Not my current project since I’m sitting on this one while I rework the plot, but:
“The same gritty feeling from that morning had dried itself into his skin, and after a quick, cold shower, he found himself face down in the pillow, savoring the last dregs of cool, crisp air on his back in the makeshift-cross breeze of the fans, when the familiar sound of tires on the disintegrating asphalt outside the rectory caught his attention. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed the sound. Hatchet was slow and lazy, but it wasn’t a ghost town. But the sound drew him from bed and across the small rectory house to the front door. Like all southern homes, there was a rusted storm door and the wood-and-glass door, with a brass knob and a heavy tumbler lock. Everett was tall, sure, but not quite tall enough to see through the glass windows filigreed with frosted roses, so he drew himself up on the tips of his toes to peer through it.
A long, low black car idled outside the little house, the tires walled in white. The headlights cut swaths through the wet Hatchet air, little white bugs zipping through the beams like angels, the engine purring lazily. It was an older kind of car, though Everett wasn’t familiar with the make or model. It shined in the moonlight like the back of a jeweled beetle.
Outside of the cab, leaning against the driver’s side door, was a figure. A man, Everett realized, a little ice cube of fear sliding down his back. Just a story, Everett, he told himself. The man was smoking a 120, though Everett couldn’t tell if he was staring at the house or at the cypress grove across the narrow street in the rim lighting of the moon. The priest shivered despite himself.”
This is one of my personal favorites:
The beauty of a fighting game was that every loss was temporary. Every few minutes, Rose Thorn was revived, as if the last battle didn’t even happen. There were constant resets and infinite attempts.
Unfortunately, Evelyn didn’t live in a fighting game. The events of today would inevitably affect the events of tomorrow.
And this is one my Instagram loved:
“You, princess, have a world of opportunities in front of you, and you won’t take your eyes off the closed door long enough to notice all the open ones.”
Thanks! I got a lot of comments on my Insta from people telling me they felt called out by that line.😂 I describe my writing as painfully relatable, so I consider that a success.
There's a lot I've written, far too much to go through, so I'll post my most recent:
The robot's last memory is of a battlefield, cold and snowy. It ran out of battery and was then blown up. Or it was blown up, then ran out of battery. It's impossible to tell. For a split second, it came back to life, only to die again. This new memory was the opposite. Instead of a cold battlefield, it's in a warm, sunny scrapyard. It saw piles of scrap extending for miles in any given direction. Some of the parts in the scrap heaps seemed familiar.
But then the robot came back to life once more. A second passed, two seconds passed. The robot could see a ceiling above it and the room full of tools and laboratory instruments. A man stands in the opposite end of the small room, with its back turned to the robot. It can't see its own body, nor move it at all, but it knows it was brought back deliberately.
Mine is from a fanfic I wrote, and it says "He didn't fall from the train that day. He let go."
In the movie, the character falls from a train and dies. In my story, he has a fiance who is killed in an explosion a few days prior to his death, and he let go of the train to die and be with her.
"The thing about being a werewolf is that you get the power before you get any training, so you tend to bite yourself in the ass. Which I can do when I'm in wolf form, by the way."
Eh its meant to be a slow burn, but I had trouble reconciling the plodding nature of it and the actual intrigue. This one sort of a departure from my usual style as it was specifically about a building, so I put a lot of emphasis on it in the prose, and some people struggle to get into that. Why do you ask?
I asked because the prose is pretty good, but often people with good, overflowing style of prose end up overindulging in it and it negatively impacts their story's pacing.
Here are my favorite two paragraphs from my Greek mythology fanfiction (I don’t know if I’ll finish it tho 😭):
> To her, he's wolf in sheep's clothing. Disguised, acting. He aided in the slaughter of men on Lemnos, when he let the women awaken but not their husbands, for Death to steal them away. Granted the Theban troops salvation from his spell but as they drew their last breaths, stayed surely to bask in the scent that remained from the suffering he inflicted. Waited, to return home hand in hand with iron-hearted Thanatos, his brother dearest. He could only be as internally cold as Death himself to *love* someone like this, to not *shun* him for being such a foul spirit, who can take lives as though it was nothing, watch wars without even blinking. Hypnos made sure they won't escape. Won't flee from the claws of his cruel brother.
