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Joseph J Clark
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Here are the works of a man called Monstroooo.

.: Gnome Noir :. +DD +DLD
Gniles Brody III, agent of the Royal Gnomic Treasury, gives his personal account of how his perfect crime went horribly wrong.

.: Stationery :.
A short story in four acts, featuring the fetishisation (ish) of stationery and the moral decline of the corporation (to an extent).

.: Celebrating The Song Collectors :. +DLD
"Doesn't anybody care about truth anymore?
Maybe that's what songs are for."

.: The Necklace :. +DLD
A story about desire

.: The Ballad of Eiy'ra Haiz :. +DD
Part western, part space-opera and part folk tale: a long short-story about survivor's guilt and alienation.

.: The Gunslinger :. +DD +DLD
'Some folk, they say he's looking to get revenge on those who did for his lady. Others say he's just out for revenge on those who done him in. Still other folk swear he's an agent of the devil hisself. Step inside, stranger, and I'll tell you all about The Gunslinger.'

.: Cheese Sandwich :.
Arguably the best 109-word-long story I've ever written.

.: Red Plastic Bag :.
An oddly light-hearted poem about bereavement and closure.

.: Writer's Block :.
A poem about finding inspiration.

.: Drama: on Love, Loss and Getting On With It:.
A short film, set in the Warcraft universe, about love and hats.

(hosted on YouTube)

One day, this is all that will remain of him.

He gives thanks to the following artists for giving permission to use their sketches:

:iconmechanicalgraphite: :iconchildofdune: :iconoffo:

New Old for 2013: witterings on Twitter.
:new: New for 2014: IndieDB profile.


"Who are all these people? And why are they here?"

"Same reason as us, Jack."

"No way, man. Look at them all. I'll bet most of them haven't even played Space Raiders 2. They're not real fans. They're just... followers."

"Shut up, Jack! Look, there she is!"

Jordan's outstretched finger pointed across the courtyard, beyond the murmuring crowd, to the source of the cheers and whistles. A small group of figures were walking in the sunshine, smiling and waving. Silver passes hung from blue cord around their necks, identifying them as exhibitors at the convention.

"Holy shit!", Jack said, pushing through the crowd. "I'm getting me an autograph!"

"Wait, Jack, we'll never get through-", Roxy protested, but he was almost lost to sight already. Jordan shrugged an eyebrow at Roxy, took her hand, and followed through the crowd as best he could, apologising as he went.

By the time they'd gotten through the crowd, Shelley Parker, Creative Director of D'Awesome Games, had reached the glassy doors of the Convention Centre. Standing with her entourage, the famed game developer was signing posters, DVD cases and t-shirts. Jack was there, right at the front of the line, holding out a copy of "Space Raiders 3" and thrusting it forward desperately.

"Look at that - he actually made it!" Roxy said, smiling up at Jordan.

"I've never seen him move so quickly."

"Amazing to see all these people here, just for D'Awesome Games."

Jordan peered above the heads of the crowd.

"Quite a change from the Raiders debut, huh?"

Jack had been forced from the front line, his green checked shirt standing out among the black t-shirts of the throng. As Jordan watched, he elbowed a small blonde boy out of the way and shouted something to the D'Awesome team - just moments before they gave one last wave and headed back inside the Convention Centre.

"Did he get it?" Roxy asked.

"Don't think so," Jordan replied, putting an arm around Roxy. "I hate feeling like a sardine - let's get out of here. Jack'll find us."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't that bothered anyway", Jack said, drawing deeply from a can of Dr Pepper.

"Bullshit, fanboy!" Roxy laughed. "I thought you were going to kill someone to get that sig."

"What do I need her scribble for? I've got all the Collector's Eds, plus a bunch of PM's from her on the forums."

"Such loyalty! What fandom!"

"Yeah, well. I tend to wonder why these days."

Jordan swung his backpack off his shoulder and started rummaging inside.

"Come on guys, the talk starts in forty minutes. Big reveal, you reckon?"

"Raiders 4", Roxy said. "Obs."

"What else could it be?" Jack asked. "It's been two years since the last game. And they wouldn't announce crappy DLC here."

"Could be new IP?"

"Whatever it is: bet you it's a PS4 exclusive", Jordan said. "Like it or not, world's changing, Jack."

"Nah - Parker wouldn't do that. She's a PC gamer herself, you know? She'd be nowhere without us."

