisting them, mocking them, rejecting the word of the Lord!”
Father sighed, walking over towards the back of the room slowly, shaking his head.
“You need to be punished, Haman. You need to understand why this is important. What the Lord will do to you if you reject him. Ten seconds.”
Haman knew what this meant, and scrambled to his feet, rushing to the door. Father burst forward, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him against the wall as Haman began to scream for his long-gone Mother.
“You will not escape the Lord’s wrath and fury, you little demon!” Father roared.
Father grabbed Haman’s arm, twisting it behind his back. Haman burst into tears, crying out in pain as he was forced into the old wooden chair at the back of the garage. Father grabbed the old ropes left on the ground, quickly binding him to the chair. Haman began rocking, desperately struggling against the ropes, as Father stood, staring at him in anger. He walked towards the roaring furnace in the back of the barren room, boots trampling over the old newspapers that lay there as Haman turned to desperate babbling.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compass…”
“Even the devil can cite scriptures for his own purposes, boy,” Father said, shaking his head. “You won’t change my mind.”
Father pulled the fire poker from its position leaning against the furnace, sticking it into the furnace as he jammed it in between several pieces of flaming wood. The poker was engulfed by the burning, horrific flames as they danced around the black iron.
“You’re a product of the end times, Haman. The world has been corrupted and broken. Most ‘Christians’ today are Christians by name only, and should be ashamed of themselves. They are cowardly, lukewarm, and ashamed of Christ's Word. They have substituted their own pathetic ideas for God's clear commandments... Don't listen to the money-grubbing heretic who stands at the front of your church. Listen to God, Haman. You need to listen to God! Methodist, Episcopal, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Catholic, Northern and Southern Baptist, Church of Christ, Assembly of God, etc. have all departed from God. Most well-known preachers have departed from God, and disassociated themselves with pure Gospel preaching!”
Father was ranting now, smacking his hand against the wall as his voice grew loud enough to shake the entire house.
“The children! Oh, God preserve us, the children are the worst! Being taught to be fags, that it’s OK to fornicate with men and to reject the Lord’s word! Being given Nintendos and play stations to tear their attention away from God and the Bible to force them into the secular world! Being corrupted by Satanic media with astrology and Harry Potter’s witchcraft and being told to follow Pagan rituals every Christmas to appease Satan Clause! It’s Satan himself, boy, disguised as a “saint”, giving children what seems like gifts, but only further seek to corrupt the youth! Reject Satan Clause, boy!”
Of everything he’d heard, that bit actually made sense to Haman, given that all this jumble of words and lines he had to deal with when reading means the two words are easily confusable. In fact, he pretty sure his misreading is what showed that connection to Father.
“I won’t lose this battle,” he says. “I will not let my son be given to this unholy world.”
Father pulled the long iron fire poker out from the furnace, its end glowing burning red. He walked towards Haman, raising the poker so its glow illuminates his gaunt face. Haman continued babbling in a mixture of begging and praying as he tried to kick and struggle against the ropes. Father lowered the poker, holding it just above the mess of burnt skin and scarring that ran along Haman’s arm.
“They’re going to come for you, Haman. The dark, Satanic forces of the world are going to come for you late at night, to twist, corrupt and break you. You need to grow strong through the words of the Lord to reject these dark influences.”
With those words, Father pressed the burning metal against Haman’s skin. Haman’s begging and pleading turned to incoherent screams as his skin burned and blistered under the poker’s touch. Father began to count, his deep, booming voice rising above Haman’s high-pitched screams.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five!”
Haman found himself desperately floating on the edge of consciousness, the smell of his cooking flesh filling his nostrils as he screamed, an animal knowing nothing but that it had to escape from its pain.
“Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” Father screamed, raising the poker from Haman’s burning flesh.
Father stepped back, looking down at his son in disgust as Haman’s horrified screams turned to exhausted sobbing.
