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General Discussion / Re: Not So Much A Face Reveal.
« Last post by ParmaJon on Yesterday at 11:58:58 PM »
True story..

A few years ago I had this group of friends who I spoke to on a Buffy forum.. the girl who was admin found this site where you would post your pictures and the site would analyse them and then post a picture of a famous person you supposedly looked like...

Now, i'm not pretty to look at lol.. so it took a long time for me to find a picture I didn't consider totally hideous.. I finally found one and put it into the site..

(bear in mind my friends were getting results like Kate Winslet, Madonna, Natalie Portman etc..)


I got Charles Manson..  really.. I was like WTF?? I'm not even a guy.. then I put in one of my baby pictures.. I got Charles Manson again but this time as a much younger man..

so yeah...

Story Critique / Postage
« Last post by DoomVroom on 05:25:01 PM 03/25/17 »
Have you ever received a letter in the mail addressed to you from someone with an unfamiliar name? If so, hi, that may have been me. I believe that everyone has a hobby of some sort – even if they won't admit to it. Some collect vinyl albums, some fingernails (gross), and some collect guns, but not I! I collect letters! I like going through the phone book and finding random home addresses to send mail to.

On a side note, I take my hobby very seriously; why, I still have every letter I've ever received. Many will claim that physical mail is irrelevant thanks to email, phones and social media, but that's not true, not in the slightest. There is something special, personal, about holding a letter in your hands. Each one is unique: the calligraphy on the envelope (and sometimes the letter itself), the stamp that may be loosely-fitted or tightly pressed up in the right hand corner, and let's not forget that some letters carry a scent. Oh, I forgot about the saliva on the inside of the envelope! That's always unique to the person that sends it to you.

What does electronic communication have over physical mail, huh? Nothing, that's right, NOT A DAMN THING! IT JUST SITS THERE FORGOTTEN OR ENDS UP DELETED! IF I COULD I'D TAKE AND SMASH EVERY FU – heh, lost my temper a bit. I suppose I could delete that, but hiding emotion would be akin to lying, a betrayal of myself, and frankly, I keep my feelings hidden enough as it is in my day to day life. Keeping everything bottled up sure sucks, and that's why I like letters; they allow me to let it all out. But you know, when you don't get a response you have no idea if anyone has observed your feelings and that is the exact same as keeping to yourself. It makes me feel like everything is still bottled up and when that happens I have to find another outlet. Not to mention, few things hurt more than being ignored.

Enter my other hobby, which in all actuality happens to go well with mailing letters, killing. Yup, them addresses sure come in handy! The police still haven't caught on yet, because they overlook the letters... or perhaps EVERYONE THROWS THEM AWAY! I suspect it to be a mix of both, actually. Oh, I don't want any P.O. Box owners who read this to feel left out! I love going to the post office and picking a Post Office Box at random to send mail to~ Now, I know what some of you are thinking, “You can't kill me if you don't know who I am or where I live.”

Pfft. It isn't remotely hard to stand around near the P.O Boxes and see who goes to which box. In fact, I sometimes write new letters while I wait. Following someone home tends to not take a lot of work or be hard either. To be perfectly clear, I only kill those who do NOT reply to my letters. It leaves my emotions all jumbled as I stated above and is rude.

The irony of my typing this message and posting it here instead of sending it by mail is not lost on me, but then those of you who read this and have received my letters, but didn't answer/open/read them probably wouldn't have read this, would you?

I hope I kept this brief and to the point! I certainly tried my best to. I suspect I'll be seeing some of you soon. Thank you all for letting me vent my emotions one way or another.
Story Critique / Re: It started with a coffee
« Last post by Silverado on 01:10:56 AM 03/20/17 »
I could give a more thorough breakdown of that if you'd like.

