Alias sucks at writing.

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Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Alias-Maxima » Fri Aug 11, 2017 10:22 pm

Hello, comrades. I am bored, am out of practice, and happen to see an opportunity for everyone to profit out of said bored-ness and out-of-practice-ness.

Give me some prompts and I'll write about them as best I can.

I can only write about things which I have knowledge about, so if you'd like me to compose some paragraph about some RP character you spawned five years ago who I have no knowledge of, you will have to provide details.

Additionally, if your prompt...

1) Is too abstract (eg: write about life.)
2) Is too vague (eg: write about life.)
3) Would make me want to kill myself out of boredom (eg: write about the socioeconomic divide in antebellum America and explain how this could have led to civil war.)

I will exercise creative liberties to make your prompt less undesirable to write about, or simply choose not to write about it.

Have an example:
Rich wrote:Write about a summer's day without mentioning the weather or date.


My response:
"Hour by hour, day by day, the frost-wreathed hills groomed their weedy, five-o'clock shadows. Their verdant beards soon entertained deer and wolves and ebullient, sneezing children. Trilling birdsong worked its way into my reluctant ears. Thus passed those whimsical days; once again, the hills are bald and barren."

Alright, people. Hit me with your second-best shots.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby ColonelPKA » Fri Aug 11, 2017 10:28 pm

Does the prompt have to be realistic as possible?
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Alias-Maxima » Fri Aug 11, 2017 10:30 pm

ColonelPKA wrote:Does the prompt have to be realistic as possible?

It doesn't have to be realistic, but it should be within reason.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Phia99 » Sat Aug 12, 2017 7:57 pm

In 1804, in a lively village called Noskovic, there was a bar. It was a tourist sensation, attracting visitors from all over the galaxy. It boasted it had the "best brew that will knock your interdimensional socks off." Of course, not all visitors are peaceful.

A man who lived in the village founded it fourty years ago. He's spoken to nearly all of his customers, listening to their stories of love, murder, dictatorship, you know it.

Write about the man's view on his bar and how he met his crew, and his most strangest encounters with his extraterrestrial and normal customers.

And get your broom ready, because there's bound to be vomit.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Irongole » Sun Aug 13, 2017 1:10 am

Write about a tree that takes over the world. Jk

Write about a city that is about to fall to madness due to crime and a rebellious group trying to spread chaos, pick a hero that will attempt to save it and a anti villian. A bad guy who leads the rebels but has good intentions.
Madness is all that is left after everything is gone, so enjoy it as much as you can.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Mechaelite » Sun Aug 13, 2017 6:07 am

It's dark and a child's afraid of the devils that come at night. In the end he ends up haunting the monsters he fears.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Alias-Maxima » Mon Aug 14, 2017 6:28 am

Requests received. I'll have to give these some thought.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Alias-Maxima » Sun Aug 20, 2017 2:36 am

Phia99 wrote:In 1804, in a lively village called Noskovic, there was a bar. It was a tourist sensation, attracting visitors from all over the galaxy. It boasted it had the "best brew that will knock your interdimensional socks off." Of course, not all visitors are peaceful.

A man who lived in the village founded it fourty years ago. He's spoken to nearly all of his customers, listening to their stories of love, murder, dictatorship, you know it.

Write about the man's view on his bar and how he met his crew, and his most strangest encounters with his extraterrestrial and normal customers.

And get your broom ready, because there's bound to be vomit.

[Transcript of Interro-1311-8362]
Txyp: Hello, Charles. You may address us as Txyp for the duration of this questioning. Is the translator working?

Charles: Yeah. It's working. And good evening to you.

T: Good evening?

C: It's an Earthman term.

T: Peculiar.

C: I'm talking to a levitating fish. I think peculiar doesn't quite describe what I'm feelin'.

T: We imagine the appearance of the [unintelligible] may seem unusual to a species whose perception is restricted to such a narrow light spectrum.

C: I also imagine the [unintelligible] tend to get sidetracked. Look, pal. It's a Saturday, and the evening rush is gonna kick in soon. I should be serving drinks, not taking interviews with the intergalactic police. So let's not ask any more stupid questions and get on to the real shit.

