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How to Get Dama to Write for You


Max can’t resist getting involved classic lol


I don’t what the hell happened, but something tells me I don’t want to know… also my suggestion is the only one in first person and it’s harder to do first person. :frowning:


Calm down people do you have toaster for brain or something?

Also I hold the right to accept or reject any request so if I decide that ‘nah you pissed me off oh right you also spam my thread’ Ima just not do your request.

@Memesky I can only withstand a certain amount of cancer no more despacito


In New York,a big house

Main character 3rd person

Gan Gam. His goal is to make Gangam Style 2

It starts as he wakes up for another great day





Stop hurting poor Dama >:(




Would you want a backstory along with it? :3



I’m a bit proud of this one

Frozen Goodness

The shop has been open for a while, but no one had came by. Summer arrived early this year, and it ended early as well. The lack of customers was to be expected; No one wants to eat frozen treats in this cold weather.

I direct my gaze once again toward the desolate ice cream shop. Five pale round tables are spread on the terrace. A red and white umbrella stick out of the center of the tables, closed. The temperature doesn’t warrant protection of the shade. The vibrant colour of the umbrella is… while I usually find them refreshing, I can’t help but to avert my eyes this time from its stripes.

Red, and white.

There had been too many red and white. Daryl’s crushed head on his pillow. Shizuka’s blood, oozing out of her neck on the white bedsheet. Alfi’s body, broken fingers, on the white tiles of the shower…

“…I will never forget what she did. …I can’t forget what she did to me… to my friends… and…”

Connor. I clench my fist as my thought return to the event at the habitat, and the woman behind it all. Lily Bryes. Where is justice in this world? Can the so called law be called justice? She murdered over ten people, dammit! Why does no one believe us? Why…Why…!

I lose myself once more. I had hoped that working back in a quiet ice cream shop would help to dull the pain. What a joke. As if I can easily forget about them.

The shop couldn’t be left unmanned, but I’m the only employee available. I crouch down behind the counter, letting warm tears flow freely once again from my eyes. Last month, after being allowed to check out of the hospital, I bought a newspaper off the stand. Barely a few seconds reading the headline, I rip it to shred and incinerated it.

After we escaped from the habitat, we were escorted – Willingly for some, and unwillingly for others – to a private hospital. The authority questioned us on the detail of the experiments and what we have gone through. They offered their condolences. The deceased’s family received generous remunerations. To the public, the case was solved satisfyingly. A good dramatic case, where the mastermind unintentionally killed in his own experiment.

That’s not what happened! I remembered screaming internally reading the police report. My effort to tell them of how Lily Bryes is behind the murder game was futile. There was no evidence that pointed toward her involvement. The mail that she sent had her name redacted.

My unstable mental condition didn’t help.

The survivor of the habitat suffered from varying degree of mental disorder. Trauma and stress were blamed for most of it, but I know that the change to my mind wasn’t caused by something as simple as that.

Personality modifier.

The fruit of Olivia and Connor’s personal experiment, with the objective to cure mental disorder.
His own invention being misused. If he was still alive, how would he feel of it? If he was still alive, how would he feel about being used as a scapegoat by ANW Lab? His name tarnished to ground, while the ANW Lab and Lily was praised to the heaven for their innovation in something that caused misery for us!? The whole world should have known better! I-

“Hello? Anyone heree? Excuse mee!”

A voice brought me back to the present. A customer. I couldn’t show up crying. I wipe away my tears with the sleeve of my dress. I lightly slap my cheek with the palm of my hands. No frown. No murderous gaze. Smile. Despite my effort, I can’t crack up a smile on my face. I stand up, tidying my uniform. I turned toward the counter, and nod toward the customer.

The customer is a young boy with a checkered blue and red scarf around his neck. He is probably in the 6th grade, or the first grade of junior high school. His wide, dark brown pupil stare me right at my eyes.

“Big sis, are you crying?”

