Darien Shields
1st September 2004, 01:22 PM
Fan Forum E-zine: September I
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Newsflash: Darien Lames Out!
Sorry folks, bad news. I'm yanking the Contest that was going to run this month, for the chain fic. I'm sorry, but as the event drew closer I felt that things weren't going to go well. Everyone was busy, Americans just went back to school after summer, Australians are still in school, and school is on the horizon in the UK (although I believe that in England their summer is different.) College and High School work have bogged everyone down, not to mention social lives that get a bit more active back at school. I think that some other time might be better. Perhaps half term, or Christmas (ironically, I thought that might be a good time to write... ?) But not now. Sorry all.
In other news we're going Bi-weekly, which means you can expect another issue on about the 14th or so. As such I'm dividing the content in two, so we'll have slightly smaller issues. A Spotlight one issue, a Under Appreciated one the next.
And last, but far from least, we've become the Fan Forum E-zine, meaning, in short, we now stretch to Fan Art as well. I'm not well versed in this field, so I'd like to introduce Agent Elrond (http://www.pokemasters.net/forums/member.php?u=24661), who'll be handling things on that end. As you can see we have a cover, and Elrond had been kind enough to write us our first art column.
I apologise for the lack of spotlight at present. Responsibilities beyond my control kept me from fulfilling it on-time, and I'll have to edit it in later. I apologise again.
Contents:
September Under Appreciated Spotlight: Mystic Theif by Snorlax 19
Line Work By Agent Elrond
Pick 3 By Zak Hunter
Article: Update Frequency By jimm
Fan Fic Preview: Atlas By Zak Hunter
August Under Appreciated Spotlight: Title By Author
Intro
Review
Reviewer
Review Text
Interview with the Author (Interviewer)
Interview Text
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LINE WORK: An Art Column... article...thing...
By Agent Elrond
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I've often had people (rarely other artists) comment on my artwork, saying such things as; I wish I could draw that well. They use this particular tone of voice too, like somehow they are a failure because their horse-legs look like sausages. It's a rather defeatist tone, "I wish I could do that.... but I never will..."
I hate it.
I've often noticed than many young children draw, perhaps because they simply have nothing else to do. Whether they draw on paper and with traditional means is entirely Dependant on whether their parents have the intelligence to give them a notebook. Well do I remember the joy when I discovered, at age 7, that I could draw on the walls! I set aside the hallway beside our bedroom, with visions of a huge mural with animals and monsters on the walls, and birds flying overhead. Of course, the result was nothing like what I had imagined, (I couldn't reach the ceiling) and most of the would be murals have been covered over with more recent works of art.
But during the creation process I quite sensibly realized that this hallway was considerably bigger than my previous canvas (an 81/2" by 11" piece of typing paper) and so enlisted a fellow child friend to help me with this enormous task. We armed ourselves with felt tip markers and allotted a piece of floor and wall each. I set myself in front of some drawers and began decorating the fronts with various winged horses. These were not Michelangelo's horses, but they certainly had some rather distinctive features of their own. Such as the knees that bent backwards, and wings that, in all reality, were far, far to small. Anatomically speaking. Any adult might had been ashamed to draw such technically incorrect beings --- and on a wall at that! But I was satisfied, they captured the energy and character of the horses I wanted to draw, and I had gotten the ears right, which is more than you can say for many professional artists.
After a bit my friend came over to take a look at my progress, I glanced over at her portion of the wall and noticed that she had barely finished one half of her own drawing --- which also happened to be a horse.
"I don't like black Pegasus." She announced sourly as I colored vigorously with the black felt tip.
"I like black." I said. Which was true. She watched me color for a bit more, then added;
"Your's is better than mine." She was quite bitter.
I glanced over at her own drawing, and I had to admit, if just for the fact that I had actually finished a drawing, mine was better. Also, she had gotten the ears all wrong.
I agreed humbly.
"If I drew more than you did, I would be better than you." She said the last part with great conviction, "better than you." As if it was important that she not lose status as a human being for want of being able to draw good horse ears. But when put into a context such as that, my seven year-old's brain though on it for a while, rather bemused, before I once again agreed, and she was perfectly correct.
If she drew more than I did, she would be better.
But she didn't.
That just the thing, doing it, actually drawing, can get harder and harder as you get older. More adult things get in the way, you become to busy, to grown up to scribble away on a piece of paper. And anyway, when you do, it comes out as an unrecognizable blob of a tree, and what's a mature twelve-year-old to do?
Perhaps it has something to do with school, but I think it has more to do with losing incentive, with longing to be something you aren't, and not being proud of yourself for who you are.
It's very important to be proud of you work, and not worry if there are those who are perhaps a little (or a LOT) more skilled. That is the thing with drawing in particular, you are always getting better. If you can be silent, and observe, and remember, drawing is the essence of learning, of developing new techniques and challenging your past beliefs.
When I was young, like, five, I drew about as well as ever other five-year-old I knew. But while most of them grew on and up, they didn't draw much --- or at all, I would look up at such legends as Beatrix Potter, or Robert Lawson, and say to myself; "If I keep on drawing, I'll be as good as them some day. I can be as good as them, I'll just keep drawing."
That is the difference, when people do, and people don't. Even those who do, perhaps do it rather badly, eventually they will do it well. I have found this phenomenon to prevail in many levels of life, not just art, but it is here that it may perhaps be seen the clearest, and gives us the best chance to learn from it.
"If I drew more than you, I would be better than you."
"Yes, but you don't, do you?"
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© Agent Elrond 2004. The writer can be PMed or e-mailed at abra@teleport.com with any questions, comments, or suggestions.
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Pick Three
Brought to you by the letter H, the number 6 and: Zak Hunter
Well, the Ezine hasn’t failed yet, because, well—I’m still here writing the Pick Three column, and everyone else is still doing their thing. This is the third time Pick Three makes an appearance, and as September rolls around, I’m starting to see a number of promising fics surfacing. The problem with a lot of promising fics is that, well, the writer does not necessarily know that his/her particular story shows a true promise. In order to further convey, or instill a hope to keep writing—we need you readers to get out there, reply, do something towards the good cause. That’s about enough of my rambling—let’s bring on the three lucky choices.
The Lost Island by Yayap is the first lucky grab, and it starts off with a young boy named Everett, who gets away from it all by riding his Lapras out to sea to relax on it for a while. Here, his best friend Rachel, who he left with on a pokemon journey, greets him. Everett eventually decides to jump into the water with Rachel, and does so in a strange fashion. After laughter and joking, a snowflake makes the two realize something isn’t right, as it’s twenty degrees Celsius outside—which is no condition for snow.
