How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

+1

We'll be spending a lot of time in one...

Magnificent!

Mighty fine writing there, Hoss!

Molly’s - Chapter 2 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Closing the door may have been a mistake. There was no ventilation in the hallway; it was close and hot and reeked of old grease and sweat and spoiled food. There wasn’t much more light than there was ventilation; a couple of naked bulbs dangled from exposed wires, but weren’t on. The only source of light, besides the door I’d just closed, was the outline of another door ahead through the darkness. I walked slowly, my eyes still dazzled from the sunshine, groping my way through the darkness. I managed to stub one toe and bark both shins before I got to the door. Taking a deep breath (which was a mistake; the air was foul) I opened the door and stepped coughing into… I guess it was a showroom. It was large, brightly lit, and thankfully air-conditioned. The walls were all covered with shelves that were in turn covered with bits and pieces. No, not covered, laden. More like dripping with. On the bare concrete floor were larger pieces. Some were recognizable components, and some just piles of similar parts. Over there was an intact transmission from something large. And was that the autoloading mechanism of a 60mm railgun? I wandered up and down the “aisles” between “displays.” The Molly’s theme of large and beat up was less obvious here; the room certainly was large, but it was far more respectable-looking than anything else I’d seen so far. Clean, no, certainly not that. Nowhere near that. But not shabby. I wandered this way and that, taking it all in, until I saw a small counter area next to another door. The woman was standing behind it, bent over a terminal, typing away. She lifted her eyes to meet mine, then turned and walked out of sight for a moment. She returned with a pushbroom and a dustpan. Flipping up a section of the counter, she walked straight to me, placed them in my hands, then went back and resumed her typing. Inside my head, a brief struggle took place. I was grown up enough to deserve more respect that this! (I wasn’t. Not nearly. Puberty was still over the horizon, no matter how ready I was to be an adult.) This place was a dump, and I had better things to do with my time! (I didn’t. I really, really didn’t.) But, on the other side, I’d spent years mapping out places I could only dream of visiting. And there were two perfectly fine tanks outside. I had barely started to explore the vast grounds and giant… warehouse? The typing stopped. I looked up and locked eyes with the woman again. She held my gaze a moment, flicked her eyes down to the broom where it rested on my shoe, then looked over at the door before locking eyes with me again. It was the clearest conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Taking the broom in both hands, I started to push.

Generally speaking, I have very little idea what I'm going to write when I sit down at a keyboard. With Molly's, for example, I specifically spent some time kicking around ideas for a new context. Once I settled on a small garage, I spent some time debating what perspective to take. As I was kicking these ideas around, several images popped into my head. The kid who loves tanks and shows up, ending up sweeping the floors just to hang around. The hidden city of gold. The underdog team. Showing up to scrub mechanical parts. The gruff-yet-tender veteran. The dog. The posers building ridiculous tanks. When I actually sit to start writing, I get possessed. Literally. My fingers move without my conscious awareness; I read the words appearing on my screen, but am not willfully putting them there. It's as if I am reading a story being written in real time. It's weird. I can, by act of will, force the course of a story. I did that a few times in the General Fred series. I knew I needed a story to make the whisky bottles significant, so I engineered that one. I knew before I sat down the significant elements that had to be incorporated. I may even have had a phrase or two crafted in my mind. But the words that appeared between those pre-decided elements, and the order in which the elements were stacked, happened without my volition. It's literally like there's another person who hijacks my fine motor control to use my hands as a vehicle for typing their story. This entity, my muse, does listen to my conscious thoughts; anything I choose to put in appears, but the bulk of what you read was written by that force. Most of the stories I've posted here were written in a single sitting, usually on the order of two pages per hour. Now, once the story has been written, I like to sit on it for a bit. I'll read it back over a few times during the following week, and in this way, I discover errors, tweak phrasing, etc. On rare occasions, I'll add or remove content, particularly in the "forging links between stories" area. But 90% of what you read is that stream-of-consciousness, straight from my fingers content.

