Storythread

The fortnightly Storythread returns for another week of action packed adventure. Romance, intrigue, death, smut? - we have it all.

If you have Veeky Forums related stories to post, post them here, and hopefully some kind user will give you feedback (or at least acknowledge that someone did actually read it, which let's face it is what writefags really want).

If you don't have a story ready then I and other anons will be posting pictures throughout the thread for you to test your writing skills on. This is, more or less, a world-building and character-building exercise: two vital skills for playing roleplaying games. If you don't have any pics to post, you could try posting an idea for a setting or a character, and maybe someone will be willing to write a story using it. It's also an exercise in writing though, where writefags can try out their material and gain inspiration, so if you just want to talk about world-building save it for the world-building threads.

Remember that writefags love to have feedback on their work. Writing takes a long time, especially stories that go over several posts, and it can be really depressing when no one even seems to read it (and the writer won't know you read it unless you leave a comment).

And since writing takes a long time remember to keep the thread bumped. Pics are good, feedback is better.

last week's thread can still be found in the catalogue here if you have any comments or anything about the stories there
And finally, don't forget to check out past stories on our wiki page:
1d4chan.org/wiki/Storythread

Other urls found in this thread:

1d4chan.org/images/8/88/TheThirst.png
twitter.com/AnonBabble

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”Get back here, I’m not done with you yet!” The shrill scream, teetering on the verge of panic, shook Al-Amein awake form his reverie. He looked around and loosened the black robe around his face. He looked at the woman, her hands bloody, a badly made arrow nocked on the string of an ugly bow. Her leather armor had been cut open, the robes underneath torn, her flesh bruised and abused by rough bodies and eager, groping hands. Women, Al-Amein thought as he watched blood dribble down her thigh, make poor soldiers. She had been overpowered without killing a single one of her assailants. Even now, when they were running away, she could not hit them with her crude weapons. Her hands were shaking too bad, her rough sobs shook her body too much for decent aiming and the tears in her eyes blinded her in the bright desert sun. The sounds of killing and dying were finally over with a panicked, horrified yelp of a young boy feeling the air escape from his lungs as a heavy boot crushed his delicate chest.

Three others were dead, their mutilated bodies impaled on spears as a warning not to trespass on the lands of this particular nomad tribe. Their death had been more or less merciful. Al-Amein had been too busy defending his own life to see who killed who, but he was sure the men had been killed in battle. Otherwise they would have screamed a lot more while he was talking as fast as he could, trying his best to convince the nomads he was of the faithful. With little success, he though wryly, as he probed a shattered molar with his tongue. The woman was wailing now, kneeling in her own blood. She should not kneel in this sand, it was filthy and littered with dry leaves, he thought as he wiped it off his own legs. They weren’t very deep into the desert yet, so the sun hadn’t burned it clean.

“Who were they?” Al-Amein turned around and was shocked to see the pale stranger still alive, not a scratch on him. His hands were bloody to the elbow and his horrible cruciform sword dripped crimson, a small piece of curly-haired scalp stuck in its pommel, but his eyes were cool as the soothing lakes of the Cold North and his breathing was slow and easy. Al-Amein’s fear of the man deepened as he looked behind him, at the field of glistening red and yawning white, all those men and women lying on the unforgiving sand, laid open as a sacrifice to the god of killing this man worshipped. He claimed that his god was a god of life, but Al-Amein knew that gods and Shaitans were creatures of deceit and mystery. Al-Amein was sure that he had to get rid of this man before he led the caravan into the ambush his own tribe had set up. He was a danger, something he had not expected.

“A small tribe of nomads sends out their young sons to be tested in battle, Walker on red fields,” Al-Amein said. Every man has a weakness, and to some it is pride and flattery. The Northman looked behind him and then at the massive, hulking Arab. Al-Amein never felt comfortable while under those eyes. They had seen too much death, if one could believe the tales he had heard of the lands in the North and the horrifying wars the people of those lands fought with each other. Al-Amein had seen too much of the world to swallow those tales outright, especially when he had been party himself to several tribal wars, but there was something very unnerving about that man. Something out of place. Those eyes did not belong. They laughed.

“I see. Why did they run away?” Al-Amein shrugged.
“You might have scared them off, Smiling red Ruin.”

