((I knew it was dying when I first made thread 4
And yeah, I stopped writing because I wrote 50+ pages of text in 3 days, and by now a bunch more. I'm a kid~, and I think that'd even wear a normal author out. And trust me, if I took all those suggestions the plot wouldn't be serious at all. Thanks for saying it's the best threads ever though =p.
Here's a piece of Zorca writing while I wait on votes - you vote too cosyn. (I made this in like 10 minutes because I was bored and me and my friends were talking about how Tolkien is major about details. Anyways, COMPLETELY UNRELATED TO THIS STORY:
Bob punched Billy in the face.
Bob was 5”2’, and was male. He was average looking compared to the other citizens nearby. His mind was racing, and Bob was overloading with anger. His thoughts were clouded and his judgment was skewered like a pig on a roast. Billy had cause disrespect to Bob’s extended family, whom of which consisted of 18 members. The disrespect all happened when Billy spit on Mae, Bob’s aunt. It was on October 8th, 2009 on a dark and sinister night. The mood darkened yet more from the spitting on that fateful Thursday night.
Bob now slowly raised his round fist. It was pale, like the rest of his hardened skin from working in the mines. His knuckles were elongated, albeit tough from all the punches he has thrown in his long life of sixty four years. Bob was a violent man, and often expressed his anger in the form of the punch. By now, his clenched fist has risen above his oval-shaped head. It had brown matted hair, and angry hazel eyes. His lips said nothing, and the rest of his pale face showed the pure hatred that enveloped his beating heart and twisted mind.
The veined fist was above his head. The energy was slowly, like a lazy cat, building up. Every moment he grew more tense, and Billy became more fearful. A closed fist above the head meant only one thing in the culture that the two men grew up in for the sixty plus years of their life. A punch was coming, and its intended target was going to be the man standing before Bob—Billy. Lightning boomed, echoing across the afternoon cloudy sky. It was cloudy, like Bob’s mind. It seemed the sky knew of the event that was about to unfold, and was commentating on its belief towards the issue.
The fist was now coming downward. It was like a snow avalanche in a mountain, after a horrible explosion that rocked its very foundation! It cascaded through the air, like a gentle waterfall in a springtime meadow spring. There was only one possible outcome from this act of violence. Pain towards Billy. Righteous vengeance for Bob on his family’s name. The fist was splitting the air around the area, and it was coming quickly, very, very quickly.
The symbol of hatred was now within an inch of Billy’s face. You can see from his blue eyes, that he was scared. Scared of the fist, and the pain soon to follow. He realized his oncoming sorrow. The pain to be had. For once in his life, Billy felt sorry. Although what, why was he sorry. Was he sorry for the pain he was about to receive, or for the terrible deed he had committed to Bob’s extended family. His mind was muddled, and conflicting emotions and thoughts raced across his mind. The pain was now.
The hand connects with Billy’s head! A red liquid sputters from the point of impact, like a water droplet causing a disruption in a pond, with the water rising up and out. The liquid splats into the gray concrete floor beneath them, forever painting it maroon. Billy’s pain was sudden and intense. It was never before felt, and was a new sensation. Billy did not like this sensation at all and only wished for this to stop. He became aware that he was sorry for the pain he was about to receive, and wondered if he deserved it. He slowly fell to the floor, like a blanket being dropped and forming a heap on the ground.
A crunching noise had happened at the same moment. Thousands of leaves crunching. However they were not leaves. It was the tender bones in Billy’s nose. This is where the blood has come forth from. Now that he was on the floor, he curled into a tight ball to protect himself from further blows. ‘Why had I had to spit?’ He thought to himself, when his thoughts were not on the pain.
Bob towered above him in a malevolent pose, like a skysc*!!*r that wanted vendetta. The skysc*!!*r had achieved his goal, looking down at the victim. It was a successful venture, and it brought joy to Bob’s eyes. He was happy, and now knew he had avenged his family, and repaired their honor. The battle had been fought, and life can now go on.
(REMEMBER THAT IS JUST A RANDOM PIECE I WROTE! NOT PART OF THIS STORY))
Edited by Zorca on 3/29/2011 5:49 PM PDT