Please do my good sir
Also I don't know exactly how to quote so if this comes out weird or shitty please don't judge too much
Story Critique / Re: It started with a coffee
« Last post by Silverado on 01:06:46 AM 03/20/17 »
This is the first story I felt half decent about and to everyone who leaves criticism thank you. But then again I don't feel I deserve much praise because I write every story at midnight and fall asleep afterwards. So my grammar is shit everything is shitvand at the time of writing this it's ten o clock and I shoulve been asleep half an hour ago. My main problem is that it feels a bit too short yeah there was a character limit but things went by way too quick for me.
Story Critique / Sleeping Snow, Dreaming Snow
« Last post by Zathoth on 03:36:29 PM 03/17/17 »
I walk naked through the white woods. The snow is blowing all around me, but I do not freeze. I see a raven tearing into the corpse of something. There is blood in the snow.The raven flies into the air and lands on my shoulder, the talons dig into my skin. I bleed. The raven tells me to open my mouth. I do and it feeds me, shares it's prey with me. I walk. I reach a cottage. Seven strange and deformed little creatures come up to me and lead me inside the cottage. There is snow inside. In the middle of the room stands a bed. A woman lies upon it, naked, sleeping. She is beautiful. Her skin is whiter than the snow, long hair like flowing night and her lips redder than blood. I need her. The seven, tiny monsters urge me to go to her, to kiss her, to taste her, to feel her. I do. She awakens and kisses me back. Her lips taste of blood and-

Leila slowly returned to reality, blurry eyed and hungover. "Where the fuck am I?" she mumbled to herself before her sight readjusted to waking life and saw the the moldy shithole she and her band knew as the rehearsal space.

She had been sleeping in the ancient pile of fabric that had once been a sofa. She saw that Rick - the drummer - had chosen a more comfortable and less disgusting place for rest: On the floor, in his own vomit.

Leila slowly sat up, trying to ignore the vertigo. Having won the first battle of the day she got to the second one of waking her drummer

"Riiiiick" her normally beautiful voice came out as thin, whiny croak. It hurt. The drummer was still comfortably passed out.

"Riiiiick!" She tried louder this time, still no sign of life in the drummer. "Fuck, are you dead?"

It was a sobering thought. Leila got up on her feet and shook the drummer awake. It seemed to be working.

"...mmmm... wwwwhat?" He awoke with a start. "What!? Leila... where are we?"

"Rehearsal. Do you have any memory of what happened yesterday?"

"We played at... ummm... Lucky's? I think it was Lucky's. And then-"

"We got absolutely, hilariously, shitfaced. I noticed."

Rick noticed his choice of pillow and with disgust went to wash his face and get a mop.

Leila pulled out a chair and sat down, still being a bit too hungover to think straight.

She heard Rick shout in surprise from the bathroom.

"Are you ok?" she croaked as loudly as possible to get through the sound isolation, which wasn't hard, whoever had done the sound isolation had done a shit job.

"Yes, it was... it was nothing. Just got spooked by my own reflection" came the reply.

"Hah!... what the fuck did you take last night?"

Rick returned to the room with a mop "Shut up."

An awkward silence fell over the room while Rick mopped up the lost contents of his stomach.

"Hey, Rick... weird question... did you dream?"

"Yep, fucked a hot brunette in the snow, you?"

"... yeah, pretty much that..."

The realization that they had the same dream slowly sunk into both of them. Rick mopped up the remaining vomit.

"So, Lala, want to get a hamburger or something? I'm hungry."

"Don't call me that and yes, burger sounds nice."

Wayback-Burger was a smaller, family owned place. It was decorated in a manner to invoke anachronistic nostalgia. Pictures of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean mixed with pictures of The Beatles and David Bowie. The soundtrack could go from Elvis, to Black Sabbath, to Frank Sinatra, somehow seamlessly. The food was real, not the vapid crap the fast food joints served, no. The burgers were so overstuffed they had a stick through them, the meat was made from meat, real, proper beef and not dog food disguised as food for humans.

Rick had ordered three burgers, a whole plate of thick, delicious fries, spicy chicken wings and a large strawberry milkshake.

Leila was staring at him from across the table? "What?" he mumbled, his mouth stuffed "I'm a drummer, I just threw up, I need the fucking energy."

She rolled her eyes and bit into her hamburger. "mmmm... heaven between two buns..."

Rick stared at her.

"... not a word."

He went back to his burgers.

Leila bit into her giant cheeseburger and looked out the shop window. She saw an empty, cobbled street, a naked brick wall covered in obscenities to hide the obscenity of its nakedness, like waking up and finding that someone had fixed your makeup and then drawn dicks all over your breasts. The snow danced gently towards the ground, longing to cover the streets, to be stepped on, to be dirtied and to finally - melt.

