THEREXION'S PROFILE

It's been a fairly bumpy road, but I think I'm definitely improving. This is my latest track.



If you like, here are s'more: https://soundcloud.com/literature-corner

Maybe I'll make some half-decent music for you? :3

Or does that anti-climbing paint image never get old? No matter how many times I see it, I just can't help but burst into an uncontrollable laughter that ends in me falling out of my chair.

Of course, that is an exaggeration. But it really is always a highlight of my day, truly. What do you all think of it?

Alright, I've been trying to create an algorithm that'll allow me to input a couple of values to get the map size and image size, and calculate where to properly place an image over a map so that it's always in the correct position. If in the wrong position, of course, it looks bad. Even a pixel off renders a horrible result.

My algorithm creation hasn't gone so well. It works in the one position I have my character set up in, but whenever he starts up or enters the map in a different place, it is completely ruined (wasted a half hour fiddling with this, only to have it fail). I'm not nearly as good at creating algorithms with such limited as I have now, so I require further assistance, as I've reached the limit on what I can do alone.

This is my failure of an algorithm:


Can anyone help a guy out?

This is something me and a friend wrote together.

"1 AM", says the boy in the copper-tone shirt. "Maybe", he mutters under his breath, "Just maybe he's lying." With a glance down the stairs he darts into his room, slamming the door behind him. A crash down the stairs, someone broke in. Is it him? Is he really holding on his promise? "Maybe, just maybe," he repeats, "Maybe it will all go away, maybe it will all stop." Steps can be heard, faint at first but quickly growing in intensity, getting closer and closer.

The steps continue to get close, the boy can feel the walls closing in, his breath is a sharp intake, he feels himself suffocating. His head in a swarm, that little voice in his head crying out. Oh, why wasn't he heard? Why was he so confused? Maybe, oh, maybe. Please make it stop! The door burst open, flinging him across the room. He scrambled to his feet, trying not to trip over stray toys and items. The figure stood at the doorway, holding something in it's hand. The shape was blurry and unnatural, but he could tell what it was; a gun.
The gun seemed to have glared at him, it seemed the world had stopped. It seemed to have two piercing red eyes that glowed, a true resemblance of the devil he thought. It seemed forever since he had seen the figure, the boy had his back against the wall, maybe, oh, maybe.

Maybe he could run, or no, there was nowhere to go. Make it stop. Make it stop! Maybe, oh, maybe. As his mind went into a haze his body took action; he reached for the nearest item that could be used to defend himself, a steel rod. Maybe the figure's gun wasn't loaded, maybe he was bluffing. A bullet whizzed past his head, and he realized this man was not kidding around. The man had an intention to kill, and the target was his own life.

"Feranz," a muffled voice called, "I told you I'd come, but you didn't believe me." Panic fluttered into his chest, encasing his heart in what felt like stone. The boy, Feranz, wanted to speak, but his mouth felt as if it were full of concrete, and his throat felt as if it were dry as the desert itself. "Daddy? Daddy, why have you come for me? Why are you holding a gun to me?" Maybe, oh maybe. The boy felt his breathing rush into a rough fog, as he felt a flood of memories wash over him. He did keep his promise, he did, he did. They said he wouldn't, they lied! They lied! Maybe, oh, maybe. He propped the steel pole up to his chest. If I'm going to die, I'm going to die fighting. I know I don't stand a chance, the first bullet to come at me will end me, but I would have failed even more if I refused to try!

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he took a step forward, the gun slid up once again as he did. Feranz attempted to intake air, but his throat was so incredibly dry he could not. With an angry, somewhat startled yelp, he jumped forward, bringing the pole down in a wide arc. While jumping with the steel pole, Feranz kept his eyes shut tightly, as tight as he possible could. With that he could see darkness and only darkness. For he was too afraid to open his eyes and to see his fears, to see what memories what haunt him. Maybe, oh, maybe. Maybe not, maybe not. No, he was not afraid, he slowly opened his eyes, still in shock of seeing it, seeing it all unravel before his eyes, he still felt himself surge forward, with anger and hatred, the pole grasping tightly in his hands.

With that he landed before the figure, slamming the pole with all his might, knocking the gun from the figure's reach. The man shouted in shock as he attempted to recover the weapon. Feranz, seeing his chance, fled the room and dashed down the stairs, grabbing a flashlight, and running out the door. He didn't stop running as he felt the crunch of the dead grass under his feet, or the thump of the pavement. He had to get away. Maybe he could, maybe the man would not come after him, maybe he got lucky and the man only had that one bullet to begin with. He paused as a memory of the man and his dead sister flooded his mind, but quickly suppressed it and continued running. The air was cold, and Feranz began to feel himself sweat and tire, but alas, that would not stop him. It was one A.M, how could he find help? Where could he hide? How? How? Maybe, oh, maybe. Feranz began to cough as he slowed his pace.

Turning his head, he could not tell where he was, not with the darkness that cloaked. Maybe he could use the darkness to his advantage. He could hear footsteps getting closer, he paused as he slunk behind an over-towering tree, he was advancing on Feranz, Feranz had to hide, and fast, but where? He saw the man, right in front of him, looking around to see where he had gone. Finding nothing he continued jogging in search. Feranz knew something was wrong, but decided he was just being paranoid. Maybe he had a right to be paranoid, though? After all that had happened, maybe it was perfectly justified?

