Ayo.
So here's a post I've been meaning to make but haven't really gotten the chance to. It's been a while and I just want to leave an update as to what's going on. Because a lot has changed.
I'm going to talk about The Fate of Goodwater first. This is a post-apocalyptic Fallout-inspired story, and the main reason why I created this forum in the first place. Ever since I conceived the story idea like, a year ago, it's gone through a lot of changes. I started writing it around mid-summer and by the beginning of school I had made some considerable progress. I thought it was going pretty well until after I took a weeklong vacation, and was away from my computer at this period. Upon returning I reread what I had written (like, around 40 pages I think? Can't really remember)... and I slowly grew to despise it. Well I'm not really sure how to explain, but it just didn't carry any depth, and the universe felt flat, unlike the world of Fallout of which I had come to love. So I stopped working on the story for a while (at this point school had started and I was pretty busy with that as well) and decided to focus on expanding the universe and lore. Eventually, I deleted all the work which had preoccupied my summer. So all of those update logs above right? All of that don't exist anymore. No regrets. Between long stretches of procrastination, avoidance, and generally being busy with life, I worked on the lore and, honestly, I'm much more happy with it now. Each faction (speaking of factions I added like ten of them) has so much more history and lore and the story has much more detail and branches. But it does mean this tale is probably going to take me years to write, and I've also wanted to incorporate some RPG elements which means I need to learn script, so that's going to take a bit too. Recently (like a few weeks ago), in a bizarre accident my laptop was defaulted to factory settings, I didn't lose much thankfully (was able to recover most of my files) but I lost my notes on the story, which were all on Twine and were saved locally. Luckily the actual story mostly remains okay, mainly because there's only a handful of pages actually written and that most of said pages were backed to CYS.
Anyway, that's pretty much everything going on with that story, from beginning to end. I'm still working on it now and then, but I'm mostly putting my energies into other side projects which are explained in greater detail below, mainly because the loss of the notes was actually pretty discouraging.
Okay that's all that needs to be said I think. Here's the first page to The Fate of Goodwater
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Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling, so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life, too
For I can't help falling in love with you...
As Elivs Presely utters the last words, the tune begins to fade. There is a pause before the broadcast continues with an elderly, kind voice.
Hey folks, you're listening to Western Wasteland Radio, your trusty little jukebox in this cold, cold world of ours. Since the year 2232, we've made a commitment in faithfully broadcasting those lovely pre-war tunes twenty-four seven, with no advertisements, for all your listening pleasure.
Up next, we have quite the earworm from the fabulous Mrs. Peggy --
The words are lost as you switch off the Zenith L515 radio that's perched upon the small rickety wooden table to your right. You sit up in the lawn chair you've been wasting in all day, glancing at the tabletop. Next to the radio is an empty bottle of soda, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a .44 magnum revolver with the chamber open, revealing the gun is empty, and several bullets surrounding the empty weapon. You take the cigarettes and light one, puffing out the smoke and watching as it curls upward. The harsh Wasteland sun makes you squint as it bakes you, it's quite irritating, but you've gotten used to it these past few days as you've been spending more and more time stewing in this lawn chair of yours. You stand up from the chair, taking a drag on the cigarette, looking around.
Looming behind you is a small run-down building, a pre-war gas station as evidenced by the large station sign next to it. Although there were plenty of places to stay in at town, you chose this location to set up base because it's a bit isolated, and it sits upon a hill, meaning you can get quite a view. Taking a drag on the cigarette, you move forward, mindful of the cracked pavement at your feet. From your vantage point, the Wasteland seems to go on as far as you can see. Hills and boulders sometimes rise up from the endless sand here and there. There's some creatures out far you can see like the cow packs and some rats and roaches crawling about, and there's also some vegetation like shrubs and barrel cacti here and there, but most of it is just the same old bleak, depressing brown-yellow of the Wasteland. It's inescapable: in the sun, in the enviroment, in the air, in the people you meet. Maybe it wasn't like this pre-war times... you recall the programs that somehow manage to broadcast on television between the endless static at times, and in the advertisements and comedy shows everyone seemed to have a smile on their face, despite deep down being paranoid of the bombs falling... anyway those times are long gone, and they'll never be back.
