The Fall of Human Civilisation

[Morhek]

Jeanne Claude Van Damme is awesome as a sprite. But one problem with the CTV footage. He's kicking with his right foot.

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The hatter doffed his new finery, and started at himself in the smashed mirror within the cupboards door. They fitted like a glove. But one that went over ones torso. Perfect. However, he foresaw that there was much work to be done, and he did not want his new pair of pants to become soiled, which would be a tragedy that he would not be able to bear. He pulled out his trusty wallet, and, using the strange technology the Founders had created many years ago for the gentleman of the apocalyptic future, ‘CAPTCHAlogued’ the pants. It is said that the Founder’s themselves had created a wallet that could contain objects of enormous size. However, that was lost along with the last heir to Founder’s wealth, who mysteriously disappear along with his house on the day that the world finally saw its own end. For that reason, the bunker was without leadership, and for that reason, why the hatter was here, scurrying about his home like some dopey lad.

He missed his old friend.

The hatter didn’t have time to read the letter, as it was getting much too dark. He had to move quickly.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous boom, a moo, and the sound of something STRONG lifting off into the air. Part of the house had collapsed. The hatter ran out of his room and looked down into the lounge to find that the beast that had left his bedroom had destroyed the remainder of the front wall of the house, clearing it for a path out, yet allowing the water to more strongly flow out. The water was now sweeping away what had not already been initially taken by the flooding, and the fridge from the kitchen had dislodged itself from its corner and was now once again stuck in the doorframe. It looked to almost be free.

The hatter rushed back into the bedroom, threw the clothing he had into the wardrobe, and, after securing the latch, lifted the wardrobe above his head, and chucked it into his bedroom, taking the doorframe of the cupboard with it. The hatter realised that he had just done something that was beyond normal human capability. Plenty of time to figure that out later, he mused in his mind. Now was a time for action.

After moving the wardrobe the rest of the way into the hall way, he wondered how he was going to get this wardrobe onto the first floor without it floating away.

Inspiration struck him. The toilet. He retrieved the porcelain throne from the bathroom, and tied the wardrobe to the toilet using a few spare pairs of pants. He simply tied each leg to the other pair’s leg, and so forth, until he had a rope of pants. He realised he could of done the same with bed sheets, but that wouldn’t of been original in any way. Using the toilet as an anchor, he threw both into the water that had taken over his beloved living room. The wardrobe floated out towards the large gap in the wall, but was stopped by the weight of the toilet.

The hatter had all he needed for the raft.

It took him another hour, and the sun was almost disappearing behind the horizon when he had finally completed his raft, securing both the fridge and the wardrobe together. He had gathered as many dry blankets as he could so as to sleep through the night with and remain warm on his journey, and packed whatever else he could find.

It occurred to him that he had taken no food with him from the bunker, which was a mistake in hindsight, and he kicked himself of it. He entered the kitchen and checked the cupboard to find that most of it had been scavenged long ago. That is, except for the canned food. Whatever had taken the food clearly lacked any sharp object with which to piece the cans for their contents. The hatter was not lacking in sharp objects. He withdrew his sharpest razor from his wallet, and unsealed the first can in the cupboard. It was mayonnaise.

He had a sudden feeling of democratic pride and hatred against all forms of monarchy and tyranny. He also had a strange hunger for chalk.

Collecting the rest of the tinned food, which held a variety of substances, he placed them all atop of the raft. He picked up the anchor, and pushed the raft out onto what would have been his front lawn. His car had also been lost. He felt nothing for it. It was a terrible car. After finding a good launching area, he stepped out of the mud and water, and looked down at his pants. Saturated. He still had a few spare pairs of pants, which he added to the remaining ‘card’ slots in his wallet. He had close to twenty cards, three of these containing shaving cream, two of these spare shoes, five being his spare hats, another for his razor, and another containing the letters he had collected since the start of his journey to the surface. The rest containing his food supplies and pants. No ties.