It didn't matter, all he knew is he had to escape. So he stood and ran, ran as fast as he could for as long as he could. He wanted to stop and rest but he knew at any moment that figure could come back upon him, and he didn't want to die, he didn't want to give up his youth so soon. With a thump he tripped, landing on his side. He turned on his back, staring into the sky. Maybe he could stop running, he had gone far enough, right? It began to rain, slowly at first but quickly picking up. Rain, at a time like this? He was scared, cold, tired, and now wet? Could it get any worse? Yes, it could get worse, he thought. It could always get worse. Now his copper-tone shirt was wet, and covered in soaked dirt, mud. It began to downpour, after sweating, it was a relief, at the same time, he felt a mental pain. Scared, no. Afraid, no. Terrified, yes. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, all he worked for, gone, in the blink of a second.

Getting up slowly, Feranz felt himself slug to one side. Letting out a sharp breath, he began to walk quickly, than he felt his pace pick up, and soon it transformed into a full on sprint. Maybe, oh, maybe. This reminded him of how he used to run sometimes in the afternoons, sometimes for joy, other times to clear his mind. Oh, how he wanted to be able to clear his mind now, but it was weighing all too heavily now. He remembered how his mother used to make him sandwiches when he was sad, or tell him stories when he could not sleep. He could vividly remember playing in the garden with his friends.

But all of that was gone and he could never get it back. His mother was dead, his friends moved away, his school was torn down; he was all alone. He stopped and stood in the rain, unable to hold back the tears any longer. Falling on his knees he released a downpour of sadness, regret, and guilt. Maybe he could escape it all? Maybe he could find somewhere he could just let it all go. No, he could never forget. Never. He wiped his eyes and began walking, no longer having the energy to run. "Maybe I should just quit now, there is nothing left for me. Not since he came back." One side told Feranz to quit, however, a little voice inside of his head told him not to. He was never one for revenge, and but he felt everyone owed him. Through his sobs and tears, Feranz couldn't help but feel that nothing and no one was good enough for him, in the end, everything got torn away.

Something stupid, it was always something stupid, turned into a complicated matter. His life was simply ruined. Maybe, oh, maybe. Those lyrics rung in Feranz's mind often, it took him a few months to realize where he had heard it from. As a younger child, his mother would sing it to him, a lullaby, after he would wake from a cruel, grasping nightmare. But alas, this wasn't a nightmare. It was the cruel hand of reality, choking every inch of life out of him. His mother had been the only thing that kept him going when he was younger, now that she was gone, he didn't know why it was he didn't just give up.

He didn't know what kept him going. He didn't even know where he was going. There was nowhere for him, no one to go to, nothing to return for. Life was an empty void, his empty void. He grasped the pole tighter, hoping that someone would just take away the pain of deciding. Hoping that the man would just come and shoot him. But he had no such luck. The night remained quiet and dead as the rain fed the grass and gave the rivers their life. The water soaked his face, Feranz must've fallen asleep, because when he looked up at the sky again, it was the breakpoint of dawn. Shuffling quickly to his feet, he turned in all possible directions to see if anyone was nearby. He found no one. No such luck, why couldn't the man have found him? Drained the life from his hate filled body?

Feranz picked up the steel pole that was lying in between the clumps of dead grass, it was just as wet as his shirt was, the cold metal felt relieving against his palms in which he just realized he was sweating, his knuckles were pale. He noticed how he was holding onto the pole. He held onto it as if it were a person, or the edge of a cliff. His last chance. Salvation. Maybe, oh, maybe. Feranz looked around, the rain had let down over night, streams flooded the grass, and mud was at an all time high. Treading carefully, the soul less traveler with no purpose stepped with caution, going in any direction he pleased. Maybe, oh, maybe. He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid air. A wonderful scent, he thought. One of the few things that he could even remotely enjoy was this amazing smell. And to look at the sky made him feel happy.

He began moving again, even though his energy had not returned to him. He had not eaten in a few days, not drunk anything since yesterday. He felt drained, he wanted to just go back and lie down and never get up. Maybe he should? Maybe he should just give up? Maybe, oh, maybe. Maybe not. Maybe so. It was a constant sense of bickering in his mind. Maybe Feranz wanted to roll over and drop dead, or maybe he wanted to keep going, even if for a sense of mere curiosity. Of course, the idea of not having anywhere to go, no one to turn to, it frightened him. Truly, Feranz was the only one left in his family. Discluding, him. Discluding the gunslinger he felt a particular feeling of hatred for. Who was he to Feranz?

He didn't fit the description of a father, not in the least. The rain started to become heavy again, Feranz was too busy debating to notice. He hadn't realized where he was going. Now, he wasn't only mentally lost. He was also lost in the physical world. Maybe, oh, maybe. The boundless traveler, maybe he had no boundaries, maybe he did. So many decisions for Feranz, so many choices, the boy hadn't stopped for a second. He was lost indeed, but he didn't care.