As you gaze upon the landscape, basking it in, something at the edge of your vision catches your eye and you glance down. It takes you a moment to realize what it is, but you eventually recognize the fast-paced creature as a gecko. The small yet quick biped reptiles have been quite the nuisance ever since the decline in the common hunters thanks to the raiders of the north. The hungry scaley bastards are willing to eat anything and everything, and without any other animal keeping them in check like the hunters once did, they've been multiplying and spreading like crazy, and even some of the local wildlife has been decimated thanks to their overpopulation. Like most of the creatures in the Wasteland, the geckos of the post-war didn't exist until after the bombs fell. The immense radiation in the air mutated pre-war common animals into mostly grotesque predatory abominations. You imagine geckos were once a common lizard, until the bombs transformed them into three to five foot thick-skinned reptiles with a mouthful of pointy teeth. The gecko in front of you kicks up sand as it runs, making a guttural laugh these animals make. Craning your head, you look around and spot the gecko's target; a large, brown rat scuffling about in a patch of barrel cacti. You watch as the gecko makes it to the cacti before the rat notices, thus beginning a chase as the rat squeaks in alarm as it darts between the cacti with the gecko at its heels. However the rat is no match for the prowess of the gecko, and is quickly trapped between several boulders whereupon the gecko pounces, crushing the rat in its powerful claws; blood jets out onto the boulder and the surrounding sand. The gecko raises its prize to its gnashing teeth. However, there's suddenly a loud bang and the creature falls back, making an awful squealing of pain, as blood spouts from the top of its head. The beast trips over a rock, as blood begins to pool in the sand. It twitches slightly but does not get back up.
You blow softly at the smoke rising from your .44 magnum revolver, before holstering the gun. You stare at the growing pool of blood for a second or two before turning back to the gas station, glancing at the lawn chair and the table, and taking several steps forward in that direction before stopping and deciding against it. Maybe, instead of lounging around listening to the radio like you usually do, you should actually do something today, like visit town or something. So you turn the opposite direction and begin following the cracked pavement north past the station and down the hill, towards the nearest town, a small settlement called Goodwater, probably named from the lake a bit northwest.
You're a drifter, and have been one your entire life. You left the village you grew up in when you turned sixteen, yearning for adventure, and you've never looked back. In your travels, you've worked as everything from a merc to a hunter to a farmer, always switching and never really dropping your bags at the settlements you passed. That lifestyle you've been living your whole life in relative comfort could change however, as for the past few months or so you've been heading in the direction of a place called the Highland, after you first heard of it from the radio. It's apparently a large, sprawling, and secure city to the north, a city of happiness and sin, full of casinos, prostitutes, alcohol, and potential, all guarded by the city's police force. From all the jobs you've worked you definitely have the money to afford living there. Although you're not entirely sure whether you are going to stay at this city, given that it actually exists, you've been heading in it's direction these past few months keeping open ears for any word of the city.
However, you've come to a temporary stop of your travels at Goodwater, the city you've been stuck at for the past week or so. You could always head to the gas station, pack up your things, and follow the road past the city up north, but there's a problem. And that problem is the Dusters gang. Well, maybe its a bit inapropriate to call them a simple 'gang', ever since they took the north road they've proved themselves to be a lot more than just a simple raiding party. You've been travelling the Wastes for years upon years now, and in your experiences you've come upon raiders; loose bands of druggie, psychotic degenerates willing to kill everything in sight for loot, but the raiders the town has been dealing with for the better part of almost a month are much more than your usual psychotic drunks looking to score some caps from unexpecting trading caravans. For one, common raiders are nomadic, but these raiders surely have a base somewhere north from where they attack the town. Not much is actually known about the Dusters specifically of their history, before they began targeting Goodwater they weren't very high up there in terms of status, even by raider standers, though they were still known throughout the Wastes. These days they're camped out to the north, frequently preforming hit-and-run attacks on the town every now and then, which again is unusual for raiders to do. Without the leadership of the local sheriff, a very much respected cowpuncher named Zeke, who was captured in one of the recent Dusters raids, the town's been really falling apart. There's not much Goodwater has to defend itself from the raids. There's a crude barricade a bit north from town, but that hasn't done much to stop the Dusters before, and there's also the local town militia, but without someone like Zeke managing things they're simply incompetent. Before the Dusters showed up, merchants and caravans used to come from the north, but these people have since been driven off, leading to the decline of some of the businesses in Goodwater that depended on the caravans. However, surely the town is lucky that water and food aren't directly challenged by the predicament, as there is always Lake Good and some farms in town as well as the remaining hunters. Even still, the town is slowly dying and it feels like any day that the Dusters could storm in and quickly seize the city, and why they haven't already is unknown.