He had decided upon his quest when he realised that he had entered this world without proper neck clothing. He must go in search of replacing those long lost ties. He knew that, to find them, he may have to go up against whatever had risen to power in the time during his stay within the Refuge. That he may bear witness to the acts of atrocities that the monsters of the world that had reportedly taken over had committed to the Earth’s people. But he could think of no other option. He must save those ties.

Cutting the rope of the anchor, he set sail down along the swamp land and towards what used to be inland, using the mailbox as a rudimentary oar. At some point, a large river had surrounded the town, and head inland. The speed in which the world had had submerged was astonishing. He now drifted down through the ruins of his home town, which had become a suburban Atlantis. He was probably no further from the truth.

He decided to follow the current, and drift down the river for a while. Eventually, he would go inland, and find the nearest city, from which he might be able to locate his long awaited prize.

But for now, he had done enough mucking about, and so he decided to get some rest, and let the current take his raft, and he with it, off into nowhere.

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I have no idea what will come next. What shall he find in the nearest city? Who has taken over? I wish I knew more about celebrates and their culture before starting this

No, he just flipped his sprite TURN-WAYS.

[General-jwj]

If you're referring to how Statham was later found impaled by Van Damme's left foot, that was at the end of the fight when the building crumbled, while the picture was taken right at the beginning. Anything could've happened in the meanwhile ! Anything

[genteelGunslinger]

If you're referring to how Statham was later found impaled by Van Damme's left foot, that was at the end of the fight when the building crumbled, while the picture was taken right at the beginning. Anything could've happened in the meanwhile ! Anything

Point taken. I'm just wondering what happened afterwards? Robo-leg?

Continues to fight the Crocker tyranny under a new identity?

I think we'll see.

[Morhek]

RAGNACROCK

"The age of evil has come to the world . Everyone steals and hoards great wealth, and sensual sin rules the day. The end of the world is at hand - yet men are hard and cruel, and listen not to the doom that is coming . No one heeds the cries of his neighbour, or lifts a hand to save." - Dream Bubbles, by Charles S. Dutton

RAGNACROCK shall be the day of the end, the FALL OF HUMAN CIVILISATION. It is said to be the greatest battle ever, when the forces of NIC CAGE and BETTY CROCKER duel to the death on the vast CITY of HOLLYWOOD. It is the battle when the forces of evil and good risk everything and destroy the world; where the forces of good were doomed to failure, but never to obscurity.

RAGNACROCK will begin with a subtle war on EARTH, when the humans will constantly destroy each other through the media, brothers slighting brothers. The HEROES and CROCKERMINIONS will more frequently skirmish, and eventually the EARTH will FLOOD, killing all of humanity but ROXY and DIRK, who will hide in THE AFTER TIME. Then the real war will begin.

HER IMPERIAL CONDESCENSION, the evil BATTERWITCH, and her demon apprentice GUY FIERI will break the magic chains that bind them, and Insane Clown Posse, the Mirthful Executives, will ascend to the highest office in the land, causing the world to shudder. OPRAH WINFREY, the GODDESS OF TELEVISION and the QUEEN BEE, will summon the spirits who died of blood altering and pails to her aid from the blazing hell of the SIERRA NEVADAS, and the demonic guard dog of that place, JOHN TRAVOLTA, will join her. TOMMY WISEAU, leader of the TUX-WEARING HOOLIGANS, will gather his followers from SAN FRANCISCO (the realm of flames) and with KEANU REEVES and JASON STATHAM, will join CROCKER, FIERI, and ICP to assault the world.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON, the guardian of HOLLYWOOD, will sound his horn and gather the HEROES and their ALLIES to ready for the BATTERWITCH'-S horde. With the aid of the DOUCHES OF THE EARTH, Crocker and her minions will gather at the great CITY of HOLLYWOOD, as will the forces of CAGE. At the sound of another blow from JACKSON'S horn the battle will begin. TRAVOLTA will knock CAGE, king of all MEN, to the ground and devour him. TOM CRUISE and SAMUEL L. JACKSON will take revenge on the DOUCHE and slay him. BRANAGH will be smote by KEANU but crush the SPEAKER OF THE VAST WHOAH'S skull with his noble hammer (plundered from the set of a NORSE-THEMED FILM) only to die once the wound takes effect. HORRORTERROR ANDREW JACKSON will rip open the noble paragon of freedom ZOMBIE CYBORG GEORGE WASHINGTON'S throat just as he pierces the monstrosity's heart, and JEANNE CLAUDE VAN DAMME and JASON STATHAM will duel and kill each other. The CITY of HOLLYWOOD will be awash with blood as the remaining gods and evil creatures battle it to the death.