“You never get tired of the names, do you? Besides, I doubt that,” the man said as he pulled off the headpiece of the young boy Al-Amein had killed and wiped blood off his hands and sword with it. The boys’ bright green eyes were dull now, the shock and disbelief gone. “I’m that scary.”
“I think-“ Al-Amein started, but swallowed his words. The three survivors turned around and even the woman rose up to her feet. The wind carried a new kind of sound, something that was not just sand and debris flying through the empty heat. Al-Amein felt something very close to religious horror as he joined his shaking hands in a warding gesture before his face. The woman had tilted her head, her pain and mutilated dignity forgotten as she tried to find meaning in the discorded notes on the wind. Al-Amein looked at the Northman who had a slightly curious look on his bland features. His eyes still held those mocking crow’s feet.

“What is that?” The woman muttered through her split lips. Al-Amein noticed that she had forgotten to clean the long stains of disgrace the men had left on her face.

“Burning men,” he whispered quietly. She turned to him, one eyebrow cocked over a rapidly blackening eye. The white was bloodshot and the lids would be swollen shut before sundown.

“Burning men? More raiders?” There was a resigned note in her voice. A horribly amused gleam glittered in the Northman’s eyes at the mention of more raiders. Al-Amein shook his handsome features.

“No. They are creatures of the desert, wanderers of this arid wasteland and demons and shaitans in the lore of the nomads. We will see them soon,” he said, swallowing hard. There seemed to be something dry stuck in his throat.

“Are they a danger to us?” The Northman asked, his longsword resting on his shoulder. He could have just as well asked if they were going to eat chicken or duck for dinner.

“I hope not, Keeper of the red temple. If they are, we are unable to escape, since our mounts are dead. Most likely they will not bother us if we won’t venture too close. Oh, dearest Mother!” Al-Amein sank to his knees as he saw the first one, shaking with fear and disgust.

“Slaves?” The woman muttered as she noted the gleam of burnished metal on the necks of the walking figures.

“Not quite,” Al-Amein said from his kneeling position.

“What are they?” The pale man asked. Al-Amein hated the cool demeanor of this intruder. He did not belong here, not in this hot place full of passion and the joyous struggle of life and death. His fire burned too fierce, for he was of the cold lands. The flame of his life did not belong here.

“They are my people. They are nomad tribes, they are lost caravans. They are-“ He was cut off short but a clatter to his right. The boy he had killed was standing upright, his broken ribs sticking grossly out through his robes. His mouth was stretched in a blissful smile and his eyes glowed with a restless light of their own. Al-Amein rolled nimbly on his feet and dashed to the side.

“Get away from him!” The Northman sprinted swiftly to the massive Arab with that eerie speed he seemed to hold as a private joke that he told to only few, but the woman picked up a notched scimitar and slashed at the walking apparition as hard as she could. The boy had been the first to have her, Al-Amein knew, since it had been a rite to prove his manhood to the tribe. She had clearly not forgotten that. The sword sank into the youngster’s smooth forehead, right above his glowing eyes and plowed halfway through his skull until jamming into the bone right behind his ears. The boy’s head rocked back viciously and a reddish goo trickled around the edges of the blade, but other than that, the blow had no visible effect. He walked right past the stunned woman and a keening cry, like that of a baby, rose from his throat. He walked to the column that seemed to have no end and reached out to the first apparition. The woman, her blonde hair accentuated by her dun robes and the burnished collar around her tanned neck reached out to him, grabbed his hand and then passed him on to the next walker behind her. The boy was passed on the column of collared, chained people in this weird fashion, shaking hands with each one.

“What is this?” The Northman asked as he watched another corpse walk to the long line. Al-Amein shook his head again. A horrible scream drowned his following words.

The disgraced infidel woman was walking towards the column too, raising her arms, as if to reach out to them, and her scream was echoed by the leading figure. She kept on screaming as she was passed on to the next person, blood left by the walking boy staining her hands with fresh, bright red. They could not see her face, but her screams were high, shrill and seemingly unending. Wordless, too.

“I take it this is why you told us to get away from them?”
“Yes, Fire of Life. She is lost to us, one of the Burning Men now. She will join their endless march and become a part of the greater horror or their shambling numbers. We will be seeing more of them; they always travel in massive hordes,” Al-Amein said as he watched more and more dead join the marching line of humanity, their wounds closing and knitting together.

