#constructive criticism needed

[vettel25]

i often find that my memories become mythical

their stories shift and change as i revisit them, much akin to the way the old greek tales move

warm tears weeping or streaming like a shaded mountain spring or a spring dark-running depending on which Iliad you read

i am her younger self or her younger brother or her best friend depending on how i would like to see her

its not a nice conclusion to draw, that you are nothing to someone but someone else (or themselves) but its the conclusion i must draw

eyes brown in most lights, she asks me how hazel could be her favourite colour, her own blue reflecting back at her

its not her own fault, thats what i told her, i told her we were cut from the same cloth so i have no right to hold her to the impossible standard of knowing me outside herself

i am stood behind a one sided mirror and she smiles at her reflection, mistaking her own face for mine

or maybe she sees her brother, the only member of her family i scarcely heard her talk about

my age and just as unknown, a blank canvas that would love her back

an overflow of her family orientation allowing me to bask in the light for as long as it took for me to be too dissimilar to him

or perhaps i was her best friend, as she said

maybe she saw me, loved me, and found me rotten

[childofaura]

HEY, I NEED SOME GOOD CRITIQUES AND TIPS ON THIS!

So I’m still trying to color my Saph of the Wild piece, and I asked my bro for his thoughts on this. He said the grass and the forest line needed work because he didn’t even know that the forest line was supposed to be a forest line (which I can see how that doesn’t work). I had already tried jumping between a couple of tree tutorials, but are there any artists specializing in backgrounds that can give me more of an idea how I should approach that? Also, how I should approach the grass? The grass was an attempt to make it look the way Breath of the Wild’s color style is.

[the-huntsmans-homebrews]

The Huntsman's Homebrew Reviews

Do you use my Dungeons and Dragons homebrew rules? Do you have suggestions, comments, concerns, questions, or praise? Share them all with me here!

So it has come to my attention

that people aren’t aware of this.

I created this survey because I have no friends with which to playtest my material. I run concepts and rules through a handful of friends with experience both as players and as DMs, and I try my hardest to ensure things are balanced, but unlike the official designers of the game, I don’t have “over 175,000 fans of D&D” providing playtesting for me (Player’s Handbook, Credits page, page 3 of the errata PDF).

This is where you come in.

I am posting things on tumblr and on the DM’s Guild with the express hope of getting feedback. I’ve made it as easy as I know how with this survey, not to mention that my messages and asks are both open.

So please, if you don’t share any thoughts with me, consider taking the time to do so. I would greatly appreciate it.

Alternatively, if you feel the need to point out that something is unbalanced, please do so in a manner that helps me to correct issues and improve my brews in future iterations. Scrolling through the notes on one of my posts to cries of, “lol, this was cool until I saw how broken it was” and, “I would never let a player use this, it’s too OP” serves only to heighten my anxiety and decrease my interest in posting additional content without improving the balance of the homebrew in question.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please take note and action.

[ifsmtartblog]

Titled “Protection,” this is one of my latest works and I am still very proud of it.  Yes, I know the mother’s reflection isn’t in the puddle, that’s the point of the piece.  The raindrops were very fun to draw, and I definitely need to do more scenes in the rain after this.

DON’T STEAL MY ART

DON’T REMOVE MY CAPTIONS

DON’T REMOVE MY WATERMARK

[shipper45-blog]

HOHOHO BOOK IDEA

So I was contemplating the mysteries of life (eating potato chips) when I suddenly had this great plot for a book. A rolled it around in my mind for a while and when I was finally satisfied with the outcome I jumped on my computer and started typing it up on Google Docs. I only got the prolouge done, and I’m not sure about the title of the story yet, or even the names. But I thought I should post it on here and get some helpful advice? Yeah anyway here it is! (Do tell me if I jacked up grammar of spelling please)

Prolouge

Chicago, November 9, 1994

The man’s watery eyes slid along the distant blur of the coastline. He had been idly standing on the rickety and unstable overpass for hours now, every now and then letting out fits of coughs that would violently shake his lengthy frame. Despite this, the man reached into his coat pocket and fished out a package of cigars, flipping the top and placing one between his teeth. Just as he was reaching up to set the cigar ablaze, there was an abrupt clang to his right.

There was an unearthly silence, so eerie that the flickering of the small orange flame contained in the lighter could be heard twenty feet away. The man didn’t move a muscle. Thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to control the wild beating of his heart beneath his coat. But how could he? This was an unexpected turn of events for him, and he knew that this was going to end badly, no matter what he did.

He could turn his head and face it, oh how easy it would be to just barely move his neck, but this was rather frightening within itself. Facing it was not something that he, or anyone that even had knowledge of what it was, could simply do. But what choice did he have? He could run, but his chances of escape were slim, at best. He was no longer as fast and agile as he was ten years ago, nor was he capable of fighting the thing next to him, which was probably getting impatient. Making his choice, the man squeezed his aquamarine eyes shut, slowly pivoting on his foot to the right. Either way, it was inevitable. There was no escape. Opening his eyes, the man stared it straight in the eye, knowing full well that he was about to die. And he did.

                                 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Police sirens wailed through the frigid November air, quickly gathering a crowd of people to the scene. Officer Jones squirmed his way through the thickening crowd, exchanged quick words with Officer David and Barley, and ducked under the yellow police tape. The bright color stood starkly against the gray and woeful color of the day, and the scene itself, Jones had to admit, was woeful itself. “Ugh, what happened here?” Officer Jones asked, crouching next to Dr. Brenda, who was gingerly taking samples from the victim. “Looks to me like his throat was torn out…” Jones groaned, rubbing his temples with his thumb and fore finger. “Another one? That’s the third this week! Man, this guy is sick,” he murmured, gaining a rather sick feeling to his stomach.

