'Good' and 'evil' are such subjective terms, I really only use them when I'm lazy. Humans are neither good nor evil, but rather a mix of factors. Observing history and the modern world (though not to the greatest of extents), I can only find that humans are malevolent, humans are malicious, humans are detrimental, humans are conniving, traitorous, thieving, destructive, and positively stupid.
Humans throughout recorded history humans have killed each other for the most stupid of reasons, from land to love to greed to god. We have plotted to kill, devised new ways to kill, made others suffer before their deaths, slaughtered many for no reason. We have taken from the Earth and few put back in any way. We destroy our environment and, if not for sensible ones in power none would care enough to do anything. We have built grand structures only to see them burn for another's will. If not for morals taught from birth all would steal, rape, destroy, and kill without even a second thought. We have preached loyalty to things from persons to countries to gods, and then betray it when something else offers what one wants, our greed and desires fueling us to our doom. Humans are a plague and a scourge upon our world, and are doomed to death at their own hands.
Not to say there is not good, though broken down into the inverses of the attributes above as the sum of this 'good.' But in a world of darkness even the brightest lights can only remove so much of the dark. The last, best hopes for humanity can and will not save us from our own undoing, despite their best efforts.
...A pessimistic and cynical view of humanity in general, but I'm at least currently convinced that humans are basically 'evil,' foul creatures that are one of the worst known things ever born into the universe.
I decided to try this challenge, though I utilized TooManyItems rather than doing it legitimately as the challenge is more about design than effort in design. Anyway, here's the surface of this miniscule domicile:
On the first level down lies my workbench, furnace, and double chest:
Down from there lies my bed, a fireplace, and the entrance to a cave I found:
Added later due to excess space lies a sugar cane farm:
Below that is my tree farm. The tree will grow without bonemeal:
Across from there lies my wheat farm:
In case you missed the subtle mention, the tree farm and wheat farm are on the same level:
Down a level and clad in brick is my cobble factory and waste receptacle:
Wait... waste receptacle?
The button is wired to that trap door in case I drop something I shouldn't. Now, let's fry some items!:
Finally, at the bottom lies my mine shaft (WIP) and another cave:
I know it's subtle (heck, practically unnoticable), but I really like mossy cobble.
Embed the glowstone and just use a sticky piston to push the block that hides it. Saves space, wiring, and 6 iron.
I originally tried that, but I wanted the most light I could have. That approach costs 1 light level, requiring more in the end for the same light level.
Instead of using sticky pistons on one side, use normal pistons on both sides, and have the pistons retract after pushing the two blocks. That way the blocks always move together, and there's never a gap between them. It might be tricky to wire the switch up to do that, but a pair of buttons could definitely do it.
I could have wired it as it is not to have a gap, but on top of it indeed being rather tricky to get the timing correct, I found that bad timing often destroyed both blocks in the process, which would be extremely annoying if one built this without an inventory editor. The blocks also had a tendency to be destroyed if one flipped the switch too many times in succession.
The other day I got the idea to design a floor light that could be turned on/off from 1 switch. So, with little prior skill or knowledge of redstone, I decided to try for it. I suceeded thanks to pistons, though it's hardly efficient resource-wise. It's largely a waste, but it works.
I turned it into a cieling light for the video so that I could show the workings of it without having to build and dismantle an entire room.
My only real criticism is that 1 sheet of paper burns as long as a cubic meter of wood! :tongue.gif:
I'd say paper ought to burn as long as a stick considering how easy it is to get a metric ****ton of the stuff. Otherwise this is a good mod. :happy.gif:
I hate to double-post, especially just for what is primarily a bump, but I did want to inform people of the update should anyone truly care. I won't bump the thread again, though, unless another posts in it. Double posting is bad as-is, triple posting is just ridiculous spam!
Terraforming it into the overworld? For now, I have but one suggestion: Create a portal in the centre of it, and on the other side of that portal you should create a Nether-room. INVERSION!
These were pretty good. My first impression was that they were kind of Burroughs (Wiki Page) type feel. I'll second the other poster too; they read a lot like poems. In fact, I think these would sound really good read aloud, especially if the reader was well-trained.
Thanks! I suppose I'd need to read up on Mr. Burroughs to understand your point, though.
I agree they would sound good if read aloud, and that is one thing I do try to take into consideration when writing things.