WISEAU, the BALL MASTER will fling his football into the sky, causing a rain of CHEAP LEATHER and SPOONS. The world will crumble, and thus in the end shall the BATTERBITCH end the life of the FIRST SON OF SKAIA, DUTTON. This is RAGNACROCK, the FALL OF HUMAN CIVILISATION.

However, hope will live on after RAGNACROCK. Despite DERSE and PROSPIT being destroyed along with EARTH and its HEROES, SKAIA will arise from the ashes. The survivors of three failed sessions, ALPHA and BETA, will ascend to the new world and renew the HUMAN and TROLL races. DUTTON'S CHOSEN, DIRK and ROXY will survive, along with CAGE'S INHERITORS, JANE and JAKE. JOHN, JADE, DAVE and ROSE, all TROLLS who died before RAGNACROCK will awake from the dead and become the new gods. Peace will survive forever after the bloody war that is RAGNACROCK

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Alternative Titles:

• The ACrockalypse
• Battergeddon.2: the Return of Bruce Willis

[General-jwj]

Oops, double posted. I guess this post can be deleted or something ? I'm not sure what to do with it.

[General-jwj]

Before I begin a new minific, anyone noticed the subliminal messages hidden in my previous story ? :] Anyway :

A lone figure stood drenched and immobile. Battering rain and thick smoke obscured the back alley. The darkness of night was only occasionally disturbed by the red glow of neon Trident signs turning on and off in the street, and the searchlights of Crockerdrones. These new enforcers of the Witch's will were becoming a common sight in most American cities, scanning crowds of anonymous citizens for the facial features of the alien's enemies.

As a searchlight slowly progressed along the walls of the alley behind them, the figure vanished. This was not the time to fight. Not yet. Crouching low and advancing with a slightly unsteady gait, he was still getting used to his robotic prosthetic, the man checked his watch : three past eleven in the afternoon. He was about to run late for his meeting.
Jumping over a fence and zigzagging through shady alleys, he hurried towards his destination: the Crooked Snakes, an out-of-the-way and shady establishment where he was to meet with others like him. Just as his destination was in sight, at 23:09, a shadow blocked his vision. Poorly dressed, poorly washed, reeking of spirits and desperation, and holding a knife.

"Your money, asshole or you're dead" growled the thug. The unimpressed figure lifted his face until his would-be assailant's reflection was caught in his crackled sunglasses. "You do not want what I have to give, man." A look of confusion momentarily passed before the criminal's face, before being replaced by a snarl "suit yourself weirdo !" he answered, lunging forwards with his knife.
The impassive victim suddenly erupted in a blur of movement, his right leg rising up in an arc, his foot catching the blade neatly between two toes. He always went barefoot. Kicking just wasn't the same with shoes on. Keeping his leg perfectly perpendicular to his body, he asked calmly "are we done here ? I have a very important meeting". The thug swore loudly and fled.
Rearranging the legs of his boxer shorts and shaking some of the moisture from his dirty off-white dressing gown, Jean-Claude Van Damme entered the Crooked Snakes.