Roxy rolled her eyes.

"Without you, you mean? I'm quite happy with my PlayStation and sense of perspective, thanks."

"Yeah, without me. I've been pre-ordering D'Awesome's games on PC since before you were unpacking your Wii, Rox."

"Ooh, you're so hardcore!"

"I've just got standards, man. No way I'm buying a shitty PlayStation just for Raiders 4."

"You know what it'll say on your gravestone, Jack?" Jordan asked.


"'Here lies the death of PC gaming'."

"Then I'll just have to live forever, won't I?"

The lights went out and the room hushed for a moment - the sound of six-hundred conversations ending, of a room full of people fixing their focus on a single stretch of black floor with five unoccupied chairs. Then, at a glimmer of movement from stage-right, cheers, whoops and whistles spread across the crowd.

Jordan turned to look at Roxy, who was grinning and clapping excitedly. Their eyes met for a moment, then their lips, before they both took up the cheers.

The noise reached a climax as Shelley Parker waved to the crowd, blew a little kiss, then took her seat. Shelley was an icon in the industry: outspoken, loyal, and physically striking - purple hair falling sharply down the left side of her face, the right side shaved short. Jack would proudly describe her as "punk as fuck", before waxing lyrical about her high-concept, highly skilled shooting games. They used to be a niche market: but D'Awesome Games's popularity had exploded with the rise of last generation's gaming consoles. Jordan noticed that rather than join the cheering, Jack sat slumped in his chair, fiddling with his 'Droid.

"Thank you, everybody, thank you so much!", Shelley said, raising a red microphone to her black lips. "We're so thrilled you could all come! Look at you all, you're so beautiful!"

The crowd cheered and whistled in response.

"Alright guys", she said as the whistles began to die down "I don't know about you, but I've been waiting for this moment for months. Atari wanted me to start off with some Q&A and to talk about the Raiders 3 DLC. But the hell with that, right? That's not why you're here - and it's not like they can pull me off stage, now."

Shelly shrugged, melodramatically eyeing the wings of the stage. Laughter rose from the crowd.

"So the big news is that we're here today to announce a brand-fucking-new game."

The audience roared its approval. Jack sat up a little in his chair. Roxy squeezed Jordan's hand.

"It's called Space Raiders 4: Rise of the Immortals. And we're really, really thrilled to be able to tell you that we've teamed up with Sony on this one - it's going to be a PlayStation 4 exclusive title, and it's going to be fucking epic!"

The room exploded in an avalanche of sound. Shelley leaned back in her seat, a huge, natural smile spreading across her face, and exchanged a relieved glance with Bill Snider to her left.

"The fuck you idiots clapping that for?" Jack muttered under his breath - just loud enough for Jordan to hear.

"It's a betrayal, is what it is."


"She's pandering to the big stage, the big crowds. But what about us? What about her faithful fans?"

"Maybe", Roxy answered, "If they want to remain faithful fans, they'll have to swallow their pride and buy a console?"

"After all the money I spent just getting here? Fuck that, we deserve better."

"Come on Jack", Jordan cut in. "You're over-reacting."

"What happened to you, man? You shack up with a girl and all of a sudden you're never around, got no time for Raiders, tucked up in bed at 10pm."

"Hey, don't take it out on Jordan."

"Who should I take it out on, Rox?"

"Total strangers on the internet? That normally seems to work for you."

"Whatever. I'm out of here. I'll see you later, or something."

“Hey, Rox" Jordan said, when they'd gotten home a couple of days later. "Look at this. Jack posted it at about 2 am last night."

Roxy peered at the open laptop and read:

"No matter how shitty life gets, Ive always had games. They've been like a best mate. Worlds 2 explore, characters to connect with, systems to rule. And not bragging or anything but tbh ive always been good at them. I learn from them. Im a better person ingame that I could ever be in the real. I mean I can do shit, own shit, top tables. I can WIN, u know?

"Games aint never lied to me, never let me down, never betrayed me. Until now.

"Raiders 4 represents the final nail in the cross or whatever. Industry's changing and pretty much I can deal. The wheel keeps turning and the pc - only place where games belong 2 the COMMUNITY & not the boardroom - will have its time once more. Consoles get bigger and dumber and we get a wave of casual players and noobs coming in from the high street wanting to play My First FPS. But there's money in those noobs and so long as we're still being looked after, I guess its cool.

