Stories

[jazzmosis]

Here's another one I wrote: It's called: Because You Said. . .

Who are you to say I can’t?
You’ll see, one day, you’ll see me. And when that day comes, you won’t know what to say. I’ll have proved you all wrong.
The kid that nobody wanted, you remember him, don’t you? Always chewing gum, he was. Never took anything seriously, they all said.
I remember when I was but 15 years, all alone in the world, parents given up long ago, teachers watching me fail, telling me not to cut class. To stop wasting my life on an activity that will get me nowhere.
But here I am, 10 years after those non-believers said I couldn’t. Detached from reality? I wouldn’t say so. I am a performer, giving people what they desire, filling their minds with vibrations no other can fulfill. I stand alone in the world, in front of the masses, and play.
Not an instrument, but a life. I have no stage, no hall, no studio, not even a street corner. I don’t even have a room to call my own. But I play. And I play and I please.
There are those who stand in my way - and I knock them down. There are those push me back - and I trip them up. I get hurt, but I play. And who’s to say I can’t?
It is not a sport, but a life. And I’m the best.
I have no name, but I do not desire such definitions. If you are locked by terms, you may simply call me ‘Best’. For that is what I am.
My travels take me far, the money I earn not enough to live. When the day comes and I die, they will all know they were wrong.
I came from nothing, from a dead-end, to a world of practice. And now I fight.
Yet I am only 130 pounds, and 5'2. But I am the best.
Who were you to say I couldn’t?

[Mindfields]

Very good little article, Jazz!
You're talking about basketball, aren't you?
It sounds to me like that new commercial for Air Jordans or Nike...or Gatorade, I don't remember...but it has this kid sitting on a step infront of an apartment, and he's talking about Michael Jordan.
Anyways, it was good.

[jazzmosis]

Thanks - but I'm not talking about basketball.

"It is not a sport, but a life."

Not sports. It is something though - I don't write purposeless dribble.

[Mindfields]

Who said basketball was just a sport?
You're limiting your mind, jazz

[jazzmosis]

Er. No. That piece is written in a very explicit tone, so while Best doesn't say what he's the best at, he/she definely says what it is they are not doing. And specifically stated that they are the best at something that is not a sport or an instrument. But this consumes their life.

It's you who's limiting your mind. Readily accepting a solution when it's wrong.

(I know a sound like a jerk here, but I'm just stating the riddle of the story).

[Mindfields]

Ok, fine you win. But basketball can still be more than a sport...I like basketball...

[jazzmosis]

There's nothing wrong with basketball - and hell, I know that sports can grow beyond what they are (baseball is my life, so I can relate), but in the context of that story, it's not any sport.

[Tantric]

This is a poem...I'm more of a poem writer but this is a story...kinda...

The Last Night

About football...my last football night...
written10/22/04

The Last Night

We arrived back at school
And everyones acting like a fool
Not caring or complaining
But I knew something was wrong
I look at myself one last time in the mirror
Suddenly the tears fall down
And no one knows why.
When they tell us were out,
Thats when they figured me out
And now all us guys
Break down not knowing it was our last
I cant breathe
I barely stand
Stop hitting me so hard
The words hit me so hard
That it took a part of me
Now it's a hole of memories
Never forgotten
I sit there not wanting to ever undress
Unless I can go back
But it's not!
It's so hard to give a part of you away forever
We say our goodbyes and thanks
Only making me breathless and numb
I cant breathe
I barely stand
Stop hitting me so hard
The words hit me so hard
That it took a part of me
Now it's a hole of memories
Never forgotten
Everything I've lived for and
Everything I've worked for
Was all gone that thursday night
I've sacraficed a lot in my years
Not knowing it would end on this note
I cant breathe
I barely stand
Stop hitting me so hard
The words hit me so hard
That it took a part of me
Now it's a hole of memories
Never forgotten

[The_Q]

I know it's plagerism, I know it's illegal, and I know I shouldn't have done it, but I needed a good intro to this story. I wrote it for the love of it. I've got another one for class that I might post later. Other than that, this story is rather clever. At least, I think so.

