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Author Topic: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.  (Read 3456 times)

Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #30 on: November 05, 2015, 03:21:37 PM »

Turns out the new WordPad for Windows actually allows me to access the words, even if it's not quite as well organized as I had it in Microsoft Word.

Long story short, here is the original prologue I wrote when I was 19. I've shared it with a fair few board members over the years and am sure I have posted it on here before.

Nothing has changed. It was perfect when I wrote it, and I've tried to go back and edit but it's too good. Which isn't to say the spelling or grammar is perfect, just everything I wanted to convey is there and perfect.

I apologize for the odd spacing but yah. WordPad problems.

The title of the book is "Behind Your Eyes" (also the first paragraph was added later. But the original "There's no such thing as monsters" until its conclusion is unedited from 8 years ago)




I had the dream again last night. As always, I jerk awake, sweat-drenched and uneasy. Most dreams I have are dark and disturbing, when I remember them at all. I think my memory must have a built-in failsafe to keep me from remembering most of them. I don’t think an ordinary person could have the dreams I have had and stay sane. But then, I’m hardly ordinary.
My hand has fallen from my body, and burst into insects, my eyes becoming their eyes. Carried through endless, dark halls illuminated by…something, a cellar door opens and I am falling. The snap of my neck deafened by my dank surroundings. Can you imagine seeing from a thousand facets in a thousand bodies? To lie helpless and unmoving as the fear rises and the breathing gets louder, harsher, sharper? I can. I have. And these are not exceptions. They are the rule.         
Occasionally I’m blessed with something absurd, or at the least merely weird, but I’m never so fortunate as to have a dream I remember fondly. The closest I come is the dreams where she is there. She is never an active part of the dream, but she makes an appearance in them all the same.
Running through a street filled with chaos and fire, I can glance at a window and she will be there, waving, arms crossed and a sad smile on her face. I stop to stare at her, and they catch me, and I don’t care. I got to see her again, and feel the look in her eyes. Bittersweet is the sweetest I’ve ever known.
But this dream is an old one. And it’s different from the others. The others are haunting and grotesque, but they are merely flights of fancy, however real they might be for their duration. This one is real. And it always begins the same way.