At the time being, I don’t really know where this story is going—but by writing quality alone it looks quite good. A couple grammar and spelling errors here and there, but nothing too big—and with this we’re left with the question: what comes next? What’s behind this snowflake-in-the-middle-of-summer madness? Who knows? Because I don’t—go read it.
Mystic Clown wrote a little something called Twin Guns, and it’s lucky enough to be featured this month. It opens with a bunch of smugglers bringing a shipload of cargo to a dock, and being stopped by a strange man in black. Holding their leader at gunpoint, this man in black calls in for the authorities—stating his name is Viper. He is later revealed as a man named Damien Skye. Out of nowhere, a man behind a newspaper tells Viper about Cuba developing nuclear weapons to turn on America and Russia. The entry ends with the mission briefing, sending us only imagery of what Viper is going to do infiltrating this Cuban weapons development department.
Too short, it lacks description, and doesn’t provide much background information about the character. Whether it’s meant to intentionally leave the character mysterious, or whether it’s just out of lack of care is unknown—but on the whole, it doesn’t matter. The character behind the newspaper came out of nowhere, and scenes switch rapidly. All in all, it’s a travesty of the word cohesion.
Our last choice answers the age old question, what do you get when you throw together Yuu Yuu Hakusho, Yu-Gi-Oh, Shaman King and Harry Potter? Well, it’s not exactly an age-old question—and well, it probably hasn’t ever been ventured into. The title is, well, on it’s own a weapon of mass destruction—consisting of forty-one characters. Yes, that’s right, it’s “Yuu-Yu-Gi-Shaaman-Hoggu-Ibo! Dawn of a New Day!” by legendaryfisherman1.
Well, this follows the lives of all of your favorite characters in Hogwarts. The title alone is enough to scare off someone—and well, it intrigued me to visit the madness of the writer. I found all of the Japanese names confusing; it was like reading a menu for an oriental restaurant. Yes, please, I’ll have the Genkai and Koenma with a side order of Yuusuke, oh, just a hint of wasabi too, please. In all honesty, it’s not that bad of a story—it’d probably be a ton better if you understood all of this Japanese nonsense. So, get out there and read it for yourself, once more, that’s “Yuu-Yu-Gi…” Ah, forget it. Just go read it.
That concludes the third installment of the Pick Three column. Remember, this column is entirely random with its choices, but I can always be influenced by bribes or sexual favors. Wait—no, I can’t be influenced by bribes or sexual favors, but you can always try, right? Read, write, read, and write—blah, blah.
Adieu,
Zak Hunter
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Update Frequency
An article/rant by The Decapitated Mole
That's right, folks, I am still doing this! And, since my article is fairly late this month, and because I have quite a bit of difficulty coming up with subjects for things like these, I decided to do this article/rant on Fanfic Updates. No, not updates to the Fanfic section, [although we could use more. I don't want the summer awards running into winter again. Mods! Let's get in gear here!] but just general updates to Fan Fictions in the Fan Fiction section. There has been a severe decline in update frequencies. And now... a new paragraph.
Would you believe [look out, here comes a "back in my day" thing] that when I first joined here, this place was a helluva lot more active? No! It's true! I could stay on TPM for hours in just the Fanfiction and PCG sections alone. A fic was updated/created, probably once every 10-15 minutes. Now, sometimes I can leave for 10-15 hours and come back to see "NO NEW POSTS" in the Fanfic section. What the hell, people? It's not like we have a real lack of fics here. Well, actually, yes, we do, but at the same time, no. We have plenty of old fics lying around, just waiting to be finished. What we don't have is new fics being started. But that's last month. What I'm talking about is all the old fics lying around.
And they are. Take... let's see... well, how about Damon's Menace? Whatever happened to the return of that damn fic? I missed out on it before, and I was really starting to get into it. There hasn't been an update to that repost in months! And that just pisses me off because it's a repost! And things like TEL, which is great now because it's done and all, but 1 1/6 years to write the final 2 chapters to a fic, even as good a fic as TEL is, and even as long chapters as they were, is a bit much.
I'm seeing it everywhere I look around these forums. Every day a writer simply puts off their fic for just a bit longer, and eventually forgets about the fic entirely and goes off to do other things, which will also never get finished, and meanwhile all the old things that nobody ever finished are cluttering up the board, going on for pages and making it nearly impossible to manually search for anything in this vast cultured wasteland we call Fanfic! The ratio of unfinished/inactive to finished/still active fics on this board is probably somewhere in the viscinity of 16 to 1.
Now, people... I know I'm the last person that should be talking about this. It takes me 3 months to put up chapters that take me 2 hours to write. But I'm not speaking about myself [well, right now I am, but I wasn't before. I promise] here. I'm speaking about what I'm seeing here. So please, people, think back. Think back. Try to remember the things you started. And go back and take a look at them. Maybe you'll be struck by some inspiration while doing so.
Now, you may have writer's block or something foolish or imaginary like that. I know I've suffered from this imaginary affliction several times, until I realized my MiracleCure. So here it is: Jimm's UnrelatedToHisArticleRantYetStillIncrediblyEffecti ve Cure for Writer's Block:::
Do the opposite. That's it. If you're trying to write something funny, churn out something serious. If you're aiming at something serious, write a comedy. Trainer fic giving you problems? Write a NonPoké story! Fantasy? Scifi! Every type of writing has its polar opposite, and you need to find the one for your style. Write 4 or 5 chapters of the exact opposite of what you want to write, and then **** out some horrible chapters of whatever it is you were trying to do, and I guarantee that you'll be feeling better within a week.
And if that doesn't work, then don't whine to me, find your own damn solution you lazy bugger.
But actually, if you're suffering from some kind of writer's block for any prolonged period of time, just write around it. And if my Opposite Theory doesn't work, then just muscle your way through your regular fic. Then you should be back to normal after a few chapters, and you can go back and rewrite the crappy ones. I have proof of this, my example: I had writer's block something fierce when I wrote chapters twenty three through thirtysomething of the OriginalHiro. But now that's all gone, and chapters thirtysomething through forty one have been increasingly better. Ever since I killed off Ping Pong...
*ahem* Sorry bout that, but it really is solid proof that a writer's block can be broken if you just keep chipping away at the edges. It'll just take time. But don't let writer's block stop you from updating your fics. I never did, and it's probably why I lost all my readers after the first few months. But this theory really kinda banks on the fact that whatever you usually write is a hell of a lot better than anything I've ever written.
Thank you for putting up with this now very off-topic Article/Rant. And so, until next month, I bid you farewell. And then you'd better be damn nice to be because I'm judging the contest, and I can squash you like a bug. Heh heh heh...
o_0
jimm
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September I Preview: “Atlas, Episode 1- Enter Elexand”
By Zak Hunter
We bring to you the cause of birth
For villains crave, and heroes thirst
And instances that cause no more
Leave us blinded, lock our doors[/center]
“Some say he’s not even a man,” the blonde woman spoke from pomp, subtly lipstick-ridden lips, “but more a machine, a fabrication.”