Molly’s - Chapter 1 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Molly’s Reclamation & Salvage. That’s what the sign said at the head of the driveway. Well, it had said that, in its prime. Years of exposure to the elements had faded the colors; the right side was broken off, probably hit by a passing vehicle trying to maneuver off the skinny lane and into the gravel ruts. What it actually said was “Molly’s Reclam & Salv.” The driveway lead between two fairly prosperous-looking warehouses and up to a chain-link gate, which happened to be chained shut. Beyond the tattered fenceline rose pile after pile of broken cars, stacked tall to the clouds, forming a secondary fence. If I leaned and peered and craned my neck, between those columns I could see the husks of maybe half-a-dozen tanks busily turning into rust, possibly the most heart-rending sight I’d ever beheld. And beyond that, a warehouse that had once been solid green. It had been patched often and the patches covered with whatever paint the owner had handy, so it looked like something from a hippie’s nightmares, beat-down yet still psychedelic. Looking left and right, the fence stretched off in the distance. It was a junkyard, alright. But it seemed to be a pretty big junkyard. I sighed. Deeply. To say I was disappointed doesn’t really come close. But I was here and still had a fair amount of my Saturday left, so I decided to see what there was to see. The ground to the left looked rougher, and there were briars growing through the fence, so I went right. The fence wasn’t exactly straight, and had clearly seen better days, which seemed to be the theme of Molly’s in general. It leaned out, then in, then out again as it meandered, the corpses of cars piled high against it. There were holes in the fence, many of them. Some maybe even large enough for me to squeeze through, but the wreckage piled just inside was a pretty effective deterrent had I felt so inclined. Which I didn’t. The corner, when I got there, was only a few hundred meters from the gate, which I couldn’t see because of the not-straightness of the fence, bulging then retreating. Rounding the corner and following the raggedy fence, I passed the backs of several warehouses. Molly’s was tattered, but it was really, really big. By the time I got to the next corner, I felt like I had probably walked a kilometer (I ended up pushing my bike because the rough path was not what my racing tires were designed for!) Following the back fence, I came across another gate. This one was closed, but not chained. I looked around; not a soul was in sight. Just another gravel driveway, the backs of featureless warehouses marching into the distance, and this unmarked, unlocked gate. My heart beat a little faster as I let myself in. I mean, it’s not trespassing if there’s no “Keep Out” sign, right? The gravel driveway was even less conducive to riding, so I continued to walk, pushing my bike along. The path meandered between towers of discarded cars that seemed to lean in over me, nearly blocking the sunlight and lending an unnatural gloom to this already-creepy landscape. My imagination ran scenarios of cars falling to crush me, junkyard dogs chasing me, rats biting me, even me getting lost and wandering lonely for the rest of time, but I never really thought of turning back. I’d spent years on this quest, and I was going to see it through, regardless of how disappointing it was certain to be. I emerged from the forest of debris to a relatively open area, easily the size of a giant parking lot, and suddenly, I could not breathe. Tanks, dozens of tanks, hundreds of tanks, sat around me. Most were wrecks, clearly the losers of pitched battles. All were rusted, some even had plants growing through them. But despite their tragic condition, I was actually standing beside tanks! I slowly walked up to the first and laid my hand on it. It was a shell, the treads and engine removed, the gun taken, but still recognizable. This had been a Hunter, and judging from what was left of the paint, had once belonged to the Coalition, probably before I was born. As I wandered through the field, I began to feel a sense of majesty. Every tank here had a story, and regardless of how those stories had begun, they all ended the same way: “Now, I am junk, and I am Molly’s.” Over and over and over again. As I continued wandering inward, following the driveway, a change began to occur. The tanks were getting newer. Less rust, more paint. Most of them were still pretty thoroughly beat up, but fewer were completely gutted. Many still had intact treads; several were still sporting their weapons. The space between them was opening up as well; they weren’t crammed together nearly as tightly. Then, without transition, I was in the open. There was a ring around the warehouse, maybe 30 meters wide, that was nearly clear; only two tanks stood there, and they both looked good. Not new, definitely not that. But intact, not rusty, still proud. I ran to the first, eager to touch something so beautiful and powerful. The armor was hot from the midday sun, which now shone down on me again. It smelled of oil and steel and ruthlessness. It was a monster, a mammoth, the barrel of its gun looked nearly large enough for me to crawl inside (I didn’t try). I walked around it, crawled over it, even tried to open it, but the hatches were locked. If the first was a mammoth, the second was a wasp. It was a third the size, a quarter. I’m not sure; fractions were still new to me. While the first tank screamed “DOMINATE!” this one whispered “speeeeeeeed.” It was low to the ground; its angles were severe. Its gun was tiny, barely large enough for my young fist (I did try). It, too, was locked. I don’t know how long I spent fawning over those two tanks before something moved in the corner of my eye. I froze and turned. There, just outside an open door, a woman leaned against the building, watching me. She wore filthy mechanic’s overalls and lifted her grease-stained hand to her face to take a drag from a cigarette. That’s the movement I had finally seen. How long had she been there? She dropped the butt and ground it out beneath her boot, then turned and went inside without saying a word. She left the door open behind her, though. My first thought, of course, was to run. And my second. Actually, all of my thoughts were to run. But instead, I found myself walking to that door, pulled by the lure of mystery. Who was she? Was that Molly? Was she working on a tank inside? I didn’t even hesitate as I pulled the door shut behind me.