“What kind of magic is this?” The Northman muttered as he watched his handiwork coming undone.
“It is the magic of life, corrupted and twisted into a horrible punishment, O Shattering smile. There are people with clothing and weapons from our oldest tales in these columns, people of foreign lands, men, women and children all together joined in this eternal torment,” Al-Amein said as he spotted another column, this one ridged and thick, mashed together and twisted, slowly making it’s erratic way to them. This column was filled with strained limbs, grasping, outstretched hands, twisted legs flailing in the air and horrified, moaning faces shining momentarily out of the rolling mass of flesh before being covered by the shifting mass of horror rolling towards them like a hellish maggot. There was nothing of the peaceful bliss of the dead boy in this column.

“Some columns end up like that. The magic must have some sort of flaw in it, for nobody could ever compel the undying into punishing themselves in such a way. It always starts at the head of the column, when someone never lets go of the hand of the newest walker,” the Arab answered the curious look of the Northman. “Some of them build massive monuments of themselves, chaining each other into masses of writhing, bleeding but never dying flesh reaching for the merciless sun. Some bury themselves in sand, never to be seen again, except when a Khamseen blows the sand off them. Some gather into enormous globes, rolling back and forth aimlessly in the desert, snapping bones and muffled screams heralding their arrival. Others lash themselves into grotesque imitations of animals or even humans and some walk weird patterns that hurt the eyes and make you bleed from your hair. Looking at their patterned footprints will make you babble in your sleep in foreign languages and see things in shadows at the edge of your vision.”
For once, the Northman looked shaken. He followed the near aimless zig-zag of the second column, then moved his eyes to the horizon.

“God!”

A crown rose above the dunes, a crown made of flesh, bone and gleaming chains of burnished metal. All around it, under and even inside those twisted, malformed spikes of horror, was a gleaming mass of tanned flesh, screaming faces, broken, twisted and malformed limbs, insane gibbering and the occasional hoot of laughter. Al-Amein nodded sadly.

“You can never come back once you are taken into their fold. There is no aim, no motive, no communication between the individual hordes. The never coordinate, never merge even when they crash into each other. Sometimes they might get tangled with each other, but usually those ones separate in a week or two. I’ve never seen so many this far out,” he mused. The Northman’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the crown of suffering travel on its broken legs across the desert floor.

“They never die?”

“Never. There are known men from centuries past in some of the columns wandering the desert,” the Arab whispered as he watched one spike of the crown bend dangerously and then right itself with a collective scream of agony.

“And every year more people are caught,” the Northman muttered, resettling his grip on the sword.
“Yes. And the desert is not limitless”, the Arab said as he watched an insane contraption of tortured flesh, at least a hundred feet high, walk it’s unsteady way towards them on seven screaming legs.

“The desert is not limitless.”

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/ fin

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very good story, user.

It reminded me a little of:
1d4chan.org/images/8/88/TheThirst.png

although I think this line
> she had forgotten to clean the long stains of disgrace the men had left on her face.
was a bit unnecessary.

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>was a bit unnecessary.

That's there kind of on purpose to get an emotional reaction out of the reader. Originally when I wrote this piece, I knew one of the readers would be this fat acceptance feminist cunt, so I wanted to see if I could annoy her a bit.

Needless to say, the woman character, Al-Amein, the scary white man and that line triggered her like no tomorrow. Many laughs were had.

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elf soldier fraternizing/flirting with female human civilian

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Does this paragraph make sense to you? I'm starting a new novel.

>My story started January 21st, 2013, the week before finals and the week NZ-17 made it to Damaranth. Twenty-nine days later I would be flat on my back, missing half my skull and bleeding to death, but the only thing occupying my attention at the moment was this thing on the back of Peter Willis’s neck. I thought maybe it was a wart, or a really nasty spider bite and I was trying to google it as I waited in line. I shouldn’t have had my phone out, but I was forcibly filled with a morbid curiosity. The press of a few hundred students trying to get out of the snow storm whipped up off of Lake St. Clair had my nose within a foot of the thing and I couldn’t help but look at it. Then he reached his grubby hand back and scratched it.

>Twenty-nine days later I would be flat on my back, missing half my skull and bleeding to death
on a purely medical note I'm not sure you can be missing half your skull and not simply be dead, rather than bleeding to death.

