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looking for artists and writers for a collaborative effort (non-ocr)


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hey guys. this is just something i've been into lately, and i'm curious if anyone else wants to participate.

when i was in undergrad, myself and two others (an artist and a lit major) got together and did a bunch of sets that we called 'pictureboxes' or 'oneshots' (not the normal use of the term). the writer would pen a short story - few hundred words at most - and give it to me. i'd write some background music that captured the feel without being really in your face and huge, and the artist would draw something for an illustration. the writings were usually either based in the future or generally dystopic, the music was generally ambient/electronic stuff, and the drawing was usually pretty abstract and out there. it's just intended for a feel, more than a continuation of a storyline.

we did ten or twelve of them during the course of my time at college. i don't have anything left of them because they were just something that we goofed around with.

now that we've all graduated, we've gone our separate ways...and i'd like to get back to doing these.

SO.

is anyone interested in participating in working on a few of these? you don't have to be good at what you do, it just needs to generate an idea. shoot me a pm or reply here, and we'll get going.

we need artists more than writers nowadays, though feel free to jump in and contribute writing as well!

so far:

radical dreamer: november 22 - story of a man's really sad life and contemplation of the past. ends with fire.

jam stunna: twins - in the future where births are monitored, two twins are born and kept alive by their uncle. their dad turns them in, the narrator sacrifices himself to keep his uncle and sister alive.

soulinether: human #12 - crack, robots, space, and first person perspective.

radical dreamer: the last tombstone - master chief meets duke nukem, except that he accidentally dies.

caster13: quest - robot chick from outer space pwns real robots.

ryusei: flamingoes? - just read it. it's pretty funny.

zephyr~: cry a goodbye - guy in future society tries to save his wife.

caster13: ghost - story of a girl's friend, who committed suicide and is back as a ghost.

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pm me ideas! we'll roll from there. i cleared out my inbox a bit, so i've got room.

zup: i just don't want it long, that's all.

caster: i prefer that theme, but i'm willing to adjust. that theme tends to fit the more abstract ideas that the music and art generally focus on.

will: i dunno if i'd do a collab for the music stuff, but maybe. i'll keep you in mind.

i've got jh, zephyr, caster, ga, zup, soulin, darklink42 (MEXICANS ATE MY COMPUTER), and jamil (THE PROBLEM IS YOUR CRAPPY-ASS MONITOR, WIFE) written down. meteo xavier sent me something pretty crazy, too, but i don't know if i could go with what he sent atm. but he's written down too.

anyone willing to try doing art as well?

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I can possibly do some writing.

Does it matter if it's dystopic futuristic sci-fi or not?

Also, just to toss out an idea, you've always started with a story and then added music and art, right?

Have you ever started with music or art and then added the story and art/music?

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what exactly did you have an issue with that couldn't be changed?

i dunno, i just wasn't diggin that vibe. i'm not a super-philosophical kind of guy. and while i cuss like a sailor, i don't like it in artwork that i participate in. same with the religious reference.

i thought it was a cool idea, but i wasn't into it. and i don't want to tell you to change it to fit into my little box in my head, because that's not right (and that's how art dies, often).

edit: redshadow and bleck, go ahead and shoot me some ideas =) ryusei, i prefer that feel because it fits into the more abstract, ambient electronica i prefer to write for this kind of thing - but i can change =) and no, i haven't tried that idea.

edit2: if you decide to do a topic that stems from a game of sorts, and i can link my part of the song into a remix, that'd be pretty cool. but i don't necessarily want you to stick it into a box and slap a label on it, you know?

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i dunno, i just wasn't diggin that vibe. i'm not a super-philosophical kind of guy. and while i cuss like a sailor, i don't like it in artwork that i participate in. same with the religious reference.

i thought it was a cool idea, but i wasn't into it. and i don't want to tell you to change it to fit into my little box in my head, because that's not right (and that's how art dies, often).

Oh for God's sakes. It took 20 minutes to come up and write that, it won't mean much to change it. There's no philosophy or religious thing I'm trying to throw out, I just wanted to come up with some freaky text.

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fair enough, red shadow. i figured it did =) when you get ideas from up there, feel free to write them down and pass them along. so long as they don't smell funny =)

@soc - :< figures that someone else would TRY TO STEAL MY THUNDER...are you bringing a copy of it to mag? i'd love to see/hear it.

@meteo - dude, you gotta chill, man. you're always so pissed. if you want to write something down and send it my way, go right ahead. this isn't a competition or an audition, i'm just looking for people who are interested. i'll roll with whoever wants to contribute =)

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Hope you enjoy this:

EDIT: Also, it's not dystopic and everything, I figured you wanted short stories... Well, assume it happened in the year 3567 on the seventh moon of Orbitaliate...

_____________________

November 22, the sun has just recently set on the little community. For the Patterson, sunset had come somewhat earlier, since their house was east of the church, and today was the only day of the year that the sun’s trajectory was hidden entirely by the steeple, a good two hours before the rest of the village found darkness’s embrace. Their house has been there since the times of the foundation of the village, 200 years ago. It was built in front of the church, so that only the priest has an easier time getting to mass. In the last 50 years, this did not really matter. However, the large backyard, beautiful neighbourhood and historical house were more than enough to make the house more valuable. They also were lucky enough to have a large parking lot when they had a lot of guests.