Staring at the white snow Leila almost saw her own reflection morph into, or possibly blend with the features of the woman from the dream. Her shoulder length, purple hair turning long and ashen like ropes or black snakes, her freckled face turning perfectly porcelain.

Mirror Mirror...

The illusion however was broken and replaced with another, of a tiny, cloaked figure hobbling over the street. The prints it left looked more like twisted hooves than feet. As the Dwarf walked past the window Leila met its only eye it tried to hide under the hood.


She snapped out of the trance. There was nothing inside the window, there was nothing outside the window, it was all images floating in her eyes.

"Are you alright?" Rick asked, concerned. He was two thirds through his meal.

"Yeah I'm just..." she trailed off and rubbed her eyelids.

"Whatever it is I hope we'll get some lyrics out of it."

"It's not my fault I'm the only one in the band who is somewhat literate" she shot back, without thinking.

"Woooooow, true, but where did that come from?"

"Sorry... I'll... I'll try to call the others. Have you gotten anything?"

"Nope, no texts at all, no idea where they might be."

Leila took her phone out of her pocket and called Tom, the guitarist. She was met with a blistering guitar lick and his cocky voice saying

"Sorry, can't answer now, busy being awesome, leave a message after the beep" another guitar lick, beep.

They both rolled their eyes and neither of them said "I hate his answering machine", they didn't need to.

They had even less luck with Logan, the bassist who didn't even have an answering machine.

"Maybe they got even more hilariously shitfaced than we did?" Rick said and failed to defuse the tension.

"Have you ever seen Logan seriously drunk? He could chug an entire barrel of scotch and still be able to walk in a slightly curved line" Leila countered.

Rick was silent.

"I'll go home, get some more sleep, see you later."

"Sure, sleep sounds like a good idea."

Oh how I shiver as she rakes me with her claws, how sweet the taste of the blood that runs from her lips, how I melt as her fingers hook my insides, how I howl as she claws out my heart.

Leila was sure she wouldn't have been able to fall asleep when she got home, but lo and behold! She had fallen asleep, still dressed. She swore at her mistake, her underwear ruined by her dreams. As she undressed and opened her wardrobe she decided that they wouldn't be worth saving and threw them in the trash.

She looked out the window as she got redressed. The moon hung full and pale in the night sky, like Snow White's face in the dark hair. "Fuck..." she swore again, to herself again "I really need to get laid."

There was a bustle in the hedgerow below her window, she didn't know how she heard it, but she did. She walked over to the window and saw 7 cloaked little figures staring at her from below.

"Do I look like a fucking prince?" she shouted at them. The Dwarfs either did not hear her, or they did not care. They kept staring at her, unmoving.

She sighed and muttered "Fine, no reason fighting Fate when Fate has made up its mind."

Leila grabbed her winter coat and walked down the apartment stairs, she was almost surprised to find the Dwarfs still standing where she had last seen them.

"OK" she said "lead me to Her, I'm ready."

The figures started hobbling away in single file, snarling an off-beat tune in perfect synchronization to their shuffling, but one Leila found it impossible to find the rhythm to. Every time she thought she had it, it changed, or was lost, or she never found it in the first place.

The wind picked up the further the Dwarfs led her and soon turned into a blistering blizzard, blowing through her coat. Leila found that even if she was freezing she didn't really care.

She was lost, this confounded her. The town was small, but she had no idea where she was. The blizzard obscuring every noticeable landmark.

They stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse. Dwarfs disrobed and led her inside.

They were all angular things, like a cubists nightmare with the wrong number of misshapen everythings. Too few eyes, too many mouths. Too many noses, too few ears. Everything in the wrong places.

The warehouse was full of snow, snow and frozen figures lying dead and naked on the floor. Leila recognized her band mates among them and chuckled. All that worrying for nothing.

Snow White laid in an ornamented bed in the middle of the room. Her hair so black the darkness seemed pale, her skin so white the snow seemed dark, her red lips full like a juicy heart. The peaks of her breasts rising and falling as she slowly breathed.