“If you can’t survive ten seconds feeling the hot poker on your arm, how are you going to survive an eternity of feeling that pain on every inch of your body!?” he snarled. “Only with the Lord’s strength can you prosper.”
Father walked to the furnace, jamming the poker back into the wood so the flames embrace it once more.
“I’m going to go pray for guidance in my room. You’ll get another ten when I come back. Then maybe you’ll stop resisting and read the Scriptures like you need to for the Lord’s guidance to be made clear to you.”
Father turned, walking out the door and leaving Haman tied to the chair, crying. Although it took him what seemed like hours, he managed to calm down, taking deep breaths to try to force a thought through his muddled mind. The only thing he could think to do was to try get that poker out of the fire. He couldn’t deal with the pain again. He knew he had to escape. He began to rock the chair, the legs dragging slowly along the floor as every rock moved him but a fraction of an inch closer to his goal, getting to the furnace.
Step by step, inch by inch, Haman moved towards the furnace, the only sounds by his pathetic whimpering and the sound of wood scraping on concrete. Focused only on the task on hand, not even let the burning pain of his ruined flesh distract him, he moved forward. His muddled mind was now clear and on the task at hand, his tongue spitting out the endless verses he’d memorized, hoping to find strength in at least one of them.
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. But those who hope in the Lord with renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help…”
After what seemed like eternity, Haman had gotten to the furnace. It glowed like the eyes of demons, like the eternal flames of hell. He winced as he was reminded as the pain that coursed through his arm, where his scorched flesh and melted skin hung loosely, sending shooting pains through his body. He stared at the poker’s black handle, trying to focus. It could burn through the ropes, maybe. Or he could use it as a weapon, to keep Father back. There had to be something he could do. If nothing else, he might be able to buy himself time as Father would have to reheat the poker.
Rocking his chair into position, he reached his hands towards the poker handle, his fingers dancing along the hot metal as he tried to get a grip. After a few moments of desperate fumbling, his fingers managed to wrap around the handle, allowing him to get a semi-firm grip. He pulled on the handle, trying to free it from its place buried amongst the kindling, but it remained stuck. He tried again but was again unable to pull it free. Finding all the strength and mobility he could in his tiny, bound body, he pulled.
The poker burst free from the furnace, sending lumps of burning charcoal and wood across the room. The strength of his action sent the poker flying from his grip, his nimble fingers unable to keep a grip on it as it flew across the room, clanging uselessly against the concrete floor. Haman found his chair toppling over and let out a scream for help as he tipped forward.
He hit the cold, hard concrete floor with a painful thud, his skull smacking against the ground. His mind once again turning muddled and fuzzy, he saw bright lights as the spilt charcoal beginning to set the scattered newspaper and old wooden walls alight. His view shifted from dark to bright and back as he tried to stay conscious. His vision focused, as he saw flames beginning to rise as they spread through the whole place, engulfing it in an imitation of hell itself. He tried to move, but the ropes kept him from escaping his downed position. He began to scream, in terror, in pain, in desperation, as the flames spread quickly through the old garage.
Haman’s life changed the day of the fire. Father, too focused, found himself engulfed in the fires akin to the ones he knew his son would see, and soon understood the pain he’d inflicted on his child was the last thing he knew. His house, his prison, his cage, was turned to mere ash and cinders. Haman’s body, made in the image of God, was burnt, scorched, seared, melted and blistered to the point where to call it human would be an insult to God.
When the fires were finally left out, the only sound but the crackling of wood was a slow, deep breathing as Haman’s breath stirred the ashes. His body now a twisted, scarred mess, all he could do was wait for death or rescue.
When he was finally dragged from the ash and the rubble, all Haman did was babble incoherently, spitting out Bible verses and muttering about understanding and fires. He spent a vast stretch in hospital, as doctors, medics and workers tried to forge a form out of the burnt flesh and ash they had found in what remained of that house.
