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Haikus are useless
They lack any sort of rhythm
I abstain from them.

Alt's Story, Part I


Alt was a mundane person. He was a refugee from the Great AddictingGames Quality Drop and was searching for a new place to call home; that was when he discovered Armorland, one of the most prosperous lands in the world. He swiftly set himself up a home in the Residential Area, eventually moving to the Top 1,000 Lane; he had settled down to a quiet life, managing the Dystopia Ride at the Armusement Park, and he also participated in many of the discussions over politics and religion. He had also just joined the Imaginarium area, setting up his own place for his writings.
He had become somewhat of an academic in Armorland, and gained decent recognition. Of course, he was not very famous, but there were some who knew of him.
His writing store was a modest place. There were shelves of books lining two walls, filled with old tomes about the old times of Armorland-some during the time of the beta-and he had a rather gruesome collection of weapons for self-defense. He abstained from using the many guns that had become commonplace in Armorland, as his scimitar was ample as a theft deterrent. A lazy window sat near the back, letting in some light, and next to it was a small lectern where Alt kept his records. There was an innumerable amount of ArmorBucks coffee cups all over the area by the lectern; Alt basically lived on ArmorBucks and Greek takeout. There was a surreptitious hallway extending down from the cathedral-esque main room, lined with doors.
Most of the doors contained Alt's secrets: his records from his time in AddictingLand, his various unpublished works, and such things.
He was of a medium height, with sweeping blond hair and piercing azure eyes. He was slightly chubby, but strong. Also of note was that his face always wore an expression of lethargy, as he didn't do much of anything. His forehead was almost completely covered by hair, and his nose was tilted very slightly upward. He was almost always seen with Earbuds in his ears, listening to music while penning his latest work or hosting his Armusement ride. He was generally a kind fellow, but could go overboard on things sometimes. He was the paradigm of a shrewd academic, wearing rectangular glasses, clad in an off-white vestment, and always clutching a book in one hand. Unlike some of the other writers of the Imaginarium, he always carried a menacing scimitar by his side, which could split even the most tenacious ban weapon in half, if needed. He fought rarely, but when he did, he meant business; his temper could turn him into a monstrous thing.
He rarely spent time in the Tavern. He was underage, and he just disliked the anti-moderator sentiment there. He never was able to understand why the mods were disliked so vehemently-he liked how they kept order-and would just stay away. He was unbelievably fond of the Armusement Park and the Imaginarium, spending almost all of his time either in those places or checking his mailbox. He didn't really go on vacation to other lands. In general, he was quite happy in his upper-middle class life in Armorland.
When the admins were killed, and the Moderation Wars started, he remained faithful that he wouldn't be effected by the ensuing chaos. He was wrong.
He never went out without his scimitar after the Moderation Wars started. Carrying it in a scabbard at his waist, and always equipped with his Majick, he was a force to be reckoned with. He once was attacked by two Advanced Spam Bots,which he deftly slayed in one fluid motion. They were vicious, flinging spam at him adamantly, but he was able to fend them off with one fluid swing of his scimitar; afterward he just walked away, thinking to himself that they should have taken the âspammers will be decapitatedâ sign nailed to the front of his bookstore seriously.
Encountering a sneaky mazzelh or a spammer had become commonplace for Alt. He was saddened at the state of affairs; the once-benign mods had gone berserk. He knew something wasn't normal.
Sealing his bookstore with a powerful Majick, he began browsing his tomes for possible leads. He found info on âwraiths,â creatures who would possess mods or users to their own fiendish ends; he doubted this, but saw it as one of the only possible answers to why the mods were so crazy.
Alt solemnly continued through the Imaginarium streets, acing cautiously. He knew that the Wars would not turn out well; that no matter what the outcome, Armorland just would never be the same. He just rolled with it though, and started on his way to the Tavern. He was hoping to find an old locked thread-building that would have information, and still he is searching.
Even today, as the Moderation Wars continue, Alt still strides the streets of Armorland, searching for information to discover the cause of the Wars. As the mazzelhs and the ninjas and the battlefish and the penicorns are all fighting to the death, he just wanders through the skirmishes. Waiting for a clue to arise.

What's been happening with me in the Moderation Wars. This story is not that great, just to warn you.

The number one rule in semicolon usage is not to overuse them. Some exist where there should be commas, some where there should be periods.

"Skiing"--"Sun" should not be capitalized unless used in an astronomical context.

It should be "fazed" in paragraph four, last sentence.

A &quothantasm in a cool river" would feel nothing as it is imaginary.

"Writer's Block"--Winning five Pulitzers in Novels is less than believable. The most anyone won in novels is two. (Four was the most Puliters won by one person. Robert Frost in Poetry. Some other guy in Drama.)

Your metaphors don't seem to fit well with respect to each other. In the same sentence it speaks of faded colors in a washing machine yet also a once-magnificent structure. And later is a "single, washed-away footprint on a beach". The first and last are parallel but the one in the middle is difficult to relate to either. And, perhaps unintentionally, "sunk" in the previous paragraph follows the "theme" of erosion by water. "Rinse and repeat" is yet another allusion to water. "Inspiration but an old flame" doused by water perhaps? But what of "rusted and broken"? It's a weaker link, but (rain)water does aid in oxidation and rust does eventually "break" a statue, yet breaking does not evoke the image of water.