“Don’t tease him just because he doesn’t talk to anyone. I’ve heard he killed someone, that his dad’s dead and his mother’s in jail” a redhead spoke, her own lips forming words with a seeming frustration.
“Who’s he live with then?” a more masculine voice piped up.
“I heard he lives alone” the same redhead spoke.
“Alone? What is he?” the masculine voice asked.
“The same question everyone’s been asking. Some call him pure machination.”
* * *
Elexand von Ulrich didn’t speak to many people, in fact, as far as the people around him knew—he spoke to no one. Always his pale face was tainted with a grim, neutral look, as if he were devoid of any emotion whatsoever. He was only seventeen but his body was muscled and ripped like he was thirty and had been working out since his teens, it was a gift that he had obtained in his old homeland of the Ukraine. When he was a child, the Chernobyl nuclear accident occurred and Elexand, like many other Ukrainians, was affected directly. Elexand was a different case though, while others obtained mutations that hindered him, Elexand grew greatly in strength, which explained his grand physical appearance.
His straight black bangs hung over his eyes, aside from this the rest of his hair seeming quite calm, cut short on both the sides and back. Elexand wore simple clothing, a black sleeveless shirt with black jeans. He still had his heavy black work boots on from his job as a welder, working part-time when he was out of school to pay for his apartment rent and food.
As the school day ended Elexand rose from the creaky, crudely crafted old wooden school-desk and exited from the rust-spot ridden green door of his classroom. He walked down the halls alone, finding the exit as quickly as possible, and through this exit he began a short twenty-minute walk to work. This particular school was smack-dab in the middle of a metropolis, this particular large city bearing the name of Toronto.
Elexand knew himself that rumors had erupted about him, concerning his style of life. As far as Elexand knew, his family, except his father, was just fine back in the Ukraine—he had lost contact with them since he left to pursue his welding job in Canada. Hell, that’s how Elexand had been ever since he’d come to Canada, he was alone, he didn’t have anyone, and he lived quite a simple life.
Some days he would pretend like his life had worth compared to anything, but he was a granule of sand on a beach that stretched from past to future. Considering the insignificance of the human race in comparison to the grandeur, he was nothing—he was an insignificant from a group of insignificants. All he had ever wanted was to mean something to the world, to put every ounce of himself forward to help the good cause, to be a role model in the eyes of youth, a hero in the heart of mankind, and a legend to live on through generations to pass. Elexand thought that every man wanted a similar destiny for himself, so he thought it not at all arrogant to think such thoughts.
As he walked down that busy street on his way to work he was welcomed with screams erupting from a local bank. From the cracked panel of sidewalk that he stood he watched as a man in a full mechanical suit commanded a handful of hired goons who were marching in and out of the bank with generic burlap sacks full of the green paper that drove men mad. The suit itself appeared to be a godlike invention, a shiny polished metal encased a human body, an elliptical tinted dome that could not be seen through used obviously as an optical unit. The suit had an intricate design, each non-joint piece slightly more armored than the joins, which were made up of a stretchier metallic element. On his right arm a metallic cylindrical piece of a slightly different coloration was visible, with his left hand he slid it up his arm a tad in a cocking motion, letting it eject back to his wrist. Clenching his right fist, he fired a blast of plasma-energy from the cylindrical piece, the blast of plasma blowing a wall of the bank open.
Elexand’s body and mind were both somehow engulfed by a seemingly endless ecstasy, and it held him, gripped him by the mind and made him do something he might’ve possibly regret for the rest of his life. He approached the scene, the mechanical menace spotting the fire in his eyes almost instantly. The readings on the inside of his helmet told him Elexand’s strength, according to the somewhat alien looking letters, he was a class 100—which meant he could lift one-hundred tons. This was how people were classed; a class 10 meant they could life ten tons and so on. If the user could not lift a ton they were ‘human classed’ which was transferred into pounds. So a human class 500 means they can lift five hundred pounds, which isn’t all that much of a feat.
The mechanical man pointed forth to Elexand and three of his thugs that had recently loaded large sacks of money into a truck charged at the Slavic wonder. Elexand watched as a couple other thugs jumped into the truck, one into the driver’s seat to drive and a couple in the back armed with submachine guns. With the mechanical menace on the roof of the truck, they drove away, shooting at the cops that were now close in pursuit.
Each one of these thugs was dressed in a uniform consisting of a black dress suit, the arms ripping off of each suit jacket and around each right wrist was a device similar to the metallic element on the mechanical man’s wrist. This didn’t look good, Elexand was really only planning on helping—not dying by the hands of a bunch of goons.
Elexand stared them down and cracked his neck, preparing himself. Swiftly, he made the first move, bringing a solid kick to the side of one thug. The impact was followed with a sharp crack as the body flew through the air and with several ribs broken; found a new home lying limply on the pavement. One thug attempted to fire his blaster at Elexand, but the Slavic knocked his right arm sideways and as he fired he blasted his friend next of him a good twenty five feet through the air before he too hit the ground like a rag doll. Elexand promptly grabbed the last thug and threw him straight into the air, and began walking away casually. The man kicked and screamed as he met his climax of flight and began the trip downwards—landing squarely on his head and snapping his neck.
* * *
Elexand strolled into ‘McDoog’s Mechanics’ in his work uniform, a black jumpsuit with the name ‘Hector’ placed on it. He had only been hired because their old welder, ‘Hector,’ had died unexpectedly—so unexpectedly they didn’t have time to replace the nametag. Elexand didn’t mind; he had very little customer interaction anyway.
“Hey Ex!” Marty called to him from the back of the musty smelling shop. Marty McDoog, he ran the shop with his nephew, Dean, who was around thirteen or so and just learning. Marty was leaning on fifty, a hefty, dumpy man with a sweat-stained white wife-beater and tan slacks held up with red suspenders. His gray hair encircled his head in a crown like fashion, leaving the top of his head bald.
“What now, Marty?” Elexand replied. Marty had always liked to call him Ex for some reason, perhaps the bother of a three-syllable name was too much for him to handle.
“The bank just got held up!” Marty rose from the lawn chair he sat on beside an old junk-heap of a car they were currently working on. A small television older than Elexand sat on a wooden box as Marty tuned and faced the news.
“I had no clue, I took the back way here.” Elexand lied. The television began to show shocking footage of the crime scene, and then they mentioned an unnamed vigilante as they viewed footage of Elexand’s scuffle with the goons.