> but the only thing occupying my attention at the moment was this thing on the back of Peter Willis’s neck.
I'd rearrange that as
> but at the moment the only thing occupying my attention was this thing on the back of Peter Willis’s neck.
since you're trying to contrast the different points in time, emphasis should go on the bit signifying the time

>but I was forcibly filled with a morbid curiosity
seems a little awkward phrasing. perhaps 'but I was gripped by a morbid curiosity' would work better.

other than that it seems fine

>on a purely medical note I'm not sure you can be missing half your skull and not simply be dead, rather than bleeding to death.
He's not quite human by that point.

I'll take the other suggestions though. Thanks

For bumping, I'm going to post the rest of what I have

>Black pus squirted out of it like one of the oversized pimples on his face, and nailed me in the face. My mouth had even been hanging open since the cold had frozen my nose shut with snot. I gagged and tried to retch immediately, the taste of bile in across my tongue. My backpack was like a battering ram, forcing people out of my way so I could keel over and try to spit it out of my mouth. I wasn’t very successful at it, just at drawing attention to myself. I had always been the kind of guy that couldn’t ever attract the good kind of attention in high school.

>Hands closed around my shoulders, hauling me to my feet by the straps of my backpack. The rent-a-cop looked me up and down as my stomach sank. I licked my lips and spit on the ground one more time as he noticed my cell phone. I tried to yank it back but his hand closed around my upper arm first. My two-hundred-dollar smart phone was pried out of my fingers and I never saw the thing again. “Cell phones are prohibited on school grounds,” the twenty-something prick said as he wagged it in front of my face. “This can be returned to your parents only. Now, back of the line,” he said, giving me a shove.

>“Oh come the fuck on man. Everyone brings their cell phones in,” I said, sweeping my hand across the three lines of students queuing through the metal detectors. Peter Willis was obviously caressing the outline of his own cell-phone in his pocket. I made eye contact with him and groaned. His eyes were blood red from smoking dope and I was the one getting nailed. Later that day he’d be expelled for stabbing Mark Wozniak through the hand with a pen. Whether that was a symptom, or just due comeuppance I will never know.

seems fine. (and you didn't really need to post it as greentext)

what's the novel about?

I greentexted it to set it apart from the message of the post. I can refrain from doing it in the future.

Novel is halfway between Fight Club and Highschool of the Dead. Going to play up various themes about memory, death and immortality through them. An infection breaks out, similar to a zombie scenario. MC becomes a symbiotic carrier of the disease, getting the physical benefits (near immortality) whithout going insane. But everytime it heals him it skews his memories and twists his perceptions just a bit more, pushing him down the slope to madness without realizing it. His friends that hes been trying to protect realize it though, bringing out a lot of teenage angst.

Its meant to be YA trash essentially.

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>What ails thee, brother?
Dost thou really wish to know?
>Most certainly! Thou art unwell, and thus need guidance.
Fine. Allow me to explain.

Dost thou remember that one castle by the north Alancia? The one supposedly shackled by a witch, who wished to control the entire duchy?

Well, our captain assigned me to investigate this place alone. He said that everyone else was on assignment, but I could tell he was withholding some element about this mission. However, our code demands loyalty to our superiors, and thus I was called northward.

Wouldst thou believe it, the spire, 'twas completely unguarded! I stepped in there with firm hand and glorious purpose to protect the duchy of Alancia! The spire's interior was equally unguarded, and 'twere it not for the prior information, I would have thought it forsaken by our Lord!

But that was where things, they took a different wind! Suddenly, I found myself beset on all sides by undead fiends, possessing the desecrated corpses of what must have been the guardians of this spire! Of course, being a paragon of mankind and master of martial skill, they were no match for me, but believe me when I say that the match was surprisingly harrowing. 'Twas like the entire spire had just been roused by my presence!

So I had slain the last of the foul revenants when I reached the top of this spire, and there was this princess there with the corpse of what seemed to be the witch on the floor. "Forsooth!" I said, "Never have I seen a woman with such steel in her to kill her own captor!" The princess collapsed into mine arms, sobbing about the horrible things the witch was planning to do, and how she was planning to supplant the princess and take over the duchy. Thou would think this would be the end, right?
>Most certainly!
Well, thou are wrong!
As I was reassuring the princess, she then climbs her way around my back and began whispering into my ear. She was asking me to become her consort, to help her conquer the duchy from her parents!