For starters, I like how your "short story" is comparable to a poem. Most short stories I have read, which is not very many, have been more similar to stories than poems, whereas yours is an expression of emotion and thoughts rather than a single story line. However, I'm not saying that's a bad thing.
While we're discussing the non-critical, I really liked the "who is left" joke. I would recommend that instead of declaring so obviously that your making a pun, keep it subtle. A good reader would catch the joke and think it all the funnier for the subtlety of it. Remember to write to your intended audience. I can infer from your beginning remarks that most of your friends probably wouldn't catch that joke and your teachers may not care enough to take the time to read it thoroughly. Since you posted the story on here I can also infer that you don't want to be sharing your stories with only your friends and teachers. This leads me to the conclusion that you should write to your intended audience or even better, write to the best of your abilities. What I do is mimic the voice of professional writers (tell me if you want to know some good short stories).
Now for the more technical details:
Spelling mistake: "upon" "within their minds and upon their faces"
There were some other spelling mistakes after that one, but I can't find them. I'm sure someone else will pick them up.
As for the general ideas behind your short story I won't critique that because, as I said before, your short story seems more like a poem than a story. Personally, if I were to write short stories, I would describe an experience from my life. With that one could also send a message, too. But I'm not very good at poetry, I don't have enough emotion. Somewhat similar to the "humans they are not" I suppose. haha
Altogether, its not bad. The best possible thing to do is always to continue writing. The "practice makes perfect" saying applies to writing, too.
p.s. I'm not too familiar with the Minecraft Forum's "Arts & Creativity" section, but you might get better help on a writing forum, I don't know of any, but I'm sure they're out there.
Good luck.
Seeing as how this is a lot to respond to and breaking it up into smaller quotes is a pain, I'll have to respond in list format. :tongue.gif:
1 - I have been told it's rather poetic, but I call it a short story because I just don't see it strictly as a poem. If a grammatical perfectionist comes by I'm going to ask if there is a better classification for it other than "short story." I think it's just the "flow of consciousness" writing style I use, as my English teacher describes it.
2 - I made some changes to the story whilst transcribing it here, mostly with the wording of things due to looking back upon my errors and shortcomings in terms of word usage. Originally, it was the subtle pun and people understood it.
3 - Just as a clarification, my friends do often catch the smaller things I include in my stories as well as my teachers. I'm primarily friends with the "smarties and dorks," so they often understand and "get" what I write, they're just not terribly good critics. My teachers think I could be an author someday, especially my English and my Spanish teacher. My "intended audience" is practically non-existent, I just write for the fun of it and let people read it. And yes, I would like some reading recommendations. ^-^
4 - Thanks for catching that, I recently recieved a new keyboard (note: Sprite is very bad for keyboards) and, whilst I seem to type faster, I make more mistakes than a blind man. I do hope some catch the other ones, though.
5 - I can't describe experiences from my life as most experiences revolve around UIL and lunchroom conversations, so my poetic stories are about all I have to go with. :tongue.gif:
6 - I do practice a lot, this was just the first thing I wrote in this school year. In fact, last year (9th grade) I wrote simplistic things simply to appease people, primarily people with no respect for literature. This year, I decided to write serious things and this was the mutant offspring of that endeavour. I'd say it's good after not writing anything for about ~6 months. The next stories are more recent ones.
7 - I'm not familiar with this section of the forums either, but I may go for a writing forum later.
During the school year I semi-often write things to pass the time when I am neither working nor reading and I can't talk with friends. I don't keep them to myself, however, as that betrays the point of writing. My friends, most of whom are certainly not decent critics of writing, and my teachers often say that the stories are quite good, if a bit grim at times. Seeing as how I enjoy criticisms to help improve my work, and how I've little to do now that I'm out of school, I've decided to post said short stories here. I will keep them all in the first post, though I'll bump the thread if I add a new one (unless it would be a double post or something else in that vain).
I must ask that all who read to give at least some sort of criticism, and I must state that I'm not the average teenager (in my expierience) in that I am perfectly fine if someone doesn't like what I've written.As a further request, Firefox is not spell checking what I type for some reason (just on this and some other sites, it usually does spell-check) and I'm mostly just transcribing them here without much review, so if there are any spelling or grammatical errors I must ask all to go into grammar-Nazi mode.