The sand crunches underneath your leather boots, and the Wasteland sun, as always, beats down on you. You soon come upon a very basic wooden sign along the road, which reads, in crude black lettering, 'Welcome to Goodwater, partner!', and below that there's a population count but no number is given. A can of black paint sits at the foot of the sign. Glancing up from the sign, you see a large cluster of buildings ahead: the town of Goodwater. You come up to the first two buildings of town, which stand facing the road. The rusted, and in some parts broken, sign atop the first building reads 'General Store' while on the second, 'Pioneer Saloon'. You stand between the two buildings. The General Store lies southwest while the Pioneer Saloon lies northwest. If you go directly west, you can pass between the buildings and head into Goodwater. Going south or north will take you up or down the road, up north you can see the crude barricade, and by going south you will eventually reach the hill, and the gas station where you're camped out. Going east will take you off the road and into the sands of the Wasteland. Depending on how far out you go, you could come upon some creatures.
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Now the next project. Like I was saying earlier, I kind of wanted to escape from Goodwater for a bit after the loss of my notes, so I started writing a more fantasy-oriented story. If I continue with this one, I don't expect it to be as long or as good as TFoG (Same with the next one, TFoG is going to be a BEHEMOTH of a game) It tells the story of an elderly mayor of a dwarven outpost as he struggles to maintain control over the fortress after a series of strange events pushes it to the brink of chaos...
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Yawning, you roll over on your wooden bed so that you're lying upwards, staring at the stony ceiling of your bedroom. Your ceiling is engraved with grand depictions of heroes defeating great beasts, of which you are fond of looking at. You see those figures every morning upon your wake, staring back down at you. You hope to be like them one day: engraved, and remembered forever in dwarven history as one of the original founders and mayor of the Grand Fortress Ivtan.
You begin getting out of bed. Your wife, emerging from underneath the spider silk quilt, expresses her protest by playfully nuzzling against your arm. You chuckle, planting a light kiss above her brow before seperating. You still remember the day you met her, thirty-five years ago. She was a migrant from the Mountain Empire, a shy, playful young girl whom you immidiately fell in love with. Although it's been decades since you first met her, it seems like she hasn't changed at all, remaining the beautiful, happy girl you've always known.
You begin heading towards your chester-drawer. Unfortunately, there isn't much natural light here underground, so you light an oil lamp that's sitting on your cabinet and began changing, removing your sleeping gown in favor of a leather cloak and iron boots. As you change, you glance at your wall. Hung here you have several armor pieces, a greatsword, and a portrait of your family back home. The weapon and armor belonged to your now deceased father, and the only people still alive in the portrait are your siblings whom you don't contact much these days. In your fifty years or so of managing Ivtan, you have only used the pieces several times. The truth is you aren't particularly fond of combat, especially whilst wearing heavy armor and facing down hordes of the enemy, and now in your old age combat is especially difficult. You prefer to lead, instead, and you've always been known for your analytical mind and intuition, probably why you signed up for the expedition to Ivtan all those years ago instead of joining the military like your father and your grandfather.
Fully changed, you head out of your room and into the hallway of the fortress. Here in the quarters wing, rows upon rows of doors face you down, connected by a narrow hallway and lit dimly by torches hanging from racks every few doors. You begin heading west, towards the grand dining room for breakfast, following the gems encrusted within the stone's center. You eventually come upon a great clearing: the dining room. There are several long rows of beautifully crafted tables and chairs located here, as well as artificial waterfalls at the sides of the room. There are always dwarves located in the dining room, and you nod to several and make idle chat as you head to a door at the far side of the room, leading to a kitchen area where you'll be able to collect your food.
After breakfast you make a short tour of the fortress, making sure everything is tip-top, being Ivtan's mayor and all. It is queer, the memories of the original expedition, alongside six other dwarves who would quickly become your friends, are still fresh in your mind. You remember taking in the air after your wagon finally came to a stop at a small hill in a woodland. Then came delving into this hill, creating what would later become known as mighty Ivtan. It was such a small and feeble thing in the beginning: nothing other than a hollow cave with several rooms, but as more and more migrants journeyed to Ivtan and the wealth and might of the fortress grew, it prospered, and continues to do so. Now, nearly fifty years later, the fortress is large and sprawling, and autonomous, like a bee hive. You've guided it almost from the beginning, after the original expedition leader died due to a ferocious bear attack. Now, only three of the original seven dwarves remain. Over the years you've witnessed the fortress in its expansion as well as in its downfall. But though faced with hardship, after fifty years, mighty Ivtan still stands roaring with life and power. You can't help but smile as you greet your fellow dwarves, inspecting the military as its members train and spar, at the miners as they chip away at the rock seeking ore and treasure, at the blacksmiths as they operate their various workshops whilst sweat runs down their foreheads from the intense flames of which they operate, at the dwarf children playing with rock toys, and at your dear friends as you knock back bottles of freshly brewed dwarf rum with them. The last threat that seriously challenged the fortress was a nearby tribe of goblins that would ocasionally attack the fort, however the sickly green gremlins had never managed to seriously breach the outer defenses. The tribe nor its members have not been spotted by the scouts in a long time, months even, it's like they suddenly ceased all activity.
