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Concerning the bonus points: Darn, all I could think of was Clarissa Explains it all, and Tom Riddle from Harry Potter. >=/ Concerning Allamorph: Actually, my motive for your mention was double-sided: for one, I really did want the opinion of another reader, and I assumed you would post right behind me, and secondly, I wanted to acknowledge your mention in "The Chosen One" without making a post dedicated to it. No, I don't think you're following me, but yes, I'm sure you will follow me, as far as in critiquing this story goes. Concerning the Story, which is still phenom[b]e[/b]nal: At your writing caliber, I highly recommend not destroying any large work, as much as you might hate it. Dare I bring up Franz Kafka's famous anecdote to prove my point? The new segment is very good, I personally didn't feel it was rushed at all, at least not overly so. Though I would recommend rephrasing the first two sentences of the final paragraph, so as not to call attention to your feelings on your own work. It is my personal belief that most writers are literary self-deprecationists, and perhaps sometimes literary sluts, a title which, I suppose, may account for their self-deprecating tendancies. Fantistic work; I'm actually anxious for the next section. ^^

This is, again, fantastic work. Officially my favorite unpublished fantasy piece on the web (which may seem like a peculiarly narrow title, but I see a lot of it, absolute tons). I really like where this is going, and the skill you show in writing in general, specifically distancing the revealing of events and their actual occurance. Most web writers would jump directly to the disownment after it was revealed by Domminick. It's refreshing to see some patience. There was one thing that I dare nitpick: One, because you sometimes speak directly to the reader, the sentence, [I]"A great deal was asked about what they really did at Errant Gardens, which turned out to be many things[/I].", caused a slight confusion. I might recommend specifying that Arisa asked, and perhaps some mention to the conversation that followed, to better bring about the following sentence, [I]?I saw it, my dear, three questions ago, when you asked about pixies.?[/I] But that's really opinion-based. I may very well be the only one that bothered. What do you think, Allamorph? This is really great work. Phenominal.

I don't know how this managed to escape my attention for so long. It really is fantastic. I haven't seen work of this calibur on this board in quite some time, not in ages to be sure. I was particularly fond of "The Everwonder Compendium of All Possible Knowledge" quotes, and the small parts in which the author speaks directly to the reader (i.e. things like, "There are many things that shall be explained later, and others that shall not, because Virgil has his own story, but the main character here is Arisa."). The few problems I did have with this piece were all based on opinion; such and such a word choice didn't sound right, or some subtle cliche or other that really can't be avoided anyway, so I won't waste time nitpicking.

Ugh. Starting a story with its summary is never a good idea--I'm pretty disinclined to read something that I already know the storyline to, you know what I mean? Second, it's equally a bad idea to post work that you're not particularly proud of, or at least telling the audience that you're not proud of it. If you can't get excited about it, why should the reader? Maybe you're just bad at summarizing, I don't know, but I'll give you the benifit of the doubt, as a few of my friends and I are also terrible summarizing our work. If you post the first chapter, I'll read it, but I won't promise anything more than that.

Krist, talk about jumping the gun. Your introduction really doesn't merit a revelation like this, and I would almost assume that you're imagining this as you go along. There's also some problems with repitition and unvarying sentence structure. Some unnecessary things like " 'Hmm...' Arika said to herself. 'I wonder what that was about...' " Not as good as the intro...but I'll still read on if this doesn't go like another Harry Potter rip.

Overall, it's good; I enjoyed reading this and I would read more. But there were things that bothered me...There was a generic tinge that put me on edge, the whole most-popular-boy-in-school thing, for example, as well as the description of "long and straight brownish-red hair". Little things. But I liked the scene as a whole, so, if you post more, I will read it.