Anyway, onwards to the actual point of the post:
Who Is Left
In the streets they march, off to fight men unmet in a land unseen. All are ill with the disease of nationalism, patriots
to the end they are. They know not how to start a conversation, only how to end one. Each and every one is blind and dumb to everyone but the well-dressed pigs of war. Love and compassion rarely seen upon the face of even one, within their minds and upon their faces only death and hatred to mankind is assured and definite. Their fight, though, which they deem as just and right could be seen as nothing more than bloodshed that brings misery to all, or, at least, logic would dictate as such. But yet their case is misconstrued as righteousness and duty, blinding most into believing it with them. And then to gods of old and gods of new they pray so as to see their end in a golden light, and if answered their prayers be, nothing but torment and misery would await. A mind stopped and a life ended is, has been, and forever shall be a life taken.
But these poor souls need not and deserve not the blame for this, that honour goes to the war pigs. They are evil minds
that wage war from their offices, sending the children of mothers, the sons of fathers to fight under the guise of righteousness and both deluding and fueling them with patriotism. A hundred deaths, a thousand killed, a million slaughtered. To this they care as a man cares for a blade of grass torn to shreds by the spinning blades of a lawnmower. Humans they are are not and can not be, for one that sends another to either murder or to doom is not a human, but closer to the spawn of Lucifer himself.
And what of those that remain innocent in these hateful, violent affairs? Pain and misery fill their lives and tormnet
lasts throughout their days. A husband lost, a father lost, a brother lost, many hearts shattered. A wall shattered, a beam broken, a pillar collapsed, a column toppled, many homes destroyed. A fire in the heart, a fire in the eyes, a fire in the trees, the homes, the fields, the whole world ablaze. The fight rages until the last bullet is fired, the last bomb is detonated, the last map is redrawn, and the last breath is taken. War does not determine a victor, or one who is deemed "right," but in all reality it only determines who is left.
Comments:
In case you can't tell, this was written whilst listening to War Pigs and Children of the Grave by Black Sabbath, and other times with them just stuck in my head. I don't really believe all of what's said here to be 100% true and hold it as my world view. In fact, I really don't know much about militaries and soldiers nowadays, so for all I know this could be 180 degrees from reality. If it helps, just pretend it's about Nazis. This story is rather fitting for Nazis.
What Remains
Dark skies and an eerie silence set the stage for this tale of a desolate world. A land of death it is, depressing as well with
the gray skies, pale-brown soil, gray waters, and sparse, dead plants, all of which would make most weep if they had seen it before. On the horizon one can see the echoey remnants of a world long gone. The sight of these hollow shells and husks of what once was is depressing, though not the worst thing to see here. A crater lies within the centre of this former settlement, remaining as a scar upon the land and a painful reminder of the events in this world's creation. A world forged from horrid fire that rained upon and flooded all it could reach and devastating winds that took all in their path and took them far out before drawing them back into the fire. A world in which thousands of seemingly cured souls remain, scraping by in subsurface tunnels once used for waste and transport, depending upon the tunnel. Here live horridly deformed, wretched creatures that stand hunched over, their physique not knowing of fat and their muscles poorly supporting unsturdy, frail bones. Skin as pale as milk with the texture of leather, and yet as strong as paper at best covers their bodies. The pupils of their dead eyes only know dilation as these creatures know not of the sunlight that creatures of old frolicked in and lived under. Hair, if seen, is a sickly gray and as thin as the edge of paper. They wear only worn, torn rags that their ancestors had used as garmets, these creatures having long lost the knowledge and materials required for production of cloth.
In times passed the ancestors of these sickly beings, the humans of old, led civilized societies and built what are now
hollow, empty shells. Their leaders, less than human, would send these poor souls to kill and die in other lands. Failing that, they built implements so as to kill at range, creating the bow, the catapult, the gun, the cannon, the rocket, and the missile all in the name of death. The harnessing of the power of the atom started a clock, a timer that began ticking away. Tick-tock-tick, day-after-day, year-after-year it drew closer and closer to its final chime. Once the alarm rang the entire globe knew, the power of the atom flowing through all it could reach. Flashes on the horizon, pulse waves flowing along a quaking, breaking, craking ground, mushroom clouds rising where cities once stood... All coming together to form this hollow shell of a world. Well on our way we are to calling this world a reality and our home lest we stop the war, stop the fighting, and end the hatred. Until then, the creatures deemed "those that remain" are our only fate if we prove unable to learn how to love and forget how to hate.