Being tired of eating porridge, I went to the store to forage. Fried chicken breast would taste the best, but they only had an orange.

Just a clarification: while Adobe After Effects can be used to edit video, it is not video editing software. It's compositing and special effects software. Adobe Premiere is video editing software. But, with the current Adobe plan, if you have one, you have access to the rest. And since you are an Adobe subscriber, you really should be using Audition for your audio. It's far more comprehensive than Audacity.

Thank you both!

Fascinating! Two plausible realities, from two dedicated followers. I'm curious, if you don't mind indulging me... what lead you to your respective conclusions?

The Tankiverse is vast; there are myriad stores to tell!

Molly’s - Introduction Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii As far back as my memory goes, I’ve loved tanks. I remember, or at least I think I remember, sitting on the couch between my parents when the Tanki finals were on back in ‘53. I would have been four years old. I guess it’s a suspect memory because I remember the teams wrong. If you look it up, look up the teams that made the finals that year, the names don’t match the pictures in my head. All the teams I remember had already been eliminated. But, I remember the tanks correctly. Anyway, I remember sitting there, the family all gathered around one screen, yelling and cheering and laughing and crying as the fights progressed, as if they were actually somehow invested. I don’t remember caring about the teams, but I do remember caring about the tanks. I loved to watch them. It didn’t much matter what they were doing. Driving, firing, turning, burning, even just sitting still, I loved to watch the tanks. No, that’s not quite right. I loved the tanks. That has never changed. When I was old enough to be trusted with a bicycle, I ran away from home. The very first act of freedom I exercised was that, to run away from home. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my home, it was just that I wanted to go to Performance Armour. You’ve heard of P.A, of course. They sponsor dozens of entries in Tanki, and their tanks tend to dominate the finals. If there’s one name anyone has heard of in high-end armor customization, it’s P.A. Anyway, their complex was about 1300 kilometers from my house. I figured it was a two-day ride, so I packed plenty of toaster tarts in my hero backpack. I even sprayed my bicycle with oil, having learned the importance of quality lubrication from watching Tanki. I sprayed the wheels, the chain, the frame, the handlebars, the training wheels, even the seat. There was no way I wanted my bike to seize up in the heat of battle. I made it surprisingly far. By the time I got hungry, I had reached the neighborhood park. I figured that was at least a thousand kilometers, so I’d better stop for a snack before riding the last little bit. Surely I’d be there before dinner time. When the sun was getting low, I was just reaching the grocery store where we shopped. Who knew it was so far away? Was P.A. just on the other side of the parking lot? I’d been bicycling all day; surely I was close! In one of those twists of fate that characterize us all, it was about that time of day when Dad would be coming home. He often stopped at the grocery to get whatever he needed for the night’s meal (Dad was the chef of the house). We ran into each other, almost literally, there in the parking lot. He asked me what was up, and when I explained, he stood there for a minute, then asked if I’d mind helping him with the shopping first. Later, after dinner, I got introduced to the world of maps. Thirteen hundred kilometers, it turns out, was a bit farther than I had expected. It took a little while for me to get over that disappointment and start thinking of alternatives. I started taking notice of the names of all the garages that sponsored tanks in the finals. The map in my bedroom began sprouting red pins. Dishearteningly, Performance Armour was actually the closest one. None of the big names were within my reach. So, I lowered my sights, and started mapping less-successful garages. I used colors to indicate how many tanks they sponsored and how successful they were in the matches. Yellow, green, blue, white, purple, something that could be called brown… rainbows of pins began appearing all over my map. Even black. I had my parents buy me a new map, one of the whole world, that almost covered one wall of my bedroom, and the project continued. I learned about latitude and longitude; I learned the names of continents, countries, and alliances. I found that there were armored competitions besides Tanki; that many countries had their own leagues. Then one day, I stepped back from my map, and realized I had just stuck a black pin on top of my hometown. Now, black meant small. Tiny. Like, only sponsored one tank, and never won a final. The world was covered in black pins, most with the same story: a group of friends scraped together enough money to build or refit one tank, and took their shot. The name of this black pin was Molly’s. Molly’s was a little over 30 kilometers away, in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. I had a pretty good idea of how far 30 kilometers was by this point, and it was certainly in reach for a preteen on a quality bicycle. I had a quality bicycle. I’d bought a secondhand racer when I was 10 years old, and had been tinkering on it ever since. Lightweight tires, composite brakes, low-drag derailleur, custom handlebars (I bent them myself), and dozens of other performance tweaks. Both it and I were easily capable of this. So, one Saturday morning, I told my parents I’d be back for dinner, and off I went.