 “Champ, I’ve told you a thousand times, there’s no such thing as monsters.”
   Walking to the bed, my father leans towards me to give me my goodnight hug and kiss, and I cling to him desperately.
   “Please daddy, I don’t want to be left alone in here. They’re going to get me.”
   He smiles down at me, a little annoyed but hiding it well. “This is your room now, you’ve got to sleep in here. You can’t sleep with me and your mother forever.”
   “Why not?” I ask, confused. “The monsters won’t come if you two are around. They’re afraid of you.”
   More than mildly annoyed now, my father says sharply, “Because I said so, and that’s the end of it. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll even check for you.”
   He gets down on all fours and checks under the bed. “Nothing so far,” he says, smiling up at me. But I don’t smile back. Unperturbed, my father rises to his feet and continues his search. He goes directly for the closet. Opening the door, he steps inside, searching carefully with his hands for added effect.
   “If there’s any monsters in here, you better not touch my kid, or I’ll come in after you, and I guarantee you won’t like that.” Walking out with a smile of triumph, my father looks to me for sign that he has done his job well. But I still don’t smile. I just look at him with pleading in my eyes. He sighs, and I feel unworthy. But I still can’t manage a smile.
   “Look, you even have a night light. That way even if there are monsters, though there aren’t, trust me, they won’t be able to get you without you seeing them. If you see anything, just call out I’ll come running and take care of it, ok?”
   He smiles one last time, hoping he’s reassured me. I humor him with a twitch of my lips and a nod, and settle back under the blankets. “Can I turn the light off now?” I nod, and he flicks the switch, but before he closes the door he says, “It’ll be alright, champ. Nothing bad will ever happen to you. I promise.”
   As soon as the door closes, my eyes swivel to the closet door. I know one of them is in there, I can feel it. I don’t know how my father couldn’t hear it laughing when he was searching the closet, but I had. It wanted me and there was nothing I could do. They were only afraid of mommy and daddy, not me.
   The doorknob of the closet door begins to turn, but before it can open, I let out a scream. Immediately I hear the pounding footfalls of my father, and then the light from the hallway bathes the room in its glow before he flicks on the light in my bedroom.
   “Jesus, what’s happening? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He rushes forward and takes me in his arms. Slowly rocking me, he asks me again what happened. I slowly point to the closet door. I feel my father stiffen against me in anger.
   “You’re going to have to grow up some day, and now is as good a time as any. Why does this have to be so difficult for you? You’re 6 years old now. Most kids get over this kind of thing by now.” My father’s anger shames me, and I look down to stare at my blankets.
   Instantly contrite, he apologizes. “Oh, come on, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. It’s just getting awful hard to get any sleep around here when you’re always yelling for help in the middle of the night, you know? And not that I consider it a chore, because it’s not and I would do anything for you, but I really need my sleep to be able to function at work properly. You wouldn’t want to hear about daddy being involved in an accident at work would you?”
   Shaking my head to show that no, I would not like to hear that, he stands up to leave, but before going, ruffles my hair. “Come on, can you be tough for me? Don’t yell unless it’s something really serious, ok?”   With one last smile, he closes the door and I’m left alone again.
   Again my eyes swivel to the closet door. No sound this time. Maybe my dad had scared it away, at least for tonight. But then I hear a muffled croak from underneath the bed, and know I’m not alone. Trying to be brave, I try to ignore it, but it only gets louder. I can’t make out any words, but the intent is clear.
   It wants to kill me.
   Not being able to stand it any longer, I give a low-pitched, mock yell, hoping to scare the monster away without waking my father, but that just makes it laugh. I slowly feel a tug on my blankets, coming from the bottom of the bed. In genuine fright I yell again for my father at the top of my voice, and again I hear his pounding footfalls.
   This time when he opens the door he doesn’t come to comfort me, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed to hold shut his robe and a disapproving look on his face. “What is it this time?” he asks, knowing full well the answer.
   This time I point under the bed. Clearly reluctant, he sighs then leans over to check. As he does so, out of the corner of my eye I see a shape slither across the floor to the closet. It slips underneath the door and disappears. When he looks up again, I am staring fixedly at the closet door.
   Stalking forward, my father sits on the edge of the bed and looks me in the eyes. “Listen, I don’t want to be hard on you, because we love you. Your mother and I. Very, very much. But this…this bullshit has to stop, ok? I can’t handle it and neither can she. You need to grow up and stop being such a damn child about the whole thing, ok?”
   Not waiting for an answer, he walks to the door to leave, but doesn’t close it. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll even leave the hallway light on and your door open, alright? Now good night, son.”   
   Walking back down the hall, I listen to the padding of his feet, and then the click of his own door as it shuts. I hear the murmured voices of he and mother, as they argue about what should be done with me. They should know what needs to be done, I’ve told them. They shouldn’t leave me alone. But they won’t listen.
   It’s not long before I hear the soft slap of flesh on flesh, and the low, earthy moans of my mother. They’re making sex and though I don’t understand it, the sound makes me feel weird, and somewhat sad. They just want time to love each other.   Is that what love is?
   The cackle from the closet grabs my attention immediately, mother and father forgotten. My eyes swivel to the door, terrified, but too scared to look away.
   This time, when the knob turns and the door slowly opens, I make no sound.
   As it bends under the doorframe to step into the room, I can only make out its outline as the hallway light shines in through the door, blinding me. It takes several slow steps towards me, hissing and growling, claws scraping the hardwood flooring of my room. It looks to the hall door, which slams shut and locks itself. The slam is so forceful that I hear a muffled yell from my mother, telling father they have to stop, something’s happened, and then I hear him walking down the hall to my room, but still I don’t cry out. I’m being brave for daddy.
   Bending over, it stares into my eyes, and slowly the drumbeat of my father’s fists on the door, and my mother screaming for me to open it, open it this minute, fade away. I find I’m no longer afraid.
   The next thing I know, my father is shaking me violently, trying to wake me. He’s crying, and I don’t know why. Looking beyond him, I see mother sitting at the foot of my bed. She’s crying as well. When I look down at myself, I see why. My pyjamas are torn. There are tiny spots of blood dotting my sheet. Everything hurts. It hurts so bad. And I’m lying in the closet.
   I smile up at my father, and I want to speak, but I can’t. My throat feels like it has been scraped with sandpaper.
   I want to tell him I told you so.
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Average John

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #31 on: November 05, 2015, 03:28:33 PM »

Not enough Magneto.

