This thread is for writing Jow Forums related stuff and the recommendation of books that are Jow Forums related
>It's been unscientifically proven that a lack of (you)s for writers can lead depression, alcoholism, story abandonment, and an hero.
>But it's so easy to make a difference in a writer's life. Just one (you) a day can make the difference between a happy writer and a writer on permanent hiatus.
>Please, post now. Help make a writer's day.
--------------------------------- FEATURED WRITERS ---------------------------------
user section This section host the list of stories that host the user section, due its sheer size it has its own folder
Hello, Jow Forums frens! Retard here, writing a novel in my spare time. Tl;Dr Character hunts monsters and shit as his soul-crushing 9-5 job. I need a gun that he might use that would be: >easy to keep on a person (i.e good for edc) >not so weak or so overblown that it’s use in killing monsters would seem “unrealistic” Can anyone point me to a good gun for this character concept?
Angel Powell
Glock 20 or Glock 40, I'd say. 10mm Auto is a pretty potent cartridge but it's not utterly ridiculous. If you want something more stylish, maybe the original 10mm pistol, the Bren Ten.
I'm not sure if it's the best to keep on his person, but a Grizzly Mk V sounds right up his alley
>.50AE >not a Desert Eagle
If not that, I'd probably go for some kind of .45. Maybe a glock/USP/FNX-45. You could probably get away with a 1911 too. These aren't as concealable as say, a purpose-built 9mm, but I'd personally avoid 9mm for demon hunting.
If you want really concealable, go for a carry gun like those single stack 9mm.
Fuddy-five is less than 10% more powerful than 9mm, and this gap gets even smaller with modern ammunition. The idea that fuddy-five is a big powerful cartridge is a total meme.
Merry Christmas you glorious fools. May your guns always have food and that your groupings stay tight. This time, try NOT to shoot Santa when he sneaks into your house t. medic-elf that had to pick the buckshot out of his gut
I was going to post the christmas story in the thread, but I found it would take 14 posts to post it all. That's 14 posts that could go to better writers or writers who are more sought after, so I'm going to post a bit here and the entire thing will be on a paste. Compromises. user's Christmas
The base is alive with activity, everyone giving gifts to each other and generally seeming more happy than usual. The season was definitely upon you. “Hey, commander.” G11 says. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas.” You reply, smiling warmly. However, the Christmas had not been merry for you. Garand was nowhere in sight and neither were the rest of your airborne troops. It was almost like they vanished. Then, the unthinkable happened. “ALERT! ALL AIRBORNE UNITS REPORT TO AIRFIELD FOR IMMEDIATE DEPLOYMENT.” The intercom blared. You rush over to your room, gearing yourself up for a drop.
20 minutes later
You arrive at the airfield and see the plane already waiting for you, Katy waving you inside. “MOVE IT user! THERE'S A TEAM ON THE GROUND WAITING TO MEET YOU!” She yells. You nod, almost jumping inside the plane as the engines begin to throttle up. When you sit down, you look around the plane, seeing it was empty. This team had better be as good as your airborne troops.
30 minutes later
You've been looking out at the snow laden country side for a while now, passing over cities and towns as the pilot flies at the perfect jump altitude the entire time. Suddenly, the light goes red, signaling you to get up. You get to your jump master position before realizing nobody else is on the plane. “Get ready.” You say to yourself. “Stand up. Hook up.” You hook your static line to the cable above you. “Equipment check.” You say to yourself. You check that the equipment on yourself is fastened tightly, making sure no harnesses are lose. “Sound off on equipment check.” You say. “One okay.”
You wait for the light to turn green before walking up to the door. You jump immediately, feeling the cold blast of air against your face as you jump from the plane. The parachute opens, pulling you by the harnesses to a straight drop. Then, you saw your landing sight marked with green smoke. “You idiots. You're going to get yourselves spotted.” You whisper to yourself. As you float down to the ground, you steer towards the green smoke. As you follow your usual routine of bent knees, flaring your chute, and crumpling to the ground, you feel the cold snow ride up your neck. When you get off the ground and pull in your chute, you grit your teeth angrily. “You idiots! You can see that smoke for miles!” You yell, appalled by the unprofessional nature in which they marked the target. “Why are you yelling?” The team says, snow rising around you. “Might as well. Everyone already knows you're here.” You say, anger coming down after scanning the area. “What's the mission?” “Did you see that cabin about 3 miles back behind the hill as you dropped?” G3 asks. “Yes, I did.” You tell her. “That's our target. There's lots of Sangvis T-dolls taking refuge inside. We're tasked with eliminating them.” SVT-38 tells you. “Gotcha. Let's get moving, this cold is almost painful to be in.” You tell everyone.