____


Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight thousand miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
This planet has-or rather had-a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because, on the whole, it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with the digital watches.
And then, one Thursday, slightly over two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small café in Chicago suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, the planet was obliterated in an improbably stupid catastrophe.
This is not her story. It is her cousin’s and it took place several decades before this rather unfortunate incident.

Ms. McMahon’s Second Grade Class filed into line for lunch. Every single one of the little buggers was squirming so much you could have expected a small army of ants crawling up their underwear wouldn’t cause as much of a ruckus as simply standing in “line.”
Four in particular were jumping about and laughing loudly at each other’s antics. Each one of them was slightly tall for their age allowing more room for their egos in their added height.

Mick had a very strange craving for the oddest thing today: a sandwich, a very healthy sandwich. The first half of the day he did nothing but dismiss the idea and joke with his friends to help keep his mind off of the topic. Eventually, the sandwich-lust grew to a point where it just had to be fulfilled and caused his quirky genius (or what he considered to be genius) to burst through the barrier of the restricting regime known as “elementary school.”
“Guys, we need to get some real food,” he whispered across the table. Sully leaned in closely to see if he could translate this information in to military terms. Jason did a good job of keeping his little red head out of the whole situation. “I know for a fact that Mr. Butler keeps his food in a tiny ‘fridge down in the teacher’s lounge.”
“Oh, there’s no way we’re going for that, man,” cried out Joe. “You know that we couldn’t get in and out of there without at least three detention slips a piece. I’m not talking a homework pass, here; I’m talking the real deal!”
Jason slid down the lunch bench and poked at his rubber meatloaf. “He’s right, the Green Slips are never good,” he replies.
Talk of the matter died down for a few minutes before the idea was brought up again. Sully made a satisfied grin and nodded to Mick. “Ok, so we’d need to spring a spec ops mission against this so called “Lounge” by launching an immediate offensive. Best time of attack: now.”
Mick grinned back and stood up to leave the crowded cafeteria and managed to get caught in the arm by an “administrator” just as he got his butt off of the seat.
Jason poked his meatloaf again. “Told you it wasn’t a good idea.”

Mick returned five eternities later (60 seconds times 5 eternities equals 5 minutes) with two small green slips in his hand. Slowly, he took his seat and glared at Jason for a long while. “Ok, so we really need to go now, just to spite them. Here’s the plan.” All ears listened intently to what they thought was probably one of the greatest heist schemes ever devised in the history of the known world. They thought rightly.
After a good 5 eternities of combined planning and silence-not to mention meatloaf prodding- the group all stood up at once. The ensuing confusion of the matter caused every child at every table in the cafeteria to stand and begin the routine of leaving the cafeteria. Mick could do little else but chuckle as he and his team managed to slide through the crowd and into the hallway where he could make his way to the teacher’s lounge.
The open hallway was a blank void, nothing on any of the walls. Nothing that would vaguely resemble importance, that is. It being a school, posters of deformed animals and poorly written cards littered the walls with their bright glitter and poorly matched color scheme. It was truly a sight to be feared. The hall extended several thousand feet in one direction and only spanned 5 feet.
“Ok,” whispered Mick in his hushed voice. The walls had ears. Or rather, the walls wore unicorns with claws which had glittered ears on them. “Ok, we just need to get down to this hallway. The teacher’s lounge is on the other side down there. If we don’t want to…” he was interrupted by an abrupt opening of a door. An hour passed as the foot sluggishly crashed onto the floor and the body attached to it followed. The four boys darted into different alcoves in the hall and hid while the faculty member passed.
The theme to Mission Impossible was softly hummed in Jason’s corner. Sully brought up the bass line in his own. One by one each of the boys took up a part for the song while the waited for the coast to clear.
Mick, the last to pick up his part (the melody, of course) scrambled up a wall that was coated in Elmer’s and pushed his way into the fake ceiling. When everything was clear, Sully sidled through the hall to the door of the lounge, waving his teammates along as he went. Several more eternities passed as both teams slowly made their way to the teacher’s lounge, pausing to hum the flute line when necessary.