Also, the monster obviously represents you uncle with the busy hands.

Seriously, though, it's pretty scary.
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #32 on: November 05, 2015, 03:31:55 PM »

Thanks.

When I try to share it with people I know, they immediately try to correct my grammar and shit, when all I want to know is how was it, the actual story
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scourge

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #33 on: November 05, 2015, 04:40:34 PM »

Man, Oats, you gotta keep going! So good! 🙈👌👍👄
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #34 on: November 05, 2015, 06:50:41 PM »

Part 2:

The light in the ceiling flickered fitfully, winking obscenely at the men crowded into the hastily prepared conference room. One called for a replacement and another, the tallest, rose to his feet to fetch it, grumbling all the while that it always seemed to be his job to change the light. Several of the men put forth the opinion that it’s only fair, his being so naturally blessed in the height department. They chuckled at the observation. It’s that kind of group.
   The low hum of conversation continued as they waited. It slowly began to die out as the men became aware of a tall figure standing quietly beyond the doorframe. It stood, motionless, seemingly watching the room. Studying it.
   “About time,” said the man sitting beneath the light, mistaking the figure for the man who had left. “I was about to have an epileptic seizure.” This got a few laughs, though not as many as he’d hoped. The shape beyond the doorframe did not move. The light blinked out, and the men began to curse.
   “Hurry the fuck up with the light,” said one. “Stop standing outside and get in here,” growled another. The creak of floorboards and the squeak of a light bulb being turned in its socket was their only answer. The squeak of the dead bulb being slowly removed brought to mind rusty hinges and endless hallways. It was a wholly unpleasant sound, but no one made a word of complaint.
   When the new bulb finished turning and the light blinked on, the figure had become a man.
   He was clothed for autumn in a large, heavy coat that sat snugly over his broad shoulders. The bulge at his waist betrayed a protruding gut, but he did not look the least bit soft. His beard was as large as he was, flecked with various colours and hues, and he walked with a stride and purpose that was  inexorable. But there was something off about his gait. It was as if, every few steps, his body forgot what it meant to walk properly. It was subtle, but hard to miss in such a small room.
   This did not affect the length of his stride, however. The newcomer strode swiftly past the seated men with nary a word, directly towards the only unoccupied chair. The air in the room seemed to hum as every man watched him take his seat. His name was Walter Prast, and they'd been waiting for him.
   “There’s a reasonably good chance of never finding this man,” he said, in a soft, almost musical voice. He had said it calmly and matter-of-factly, as if discussing his favourite colour. His eyes searched the tabletop as he continued to speak. “Most situations such as this are never resolved, and we deal here with a target that is uncommonly intelligent; but more than that he is intensely focused and rationalized on his goals. This makes him especially dangerous. He plans it all very carefully. He chooses them based on a common element, a facet of a facet of a personality. He searches the mosaic of an individual and finds the part that reminds him of his original victim. Then, over time, he dispenses with his self imposed illusions, allows himself to realize that they are not her…and then he ends their life.”
   The hum of conversation had disappeared, replaced only with a solemn silence. He had spoken of the murders simply and exactly, giving no hint of his own emotions. He had always felt that that way worked best.
   “Yes?” Asked Prast aloud, staring fixedly at the tabletop. Several of the men looked around them, then at the point on the table where Prast was staring. A few others made questioning motions in their general directions, and one or two even asked “Yes?” in response, at a total loss to who he was talking to.
   Prast’s brow furrowed. Idiots, he thought.
   “You, by the door. What is your name? Is something on your mind or did you merely mean for the room to be aware of the fact of your existence?” This too was said dispassionately, though the furrowed brow betrayed Prast’s irritation.
   The man stared at Prast sullenly, somewhat surprised. He didn’t think he had spoken aloud. “Sullivan,” he said.
   Prast rolled the name around in his mind. Sullivan. Filthy name. He was already beginning to dislike the man intensely. “Shall I henceforth refer to you as Mr. Sullivan, Sullivan Sullivan, or merely Sullivan, Mr. Sullivan?” Prast asked calmly, though pointedly.
   “Just Sullivan will do, Mr. Prast. Just Sullivan. Though my first name is Joseph, if that interests you any,” Sullivan replied, in the same calm voice that Prast had been using. “I suppose I was wondering how you can know that much about someone and yet not be able to tell us who he is yet. You speak as if you know him personally.”
   Prast’s mustaches twitched into what could have been a smile. He was impressed, though only slightly. This one, at least, was above average, though not by much. It came as something of a relief. Dealing with people had never come easy to Prast, and ordinary people even less so.
   “To know the mind and the method is not difficult. We are finite creatures with finite, though admittedly numerous, variations.  But to know such a man on sight? To somehow know his name based on what I am able to glean from the information I have been given and studied? Impossible. The worst kind of fancy. Besides which, he almost certainly hides his true self behind a façade. Were he to walk by you, even if he were to walk by me, I would never know it is him. Does brushing against a stranger in a crowd reveal to you their secrets? Ridiculous notion. I am intelligent, Sullivan, not omniscient.”
   Several of the men rolled their eyes at the self-description of intelligence, but Sullivan merely nodded, apparently satisfied. Perhaps there was yet hope for the Sullivans of this world, thought Prast.
   Addressing the room once more, Prast continued, “To be perfectly frank, gentlemen, there is little we can do but hope he does not find whatever parts of her that he believes to be within someone ever again. Until such time as he does so, he is free to live his life when, where and how he sees fit; beyond our reach and any semblance of justice.”
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #35 on: November 05, 2015, 06:51:21 PM »