Dr. Brenda nodded, carefully dropping the now red qutip into the small bag before sealing it closed. She stood, staring down at the gruesome scene. “We need to find them before anyone else gets hurt,” she said, turning to look questioningly at Officer Jones. He shook his head, running a hand through his dull red hair. “We’re trying, but there is never any physical evidence to point towards a suspect. In fact, there’s never evidence at all. Why do you think the media is calling this the ‘Ghost Case’?”

Dr. Brenda bent at the knees, narrowing her gaze before slowly reaching into the victim’s coat pocket. From there she pulled out a wallet. Dr. Brenda opened it as she stood, allowing Officer Jones to peek over her shoulder at its contents. It was rather bare, no pictures or decorations, not even money. But inside was a drivers licence, long expired. The thing was badly faded, but the name was simple enough to read: ‘Gabriel Northson’.

So how was it? I know this is rough and could probably use some touch ups but constructive criticism is always helpful :) 

[overlyemotionalbreakfastcereal]

im writing a story for an informal writing contest my friend and i are having and its giving me so much more stress than it should be

[shucksrunamuck]

The disease of constantly arriving notions Perplexes the perceptions into many You derive ideas from unknown places to find that you don't even know what you think or believe anymore Consideration stacked onto consideration These seeds that were planted yesterday have now grown up to your shoulders and wrap around your neck, friendly, dauntingly, maliciously, And to the point of status of possibly harmful They will continue to draw nearer and nearer Things will start to become less clearer and clearer Blurring out Choking out the words that almost set you free That almost found a way Almost seized the day of a great perhaps

[creal417]

Kinesis

                 There are people out there that aren’t like you. They live longer, hit harder, and are three times smarter. Some of these people seek nothing but a normal life. Others, however, wish to take their place as the rulers of the world. Who could stop them? Especially when most of them have the knowledge to make fires appear out of nowhere, cause swirling hurricanes in an instant, or even fly around invisibly. This arcane knowledge, yes, arcane as in magic, knowledge is difficult to come by as those who know it guard it with their lives. Recently, however, this knowledge has been leaked to more individuals that are gifted like me. Not every human can learn or even comprehend this ancient information. The spells themselves take years to get the correct pronunciation, but I guess that’s why we live to be well over 300 in most cases.

                Oh, you noticed the “gifted like me” part didn’t you. Yes, I am gifted. Rather so according to my friends. Ah, but maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?

                                                                                                                                 I sit in the car waiting for us to get to our new home. The world outside my backseat window is growing lighter with the lights of the small town coming on to counteract the night.

                “Michael, are you awake back there?” my mom’s voice cuts through my drifting thoughts.

                “Somehow,” I reply in a hoarse voice from not talking for the past six hours. Conversations with my parents always spiral into an argument so I try not to talk as much as possible. I’m tired of fighting.

                “We’re almost there. You’re gonna have to unpack. Your mom and I need to break in the new bed,” my dad says chuckling to himself. I look out my window in disgust. I’m not disgusted by the thought of them having sex, I’m disgusted with the fact my mom stays with the douche that is my step-father. My mom had me in wedlock and my biological father ran. So my mom raised me alone until I was about 4. Then she met Gregg. Gregg is not a nice man. He’s far far far away from nice. I know for a fact he deals drugs and that he’s an alcoholic. A mean alcoholic. He’s never laid a hand on my mom though. I wouldn’t let him even when I was 4. So instead, he hits me. It’s never been bad, just some bruises easily lied about when anyone asked. When anyone pushed the issue, we moved, which is why I’m now riding in this car to my new home in Riverwood, Ohio. I didn’t particularly like Ohio the first time we lived here.

I was seven and I had to move away from my best friend in the world, Trevor. Trevor was autistic so he would stutter or repeat things irrelevant to conversations, but when he talked to me he was perfectly normal. It befuddled his parents and his doctors. So much so we were both monitored for a week by his doctors to see why he would only talk to me normally. The results were inconclusive, and immediately after we were done, my parents told me we were moving. I remember crying the entire way to Ohio and only getting over it after we moved to Arizona. Ever since losing Trevor so suddenly, I’ve never let myself get close to anyone. I don’t want to go through that again.

“Alright shitbrick, just put our stuff outside our door. You know what, actually, just leave it in the living room. I don’t want your perv ass listening to us,” my dad says while we all get out of the car. Gregg finally started swearing around me without my mom getting upset and starting an argument when I turned 16 last year. I still don’t have a license by the way. He hits me in the head with the keys and grunts. My mom and Gregg go inside and I start getting stuff out and into the house. I’m about halfway done when I take a moment to actually look at the house. It’s a cookie cutter house that matches the rest of the houses around us: one story on the left, two on the right, two acute angles take the roof in the shape of an off-kilter M. The only thing that differs between the houses is the color they’re painted. Ours is grey. Our houses aren’t ever a fun color like blue or green. Always grey, white, or brown.

I sigh and start getting stuff in the house again when arms wrap around me from behind. I freeze and drop my suitcase.

“Uh, hi?” I finally manage to get out after trying about a dozen times. Yay social anxiety.

“Hi,” a guy’s voice replies. He sounds my age. “I missed you Michael.”

Alright, who the fuck is this guy? He knows me by name, so it’s someone I’ve met. Who did I meet in Ohio last time? Charlie? No, he took my backpack. Tyler? No way, he beat the shit out of me on the playground almost every day. The mysterious guy rubs what I assume is his head into my back between my shoulder blades. Oh god. I have no idea who the hell this is.

“Did you miss me?” he asks almost sadly. I try to turn around, but his grip is too strong and I can’t move.

“Maybe if I knew who it was.”

He spins me around and I’m met with a familiar grin, “It’s me Michael!” he says as his smile grows even bigger. “It’s Trevor!”