Heading straight for the counter, he ordered a tall glass of milk while rechecking his watch. 23:11:06. It was almost time. Precisely five seconds later, he heard a voice from the previously unoccupied seat to his left "You're a bad motherfucker to be showing up after that noise you did up there the other day. Those drones are gonna be all over your ass". Turning, Jean-Claude saw exactly what his informants told him he'd find : The Serpent Learned Justicar himself. "The drones will not be looking for me. The world thinks I'm dead. I'm more useful to the Resistance this way", answered the Belgian actor.

Several other figures were already converging towards the bar, locking in on Samuel Jackson. The resistance leader nodded towards the barman, who nodded back and locked the door before heading towards the floor above, to keep watch. Once he was satisfied as to the building's security, he stood up and addressed the assembled celebrities :

"The path of righteous men is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil aliens. Blessed are they, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherd the weak through the valley of darkness, for they are truly their brother's keeper and the finders of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger She who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And She will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon her."

Cheers and clapping erupted throughout the assembly, before being quickly silenced by a gesture from Jackson "Now hold on to your butts, because I have two pieces of good news for you."
After a pause : "First, we have a new ally in our fight against the Batterwitch. You may have heard of him for that little stunt he pulled at the propaganda station. You may also have heard that he's dead. It's best everyone keeps thinking that, it gives us the element of surprise." More cheers for the action hero.
"Secondly, I laid my hands on a pretty useful trinket, something that will make the Witch VERY angry at us for taking it. Our objective tonight is to figure out what the hell to do with it".

No one questioned why JCVD was still in his underwear and dressing gown.

AND there we go. I hope no one's mad that I borrowed Samuel Jackson ? Also, I left the rest of the assembled freedom fighters anonymous so anyone can chip in with their preferred character.

[Menen]

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Im not trying to sound like a hipster, but i hated Guy Fieri WAY before this update.

Stupid fuck is taking over Food Network.

[Morhek]

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Im not trying to sound like a hipster, but i hated Guy Fieri WAY before this update.

Stupid fuck is taking over Food Network.

There is a certain type of person. A person who glorifies stupidity and douchebaggery, embraces superficial "success" over providing substantive quality, and reviles any notion of "integrity". Such a person is GUY FIERI, the THIRD AND FINAL ANTICHRIST. He is not alone. All across television and the internet, other agents of the Batterwitch are in place, subtly influencing people, urging them to care less, to give more money, to subjuggate their will to those of their celebrity "betters".

There are other people. People who give their all in everything they do. People who reject the superficial money-grubbing culture, and strive to be the best they can be. Who resist the forces of Her Imperial Condescension.

CAGE. DUTTON. WASHINGTON.

Their names shall live eternally as heroes, even after the passing of the human race. Those who come after us shall sing their names in song and tell tales of their deeds in hushed whispers. In the days post-condescension, heroes shall rise and fall. Doomed to failure, but never to obscurity.

These are the stories of the last terrible and glorious days of the human race.

What tales they are.

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I have made up my mind to actually buy Con Air. You did this to me, Homestuck. YOU did this to me...

[General-jwj]

FLASH BACK TO THE YEAR 2002

A group of men is standing in the shadows backstage. The deafening noises of the crowd of spectators is fading, leaving them in silence. Only the chains hanging from the bald one's belt disturb the relative peace of the after-concert lull. While they check their guitars, basses and drums one last time before putting them away in their InstrmntKind specibus, a figure approaches. Surrounded by a nimbus of flashing lights, yet seeming darker than the ambient obscurity, she is full of grace and exudes an aura of regal authority. She approaches the men and clears her throat, attracting the group's attention. As they opens their beer-stinking mouthes to ask questions, she interrupts them with a gesture.

"Greetings, mister King, mister Lombardo, mister )(anneman, mister Araya. You may call me B-ETTY CROCK-ER. Your particular brand of violent, ni)(ilistic music )(as ... Aroused my INT-ER-EST. I t)(ink a partners)(ip between our respective companies could be most ... -EXCITING." ... At this she smiled, revealing a row of razor sharp teeth. With a wave of her light-sheathed arm, she briefly showed the veteran musicians everything. She had noticed well in advance which bands would be sympathetic to her cause. And with the influence they had over their followers, they could make things much more easier than they'd be otherwise. After the initial reveal, there was a moment of bewildered silence on the part of the assembled musicians. Doubt started to make its voice heard in the alien monarch's head. Had she miscalculated ? Had she just put her plans in jeopardy ?