Eventually, Haman was released from hospital. With two dead parents and no other family, he was taken to the orphanage, the Saint Francis of Assisi Home for Boys. Haman soon learnt that this place was the same messed up, corrupted institution that Father had warned him about, worshipping Saint Francis like a demi-god, letting boys in the home grow up without being converted to the word of Jesus Christ, promoting the Satanic Paganism in Autumn as they dress the boys up like sinners, demons and witches. The teachers don’t even pray or hold His name up high. Staying there, Haman knew he didn’t belong. He knew that the flames he had felt the day of the fire would be felt again if he let the corruption that had spread through the Saint Francis of Assisi Home for Boys. For all he had cried, for all he had begged, for all he had screamed, Father had been right.
Haman sat by himself, his pencil scratching against a piece of paper as he stared mindlessly at the Christmas Fire in front of him. Thankfully, his mangled, burnt form kept the other children from talking to him. Those who were brave enough to try talk to him soon found that all they would earn for their courage is mockery and insults as Haman berated their lack of faith, their materialism and their inner-corruption.
They were making Christmas cards to hang on the large Christmas tree in the room. The other boys eagerly got to work writing and making, crayons, chalk, markers, pencils and pens scribbling away at their cards, drawing bizarre, unreadable letters that danced across the page, muddling and frustrating Haman’s mind as he tried to read what was written there. Classic pagan imagery adorns all their cards, brainwashed into them by the media, encouraged by the orphanage directors and teachers. Holly and ivy from ancient Saturnalia pagan celebrations, Nordic and Druid-based mistletoe, the atheistic gift-giving, the worship of some fat, gift-giving figure as if he was a God himself, the Roman paganistic candles that sit all around the room, red and white axe running down the candle. They draw and scribble it all, content in their mockery of the Lord.
Haman sneers, turning his upper lip at the image in front of him. He scowls across the room, before one of the teachers, Mr Calnan kneels down next to him, smiling. Haman watches the momentary flicker of disgust as the Mr Calnan grows near his blistered, burnt skin, before it’s replaced by a fake smile.
“Are you OK, Haman? Would you like to join in with the fun? We’re going to make cookies to leave for Santa tonight. Then, we’re going to set up a video camera to see if we can catch him in the act.”
Haman didn’t respond, instead staring as the flames wrap around the glowing logs, dancing and rolling around the kindling as tongues of flames lick the air.
“You know, you’d really have a great time if you…”
“No,” Haman said, his eyes not shifting from the flames. “I won’t be corrupted by you. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
“Christmas is all about that, Haman. It’s about love, and giving, and it’s when Jesus was born.”
“Jesus Christ was born in the Summer or Fall,” Haman answered, his once-muddled mind clear and remembering what his Father taught him. “The Ancient Babylonian Catholics changed it to allow for Paganistic influence. It’s all lies and corruption. Lies and corruption.”
“Come on, join in the festivities, Haman. If you’re not good, you won’t get visited by Santa Clause tonight.”
“Santa Clause is just a Satanic servant who seeks to corrupt me. I refuse.”
Haman turned his gaze away from the fire, making eye contact with Mr Calnan, before standing.
“I’d like to go to bed early. I’m tired,” Haman said.
“Haman, you really should…”
“I’m tired,” Haman repeated loudly, interrupting Mr Calnan. “I’d like to go to bed.”
With that, Haman stood up, walking towards his room. The other children tensed as he passed, waiting for his violent, angry outburst, but he just stared straight ahead and walked past, his burnt face contorting in a sneer.
Sleep didn’t come easily to Haman, but like every night, it came eventually. Wrapped in his blanket cocoon, he his mind wander. Dreams shift to nightmares are the bright, glowing gates of Heaven turn to the burning flames of Hell, shifting back and forth. Eventually, Haman found himself crying softly in bed, wrapped up in his blankets. As his sleepy haze wore off, drowsiness was replaced with anger at his own weakness. He found his fingers subconsciously tracing the burnt scars running along his skin, remembering the brutal, mind-consuming pain that would wait for him if he refused to stand up in the face of corruption. His scarred finger tips ran across the wetness running down his cheeks, wiping the tears off. He sighs, his sleeve brushes the tears from his face. He took a few deep, long breaths to calm himself down, before he realized he had the need to pee. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, standing slowly from the bed, careful not to wake the other children. He didn’t particularly care for them, he just knew that the fewer interactions he had with the corrupted world, the better.