45 minutes later
You're about 500 yards from the house when you give everyone the order to crouch and take aim. “Are you able to put suppressing fire on that building?” You ask MG3. “My weapon has been jamming up this entire time. I don't think I can.” She tells you. “Shit, we'll just have to go in fast. Everyone, on me!” You say, getting up and rushing the cabin. When you reach it, you lean against the wall. It was a rather large cabin, seeming more like a lodge than just a cabin.
You slowly creep toward the door, rifle in your right hand and left hand reaching toward the door. As soon as your hand is 2 inches from the door handle, the door flies open. You bring your rifle up and squeeze the trigger, only to be stopped by Springfield. “Merry Christmas, commander.” She tells you. “Your friends are waiting inside.” You cock your head a bit, looking back at MG3. “It's Christmas time. We thought you could use a little away time, so we organized a jump for you.” Springfield tells you. “Come on in, the food is getting cold.” You take your finger off the trigger, putting the weapon on safe before slinging it on your back. “You know dropping from a plane with a paratrooper parachute is dangerous, right?” You ask. “We both know you weren't in any real danger, commander.” Springfield replies. You nod and walk inside, seeing all of your paratrooper T-dolls sitting around a large table. “Is this where you all went?” You ask them. “Hey user!” Garand yells to you, waving wildly. You wave back and she pats the seat next to her, as if you'd sit anywhere else. You walk over to the table, sitting next to Garand as she scoots away from SOPMOD. “I hope the cold wasn't too bad.” Garand says, obviously feeling guilty for lying to you. “Paradrops are dangerous, Garand.” You tell her. “However, I'm happy I don't have to go out on Christmas to fight again.” “Again?” She asks. You nod. “Let me tell you the story of the bulge.” You tell her.
Blake Phillips
Now, i have a machinegun
Ho Ho Ho
>Also, sorry i havent been doing anything lately. Life stuff
>tfw someone saved the santa pic I brought to Jow Forums you made my christmas thanks writefags
Dominic Foster
Almost as good a Christmas story as Die Hard. Warms the heart, it does.
Andrew Lopez
Yeah.
James Anderson
Hows body guard and daughterfu doing?
Oliver Parker
First thing's first.
Parks's story comes out this January. No idea when, I'll have to consult my artist, but I WILL get the ball rolling on that one.
Given this is my friend's character I'm rewriting Don's arc(again). She's helping me with her character and we're both trying to get Don and Ash's relationship where it should be.
One where communication really doesn't exist either because Don doesn't know how to talk to his daughter or because he's afraid to talk with her in fear of him being considered a shit father by her to him.
Fucking hell, that reminds me of the memes my boomer uncle shares on his Facebook group.
Josiah Bennett
>Rivers is not "triggered" by "microagressions." He is not outaged by "male privelege" and "cis-gender bathrooms." He does not need a "safe space." Or coloring books. Jakes needs an education. And when terror strikes, the school needs Jake...