Ms. McMahon heard a rustling outside of the door and went to investigate. Three of her favorite-rather, least troublesome- children were sneaking outside the door. Quick to react on her sense of sadism, she pounced on the opportunity to cause the boys as much trouble as possible.
“Joseph! Jason! Ezekiel Sullivan! What are you doing out of lunch on the wrong side of the school?” she projected at the trio. Sully flushed bright red and the other boys proceeded to begin fits of giggling. Jason tried to sidestep his way out of the situation but only got more attention from the stern educator which caused him to giggle even more.
Sully calmly began to explain himself. “Sorry, Ms. McMan but…”
“It’s McMahon.”
“McMahon. We just had to go use the restroom and…well, you know the sinks and how they’re so tall. We just wanted to help each other reaching them,” he lied, hoping that she wouldn’t see through the obvious attempt at drawing her attention from the truth.
“Ezekiel, you can very well reach the sink yourself. I’m sure the other boys can reach it too.” Joe burst into hysterical laughter, causing Sully to glare back at him. Jason sidestepped further until his ear got caught on a rather sharp fingernail that came from above him.
The excuses and bickering, giggling and glaring continued for quite a while longer and got all three boys two tiny green slips each. All of them were delighted to accept the offer of such papers.

Mick heard Witch McMahon starting to scold his companions and lowered himself down through the missing panel in the ceiling. The duct tape he was using as a rope was nothing less than perfectly secure. Slowly, he slid down the tape rope to the mini-fridge which contained his treasure.
Once he was on the floor he snuck over to the fridge and opened it slowly, just as Sully was explaining the truth about their excursion to the restroom. The light from the tiny bulb illuminated the brown sacks and one red cylinder in the box. Instantly, his eyes glazed over in delight.
Quickly, he stuffed the cylinder into his pants and grabbed two of the sacks and scaled the rope of tape once more, clenching the bags of food in his teeth. After the longest climb of his life, he pulled the tape back up the hole, replaced the panel and the tape (which was holding the panel in place due to a certain janitor’s lack of responsibility) and scurried back to his classroom where he met up with his buddies. His breath was heavy and stained with the scent of roast beef and Italian dressing. The goods were sufficiently hidden in his backpack and the beverage was stored in the crotch of his pants.

Later that day, all four boys reported after school for double-detention, exchanging their tiny green pieces of paper for a half hour of entertainment. The very moment the “supervising” administrator nodded into her sleep Mick pulled his quarry out from his book bag. All eight eyes sparkled at the sight of their activity for the next thirty minutes.
“You managed to get us two?” Joe half-yelled in amazement when the bags were taken out of hiding. “That’s impossible! Simply impossible!”
“You’re looking at improbable, my friend, but not impossible,” Mick replied cockily while distributing the food.
All four boys managed to eat their fill of health food and crackers before being shooed off by the awakened administrator. Mick didn’t leave.
Silently, Mick walked up to the administrator and dug the soda out of his pants and grinned. “Thanks for the double-detention. Wouldn’ta worked without ya’.”

_______

Good read, no?

Q

[Loverofstories]

go to chit-chat i wrote a story and a poll for it

[MalReynolds]

I tried a different writing style for this. It's a short narrative, using sentences that are breif, but convey the story.

"Six Ounces"

The weight of a gun is measurable. I’d guess around five pounds, but then again, I’d never really taken the time to weigh one. I figure a bullet is slightly more immeasurable. Weighs an ounce. No, no… Less than an ounce. It takes less than an ounce to tear your skin apart, sever muscle, char nerve, penetrate organ and leave a gaping exit wound. Now, that’s why I call a bullet a true, everyday miracle.

All it takes is one.

All Sheller needed was one.

Hell, all I needed was one. One to the back, one to the chest, one to the thigh and I was finished. We were all more than human that day. Huddled behind our boxes, we were weak. Masses of fear and filth, all fighting for the same prize. Our lives.

And the briefcase.

The five pounds in my hand, the five pounds in his, and Jack… Jack was sitting in the office nursing his stomach. He bought his ticket first. I’d have to thank him later for getting shot first. Thank him, and leave. There was no room for second place in this game.

Currently, my gun weighed five pounds six ounces. I looked up over the box, scanning the catwalk. I looked over to the office, and Jack saw me.

“GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER!”