Haman’s bare feet slowly moved along the floor, as Haman felt the cold floor underneath his toes. He slowly pushed the door open as it creaked open on its hinge. Haman walked out into the hallway, moving down towards the bathroom. The only sounds in the dark, cold night was his shallow breathing and the slightest creak of the floorboards underneath his weight.
Suddenly, a new sound was added to the mixture, a rustling of the Christmas Tree leaves. Haman froze, his breath caught in his throat, as he stayed perfectly still for a moment. Listening, nothing but silence answered back. Creeping forward, slower and quieter, he moved out into the sitting room step by step. He reached the door, leaning close as he peered through the crack in the doorway, seeing the dark room illuminated by the glow of the fireplace, which had almost snuffed out by the darkness, only burning embers remaining alongside a few weak tongues of flame with barely the strength to flicker. Slowly pushing the door forward, Haman leaned in through the doorway, scanning the room.
Standing by the Christmas Tree, leaning over and engulfed by shadows was a large, dark figure. Its skin was red and smooth, tufts of white fur sprouting from its body. It was engulfed by darkness, almost swimming it as it focused on its task at hand. Its blackened, twisted hands reached into a large brown sack. Haman watched as it pulled a small, multi-coloured box tied with ribbon from the bag, gently sliding it under the tree.
Taking advantage of it being distracted, Haman slowly moved towards the fireplace, feeling the barest hint of warmth from the dying flames. He paused, seeing a familiar shape. Standing next to the fireplace was a black iron fire poker. Haman’s hand reached out towards the handle, his fingers trembling with fear and anticipation as he took hold of the poker. The iron scraped slightly along the brick fireplace, making a loud scratching as he took it in his hand.
“Hmm?” the creature asked, his head twisting around to see what was going on.
The creature turned, to find Haman raising his fire poker in the air, as it let out a terrified yelp that stayed Haman’s hand for a brief second.
“Wait!” it said quickly. “Calm down, boy, no need to be frightened! Don’t you recognize me?”
Haman paused, his fire poker raised as he stared at the creature, his mind racing to remember the Bible verses needed to give him strength as he muttered them under breath, his muddled mind trying to figure out what this creature was.
“Don’t worry, boy, it’s me, Jolly Old Saint Nick!” it said, holding its hands out calmly.
Haman stared at the man, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He made out a long white beard, as his skin and fur morphed into the traditional Santa suit. The figure began to talk, but Haman only heard a second voice in the back of his mind, as his breathing became angry and frantic.
“Satan Clause! It’s Satan himself, boy, disguised as a “saint”, giving children what seems like gifts, but only further seek to corrupt the youth! Reject Satan Clause, boy! REJECT SATAN!”
Haman felt Father’s voice screaming through his muddled mind, swinging the fire poker with all his might in a wave of anger and terror. Santa Clause turned his head around, making a noise in surprise as the poker smacked him straight in the side of the head, sending him spiralling to the floor with a groan. Blood splattered onto the ground.
“Wait!” the figure gasped desperately, it’s hand reaching up to tear off the white beard. “Haman, stop, it’s me! It’s Mr Calnan, wait!”
Haman watched, consumed by terror, as the creature-turned-religious mockery shifted its form once again, taking the pleading face of Mr Calnan as it changed form. Haman screamed, swinging again as the fire poker bashed into the side of the creature’s head, leaving a long, bloody gash into the side of his head. The creature made a horrific sound, a terrifying blend of laughter and begging as its face began to morph. Haman screamed, trying to focus through his muddled mind as he stared into the burning, twisted, screaming face of Satan himself, here to corrupt him. The fire poker bashed into his nose, crushing it under his poker in an explosion of blood and cartilage. The Devil screamed, an unholy, unnatural roar, the creature enraged at Haman’s rejection of its corruption. Haman swung again, and again, and again, and again. Haman struck the creature until his strength was sapped, until its skull had collapsed under his blows, until its corrupting, roaring voice wasn’t even a dying gurgle, until he’d finally finished.
