Is it like, one short story, or a collection of them, involving the same thing, because I would certainly read that 
(Though, can you do me a huge favor, Tails? Can you edit your post, submit it, click the button that lets you view your post, and copy the URL at the top of the page? I want to put that up on the author submission list )@Cyrelijean: That just gave me the most awesome idea for a story, actually, like, a young Magi finds and old Magic journal, and starts reading about the adventures of the previous owner?
Can I get a little critiquing on this pert of my new story? I'm worried that it's a little strange. Warning, there are a few swear words
Spoiler
“Never trust anyone who says they eat Rice Krispies for the flavor.”
Sprawled across the couch as I was, it was difficult for me to lift my head, and give him the full brunt of my incredulity.
“The fuck are you talking about, Craft?” The strain was too much for my neck. It was my day off, and I wasn’t keen on doing much more than enjoying the lovely company of my twisted friend’s demon couch. (“Demon Couch” /dēmən kouCH/ noun; A piece of furniture, in which, if one sits or lays upon it, their energy is mysteriously drained, and replaced with an urgent longing to sleep. Usually exceptionally comfortable.)
“Rice Krispies. I would have thought that much was obvious.” i searched his tone for a hint of sarcasm. No. he was sincere. “Think about it, have you ever eaten a bowl of Rice Krispies?”
“Yeah, when I was younger. I don’t eat breakfast anymore, you know that.” By now, I was more than used to his strange topics.
“That’s not good for you. Anyway, it was like a big spoonful of disappointments. You eat Rice Krispie Treats, and they’re delicious, but the cereal? It’s so bland. I always hated it when people came around with boxes of it.”
“Well, they feed you, and that’s more than I can say about you.” I commented dryly. He’d missed the sarcasm.
“Yeah, well, I bet even dollar store Coco Pebbles cost less than Rice Krispies.” I rolled my eyes, though my body was keen to follow the motion. I rolled over onto my side, wrapping myself in the Krypto the Superdog blanket he kept on his couch.
He responded with a vague noise, peering down at something beneath his magnifying glass. He had one of those soldering guns that came with the magnifying glass attachment, though he rarely used it for its’ intended purpose. He was always making some weird sculpture, or mechanical device.
When I thought about it, Craft was a lucky individual. He’d found an old, out of the way house, that never quite sold. He became a squatter, and somehow, managed to avoid the detection of city officials. Through a really lucky happenstance, some group of kids felt his backyard was the best spot for Pokemon battles on their handhelds.
Craft watched sometimes, not in the Creepy-Pedophiliac way, but in the really sad, lonely sort of way. He didn’t have a lot of friends. Or, really, any. Well, one kids broke his DS, and Craft just happened to be a super genius when it comes to fixing things. He took the little kid inside, replaced the screen, and sent him on his merry way.
Word somehow spread, and Craft found himself with a very fluffy assortment of muffins, from a very pleased mother, who was glad somebody had fixed her son’s DS for free. Not long after, children from all parts of the neighborhood came to him with broken electronics. He was always able to fix them, because Craft was an insufferable hoarder. He always had what he needed.
Even adults came to him, from everything to replacing a laptop screen, to wiping a hard drive. He did it all for free. He enjoyed doing it, even. So, stern-faced, pouty mothers always sent their husbands or children to Craft’s home, upon hearing his situation, with various forms of sustenance.
Though, at that point, his name wasn’t Craft. Nobody honestly knew his name. I’m pretty sure one kid just got up, was like: “Yo, Mom, my gameboy or something is fucked up. I’m goin’ to Craft’s house.”
And his mother would respond: “Don’t you use that language around me young man. I don’t know who this Craft boy is. Is he teaching you this?”
And he would respond: “You assumed it was a guy. Yo, Ma, that’s sexist.” Because he is a conscious young man, who believes the patriarchy needs to be taken out back and beat, and then he’d say: “Craft’s that nice bruh who’s always fixing everybody’s shitty electronics, because apparently we get bottom of the barrel shit here.”
And his mother will snap: “I told you not to use that sort of language mister. You’re not going anywhere for your cheek. Go to your room.”
And then his mother will call her girlfriends on the phone, and she’ll say: “Do you know the things my son has been learning from that Craft fellow?”