I have never chortled for so long at such a ferocity in my entire life
It just might be an example of the rare and in the wild, high effort shitpost that looks as if it's serious
Cooper Johnson
I breath in the peaceful cold night air. Perfect for the hunt. I can smell my prey, close, maybe within a hundred metres. I smile, while pulling my weapon from under my coat. The streets are empty, silent. Not a single car or person in sight. Around the street corner I can hear the hushed whispers of my prey. around the street corner. They are yet unaware of my presence, but in just a few seconds they will certainly wish they had stayed alert. I take one last, calm deep breath. I press a button on my phone and heavy metal starts playing. whirl around the corner, training my .50 deagle on the nearest man of four. I put four round through him before he can react, three in the torso and one in the head, dropping him like a brick. The other three recoil in surprise, I don’t allow them time to recover. I rush into the middle of the three. I fire the remaining rounds into the man on my right, painting the wall with his insides. I let out a frenzied laugh as one of the two remaining men throws a punch at me. A grab his arm, violently ripping the arm out out it’s socket. My eyes begin to emit a bright red glow as the thrill of battle overwhelms me. I pull on the man’s arm harder. The arm is pulled completely free of the man’s body. I savagely beat the man over the head with his own arm. He stumbles backward, screaming in pain. I teleport behind him and loop the arm around his head. “nothin personnel, kid” I whisper in his ear. His friend watches in horror as I strangle him with his own arm. The last man’s will breaks and he takes off running. I take the Yakama off of my head and throw it like a shuriken. It flies true, decapitating the fleeing man. I catch my Yakama as it returns to me and place it back on my head. I casually stroll on past the starbucks the men were gathered outside. I went out of my way to stomp on the socialist flyers they were putting in the window. I dropkick the fourth man’s head down the street. Another libtard destroyed
Nathaniel Hernandez
FUCK NOT YAKAMA whats a jew hat called? i forget
Hudson Torres
>what's a jew hat called? I think it's either kippah or yarmulke, I can't be assed to check which one it is (or if there's any difference at all between the two, for that matter) unless you mean that goofy-looking one they used in the Middle Ages, that's literally called judenhut
Only now I really comprehend how absurdly strong she is.
There is a dead man, on my floor with a hole in him the size of her fist. Another has a wound that looks like someone took a spoon and scooped his guts out. Except that spoon was a hand .
Words cannot do justice to how fucking turned on I am now.Except from the waist down, nothng works. That's why I have her.
She is still grinning. "It has been 12745 days since I last saved a partner. Did I do well?"
I pause "You. were.. Fucking amazing?" I say. She smiles. All 5'5" of her, covered in gore, her brown hair plastered with blood and her plain clothes in shreds.
She looks about. "It feels good to be fully operational". (WHAT!?), I think
"Fully..What?"
"Oh Yes I was only running at .9% capacity since you became my commander. Are you happy with my performance? " I pause.
Point Nine Percent? "So, dealing with these .. Invaders, you were operating at what?" I ask.
"Oh they only required a mere .10%, I am now fully operational though."
Ho-Lee-Shit. She put her foot through one of them. I mean, crotch to dome, bisected.
"So, can you ..Clean this mess up"? I ask, as a test.
"Of course! Now that I am 100% operational, the removal of offending debris is trivial!" (Offending debris. She tore them to pieces. Their shots apparently did not a goddamn thing to her,).
I think the VA fucked up..
Cameron Watson
That looks hilariously cancerous. And he's written others. Alright, this is epic.
1/2 scribbled while a bit drunk. -One day, my 1911 spoke. "You should really treat us nicer". Mind you, I have all kinds of hearing issues. I hear a constant 60 cycle hiss, etc.. TInitus sucks. So I looked at the '44 vintage Colt 1911A1 I have carried daily for ~30 years and said- " what?". Oh, that lit her up. Now, I've never seen 'geists". I see and hear machines, and without reservation, love them. Not like a woman, but like a good horse, or loyal pet. But this shit? Fuck no. BUT.. I can sure as fuck HEAR them. I had four more old WW2 era Colt frames I could stick this pistol's parts on if I wanted a truck gun. If I really wanted to chafe her ass, I could always drag out the CZ 75, and go "Meow". All that fucktardery aside- I suddenly had a bitchy 1911A1 that needed dealing with. "Look you ragged old thing, I bought you for a bit under two small, since you are so FUCKING ugly no mere cholo would touch you without a trip to the chrome shop, so if you have any fucking issues, let's get them out now before I need your bitchy ass to zap some methed out fucktard with a Buck-knife, kay?". So she lays in-" All you did was clean me, and then stuff in a bunch of new mil-spec parts. What about these new things!/?Like this "beavertail safety" or "Mercury compensated guiderod! Or a Beveled magwell!".. I stare a bit in the gun/geist's general direction, since I cannot see said spirit... Then let loose "Are you fucking kidding me? You WANT me to stuff you full of nonsensical bullshit because you saw it in a fucking magazine or some shit? Are you fucking dumb or what? You actually WANT me to stuff that shit on you? You are fine the way you are,that's why I've fucking carried you for over THIRTY FUCKING YEARS.".