His gun went off, shattering the window and digging a bullet into the box in front of me.

“Ah, shit.” No thanks for him, I decided, ducking back down.

Jack was crying in the office now, saying something about his wife. He wasn’t fuckin’ married. Sheller knew better. But then again, Sheller had fucked us all, hadn’t he?

From across the warehouse, I heard Sheller’s distinct drawl.

“Jack, will you just hurry the hell up and stop your cryin’?”

I smiled. If anything, Sheller didn’t think before he spoke. He lost the element of surprise. I knew where he was now, more or less. He was by the sliding door, and the briefcase sat on the box in the middle: directly across from the office window, directly across from Sheller’s position, and directly across from mine.

I raised my gun over my box and fired blindly across the warehouse, hoping to just draw a reaction out of Sheller. Get him to tell me where he was.

“Hoo, cowboy! Your gonna have to shoot a hell of a lot better than that if you wanna’ hit my rosey ass!”

Five ounces.

“Someone call an ambulance… Sheller! Call an ambulance, for the love of god please call one I’m dying here…” It was sad. He was calling for the devil to send him to heaven. It’s just something that wasn’t gonna happen.

His crying stopped. I was relieved. He was gone.

It was his turn to shoot. I’ll be damned if he didn’t hit the box next to me. I crawled over and fired a shot from behind that box.

Four ounces.

He was playing into my hands like a motherfucker.

He fired again. Hell if he didn’t think I was behind the wrong box. I slowly crawled to the office, which jutted out from the wall. He shot at the box again.

I slinked across the floor, trying not to hit discarded cans and screws. He shot again, but this time it sounded different. Sheller hit the box again, though.

I put my back against the row of boxes that Sheller was held up behind.

I turned quickly, and fired a shot straight down the line. He wasn’t there.

Fuck. Three ounces.

Now I know why the shot sounded so FUCKING off. It was coming from a different place. He was making his way across the warehouse at the same damn time.

I smiled. He didn’t have the office on his side. And if he was being as careful as I was, he would be right out in the open.

I rolled out in front of the office, and Sheller was waiting for me. All the way on the other side, only the box with the briefcase on it between us.

He fired once, and it shattered the other window behind me. I had always before thought it had been some kind of joke when authors would put into their stories that there was a hot wind that rushed past their cheek as a bullet passed, but I’ll be damned if it ain’t true.

I fired once, and the slug tore into his shoulder.

Two ounces.

"Well played, Cowboy..."

"Sheller... Shut the fuck up."

I fired again, and his eye disappeared.

I can honestly say there has been nothing quite as satisfying as shooting that fucker in the head.

He slumped against the wall. I turned, smiling as his body hit the floor, the wound in his head leaving a red trail down the gray concrete wall.

You couldn’t have made me happier if you tried. And I still had an ounce to spare.

I stood up, walked over to the briefcase and picked it up.

I winced as another shot went off. I froze. I waited for the pain to take me. It didn’t... The bullet hit the case.

Jack was up.

Jack went down again as I used the last ounce to silence him.

I opened the case. There were two in there. Filliberti plates, steel engraved plates that the mint uses to roll hundred dollar bills off the presses. You could be a rich man with a set of these.

And here mine were, with a fine bullet denting both of them.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Hell, it was so damn funny, I was still laughing when they slapped the cuffs on.

----

Mal

[Spheroid]

Unfortunately, I haven't had time to read through all of the stories on this thread yet, but I'm glad it's become a sucess. Thanks to everyone who posted a story.

Here's a short story I wrote one night for a school free writing assignment. It's is still a rough draft, and I don't even particularly think it's good, but I still hope you enjoy it.

I shared this at school once for a read and critique day because I thought it would be fun to read this as fast as I could. I got mostly positive feedback, but that might have been because no one was actually able to hear what was going on. It does sound better when read quickly.

A Piece of Life: A vs. B vs. C

A walks up to B and asks why he’s a B and not an A, to which B replies by stating he likes the B’s, and not the A’s. A then lists why the A’s are better than the B’s, but B remains a B.

The next day, A and a group of A’s walk up to B and ask him why he’s a B and not an A, to which B replies by stating he likes the B’s and not the A’s. The A’s get mad and question his beliefs, making him feel like an outcast, so B turns A.