All in all, life is good. You await your approaching death -- for surely it could be any day now in your old age -- with happiness and peace, knowing you'll die with your loving wife and friends by your side, in the fortress you have built from the ground up, and have shown love and care for, like a parent would to their child.
At midday you head down the main staircase, to your study. It's time to begin bookeeping work: the elven caravans are going to arrive in several weeks and as such it is important the dwarves take stock of the supplies and wealth of Ivtan; a process you have done, and now head, for a long time. Everyone tells you to retire from managing, but you're so used to doing this that you're probably the best at it, and anyway, it doesn't really bother you. Working with figures, numbers, and arithmetic as a bookeeper must has kept your mental capacities in check. And so you light an oil lamp, dip a quill in a bottle of ink freshly crafted from the fisherdwarves, and begin reviewing the work of your subordinates. You work diligently for the next hour, the only sound being the crackling of the flames from the lamp and the scratching as quill meets paper. You are, however, interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. You remove your spectacles, and sit up straighter. "Who goes there?" You call out.
"A scout from the militias, sir. Commander Hemkur has sent me." A young muffled voice from behind the door calls out. How peculiar, you do not usually partake in the matters of the Ivtanpluk military: that would be Commander Hemkur Highstone, one of the original seven dwarves whom established the fortress. As such, Hemkur and you have history. Hemkur is a good man with a strong arm, known for his famous hammer of which he has named 'Highstone' after himself, though he has quite the raging temper at times, but then what dwarf does not.
"Do come in," You say, and you watch as the doorknob turns and a dwarf nervously shuffles in. He is dressed in milita scout armor. He salutes before speaking. "Sir, a matter has come about of which Commander Hemkur has asked me to inform you of. Er, well..." he nervously clears his throat. "This morning several soldiers managed to capture... a goblin. He was wandering deliriously at the edge of our fortress' territory from the direction of the goblin clan."
"A lone goblin, eh? Well isn't that strange. Was he bearing a message of any sort? Perhaps he was a scout?"
The soldier shakes his head. "Sir, he was not bearing any message, and if he was scouting out the fortress, he was not attemping to hide himself at all. He was devoid of any clothing or armor when we found, though he did have tribal tattoos enscribed upon him. He seemed confused and didn't react to much of anything. He was brought to the dungeon for interrogation, however we have not produced much adequate results mainly due to the goblin's blasted lack of cooperation. The only thing he has uttered thus far is your name."
"My... name?" You squint in confusion.
"Uh, yes sir. Well, whatever he's groaning sounds quite awful like your name. It somewhat sounds like he is demanding for you. Anyway, Commander Hemkur therefore requests your presence at the interrogation, for it is hoped that the goblin will comply much better with his, er, 'request' delivered. As you must understand, mayor, this is the first lead we have had on the goblins in almost a year. Commander Hemkur requests that you join us in pursuing this matter."
"Have you considered the possibility that this may be an elaborate scheme put on by the goblins in order to assassinate me, or perhaps Highstone, or another noble?"
"With all due respect mayor, the goblin has been bound with a rope and held behind stieel bars. The only way for him to be able to attack anyone would be if he posessed some abnormal strength, which is most unlikely as the archmage attempted to detect evil on him, and has found he posesses no aberrent qualities, for a maruading goblin at least. Even if he did somehow manage to get out of his restraints, there are plenty of guardsdwarves just waiting for that oppurtunity. I believe you are safe, sir."
"Hm," You drum your fingertips against the oak table, mulling over everything the scout has told you. Though this is a most strange occurnece, and you've got a decision to make: you could either aid Commander Hemkur in the interrogation of the goblin, or finish up preperations for the elven caravans.
