He exploits us poor workers!

Pixel molt you didn't tell grand that I took all the screenshots for the header! My one chance to appear on the paper is no more! MOLT!

Meh

:O Btw put the gn watermark and reduce the opacity of your watermark.

If you're quitting Discord too... how do I contact you in the future? <3.

You can do better.

"Jump over the map wave" Space allowed?

I'd prefer such events are held once the mobile version is in open beta testing.

Lol :lol: you're so cute!

"Candice, it's snowing!" "Is it, now?" She looked at the window - it was an opaque white. As she woke up from the furious trance that had gripped her, she began to feel the cold - the fire place was a charred black, the wood having run its course long since. How long had she been like this? She looked at the vintage grandfather clock, standing proud just two yards away from her fire place, a century away from its maker's. The last time she had looked at it was when she had started in the morning, and back then it had read five past eleven - now it read five to four. As usual, she had forgotten about lunch, and as usual, there was nobody in the house to remind her. Her hand and fingers were aching, the stack of blank paper sheets on her left was about to run out, the stack of paper sheets on her right - neatly honoured by her fountain pen - about two inches high. She had been missing out on lunch for about a month now, minus the weekends, when the whole family got together for brunch. Another week, and Lost To The Snow would be over. That reminded her. It was snowing outside. "I think I'm gonna go outside, take a walk, and enjoy the snow." "You've written enough for a day, you deserve the break." "Thanks." One of the privileges of living alone, Candice had discovered, was that she could talk with her pen without the constant fear of somebody walking in without knocking and discovering her in deep conversation with an inanimate object - so they say - and within seconds concluding her to have lost her marbles. Another privilege, of course, was not having to converse with a dimwitted human, for example her sister, who couldn't help but assume that anybody within a yard of herself was interested in dating advice. Candice's pen was a part of her own consciousness - something which, contrary to popular belief, she understood perfectly well - and so, didn't involve any putting up with. And of course she didn't mind missing lunch. She put on her boots and coat, and opened the door. It had been snowing heavily, she observed, judging from the thick blanket on the ground and the sloping rooftop. However, now it was only a light snow, and would probably stop altogether in a couple of hours. She took out the earphones from her coat pocket, already connected to the iPod that she always had in her pocket, put them into her ears, and headed for the woods. Music was the only thing regarding which she preferred modern methods. Not that she could carry a gramophone with her while taking a walk, anyway. The house was uphill, on the western face of the hill. There were none to few pines growing within a radius of a hundred yards of the house, since they were regularly cut down for wood; the rest of the hill was dense with pines. In the valley was a small lake, and that's where Candice was headed. It was mid-December, and the lake was probably frozen. As she walked on, her ears enjoying Imagine Dragons, her thoughts turned to her family. Since her grandma was moved to the town due her need for constant medical attention, Candice was in sole charge of the house. Her sister was in college, and lived in the town along with her grandma. They, along with aunt Kate and her husband Harvey, would come over every Sunday, have brunch, spend the afternoon around a bonfire, and go back before dark. The town was barely an hour away. It had been mutually agreed between all members that the isolation would help Candice focus on her writing. While Candice did find her sister and uncle to be intolerable, she nonetheless looked forward to Sunday - Kate and grandma's were welcome. The six hours a week of company was just right, she found. Any less would make her lonely, any more would annoy her. A sudden gust of cold air shook her. The wind had been rapidly strengthening, howling now. The snowfall, instead of growing lighter as she had predicted, had become significantly heavier. Was that day coming back? She certainly hoped not. She turned back, attempting to run uphill, but her feet kept sinking into the snow. A blizzard was coming, and it was coming fast. There was no way she could get back to the house. She had to take shelter somewhere else... The cave, of course. The wind was screeching now, the snowflakes flying like darts. Candice barely kept her eyes open, trying to protect them from the snowflakes and the wind. Whatever she could see through her mostly-closed eyes was white. But somehow, through some survival instinct, she remembered exactly where that cave was, even though last she had visited it was thirteen years ago, and could head towards it. The wind was now strong enough to be a significant force against her movement. The temperature had dropped enough for Candice to be shivering hard despite the thick coat. And by god, the flakes stung her face and eyes! Her feet felt like they were made of iron blocks, the wind was stronger than a river's current, and she felt like she was being stoned to death. Somehow, she knew the cave was near. She felt a sudden pull and sting on both her ears, and realised that the earphones and the iPod had somehow gotten out of her pocket, and had blown away. A little more... ...her legs were apologising... ...a little more... ...her face bled... ...a little more... ...she would join her papa now... ...a little more... ...is this how he felt before going?... ...a little more... ...sudden calm... The cave. She was inside. She was safe. She had survived. But her papa hadn't, had he? * * * "I'll go get your shoes real quick, and then we'll run home, okay? You must not get out before I come back!" "Why, papa?" "You're so little, the wind will blow you away!" "No it won't," she giggled. "I'll be back soon, okay?" "Okay, papa." He had noticed Candice eyeing his new fountain pen since the morning. "Here, look after the pen for me till I'm back, will you?" "Yes, papa!" Within minutes of him leaving to get the soggy shoes from beside the lake, a blizzard had come up. All the while that it lasted, Candice waited. Waited for papa. "Don't you worry, little pen, I'll look after you till papa is back." But he never came back. * * * As she recalled that day from thirteen years ago, when she was barely eight, Candice cried. Ever since she understood that her papa wasn't coming back, she had hardened her heart, and had managed to keep him out of her mind. She knew time would heal, but until it did, it was best to be careful. But thirteen years, and she cried still like a child. Time had done nothing. As the blizzard slowly passed, along with her tears, she remembered the pen. The pen would heal her. The pen would look after her, just like she had looked after it. Till papa is back. * * * * * Other writings by me:More interviews by me: -An Expert's Extensive Guide On Onions And What To Do With Them-Personality Cut Down: Cutting Nives with Knives -5 Magic Tricks You Can Perform In Tanki-Personalities of Yesterday: Night-Sisters -The Paint Invasion - Strategy Room-Interrogating The Helpers: Reporters -Mag's Journals: My Visit To The EN Reporters' HQs - Part 1-Interrogating The Helpers: Forum Moderators -Part 2 - My Visit To The EN Reporters' HQs [Mag's Journals]-Interrogating The Helpers: Wiki Editors -Dear Love -Lost To The Snow (Published in the 78th Issue of The Newspaper)