T: One does not make demands of the [unintelligible].

C: Oh please. You fishes get drunk like anyone else. Don't pretend you're so above us primitives.

T: Alcohol filtration has little correlation to intelligence.

C: Questions. Ask them.

T: Were you present in the settlement of Noskovic during the duration of the so-called "Noskovic brawl?"

C: Technically, yes.

T: Were you witness to the events of the so-called "Noskovic brawl?"

C: Yeah.

T: Did you partake in the events of the so-called "Noskovic brawl?"

C: That's a blunt way of asking it.

T: Answer the question.

C: I was there. I took part.

T: How so?

C: Long story.

T: We have time.

C: I don't.

T: You do not have a say in the matter. Recount the details to the best of your ability.

C: Fine, fine. I know you [unintelligible] don't take well to lies, so what I'm gonna tell you is the full truth. Whether or not you believe it, well... feel free to blame anything fantastical on our "narrow visual spectrum" and "primitive intelligence."

T: Noted.

C: So, it's a Friday evening. There's always lots of business on Friday evenings, so I have to go to the NED-bub and fine tune it a bit so the locals over in Noskovic village don't get too perturbed-

T: Excuse us. NED-bub?

C: N-th Dimensional Bubble Generator. Some Rigelians gave me one three decades back, so I wouldn't accidentally elevate the technology levels of humanity by a few centuries. As they said, "It'd be a disaster if some primitives somehow got their hands on a Hades-Class Destroyer."

T: What exactly does your N-th Dimensional Bubble Generator do?

C: As you might know, my bar wasn't that big of a building to begin with. Once I started getting galactic customers, I needed a place to dock my clients' ships, and I'm pretty sure the locals would accuse me of witchery or something if they saw the glowing lights of galactic graviton thrusters in the night. The Rigelians gave me that NED-bub so I could transform my entire bar from a small Three-Dimensional object into a tiny Four-Dimensional object... Something along the lines of that. It just makes something big into something small. It also gave me a lot of room to expand, so Charles' Star Bar should be 'bout the size of Earth, if we were in Three-Dimensional space... I'm rambling, am I?

T: We thank you for your detailed explanation.

C: Anyway. I was squeezing more juice into the NED-bub, so I left my left-hand man Jacob in charge. And I know you're going to ask who Jacob is, so I'll just tell you right now. He was an American Frontiersman before I picked him up to work for me. He's of the special breed of men who live for adventure and are willing to die to get a little taste of the unknown. Die-hard romantic, Jacob was. Perfect fit for employment in an intergalactic bar on a primitive world.

T: Is this the same Jacob Thompson who was among the missing persons tallied during the so-called "Noskovic Brawl?"

C: He's not missing. He's dead. You didn't find a body because he was vaporized.

T: Unfortunate.

C: Damn right it's unfortunate. He's a good man.

T: Our condolences. But please continue with your recollection.

C: Right... Earlier, a Centaurian had vomited all over one of the rooms, so I had Jacob go and vacuum it all up. As you probably well know, Centaurian vomit is nasty.

T: It is known to emit lethal amounts of radiation and is extremely acidic.

C: Whatever it does, it's bad for business. I had Jacob vacuum it up while I went to juice the NED-bub. Once I get back, though, guess who I come face-to-face with? Actually, don't guess. You [unintelligible] have no creativity.

T: One does not-

C: Yeah, yeah, let me finish. Uill and Pyt. You know, the two ringleaders of the Sixth Arm cartel? Those nasty-looking pieces of work were simply there, sitting at the bar, weapons glinting in the dim light. As if they were waiting for a drink. Jacob's standing near the register, one hand holding a vacuum full of toxic, radioactive Centaurian vomit, his other hand sitting on his flintlock pistol. I said something about his die-hard romanticism, right?

T: We have to assume it had something to do with his demise.