[FONT=Garamond][CENTER]The Existentialist[/CENTER] [INDENT]The concept of plausible reality is sketchy at best. A collection of neural impulses collected from the environment, processed and translated, altered and tweaked by our psyche gives is the idea of perception. Meaning, a series of chemical reactions is all that dictates what[B] is [/B] and what [B]exists[/B]. An outer environment need not exist for us to percieve one, and the reality we percieve need not always adhere to the one that is [B]truly there?[/B][CENTER]***[/CENTER] The grey sky made black silohuettes out of the surrounding towers, wavy and distorted, contradictory to the architectural laws of logic. I lay in the center of a halo of cobbelstone, though I percieved no light from which this halo could have been emitted, like being in the glare of an invisible spotlight. The night?or at least, the darkness which resembled night in this realm of absurdity which held no ?day? to contrast, absorbed what should have been a cloudy sky and made it oblivion, a floating void of grey and black that hovered over this realm like a dome, a writhing, ever-changing thing like the waves of a toxic ocean? ?Mr. Emon?? I hear a voice, familiar, but there?s nobody next to me. This voice pervades the time and space of my illogical reality, like an enourmus pressure, like light upon a receeding shadow. ?Mr. Emon, are you still with me?? The world is shaking around me with a deafening hum, derbis rattling and vibrating in my darkening cobbelstone haven, around which envelops oblivion. There?s a screech inside my head, and for a second I see light-- a cream-colored celing and a fluorescent light strip and then it?s gone, and the sky is bleeding and the serpentile towers swim up to meet the drops of oblivion and they dissapear into each other like individual black holes that fight for dominance in the sky and another screetch and peek at the fluorescent light and the two worlds become one, a liquid mixture of reality, shifting and contorting on the film of my perception and my halo is gone and oblivion converges on my being and I CAN?T BREATHE AND THE BLEEDING FABRIC OF OF EXISTANCE IS TEARING AND GNASHING AND UNRAVELING AROUND ME ?Mr. Emon, it?s paramount that you respond to your therapy. Our interaction is crucial if you wish to achieve mental stability.? Blackness?and the sound of my heartbeat. I can breathe again. I respond. ?It?s just ?Emon?? not ?Mr. Emon?.? ?Very well, Emon.? Am I at the psychiatrist?s office? ?In our last session you complained of dillusions, hallucinations, and a sense of alienation from the world?? I open my eyes, slowly, and see the fluorescent light strip and the cream-colored celing. I?m laying on a freudian couch. When did I leave the apartment? ??you also mentioned trouble in deciphering what?s real and what?s imaginary. Is that correct?? Is it? I don?t know if that?s right or not. What do I need to tell you that results in a fucking cure? You didn?t give me anything last time?just told me to come back?do I not seem desperate enough? No perscription, no diagnosis, nothing. It?s a lot like being told the peace of mind you?re looking for does not exist. Please act accordingly. Did I say that out loud? ?Mr. Emon?? ?Maybe you can help me. I doubt it, but I don?t know? It?s not something as simple as hallucinations; I don?t think it could really be classified. I hope I?m wrong, but I don?t really think so. Imagine, for one brief second, breaking all the laws of logic and physics and the world that would become of that. No, better yet, imagine that you are the only thing you know to exist in the world, and that everything else is the manifestation of your thoughts. Roll your eyes back in your head and walk inside the wrinkles of your mind?nothing?s tangible, nothing?s real, and reality conforms to your worst fears? My problem stems from the fact that I can percieve two paralell, yet opposing realities at the same degree of clarity, one here, and one...one inside my mind. I have no control over which reality I percieve and when, and slowly, I?m, I?m losing distinction?? ?Distinction?? ?I mean, the ability for me to decide which reality is ?real?, ?true?, a proper representation of the world around me. It?s not just common sense anymore, it?s not just a matter of logic and falacy, they?re both whole and complete, and perhaps completely real. Sometimes they even bleed into each other? And when you really think about it, when two individual realities can be percieved at the same degree of clarity, deciding which one is right is really just a matter of preference, isn?t it?? ?What are you talking about, Emon?? ?Are you even listening? Something?s bloody wrong with me! How do I know you?re not just a reprocussion of my condition? Is this even real?? ?Emon?? ?Damn it! You don?t know what it?s like to be there when worlds mash together?You shouldn?t have brought me here, interrupted me with this crap!? ?Just what, exactly, were you doing that was so important?? ?Before you came?? ? I watched the sky fall.[/FONT][/INDENT]

That was grand, Vicky, great writing, even though you haven't had much experience in the first person (which, by the way, if you hadn't stated in the introduction, I would have never guessed). Quite remarkable work, especially on a subject so many people can relate to. You expressed the silent aggrivation on the bus perfectly, and the character was vague enough for everyone to feel affection for. I won't bother micromaneging any of the mistakes that you could fix with a simple reread (there were only one or two anyway, really matter-of-opinion mistakes), it's the whole that counts, and really, I loved it.