"But then Parker comes out & says that D'Awesome Games is turning its back on the PC, on it's own history, on the community. Jumping into bed w big business and £££. Well g fucking g. Gamings running out of heroes man. Parker letting us down, snubbing us like this... its a step too far for me. It's one more in a long line of kicks to the shin AND I'VE HAD ENOUGH.

"Dunno what I'll do now. I'll find somewhere else to invest my time, money and soul. Ill learn to love again. But I want D'Awesome Games to know that this time they've left a scar which wont heal and which I won't forget and which I wont forgive.


"Urgh, dude's flipped his lid," Roxy said. "Always knew he was a creep."

Jack peered through the glass, the hammer heavy in his hand. He could just about make out the sleeping figure of Shelley Parker. He reflected for a moment how they were both on the wrong side of glass barriers. Well, Jack couldn't shatter his barrier. But he could make his feelings known, alright. He'd remind the world that he mattered.

Strangely, he didn't feel angry any more. He had been: in the crowd, in the conference, in front of the keyboard, while tracking down Parker's address. He'd been angry at the world for stealing his passion: for loving, or claiming to love, his game even more than he did.

But now he felt calm. The thought of hurting someone made him feel sick to the stomach. It wasn't really Shelley's fault: he knew that. She was just a symptom of a wider sickness.

And yet, here he was: and this was the only way that his voice would be heard. After everything he'd said, done and believed. If he didn't follow through on this, if he didn't make his point, was it all for nothing? Would it put the lie to his whole reality if he backed down and decided that this wasn't the right thing to do? That this wasn't justice?

Jack hefted the hammer again, and pressed a hand to the window pane.
A short story about fandom, obsession and betrayal

There's a couple of swearies in here but nothing, I don't think, that requires a content filter. Please advise if I've misjudged this.

I wrote two short stories a couple of months ago. Both came pretty much out of the blue and took on their own for - very much my preferred mode of writing. Both I intended to submit to a local writing contest.

I decided that the other one was the better. Hopefully I'll be able to share it with you someday. I dithered about what to do with this one and I'm still not sure: but I thought I'd share it here in case anyone is interested. Warts included.

As with most of what I publish, the story doesn't quite go where I wanted, doesn't quite hit the notes I'm looking for. It was written to a 2,000 limit and I never quite decided where to focus it - so it sort of dithers around. I like the idea of doubling the length and developing the characters more clearly, more pointedly.

You are of course welcome to interpret this as you wish, and I won't say too much here. But I would like to say that this isn't about gamer gate (although related themes do creep in). This to is - or is supposed to be - about fandom. It's also an attempt to expose a little bit of gamer culture to readers.
Well this was a very pleasant surprise - and at a good time, too. Huge thanks to Vigilo for writing up this lovely Writer of the Month feature for :iconthewrittenrevolution:

It's a beautiful piece, I'm really thrilled with it. I honestly can't think of a better feature, plaudit or award I've won on deviantART. I mean not only is it a nice gesture and very complimentary, but I actually think it's a good presentation of my work. It reminds me of the kind of thing we used to try and do at WritersInk, way back in the day.

I tend to feel guilty for getting featured these days. I was very active a few years back, but I don't give much time to the community anymore. Or my writing, really. I've had a little trickle of very generous features over the past year and it's hard to feel like I deserve them: there are other people who deserve the limelight I'm currently getting.

But actually, this time around feels a little different. I'm spinning an awful lot of plates at the moment, and this last week I've felt like most of them are destined to tumble to the floor. 2014 - and, to be fair, half of 2013 - has seen a flood of failed, abandoned or just inadequate projects pass over my desk. Some of the things I'm working on are currently showing a lot of promise - but I've definitely experienced a wave of low faith and lower confidence lately. It's all I can do to just keep chipping away, however slow progress can seem. But, as The Mooney Suzuki once wrote: sometimes something comes for nothing.

My feeling blue is one of many reasons why, inspired by a moment of disillusion and possibly madness this weekend, I wrote this small Depression Simulator game in Twine. It's a bit of a joke, really, and yet it's also completely not. I guess it's just a flippant interpretation of what depression feels like. Maybe a more nuanced approach would be more effective - but I wasn't feeling nuanced at the time. I played with Twine quite a bit at the start of the year: this is the first and only story that I've been ready to publish. And it took all of an hour to write. Amazing really what can come out of the blue.