C: Close. Just let me tell my damn story. My bar had become popular due to one drink: my signature Oort Blend. You know, our "brew that'll knock your interdimensional socks off." The only drink in existence that can make a Centaurian drunk. Nobody's been able to figure out how I make it get that specific, knock-off-socks taste. That's because I've always slipped in an ingredient, something nobody in the Galaxy has yet suspected. I've had many aliens of all kinds come by, trying to figure out how exactly I make it. Weeks ago, some Sixth Arm cartel thugs came by with a rather generous offer: one billion galactic standards for the recipe. I refused their offer, and they gave the usual "you'll regret that decision!" spiel. I didn't know they'd follow up on that threat, and now, Uill and Pyt were here to beat that recipe out of me. It's my closest guarded secret, that ingredient, and for good reason-

T: What is the ingredient?

C: -so they... did you just ask me what the secret ingredient was?

T: We did.

C: I'll just ignore that question. Jacob and I had both seen the reports about Uill and Pyt. Uill could read intuitions of the people around him. That kept him alive, made him dangerous. And Pyt was just flat out massive. About the size of a horse-drawn buggy... Which are about as large as small shuttlecraft. I'm trying to remain calm, but these two have gotten everyone in the bar on edge. Yeah, I've had some big-shot customers before, but these two were big-shot criminals, and they were quite visibly armed.

T: Why did you not summon the galactic authorities?

C: Which kind of galactic authority gives a shit about some backwater world filled with primitives? We're a dime a dozen to them. To you.

T: All sentients are entitled to our protection.

C: My ass. Pyt sidles up to me, as suave as a shuttlecraft-sized Proximan can get, and asks me for my cooperation. Nobody else is saying or even mentally projecting anything at this point. It's totally silent. I know Uill's just sitting there at the bar, ready to move the moment I thought "Yea," or "Nay." As you [unintelligible] know, us humans don't always immediately come to conclusions. I think my indecision saved my life.

C: While Uill is busy trying to figure me out, Jacob shoots a bullet-- not at anyone in particular, but towards the bubble containment barrier at the end of the room. Oh, Jacob's pistol fires bullets with the density of neutron stars. Only reason his bullets didn't squeeze him into a little ball was 'cause he stored them in a top-of-the-line Gee Field inhibitor which he bought for about four hundred thousand Galactic Standards. Turns out Uill pretty much already had a bead on me with one of his tentacles, which he kept hidden under some fold of cartilage. I don't know how Jacob could tell, but he must've known from the beginning. Maybe it was his frontiersman instinct, warning him of danger?

C: Once Jacob's bullet unfolded, it instantly compressed Uill into a tiny little ball of organs and skin. I'm guessing Uill fired before he got crushed, but he missed... and, curse my damned luck, 'cause of all the things Uill's energy bolt hit, it happened to hit the vacuum full of Centaurian vomit, still held in Jacob's hand. Jacob didn't have his cleaning suit so... There wasn't much left of him.

T: Oh.

C: All Hell breaks loose. That's an Earthman idiom for things going very wrong. The gravitational pull of that bullet yanked everything in the room towards it. A few of us, me included, manage to activate our magnetic boots. But Pyt slides across the room and smacks into a burly Proximan, who promptly, and instinctively, strikes him back. Soon enough, Stools and bolts and tentacles and carapace are pretty much everywhere. There were even a couple of your [unintelligible] there, just bobbing along towards the exit. And there I am, trying to get a hold of my backup vacuum as fast as I can, 'cause I know that if I don't vacuum up that vomit, we're all dead. I did manage to get most of it without getting too singed.

T: That seems like quite a feat.

C: Nothing a veteran barkeep couldn't handle. The big issue was that Pyt, now angry at having lost his brother-in-arms, was coming for my blood. Forget the brew; our feud was now personal. He and his cartel are bad for business, and I've heard the stories: If that asshole got out out of here alive, he might just blow up the planet with his smuggler fleet as an act of revenge. Keep in mind, this is all going on while everyone at the bar is trying their damnedest to beat the lights out of the nearest living thing.

C: He thumps his way over, knocking over a [unintelligible] and a Centaurian, murder in his eight eyes. I don't know why I did what I did, or why I thought it was a good idea but I...