The bald man came forward, the grim look on his face replaced by a wicked grin that mirrored the Troll's. Offering his hand, he inclined his head and said "It'll be our pleasure, ma'am. What can Slayer do for you ?"

The inevitable demise of the Human race drew closer.

[Fish]

Peter Sagal prepared in his radio dressing room. Soon Carl would enter and they would go out on radio stage together. He applied the last few touches of radio makeup and shrugged on his radio jacket.
Suddenly, though, he heard an explosion, and screams, and the sound of heavy firearms.
He rushed out on radio stage. A man dressed in a nondescript radio hat and suit was standing up in the middle of the crowd. Carl Kassel lay on the radio stage a few metres in front of him. A crater had been made in one of the radio theatre aisles, and the radio doors were blocked by radio rubble.
Peter tried to identify the man. He seemed to be moving his lips, but Peter could not tell what under the gunfire.
Where were those guns?
And then he saw a bullet whizzing towards him. He radio flipped out of the way.
Of course.
There was only one who could make such believable sounds. Fred Newman.
How do you escape someone who can alter reality with a blip of water or a helicopter chop? Peter was a fairly accomplished radio ninja, but his tutor Carl had always been faster. And now he was unconscious.
He knew he didn't have much hope, but he had to try and defeat this demon before any more lives were lost. Leaping over the panic-stricken radio crowd, Peter almost connected with Fred's face. But then Fred made a rolling sound, and a garage door blocked his fist.
Peter vaulted over and tried to catch Fred around the neck with his microphone cable, but a couple snips of Fred's new scissors stopped that plan. And he was beginning to make a meowing sound.
A leopard appeared in the balcony seats, and jumped for Peter's back. Fred Newman prepared his death rattle.

Before he could even start, though, a plane flew through the theater, knocking the cat cold.
A man pchooed out of the cockpit wearing a jetpack. He dropped rockfalls all around Fred Newman. He seemed to glow with a white, technological light.
Tom Keith had returned.

Peter hastened to his friend's body. He pulled off Carl's microphone and placed it in his pocket. His friend was dead.

The theatre collapsed behind him as he limped out of the emergency exit. The show had been booked for four hundred people, and they were now all trapped under tons of crushing rubble. Peter Sagal didn't know if either of the two sound effects men had lived, but he wasn't going to wait around to find out.

He hailed a cab.

[IDSeeker]

I find pretty ironic that one of the leaders of the resistance that fights for freedom is named "cage".

Keep up the good work: I'm enjoying this to no end.

[genteelGunslinger]

It's going to take a while, but I should have the next part of fedorafreak story finished soon. I've had some school work in the way.

On a side note, where do you think Will Smith stood in the Battle of the Condesce? And Will Ferrel?

Ferrel seems like an excellent bad guy

[wrinklefudger]

Will smith was on the side of good, will ferrel is debatable.

[Morhek]

Will Smith was always a Crocker sleeper agent, slathered in brown paint and having cut off his horns, paving the way for her arrival. There is no Troll Will Smith. Will Smith was ALWAYS a Troll. He thus died in the Vast Glub of not-G'lbolgly.

This is sad news.

Will Ferrell, however, was executed by the Condesce for crimes against humour, in one of her attempts to placate the surviving human population. The execution was attended by millions, who cheered their oppressor's magnanimity. He was pelted to death by dodge balls. It was humiliatingly awesome.

[genteelGunslinger]

Will Smith was always a Crocker sleeper agent, slathered in brown paint and having cut off his horns, paving the way for her arrival. There is no Troll Will Smith. Will Smith was ALWAYS a Troll. He thus died in the Vast Glub of not-G'lbolgly.