[FONT=Lucida Sans Unicode]Name: Borarium Gender: male Personality: Fueled and perserved by hatred, so vast that it has sated his appetite for anything else but that hated, a feeding, growing thing which has consumed Borarium's whole like a sickening bog of cancer and disease. A hate so passionate, so heated by the fires of Hell that Borarium has gone silent, almost apathetic to the appearance out of a sheer loathing that man has never felt. Appearance: A charcoal black demon with white horns that point back and tilt up behind his long ears. His eyebrows are white, though they are not of hair, but ash instead, and his eyes glow white with the intense hatred in his soul, and his raven wings that shed burning feathers when he flies, never depleting what seems an inexhaustable amount of deathly black feathers that seem to baulk the light of the sun itself. A magmic black rock expanse of his skin forms something like leggings, and his feet bare tremendous claws that grind into the gravel upon which he walks. Side: Hell Aspect: Strength Weapon: One large obsidian-tinted sword[/FONT]

[FONT=Garamond]Name: David Morte Gender: Male Age: 19 Appearance: David wears the mosk of youth and individuality, favoring artistic clothing he designed himself to much of anything else. He's tan with a clever face and messy black hair that sticks up in tuffs about his head. Story-Snippet: ...what awoke Kevin that night was not his reoccuring paranoia, but instead a faint, throaty sound, like the growling of an angry cat. Slowly, with the heaviness of slumber he went to the window, and as he had before, turned on the outside light. The patio furniture remained undisturbed, but the noise continued, groaning now, perhaps a cat had been injured. He was about to turn off the light and go back to sleep, when he noticed on the edge of the halo created by the outside light, a fleshy shape, almost like a human, but somehow...wrong. Whatever it was, Kevin decided that the growl had resounded from it. Even in the dark, Kevin could make out the shadows cast by mud and grime caked onto the thing's arms and legs, which spasmed in jerky movements as it made its way across the yard. Something shined on the thing's face where its eyes might have been, though the creature was too far away to tell for certain. Something about it, something unexplainable made the hairs on the back of Kevin's neck stand up, but as disgusted as he was, he couldn't help but watch the thing wander across his yard. The midnight cold created a mist on the window, and Kevin reached up to wipe it off, just enough to see the thing more clearly. It was stranger than he had first percieved, disproportioned, and strangely hunched over. But as Kevin examined it, he realized suddenly that it had suddenly stopped moving, and without looking, Kevin sensed that it was now entirely focused on Kevin himself. It jerked around to face Kevin, revealing to him that what he had seen shining was wire, a thin metallic wire that barred its terrible eyes, and a grate across its gaping maw. Kevin started and immediately switched off the light so as to hide himself. For a minute, there was silence, even from the throaty groaning he had heard. The thing seemed to have run off. Kevin was about to turn back to bed, but just before he could, he felt something against his face. A warm, moist something, that Kevin recognized almost immediately. Breath.[/FONT]