Haman dropped the fire poker as he stared through the darkness at what he had done. He heard his faint voice whispering prayers and quoting Bible verses in the back of his head. For a moment, his mind felt clear, as he understood what he had done. Before his mind could shatter, Haman rejected that moment, as the fog of confusion, mental disorders and brainwashing embraced him again, and he felt like a champion of God.
As the Satan Clause bled out, its skull broken open as its brain matter was left spilling out and running down the tree leaves, Haman turned to the fireplace. Haman stared into the darkness, watching intently as the last of the infernal flames are snuffed out by the cold night, the final visions of hell fading from his mind. Left alone in the darkness, Haman felt safe and secure from corruption for the first time in his life.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”, Haman whispered.
I wasn't expecting it to be so violent.
Might even draw two scenes from this one. Getting the stream setup, might take me a moment.
Big plans for this one - it might take me two or six streams to finish it fully. >_>
Ending the stream for today - this is what I got so far. Still needta do the hair, and then the boy against the wall there. Needta refine the clothing a bit and smooth out the skin tones too. Roughly 3-4 hours so far?
Sweet, someone's drawing my shit. That's nice. Cheers, looking good so far.
Hey! Sorry I'm taking so long!
I've got some more progress done on it - I've finished the father and I'm working on the son. I've never done something of that style/quality with people interacting before, so it's a bit of a challenge there.
My art teacher, who's a bit scatterbrained, told the class of the Congressional Art Competition yesterday (all fancy sounding and shit.) And the deadline is march 24th I believe. Which would be all good and everything if we didn't have to mail the thing to somewhere in Georgia, and have all sorts of other requirements met like framing and such. Which means the real deadline is like, a week or two from now.
The winner gets their artwork put up in Cannon Tunnel, which I believe is a building either connected to or really close to the white house and is a high traffic area, and two plane tickets to fly over and see it. Highschool students only, and judging by the previous winners, I think I might stand a chance. ^^' So currently, that's taking priority. As soon as I'm done with that, I'll be getting right back to your piece.
So again, sorry! I will be finishing it though, even if it might take me a while. At most, it should be two weeks. That's worst case scenario - it's more likely to be sooner than that.
Not a bother, you're good. Focus on your art competition, best of luck with that.
(I agree with his fathers words, but not his actions...)
This story was absolutely entertaining! Thanks Steve!
Uh... I took his father's words from Westboro Baptist quotes. Like, they're direct quotes from the Westboro Baptists. So... I guess you're a piece of shit. Aight.
Haha. I mean with many of modern things distracting youth from religion. Thanks for calling me a piece of shit tho :)
The father's lines are all either "I'm going to burn you", "Fuck you for not being able to read the Bible because you're dslyexic or direct quotes from the Westboro Baptist church, which seems to be what you're agreeing with. Fuck it, I was going as over-the-top crazy as I could here. So yeah, you are a piece of shit and your beliefs are wrong and retarded.
Jesus, Steve. (No pun intended.) I DON'T believe kids should be burnt or tortured. Do you think I can recite bible verses? I meant the part where he says modern distractions pull children from religion. I'm not some kind of psycho...
Thanks for being so chill, though...
Further proof no one can escape Steve's wrath.
I feel "Don't tell Steve you like Westboro Baptist Church's words" isn't a high standard for escaping Steve's wrath.
I don't know; there's a broader range of things that irk you than that. Come now, be honest. ;)
Oh, absolutely, but in this case, it's hardly evidence that "no one can escape my wrath" seeing as they were agreeing with the words of Westboro. If you want evidence of that, point out how I'll get angry at people who have cats.