The tribe have been quite the pests in the past, with what their frequent raids and attacks, and finding out the goblins' current doings is always a top priority. Unfortunately, no real goblin activity has been witnessed for almost a year, which seems rather suspicious. The goblin captured may be a possible lead, and with you around he might finally start talking. Which makes it important that you get down there.
On the other hand, you've got some more immediate work ahead of you in preperation for the caravans. Although with any trading oppurtunity there's always some paperwork and recording to be done, it seems especially important this particular time around with the elves. Unfortunately, the relationship between Ivtan and the eladrin merchants has become mostly strained and uncomfortable, which is not a feeling uncommon between the eladrin and the other races. It all goes back to the elf beliefs: the elves are a strictly pacfist kind, and any elf partaking in a violent approach to any problem is immediately exiled by the rest of the community. This outright pacificism stretches out to vegetation, specifically wood. Elves get very uncomfortable around wood and will entirely avoid trading with it, moreso than any other animate object, such as livestock, that they are also sensitive around. Unlike essentially all of the other races besides humans, elves believe in a one god, named 'Isa'. According to elven beliefs Isa blessed several seeds of a tree and planted them into the ground, producing some fantastic results. Non-believers of the eladrin faith have yet to explain the eladrin trees: they are the thickest, largest, most durable, and above all contain the most magic potential when compared to any other tree. Elves live in grand, sprawling forests of these trees and surely seeing an eladrin forest retreat is quite the sight. Anyway, the eladrin response to wood and wooden goods can cause some friction in relationships as most goods are, of course, made from trees. Now, while elves are normally very-much against using their sacred, magical trees, sometimes merchants will fill out 'special orders' for people they are happy trading with. Therefore, before the elf merchants will be open to trading their special wood with the fortress, they need to be comfortable with it. You have devised a way to make the elves happy after all the friction and tension that has occured: you have ordered your craftsdwarves to make a large quantity of eladrin minature Isa sculptures and religious objects, for elves are quite devout. However, this can only be done when the stocks are updated and the wealth calculated, which is your job as head bookeeper.
Not to mention the fact that this rambling goblin doesn't have to mean anything. He could very well be some poor inbred whom acidentally wandered into your fortress grounds. Or it could be an assassination plot from the goblins, and no matter what the scout has said, that doesn't necessarily make you feel all that better about it.
The scout patiently awaits your decision. Both investigating the goblin and finalizing preparations for the elven caravans are important, but you must choose between one or the other.
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Out of all of these stories, the fantasy one before this one probably has the highest chance of being published soon.
This one tells the story of a kid growing up in the inner city and it goes through the different stages of his life. The protagonist could either get involved with gangs or crime, or instead pursue a different life on the broken and ragtag police force trying to restore order. I haven't really written much for this one.
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CHAPTER 1: ROUGH BEGINNINGS
A man with a dream with plans to make cream,
Which failed; I went to jail at the age of fifteen,
A young buck selling drugs and such who never had much,
Trying to get a clutch at what I could not touch
-Inspectah Deck, C.R.E.A.M
"Wow... this... I mean, it looks pretty good..." Mr. Wadsworth finally says. He was quite dumbfounded. seemingly impressed, as he sifted through the stack of papers at his desk before looking up at you. "I don't expect this type of thing from you."
You hang your head a bit, sheepishly, avoiding his eyes. "Guess I was bored last night, and thought about picking up the pen and just, I dunno, going where it took me..." You nod at the papers. "That's the result."
"Well, I'm glad you did," Mr Wadsworth beams. "It always makes me happy to see a pupil tap into their potential and create something like this. My job as a teacher is to show you that you have potential, but it is the student's job to actually utilize it." With that, your English teacher launches into a lecture about potential or something, you don't really know because you quickly stop listening. Instead you begin regretting your decision of showing Mr. Wadsworth what you wrote last night. He drones on and on, and only after fifteen minutes of you awkwardly pretending to understand and nodding your head every few seconds, he dismisses you, saying, "I expect more, similar things from you."
Yeah, right. That's probably the last time you'll ever show Mr. Wadsworth another of your written works, if you even write again that is. Why'd he have to make such a big deal out of nothing? You don't know why you even bothered trying to write last night, it's not like you're Mr. Wadsworth's star student or something, and you certainly don't care much for English, much less school in general. You think back to last night: you were just tired of listening to your father and mother having yet another argument, and you simply grabbed a pen and just started writing in your notebook. You had never done something like this before, which makes it even more bizarre. Reading what you came up with, you realized how shitty it all was. Why you bothered showing it to Wadsworth, knowing how much he hates you and how bad it was, you don't really know. Hopefully he forgets about it or something and never brings it up.