Ah, right. My eyes must be red. I rub my eyes with my hand.

“Just dust… Which ice cream… do you want?”

The boy reads the menu with a serious look on his face. The way he purses his lip is a bit cute.

“Umm, do you have something new? I want something more… experimental!”

He grins proudly as he says the last word. He must be looking for a chance to say it. Well, it is good for kids to learn new words. I nodat his request and answer,

“Why don’t you sit… and wait a moment?”

With an energetic ‘All right!’, the boy sits on a chair and swings his feet back and forth, humming a little tune. His innocence put a little smile on my face, but I need to make him the ice cream, so I walk toward the back of the counter, to the kitchen.

As I start to think of what should I make for the boy, my thought goes back toward the habitat. The media has moved on from the incident. From headlines, it has been pushed down to the 12 pages. From the main news to a running text. Apart from the family of those involved, we are all bound to be forgotten. Are Fia and Matthew reunited in the afterlife? Does Connor have anyone to remember him? Olivia never mentions any relative. Is she alone in the world now?

…will the event of the habitat forever be forgotten by the world?

With a sudden burst of inspiration, I start to make a new creation. The mellow sweetness of cinnamon, like his voice that accompany me through the nights. The firmness and defined taste of chocolate, like his consistent motive through his twisted personality change. The resulting flavour is a deep brown coloured ice cream. And for the finishing, bright red cherry on the top… like the blood dripping from his head after our escape.

I bring the ice cream cup back to the front, putting it on the counter. The boy, seeing me bringing the finished product, scramble to his feet with sparkling eyes. He practically jump up and down as he admire it.

“Ohh! It smells nice! Does it have a name? What do you call it? What is it, what is it?”

I nod as I push the ice cream closer to his reach.

“The Conn Artist… from cinnamon and chocolate.”

“Awesome! It looks delicious!”

The boy takes out a 500 yen coin and puts it on the counter. He takes the ice cream cup with him and hurriedly leaves the shop without so much as a thank you.

“He forgot… his change.”

I make a mental note of the boy’s appearance, and to return the change of 140 yen to him if I meet him at a later date. Just as I turn my back to the kitchen, I hear someone calling me.

“Um, big sis?”

I look back toward the shop entrance. The boy is there, peeking his head through the entrance, looking a tad bit embarrassed.

“…thank you.”

I blink. For a moment in my eyes, the boy resembles Alfin. His slow way of speaking. His hesitating tone when he is unsure of himself. Before I can react, the boy retracts his head and leave my view.

My stare falls toward the 500 yen coin on the counter. A simple coin. Not really a huge profit for either; Just from my franchises, her income numbers in millions in just a month. However, the transaction has helped me to step forward. To not be imprisoned by the past. I pocketed the coin and steel my determination. I won’t forget Connor’s death. I will never forget the event.

Until Lily Brynes face justice, I will never stop trying to fight for my case.

And here’s a Google Document of it: Frozen Goodness


Where should the story be set?

In a parallel universe where Star Academy ends with good ending, and he survived it along with few student.

From whose point of view should the story be and from what point of view? (first person, third person)

First person.

Who’s the main character? Describe him as best as you can. Name, personality, a picture of him, and maybe a quote of how he usually speaks.

Prakoso Levin.
He sounds like what a normal delinquent would says. He is mature and are ruthless, however, before that, he have a different personality…

What situation do you want to put him in? It can be an accident, an event, or something simple like his morning routine.

I want him to have a flashback to his life, before leaving the Star Academy.

What tone do you want for the story? Comedic? Serious? Angsty? Cringey? Describe it.



that is actually really good.
do you do any writing not on here?


I RP on another site as well




Where should the story be set?

Quahog, Rhode Island

From whose point of view should the story be and from what point of view? (first person, third person)

Third person

Who’s the main character? Describe him as best as you can. Name, personality, a picture of him, and maybe a quote of how he usually speaks.