Anyway, yesterday was a good day. Vigilo's feature was a welcome boost (seriously, go read it and give the group and the post a little love - it takes time to put together a quality feature like that), I won some delicious mince pies, and one of my projects took a big (if risky) step forward. I've been writing a little more lately too, feeling the love of words - although they're personal pieces and I'm not sure any will make it online.

As a result, I am currently feeling grateful for the good things in my life - even if sometimes I forget they're there - and deeply appreciative of the deviantART community.

Big love :love:
Yep, looks like the impossible has happened and Stash has actually gotten worse since I last used it.

Actual journal post incoming (as soon as I figure out how to insert links)...
174 deviations
Xander is better than me at everything. And as I watch my body erupt in a shower of lumpy gore around an exploding rocket, I am never more aware of the fact.

I swear, loudly and angrily, and take a sip of Coke. I hear him laugh from a few seats up: brash, confident, mocking. He knows it, too.

I put the can down and tap impatiently at the mouse, desperately trying to get into battle as quickly as possible. Numbers on-screen tick down in seconds which feel like minutes. I'm losing time and he's getting even further ahead. I click harder, faster, as if to speed up the countdown until my respawn. I swear again, this time I'd-

A whoosh and a zoom and a flood of mind-cleansing adrenaline as my avatar is thrust back into the battle arena. I hit the ground sprinting and gun down Doug before he can claim the Rocket Launcher, grab the weapon for myself, and instantly swerve from side to side to avoid a rush of incoming plasma. I take in the room in less than a heartbeat, skip around the swirling blue balls, and pick my target. I don't even watch as the rockets drive into a wall, taking out Jen with their blast and ticking up my score by another frag. I'm heading straight for the Railgun.

I bring up the score table. He's winning, but only by a single kill.

I'd driven up North to meet Xander and some old mates in Newbury for a weekend gaming event. He'd done this sort of thing more often than me. He was the first person I'd known to actually go to a professional LAN party. We'd all cluster around our screens during half-terms in a crowded living room – normally at Xander's place, of course – mired in cabling and empty cans of pop. Our parents universally hated it, not least because they had to either drive all our computing equipment between the villages of our homes, or they had to sacrifice their beloved kitchens and living rooms for a weekend. But I learned a lot this way; about technology, society, rivalry. This was our punk concert, our Woodstock, our picket line. For my generation of affluent, technology-addicted misfits, who'd never known real strife, these high-tech events formed our social identities. This is what we did.

But this event at Newbury was something else, a step up from our parochial parties into a professional, organised, well, Event. There were over a thousand people taking up the main conference hall in the Racecourse. The huge ten-metre high windows, which normally provided a view of the green grass of the track, were draped in thick black curtains. A dark Cathedral for virtual reality. Illumination came from the blue lights decorating the black cases of our rigs. Glare could get you killed.

“Bastard!” Xander screams. One of my rockets strikes the floor of the Railgun pad a split-second before he runs over it, hurling him down into an infinite abyss. I smile. But I don't have time to smile – we're neck and neck.

He was the best of all of us. Any game we'd play, he'd win basically all of the time. And if he didn't win, he'd be in the top three. Xander was just like that: perfectly capable at everything, devoid of weaknesses. His grades in school were solid. He was an able sportsman. He had interests in things way beyond our ages. He was no genius, no savant, no Adonis. But he was never less than eight-out-of-ten. I was occasionally a seven, at best.

It just went like that, he'd either gotten there first or done it better. I had a deep and powerful respect for Xander, something which went deeper than friendship. But it wasn't always that way.

A rocket explodes over my head, dropping my health down to hazardous levels. I circle-strafe frantically, trying to find where the attack is coming from. Another rocket burst and I'm dead again – and it's Xander charging through the crimson mist that was once my body. He's three kills ahead of me now. The scoreboard moves so quickly.

We became close in the first year of high-school. When I moved away a couple of years later, I lost a lot of friends – including Xander and my then best buddy. Jay was a fellow misfit. Small, bullied, often in trouble, we quickly became close. We bonded over shooting games played over very early networks. My first ever LAN parties were multi-player games of Doom and Duke Nukem played using printer cables. I still remember reading a PC game magazine with him which promised photo-realistic graphics within two years. We both stared out of the window then, dreaming of the possibilities.