Guys, I'm busy for a while so this series will take a break.... again. Sorry :I.

I'm kinda busy nowadays, sorry :c.

Actually, a 'published author' is one whose work gets published irl lol.

Show them that other kinds of creative writing is possible. Creativity is by definition not limited.

I wonder.

You know that r and n together look like m?

Math is a subject of logic. All it requires is a healthy mind, a little self-motivation, a little practise. However, language is an art, and like all art, requires a lot more dedication. And creativity is not trash.

Ouch -_-

Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that I won't be active for some time, both on forum and discord.

You might also want to frequently search for synonyms of words, so as to not repeat them. Also, to write, you naturally need to read... and I mean read a lot. One high-quality book of 250-300 pages a week kind of lot. To improve vocabulary and reading comprehension, I should recommend Ken Follet, John Grisham, Arthur Hailey, Arthur Conan Doyle, Michael Crichton, Khaleid Hosseini, and Stephen King. Once you achieve a reading speed of 250-300 with an excellent vocabulary and understanding of English, you should move to more complicated stuff for style. I myself am in this phase, so not too many recommendations here, but you should take a look at Leo Tolstoy, Mohsin Hamid, Simon Sebag Montefiore. Georgy Orwell too. I've a ton of books on diverse topics from random authors that's on my reading list, all of them written in high level English. Most of the books I read are eBooks provided by my school, so if you're interested shoot me a PM and I'll send you whatever I got... must be over a hundred. Oh, and please check out Yuval Noah Harari. He's not going to improve your English per se, but it'll give you a ton of wisdom that'll definitely help you write. This post is in Trebuchet MS because otherwise there's no way people will read text walls.

The Cortana Syndrome... it's back!

x2 x50 Batteries x1 x125 Mines x1 x250 Of All Supplies

There are no monthly ones. Instead, the best pieces from the AWS are being published in The Newspaper as Editorials.