Dean walked in where Elexand and Marty were. Dean idolized Elexand in a way the Slavic brute would never understand. His dad had died when he was only two, and aside from Marty, he really had no older role model to look up to. The way Dean tailed around Elexand reminded Marty of that old cartoon with the big bulldog and the little dog, and how the little dog was always yapping about the big dog.
“Hey’a Ex!” Dean spoke enthusiastically, stopping his steps suddenly when he saw his Slavic friend beating around some brutes.
“I thought you took the back way,” Marty mentioned.
Elexand shrugged his shoulders “Maybe I made a little white lie.”
Marty looked at him concerned “You have to watch it Elexand, this isn’t like you at all. Only Dean and me know you have those super powers—and now—hell, everyone will know. This is why you moved here from the Ukraine, Ex, enemies.”
Dean was still watching the television in amazement.
“Marty—”
Elexand was cut off. “No, none o’ this Marty bullshit, Ex, you is ****ed.” His city accent kicked in, often making him sound like he belonged on a short bus. “Youse gots ta lay low fer a while, alright?”
“Man, life sucks” Dean nearly shouted, showing frustration that Elexand could not express.
“So do prostitutes, Dean,” Marty insisted.
Elexand turned around and began walking to the other side of the room when he replied “But life sucks for free.” Marty smiled, mouth closed, and shook his head lightly as the Slavic walked away from him and Dean.
* * *
With a grim look of dissatisfaction, Elexand watched the news in the small room at the front of the shop, another old television. This particular television had the volume knob broken, so it consistently blared much louder than you’d prefer. The news was going over the events of the robbery, and in a more extensive nature, the villain. His name was Evan Slater, a scientist that worked for the military. Apparently, during his time working for the military he was attempting to build a war-suit—but had recently been fired for not meeting deadlines. Upset, and disappointed, he tested the suit out himself on the bank—and it had worked like a charm.
Elexand turned off the television, as it was beginning to get late. He exited the small room noticing he had done no work that day, waving his goodbyes to Marty and Dean for the night, and heading back to his apartment.
* * *
Elexand von Ulrich awoke to the sound of bagpipes. He contemplated himself going crazy, momentarily, but shortly after this stood up. As he stood up and put on his clothes he heard the doorbell ring, and then the bagpipes start up again. That ceremonial bagpipe song echoed throughout his skull as he stumbled still tired, to the door. Elexand opened up the door to see only briefly a large muscled Scotsman in full gear. The Scotsman threw his bagpipes to the ground and lifted Elexand off of the ground, proceeding to charge in a full out tackle out of the window on the sixteenth floor of the apartment Elexand lived in.
Elexand felt himself suspended, as if time were slowing down for him. His whole life began to flash before his eyes as he saw the shards of glass flying behind him. The Scotsman’s shoulder met his stomach as they careened into the sky. People below screamed and cars skidded to stops to watch them fall. A man dressed in a red and green tartan kilt, a white long-sleeved shirt and a small, stout plaid hat with a red pom-pom on top. The Scotsman’s orange beard trailed a little behind him, his stocky build making him look fat and not muscled compared to Elexand. The Scotsman’s traditional long white socks pulled up to his knee were now tainted with blood from breaking through the window.
Elexand clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes as they drew closer to the ground, noticing the Scotsman’s grip would not likely come undone. Then, it finally came, Elexand felt his body break through the asphalt on the road, he felt his body seem immobilized, and worse of all he felt the Scotsman’s shoulder drive into his stomach. Elexand yelled louder than he ever had in his life, but to his amazement, this showed that he was still alive.
The Scotsman got up off of him and stared him down with a look of disgust. “Mr. Slater sends his regards. I’m the Highlander, and I’m going to accept that precious bounty on your head.”
Elexand choked on his own blood that he could feel churning in his throat.
“Yes, sir, a bounty. Fifty-thousand, not bad, if I do say so myself.”
People on the street didn’t know what to do, they had just watched two men fall from the window of a large apartment and survive. Most of them stared from behind a car, some form of shelter, with jaws agape, motionless. A few scrambled to call the police, all along knowing that the police could do nothing about it.
The Highlander took Elexand by his neck with his left hand and raised him up for everyone to see. He slowly raised his right hand, and then brought it with great force into Elexand’s stomach. The Slavic was hurled back a couple feet, skidding across the rough asphalt. The Highlander began to walk away and Elexand looked around. He noticed it was a smaller street than usual because it was only one-way accessible—possessing only one lane. When Elexand heard a large cracking sound, and then a scream, he knew he was done for.
The Highlander had lumbered over to the library monument, the library monument being a very large stone recreation of Earth. He ripped this memorial from its stand and rolled it over to the downward sloping street that Elexand was laying on. The people that were behind him began to scream in horror as the Highlander let the stone earth roll down the street. Pedestrians had no way to escape—and all of them knew they could never outrun it downhill.
Elexand collected himself and rose, his muscles feeling great pain, and he faced the slow rolling monument. When the monument met him, he tried to push it back up with his arms and chest, but found it to be much too heavy, and noticed he was being pushed back as the rolling Earth gained momentum. Elexand turned around so his back was facing the monument, and in a last desperate cry to the pedestrians, he shouted at the top of his lungs for them to run as the Earth rolled up onto his back.
Elexand braced himself, holding the massive Earth on his back, his left leg in front of his right, both knees bent under strain. His arms he held backwards to stable the Earth that now was entirely off the ground and onto his back. Elexand felt his entire body begin to shake under the stress, his muscles pulsating, pumping and beginning to tire rapidly.
A lone boy looked up from the street as he ran. He looked at the Slavic giant and a wave of hope passed over him, a strong liking, perhaps admiration. This lone boy felt right for once, and as he turned the corner onto a safe street at the end of that hill, that glimmer of hope, that self-gratification, it faded—as his hero was nameless.
At that exact same instant, an experienced news anchor in an ‘eye from the sky’ helicopter dubbed Elexand, and in a mocking tone he spoke into the headset microphone, and he relayed this message to the currently working anchorman. “This just in, Ronny, headline it, ‘Atlas Saves!’”
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Next Issue!
Next Issue we'll be looking at “The Born Legacy” by The Blue Avenger for the Spotlight, and hopefully getting more columns and such on art.
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Credits
The Fan Fic Reviewer Organisation (http://www.pokemasters.net/forums/showthread.php?t=29859&page=1&pp=15), for providing us with the Reviews.
Zak Hunter, Column Writer: Pick 3
Darien Shields, Editor, Interviewer
jimm, article writer.
Order of Articles and staff was decided on the order of their work submission. Anyone who had signed up to do work, I'll put you on the Staff when you publish something
P.S.: Can't get the damn images to load. Anyone know what the problem is?
http://www.iphq.net/tpm/uploads/24661/FFE-Zine-Design.jpg
Newsflash: Darien Lames Out!