When it all fell apart, Xander became a convenient scapegoat and a symbol of the change in my life. Everyone else was being led into the scary worlds of adulthood while I was left behind. So we drifted. But those long years looked a lot shorter now, as my first year of university was drawing to a close. Xander and I had rekindled our friendship. We both found something in each other – a peace, perhaps – that we struggled to find elsewhere. Though we'd not talk much, we would talk well.

“Yes!” he cheers as the match times out. I stare grimly at the scoreboard: he’s won by two kills. I've beaten him in a couple of matches this morning, but he's still 4-3 up for the weekend. I've had three hours sleep in a stuffy tent – and now I'm getting angsty in the disappointment of defeat.

This is Quake. This is my game, and no-one can take that from me. I crunch up my Coke can and avoid Xander's gaze. If I'm ever going to get the better of the bastard, it's here and now. This is my game.

The room filters back into my senses as the disappointment evaporates: people standing, sitting, stretching. Snacks are opened, drinks poured, jokes and war stories exchanged. No-one understands gamer banter like gamers. That’s why it's special – it's almost our own language, based as much on abbreviations and typefaces as phonetics or semantics. I've always known it's childish, homophobic and inane. But it's our code and here, in our Cathedral, we were safe and among kin.

Jen creates a new server and all eight of us jack straight into the game. First to fifty kills: no problem.

The countdown begins as we spawn into the world, joining the game at different times, according to the relative power of our computers. Xander's first in. I pull my headphones up. The world around me fades into a quiet hum as I remind myself of the map's layout.

I didn't really have a best friend, although Xander was ostensibly he. I'd travelled up with Rob, who I basically knew from the internet. And we were fairly close but it was a shallow relationship. Of everyone, I'd been closest to Xander the longest. Perhaps the animosity, the jealousy, made us stronger. I guess past emotion builds up into a strong connection – be it love or hate – and in the quiet moments, when emotions aren’t running high, that connection is there either way. But since a break-up with my girlfriend, in which Xander had been less than helpful – although I think he'd tried, in his way – I was feeling pretty disconnected from society. It had been a rough year.

The battle is frantic, intense. In no time at all Xander has grabbed ten kills, running amok with the Rocket launcher and a damage power-up. But I'm closing in, picking off easy targets, buoyed by the in-game commentator who shouts “Excellent!” and “Impressive” as I rack up some frags of my own. Seconds later I've closed the gap to 12-11 and I know that I can do this. Every time Xander dies, he screams in fury and I suppress a smile. I feel alive.

When I moved away he'd gotten close with my then best friend. I wouldn't say he'd stolen Jay from me, exactly, but it often felt that way. Anytime I spoke with Jay, Xander was never too far from sight or thought. Instead of me helping Jay build his new games machine, it was Xander. I'd called him about it, shortly after moving, sneaking into my Mum's bedroom to get a private five minutes on the phone and re-connect with a world which I felt I'd left behind. Sure enough, as I spoke with Jay, I heard Xander in the background. I said something, and I don't remember what, but it showed me up. Perhaps I mentioned a game which we didn't play anymore, perhaps I offered some bad advice about how to fix a network connectivity problem. But I'll never forget Xander's jeering laughter down the phone, nor the pang of jealously that followed it. I felt like I'd lost a point that day – and unlike games, there wasn’t a reset button. This was for keeps.

We were all growing up fast and when Jay started to explore the world of alcohol, he learned with Xander by his side. All my old mates were there for each other to venture across the horizon of adult entertainment, Xander usually complicit in the exploits I'd hear about. I didn't have the trust in my new school friends to walk those same worlds – yeah, I was scared – and it resulted in a sort of development gap and debt of loneliness which it would take me fully eight years to get over.

The first time I'd gone back to see them, when I'd built up the courage after years of being old news to both of them, I stayed at Jay's house. But the party was in the next town over, and Xander was at the centre of things. Relations were cool, at best, and all they wanted to talk about was girls and drinking. We went to join a LAN party the next day, but it was an experience I barely recognised. Tin cans littered the room, smoke curled around bottles, conversation was abstract and tangential, porn played silently and in repeat on a monitor. The game had changed while I was away, and I felt completely out of place.

