The Newgrounds Writing Anthology: Poetry and Stories

By E.K. Smith

Newgrounds is the greatest catalyst for all forms of creativity on the internet. Since before the dawn of Youtube, Amazon, Steam, and Netflix, Newgrounds.com has been the domain of a large, yet tightly-knit community of animators, musicians, writers, and artists. The apotheosis of many of today's entertainers in the digital sphere are much indebted to Newgrounds; These are names such as Egoraptor and TheWeebl, though in truth, there is no list that does justice to describe the truly legion talent that has called, and in many cases continues to call Newgrounds home.

In 2012, members of the Newgrounds Writing community released what became Newgrounds' first print work of fiction to great acclaim. Now in digital form, the Newgrounds Writing Anthology has its sights set on the rest of the reading public. There's comedy, there's science fiction, there's meta-fiction, there's more... The Newgrounds Writing Anthology is a collection of short stories and poetry so diverse in genre and subject, description is rendered ineffable. Not for the faint of heart reader, The Newgrounds Writing Anthology features the work of seventeen authors from around the world, bound together by nothing more (and nothing less) than the desire to be a part of something good and creative, something in keeping with the Newgrounds call to arms: Everything, by Everyone.

Read for yourself.

With dazzling cover art by Jesse "Jouste" Turner

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.K. Smith
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310339462

E.K. Smith

Benjamin A. Smith is a writer from Chicago, IL. He is currently working on his debut novel "The Drunk Boys" via the Storytelling Platform "Storyshift", available on Newgrounds.com or on any mobile app store.

Book preview

The Newgrounds Writing

Anthology

Poetry and Stories

Edited by

E.K. Smith

Editor-in-Chief: E.K. Smith

Assistant Editors: Adam Cook, Luis Rodriguez, and Kristen Salustro

Concept: Brian Kirklin

This book shall be considered the first published appearances of all stories and poetry contained within. An individual work shall be imbued with an identical license to that which covers the compilation as a whole.

Rights pertaining to individual works are reserved to the discretion of its author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher with subject line Newgrounds Writing Anthology at the address below.

Benjamin A. Smith

[e-mail]

The Newgrounds Writing Anthology: Poetry and Stories 3rd Ed. Copyright © 2016 by E.K. Smith.

First published in 2012.

Nocturne. Copyright © 2012 by S.T. Cartledge. The Gliese Club. Copyright © 2012 by Adam Cook. how great thou art. Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Dennis. Mumbled Prayers. Copyright © 2012 by Mark Fletcher. Cherry Blossom Tears. Copyright © 2012 by Jody Frye. In the Twilight. Copyright © 2012 by Jody Frye. Our souls are weary Pilgrims. Copyright © 2012 by Jody Frye. Kevin Fried Fish. Copyright © 2012 by Robert Kelland. Falling. Copyright © 2012 By Jennifer Kim. Island in the Sky. Copyright © 2012 by Eric Liszewski. Daydream. Copyright © 2012 by James Mayfield. Temptation. Copyright © 2012 by James Mayfield. Below the Wicker Basket. Copyright © 2012 by Travis McDougall. Westerns, Dismemberments, and Celebration Boxes. Copyright © 2012 by Eoin Moore. Gunmetal Glint. Copyright © 2012 by Kristen Salustro. Tampered Chromatics. Copyright © 2012 by Carl Schaefer. Coats and Shoes. 23 Times. Copyright © 2012 by Michael Schemitsch. Copyright © 2012 by Charles Schoeman. Pearly Whites. Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin A. Smith.

To order this book in print, please message EKublai via Newgrounds.