Well, by the way you wrote it, it sounded like you were saying that as long as a person doesn't agree with Westboro, you won't be mad. I think the phrasing was just mildly misleading. :)
Perhaps. Either way, the fucker deserved my wrath. Damn, using the Westboro quotes worked really well at catching them out, though.
Just seeing the Westboro Baptists mentioned makes me shudder.
Well no, I knew that about the first two parts. It's the third part, the part where it's all Westboro Baptist quotes, that I think you agree with, which is what makes you a piece of shit, because there's Westboro Baptist Church, and you're reading what they say and nodding your head.
The Father's words are fucking batshit. Fun things like Santa Clause and Harry Potter are seen as evil by him, interrupting his son from learning hateful evil bullshit from the Bible. That's a bad thing, you were supposed to think he was a cunt.
Haha. I'm not saying agree with that crazy psycho shit.
*I think his father was the cunt-iest of cunts.
OK, so his Father said the following, and nothing more:
-I'm going to burn my son. We agreed you don't agree with that.
-You're evil for being dyslexic. And you also don't agree with this.
-Direct Quotes from Westboro Baptist Church. As you agree with at least some of his words, and you don't agree with the other two things he said, that means you must've been agreeing with this bullshit.
1.) I'm done arguing.
2.) I was trying to tell you GOOD JOB.
3.) I'm an Orthodox Christian... which they fucking HATE.
1. Aight. Probably for the best. Well, the best would you be admitting you were being retarded and evil, but this is pretty good too.
2. Thanks for reading, glad you liked it.
3. Alright. I don't care. You still agreed with the evil message they had.
We cool now Steve? No grudge?
I'M RETARDED AND EVIL. :(
No, not even slightly. I don't know what would make you think that. I find your ideology evil and retarded. I thought I was very clear on that.
Edit: Oh, you edited it. Uh... I guess so, then, whatever.
Prompt from Enterprise: "They've got us surrounded again, the poor bastards." (Wrote this on my phone so excuse any typos or mistakes... And the overall lack of quality.)
Flashing red and blue lights wash over his face, and he revels in it. There are many words for his type: cop killer, maniac, inhuman. He prefers 'enhanced.'
They kick open the door, dozens of cops swarming in and forming a circle around him. He can barely hear their pathetic attempts to intimidate him. Slowly, a smile curves his lips.
With a wave of his hand their weapons go flying. They're defenseless. Another wave of his hand and they turn inside out. A light chuckle escapes him, and he leaves the warehouse behind.
Yes. Enhanced is the right word.
I'll call dibs on this one.
If you wanna watch -
Roughly around 30-40 minutes, given that the stream was for an hour, but I had to have a rather long break in the middle.
Love it. Think the fact that it's just a sketch fits the story more, makes it seem more raw.
None of the prompts are really catching me so far, but I really like this idea, so maybe I'll throw out a couple prompts and if anyone bites.
Done. Inspired heavily by Twin Peaks.
With a sigh, I flicked up my collar as I entered the town. The frigid December air breezed through the quiet town of Northwest Passage, my collar upturned to prevent my lips being wind chilled as I walked through the desolate streets. I hadn't been to the town in four years, when Lauren Potter died and that FBI Agent came in to investigate. Northwest Passage was peaceful before then, but after that the intrigues that once lay secret were revealed to everyone. Ned Harley was cheating on his wife, the football captain of the local high school was deep into drugs and having an affair with an older waitress (herself married to a prime suspect in the murder of Lauren), and eventually it was revealed that Lauren's father was the killer all along.
Eventually the town was vacated, why no one knows, one day it was all fine and dandy and the next it was a ghost town. Even before this happened the FBI Agent had disappeared. The Sheriff never told anyone why; they had went patrolling in the woods late at night, after a local beauty pageant had gone to hell, and the Agent never came back. Some said he ran off, others that the Sheriff killed him for reasons entirely his own, but a select few believed him to have been taken by some sinister force deep within the woods.