It was - well, 'twas treason!
So I then asked what foul sorceries compelled her when I then noticed her face hat turned from that of a modest maiden to that of a long-eared witch! The experience had shaken me to my core, this was all a ruse!
>But how did thou escape?
Allow me to explain.
So the witch was all up in my visor, promising me power and sexual favors and asking me to join her, but I was reciting my vows. She was saying that nobody would save me and I'd fall to her, but dost thou know what I did?
>And what was that?
I just said "None of that, you witch!" and punched her in the face! I swear to you, the face she had was priceless for a heathen! She began shouting about how I should not have rejected her, but as she was about to rip my helmet off, I punched her again!
So then the heathen was like "Why wouldst thou do such a terrible thing to a maiden?" and all I had for a witty one-liner was "Deus Vult!" again and I cut her heretical witch head off!
>Well that sounds like a splendid rout, brother! But that does not explain your problem.
Let me get to that!
So there I was, now with a witch's head in tow. I looked around the room to see that there was a second door open. And that was when I was floored by this other...homely-looking person. They were heaping praise upon me, as I was their hero and layering sloppy affections on me. Imagine the look on my face when it was revealed that this was the princess!
>Dear Lord! That must have been a terrible shock!
I know. I am thinking I should probably take vows of chastity, if only to prevent this from happening again.
>Cheer up, brother! This cannot be something that happens more than once, can it?
....Have I told you about the time I nearly married an Orc princess?
>Oh dear...

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Gotcha cover, bro.

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Dark Eldar utilizing a child molester van to catch human kiddies.

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So opening lines. How the fuck do you guys do them?

I type out "So there was this man [x] and he had a big fucking problem. You see" and then I get on with it

Goodnight, beautiful writefags.

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>"You" are Tuck. A young svirfneblin.

"HOLD!" Bellows the towering half-orc commander, arms outstretched, palms facing back towards his comrades, bracing for a charge as his team of humans, dwarves, elves, halflings, half-elves, gnomes, and a dragonborn tense in their line, bending at the knees: split stance.
"HOOOLD!"
You take a few steps forward, tagging onto the line's right wing, and glance across to ensure that you are directly in line with your troupe. The line's average shoulder height sinks closer to the patchy, damp turf; ready for take-off.
"HOLD!"
You catch the eye of your inside-man, a scruffy, tattooed halfling. He looks at you, giving an excited grin like a beastly child who hasn't had play-time in weeks, about to rough up some cunts. *Eyebrow Flash* You return by twisting your deep-gnomish features into the ol' eyes-squinting, closed-mouth, pouted smile, chin-up, eyebrow-flashing, ~fuckyeahmuh'fucka'~ kinda look. Your face drops back to a relaxed state as he turns back round to watch a tall elf, one of the local rangers, step, hop, and skip out in front of the line, wearing just a tunic, shorts, and boots with sprinters spikes on the sole. He takes one final bound, leaving one leg raised behind him, he drops an oval ball and uses dat elven accuracy to kick it right in the face of the opposition.
"STEAL!!"
The game begins.

>D&D rugby: what PCs and NPCs do in their spare time

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I feel like it was useful. The reader is constantly reminded she was raped until it's now a facet of that character, but then the horror of what they are seeing makes her completely forget it.
Also triggering tumblards is always a worthy cause.

I enjoyed the story. Loved the constant names for the Irish bastard.

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I don't see horror when I look at this.

It's for convenient cataloging
And that's what I heard space zombies are called.

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It's Major Tom, and he went home

an elf girlfriend trying to impress her human lover/ boyfriend by wearing human clothes.

Still waiting for anyone willing to make a story out of this: Setting with modern-industrial human civilization sending their military to fantasy magic lands with such hi jinks like this.

Someone else did made something from this but was not able to continue, so still waiting for anyone who'd make a story of this.

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The girl meant well, but goddamn she did not know when to shut up. Sgt. Halsey had no idea how old the girl was, he never could when it came to Fey. But he figured she had to be a kid with how persistent she talked and talked and talked about shit the Sergeant did not care about. He volunteered for the Colonial Expeditionary Legion for space adventures and for the honor of serving his Government. Not get his ear talked off by a sugarplum fairy.