Luis Green
2/2
-Yeah, that shut her the fuck up..- "Thirty plus years. The most I've changed is a chrome lined barrel, and a set of '27 commercial slabs. And you fucking complain? I'm even using pre WW2 Colt commercial magazines. You have any fucking idea how rare those are? And I have close to a hundred of them. But you want some fucking staineless steel high cap shit? Well fuck you I'll load up the CZ75 and you can go back to the safe." And then, the sobbing. "You don't love me," etc, etc. "Yeah I have loads of other pistols. Only ONE do I carry daily. FFS you fragile twunt, figure it out!" "Wait, so... you really do love me?" she asked.. "OH FOR FUCKS SAKE HOW FUCKING DENSE ARE YOU!? I've caried TWO handguns commonly, and by far, YOU are the one I wore. When shit went bump in the night, I grabbed YOU. " So now I her snuffling. She's calming down. I'm still pissed and wanting Bourbon. And then it comes.. "So, do you love me?".. I sigh.. "When I bought you, I was making minimum wage. I worked for over a year to pay you off. You were my first "real" handgun. You will be my last. My home could be burning (improbable since it it made of poured concrete) and you would be the first thing I'd grab. You're the one, I make sure I have, every day. " Still thinking I was losing my gourd, since I was just HEARING this, I saw her materialize. Scarred, battered, Brown hair fading toward grey, chopped short. A splash of freckles, green eyes. Stocky and well muscled, wearing a cheap dirty white blouse and simple black skirt. I smiled. She looked a bit teary..And utterly lovely. "Hello, Old Friend" I said, and pulled out a chair from the diningroom table..
>As Kyle headed back toward the south westward part of the camp, he felt he didn't have all the facts. >With each heavy, plodding step, Kyle considered a new angle. "'There were reports' they told us." "'Rumors.'" "'Clown world is just the transitioning phase for piss earth.' daddy told me." "Dad, you were right. Piss earth is gonna suck in five years. And I just unleashed half of it." >Kyle thought of the book he'd been told to read, which he'd been unable to put down out of sheer morbid shock. The book title was "Piss Earth 2025," and it was published during the period of insurrection. >It had been a book about the dark future of man, written in the 21st century, with the lessons of "1984" and "brave new world" placed behind them, focusing less on the big brother, though acknowledging him, but also bringing to the light of day, the rule of chaos and the power of the powerless, bringing with it, a greater foresight into the much nearer future of the time, focusing more on the nasty little cunt that is the little brother of chaos, and the state enacted control of the population through the enforced lack thereof. >In this whirlwind of thought, much of which came from here and now while the other half of which came outward from an internalized there and then that stretched off into infinity as far as he could remember, a stray thought that matched nothing of the things on his mind, from where the hescoes had flown off to, and what it must've felt like to be Peter in his last moments, a stray occurred to him. "I wonder what old man Jones is up to." >As kyle wandered about the camp toward the west, he finally came to the last of the questions. "How's Molly holding up?" Kyle asked himself. "How am I holding up?" He finally thought, baffled at the prospect that he'd been able to withstand all that he had and still walk around like he did, not so much as feeling the wound in his head. >He stood on the precipice of a crater where once there'd been barricades.
Ian Davis
>He looked down to the crater, where a squirrel had stomped its paw into the ground, sending parts of the camp flying. >He thought of what he'd seen of Peter's remains. He was identifiable, but only due to about a third of his face snaking up from the left side and then left to the center of the forehead at the brow and up to the crown of the head. >It nauseated him moderately to think of the sight of the head crushed inward, and caused a convulsion to run up his spine, shaking him from his gut as the shudder traveled up his spine to the base of his skull. >His jaw fell slack to assume the position it'd be in when he doubled over and expelled any solid matter in his stomach onto the ground. >He sucked in air and expelled it quickly, wishing it'd be over, that he'd ultimately project his contents onto the ground and be done with it, that he'd purge the sickness that dwelt within his body. Ultimately, however, the convulsions would settle and he'd once more feel solid as his stomach finally settled. >With a first step more like toppling his center of gravity off his back foot, he plodded down the center of the crater and then up the other end, searching around to see whether he could find her. >"The state of the structure has grown so decrepit that in any major center, all pigs and system whores could be annihilated and it could not significantly affect the course of the system at all." >Kyle looked to the source of the voice to see Nelson sitting on at the end of the remnant of the barrier wall talking to himself, sitting with one arm clasped upon his knee and staring blankly into the distance, jaw slack, and his eyes glaring through the distance while his brain warped around the process of his thoughts.