I never believed that last theory myself, mostly because I thought it was ridiculous that some supernatural force resided in the forest surrounding Northwest Passage. But now, seeing how decimated the town has become in just a short amount of time, I'm starting to believe that it might be true. After all, for a bustling community to suddenly just disappear in Roanoke style fashion... There's something fishy going on there.
That was why I had come back to the town. I wanted to know just why the population just disappeared. Did they all unanimously agree to vacate and not tell anyone? Were they wiped out all in one fell swoop? Were they transported away by that force that resides in the woods? These are questions I have to ask myself. I will try again and again, until the answers are revealed, and until I find out why this is all so damn familiar.
With a sigh, I flicked my collar up as I entered the town. The frigid December air breezed through the quiet town of Northwest Passage, my collar upturned to prevent my lips being wind chilled as I walked through the desolate streets. I hadn't been to the town in four years...
Finished, slightly disappointed in the finished product but eh.
I've never seen Twin Peaks, so I can't comment on that aspect.
Interesting bracketing of the first and last bits there with the collar, though it seems like there should have been some tiny change between them (unless the change was SO tiny that I missed it.) Otherwise it kind of looks like you hit your past key without meaning to. Definitely a lot of questions, and it was short, so there were no real answers. It just made me wish there were a couple more paragraphs to see where the narrator fit into the whole thing. I would say it works very well as a hook.
Also, I'm not sure if editing a post works for thread alerts or anything, so...yeah.
Anyhow, the part with the narrator entering town was intentional; supposed to be like, he's trapped in a time loop. First and last paragraphs are identical almost, except the last one trails off.
But yeah, this was more meant to be a hook kind of thing, not a whole story.
Also watch Twin Peaks. It's amazing.
I thought it might be a time loop, or just someone who has to reign in their own speculation. I just wasn't sure which. I guess the trail off is enough evidence that it wasn't just a copy/paste error; I'm just in a bit of a weird mood right now. :)
Anyhow, I was wondering if you had actually mused on the story any further, or only went as far as the prompt took you.
Only as far as the prompt took me, might expand it at some point. Maybe in a storygame, some kind of Silent Hill type story.
Well, I'd be interesting in seeing where you go with it if you choose to expand on it. :)
I feel the faint sunlight on my face. My watch is over. It’s finally time to get some deserved rest. It was another productive night. I made significant progress in my eradication of the newest criminal organisation.
Newest is probably the wrong word for it. The petty criminals rather put aside their internal struggles and banded together to face this new threat. They feared me. They hated me. They made my last few months a literal living hell. Where once I was lauded, I am now scorned. My reign, my lifework is collapsing under my feet. Not that I care much about those things. But the big question remained, was it worth it?
Where you started this undertaking openly four years ago, you had your preparations done for far longer. The problem was clear. The city buckled under an incompetent and corrupt administration. The crime lords were running rampant and unopposed. Riots were a daily occurrence and the city was in flames.
You yourself were from humble origins. A baker’s son in fact. Every day you’d help your father in the small shop after school. You remember fondly the little play fights you held with your dad, the cuddled you got from your mother. You were content, you were loved, you were truly happy.
All of that changed in one dark evening. You were a scrawny sixteen years old back then, more interested in chasing your love than everything else. It was rainy. A cold and terrible gale stuck down any who dared to venture outside. You were sitting calmly behind the counter. It was very quiet, so you had all the time of the world to write your heart out.
The calm and content atmosphere changed in the blink of an eye. The door was kicked open, letting the shuddering outside air into your paradise. You looked up, focusing your eyes on a tall and imposing man. The sight haunts you to this day. Especially his face. It wore an expression of pure indifference. His stiff lifeless lips were the only thing in the world that could match his cold and dead eyes.