Steve Seanson. Joe Swanson’s war vet uncle. Paranoid as all shit.
He usually speaks like an old joe swanson.

What situation do you want to put him in? It can be an accident, an event, or something simple like his morning routine.

He stubs his knee and Peter Griffin attempts to sue him for copyright. So he gets his lawyers Will Smith and Carlton Banks to fight Peter.

What tone do you want for the story? Comedic? Serious? Angsty? Cringey? Describe it.

A haha funny


Sooo it’s like months late but

A Dance with Death

He was alone.

He could no longer see the void. The white emptiness that stretched to no end. He could no longer see his clothes, his white shirt stained with dried blood and trousers shred at its limbs.

He was alone.

Enemies froze all around him, brandishing muskets, swords, axes. Bows, spears, halberds. He strengthened his grip around his sword. Murderous aura all around him. His sword, the only ally.

He was alone.

He was blind. He was tired. His sword was blunt from wear and wet from blood. His hearing was ringing from the thousand clashes of swords and scream of agony. Only his hands were steady, gripping his sword. Only his feet were steady, taking a stance.

A stance against death.

The spell of time broke. Attacks flooded in, like locusts swarming a rice field. The man heard the first cry of war. An ostinato of a fight. The introduction to a song.

And he danced.

“DIE!” A shout from above. A youthful man flew in accompanied with the screech of blades against air. Daggers.

He jumped back. The youthful man missed. A sword to his forehead. The youthful man died.

Wail of misery. A tune in the song. Entering a verse. He continued to dance.

Aroma of gunpowder. Shout of a heavy man. He took a step back, shifting his weight to another foot as he bends his back backwards. Heavy strike. Axe against the white of the void. Gunshot. The marksman missed. He dashed forward.

A stab through the heart. Blood spurted to his face. He did not stop to wipe it. The song waited for no one. He leapt off the heavy man’s head. Skull crushed. Gunpowder strong smell. He struck downward.


Fountain of blood. Desperate warcry. Pre-chorus. The fighters had regained their wit. The fighters had regained their calm. The light in his eyes changed, even when his smile did not.

It was time for the chorus.

He danced. A dance with a hundred partners. A dance that held no beauty, a dance that embodied brutality. A slash, a stroke. Explosions, cry of pain. His white eyes saw none of the violence, yet he knew the music too well.

A chorus. A verse. A pre-chorus, a chorus. A refrain, a verse. A chorus.

It was a dance without music. A dance without pattern. A dance against death.

Another scream of agony. The 63rd beat out of a hundred. The song had entered another verse. He slashed forward. A kick to his behind. A jump to above-

“A kick to the right. A headbutt to the front. A diagonal slash to above.”

He faltered. The child that tried to jump on him fell to with a soft thud, his innards showing. He had stopped his dance. Someone had stopped the tune. The 68th beath never came.

High heels against concrete. The sound of shoes kicked off and slippers put on. He could feel his hand shook. A voice so familiar. A voice so near to heart.

“It’s time to enter the bridge,” the voice said again. No metallic sound. A giggle. For the first time since he danced, he asked, with a voice so hoarse it should be a desert.


A chilling breeze. A drop in temperature. Everything sounded louder.

“Long time no sees, Rev.” the voice- no, she answered. Her voice was melancholic. Pain. Desperation. Cracked. A voice of dried tears.

“Let me accompany you past the last stanza. Let me end this dance with a violent conclusion.”

His mouth was wide open. His eyes were clouded with water. Water that should have dried years ago. Wooden sound. A pole. Her hands were no longer empty in his ears.

The song started once more. And they danced.

He danced with death. With betrayed soul.

She danced with death. With shattered pride.

They danced with death. To the tune of misery that acknowledges no salvation.

@CheesyKnives Here you go


hory sheet

this is gr8 :smiley:


Well I am me so I am great

Anyhoo might continue writing Shuri’s tomorrow


Edited the raw in