Ok, can you do a bad job of this? Three people (2 male, 1 female) in uniforms standing in a swamp, watching as their tank sinks. Here is the relevant story, if you're interested.

Aloha! I'm looking for an artist to create a book cover. Over in the Amateur Writing section, I accidentally wrote a book. It started with one story, and just kept growing. I'm going to compile all those chapters, possibly add a few more, and publish it. Definitely need a stylin' cover! If you're interested, please PM me. I'll take a look at your work, tell you a bit about what I have in mind, and we can talk terms. Mahalo!

A: You're welcome! B: I don't believe I did C: I submitted the next entry last Saturday, July 7. Awaiting approval.

While a little bit of Googling reveals that there is an ideal syllable count, this isn't haiku. The rhyme scheme and the rhythm are paramount in limericks. You can actually have some fun defying the expected meter, like this example I copied from Wikipedia: There was a young man from Japan Whose limericks never would scan. And when they asked why, He said "I do try! But when I get to the last line I try to fit in as many words as I can.

Spamming? Not so! I protest! I have things to get off of my chest. The limerick strain Is quite stuck in my brain. With my torture, you all now are blessed!

My entry is finally sent With it, I am fairly content An epic it's not But the topic is hot And the art form, i shan't reinvent.

Can it be longer than 10 lines? And can we submit more than one entry?

What this is telling you is that lines # 1,2, &5 all have to rhyme, and also lines 3&4 have to rhyme, but the two sets cannot rhyme with each other. 1. This line will establish word A 2. Make of that whatever you MAY 3. But short lines must BE 4. Lines four and THREE 5. Whatever you might wish to SAY. In that one, I took A and B a little too literally just to point them out. Let's look at an earlier example I posted: It is clear, I should hope, the intent Of the missives that Thief and I sent Simple comments we wrote So we shouldn't be smote By any admins who feel discontent. So here, the words INTENT, SENT, and DISCONTENT all rhyme, and are represented by A in the rhyming scheme. WROTE and SMOTE rhyme with each other, but not with the other words, so they are B in the scheme. A intent A sent B wrote B smote A discontent. Now, take out all the spacing and you're left with AABBA.

Homemade. With nuts and chocolate chips. Grandma's recipe!

Just to be clear, this is supposed to all be done with screen captures from within the game?

It is clear, I should hope, the intent Of the missives that Thief and I sent Simple comments we wrote So we shouldn't be smote By any admins who feel discontent. ;)