At one time, who spoke in group therapy was dictated by the passing of a small, plush ball. The wards figured nobody could actually kill themselves with a small plush ball. Then somebody did. Now, people were directed to speak when the therapist turned to them and said, "How are we doing today?" The "we" thing had creeped me out for a long time, since a patient had asked that, "How are we doing" and as I said fine she turned to me and screamed, "SHUT THE !@#$% UP!" and then continued to calmly talk to herself. The therapist turned to me and asked, "how are we doing today" and I pointed to myself and made sure I was apart of this, "we". She nodded, and I began. "I'm fine today, thank you." I said in my most pleasant, fake tone. "And on the subject I'd like to say that my particular...illness has caused some, ah, minor setbacks in my art career." Minor setbacks. I was spewing bullshit like a septic tank, and the therapist accepted every word, probably more focused on what she would do after work, or how she would escape if one of us started going nuts. To tell the truth, I wanted to tell the therapist everything my insanity had caused, about the partial disownment of my family, about the end of my proper life, about the would-be suicide attempt (had I been able to find a bottle of Tylenol in my apartment), about how I would happily live the rest of my life blind, if it meant never seeing those demons again. But instead I made my entire life story out to be a few "minor setbacks" and grinned as she grinned and in that moment, lying to the therapist in a mental facility, I got the strange feeling that I would be the perfect symbol for modern society. "Very good, Kevin. Thank you for sharing." I didn't know whether or not she had even heard what I had said, or had just pretended to. Maybe she just didn't care. "And, can I ask you just what your condition is?" She continued. I swallowed a lump, and made up my mind not to mention demons. "I, ah, have occasional dillusions." I said at last. I thought maybe the therapist would ask me to expand on that, but she accepted it and turned to the next person, my gut tightening at the "how are we doing today?"

Name: Borarium Gender: male Personality: Fueled and perserved by hatred, so vast that it has sated his appetite for anything else but that hated, a feeding, growing thing which has consumed Borarium's whole like a sickening bog of cancer and disease. A hate so passionate, so heated by the fires of Hell that Borarium has gone silent, almost apathetic to the appearance out of a sheer loathing that man has never felt. Appearance: A charcoal black demon with white horns that point back and tilt up behind his long ears. His eyebrows are white, though they are not of hair, but ash instead, and his eyes glow white with the intense hatred in his soul, and his raven wings that shed burning feathers when he flies, never depleting what seems an inexhaustable amount of deathly black feathers that seem to baulk the light of the sun itself. A magmic black rock expanse of his skin forms something like leggings, and his feet bare tremendous claws that grind into the gravel upon which he walks. Side: Hell Aspect: Strength Weapon: One large obsidian-tinted sword