November 22 was not such a say. And Andy Patterson looked at the church dominating his house through height, size, and darkness. For while the church was surrounded by what could be seen as heavenly light, its shape was an inscrutable shadow lost in dark mists. From his second floor window, Andy was assailed by a rushing wave of memories. He was the first son of his generation, and as such, the house was rightfully his. He was born in January, in this very house, 56 years earlier. His mother was stricken by labour as his father had been working at the paper mill. Thankfully her sister, a nurse, and her brother in law, were both with her at that time. The roads were too slippery to go to the big city hospital, and back then, giving birth in your own home was a frequent happening. The brother in law ran outside to get the village’s doctor. Through no evil intent, he decided to let the doctor go to the Patterson house alone, and kept running to the paper mill. He had visited Andy’s father at the mill earlier that week, since he was force to take a vacation as the crops slept under their coat of revitalizing snow. As he yelled excitedly, running toward the work station, he failed to realise that most machinery here is unthinking, and rather unforgiving of inattention. Thus, as Andy’s father was not giving the saw his entire attention, it jealously dug into his left arm, under the elbow.

The doctor stayed a short five minutes at the Patterson house, and ran to the paper mill for an eternal two minutes. Bandages were made, a sleigh was found, and thanks to the valiant courage of a pair of work horses, Andy’s father passed away alone, away from his son that would bear his name, away from his wife, away from his home. Alone. The paper company made sure the Patterson family would not go hungry, and out of guilt, remorse, or pity, the brother in law made sure to provide as much money and food for the family he had involuntarily broken. But that was the past. Many November 22 passed. And many times, the shadow of the church had enveloped the house. Andy’s sister died in the middle of the summer. A tragic incident at the river, nothing more. Everybody learned how to swim at that spot in the village. The river went down a small hill at that spot, and had dug quite a nice pond for kids to swim in. Andy and his brothers had taken the habit, as older boys often did back then, to go up the hill and jump into the pond. If you knew what you were doing, you could aim straight for the deepest part of the pond, and go under the water safely. Little Leslie had been with her brothers quite often, and while they were not paying proper attention, she decided to join them in their dives. She knew where to aim, knew how far to jump. She knew how to swim as was often compared to a mermaid. She called to get her brothers’ attention; they looked, and yelled at her to come down. It was too dangerous they said. It was too hard for her to do. She did not listen, ran, and leaped into the river. She came out unharmed and cheered by her brothers. And so they jumped again. And again. And again. On their fifth time jumping, she did not come out of the water. She did not come up for air. And even in the following weeks, she did not come up as a corpse. She vanished, swallowed by the river. Swallowed by the dark waters that seemed to reach as deep as the core of the earth. Nothing should have prevented her from coming back up. And that nothing was powerful enough to keep her buried in moving water for countless years. For eternity. No one swam at that spot, in fact no one from that village dared to swim in the waters that swallowed their sweet princess.

Life went on. Andy was on the eve of his wedding. As it was tradition, and according to most people, it was a stupid tradition, the ownership of the house would be passed at the same time as the wedding. This meant that in addition to organizing a wedding, Andy’s mother had to move out of the house. Andy and his fiancée had agreed to let her live with them. She was quite healthy, and happy to be part of their household. And the Patterson house was huge, and had quite enough space for this arrangement. And so Andy’s mother worked quite hard so that he august wedding would be amazing. And she worked quite hard to ensure that the master’s bedroom was free for the nuptial. She also arranged to spend the week at her sister’s place to let her son settle with his wife. She worked up a sweat, giving orders, getting her hands dirty, moving people, bossing furniture around. By the time the night fell, she was exhausted. After a light meal, she went straight to bed, to be ready for her son’s unforgettable day. She would never see daylight again. The doctor called that morning saw that she was over exhausted, and that she needed a day or two of bed rest. And her behest, the wedding took place. However, they could not wake her up again once the ceremony was over. She had a September funeral, and Andy’s wedding day would be in everyone’s memories for years to come.

On that November day, Andy was lost in his imagination, seeing everything this house had meant for him. His wife had left him years ago, after their youngest daughter went to college. He had fathered three beautiful, smart and angelic little princesses. And so there was no heir for the house. He contemplated that as he watched the church’s face brightly shining with a red that had a depth and a power commonly seen only in sunsets. His eyes filled with tears and he was choking. On memories, on emotion, on life. On death. He looked at the church and a symphony of lights, colours and sound assailed him. The bright red, the clear white, the alternating blue and red. All of this was obscured by the thick black mist filling his mind, his memories, and his house.

On November 22, he went upstairs for a nap before supper.

On November 22, he had turned on the oven so that it would be warm by the time he would wake up from his nap.

On November 22, the house decided to fight the enveloping shadows and fill the street with the burning memories of those that were no more.

On November 22, Andy Patterson died, away from his family, away from his love, but in is house, filled with despair.

Alone.

______________________

Sorry if it's a bit of a downer, but it's the story that came to me tonight.

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In some ways I don't want to write anything after that.

On December 14, I wrote.

ho ho... oh to hell with any attempts at a pun.

I'll try to come up with an idea soon...? I'm about to suffer through finals and everything.

Edit: it appears a spammer has inserted itself into this topic above my post. Oh, the irony.

Hm, a story about a spambot. The woes of a spambot... not this week.

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