And the whole conversation will basically repeat itself, until everybody knows him as Craft. It’s now just something he sort of responds to. I watched him for a few minutes more, quickly growing bored with this line of exploration.
Sprawled across the couch as I was, it was difficult for me to lift my head, and give him the full brunt of my incredulity.
“The fuck are you talking about, Craft?” The strain was too much for my neck. It was my day off, and I wasn’t keen on doing much more than enjoying the lovely company of my twisted friend’s demon couch. (“Demon Couch” /dēmən kouCH/ noun; A piece of furniture, in which, if one sits or lays upon it, their energy is mysteriously drained, and replaced with an urgent longing to sleep. Usually exceptionally comfortable.)
“Rice Krispies. I would have thought that much was obvious.” i searched his tone for a hint of sarcasm. No. he was sincere. “Think about it, have you ever eaten a bowl of Rice Krispies?”
“Yeah, when I was younger. I don’t eat breakfast anymore, you know that.” By now, I was more than used to his strange topics.
“That’s not good for you. Anyway, it was like a big spoonful of disappointments. You eat Rice Krispie Treats, and they’re delicious, but the cereal? It’s so bland. I always hated it when people came around with boxes of it.”
“Well, they feed you, and that’s more than I can say about you.” I commented dryly. He’d missed the sarcasm.
“Yeah, well, I bet even dollar store Coco Pebbles cost less than Rice Krispies.” I rolled my eyes, though my body was keen to follow the motion. I rolled over onto my side, wrapping myself in the Krypto the Superdog blanket he kept on his couch.
He responded with a vague noise, peering down at something beneath his magnifying glass. He had one of those soldering guns that came with the magnifying glass attachment, though he rarely used it for its’ intended purpose. He was always making some weird sculpture, or mechanical device.
When I thought about it, Craft was a lucky individual. He’d found an old, out of the way house, that never quite sold. He became a squatter, and somehow, managed to avoid the detection of city officials. Through a really lucky happenstance, some group of kids felt his backyard was the best spot for Pokemon battles on their handhelds.
Craft watched sometimes, not in the Creepy-Pedophiliac way, but in the really sad, lonely sort of way. He didn’t have a lot of friends. Or, really, any. Well, one kids broke his DS, and Craft just happened to be a super genius when it comes to fixing things. He took the little kid inside, replaced the screen, and sent him on his merry way.
Word somehow spread, and Craft found himself with a very fluffy assortment of muffins, from a very pleased mother, who was glad somebody had fixed her son’s DS for free. Not long after, children from all parts of the neighborhood came to him with broken electronics. He was always able to fix them, because Craft was an insufferable hoarder. He always had what he needed.
Even adults came to him, from everything to replacing a laptop screen, to wiping a hard drive. He did it all for free. He enjoyed doing it, even. So, stern-faced, pouty mothers always sent their husbands or children to Craft’s home, upon hearing his situation, with various forms of sustenance.
Though, at that point, his name wasn’t Craft. Nobody honestly knew his name. I’m pretty sure one kid just got up, was like: “Yo, Mom, my gameboy or something is fucked up. I’m goin’ to Craft’s house.”
And his mother would respond: “Don’t you use that language around me young man. I don’t know who this Craft boy is. Is he teaching you this?”
And he would respond: “You assumed it was a guy. Yo, Ma, that’s sexist.” Because he is a conscious young man, who believes the patriarchy needs to be taken out back and beat, and then he’d say: “Craft’s that nice bruh who’s always fixing everybody’s shitty electronics, because apparently we get bottom of the barrel shit here.”
And his mother will snap: “I told you not to use that sort of language mister. You’re not going anywhere for your cheek. Go to your room.”
And then his mother will call her girlfriends on the phone, and she’ll say: “Do you know the things my son has been learning from that Craft fellow?”
And the whole conversation will basically repeat itself, until everybody knows him as Craft. It’s now just something he sort of responds to. I watched him for a few minutes more, quickly growing bored with this line of exploration.
I'd somehow kept doubting my ability to actually write. I was somehow planning to do a longer story focusing on the different creatures in the Keep, that being the first chapter, but I had no idea how a pandorum would best catch a flying snake. 
By poking it with a stick?
yeah