Part 3:

I can vividly remember the first day I met Joan. I’ve forgotten a great many things in my life, but that day will always be with me. God, it was so many years ago now, but it’s as clear and pure a memory as water from a mountain stream.
   It was early spring. The weather was like something from a fairy tale. Too early for mosquitoes, and the sun didn’t set until right before curfew.
   It was perfect.
   I didn’t have many friends back then, in fact I’ve never had very many friends, but I was lucky enough to have a best one. His name was Josh. Joan and he were cousins, though as I hadn’t yet met her at this time in my life, I did not know that. Some people liked to say I only became friends with him to get closer to her, but the truth is that Josh and I were like brothers long before I met her.
   We had spent this particular day almost entirely at the playground near his house, enjoying nothing quite so much as each other’s company. He was a heavy boy for his age, but I was tall one for mine, so we were a fairly even match on the teeter-totter; I felt I was a much better swinger than he was, but I was always afraid to go too high so Josh liked to think he was better, and bragged how he once went all the way over the top bar. He liked to make wild claims like that, but who doesn’t at that age? I had told him I’d seen Heather Anthony’s vagina, and that was a much bigger lie, so I let him have his lie and he let me have mine.
   He was goading me to push myself harder, to swing as high as he was, when suddenly a woman’s voice rang out. “What the hell are you guys doing? Aren’t you a little young to be comparing dicks?” I continued to swing back and forth, though I no longer kicked for momentum. Her voice had me enthralled. She was so bold. I looked over to Josh and saw his scowl quickly turn into a bright smile. My stomach twisted. How did he know her?
   He leapt from the swing and landed with a soft grunt, then turned and ran toward her. I put my feet into the sand and waited until I had slowed before I got off the swing. After taking one look at her I immediately sat down again. She was beautiful. My face went a bright red and I could feel my penis beginning to stiffen. I remember being very thankful for the excuse of a swing just then.
   After her and Josh had exchanged greetings, she lifted her eyes to mine. I felt an almost audible click in my head. I was transfixed. And then she laughed. It was the most amazing sound. I smiled awkwardly in response, not knowing what she was laughing at, but wanting to join in the merriment.
   “It looks like your friend has had too much sun,” she said good-naturedly. She was laughing at me! I felt both happy that I could bring her joy so quickly, and a bit hurt that she would laugh at me like that. She didn’t even know me.
   “What’s your name? Clifford?” She said, still laughing softly.
   “Him?” Interrupted Josh. “He’s nobody. Just some asshole.”
   “Fuck you,” I said evenly, looking away from her briefly to give Josh a level look. That made her laugh all the harder, and I beamed with pride while Josh turned a shade of red to rival mine. I liked to think that that’s when she first took notice of me.
   “Anyways, when you guys are done fucking around,” she glanced at me before continuing, which made me gaze shyly at my feet. To this day I have never found anyone so attractive. “Your mom and dad," she continued. "Want you to know supper is ready, and that you should hurry the fuck up. Bring Clifford if he’s hungry. He looks like he could use a good meal…and some shade.” She said the last over her shoulder, smiling the brightest smile I have ever seen.
   I knew then it was love. It had to be. What else could feel that..good. That natural. It was amazing. But it was also terrifying. To feel so strongly at such a young age is not an easy thing to deal with for someone like me. It came all at once and enveloped me utterly.
   “Are you coming or not,” Josh asked, standing in front of me, snapping me out of my reverie. I had forgotten he was even there, I was so caught up in thinking about her.
   “I…yeah, give me a minute. I want to swing awhile longer.” Swing and think of her, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. Josh was always jealous of our friendship, and besides I was never the type to share or express myself. It was always a failing of mine.
   “Well alright, I don’t mind hanging around a bit longer anyways. Supper can wait.” And so we swung, my mind racing and my heart pounding, as I thought of the girl with the dyed blonde hair and the beautiful smile. Josh tried a few times to start conversation again, but I ignored him. That was the day I met Joan.
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #36 on: November 05, 2015, 06:57:12 PM »