Leila undressed with the Dwarves watching in silence. She shuddered, not at the cold, it did not bother her anymore, but in anticipation. She walked across the snow covered floor towards the bed and watched the sleeping beauty, then she bent down to kiss the princess awake and doomed the world.
Story Critique / Re: The Best Part of Pokemon
« Last post by lavecki on 10:22:33 PM 03/15/17 »
Its a good concept. I liked the ending a lot. The middle should be worked on the most. The core of it, an inmate who is running through pokemon little my little, is neat, but I dont really understand why all the other stuff needed to be added. The arson bit and his obsession with Misty is a bit detracting. I dont think it needs to be removed but it should be explained a bit better. From the sound of it he seems to think that this is part of the game and it isnt believable that its a real part of the game. So you either need a reason for him to think its part of the game, or suspend disbelief more so that the reader can believe that they missed this part of the game.

The marbles bit is cool though, i like that.
Your Stories / Re: The Intrusion
« Last post by Abysmii on 07:50:53 PM 03/14/17 »
I've got fond memories of narrating this one.  Still a good narrative with just enough gore.
Your Stories / The Intrusion
« Last post by DoomVroom on 04:17:36 AM 03/14/17 »
I had assumed, no, I had been led to believe that this house had been abandoned and that the owner had left their things behind. I scoped out the place like any good thief would and observed no changes over a period of five days. I struck on the evening of the 6th. I had pushed a wheeled trashcan under a second story window and used it to stand on; the window was unlocked, that's how I got in.

I noted jewelry in the bedroom that I had entered and proceeded to pocket it. There was such a large amount that I decided to go downstairs and search for a trash-bag to help store stuff in. I'm a bit of an asshole if you haven't figured it out, I love using my accidental donors' things against them.

I made good progress through the house. I'd say that I'd made it through most of the house in ten minutes. As I had gone through the house I couldn't help noticing the cheery atmosphere, the house was decorated with various photos of people smiling; children, men, women, you name it. The owner had a lot of relatives or friends, there were easily over twenty photos with different people in each.

Eventually, all that remained was the basement. Normally I'm a bit hesitant about bothering with basements, but the cheery vibe of the house coupled with the loot I'd gained made me feel like going through the basement would be quite pleasant. The basement was dark and smelled awful, so I thumbed on my flashlight and god almighty do I regret turning it on.

The repugnant odor should have been enough of a warning, but it wasn't, I foolishly wrote it off as mold. You know those photos that I mentioned earlier? Well, everyone in those photos was down in the basement, at least twenty of them in all and in various stages of decomposition. One in particular caught my gaze, a female body that sat at the top of the corpse pile, it was unmistakable in that it had been situated that way by whoever had done this. However, that wasn't what disturbed me about it, what really disturbed me was the fact that the skin was painted (presumably to hide the decomposition). That particular victim must have been special to the killer in some way. I could state more, but I don't really want to scar the reader for life. Just take me at my word when I assure you that it is grotesque. I'm a thief, not a liar. Long story short, I spent too much time staring in horror and a car pulled up (a rather loud one).

I quickly shut the basement door just as I heard the keys unlock the front door. Obviously, I am still in the basement (dead or alive is anyone's guess at this point). The basement has a window that pushes outward, but it is too small to crawl through. I had thought about yelling for help and shot the idea down just as quickly as I'd thought of it. Why haven't I used a cellphone to call for help? Well, I don't remember the address and I didn't bring it. I was always afraid that I might leave it on and get a call if I ever ended up in a situation to where I had to hide, like this one.

I heard the owner's footsteps as he entered the house, it didn't take him long to notice that his stuff was missing either, because the footsteps became frantic as the owner ran through the house. As the footsteps got louder and closer to the basement door, I knew what I had to do. I stuffed my bag of stolen goods under the pile of the deceased and followed. The stench was nearly unbearable. My view wasn't great, so I couldn't see much, but I did manage to get a glimpse of one of the owner's hairy hands as he walked by, the hand contained an oar. Evidently, if I am caught, I won't be killed right away, but rather tortured and made to suffer. I watched as the hairy hand went right by me and readjusted the painted woman at the top of the corpse pile. I listened as I heard the madman ascend the basement and shut the door behind him, if only he had stopped there. Instead, he took things a step further and locked the basement door, the sound of the tumblers clicking prophesied my doom. 