Sorry folks, bad news. I'm yanking the Contest that was going to run this month, for the chain fic. I'm sorry, but as the event drew closer I felt that things weren't going to go well. Everyone was busy, Americans just went back to school after summer, Australians are still in school, and school is on the horizon in the UK (although I believe that in England their summer is different.) College and High School work have bogged everyone down, not to mention social lives that get a bit more active back at school. I think that some other time might be better. Perhaps half term, or Christmas (ironically, I thought that might be a good time to write... ?) But not now. Sorry all.
In other news we're going Bi-weekly, which means you can expect another issue on about the 14th or so. As such I'm dividing the content in two, so we'll have slightly smaller issues. A Spotlight one issue, a Under Appreciated one the next.
And last, but far from least, we've become the Fan Forum E-zine, meaning, in short, we now stretch to Fan Art as well. I'm not well versed in this field, so I'd like to introduce Agent Elrond (http://www.pokemasters.net/forums/member.php?u=24661), who'll be handling things on that end. As you can see we have a cover, and Elrond had been kind enough to write us our first art column.
I apologise for the lack of spotlight at present. Responsibilities beyond my control kept me from fulfilling it on-time, and I'll have to edit it in later. I apologise again.
Contents:
September Under Appreciated Spotlight: Mystic Theif by Snorlax 19
Line Work By Agent Elrond
Pick 3 By Zak Hunter
Article: Update Frequency By jimm
Fan Fic Preview: Atlas By Zak Hunter
August Under Appreciated Spotlight: Title By Author
Intro
Review
Reviewer
Review Text
Interview with the Author (Interviewer)
Interview Text
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LINE WORK: An Art Column... article...thing...
By Agent Elrond
http://www.iphq.net/tpm/uploads/24661/Dreamers.jpg
I've often had people (rarely other artists) comment on my artwork, saying such things as; I wish I could draw that well. They use this particular tone of voice too, like somehow they are a failure because their horse-legs look like sausages. It's a rather defeatist tone, "I wish I could do that.... but I never will..."
I hate it.
I've often noticed than many young children draw, perhaps because they simply have nothing else to do. Whether they draw on paper and with traditional means is entirely Dependant on whether their parents have the intelligence to give them a notebook. Well do I remember the joy when I discovered, at age 7, that I could draw on the walls! I set aside the hallway beside our bedroom, with visions of a huge mural with animals and monsters on the walls, and birds flying overhead. Of course, the result was nothing like what I had imagined, (I couldn't reach the ceiling) and most of the would be murals have been covered over with more recent works of art.
But during the creation process I quite sensibly realized that this hallway was considerably bigger than my previous canvas (an 81/2" by 11" piece of typing paper) and so enlisted a fellow child friend to help me with this enormous task. We armed ourselves with felt tip markers and allotted a piece of floor and wall each. I set myself in front of some drawers and began decorating the fronts with various winged horses. These were not Michelangelo's horses, but they certainly had some rather distinctive features of their own. Such as the knees that bent backwards, and wings that, in all reality, were far, far to small. Anatomically speaking. Any adult might had been ashamed to draw such technically incorrect beings --- and on a wall at that! But I was satisfied, they captured the energy and character of the horses I wanted to draw, and I had gotten the ears right, which is more than you can say for many professional artists.
After a bit my friend came over to take a look at my progress, I glanced over at her portion of the wall and noticed that she had barely finished one half of her own drawing --- which also happened to be a horse.
"I don't like black Pegasus." She announced sourly as I colored vigorously with the black felt tip.
"I like black." I said. Which was true. She watched me color for a bit more, then added;
"Your's is better than mine." She was quite bitter.
I glanced over at her own drawing, and I had to admit, if just for the fact that I had actually finished a drawing, mine was better. Also, she had gotten the ears all wrong.
I agreed humbly.
"If I drew more than you did, I would be better than you." She said the last part with great conviction, "better than you." As if it was important that she not lose status as a human being for want of being able to draw good horse ears. But when put into a context such as that, my seven year-old's brain though on it for a while, rather bemused, before I once again agreed, and she was perfectly correct.
If she drew more than I did, she would be better.
But she didn't.
That just the thing, doing it, actually drawing, can get harder and harder as you get older. More adult things get in the way, you become to busy, to grown up to scribble away on a piece of paper. And anyway, when you do, it comes out as an unrecognizable blob of a tree, and what's a mature twelve-year-old to do?
Perhaps it has something to do with school, but I think it has more to do with losing incentive, with longing to be something you aren't, and not being proud of yourself for who you are.
It's very important to be proud of you work, and not worry if there are those who are perhaps a little (or a LOT) more skilled. That is the thing with drawing in particular, you are always getting better. If you can be silent, and observe, and remember, drawing is the essence of learning, of developing new techniques and challenging your past beliefs.
When I was young, like, five, I drew about as well as ever other five-year-old I knew. But while most of them grew on and up, they didn't draw much --- or at all, I would look up at such legends as Beatrix Potter, or Robert Lawson, and say to myself; "If I keep on drawing, I'll be as good as them some day. I can be as good as them, I'll just keep drawing."
That is the difference, when people do, and people don't. Even those who do, perhaps do it rather badly, eventually they will do it well. I have found this phenomenon to prevail in many levels of life, not just art, but it is here that it may perhaps be seen the clearest, and gives us the best chance to learn from it.
"If I drew more than you, I would be better than you."
"Yes, but you don't, do you?"
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© Agent Elrond 2004. The writer can be PMed or e-mailed at abra@teleport.com with any questions, comments, or suggestions.
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Pick Three
Brought to you by the letter H, the number 6 and: Zak Hunter
Well, the Ezine hasn’t failed yet, because, well—I’m still here writing the Pick Three column, and everyone else is still doing their thing. This is the third time Pick Three makes an appearance, and as September rolls around, I’m starting to see a number of promising fics surfacing. The problem with a lot of promising fics is that, well, the writer does not necessarily know that his/her particular story shows a true promise. In order to further convey, or instill a hope to keep writing—we need you readers to get out there, reply, do something towards the good cause. That’s about enough of my rambling—let’s bring on the three lucky choices.
The Lost Island by Yayap is the first lucky grab, and it starts off with a young boy named Everett, who gets away from it all by riding his Lapras out to sea to relax on it for a while. Here, his best friend Rachel, who he left with on a pokemon journey, greets him. Everett eventually decides to jump into the water with Rachel, and does so in a strange fashion. After laughter and joking, a snowflake makes the two realize something isn’t right, as it’s twenty degrees Celsius outside—which is no condition for snow.