Cover Art by Jesse Jouste Turner

This book is dedicated

to

Our Friends, Our Family

to

Our Newgrounds, Our Calling

to

Brian Thomas Bohnett, Adam Cook

to

Toli G., Logan James, and Omar Shehata

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Poems by Author

Sharu

Cherry Blossom Tears

In the Twilight

Our souls are weary Pilgrims

The FarSeer

Daydream

Temptation

DeftandEvil

Virtue of Space

WritersBlock

My Life is a Beach

Short Fiction by Title

Nocturne by WritersBlock

Gunmetal Glint by krissalus

Westerns, Dismemberments, and Celebration Boxes by eoincamoore

how great thou art by Andyopus

23 Times by RIGg0rMORtis

Mumbled Prayers by Crabcruncher81

Island in the Sky by TheThing

The Gliese Club by AdamCook

Pearly Whites by EKublai

Kevin Fried Fish by Sentio

Below the Wicker Basket by godhammer

Coats and Shoes by Enamour

Falling by Ice-Crane

Tampered Chromatics by Letovox

About the Authors

Acknowledgements

This book was made possible through the generous help and resources of many. The editors and authors of The Newgrounds Writing Anthology want to send very special thanks to the following: Benjamin Abravanel, Matthew Deathink Barto, Caleb Behnke, Stjepan Bulmer, Will Coop Cooper, Kelly D., Uncle Frampton, Rollie Frye, Brian Hall, JoeCarpenter, Johnny29, Stephen Keane, Rob Kelland, Jacob Moosecake Kernohan, Kiigen, Brian Kirklin, LegolaSS, Brian Cookies Malumphy, Mindchamber, Andy Bahamut Murray, Tyler Myers, Piotrek Koolas Archewally Olszewski, PIED3, RedHarvest, ReNaeNae, Michael del Rio, Randy Mirokunite Snow, Timmy, Dleko Urial, and Jeff SnowyThing Weiss.

Foreword

NEWGROUNDS is the domain of the creative, always has been. And the growth of Newgrounds over the years, which has included the introduction of the flash portal, the audio portal, the art portal, and now the writing forum, cannot be measured by means other than by considering the converging point of all creative pursuits on the internet: animation. It has been through Newgrounds' breaking down of animation into its component parts that has revealed creators and audiences all over the world. Today, Newgrounds does not only celebrate its animators, but also its musicians and its artists. With The Newgrounds Writing Anthology, it is my hope and the hope of the other authors involved in this publication for yet another sect of the Newgrounds community to be highlighted and to get their mojo, their portal, and for the creative process at Newgrounds to come full circle. It is the unpretentious creative genius of Newgrounds that stands out for me and is why I'll always have a smile on my face after hearing a good old-fashioned Newgrounds cock joke…Well…Let's be honest here, I'd smile even if there was no joke.

Ah the joys of creation. So sad to see it go, for you see, though the majority of what is written in The Newgrounds Writing Anthology tells tales of impassioned inventors, well-intentioned well-wishers, and everyday do-gooders, it is to the chagrin of all those involved to live in universes whole-heartedly against them. You'll be reading poems of time-weary melancholy by Sharu, before diving into the unraveling embraces of Gunmetal Glint and Nocturne. With the former, KrisSalus creates a fascinating sky-bound world only to disavow it, only to have her protagonists flee this future in World War II-era fighter jets. With Nocturne, WritersBlock infuses an anxious post-coital tristesse into the metafiction. WritersBlock also uses bleakness and boredom as character-shaping devices in his poem, 'My Life is a Beach'. Immediately following that poem is my own story, Pearly Whites, in which a sleepy town in Oregon is turned upside-down by a Sweeney Todd-like demon dentist, determined to make a better life for her son no matter the cost. Of course, I am perhaps making that story out be heavier than it really is. In fact, many of the stories in this anthology are designed simply to make you laugh and enjoy the idiosyncrasies of each author's writing style. AdamCook's space-comedy, The Gliese Club, is written like a Douglas Adams fever dream, and AndyOpus' How great thou art can really only be described by quoting its opening line: Something very strange happened to me. Bloody brilliant.

And while some stories just want to touch you in that special way through having more charm and wit than a flash with penicorn getting pokey with Bitey of Brackenwood, others use that charm to disarm (rhymey!). sI'm talking twists and turns, my friends. Care for something unexpected in your story? Look no further than Sentio's nature mockumentary Kevin Fried Fish, or Enamour's deceptively plain-spoken ode to Russian folktales, Coats and Shoes.

But as you've already been well-warned of, dear reader, life is not all fun and games. It is by the hands of writers such as RIGg0rMORtis and Crabcruncher81 that the fact shall be delivered to you. RIGg0rMORtis' 23 Times puts you in the shoes of the protagonist in an dizzying experience only comparable to the awkward moment of realizing that you are drunk and have been lying face-down on the floor for the past twenty minutes. At the same time, Crabcruncher81's Mumbled Prayers will have you checking on your sleeping loved ones just to make sure they're still there. Why would they have left? For, oh, for various reasons. And if you're still in the mood for some psychological doomsaying, then have a go at Ice-Crane's Falling, a no-nonsense vignette that condemns the perusers of the lackadaisical lifestyle by adding an inexplicable complication to the life of her protagonist.

Now, there are quite a few pieces in this collection that are science-fiction, but it is a real credit to the imaginations of these authors that no two selections in The Newgrounds Writing Anthology seem to piggyback on each other's premises, or even assumptions of how the universe works. In 'The Virtue of Space', DeftandEvil shows you just how close to home the outer heavens are and is written so as to make you dig to become fully aware of that fact. Then Letovox brings us back to Earth for a thriller set in the fictional town of Brentin; Tampered Chromatics is a nail-biter, not just for the cringe-worthy violence against both man and machine, but also for the organic eeriness Letovox conveys through the setting of the overgrown estate of renowned inventor, Dr. Liris. It is a world deftly explained in concrete terms. By contrast, TheThing's Island in the Sky is hauntingly nebulous, narrated in a surreal deadpan that presumes unheard of applications of the laws of physics. The tragedy that takes place in the story is only matched by the tragedy of the common man in failing to understand the instructions left to us by those who came before.