The next day, a group of B’s walk up to B and ask why he’s an A, to which B replies by stating he likes the A’s but not the B’s. The B’s are angered, so they list why B is better than A, so B turns B, not without the A’s watching. Once the B’s had left, the A’s went up to B and asked him what he had just done, to which B had no reply, so B turns A.

The next day, the group of B’s walk up to B and ask why he’s now an A and not a B, to which B had no reply, so B turns B, not without the A’s watching. The A’s walk up to the B’s and ask them why they’re B’s and not A’s, to which the B’s respond by attacking the A’s and defending themselves, to which the A’s counter by doing the same, so B turns A and A turns B.

In retrospect, the A’s lost, and the B’s lost, but both A and B won.



All commentary other than flaming is welcome

[psychic25]

Hmmm... Jazz and Shox, I liked yours, but yeah, those seemed more like poetic prose.

And I didn't understand the last sentence, Spheroid :P. Maybe I'm just tired.

I'll see if I can get something of my own up a bit later.

[xiron]

written for a school assignment. it's not the best because we had to have certain criteria, some of which, i felt brought down the story as a whole. i know its not very good, but tell me what you think anyway

Destiny

Part I - Allister

I awoke in the damp, dark tunnel that was my home. As I looked slowly around, I took in my surroundings. The tunnel reminded me of a coffin. Black, cold, and lifeless as the tomb. But the story of how I got here is hard to believe…
It began on my 16th birthday, the time when all young members of my race undertake their training to become adults and full fledged members of society. In order for this to happen, they have to go under the wing of a spiritual advisor, who teaches them all they know, thus giving them the intelligence to enter into the world.
When I found out who I had been chosen to have as my advisor, I was stunned. I was to receive training from the master of the masters, Allister. Relatively young by the standards of the Advisors, as they were known, he had risen to power while still very young. From that point, he had kept rising in the ranks, until he became one of the Council, the governing body of Link, our planet. This was usually a spot reserved for only the oldest and wisest, but he received it at the youthful age of 27. He was considered to be the greatest leader since Cronos, our first Emperor. Accordingly, I was shocked to find out that I had received him.
I remember our first meeting clearly. The first time I saw him, I was awed by his presence. He was a god among men. Allister was the kind of person who made gold and platinum look like rusted iron, made diamonds look like coal. He gave off an aura that seemed to command respect, command servitude, command worship. I immediately fell to my knees in amazement.
“Stand up,” he said in a deep, powerful voice, “and let me see you.”
I stood. He started to inspect me, look me over. His gaze seemed to penetrate my skin, my bones, my organs, my very soul.
Suddenly, he questioned, “What kind of knowledge do you have, boy?”
“Well, I know Calculus, some basic geogra…”
“That is nothing! Remember, the only true knowledge is knowing that you know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”
“Wha..?”
“You heard me boy! You know nothing, the council knows nothing, I know nothing! We think we are all powerful, but that is the weakness of our race. We are overconfident. We are cocky. We think that we are the best thing to happen since the universe began. But here’s an update- WE’RE NOT!”
I was blown away. The sheer power of his speech assaulted my senses, knocked me down for the count.
“Another thing,” he continued, “You need to learn about our race and the evils it has committed all in the name of exploration, of knowledge. We have committed horrible atrocities against Nature and her creatures just so that we could trick ourselves into thinking we know a little more than we did. This, at its core, is why man is evil. His endless search for knowledge, for power, has led him to the brink of the destruction of the world which he needs to survive. We are, in essence, killing the thing that made us great, all because we hunger to know. But this knowledge has come at a price.”
He continued. “We need a leader, a savior of the world, to free us from our evils. Only when our eyes are open can we begin to repair the damage we have caused.”
Thus ended our first meeting.