At the time being, I don’t really know where this story is going—but by writing quality alone it looks quite good. A couple grammar and spelling errors here and there, but nothing too big—and with this we’re left with the question: what comes next? What’s behind this snowflake-in-the-middle-of-summer madness? Who knows? Because I don’t—go read it.
Mystic Clown wrote a little something called Twin Guns, and it’s lucky enough to be featured this month. It opens with a bunch of smugglers bringing a shipload of cargo to a dock, and being stopped by a strange man in black. Holding their leader at gunpoint, this man in black calls in for the authorities—stating his name is Viper. He is later revealed as a man named Damien Skye. Out of nowhere, a man behind a newspaper tells Viper about Cuba developing nuclear weapons to turn on America and Russia. The entry ends with the mission briefing, sending us only imagery of what Viper is going to do infiltrating this Cuban weapons development department.
Too short, it lacks description, and doesn’t provide much background information about the character. Whether it’s meant to intentionally leave the character mysterious, or whether it’s just out of lack of care is unknown—but on the whole, it doesn’t matter. The character behind the newspaper came out of nowhere, and scenes switch rapidly. All in all, it’s a travesty of the word cohesion.
Our last choice answers the age old question, what do you get when you throw together Yuu Yuu Hakusho, Yu-Gi-Oh, Shaman King and Harry Potter? Well, it’s not exactly an age-old question—and well, it probably hasn’t ever been ventured into. The title is, well, on it’s own a weapon of mass destruction—consisting of forty-one characters. Yes, that’s right, it’s “Yuu-Yu-Gi-Shaaman-Hoggu-Ibo! Dawn of a New Day!” by legendaryfisherman1.
Well, this follows the lives of all of your favorite characters in Hogwarts. The title alone is enough to scare off someone—and well, it intrigued me to visit the madness of the writer. I found all of the Japanese names confusing; it was like reading a menu for an oriental restaurant. Yes, please, I’ll have the Genkai and Koenma with a side order of Yuusuke, oh, just a hint of wasabi too, please. In all honesty, it’s not that bad of a story—it’d probably be a ton better if you understood all of this Japanese nonsense. So, get out there and read it for yourself, once more, that’s “Yuu-Yu-Gi…” Ah, forget it. Just go read it.
That concludes the third installment of the Pick Three column. Remember, this column is entirely random with its choices, but I can always be influenced by bribes or sexual favors. Wait—no, I can’t be influenced by bribes or sexual favors, but you can always try, right? Read, write, read, and write—blah, blah.
Adieu,
Zak Hunter
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Update Frequency
An article/rant by The Decapitated Mole
That's right, folks, I am still doing this! And, since my article is fairly late this month, and because I have quite a bit of difficulty coming up with subjects for things like these, I decided to do this article/rant on Fanfic Updates. No, not updates to the Fanfic section, [although we could use more. I don't want the summer awards running into winter again. Mods! Let's get in gear here!] but just general updates to Fan Fictions in the Fan Fiction section. There has been a severe decline in update frequencies. And now... a new paragraph.
Would you believe [look out, here comes a "back in my day" thing] that when I first joined here, this place was a helluva lot more active? No! It's true! I could stay on TPM for hours in just the Fanfiction and PCG sections alone. A fic was updated/created, probably once every 10-15 minutes. Now, sometimes I can leave for 10-15 hours and come back to see "NO NEW POSTS" in the Fanfic section. What the hell, people? It's not like we have a real lack of fics here. Well, actually, yes, we do, but at the same time, no. We have plenty of old fics lying around, just waiting to be finished. What we don't have is new fics being started. But that's last month. What I'm talking about is all the old fics lying around.
And they are. Take... let's see... well, how about Damon's Menace? Whatever happened to the return of that damn fic? I missed out on it before, and I was really starting to get into it. There hasn't been an update to that repost in months! And that just pisses me off because it's a repost! And things like TEL, which is great now because it's done and all, but 1 1/6 years to write the final 2 chapters to a fic, even as good a fic as TEL is, and even as long chapters as they were, is a bit much.
I'm seeing it everywhere I look around these forums. Every day a writer simply puts off their fic for just a bit longer, and eventually forgets about the fic entirely and goes off to do other things, which will also never get finished, and meanwhile all the old things that nobody ever finished are cluttering up the board, going on for pages and making it nearly impossible to manually search for anything in this vast cultured wasteland we call Fanfic! The ratio of unfinished/inactive to finished/still active fics on this board is probably somewhere in the viscinity of 16 to 1.
Now, people... I know I'm the last person that should be talking about this. It takes me 3 months to put up chapters that take me 2 hours to write. But I'm not speaking about myself [well, right now I am, but I wasn't before. I promise] here. I'm speaking about what I'm seeing here. So please, people, think back. Think back. Try to remember the things you started. And go back and take a look at them. Maybe you'll be struck by some inspiration while doing so.
Now, you may have writer's block or something foolish or imaginary like that. I know I've suffered from this imaginary affliction several times, until I realized my MiracleCure. So here it is: Jimm's UnrelatedToHisArticleRantYetStillIncrediblyEffecti ve Cure for Writer's Block:::
Do the opposite. That's it. If you're trying to write something funny, churn out something serious. If you're aiming at something serious, write a comedy. Trainer fic giving you problems? Write a NonPoké story! Fantasy? Scifi! Every type of writing has its polar opposite, and you need to find the one for your style. Write 4 or 5 chapters of the exact opposite of what you want to write, and then **** out some horrible chapters of whatever it is you were trying to do, and I guarantee that you'll be feeling better within a week.
And if that doesn't work, then don't whine to me, find your own damn solution you lazy bugger.
But actually, if you're suffering from some kind of writer's block for any prolonged period of time, just write around it. And if my Opposite Theory doesn't work, then just muscle your way through your regular fic. Then you should be back to normal after a few chapters, and you can go back and rewrite the crappy ones. I have proof of this, my example: I had writer's block something fierce when I wrote chapters twenty three through thirtysomething of the OriginalHiro. But now that's all gone, and chapters thirtysomething through forty one have been increasingly better. Ever since I killed off Ping Pong...
*ahem* Sorry bout that, but it really is solid proof that a writer's block can be broken if you just keep chipping away at the edges. It'll just take time. But don't let writer's block stop you from updating your fics. I never did, and it's probably why I lost all my readers after the first few months. But this theory really kinda banks on the fact that whatever you usually write is a hell of a lot better than anything I've ever written.
Thank you for putting up with this now very off-topic Article/Rant. And so, until next month, I bid you farewell. And then you'd better be damn nice to be because I'm judging the contest, and I can squash you like a bug. Heh heh heh...
o_0
jimm
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September I Preview: “Atlas, Episode 1- Enter Elexand”
By Zak Hunter
We bring to you the cause of birth
For villains crave, and heroes thirst
And instances that cause no more
Leave us blinded, lock our doors[/center]
“Some say he’s not even a man,” the blonde woman spoke from pomp, subtly lipstick-ridden lips, “but more a machine, a fabrication.”