Hunter Cox
>At the moment, he found the idea of sitting in shock and quoting from Siege to be relatively appealing when confronted with the alternative of realizing his powerlessness as the hands of the squirrel. But at the moment, he didn't much care about the things he felt physically or internally, at the moment, his mind, even should he have desired otherwise, was set outward. >He happened upon the sight of Molly, lying out where the wolf had been killed days before and looking out on the destroyed remnants. >Kyle decided it was time to take a walk down the hill, and chambered a round just in case he happened upon wolves, or any other creatures short of the abomination that'd most likely by now, etched itself deep into the minds of America by now. >without incident he sat himself down by Molly and looked out on the view before him. >The ruins seemed to look back in a predatory manner as he stared off into the distance. "Holding up?" >"You shouldn't be walking around like that." "Suppose not, but I'm not laying around while there's a whole zone of critters intent on killing me out there." Kyle replied. >"We're being recalled." she offered. "Don't wanna talk about it?" Kyle asked. >Silence stood between them for several seconds. "No? Not about how you are? How you feel? What you've seen?" >Molly turned her head just enough to put him in her peripheral vision, as if to make only the most cursory assessment of him. Her jaw was slack and she seemed to tease at prying out some reaction... then her blank face went stone as she closed her mouth and turned her head away. >"...." "Alright." kyle said, Standing up without prodding or prying at her, and moving in just such a fashion as to avoid poking her, lest she explode like a water balloon. He wanted to say "I'll go check on the others. I'm always open if you want to talk." However, he knew there was no remedy for her that would not come only with time.
>Kyle walked solemnly up to the camp where he met with a paranoid looking Andrew. "What's your ailment, Andy?" >"What the fuck was that thing? Y-Y-y-you saw that fucking thing, didn't you?" >"Come on! TellmeI'mnotcrazy!" "No, no. I saw it, Andy. But you ARE crazy." >"No, no, no! It was all so real! It CAN'T have been a hallucination." "You're EXACTLY right." >"SOI'MNOTCRAZY!" "NO. You are right. But you're still crazy. You volunteered to be here. That thing was what you signed up for, knowing so or not." >"So I'm not insane?" "Well, you're not hallucinating or seeing anything that isn't real. You just signed up to be here." >"Okay." Andrew said as he looked at on at Kyle's calm and composed visage and took a deep breath, calming as he eventually slowed down to a resting pace and slowly began to walk around the camp. >James came toward him as he looked on after Andrew, who walked away like a zombie, before sagging to a sitting position and looking out over the hills. >"We're being recalled to Vegas." James informed. "Molly told me." >"I just found that out forty seconds ago, how would she know THAT?" "It's probably logical in her position. That said... do they know the boot is wrecked?" >"Yeah. The new one will be here in a couple hours." "Wonderful. Andrew's conscious, since we're by it. He's pretty fucked up." >"Yeah, I expected as much from the kid. He's gazed straight into the eye of Squirrel-thulhu. Don't expect anyone's getting out of that unscathed." "Squirrel....thulhu. Yeah, I guess that explains Molly, Nelson and now Andrew. So what's needed?"