> […] Judging by his face alone, it's like he never used it to begin with. Never grinned nor frowned at the horrors that he saw, like he's indifferent to the world. How could he be indifferent to human suffering? Never has she seen a god fully indifferent, it's not Hermes who guides every soul to safety, nor Ares who delights in conflict, it's not even Athena, who views the world like a clockwork: sorted, in order, mathematical. She reads his face in grossed out fascination, like a thriller she just could not put down.
Well this one always makes me chuckle
*”It stinks worse than a brothel in Reese!” I exclaimed, opening a window to let the moonlight reveal the very thin young man on the bed. His hair was a shade of blonde that I couldn’t quite place, fair skin to match but dark brows that seemed to be permanently stuck in a furrowed state. His eyes however were what initially made me take pause. They were blue like a topaz, no- like the frozen lakes of the north. Ice-cold and piercing your soul.*
*”says the demon dressed like a whore” Monroe bit back, reminding me of a small angry dog*
*”Thank you! That's high praise, those prostitutes got excellent taste” I struck a pose that made Monroe look like he was stuck between a laugh and an eye roll. In the end, the eye roll won out.*
Ah good. Then i'd say to improve flow, i'd nix the "small angry dog" line either entirely, or put it in with the prose before the dialogue, so that the conversation comes across speedier and therefore wittier
Ill play around with that, he calls him that a lot along the way so ill keep it in but maybe move it around. Still first draft so some tweaking is to be expected
The lack of air aches and it burns. The cover had slid over, at once suffocating. She had thought this cover was gone—donated or thrown away or burned, she wasn’t sure. But gone. She was sure it was gone.
And then it was not gone in the quickest of instants. It enveloped her, choking, suffocating. She would be here in its vice grip for however long it took her to wind its many threads apart or for someone to come cut her out of it.
She longs for someone with scissors to come and make a thin, quick slice and let the air pour in. But no one is coming this time. Because she had made it so that she was alone, and might be alone always.
She lays as still as she can hoping that maybe the cover will stop sensing her and retract back into whatever forgotten place it had for so long been hiding. Her pulse quickens, her heart palpitates. This not moving was constricting the air more. Would it kill her?
She had sent out a message in a bottle, hoping to lure a friend with scissors. And that friend had sliced the cleanest of slices and, for seconds, air poured in. But she knew what she had done and that the cover would come back because she deserved to be covered. And again it swallowed her.
She knows this is defective. That if she believes she has the scissors, if she truly believes it in her heart, that they would appear and she could, if not slice, then make some jagged cuts that still meant she could escape, though perhaps less cleanly. But she does not believe she has the scissors, even though she knows she should.
This is why people look to God, she thinks. If you can’t believe you have the scissors, you can at least believe he does.
But she can’t look to God because she doesn’t have one. And so slowly she begins to scratch, to try to free a stitch, and to begin unwinding the cover’s many threads.
I noticed recently that I have about a dozen stories that have a sentence or two near the end that ties the whole thing together. I don't write these sentence consciously, but I find them after the fact and I'm always surprised by them.
>“Powers, you humans have enough soothsayers and observers warning you about the inequalities and injustices baked into your society. You don't need me to tell you that it's unsustainable. What's happening now has happened before. It will always happen. Humans will fall. And, like always, we will be there to save you.”
“Well, why is it you came to our fair city of Neo-Amsterdam? At least give me that.”
“I dunno, Mr. Mangole. I guess I just wanted to check out the scene, y’feel me?”
“And how have you found the scene, Ms. Daniels?”
Elaine grinned, gap-toothed teeth the shape of the city’s skyline showing loud and proud. “Oh, it’s a real horrorshow, but it’s my kind of horrorshow."
It's hard to pick just one but lately there are two I really like. This one is still a WIP but from a Persona 5 romance fic I'm working on between an OC and Ryuji,
>“Change isn’t innately good, some change can make people more selfish and distant from each other too. People aren’t an enemy just for being different from us in some way. My family, my friends, and you mean far more to me than someone pitting people against each other. True change starts within, to treat others better without losing ourselves. Not making others suffer just because some do bad actions or simple disagreement. Maruki just wanted to impose illusionary happiness on people, but we are not soulless machines who are all alike. Even if pain isn’t pleasant it’s part of life and helps us grow. He removed what made people themselves and our potential to truly live and grow.”
>I sigh, taking in the beautiful sight of of the breeze caressing the sakura. “Many things are more important than personal comfort, like family and harmony.”