“Don’t tease him just because he doesn’t talk to anyone. I’ve heard he killed someone, that his dad’s dead and his mother’s in jail” a redhead spoke, her own lips forming words with a seeming frustration.
“Who’s he live with then?” a more masculine voice piped up.
“I heard he lives alone” the same redhead spoke.
“Alone? What is he?” the masculine voice asked.
“The same question everyone’s been asking. Some call him pure machination.”
* * *
Elexand von Ulrich didn’t speak to many people, in fact, as far as the people around him knew—he spoke to no one. Always his pale face was tainted with a grim, neutral look, as if he were devoid of any emotion whatsoever. He was only seventeen but his body was muscled and ripped like he was thirty and had been working out since his teens, it was a gift that he had obtained in his old homeland of the Ukraine. When he was a child, the Chernobyl nuclear accident occurred and Elexand, like many other Ukrainians, was affected directly. Elexand was a different case though, while others obtained mutations that hindered him, Elexand grew greatly in strength, which explained his grand physical appearance.
His straight black bangs hung over his eyes, aside from this the rest of his hair seeming quite calm, cut short on both the sides and back. Elexand wore simple clothing, a black sleeveless shirt with black jeans. He still had his heavy black work boots on from his job as a welder, working part-time when he was out of school to pay for his apartment rent and food.
As the school day ended Elexand rose from the creaky, crudely crafted old wooden school-desk and exited from the rust-spot ridden green door of his classroom. He walked down the halls alone, finding the exit as quickly as possible, and through this exit he began a short twenty-minute walk to work. This particular school was smack-dab in the middle of a metropolis, this particular large city bearing the name of Toronto.
Elexand knew himself that rumors had erupted about him, concerning his style of life. As far as Elexand knew, his family, except his father, was just fine back in the Ukraine—he had lost contact with them since he left to pursue his welding job in Canada. Hell, that’s how Elexand had been ever since he’d come to Canada, he was alone, he didn’t have anyone, and he lived quite a simple life.
Some days he would pretend like his life had worth compared to anything, but he was a granule of sand on a beach that stretched from past to future. Considering the insignificance of the human race in comparison to the grandeur, he was nothing—he was an insignificant from a group of insignificants. All he had ever wanted was to mean something to the world, to put every ounce of himself forward to help the good cause, to be a role model in the eyes of youth, a hero in the heart of mankind, and a legend to live on through generations to pass. Elexand thought that every man wanted a similar destiny for himself, so he thought it not at all arrogant to think such thoughts.
As he walked down that busy street on his way to work he was welcomed with screams erupting from a local bank. From the cracked panel of sidewalk that he stood he watched as a man in a full mechanical suit commanded a handful of hired goons who were marching in and out of the bank with generic burlap sacks full of the green paper that drove men mad. The suit itself appeared to be a godlike invention, a shiny polished metal encased a human body, an elliptical tinted dome that could not be seen through used obviously as an optical unit. The suit had an intricate design, each non-joint piece slightly more armored than the joins, which were made up of a stretchier metallic element. On his right arm a metallic cylindrical piece of a slightly different coloration was visible, with his left hand he slid it up his arm a tad in a cocking motion, letting it eject back to his wrist. Clenching his right fist, he fired a blast of plasma-energy from the cylindrical piece, the blast of plasma blowing a wall of the bank open.
Elexand’s body and mind were both somehow engulfed by a seemingly endless ecstasy, and it held him, gripped him by the mind and made him do something he might’ve possibly regret for the rest of his life. He approached the scene, the mechanical menace spotting the fire in his eyes almost instantly. The readings on the inside of his helmet told him Elexand’s strength, according to the somewhat alien looking letters, he was a class 100—which meant he could lift one-hundred tons. This was how people were classed; a class 10 meant they could life ten tons and so on. If the user could not lift a ton they were ‘human classed’ which was transferred into pounds. So a human class 500 means they can lift five hundred pounds, which isn’t all that much of a feat.
The mechanical man pointed forth to Elexand and three of his thugs that had recently loaded large sacks of money into a truck charged at the Slavic wonder. Elexand watched as a couple other thugs jumped into the truck, one into the driver’s seat to drive and a couple in the back armed with submachine guns. With the mechanical menace on the roof of the truck, they drove away, shooting at the cops that were now close in pursuit.
Each one of these thugs was dressed in a uniform consisting of a black dress suit, the arms ripping off of each suit jacket and around each right wrist was a device similar to the metallic element on the mechanical man’s wrist. This didn’t look good, Elexand was really only planning on helping—not dying by the hands of a bunch of goons.
Elexand stared them down and cracked his neck, preparing himself. Swiftly, he made the first move, bringing a solid kick to the side of one thug. The impact was followed with a sharp crack as the body flew through the air and with several ribs broken; found a new home lying limply on the pavement. One thug attempted to fire his blaster at Elexand, but the Slavic knocked his right arm sideways and as he fired he blasted his friend next of him a good twenty five feet through the air before he too hit the ground like a rag doll. Elexand promptly grabbed the last thug and threw him straight into the air, and began walking away casually. The man kicked and screamed as he met his climax of flight and began the trip downwards—landing squarely on his head and snapping his neck.
* * *
Elexand strolled into ‘McDoog’s Mechanics’ in his work uniform, a black jumpsuit with the name ‘Hector’ placed on it. He had only been hired because their old welder, ‘Hector,’ had died unexpectedly—so unexpectedly they didn’t have time to replace the nametag. Elexand didn’t mind; he had very little customer interaction anyway.
“Hey Ex!” Marty called to him from the back of the musty smelling shop. Marty McDoog, he ran the shop with his nephew, Dean, who was around thirteen or so and just learning. Marty was leaning on fifty, a hefty, dumpy man with a sweat-stained white wife-beater and tan slacks held up with red suspenders. His gray hair encircled his head in a crown like fashion, leaving the top of his head bald.
“What now, Marty?” Elexand replied. Marty had always liked to call him Ex for some reason, perhaps the bother of a three-syllable name was too much for him to handle.
“The bank just got held up!” Marty rose from the lawn chair he sat on beside an old junk-heap of a car they were currently working on. A small television older than Elexand sat on a wooden box as Marty tuned and faced the news.
“I had no clue, I took the back way here.” Elexand lied. The television began to show shocking footage of the crime scene, and then they mentioned an unnamed vigilante as they viewed footage of Elexand’s scuffle with the goons.