This is sad news.

Will Ferrell, however, was executed by the Condesce for crimes against humour, in one of her attempts to placate the surviving human population. The execution was attended by millions, who cheered their oppressor's magnanimity. He was pelted to death by dodge balls. It was humiliatingly awesome.

If that's so, was his executioner Vince Vaughn?

Also, I'm assume it was over looked by Chuck Norris, There is no doubt to this fact.

I wouldn't even be surprised if Ben Stiller attempted to stop the proceedings, but barely escaped with his life from the crowd that rushed him in anger.

Hey, I am suddenly reminded of Tropic Thunder, for no reason, other than Ben Stiller.

What about Jack Black? Herald of the Octad Geometric? One half of The Destined Seekers of the Pick? Minstrel of the Sick Melodies?

Where does he stand in all this?

[Morhek]

If that's so, was his executioner Vince Vaughn?

Also, I'm assume it was over looked by Chuck Norris, There is no doubt to this fact.

I wouldn't even be surprised if Ben Stiller attempted to stop the proceedings, but barely escaped with his life from the crowd that rushed him in anger.

Hey, I am suddenly reminded of Tropic Thunder, for no reason, other than Ben Stiller.

What about Jack Black? Herald of the Octad Geometric? One half of The Destined Seekers of the Pick? Minstrel of the Sick Melodies?

Where does he stand in all this?

Dude, this would make an entire fanfic by itself.

Clearly Stiller, Wilson and Glover would be driven insane by the Batterwitch for attempting to liberate their comedic (?) brother, taking on the personalities of their SBaHJ characters as the ultimate ironic punishment.

The Seekers of the Pick of Destiny would come out of retirement for one last rock-off against the Condesce, and would be swallowed by the jaws of hell while belting out a sweet power metal solo, only to be rescued by the Fourth Best Folk Comedy Duo in New Zealand, where both groups team up and challenge the Batterwitch to a three-way musical showdown. Their battle would last forty days and forty nights, and would only end when Tenacious D and Flight of the Conchords ascend to heaven, one of the handpicked of god's elite few to bring their sick jams to that great big HBO in the sky.

And Chuck Norris will just ollie outy into the sun, because even he cannot fight destiny and win.

[CSJ]

BILL COSBY WILL BE FOREVER MOURNED, DESPITE DEALING WITH THE DEVIL VIA COMMERCIALS.

A TRUE SUPPORTER OF THE UNDERGROUND RESISTANCE.

AND ROWAN ATKINSON. AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY BRITISH COMEDIAN EVER.

[Fish]

I think Chuck Norris was inexplicably tied to a shitment of shippy swords and launched into the sun.
And the Copenhagen Interpretation came back to play one last gig, and inexplicably destroyed Halley's Comet (by bringing it down on Tuukka Rask's head as he beat down footballer Hulk)
oops I think I'm tired enough to be incorporating this and this
those are pretty great books though

[Morhek]

BILL COSBY WILL BE FOREVER MOURNED, DESPITE DEALING WITH THE DEVIL VIA COMMERCIALS.

A TRUE SUPPORTER OF THE UNDERGROUND RESISTANCE.

AND ROWAN ATKINSON. AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY BRITISH COMEDIAN EVER.

Deep in the highlands of Scotland, the bagpipes play as the great Caravan of Comediannihilators winds its way up through the ravines and ridges that serve as their path, towards the tower that looms over the landscape. The trees loom oppressively, the haunting notes carry across the air.

This is the Tower of Lord Connolly, Last of the Scottish Mirthmongers. Once, he made his living as an actor and stand-up comedian. But as the world crumbled around him, and society turned into mindless sheep, he laid his plans. Long has the Batterwitch searched for his stronghold, but in vain. Only those who hear the bagpipes play may gain admittance, and only those who oppose Crocker are permitted to listen to their haunting melody.