Part 4:

“What do we know about this girl? The first?”
   Prast turned his shoulders and head in the direction of the speaker, but refused eye contact. He glanced at the table, the man’s shoulder, even at the now brightly burning light above their heads, but never once did he look the man in the eye.
   Such rudeness, Prast thought darkly.
   “By all accounts, she was his first love,” Prast began, but was quickly overwhelmed by an uproar of anger and shock.
   “What kind of sick fuck would do that to someone he loves?” Said one man, louder than the rest, with disgust dripping from every syllable. The others quickly lent their support to the rhetorical question. Prast sighed internally. Simple men. Primitive. But they mean well for however much good it does them.
   Prast raised a hand for silence, and eventually the din died down. “Gentlemen, you asked for information.” A few rose to their feet at the casual dismissal and the monotone voice, but Prast’s raised hand put them back in their seats, just as quickly. “I strive to the utmost to be utterly accurate and I feel my reputation and my constant presentation of this fact justifies it as verifiably true. Now that you have all been made aware of the veracity of the information you’re being given, I now must make a request,” he glanced briefly at the left ear of every man in the room before continuing. “I share only information. Not emotion, not personal thought. Do me the same courtesy and leave your base, guttural grunting to yourselves. It has no place here.”
   The men in the room sat back, oddly stunned. Only Sullivan seemed un-phased.
   “What a fucking prick,” muttered one man, barely audible. Prast was pleased, though no sign of the emotion touched his face. He felt no small amount of pride in knowing that this was the communal thought pervading the room. He felt moments such as this were what kept him sane. And besides, he had their attention.
   “As I was saying,” Prast continued, staring blankly at the center of the table, “He loved her deeply, madly. A child’s love and a man’s love all rolled into one. It was pure, even if the situation that thrust them together was not. An event occurred that further soured their relationship, the details of which I am presently and most pressingly aiming to uncover the truth of. They lay together the same night he ended her life. An accident, he claimed afterwards. They had meant to take him, but he ran so they had their way with her instead. I have reviewed the tapes. His grief and sorrow appear to be genuine...”
   “Sorry, I’ll have to stop you there,” said Sullivan, loudly and clearly. Prast aimed a baleful glare his left shoulder. “Who are “they” ?” Prast’s face twitched. It might have been a smile. Before glancing at the tabletop once more, he stole a glance into Sullivan’s eyes. Prast liked what he saw, and this unnerved him so he looked away.
   “I can give you only broad speculation,” he continued in the same dull tone as before, though his gaze was now fixed in a more Sullivan-worthy direction than the exact center of the table as it had been.
   “But he claims that he has been followed by supernatural entities, or “monsters,” for the entirety of his life. They attacked him only once; when he was a child. His father found him in his closet, his body covered in welts and bruises of a horrible description. They also found deep gouges in the hardwood flooring of the child’s bedroom. That at least I can confirm to be true. There were many pictures, and many witnesses to the reality of those injuries. The gouges looked like those caused by a wolf, or possibly a large domesticated canine.”
   That set the room to buzzing. But only buzzing, thought Prast with some self-satisfaction. “Monsters,” Sullivan said, musingly. “These childhood attacks…they seem to be the only thing that would lend any kind of support to this theory.”
   Prast mentally apologized to Sullivan for some of the horrible thoughts he had about him, but kept some in reserve just in case. He continued as solemnly as before.
   “Only in the vaguest sense, but yes. None of the details of the first encounter disqualify the possibility that the child committed those acts.”
   “I suppose for someone to be crazy enough to claim they’ve been attacked by and are hunted by monsters, they’d also have to be crazy enough to hurt themselves in the first place. It makes a weird kind of sense. But for a child to do so? A six year old? And the claw marks…a wolf? A large dog? What kind of child could reproduce that kind of damage with their bare hands? That’s almost as fanciful an idea as the existence of monsters in the first place. Still…a young and intelligent sociopath seems a lot more likely than “monsters”.”
   “Is it not so?” asked Prast, smiling. It was an attractive smile, though uncommon on his broad, smooth features. It looked almost plastic, but it was a real smile all the same. “On the one hand, we have proof of the existence of otherworldly and impossible creatures, the existence of which would shake our world to its very foundations. On the other, we have another genetic aberration, a freak of nature destined only for a sad life that began and ended in loneliness. What grown, functional human being would even consider the first possibility?”   
   The men assembled murmured their assent, but Sullivan passed the test.
   “Why you, Prast. I’ve been following this situation closely myself, and you’re the first person I’ve ever met who has, publically, entertained the notion that we’re dealing with anything other than a candidate for the psych ward.”
   Sullivan began to slowly walk around the table as he continued, dislodging himself from his place beside the door. “I’ll admit, when you mentioned deep, claw-like gouges in the hardwood flooring, and the child being found in the closet, I thought about some of the things I thought I had seen in my own closet as a child, but I would never have even brought it up without you having done so first; in a much more direct and no nonsense matter than I would have at that. What makes you so certain, what could you possibly know that lets you seriously consider the possibility of monsters?”
   His stroll had taken him to the seat immediately adjacent of Prast, and as he sat down he stared deeply into Prast’s eyes.   
   And Prast laughed, for the first time in many years. It was a long, rich sound and filled the group of men with an odd sensation in their stomachs. It upset and pleased them at the same time, and the feeling went on for some time after he had finished laughing.
   “We are all of us monsters, Mr. Sullivan. Some less so than others, admittedly, but all doomed to the same banal existence of repetition and heart ache, whether self-inflicted or otherwise.”
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #37 on: November 05, 2015, 06:58:51 PM »