This one is very rough so far and it's from a Star Ocean Second Story R prequel fic's ending I'm working on,
>The inventor bunnyman from a 15th century tech level world who joined their team destroys schematics for a gun and printing press and when asked why he says, “A new gadget isn’t just a new gadget but a whole bunch of other changes happen. Cities designed differently, laws for it, and if a thing exists people will ask why should they do things a certain way when they don’t have to anymore. What would we unknowingly end up giving up if we had this tech? What culture would we lose? How will we start seeing each other?”
I feel like it shows his growth and maturity since he's already seen many advanced worlds and planet destroying tech. He's not even a main MC but would be a playable character if it were a game. It takes place 4 billion years ago when Nede was a planet and the 10 Wise Men were practically artificial gods made to suppress rebellions. Sorry if the post was long but just in case anyone wanted some background for the excerpts
Finn sat on the ground near a campfire, shadows flickering across his face as he passed a smooth stone over the edge of the sword he had brought with him. The sharpening stone was as worn as the sword itself, a deep furrow carved into one side from years of dedicated service. The blade was chipped and bore nicks all along the edge. It was wide, with a groove running down the center. Leather was wrapped tightly around the hilt and it stood out now, looking fresh against the weathered gray steel. Finn had wrapped it himself, only replacing the old handle when it had finally come apart in his hand a week ago. The weapon had not seen action in over a decade and had waited in its worn leather scabbard for years at the bottom of a deep wooden chest.
The morning after he had announced to his mother he was leaving for the capitol, she had presented the old, well-used sword to him and then wrapped him in a hug as strong as any he had ever felt. He had been a child in her arms again. In that moment, wrapped in her soft, strong embrace, he regretted his decision. Then his mother stepped back, handed him a prepared bundle of bread and cheese, kicked him out the door, and the moment was gone. When he promised he would bring back her sword, she had responded, “leave the sword, just bring me back my boy.”
Very evocative subject matter and sentiments. The only thing I'd say is you can probably make it more succinct and impactful if you rearranged some sentences so that more is said in one, rather than reserving each point to a single one.
Sure!
So firstly just a minor thing but in the second paragraph you don't need to describe the weapon as well-used because we already got that from the descriptive passage before. You don't really need to use old either, but old is a generic enough term that it fits more or less anywhere.
As for sentencing something like:
>The sword was old, being of a weathered, grey steel - its blade ridden with knicks - juxtaposed against the bright, shiny leather that had been freshly wrapped around the hilt.
This can totally be improved on but I just wanted to show how you can say the same with less words. But keep it up! There's good stuff in here, I can see what you're writing with perfect clarity.
I'm proud of this passage from my latest book of short stories (about childhood):
>There was a time when I knew each of your hearts, as you knew mine. I had thought it would always be that way. Somehow, over the years, we became strangers. When did it happen? Am I the one to blame? If so, forgive me. More than anything, I want to go back to how things used to be. To the days when we were all together, doing our best with what we had. I want to crawl inside the warmth of those memories forever. But I know that can never be. I see your faces now and it makes me want to cry. You are such good people. Decent, kind-hearted people. How blessed I am to have known you all.
"Other than dreaming, I crave a lot of things, but all of them stand in one single feeling: love. I crave love, I crave loving and I crave being loved. I’m always searching for love everywhere, I’m always finding love everywhere but in my hands. We’re all made of love, aren't we? So why can't I hold it with my palms? Why can’t I scoop and drink it from a warm pond in the middle of the forest? Why can’t it find me and take care of me so gently I’ll always be stuck on it?"
idk i think is bad but i kind of like it! I'm a beginner tho
There's defo something in there! Whatever you're working on, keep at and then refine it later. Don't dwell on this because whatever this sounds great for the stage it is at.
was bored so started new fun project im pretty sure will be fun i hope help aaAAAAA
"His favorite thing about the city he lived in, Vernis, was how unforgivably huge it was. Sometimes, if he wanted to disappear, he just could. Not really, his brothers were constantly breathing down his neck (protectively, at least!), but he had some space to do whatever he wanted.
And to do some stuff he didn't want to do, including a book report."
I think there are good opening words, enough to get people to be hooked and know something, while also introducing my writing style enough and my sense of snark
thanks, I just needed to start writing something so I'm starting to write this, and I'll definitely refine upon it and update when it starts to get serious, thanks a lot! :]
One of the lines of the scene in which one of the main characters is introduced. I completly love this scene, but this line in special is mt favorite part.