And lastly, I cannot stress the nutritional value of godhammer's Below the Wicker Basket enough. It is just funny. You will laugh until you realize there are probably some young couples (okay maybe one couple) out there who go through the same shit that the couple in this story goes through. And then you will laugh some more.

So, that is pretty much what we have to offer you guys. While I still have the floor, I wanted to thank Tom Fulp and the rest of Newgrounds HQ for making this venture possible, as well as my co-editors AdamCook and DeftandEvil and KrisSalus. Next, an extra special expression of my gratitude must be given to Brian Thomas Bohnett, whose generosity greatly enhanced the success of the Anthology's fundraising campaign on Kickstarter. Finally, gumOnShoe was the one inspired to start this project over two years ago, so we would not be anywhere today if not for him. Enjoy the stories, everyone!

~ EKublai

Cherry Blossom Tears

by Jody Frye (Sharu)

I sit inside, warm, and watch the cherry blossom tree

Wave in the rain that sweeps across the glass.

Pink buds swaying, drooping and dropping, soaked to the core.

Clouded tears falling harshly against hardened skin.

Full bloom, heavy, tormenting as the rising storm

Tears off the petals, the visible vitality,

While I sit inside, warm, and watch it fall apart.

Nocturne

by S. T. Cartledge (WritersBlock)

TWO IN THE morning trying to get to sleep, trying to think sleep but the thought plagues my mind and I can't. I close my eyes and try to think sleep, but thought and sleep just aren't the same. And in an instant my mind begins to wander, wide jaws snap snap snap and hot blood pours down my arm, jaws open wider and this snake is killing me in my sleep. My rational fear is my psychosis, mutated and curled and opening wide with teeth large and gnashing and piercing. Its mouth is a tall, narrow tunnel through which trains pass. So deep and dark and infinite. It engulfs my arm up to the elbow and bites down and again and again, collapsing with all its weight. When it lets go, my arm is a bloody mess ripped with countless holes, each of which bears the snake's signature.

I want to wake up. With my arm going dead and the snake slinking beneath the sheets to wait for me to die, I just want to wake up. It feels like so long lying there, feels so pale and sweating for so long, and I can see myself across the room in my bed gasping all the while the snake's tail hangs off the end of the bed and sways. Just sways. And when I do wake up I'm trapped in my head, as I turn to Penny beside me who is breathing gently, her belly rising and falling like a spring wind, and she hasn't noticed a thing. I wonder if she's having the same dream as me. It doesn't look like it.

I get up to pour myself a glass of water, and the next thing I know is I'm dressed and driving down the coast and the illuminated clock beneath the speedometer reads a little after four. I remember I wanted to get out of the house, but I can't recall any of that. The last hour or more was autopilot. It's a relief I'm still on the road. The wind pushes the car side to side and moans like a four-year-old ghoul throwing a tantrum. I know I was going somewhere, but the place escapes me. Up around the cliffs there is nothing but precipice and waves and sharp rocks at the bottom, waiting to rip bodies and wash their blood marbled on the beach.

Four thirty on a dirt road on the coast and I can't recall how long ago I left the asphalt behind. I don't even know what road I'm on. Where it's going, beats me. A light up ahead might suggest something other than a road. A building. A sign. It reads 'Nocturne' in soft blue neon. A place I never knew existed. A place that shouldn't exist. But there it was, all the same.

* * *

Well hi there, a warm voice says when I walk into the building.

Penny? I ask.

No, she says, my name's not Penny. She sits at the bar. She looks like Penny in the same way that she doesn't. So, do you like my daddy's blues club?

Sure, I say, how long has it been here?

Oh, you know... She shrugs. I'll just get daddy for you.

She leaves the room and for a moment there is nothing but silence. Even the crashing waves against the cliff don't sing here. Even the wind makes not a whistle, not a peep.

What will sir be drinking this evening? an abrasive voice croaks across the room.

The man limps over on an ivory cane and slides behind the bar, his hair is a wave of chaotic white ocean foam.

What do you recommend? I say.

I walk across to the jukebox in the corner of the room. It is framed in brass trimming, and lights up in blue and purple neon. The songs are mostly obscure blues and jazz songs, with a number of contemporary orchestral pieces in the mix. I put in a dollar and select Philip Glass, 'the Hours.'

It's broken, the old man says, with two cranberry sodas waiting at the bar. Hasn't worked for years.

It looks brand new, I say.