>"Well, I don't know about the rest, bunch of them are unconscious on account of taking a tentpole or something to the skull, You got a headwound, Molly's got a headwound, Andrew's stayin' noided and Nelson's babbling about the god of Mammon and shit. What's Molly up to, anyway?" "I think they're going their own way about decompressing. Being attacked by a squirrel puts one under high pressure and a microscope. I think what they all need, whenever Charlie and Emma come to, is privacy, wherein they can talk to themselves, selectively talk to others, and just vent out that stress and depressurize themselves." >"How's Molly? I saw you come from where she was." Kyle heaved a long, sullen sigh as he decided how to phrase it. "She won't talk to me." >"She told you to go away?!" Jim reacted in surprise. "No, it's exactly what I said. She told me I should lie down and that we're being recalled, then she shut up like a clam when I asked how she was." >"Ah. THAT." "She just needs her space. They all just need their space." >"What about you? You okay? For a man with a pretty bad headwound, you act unscathed, and you've had more exposure to it than almost all of us." "I guess I just haven't had time to think about it. In my dream, I was in a prison of the mind, but not the spirit, and every day I made friends." Kyle stated. >"What did you just say?" "Just that I don't think I had time to think about it." >"No, the second part." "What second part?" >"Ne- Take care, man. 'till the ride back."
Vegas. That night. >Kyle found himself in a bar. Somehow, though he'd never been particularly given to drink, nor the perils of alcoholism, he fould it felt like home. >Some differences of course, found their way to his sight. Old man Jones wasn't behind the counter. The place was rowdy, though perfectly in line with his experiences. Instead of George Jones, or some other famed country music he'd grown up hearing at Roscoe's, there was a classic techno song called "love beam" by a now long past french artist named Agrume playing loudly. >The wall of course, was not covered in pictures of people he knew, instead, they were clad in old fashioned printed photographs of people in what dad had described as "G-Suits," denoting that they were a professional known as a "Fighter pilot." >the bar was called the Tommy Knockers, and though it didn't quite match, it was close enough to be Roscoe's or better, seeing as he didn't have the pain of looking at the pictures of Susan or the strange emotion stirred by the picture with the woman named "Monica." >Kyle sat at the bar listening to the techno, which he admitted if only to himself, was quite catchy, while he downed his third shot of Rebecca Creek. "Hey barkeep!" he yelled over the music, eliciting the desired response of an approach. >"What can I get you, brotha!" The strangely accented old man asked. "More Rebecca Creek! this time, leave the bottle!" he said, slipping up a fifty dollar bill. >"You got it!" he yelled, retreating to advance once more with a bottle of the whiskey. >The old man, slid the bottle to him as he asked about the bandages. >"Get into a fight?" "Not particularly fair, but I suppose you could call it that." >"What happened?" he asked as Kyle poured a shot and dropped it at the speed of gravity. "You wouldn't believe it. I saw this big ass animal and it just about mauled the whole campsite." Kyle said, pouring another, this time pausing.
Brayden Bell
"I don't know what it was, but I think it's a new species of squirrel." he said as he raised the glass and downed another shot. >"Telling a tall tale, brother." "Not as tall as the animal." Kyle said before the bartender gleefully turned to serve other customers. >"Hey!" a familiar voice demanded his attention from his side. >There in most of her splendor, was Molly, wearing a dress, and her hair standing out in a much sharoer red after being washed. "What are you doing here!?" >"Easy there, young buck, we have some business to discuss." "I don't know that you and I have ANY business." >"Business, Pleasure, maybe the same, will ya shut the fuck up and let me talk?" "You can start talking, but you say some bullshit and I'm out." >"Look, I just wanted to thank you for shielding me, pulling me away from the animal, all that shit." "Okay. You're welcome. But I take it you don't just want to tell me how great I am, or you'd be wasting your time following me." Kyle remarked. >"Look, I think this would be better in private." Kyle mulled the idea for five seconds in his mind, turning it over and out, before deciding. "Alright. Where did you have in mind?" Kyle granted. >"I was thinking...." Molly trailed off, leaning into Kyle's ear. >"...Mandalay bay, room 1848." she whispered. before backing off. "Alright." Kyle granted again. >Molly Slowly fell away from him and hovered outside. >A few minutes passed, and another shot before Kyle picked up the bottle and walked out. >About fifteen minutes after Molly did, having prior knowledge, and sobriety on her side, Kyle found Room 1848 just drunk enough to be giddy, and knocked on the door. >His knuckle had barely touched the door for the third time when it came open. >He scarcely had time to identify the red haired woman behind the door as Molly before an arm lunged around him, pulled him into the room and threw the door closed behind him.