Comments:
Thematic song here was Electric Funeral, also by Black Sabbath. It's mainly just a "nukes and war are bad" story, written like a gothic hippie.
.......I'm going to Google gothic hippie and see what comes up now.
Crutches
Once there was a man by the name of Joe. He was rather average, so he was known as Average Joe. Joe's family had a
long history of requiring crutches, but Joe didn't need them. His parents, not wanting him to be different, told him to use them anyway. At his church the priest would tell him not to disobey his parents, so he did as he was told. In time, though, Joe learned not to question his parents and to accept his crutches. He even loved them in time! The crutches made him feel safe and secure. No longer did he venture anywhere without his beloved crutches. Taunted he was not in his early years of school as nobody really cared. His parents said so, so he used them. But it wouldn't matter otherwise anyway, for he was happy with his crutches!
During his high-school years, though, people began to criticize his crutches. They would ask and then demand why he
used them when he did not need them. He never had an answer, but always a response. O! how he defended them so fervently! Never once did he question himself or his crutches, though, and the same went for the commands and advisories of his parents or his church, all were just blindly defended for no real reason. He was a real-life nowhere man. He was as blind as he could be, for he only saw what he wanted to see.
As Joe aged, he never changed his ways much. He attended the same church, was told the same things, and thought
the same thoughts. Though they never helped him at all, he was hindered little by his beloved crutches. Others in his lifegrew to acvcept and even embrace his crutches, all others just ignoring them. "They're not hurting anything, so why change it?" they would often say, and one could argue this to be a sound rationale. Joe, meanwhile, carried his crutches to his retirement home, his death bed, and even into his grave. Even after Joe was dead, his gravestone read, "Here lies Joe Dohn, a man who loved his crutches."
Comments:
This was structured as a giant metaphor. Crutches could be really anything people cling to for no good reason, though the implication in the story was religion. Not to offend anyone, but some people just fervently cling to and blindly defend religion without once questioning it or themselves. It's more annoying than anything else when people just fervently shout "u dun believe in GAWD ALMIGHTY!? ur a reatrd whos goin to HELL!!" (this being an exaggeration, though the message is the same as one conveyed in reality). Ergo, "Average" Joe Dohn and his "crutches."
A Father's Son
Thrust into a world of wonder and magic, he looked about with awe. Helpless, cold, and hungry, his situation sounded
tragic! However, with no time to waste, he was cared for post-haste. His father, his loving, caring father, loved him to no end! His mother's love as well did little but grow! She met her end, though, when her heart gave out, leaving the boy's father to do little but pout. As the boy grew so too did his father's love, this boy as cute as a dove. When barely a tyke, his father bought for him a wonderful bike. O! how he loved it so! How he would ride it to and fro! Up and down and all around, and all with nary a frown! Not to last, though, these happiest of times, for the future was less than sublime. The father's love, so strong in his weak heart, soon heard the soothing sound of a harp, for during a day of play, he fell to the ground as one falls into hay. The child cried on this saddest of days, kneeling where his father lay.
As he aged, he lived in an orphanage, where he felt oh-so-terribly caged. Anger he felt as he was taunted by another,
taunts from obscene gestures to insults of his mother! One day he stood for his name, and the bully tried the same. Little did the bully know, though, this was to be the last winter where he would see the snow, for the little child, the night before, had entered a forbidden door. In the kitchen a knife he took, with no intent of giving it back, the little crook! Seeing the bully in the snow, he approached and, with a forceful blow, the life of the bully he took as all around began to look. A white Christmas this year it would not be, for, you see, the snow became a ghastly red, filling all around with horrible dread. Running with all his might, the boy dashed away from this horrid sight. In time he learned to live in city alleys, which, to him, seemed as valleys, for, if he were caught, he would do more than time for his despicable crime.
And so he lived upon the street in constant fear of being beat, for those around were not so nice if one paid not their
"protection price." Not forgotten but left behind was his crime, though he was nearly caught many a time, so he took a new name to escape the blame. Growing into a man, he felt in his heart for a kind woman. ried to turn his life around he did, all so he could do her bid. He dreamed of him and her in a grand domicile, of course in the most elegant style, but had to settle for a hovel in a slum, making he, her, and it all rather glum. Later he tried to marry his love, who stayed so loving, but to do so he stole a ring. The law caught up with him and, from here, his future seemed grim.