* * *

— and as the sun came up and glittered golden flakes in the water I saw the man out on the rocks lying there battered...

Does it normally do this? I ask.

It doesn't normally do anything, the man at the bar says, it hasn't made a sound in years.

...I walked across the beach, and the sand felt like Styrofoam beneath my feet, and —

— severe wind warning going out to everyone on the coast in the south-east region around Esperance, with —

— and white that the blood washing ashore sat on top of the sand in streaks and whirls, abstract beach paintings, marbled and fizzing, that would be impossible to —

— seen photographs and videos and read all about this place in Turkmenistan which has been labeled 'Hell's Gate'. Standing there, right on the edge of this burning hole, seventy metres —

— around the rock pools swimming with crabs and coral and anemone until I reached the —

— ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, was that the wind? Was that the wind ringing the little bell? No. It couldn't have been. There is no wind. Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling. There it is again. The charming —

— strong winds and heavy downpours. It is advised that you check that all windows and doors are secured shut and all pets are —

— there with Penny, the heat was intense, right in that pocket, despite the bitter cold elsewhere throughout the country. The 'gate' certainly felt warm and enticing. On our—

— his hands around your neck, squeezing down on your windpipe, his knees pinning your arms against the rocks. Blood dripped from his empty eye sockets, and his chest was torn and bruised and crushed and while you tried to call —

— bell calling from across the cemetery. The bells of the deceased sat still and silent, all but one across the cemetery, a gentle —

— spoken to people who were born after the fire started, after the gate opened, and had never known the gate not to exist. We had spoken to people who said that strange things would be happening in Turkmenistan soon. Storm clouds swept over —

— raised the gun and aimed it at her, his limbs felt like sloppy tentacles, hard to stand and hard to aim, but his hand was suckered around the gun and he wiped his other tentacle —

— pressure on your windpipe, and he says nothing and he breathes through his nose, deep breaths that are so loud and all you wanted to do was help. And you swing your legs around, trying to get loose enough to —

— ring-a-ling of a little brass bell with a string running down, tied to the little cold wrist of someone who must be tugging on the string from beneath —

— the bartender handed you your drink and leaned on the bar and said, you know, this place never existed before tonight, and now it does and while you ponder what he said, you find yourself —

* * *

Attention readers, a dry voice says, from somewhere deep within the jukebox, I am the author of this piece of fiction. It's much clearer than the voices that previously crackled from the speakers. 'The Hours' begins to play beneath the author.

I'm sorry to interrupt your reading, and I'm sure some of you will hate me for this, and I hope in time you will come to forgive me, but I felt an urgent need to get a few things off my chest. For starters, I'm a liar. It's a part of my profession. As you have no doubt guessed, there is no blues club named 'Nocturne' on the Esperance coastline. There is no battered corpse on the rocks there. I have not actually been to Turkmenistan, nor seen Hell's Gate with my own eyes. You are clever for believing none of it. I did, however, have the dream about the snake attack. I used to worry, as a little child, that I would be attacked by a snake in my bed in the middle of the night. But the problem I find now is that I don't think you trust me anymore. And that hurts me greatly. How can an author write, if no one will believe in the words he writes? So it is from this sentiment I bare my soul to you, I have written lies I cannot erase. But if I confess, may I start over? May we turn the page and start again as friends? What do you say? The Hours rises and swells, crashing down like the ocean on the beach in the night. I trust you can accept my offer, and as such, I write the rest of this story as a token of our new found friendship.

What was that? I ask.

What was what? the bartender asks.

That thing from the jukebox, I say.

Music?

No, the talking...

I don't know what you're on about.

The broken jukebox there, it was talking about a... a... a beach, a man being attacked, a weather warning... a storm, hell's gate... a tiny bell... and a bartender said something about this place never existing.

Listen. The bartender sips his drink and kneads his forehead with his large-knuckled hands. The jukebox is perfectly fine. That song that's playing now, that Philip Glass song that's playing. That's what you put on just now. Listen.

* * *

— the clouds so black and angry split the sky in two and rained down into the hole, and for the —

— ripping waves sprayed red like the ocean was cranberry soda, white foam fizzed and filled the air with carbon dioxide and salt water. The hands around me —

— nothing. The light had gone out. And Penny and I walked closer to the edge, but everything was dark. And the earth was slippery. And we couldn't see the edge and we —

— shoot her and she slides to the floor, her eyes are big glossy green marbles, her eyelashes reaching out for —

— ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling. Don't want to read the tombstone, just in case it's someone you know. Is it someone you know down there with the string tied to their wrist? Tugging on that little bell like in a hospital, ringing for assistance, but with six feet of —

— down, down, down, into hell where the fires have at last been extinguished, sliding down the ash into the treacherous mouth, me and