And that's all you get.
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Wyntyr

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #38 on: November 05, 2015, 07:57:23 PM »

Not enough mentions of Ramzi's hairy belly 4/10
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scourge

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #39 on: November 06, 2015, 06:31:38 PM »

I'm invested if you ever get any more done. Some intense build up here. Besides being a talented writer, you're also very pretty, Oats.
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3) Master's words of wisdom
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4) Getting involved in local politics

Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #40 on: November 06, 2015, 06:38:06 PM »

I'm invested if you ever get any more done. Some intense build up here. Besides being a talented writer, you're also very pretty, Oats.
;D

I have a lot more.

But this is all you're getting.
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #41 on: November 06, 2015, 06:38:47 PM »

How do you like Prast?
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scourge

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #42 on: November 06, 2015, 06:52:31 PM »

I'm into him. I want to know what his deal is. What's his true nature. There's an inkling of a connection to or past that may have some more direct familiarity with or knowledge of the "monster". In general, I really like his presentation. Like a guised mythological entity with a bit of a Sherlock like quality, not physically or in mannerism but in sentiment regarding others and himself.
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Four things to consider--

1) Bernie Sanders
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YBUZNfbJnp4

2) H2H Character Rankings
http://herochat.com/index.php?topic=11777.0

3) Master's words of wisdom
http://herochat.com/index.php?topic=12692.msg267150#msg267150

4) Getting involved in local politics

Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #43 on: November 06, 2015, 07:10:46 PM »

I'm into him. I want to know what his deal is. What's his true nature. There's an inkling of a connection to or past that may have some more direct familiarity with or knowledge of the "monster". In general, I really like his presentation. Like a guised mythological entity with a bit of a Sherlock like quality, not physically or in mannerism but in sentiment regarding others and himself.
His mannerisms are exaggerated versions of my own.

As is his arrogance. But that one is really more a 1:1 thing.
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Mightily Oats

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Re: National Novel Writing Month. AGAIN.
« Reply #44 on: November 06, 2015, 07:17:26 PM »

Also, you said "in general" which might mean you find issues because I'm insecure.
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