The military or death the choices were, troubling to no end this thieving, murderous cur! Of course, if he is to die, at
living he would at least try. Missed his love he did, for he could no longer do as she bid. Off to war he went, to a foreign land he was sent. Off to fight men unmet and, 'better' yet, in a land unknown, and yet his heart seemed as a stone. Nary a tear was shed no matter how much he bled. Not even a whimper nor a whine nor a word was uttered, as though each action was as making toast buttered. In this early eve of his years, soon to be seen were his tears, for soon he was to die and bid this world goodbye. At the age of twenty-four, this man who was so very poor was shot in the gut and his leg blown off, at which is nothing to scoff! He fell into a hole and awaited his fate for any help would arrive far too late. Drawing an old picture from his shirt, he then felt extra hurt, a picture of his father, he, and his bike, which in his heart was as a spike. "I love you, son," his father's words rang as an angellic choir began to sing. He lay as though in a bed as he bled and his tears were shed, and then the poor father's son was dead.
Comments:
Writing this one was probably the most fun I'd ever had writing something. In my opinion, it's the best I've done. The pseudo-poem format, the loose rhyming scheme, and the tragic elements all come together into something I honestly like, and I tend to hate the writings I crap out occasionally.
@roboticaustIf you attacked glass so as to break it then the clouds viewed through said glass would turn invisible, apparently. I never noticed myself, though, and had to look it up.I could, though, be wrong as it has been a while since I recall finding said information.
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Emphasis added to illustrate I thought of that beforehand.
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Humans throughout recorded history humans have killed each other for the most stupid of reasons, from land to love to greed to god. We have plotted to kill, devised new ways to kill, made others suffer before their deaths, slaughtered many for no reason. We have taken from the Earth and few put back in any way. We destroy our environment and, if not for sensible ones in power none would care enough to do anything. We have built grand structures only to see them burn for another's will. If not for morals taught from birth all would steal, rape, destroy, and kill without even a second thought. We have preached loyalty to things from persons to countries to gods, and then betray it when something else offers what one wants, our greed and desires fueling us to our doom. Humans are a plague and a scourge upon our world, and are doomed to death at their own hands.
Not to say there is not good, though broken down into the inverses of the attributes above as the sum of this 'good.' But in a world of darkness even the brightest lights can only remove so much of the dark. The last, best hopes for humanity can and will not save us from our own undoing, despite their best efforts.
...A pessimistic and cynical view of humanity in general, but I'm at least currently convinced that humans are basically 'evil,' foul creatures that are one of the worst known things ever born into the universe.
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On the first level down lies my workbench, furnace, and double chest:
Down from there lies my bed, a fireplace, and the entrance to a cave I found:
Added later due to excess space lies a sugar cane farm:
Below that is my tree farm. The tree will grow without bonemeal:
Across from there lies my wheat farm:
In case you missed the subtle mention, the tree farm and wheat farm are on the same level:
Down a level and clad in brick is my cobble factory and waste receptacle:
Wait... waste receptacle?
The button is wired to that trap door in case I drop something I shouldn't. Now, let's fry some items!:
Finally, at the bottom lies my mine shaft (WIP) and another cave:
I know it's subtle (heck, practically unnoticable), but I really like mossy cobble.
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....Now all must usher in the icy apocalypse! Bwahahahahaha!
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I added a tutorial for those interested.
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Aw, I thought I had something original. T-T
Thanks for the compliments anyway. :happy.gif:
I originally tried that, but I wanted the most light I could have. That approach costs 1 light level, requiring more in the end for the same light level.
Yes, that is daylight. If I had built this into a structure that would not be so as the redstone and whatnot would be closed off.
I could have wired it as it is not to have a gap, but on top of it indeed being rather tricky to get the timing correct, I found that bad timing often destroyed both blocks in the process, which would be extremely annoying if one built this without an inventory editor. The blocks also had a tendency to be destroyed if one flipped the switch too many times in succession.
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The other day I got the idea to design a floor light that could be turned on/off from 1 switch. So, with little prior skill or knowledge of redstone, I decided to try for it. I suceeded thanks to pistons, though it's hardly efficient resource-wise. It's largely a waste, but it works.
I turned it into a cieling light for the video so that I could show the workings of it without having to build and dismantle an entire room.
[Edit]
I made a tutorial for any who wish to make one:
Good? Bad? Wrong section?