I waited for what felt like an eternity and I emerged from the corpse pile when I was certain that he wasn't coming back. I quickly went through my bag of goodies in an attempt to find something to help me out, but it was less than helpful. I actually feel like there is a moral in there somewhere, but I just can't be bothered to try to see it.

After I searched the basement, I managed to find a pen and some paper, I proceeded to write this and slip it out the window in the hopes that the breeze would carry it to someone. Maybe that will get the twisted sicko caught if nothing else. I'm just going to wait in the corpse pile and hope that he slips up and leaves the house after unlocking the basement door. Waiting will either yield me my freedom or my doom. I just want you to consider a couple of things, dear reader. Firstly, how close must you live to that house in order to have obtained this piece of paper? Secondly, I guess even serial killers need vacation.
Story Critique / The Best Part of Pokemon
« Last post by KingHadas on 11:31:22 PM 03/11/17 »
So I posted this in Your Stories a while ago and I've come to realize that was a mistake since I was hoping for feedback. To anyone kind enough to read this I'd be very glad to hear your thoughts on it.

The Best Part of Pokemon

by King Hadas

Prison is awful. Everyone's mean to me, especially the guards. They keep putting me in solitary even though it's the other guys causing trouble, not me. I hate Solitary, it's so boring. Just staring at the wall and waiting for-ev-er. After my first stint in Solitary I tried my best to behave how the guards wanted but still they keep putting me in. I think they just hate me for no reason!

I honestly thought I was gonna go mad in here but I remembered reading how POWs in Vietnam dealt with their Solitary. They would recreate something they read or heard in extreme detail. A novel word by word or a song note by note. It kept them focused and motivated and sane. Mind you it can't be just a vague remembering, every detail has to be considered, no matter how small until it's correct, until you're absolutely certain it's correct. I've been doing it for awhile now and I can say it definitely works. Pokemon Red for the Nintendo Game Boy, that's what I recreate, down to the smallest detail. Now Solitary is nothing to me because I just play Pokemon over and over again in my head. It's wonderful.

I always pick Charmander of course, he's my favorite. and I don't bother catching other pokemon because Charmander's the best! But the first two gyms are tough for fire-types. The first gym is rock based which fire is ineffective against. And the next gym is water based which is Charmander's greatest weakness. The Cerulian City gym leader is Misty, she has no honor and happily exploits my Charmander's weakpoint making him faint over and over again. It's not fair, I have to grind a lot just to survive one Water Gun attack. Misty is mean, I'll never forgive her.

After her though the game is pretty easy. I play through it normally until Fuschia City where you get the item HM04 which teaches Strength. Strenghth is a technique that let's one of your pokemon move heavy objects. Once you've learned it you can go back to Vermillion City where there's a secret only I know about! If you go to the Vermillion City docks there's a parked truck that you can now move! Underneath it is a secret HM. I use it on my long since evolved Charizard and learn a new ability.

When I was younger I didn't know how to use the new move because it's name was a word I'd never heard before. I would walk around randomly using it everywhere. For awhile I do this in my recreation as well even though I know the conditions for using it, you just have to be standing next to a building.

"Charizard used Arson".

The best part of the game has arrived. You see Arson sets buildings on fire, and when you leave and come back they're reduced to ashes. And all the people who were inside now exist in the ruins as ghost-type pokemon, which you can capture. It's time, it's finally time! I burn down the Cerulean City Gym and I capture everyone who was inside including Misty. They're now mine to punish as I see fit, as it should be.

I make them fight to exhaustion over and over again. I freeze them and poison them and burn them and then revive them again and again until every Pokemon Center in the world is burnt to the ground and then I go home and store them in my PC, the last PC in the game. Each in their own solitary box, and then I burn my house down so they can never leave. I wonder if they know the way to stay sane? I hope not.

After this I delete my save and I do it again and again and again and again....

It's good I have this distraction because my prison sentence is far from over and nothing's gone my way in here. When I was arrested I had a big bag of marbles that I've tried to get back but they refuse to return them until my release. They say they're potentially dangerous. Whatever, they're just being mean to me. It's fine, I can wait. I only wanted a few of them anyways. Only seven out of the whole stinking lot have any value to me. The rest are empty.
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