Surrounded by his Lords and Ladies, the Court of Connolly stands as the last stronghold of the Great Comedians. Scottish. British. Irish. A few Americans. There were once a few Welshmen, but these were murdered by the agents of Crocker. Their vengeance was swift - the Mirthmonger himself tossed them from the battlements like small logs, tumbling end over end, into the moat filled with live Haggis'. Their teeth, rending. Their claws, tearing. Their spines, impaling.

The great Caravans come still, drawn by the sound of the pipes, blown by a man standing on the top of the highest pinnacle, beard stretching down like the wisest of wizards, tartan kilt blowing in a refreshing wind, bringing more escaping the rule of Crocker. TV writers and actors. The remnants of the Royal Shakespeare Company, led by a limping but definitely alive Kenneth Brannagh. They stop, and a figure is rudely tossed off the cliff, screaming. Alas, poor Jon Cryer. We knew him well, Charlie. A fellow of infinitely poor jest...

But another agent of the Batterwitch hides, concealed. The Brown Man, who usurped his predecessor and was in turn ousted. But addiction is a powerful thing, and his addiction is to power, which the Condesce has promised him. And he hungers for it. All he must do is go to the tallest tower on a full moon, and light the beacon - and the forces of the Batterwitch will crush one more foothold of resistance.

But this is a story whose outcome is already known. Humanity must inevitably diminish and vanish.

But they will not go without a fight.

The Great Mirthmonger knows their time is coming. He gently sets the bagpipes down, and unlimbers his giant claymore, testing the edge with his thumb.

The drones will come. And he will perish.

But not easily. Not quickly. And not without a fight.

[genteelGunslinger]

I am always so impressed with the quality of work you produce, Morhek. They are so captivating.

And CSJ brings up a good point. I feel sad knowing that Rowan Atkinson would be lost in the battle against the Batter Witch. There was never an actor that I loved more as I was growing up. It was his portrayal of Mister Bean that would flavour my sense of humour forever. His over the top acting made me love acting myself.

He will be missed

[Morhek]

A memorial to his sacrifice shall be erected.



I've been taking a paper on eighteenth/nineteenth century gothic fiction, which all has overwrought prose. You thought Rose's fanfiction was dense? Pfft, try some Edgar Allen Poe. It's helped quite a bit with the writing.

[genteelGunslinger]

I've read 'The Raven'. I thought it was pretty good.

Then again, I probably only got half the level of depth it had, so that's always a problem. But with skills like these, my friend, you could makes something out the writing you do. You really have talent.

[Morhek]

Well, that's something to put a double major in English and History towards! My celebrity apocalypse novel shall gain all of the moneys, win all of the awards!

I was more referring to his short stories. I love the Raven. But try reading The Fall of the House of Usher - god, that prose is so purple it's basically crazy. And so depressing! I mean, yeah, I guess that's why people read Poe, but still...

Oh. Wow. Purple prose? Rose's verbosity and tendency towards the loquacious? I...I only just got that.

[General-jwj]

I'll try to get my write on soon and continue the narrative threads I have going. Is anyone even interested in that ? Because I dunno, mine just don't seem as good as all the others people are writing around here

[genteelGunslinger]

Well, that's something to put a double major in English and History towards! My celebrity apocalypse novel shall gain all of the moneys, win all of the awards!

I was more referring to his short stories. I love the Raven. But try reading The Fall of the House of Usher - god, that prose is so purple it's basically crazy. And so depressing! I mean, yeah, I guess that's why people read Poe, but still...

Oh. Wow. Purple prose? Rose's verbosity and tendency towards the loquacious? I...I only just got that.

Congratulations.

I'm not all that familiar with Poe's work. I'll have to keep in mind to read some more at some point.

I'll try to get my write on soon and continue the narrative threads I have going. Is anyone even interested in that ? Because I dunno, mine just don't seem as good as all the others people are writing around here

General, everyone who posts in this thread gets a share of the love. You go right ahead and add to this thread. Trust me, we're all here because we love what we do.