A gunshot filled the room. Your mother’s lifeless corpse fell to the ground. Another shot. Your father fell to the ground. Still alive. The man adjusted his tie and walked forwards. Not a single muscle stirred his visage. He walked languidly towards you. Everything slowed down. Just you and the face existed. Until everything went black.
The only thing you knew was the face.
You awoke years later from your coma. It was a miracle. Apparently the bullet pierced cleanly through your head, missing any vital parts on its wary road. You were told that your mother had died that night. Your father wasn’t so lucky. He had survived the torture but come out a completely broken man. He was now under intensive care in a psychiatric ward.
That night left you a legacy that would crumble any other man. But you thrived. That terrible gale is the storm that burns inside you now, filling yourself with a cold and fiery revenge. That face is the face you wear at night. As every night you train yourself, push yourself and steel yourself. You had one goal and every breath you took was in tribute of it.
Eventually you took to the streets at night. You were named many things both good and bad. But what you did payed off. After a long year the city knew peace once more. It was a paradoxical peace, one you could never have. That face eluded you still, that one murder you were envisioning every moment of your waking existence. That was until several months ago.
But father, that was the past, we have to look forwards. I am here now right? Also I finally have good news. I know the location of the new boss. During the day he runs his business in a mansion. It’s a fortress locked down from every point of attack. But he retreats to an inconspicuous shop every night. The sneaky breadsucker. That is where I will strike, father. Just stay put, tomorrow I’ll bring more good news.
I don’t respond to his frantic mumbling. Tomorrow I’ll bring him his favourite cookies. For now I’ll grant myself some sleep. I must be alert tonight.
So here I am. Armed and armoured. I absently wipe the teardrops from my face. The only thing that’s on my mind is cold hatred. I check my gear and my surroundings one last time. Then I kick in the door, prepared to fight for my life… and theirs. Quickly I take a look. No weapons, the coast is clear.
Then eyes meet. I recognise them instantly. And I find myself in an icy sadistic satisfaction. An unexpected movement is responded with a deadly accurate gunshot. A feminine body drops to the floor, but I take great care that the eye contact is not broken.
With detached surprise I can see that they’ve come alive. Not with rage, but with sadness. His eyes were begging for forgiveness, for mercy just moments ago. But now I see their recognition. I see his mask break, his body shudder. I see his son. He’s younger than I was, must be around eight. He’s frozen in fear.
Oh how long I’ve waited for this moment. It is simply perfect. I calmly walk up to the kid. Brush his hair and hold his hands in mine. I put his fingers on the trigger, pointing the gun to my enemy. What a pitiful broken man he had become over the years. I press his fingers against the trigger seven times.
I saved my last bullet for him.
Afterwards I cleaned the murder scene, went through all the necessary procedures. As walked to see my dad, I felt tears running down my cheeks. A deep heavy feeling overcame me. It was emptiness, sadness and contentment all battling for supremacy. Oh, how I wish with all my heart that that one evening did not happen.
Alright after too long I finally got around to write something. It was a fun couple of hours filled with relaxing music and procrastination for my exam.
So how far did I stray from your original envisioned prompt @Mynoris?
Oooh! This sounds super cool!
If y'all don't mind shitty art I can draw something :D
Not really xD I came here to say draw my OCs please if I write stuff. I'll draw stuff back! :3
(And thanks! :D)
(Happy birthday! Even if it might be belated by now; I'm not sure what time zone you're in.)
Wish I could draw, to be honest. But I'm happy to see anyone sincerely keep this thread going.
-Your character has a weird power that they have no control over, and it's triggered by their emotions. (Aka think about the weirdest power anyone could have and slap a random emotional trigger!)
-A king is going around incognito, and somehow he's roped into a plan to assassinate himself.
-Your character gets stuck in a never-ending corn maze. The exit is always going to be right behind them.
-SPACE SIRENS. And a like, cargo spaceship that was never warned about them or something. Just write about space sirens, basically.
Dibs on the third one. Maybe the second one as a Monty Python-esque comedy short after that.