Thanks again for your insight. It's really helpful

Part 2!
Alt was walking down the Tavern streets. There were hundreds of locked thread-buildings lining the streets, most of which were old offices blaspheming against a mod or talking about pie. Alt was saddened by the height of stupidity in Armorland.
Alt wasn't wearing his vestments or his glasses--he somewhat disdsained them anyway--and instead donned his famous light gray hoodie and his athletic pants. He still had his scimitar at his side, ready to slice any threat in half, and his majick was always with him. He had a gauntlet fitted to his left hand for grapples; it also was used to grip his scimitar.
His scimitar was an odd blade. It had odd markings running down the blade, and a small tassel coming off the hilt. It was thin, yet sharp; Alt once did a tast and found that even the ore that composed Thor couldn't stand up to it. The blade was a grim gray; it shone like the Moon on mixing concrete.
Alt was not perfect, however. He had a bit of a temper, and wasn't the most athletic person in Armorland. His asthma made prolonged fighting difficult, and he spent a good deal of the time sleeping.
Alt continued through his meandering, yet purposed journey throiugh the Tavern. He had skimmed over twenty thread-buildings, yet still all that he could find was addled banter and agonizingly idiotic conversation. It was like finding a grain of diamond in a desert; it would take millions of years. Alt sighed heavily.
"So many damned thread-buildings, none of them what I'm looking for. It's depressing. Oh well." Alt spoke surreptitiously to himself.
Alt's journey was going poorly. Having not found a single piece of info, he thought that nothing was going to happen.

no offense dude, but please don't write yourself into the moderation wars. Especially if you interact with any wraiths or whatnot, because I like my story, and even if it is fandom stuff, it's really not cool. I came infuriated, and went out outraged. Seriously dude, if you want in, just ask me and I'll see if I can make you relevant to the story, but I doubt that you will be.

Okay then, I'll discontinue the story.

It was a fandom work, I'm really in to the Moderation Wars

either way, it could say things in the story that I wouldn't want, so yeah. it's okay tho, dude.

i like ur work

Thanks ^^ i probably won't post anything for a while though, because I'm sick now. But thanks

Still no Title

He was pushed to the ground harshly, the hot sting of blood on his knee. Cradling his aching head in his hands, he turned around just quickly enough to see the door to his freedom closing forever.
"You'll be staying there for a while. Hehehe. . ." the warden cackled, an ominous air of disgust in his voice. "People like you don't need to see the light of day."
"B. . .but you don't understand. I'm innoce-creeeeshneofreeeee" the convict began to reply, his plead cut short by the salient creak of the galvanized metal door shutting behind him.
Gary Jonstone was known for always skirting the bounds of the law--he had been in multiple trials, all ending up with acquittals, and had quie the reputation among the police force in the small town he lived in. He was a seemingly weak person; no muscles, a perpetually sunken expression, and small shoulders adorned the stick he called a body. He was ambidextrous, and had a knack for assembling guns. Gary was in a military surplus program before his first trial, and had accrued a multitude of rifles and pistols from the WWII era. He especially enjoyed his StG .44, the prize of his collection, which he would continually take apart and reassemble as a means to pass time. He went out to shoot it often, always cleaning it after each trip to the shooting range, treating it like a steel baby.
Then it happened
It was all over the news. A well-known figurehead in the town, a persnickety fellow by the name of Grigori Schantley, was killed while reading his Bible at his house. He was the pastor at the local church, and was well-loved by almost every person in town. Except Gary.
Gary had always dislike the pastor. He thought he was a hypocrite; he would preach humility, yet he drove a Bentley around town, parading it like some sort of gilded horse. Gary despised such flamboyance; he lived in a plain house with one window and an unapproachably drab doorway. Gary was plain, the only thing that he owned that was the least bit eccentric was his gun collection.
Apparently, the pastor had died from a bullet to the head. It went straight through the passage he was reading, causing page after page of he Book of Revelation to fly, burnt and wrinkled, into the air, slowly falling to the ground. There was a single shell casing in the abode, left as a grotesque, purposeful signature of a killer onto his murdering grounds. The bullet was .44 caliber, apparently shot from a rifle of some sort. The police, of course, suspected Gary.
That day, Gary had gone to the grocery store. He was away from home a good deal of the day, returning to his beautiful gun collection: an M1 Garand, a semi-automatic Thompson, two Colt .45s, a trench gun, and a Springfield. He slumped into his chair, and focused intently on the military channel.
Then, he heard a gentle rapping on his door.
Opening his door, he stood face-to-face with an obese police sergeant, who spit out rapid, disgusted words.
"Gary Jonstone, you are under arrest for murder of Grigori Schantley. You have the right to remain silent, and all words you say can and will be used against you."
To be continued. . . .

Ahaha! Ok lol, poor Gary. Cops always make mistakes, then don't apologise.

P.S 'The Drink' may shock you into thinking about drinking this stuff ever again...

P.S 'The Drink' may shock you into thinking about drinking this stuff ever again...

Yeah, its a great start to a mystery/detective story.