Part II – A Sonnet
After all of my meetings were over with Allister, an idea began to slowly grow in my mind. What if I was the one to end the evil of my species? After all, I had received training from the great Allister, and even he had said I was a good pupil. What if?
On our last meeting, he questioned me.
“Do you believe in destiny?” he asked.
I responded, “Yes. I believe that we all have a purpose and that that purpose is set in stone.”
“You know what I believe?” he asked. “I like to think of our lives as a sonnet. In a sonnet there are a set of rules such as 10 syllables to a line, 14 lines, and you must you iambic pentameter. Correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“But within the confines of those rules, you can say or do whatever you want. I like to think of life as being like that. There are certain things that we must do while in our lifetime, but other than that we can live it how we please.”
“Wow. I never thought of it like that,” I responded.
And thus ended my teaching by Allister.


Part III – Destiny Revealed
It was 2 years later. I had gone on to become a respected member of society. But one day, I was walking in the merchant district of my city, looking for a steak for my dinner that night. Suddenly, from a shadow, a figure jumped out and grabbed me. At first I fought him, thinking it was a robber of some sort. But then I stopped. It was Allister.
“Boy,” he yelled, “I need your help! They’re after me!”
“Who is?”
“Them.” His eyes opened wide at the sight of something behind me.
I turned around. Running at full speed towards us was about half of the Council’s Guard, the most elite of our military.
“Holy…”
I grabbed Allister, turned, and ran. We ran through half of the city, looking for an escape. Finally, we found one in the form of a dark alleyway. As soon as we saw the guards run past, Allister grabbed me.
“Listen boy, we don’t have much time. I found something that may be of interest to you.”
Seeing as he appeared to be out of his mind, I decided to stick around.
“Do you know of The Prophecy?”
“I know bits and pieces,” I replied.
“I my studies, I have amassed a large quantity of ancient manuals and tomes older than time itself. Yesterday, in my studies, I found this.”
He quickly pulled a piece of parchment from his cloak and handed it to me quickly.
“I need to go,” he said quickly, and ran off.
I opened the parchment slowly. This is what it said:
“The Prophecy is this: In many years, the chosen one will come. He will be taught by the greatest of teachers and will become a high ranking member of his world. But he will have discontent. He wants to cure the world of its evils. And this he will do. He will not be the first to try, but he is the one that will succeed. He will be alone in his quest, the lone force against a wall of opposition. But he will succeed.”
I was astounded. It was me. I finally knew my goal, my purpose. To heal the world.

Part IV – Destiny Fulfilled
I ran as fast as I could from that place. I decided the first step of action would be to go to the Council. I ran past the guards into the council room. As I burst through the doors, I was grabbed by two guards and thrown against a wall.
“Stop the evils of our race!” I yelled, “End the needless destruction of Nature!”
“You fool!” the High Councilman said, “Do you really believe you will be able to do anything?”
“I can try!”
“Take him away. Give him a nice burial.”
The guards hauled me into the woods, where they tied me to a tree and began to dig a hole. Finally, they untied me and threw me in to the black pit…
That is how I got here. Now I lie, knowing that death could come at any second. I have come to the realization that the prophecy wasn’t about me. I failed. And now, I accept death…

[MalReynolds]

Your writing style in the first section was... a bit odd. You used this techinique a lot... "He did this, this. And then he went over there, there. He looked me over, my soul." That kind of thing. You used it too much.

The societal backdrop needed more information. I had no idea where this story was taking place. Flesh out the detail a little more. Give us background on Allister, and not just superficial bullshit. You told the audience too much and didn't let them come to any conclusions on their own.

The interesting charachter was Allister. Was he really insane? What would killing the head of the council do? Why are they guarded? Why are the elite troops restrained to be council guards? A lot of these loose ends don't make sense.

Now I come to the big problem: The end. The ending just blew. I mean, he didn't even kill anyone. He just said some stuff. And the society that you set up, making each person become very learned in what appears to be philosophy, speaking your mind gets you killed? Doesn't make sense.

Also, don't make the main charachter so naive as to the words Allister says. I wasn't taken in by them, and I doubt many people would. If you dumbed the society down and made only chosen ones become learned in philosphical studies, then his naivety would be understandable.

The prophecy came out of nowhere, and only served as a means to end the story. Very quickly, might I add. It just didn't work that out of nowhere did this prophecy come from, that would convince the main charachter that it was his destiny. There was nothing in the prophecy to lead him to that.

Work on it, man. Work on it.

Mal