[IMG]http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y111/Rainwolf_Graphite/BOMBSHELLSdrop.jpg[/IMG] [COLOR=DarkOrange] [FONT=Lucida Console]The year is 2029, you stand in the streets of London, smack dab in the center of a war between France and England. You move with the shadows of the street, professionally, using techniques you never learned, yet come so natural it?s as if you had been here since you were born. The primal instincts of fear and self-preservation have long since been wiped from your brain; when a mortar shell ignites the cobblestone not twenty yards in front of you, you regard it almost mechanically. A class 2 Mortar using 12 pound shells that struck the ground at an angle of about 85 degrees. They?re close. They?re almost right in front of you. You know that they?re your enemy, but you have no idea who they are. Another mile in the shadows, and you come on a platoon with two mortars. Bingo. You?re twenty feet away, they see you and open fire. Hell of a time to remember: you?re unarmed. Wait, let?s go back just a bit. It all started with Aritech. The Aritech Corporation is the leading weapons development industry worldwide, with clients among Russia, Germany, even the United States Government. Two years ago, in an attempt to find test subjects for new war time developments, they petitioned the American supreme court to gain control over the rights of high security convicts on death row. This would mean a complete abolishment of the death penalty, as well as millions in tax dollars returned to the public which would have otherwise been spent on prison fees. The world supported them with resounding applause. To them, Aritech was a saint, taking these terrible people in and giving them a place in their own corporation. The supreme court voted unanimously to give them their rights. As did the courts in Russia. And Germany. And, well, you get the idea. The public had no idea what kind of a hell Aritech had in store for them. Don?t be angry at them, they just haven?t met you yet. Six months later, four men went to the supreme court with a claim against Aritech. Hahaha, settle down, I know you want to kill them. I bet your blood boils just thinking about them, and what opportunities they stole from you. The four men, each convicts, who had been sentenced to servitude under Aritech, claimed that Aritech had framed each of them for their crimes, in order to gain their rights and servitude. The court battled for months, in a show that had the whole world on their feet. But that?s exactly what it was, a show. The four men were hired by Aritech to propose this claim against them, and in the final weeks of the case, call themselves frauds. One of the four men went to the stand, and confessed that he had actually killed his wife, and that he and the others had just blamed Aritech for it as a sort of payback. The four men were fakes from the start, and they became the laughing stock of the world, and Aritech remained a saint. Of course, it was all a ploy by Aritech to disprove any further allegations against them. If four frauds accused Aritech of framing them for murder and were disproved, nobody on Earth would believe another accusation of the same kind. This way, Aritech could safely do exactly what it had been accused of doing, framing young men and women in order to gain their rights and servitude. Sound familiar? I suppose this marks the end of your life, or rather, the beginning, depending on how you see it. You weren?t so different from any of the others, framed for murder, convicted, sold to Aritech. It happened all over the world, to hundreds, thousands even. Aritech was building a convicted army of innocent men. And you were all set to be one of them, another worker in the mindless masses of Aritech slaves. But you were chosen for something great. A new project, a biological training program to bring about the fearless soldier, cold to the world. Robotic in every way except that you were still alive. You were injected with twelve million dollars worth of nanomachines, and put to sleep for fifteen years. A fifteen year mental program that wrote war tactics directly onto your cerebral cortex, so advanced, that a twenty foot dash unarmed in London under heavy machine gun fire is just the mark of another new day. And in your new life, there is no hope of peace, or rest, or any future worth looking forward to. [FONT=Palatino Linotype]:SIGNUPS:[/FONT] The battle simulation on the streets of London end with a thud, as the last mortar operator falls to your feet. The voice that had narrated your past suddenly takes on the body of a middle aged blonde man in a suit. He smiles. [B]?The day is the 5,474th, or fifteen years minus one day, if you prefer. As you could have guessed, today is the final day of your fifteen year hibernation. You?ll be awake shortly, though where you will find yourself is of some mystery, even to me. Let?s go over your memory readouts, to check for any signs of amnesia. What is your Name, do you remember? How old were you when you went into this hibernation, fifteen years ago? (Don?t worry, the comatose suspended the natural degradation of your body, meaning you?ll physically be about the age you were frozen at.) Tell me what you look like. What is your nationality? Tell me of your personality. Tell me, what crime were you framed for? You chose a weapon at the beginning of your hibernation, the use of which you were to be specially trained for. Can you tell me what weapon that is? And tell me a little about yourself, your past. Alright, everything checks out. Post minus ten hours to wake up. Good luck, soldier!?[/B] You don?t know why, but the first thing you notice when you awaken is the time of year. It?s autumn.[/FONT][/COLOR]

Name: Jack Mont the Dirty Traitor Age: 27 Gender: male Bio: When a big-time bandit kills a sherrif, they take his badge and use it like a fake ID in neighboring towns. Each bandit gang feeds their horses blue-dyed hay, so when another bandit needs to steal a horse, he knows not to mess with the ones with blue teeth. These are bandit secrets. Jack Mort knows 'em, because for seventeen years of his life, he too was a bandit. He didn't have a family or nothing, no real noble cause for his career. He was just another scumbag varmit, but God damn he was good at it. When a partner in his gang tried to cut Jack Mort out of his share for a bank job they did a few years back, Jack Mort got real pissed and went to the sherrif. "I's a gonna help you catch this rattlesnake who done cheated me, and you's gonna take down 'dem wanted posters in return." Fact and negotiation blurr together if you're a sherrif with Jack Mort's pistol aimed between your pretty eyes. But Jack Mort wasn't the lucky sort. Some damn bounty hunter beat him to catching his former partner, and Jack didn't have anything else to barter the sherrif for his freedom. 'Till he heard about the Foxcrest Boys in California, that is. Description: Jack Mort's got a clever face, and forearms that look to come to reckon in a bar brawl, though he ain't no muscle boy, either. Man's got one of those fancy hats, straight brimmed with one side flipped up, dirty brown like his wearing chaps. Blue jeans and a cloud grey shirt, too. Weapons: Jack Mort and the gang he belonged to trainrobbed a french armory transport when he was twenty three. He got this purty little sawed off shotgun with three rotating barrels out of the deal, along with a six-shooter with a foot long barrel. Accurate at a hundred yards. Reward: His freedom

