qwauter's art Reviews on Newgrounds

[Homer kills bart with his deadly burp]

We oughta do a collab

GodofLumbago responds:

Okay man im not opposed to the idea what do you have in mind?

[Nomadic Do-Good'er]

Reminds me of the porno my dad starred in called “dirty nagger”

[death of the twink]

I’m offended🤬

EPICX812 responds:

so...you ARE gay?

[MR Qwauter]

That’s me (I think) though I have a story to tell, this is a story I call “Qwauter the Quarter”
In the bustling city of Mintropolis, amidst the clinking of coins and the rustle of bills, I came into existence. I am Qwauter, a quarter minted in the year 2000, and this is my story. My journey has been long and winding, filled with adventures, misadventures, and a profound understanding of my purpose in the world.

It all began in a colossal machine, where I was struck into shape with precision and care. My edges were smooth, my surface gleamed with the proud visage of George Washington, and I felt an electric thrill as I was tumbled into a bin with countless other quarters. We were all fresh and new, eager to make our way into the world.

My first destination was a bank, where I was rolled up with my fellow quarters and sealed into a paper tube. It was dark and cramped, but the sense of anticipation was palpable. We whispered among ourselves, dreaming of the places we would see and the hands we would pass through. Our dreams were interrupted by a sudden jolt as we were loaded onto a truck and transported to a local branch.

The bank was a flurry of activity. Customers lined up, tellers chatted and counted money, and I could hear the constant hum of machinery in the background. I didn't stay long in the bank's vault; soon enough, I was exchanged into the hands of a young woman who needed change for a dollar. She dropped me into her purse, and I felt the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional jostling as she moved about her day.

My first real adventure began when the woman used me to pay for a coffee at a bustling café. The barista handed me back as change to a middle-aged man who pocketed me with a handful of other coins. He had a busy day ahead of him, and I could sense his urgency as he hurried to his office. For a while, I rested in the darkness of his pocket, warmed by his body heat and comforted by the rhythmic thump of his footsteps.

The man's office was a stark contrast to the cozy café. It was a sterile environment, filled with the clicking of keyboards and the low murmur of conversations. During a meeting, he absentmindedly played with me, rolling me between his fingers and occasionally flicking me in the air. I felt a sense of pride knowing I was a part of his day, even in such a small way.

Eventually, the man handed me over as part of a tip at a local diner. The waitress who received me was a young woman working hard to make ends meet. She pocketed me with a tired but genuine smile, and I felt a deep connection to her struggles and triumphs. That evening, she placed me in a jar with other tips, where I stayed for a few days, listening to the stories of the other coins and the occasional clink of new additions.

One night, the waitress decided to take her accumulated tips to the grocery store. She counted out the coins carefully, including me, and handed them to the cashier. The cashier, a cheerful teenager, rang up her items and placed me in the till. From there, I was handed out as change to a variety of customers: a young couple buying groceries for their first apartment, an elderly man purchasing a newspaper, and a child excitedly grabbing a candy bar.

The child's excitement was infectious. He clutched me tightly in his small hand as he skipped down the street, his laughter ringing in the air. He brought me home and showed me to his parents, who smiled at his enthusiasm. For a while, I was part of his collection of special items, kept in a small box under his bed alongside other treasures like marbles, toy cars, and colorful rocks.

As time passed, the child grew older and lost interest in his box of treasures. One day, he decided to use me to buy an ice cream from the neighborhood ice cream truck. The ice cream man, a jovial fellow with a handlebar mustache, placed me in his apron pocket, where I mingled with other coins and listened to the cheerful tunes that played from the truck.

My journey continued, and I passed through countless hands, each with their own story. I traveled across the country, from the bustling streets of New York City to the sunny beaches of California, and even to small, quiet towns in between. I was used to pay for everything from groceries and gas to bus fares and tips. Each exchange was a brief but meaningful connection, a moment in someone's life that I was a part of.

One of the most memorable stops on my journey was when I ended up in the hands of a young artist. She found me on the sidewalk and picked me up, examining my details with a curious eye. She took me home and placed me in a small frame, surrounded by other found objects that she used in her art. I became part of a beautiful mosaic, a testament to the artist's creativity and vision.

For a time, I stayed in that frame, a silent observer of the artist's life. I watched as she worked late into the night, pouring her heart into her creations. I saw her struggles and triumphs, the joy in her eyes when she completed a piece, and the frustration when things didn't go as planned. Through it all, I felt a deep sense of purpose, knowing I was part of something beautiful and meaningful.

Eventually, the artist decided to sell the mosaic at a local craft fair. A young couple bought it, charmed by its uniqueness and the story behind each piece. They took it home and hung it on the wall of their living room, where I became a silent witness to their lives. I watched as they built a home together, celebrated milestones, and shared moments of love and laughter.

Years passed, and the couple moved to a new house. During the move, the mosaic was accidentally damaged, and I was dislodged from the frame. The couple, not wanting to lose the memories associated with the piece, decided to keep me as a token of their early years together. They placed me in a small keepsake box, alongside other mementos from their journey.

In that box, I found companionship with other cherished items: a seashell from their honeymoon, a pressed flower from their wedding day, and a small, handwritten note from the early days of their relationship. I listened to the stories these items had to share, each one a testament to the love and life the couple had built together.

As time went on, the couple had children, and I became part of their family lore. The children loved to hear the story of the quarter that traveled far and wide, ending up in their parents' keepsake box. They would take me out occasionally, holding me in their small hands and marveling at the adventures I must have had.

One day, the family decided to pass me on to their eldest child, who was now old enough to appreciate the sentimental value I held. The child, now a teenager, placed me in their own collection of special items, continuing the tradition of cherishing the small but significant objects that marked their family's history.

As I lay in that new box, I reflected on the journey I had taken. From my beginnings in the Mintropolis, through the countless hands and places I had visited, to the family that now cherished me, I realized that my purpose was more than just being a coin. I was a storyteller, a witness to the lives and moments that made up the tapestry of human experience.

Through it all, I had learned that every coin, every object, has its own story, its own journey. We are all part of something greater, connected by the moments we share and the people we touch. And as I lay in that box, surrounded by the mementos of a family's life, I knew that my story was far from over. There were still more hands to touch, more places to see, and more stories to be a part of.

In the years that followed, I continued to be passed down through the generations, each new owner adding their own chapter to my story. I was carried in pockets, kept in special boxes, and even displayed in a small frame once more. I traveled to new cities and towns, each with its own unique charm and character. Through it all, I remained a silent witness to the lives and experiences of the people who held me.

One particularly memorable moment came when I found myself in the hands of a young woman who had just graduated from college. She was about to embark on a journey of her own, moving to a new city to start her career. She found me in an old keepsake box that had belonged to her grandparents and decided to take me with her as a token of their love and support.

As she navigated the challenges and triumphs of her new life, I was there with her, a small but constant reminder of her family's legacy. I saw her work hard to build her career, form new friendships, and create a life for herself in the bustling city. Through the highs and lows, I felt a deep sense of pride, knowing I was a part of her journey.

Years passed, and the young woman grew older, eventually starting a family of her own. I became a cherished heirloom, passed down to her children with the story of my journey and the legacy of the family I had been a part of. Each new generation added their own experiences to my story, creating a rich tapestry of memories and moments.

As I look back on my long and winding journey, I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude. I have been a part of countless lives, witnessed the ebb and flow of human experience, and played a small but meaningful role in the stories of the people who have held me. My purpose has been more than just being a quarter; I have been a storyteller, a witness, and a cherished token of love and connection.

And so, as I lay in the keepsake box of yet another generation, I know that my story is far from over.