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I'd say paper ought to burn as long as a stick considering how easy it is to get a metric ****ton of the stuff. Otherwise this is a good mod. :happy.gif:
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"Huh? What's this? Some Blizzard crap?" (It had "craft" in the title. Yes, this is bad reasoning.)
"Oh, this is interesting..."
"I MUST HAVE THIS GAME!"
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I hate to double-post, especially just for what is primarily a bump, but I did want to inform people of the update should anyone truly care. I won't bump the thread again, though, unless another posts in it. Double posting is bad as-is, triple posting is just ridiculous spam!
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This is all I'm going to transcribe today. My fingers/wrist hurt. T-T
Thanks! I suppose I'd need to read up on Mr. Burroughs to understand your point, though.
I agree they would sound good if read aloud, and that is one thing I do try to take into consideration when writing things.
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Seeing as how this is a lot to respond to and breaking it up into smaller quotes is a pain, I'll have to respond in list format. :tongue.gif:
1 - I have been told it's rather poetic, but I call it a short story because I just don't see it strictly as a poem. If a grammatical perfectionist comes by I'm going to ask if there is a better classification for it other than "short story." I think it's just the "flow of consciousness" writing style I use, as my English teacher describes it.
2 - I made some changes to the story whilst transcribing it here, mostly with the wording of things due to looking back upon my errors and shortcomings in terms of word usage. Originally, it was the subtle pun and people understood it.
3 - Just as a clarification, my friends do often catch the smaller things I include in my stories as well as my teachers. I'm primarily friends with the "smarties and dorks," so they often understand and "get" what I write, they're just not terribly good critics. My teachers think I could be an author someday, especially my English and my Spanish teacher. My "intended audience" is practically non-existent, I just write for the fun of it and let people read it. And yes, I would like some reading recommendations. ^-^
4 - Thanks for catching that, I recently recieved a new keyboard (note: Sprite is very bad for keyboards) and, whilst I seem to type faster, I make more mistakes than a blind man. I do hope some catch the other ones, though.
5 - I can't describe experiences from my life as most experiences revolve around UIL and lunchroom conversations, so my poetic stories are about all I have to go with. :tongue.gif:
6 - I do practice a lot, this was just the first thing I wrote in this school year. In fact, last year (9th grade) I wrote simplistic things simply to appease people, primarily people with no respect for literature. This year, I decided to write serious things and this was the mutant offspring of that endeavour. I'd say it's good after not writing anything for about ~6 months. The next stories are more recent ones.
7 - I'm not familiar with this section of the forums either, but I may go for a writing forum later.
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I must ask that all who read to give at least some sort of criticism, and I must state that I'm not the average teenager (in my expierience) in that I am perfectly fine if someone doesn't like what I've written.As a further request, Firefox is not spell checking what I type for some reason (just on this and some other sites, it usually does spell-check) and I'm mostly just transcribing them here without much review, so if there are any spelling or grammatical errors I must ask all to go into grammar-Nazi mode.
Anyway, onwards to the actual point of the post:
Comments:
In case you can't tell, this was written whilst listening to War Pigs and Children of the Grave by Black Sabbath, and other times with them just stuck in my head. I don't really believe all of what's said here to be 100% true and hold it as my world view. In fact, I really don't know much about militaries and soldiers nowadays, so for all I know this could be 180 degrees from reality. If it helps, just pretend it's about Nazis. This story is rather fitting for Nazis.
Comments:
Thematic song here was Electric Funeral, also by Black Sabbath. It's mainly just a "nukes and war are bad" story, written like a gothic hippie.
.......I'm going to Google gothic hippie and see what comes up now.
Comments:
This was structured as a giant metaphor. Crutches could be really anything people cling to for no good reason, though the implication in the story was religion. Not to offend anyone, but some people just fervently cling to and blindly defend religion without once questioning it or themselves. It's more annoying than anything else when people just fervently shout "u dun believe in GAWD ALMIGHTY!? ur a reatrd whos goin to HELL!!" (this being an exaggeration, though the message is the same as one conveyed in reality). Ergo, "Average" Joe Dohn and his "crutches."
Comments:
Writing this one was probably the most fun I'd ever had writing something. In my opinion, it's the best I've done. The pseudo-poem format, the loose rhyming scheme, and the tragic elements all come together into something I honestly like, and I tend to hate the writings I crap out occasionally.