[B][FONT=Garamond]So yeah, we were the kids in Major Tom?s gang. I?m not saying I?m proud of it, especially not now, but that?s who we were, and there?s no changing that. We all had our stories when we came needing a fix from Major Tom, and no matter who we were, he gave it to us, shot us up himself with some good stuff to wipe away all that muck and fuss the doctors keep calling ?memories.? Yeah, we were junkies, all of us, in too deep to see the sun anymore, but Major Tom took care of us, gave us what we needed, place to crash, some grub here and there, and a fix when we needed it. We were his kids, we needed him. We didn?t have anywhere else to go, no families , no social workers to take us in and straighten us up, hell, junkies like us weren?t even welcome at soup kitchens. But Major Tom, he saw us like humans, took care of us, that?s why none of us freaked out when he came back from the Apple one day with some hot stuff?I mean hot. Stolen from the mafia itself, and lots of it, too. We were all scared they?d come for it, break down the door and put a slug between Major Tom?s big blue eyes, but he told us it was safe, the dons wouldn?t even notice it was missing. So we relaxed, shot up, and months went by without a whisper from the mafia. It was all going so well, but then one day, Ziggy, Anne Orexia and I walked in on Tom, swimming in blood, a rose by his perforated head. The mafia got him. Major Tom is dead.[/FONT][/B] [B]Sign Ups: Name:[/B] [B]Nickname:[/B] (old songs, mental/physical conditions, druggie references, be creative. This is what other players will refer to you as.) [B]Age[/B] (13-25) [B]Appearance[/B] (no pics, please) [B]Personality Biography[/B] Mine: [B]Name:[/B] Jonathan Gett [B]Nickname:[/B] Skull Boy [B]Age:[/B] 17 [B]Appearance:[/B] Sunken eyes, thin cheeks, pale as bone, skinny enough to pass for a cancer patient (though even Skull Boy can?t hold a candle to Anne Orexia), Skull Boy earned his name. Though he did look a little healthier when he let his black hair grow out, in thick messy tuffs that fall around his forehead. His dress varies, except for the purple long-sleeve flak jacket he got from his grandpa, or something like that, and I don?t even know if the dude?s still got eyeballs behind them shades of his. Guess that?s what happens when you?ve been doing smack as long as he has?light tolerance goes right out the window. [B]Personality:[/B] One thing you have to know about Skull Boy, he doesn?t smile. I mean, he?s not like cold or stoic, not like Nightingale was, but he just doesn?t smile, even when he laughs. Freaks you out at first, but it?s like when Gooney used to freak out at three in the AM and turn on all the lights, it?s just something you get used to. And Skull Boys cool, pretty laid back, and one of the better kids to get in a tight spot with. I?m telling you, the man just doesn?t loose his cool. He gets pretty hot tempered when he?s needing a fix, though. [B]Biography:[/B] Skull Boy?s last foster parents became meth heads almost a day after Skull Boy, 12 at the time, was adopted. They used the cash they got for taking in Skull Boy to dope themselves up, didn?t even bother feeding the little guy. His parents got high and violent everyday, taking most of it out on the other kids they adopted, putting them in boiling water, holding their heads down in the bath tub, well you?ve heard about the crap meth heads do. That?s why Major Tom didn?t use it, never handed it out to anyone. But compared to Skull Boy?s half-siblings, Skull Boy had it pretty good. He was beaten from time to time, but that was it, nothing serious. The other orphans adopted by the meth heads were killed off for the tortures they endured, but, and I don?t know why, Skull Boy never saw the hell the others did. Maybe the meth heads liked him, I don?t know. After two years in that house, starving and hurting and all that, Major Tom found him and took him in. The meth heads never looked, and never filed a report. Just kept taking the money they got for adopting him, and kept shooting meth. Skull Boy?s been at Major Tom?s ever since. Oh, and what did he do before he was twelve? Skull Boy?s the only one who knows that.