I peg Xander again with the Railgun while he's drifting in mid-air. For all his skill, he's not yet learned that jumping creates a predictable target, ripe for a one-shot Railgun kill. It's 31-29 to me. The Railgun is my favourite weapon. It's not everyone's first choice: though it hits the target instantly and does very high damage, it's slow-firing and hard to hit with. If you miss your first shot with a Railgun, you probably won't live long enough for a second. It's a skilful weapon, sharp but misunderstood, requiring patience and practice. It suits my game – which is always on a knife-edge, high-paced and largely improvised, best under pressure. Behind the glass I’m a different person, living a life I’d never dare in the real world.

The experience of that weekend, and the dim memories of streetlights, car parks and smoke which clung to it, were enough to keep me away for a few years. Distant relations were maintained, but it wasn't the same after that. The news I heard from the old town was rarely good – particularly when it concerned Jay, who had entered a sort of free-fall.

Xander had always been a model of discipline: even when he broke the rules, the curfews, even some of the laws – he did so with purpose. To learn, perhaps, or to enhance his reputation. He enjoyed the vices, but was always in control of them. He had an inner strength which enabled him to do that – a strength which put him right at the top of any leaderboard he ever engaged with.

But Jay never had that strength. He instead possessed an unquenchable thirst which nothing could sate. Where Xander dared, experimented and tasted, Jay would binge. The boy who taught me about computers and guitar, two things which would go on to define my whole life, was being destroyed by his own restless appetite. He was a role model to me once – and in a terrible, terrifying sort of way he still is. Jay was a broken human being, and his fall broke my heart.

By the time we get to Newbury, Jay is a distant memory to most. Even me, though I still carry the scars. An embarrassing remnant of the past, a name which isn't mentioned save in reproach. Deep down, rightly or wrongly, I've always sort-of blamed Xander for that. Part of me watched Xander lead Jay into a world which he wasn't equipped for. One emerged from the minefield adorned in war stories and medals, while the other flailed in the dust, unable to escape the barbed wire. Xander walked away from the fire, but Jay never could.

Xander emerges from around a corner, wreathed in the artificial skin of The Sarge which he wears so comfortably. Rocket launcher between his muscular arms, crew-cut silver hair, and a giant cigar clutched in the grip of his square jaw – he charges towards me. And he's good. I skip past his rockets and keep away from the walls which would trap me. He sidesteps one Railgun blast, and another. A rocket clips the floor in front of me and I tumble through the air. Freefall. Hangtime.

And that’s when he makes the mistake. He leaps from a platform, Rocket Launcher primed for the killing blow. But I already know that I’ve won. I plot his trajectory, aim a hair's width ahead of his flight, and pull the trigger while we're both still airborne.

The Sarge explodes, body parts scattering like a grim firework. An announcer screams “Victory!” and the leaderboard appears in front of me before I even hit the floor. It's 50-48 and my name is sitting at the top.

“Unlucky, mate,” I say to my best friend as he leans back in his chair, hands reaching for the skies, torn somewhere between euphoria and utter despair.

The overall score is tied at 4-4. In five minutes time, another game will begin and maybe, just maybe, today will be the day that I come first.
A personal memoir and love-letter to gaming. A nostalgic indulgence, but I hope an enjoyable one.

This, so far as my memory allows, is a true story from my actual life. Names have been tastefully altered. In the unlikely event that anyone involved in these events reads and recognises themselves, I'm sorry. This may or may not be fair, or accurate, or even particularly flattering: but it's my truth.

Writing this piece, in this style, has been on my mind for years. A couple of weeks ago I climbed out of bed at midnight to get some of it down on paper.


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SocietalOutcast Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hello. :handshake:

I've just discovered your Gnome Noir thanks to the feature at DailyBreadCafe, and I have it high on my reading list. I'll be certain to comment as well.

I hope you are having a wonderful day!

Selimeia Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Big thanks for the postcard - I think it's really sweet of you :huggle:
And the mascots are officially amazing.
(1 Reply)
TheMoorMaiden Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave!
Scuter Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the favorite.
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2014   Writer
(1 Reply)
erfdog10 Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
thanks so much for the llama! :)
MethusulaComics Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2014
thanks for the llama :iconbowplz:
MotleyDreams Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Congratulations on your feature as the Daily Lit Deviant! I loved reading your work, I'll definitely have to come back and poke around your gallery when I've got spare time. Cheers! :D
(1 Reply)
DarkAcey Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you very much for adding me to your watch. I'm curious, though. Why?

Also, I plan to read more of your work when I have time. It seems quite thought-provoking. 
(1 Reply)
sanaa-h Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the llama, kind sir :bow:
(1 Reply)
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