>Had he been sober, he might have resisted what came next out of some notion of discipline. But now he simply let her initiate the act when she went for his belt before he seized the lead, and simply moved her, and rolled up her dress.
Day Nine. >Kyle sat next to Molly in the boot. >He looked across the boot to meet the eye of Jim, which seemed to appraise him and Molly, both of whom, through a lacking sense of self control and a near constant state of inebriation, had come across marks about the face and neck. >Kyle sported bite marks about the neck, a little dark spot that should've been a cut about his right ear, the subtle but easily missed marks of teeth having nipped at his lower lip, and of course, the subtle but visible red marks just peeking out of his shirt, which betrayed the marks of nails skidding across skin. >Molly, for her own part in the debauchery had little in the way of bite marks or scratches, but did have pressure marks on the side, which seemed to evidence that a hand had found its way there and clasped down. >More worrisome to those who'd noticed their marks, was the fact that they could only be the visible tip of the iceberg, with a vast majority of marks, of unknown number and severity hidden beneath surplus combat shirts from the twenty-thirties and Newly requisitioned plate carriers with anti stab inserts
>While the two appeared to have been marred more by their time away from the destructive influences of the zone than their entire time there, all others appeared had returned to an air of normality, and lack of injury, having undergone minor medical attention for the most part, as they'd had four days away from the zone in order to recover from their wounds and clear their heads, of course, this all came after a brief inquiry that lasted all of two hours, but in the end, no footage had been forthcoming about a cluster of reports about a wood squirrel or tree squirrel, depending on the source, the size of a building having crested the hills near Las Vegas. >With all concerns addressed, the team had been cleared to go back to the zone, and would in time, find themselves in the destroyed camp five with all the equipment they'd need to repair it. >Their contract had been altered, however, in the wake of Peter's crushing death. >This time, they'd be granted a bounty for every animal among the local wildlife they culled, and a grand sum of forty million dollars for the documented bagging and tagging of a building sized squirrel, to be awarded upon confirmation. In addition to their typical objectives, they'd also be tasked with aggressively hunting wildlife opportunistically.
Allllllllrighty there! That's all the story I got for tonight, and though it's already past for most of you, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and ask that you simply rate, hate or bait. Have a good one, /wfg/.
Writefagging a book and needed military buffs to help me come up with how this should work, help GREATLY appreciated:
The pitch: >galaxy spanning military that literally has billions of soldiers, and so the standards are remarkably low in order to favor quantity over quality. We follow soldiers keeping a farming colony in order during a time when many are rebelling
What I’m looking for: >Stupid simple standard tactics and orders that are universally taught to every unit for securing a city/being in urban and long range firefights
I was thinking of researching the red army for this one, and Fallujah
>A standard issue weapon that is essentially if the US military’s small arms budget (Not including optics) remained the same but they were forced to produce 1.5x-2x as many rifles
she reminds me to much of a flat mate to the point of uncanny, no much hugging rn due to broken ribs though, and wife would look weird at me due to hugging a screen anyway
Com bloc stuff is your friend here. Cold War era Chinese stuff would be good too. T-55s, MiG-21s, Mi-8s, etc. Also, while the AR-180 is pretty simple, again keep in mind that durability is the greatest concern, so ak-pattern rifles are probably a good bet too.
1 or 2 "I like this" responses do not count as readers either
Grayson Ortiz
What if that one guy is the same guy who reads faithfully, just like the user & ruby or the Barrett guy who show up at least once a thread every thread, but this one reader lacks the artistic knowledge to say more than "I like this?"
I do, but no one reads me, and admittedly, most of my recent stories have been very much less geist centered and recently they've really only been mentioned off hand.
Carson Morales
What's the story? It's hard to tell when the artist doesn't have a name.
Cooper Martin
I dunno at least say what that person likes about the story it doesn't have to be a critique or analysis. Was the action good? Did it give the reader a feel? An Atmosphere? Does he like the characters chemistry? Intrigued about the plot? Literally anything so the writefag knows he's doing a good job or what to do for the next one
I don't want to say. But, I have posted this thread, and will probably post more.
Joseph Rogers
I wrote a story for Christmas, but it ended up not christmas-y. I guess I could still post it here, but I was wondering if I should post it piecemeal as form of bump or if I should post it all at once?