"Alright. ALRIGHT! I'll get my team to look at the goblin problem," Halsey growled, eyes still on the horizon.

"YAAAAAAAY~!" The Fairy struck out her arms in cheer, darting to the Legionary's face and gave it a hug. Halsey brushed her off a with a finger and turned to face her. Just like something out of a kiddie book, the girl looked the part of a fairy tale. Glittering wings, sparkly skin, and glimmering eyes. If Halsey was into cutesy things, he swore could have gotten diabetes by just looking at her.

"Give me five minutes and I'll have my team ready, just wait for us at the town gate."

The girl's grin grew wide and opened her mouth, Halsey put a finger to her mouth, preemptively shutting her up. "Five minutes. Meet at the gate. Understand?"

She nodded her head and fluttered away, still cheery as ever. When she flew out of ear shot, Halsey groused and cursed like his mother during football season.

"Goddamn sugarplum... I am not getting paid enough for this..."

High Command's latest grand strategy for the Legion called for total cooperation with the local populace, and a fair bit of discretion for officers and their NCOs in carrying out tasks on behalf of the indigenous. That meant Halsey could take care of this "goblin problem" and not have to bother the Captain about it until after he finished up. All he had to bother now was his squad, he stomped over to the barracks and shouted as he went in.

"Jonesy, get your ass outside!"

He startled a handful of men huddled around a cot, playing cards and chips tossed around as men jumped to attention and saluted to Halsey. He saluted lazily back, though he saw that none of them were the man he wanted. "Where the hell is Cpl. Jonesy?" One of the soldiers pointed to a mountain of blankets and coats piled unto a cot. Again, Halsey groused. He stomped over to the cot, knelt down and grabbed its legs.

"Get up, Jonesy."

He picked up the cot and gave it a lift, and abruptly let it fall from his hands. It landed with a noisy metallic clang, enough to rouse the man underneath. "Mothefucker, I'll fucking kill...!" A lanky man erupted from underneath the pile, brandishing a canteen like a knight would brandish a morning star. His rage dropped when he caught sight of Halsey, and his expression drooped to that of bored indifference.

"Oh, hey Sarge," The man grunted, popping open the canteen's cap and knocked it back. It reeked vaguely of watered down moonshine.

"Hey yourself, get up and get your kit. We're gonna play detective today."

Jonesy shrugged, knocked back again. "What's the situation?" He asked.

"A hamlet east of here has a thief problem, the girl who called it in thinks its goblins."

"Ain't that the town guards' problem?"

Halsey shook his head. "The hamlet just falls outside their jurisdiction. Its our problem now."

"We come for an escaped convict of ours who goes under the name of "Ted Cruz" he is currently disguising himself as human politician auch as yourself. He may look human, but he is not."

Human President/Politician(s): "Wait really? Wow, I knew something was off with Ted 'Zodiac Killer' Cruz."

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Czechfag here. I gave it an honest try, wrote a few pages, but then found myself lost. Can't think of any actual plot line that I would be even remotely satisfied with or interested in exploring. Plus, as I've said, not much of a comedy writer to begin with. Not sure if I should post the incomplete text or not: it's basically an interoduction.

Close to falling off the cliff into the realms of archive again...

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>on a purely medical note I'm not sure you can be missing half your skull and not simply be dead
Didn't that happen to Jackie Chan? He's got a plastic plug in his skull because of it.

his skull was badly fractured, but that's not the same as half of it being completely missing

>badly fractured
There is definitely a hole in his head, one that needed plugging. Saying that, I felt the "half my skull missing" was hyperbole on the writer's part anyway.

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Hey, you actually wrote something for , thanks. Is that all? If not, you gonna complete it?

Really, you did? What were the pages you wrote for ? I think I missed those.

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>Really, you did? What were the pages you wrote for ? I think I missed those.
sry, I have a big backlog of the smaller stuff

Maybe. My muse has been fickle with me though, I'll try continuing on later.

How do I write a cover letter that doesn't sound like garbage?

I can't just say "It's a hard sci-fi romance between a man and his cute AI replacement that can't decide if the story is more interested in their journey through time or their journey to be with each other so it does both as they fight against all of society."

I need to say that... but better, and more professional

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