T: [...]

C: ...I threw the vacuum full of Centaurian vomit at Pyt.

T: [...]

C: ... I get it, it wasn't a great idea. But I was acting on impulse.

T: A flawed, primitive emotion.

C: Yeah, yeah.

T: Did Pyt survive your assault?

C: It's hard to tell when Proximans are dead. There's not much left of him, if that's what you're wondering.

T: And Uill?

C: From what I can tell, he was compressed into little atomic bits. For all I know, I could've breathed in parts of him during the scuffle.

T: He is dead?

C: Holy hell are you [unintelligible] stupid. Yes, he's dead.

T: Good. There were no traces of either body on the scene. This matches given reports.

C: Of course. I spent the rest of the brawl just hiding, mostly, from the rapidly spreading Centurian vomit. A few hours later, you guys came over and cleared out the area. And here I am.

T: So it is. We have heard what we have needed to hear.

C: Good. Can I get outta here now?

T: You may. This interrogation is concluded.

[End Transcript}

~~~~~~

The laughter of a Proximan is a peculiar thing. It isn't audible to human ears; you just have to recognize it by how their eyes weave among eachother, how their large bellies quake and thrash. Judging from how hard he was thrashing, I hadn't seen Pyt laugh this hard in a decade. Pyt garbled some words in his alien tongue, and his translator flashed the letters to me.

"Fucking [unintelligible]. They believed you? Idiots!"

"They believed me," I said, slowly so as to not jumble up my translator. "I know 'cause I got your bounty. The [unintelligible] put quite a price on your heads, it seems."

"Hey, boss!" Jacob called out from behind the counter. "Ya gonna split that bonus?"

"Raises all around!" I yelled.

I turned to Uill and pointed to my ear. The translator didn't work well with whispering, and he was probably one of the only aliens around who understood our primitive language.

"You're off their radar, now," I mumbled, my words barely perceptible among the evening bustle. "You won't have to worry about those [unintelligible] assholes stalking you anymore."

"We thank you for your assitance, Keeper-Charles," Uill intoned. "Should you ever need our muscle, you may call upon our strength."

Well, that's reassuring.

"It won't come to that, Uill," I said, giving him a wink and wondering if his kind understood what social implications winks held in human society. "I'm just a Barkeep, on some primitive backwater world. But feel free to tip extra."

Uill twitched a few of his tentacles in agreement. "Of course, we will 'tip' generously. Let us have some Oort Brew in celebration."

"Good choice. I'll go make it for you right now."

Uill dipped its 'head,' in imitation of a human nod before turning back to Pyt and jabbering in their alien tongue. I pushed off my seat, floating towards the counter. It had been a long day, made longer by the [unintelligible] waltzing in for that interrogation. I was eager to get it over with. Approaching the employee entrance, I reached out and swung my way into the antigrav hallway, tapping Jacob on his shoulder once I reached his station.

The walls were lined with some kind of reflective, alien metal. It cost a fortune, but it made sure any mind-readers couldn't snatch thoughts out of my head. But still, I couldn't help but make a final glance around, just to make sure nobody was around. If my secret managed to get out, well... it'd cause a lot more than just financial problems.

"Don't worry, boss," Jacob said. "The locks still work. Nobody's here but me."

"I know. It's habit. Are we out of chilled horse piss yet?"

"You're lucky. We've got just enough to serve two more Oort Brews."

"Great. Why don't you get those set up. Oh, and get the vacuum ready. There's bound to be vomit."
https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5167006/
^^ I write shit. ^^

http://alias-maxima.deviantart.com/
^^ I draw shit ^^

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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Phia99 » Mon Aug 21, 2017 10:42 am

That was fantastic, and the names of the species are pretty creative.

Good plot twist towards the end, and the dialogue did display a good amount of character. Nicely written story.
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Re: Alias sucks at writing.

Postby Alias-Maxima » Thu Aug 24, 2017 3:19 pm

Thanks, Phia!

This thread ain't dead yet. I'm working on the tree which takes over the world story. I hope it'll be an interesting read.
https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5167006/
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