Dean walked in where Elexand and Marty were. Dean idolized Elexand in a way the Slavic brute would never understand. His dad had died when he was only two, and aside from Marty, he really had no older role model to look up to. The way Dean tailed around Elexand reminded Marty of that old cartoon with the big bulldog and the little dog, and how the little dog was always yapping about the big dog.
“Hey’a Ex!” Dean spoke enthusiastically, stopping his steps suddenly when he saw his Slavic friend beating around some brutes.
“I thought you took the back way,” Marty mentioned.
Elexand shrugged his shoulders “Maybe I made a little white lie.”
Marty looked at him concerned “You have to watch it Elexand, this isn’t like you at all. Only Dean and me know you have those super powers—and now—hell, everyone will know. This is why you moved here from the Ukraine, Ex, enemies.”
Dean was still watching the television in amazement.
“Marty—”
Elexand was cut off. “No, none o’ this Marty bullshit, Ex, you is ****ed.” His city accent kicked in, often making him sound like he belonged on a short bus. “Youse gots ta lay low fer a while, alright?”
“Man, life sucks” Dean nearly shouted, showing frustration that Elexand could not express.
“So do prostitutes, Dean,” Marty insisted.
Elexand turned around and began walking to the other side of the room when he replied “But life sucks for free.” Marty smiled, mouth closed, and shook his head lightly as the Slavic walked away from him and Dean.
* * *
With a grim look of dissatisfaction, Elexand watched the news in the small room at the front of the shop, another old television. This particular television had the volume knob broken, so it consistently blared much louder than you’d prefer. The news was going over the events of the robbery, and in a more extensive nature, the villain. His name was Evan Slater, a scientist that worked for the military. Apparently, during his time working for the military he was attempting to build a war-suit—but had recently been fired for not meeting deadlines. Upset, and disappointed, he tested the suit out himself on the bank—and it had worked like a charm.
Elexand turned off the television, as it was beginning to get late. He exited the small room noticing he had done no work that day, waving his goodbyes to Marty and Dean for the night, and heading back to his apartment.
* * *
Elexand von Ulrich awoke to the sound of bagpipes. He contemplated himself going crazy, momentarily, but shortly after this stood up. As he stood up and put on his clothes he heard the doorbell ring, and then the bagpipes start up again. That ceremonial bagpipe song echoed throughout his skull as he stumbled still tired, to the door. Elexand opened up the door to see only briefly a large muscled Scotsman in full gear. The Scotsman threw his bagpipes to the ground and lifted Elexand off of the ground, proceeding to charge in a full out tackle out of the window on the sixteenth floor of the apartment Elexand lived in.
Elexand felt himself suspended, as if time were slowing down for him. His whole life began to flash before his eyes as he saw the shards of glass flying behind him. The Scotsman’s shoulder met his stomach as they careened into the sky. People below screamed and cars skidded to stops to watch them fall. A man dressed in a red and green tartan kilt, a white long-sleeved shirt and a small, stout plaid hat with a red pom-pom on top. The Scotsman’s orange beard trailed a little behind him, his stocky build making him look fat and not muscled compared to Elexand. The Scotsman’s traditional long white socks pulled up to his knee were now tainted with blood from breaking through the window.
Elexand clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes as they drew closer to the ground, noticing the Scotsman’s grip would not likely come undone. Then, it finally came, Elexand felt his body break through the asphalt on the road, he felt his body seem immobilized, and worse of all he felt the Scotsman’s shoulder drive into his stomach. Elexand yelled louder than he ever had in his life, but to his amazement, this showed that he was still alive.
The Scotsman got up off of him and stared him down with a look of disgust. “Mr. Slater sends his regards. I’m the Highlander, and I’m going to accept that precious bounty on your head.”
Elexand choked on his own blood that he could feel churning in his throat.
“Yes, sir, a bounty. Fifty-thousand, not bad, if I do say so myself.”
People on the street didn’t know what to do, they had just watched two men fall from the window of a large apartment and survive. Most of them stared from behind a car, some form of shelter, with jaws agape, motionless. A few scrambled to call the police, all along knowing that the police could do nothing about it.
The Highlander took Elexand by his neck with his left hand and raised him up for everyone to see. He slowly raised his right hand, and then brought it with great force into Elexand’s stomach. The Slavic was hurled back a couple feet, skidding across the rough asphalt. The Highlander began to walk away and Elexand looked around. He noticed it was a smaller street than usual because it was only one-way accessible—possessing only one lane. When Elexand heard a large cracking sound, and then a scream, he knew he was done for.
The Highlander had lumbered over to the library monument, the library monument being a very large stone recreation of Earth. He ripped this memorial from its stand and rolled it over to the downward sloping street that Elexand was laying on. The people that were behind him began to scream in horror as the Highlander let the stone earth roll down the street. Pedestrians had no way to escape—and all of them knew they could never outrun it downhill.
Elexand collected himself and rose, his muscles feeling great pain, and he faced the slow rolling monument. When the monument met him, he tried to push it back up with his arms and chest, but found it to be much too heavy, and noticed he was being pushed back as the rolling Earth gained momentum. Elexand turned around so his back was facing the monument, and in a last desperate cry to the pedestrians, he shouted at the top of his lungs for them to run as the Earth rolled up onto his back.
Elexand braced himself, holding the massive Earth on his back, his left leg in front of his right, both knees bent under strain. His arms he held backwards to stable the Earth that now was entirely off the ground and onto his back. Elexand felt his entire body begin to shake under the stress, his muscles pulsating, pumping and beginning to tire rapidly.
A lone boy looked up from the street as he ran. He looked at the Slavic giant and a wave of hope passed over him, a strong liking, perhaps admiration. This lone boy felt right for once, and as he turned the corner onto a safe street at the end of that hill, that glimmer of hope, that self-gratification, it faded—as his hero was nameless.
At that exact same instant, an experienced news anchor in an ‘eye from the sky’ helicopter dubbed Elexand, and in a mocking tone he spoke into the headset microphone, and he relayed this message to the currently working anchorman. “This just in, Ronny, headline it, ‘Atlas Saves!’”
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Next Issue!
Next Issue we'll be looking at “The Born Legacy” by The Blue Avenger for the Spotlight, and hopefully getting more columns and such on art.
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Credits
The Fan Fic Reviewer Organisation (http://www.pokemasters.net/forums/showthread.php?t=29859&page=1&pp=15), for providing us with the Reviews.
Zak Hunter, Column Writer: Pick 3
Darien Shields, Editor, Interviewer
jimm, article writer.
Order of Articles and staff was decided on the order of their work submission. Anyone who had signed up to do work, I'll put you on the Staff when you publish something
P.S.: Can't get the damn images to load. Anyone know what the problem is?