You know your life is never going to amount to anything, such is the fate of anyone with the tough luck of living in the city of Graveview, where you've grown up all fifteen years of your life. The sad truth is, you'll never escape Graveview, because that would require money and a plan, something it seems like no one has yet everyone wants. If you aren't going to die from a drive-by or stray gunfire, you'd probably bite the dust from the police force who probably woudn't hesitate on pulling a gun on your ass, thanks to your gangbanging brother and your druggie poor excuse of a father. You already get nervous every time you see a cop car on the street.
As you leave the high school grounds, you ponder your next decision. It's Friday, which means you have a couple of days of freedom before you're locked up again for six hours throughout the next five days. You're not even really sure why you even bother with school, maybe it's because without it you probably wouldn't have much to do, or maybe you're just trying to make your mom happy. Maybe it's both. But with the way you're going, you probably won't be able to get into tenth grade next year, which means you're going to have to spend another year with Mr. Wadsworth and the rest. School's just a bunch of bullshit, a waste of time. Your brother must've understood this too, which is why he quit in the eleventh grade.
You decide to head over to your friend's house, a kid named Victor who is in your classes. Victor may be a bit of a bad influence on you, but then he's the only kid who'd bother hanging with you at all, and it's not like you care anyway. After all, the illegal adventures and stunts you and Vic have pulled have been some of the most risky yet exciting times of your life. You begin heading in the direction of his house, perhaps you could spend the rest of the day there. Your brother is never around the house, your dad is probably getting high off of crack and looking around the house for things he could pawn off to get money for more of the stuff, and your mother is working three jobs, and, thus, like your brother, is never around the house. Your mother is pretty much the reason why you all have a house in the first place, then again your brother also chips in with money for the rent too, from time to time, except no one asks where he gets it from and it's probably better that way. Anyway, point being it's safe to say no one would care if you didn't return home for a couple of hours.
Vic's place is fairly far from the school, which is why he catches the bus. He's lucky, because you always have to walk to school, which you hate because you never feel safe. Still, you've walked to Vic's plenty of times, and you've never met with trouble.
Except this time, you know, as soon as you see Krazy and his posse marching down the street. You see his eyes lock with yours, and his lips curl into a sneer upon recognition, as he begins casually walking in your direction with his goons at his back . All too soon, Krazy and his cronies have surrounded you. You sigh, here we go...
"'Sup, B." Krazy greets, giving you a little shove. Krazy, who is a two years above you, is the scourge of the high school. Those who aren't with him automatically become his enemy, meaning most of the high school kids are on his side. They all harass you, except Krazy does it the most, and in the worst ways. His dad is a police officer, which means Krazy never seems to get in trouble for all the shit he does and will do in the future. Speaking of his pops, it seems like he hangs around your block the most. He's very talkative and will never let you forget about your fucked-up family.
"Leave me alone," You struggle to say over the lump in your throat. You try to back out, looking for an exit, but the boys don't let you leave that easily. They shove you back, and you fall on your ass, which causes the group to erupt into nervous laughter. Krazy extends a hand to you, which you obviously don't accept. Slowly you attempt to get up, and it seems like Krazy will let you, until he gives a hard kick to your side and you fall back again. The entire group closes in then, kicking, stomping, and punching at you. You manage to cover up your head, but that doesn't stop anyone from letting loose on your exposed back, legs, or arms. You moan out in pain but there's nothing you can do to stop it, so you bite your cheek to stop from crying, not willing to make yourself an even bigger laughing stock for Krazy and his cronies. Gritting your teeth you wait in agony for the torrent of pain to end.
Eventually, after what seems like eternity, Krazy breaks it up and stops everyone, and you thank god, laying there on the ground, arms still over your head, stinging from the blows, and you wonder just how bruised you are yet thankful that the beating is over. After several seconds, Krazy grips you by the shoulder and flings you over so that you're staring up at the sky, though it is obscured by Krazy's angry face and his mob. The bully kneels down at you, and through your swimmy vision you can see that he pulls out a small switchblade, which glints in the light. He holds it at your throat.
After several seconds, Krazy simply mutters, "You're worthless," without even bothering to sneer.
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So yeah that's pretty much it.
Any comments or critique is cool, whether you're being constructive or reminding me how much I suck cuz of my procrastination, just say it yo.
In the mean time I think I'm gonna go get some Mountain Dew.