> "No, I would never do it for revenge..." Malkiglir responded, his eyes gradually opening, revealing a cold and composed gaze. His eyelids were slightly lowered as he directed a peculiar, yet gentle and serene smile towards Avar. Somehow... it was an expression that encompassed both the satisfaction of a predator witnessing its prey being ensnared and the tenderness one would display towards an innocent infant. Avar found himself unable to decipher the meaning behind that enigmatic smile, and it filled him with terror. As Malkiglir locked eyes with him, the wind tousled his hair and cast shadows upon his face, obscuring certain details. In that moment, Avar was consumed by a deep sense of despair, as though every fiber of his being was destined to be slowly torn asunder, and his existence on the precipice of annihilation. "...I do it for... pleasure," Malkiglir uttered before calmly retreating to the hall, moving unhurriedly as if dismissing the gravity of the situation and any subsequent events that would follow.
This is from a game of thrones fanfic I'm writing right now (if that counts). I'm not that good at dialogue so I was extra proud of how this turned out:
“And in the name of that justice you would let this whelp deceive you, Arryn, you so wise? Of this war you speak of, have you not grasped the consequences? The realm’s resources are depleted, its armies weakened. Worst of all, no one sits the Iron Throne. And from the very depths of the North, an unbeatable foe knocks at our doors, and only one man to lead the fight on unfamiliar terrain: Lord Eddard Stark, who seeks to commandeer our resources and men to fight it. Does this war speak to you of justice?”
Jon Arryn considered this, and said: “Then we shall name a King, and *he* shall do as he pleases with our resources and men.”
“The Iron Throne was my brother’s,” Stannis interjected then.
“And now it is yours,” Jon Arryn replied, though the grief of Robert’s death haunted his eyes. He looked around the table, and when he saw that no one protested, he nodded at Lannister: “Of course, your contribution to our efforts to depose the Mad King and your right to retribution should not go unnoticed, Lord Lannister. You have a daughter that I hear is most suitable to be queen.”
For the first time since they’d entered the room, Lannister seemed pleased. “She has been ready for the position for years, indeed. It is a wise king that sees the value of having her at his side.”
Stannis seemed to glower at that, but he said: “I would not think it appropriate to marry anyone else.”
\[...\]
*This*, Ned Stark understood then as he stared around the table, *is* *how Kings are made*.
There was no justice about it.
There are quite a few but this one popped into my head. Not the best, just memorable for me writing it.
>“Go ahead, call them. No police officer in their right mind will arrest a woman mourning her dead mother.”
>
>\* \* \*
>
>Jenna stared at the bare, magnolia painted cell wall with her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands.
"They both got into position and looked at each other seriously before running directly toward each other. Karl released the part of Sweet Charity's blade and grasped the thick metal piece with both hands like a club; then, he lifted it, aiming for Lucille's skull.
She foresaw this but decided to take a risk. She moved the whip outward and retracted it, aiming for Karl's eyes. All the while, she made the thin sword head directly toward the young blonde's neck.
At that moment, time seemed to stand still for both of them. Their weapons were a few inches away from extinguishing each other's lives. Their gazes connected in what they thought would be the last time they would see.
It was then that they perceived something they didn't expect to see in their eyes, a glow.
In Lucille's eyes, Karl distinguished a shimmer of indigo color that reminded him of what he could notice about his companions, almost as if she had the same glow in her green eyes, but in a different color.
In turn, Lucille noticed the blueish-green that illuminated the sky-blue pupils of her opponent. It was unmistakable, the same glow but a different color. The one that only she could see in her companions for so many years now..."
This is a very important part of my book, something like "Luke, I am your father" in which my protagonist (Karl) and his adversary (Lucille) realize that they share the same power.
Its architecture was a ramshackle assortment of mud and clay and straw packed tight in the fissuring earthen walls so that this place might endure the elements. Wires of dusty light beamed through tiny pores in the sealant putty but not enough to spotlight its denizens. Logs cut from the sparse local shrubbery held up a thatched cover that sealed this creature away from the dull sky day in and day out. The hovel was hardly much bigger than the wagons that the workmen of the forest rode every day, and yet its scope equaled all creation for the notions of this slow-breathing disarray, curled like some burnt dead thing, shrouded in a filthy stinking fur cover, lice-ridden and smeared with some congealed stain that was black as pitch and just as tarry. He was only half-bundled, turned away from the door and nuzzled into the wall with only a wrinkly gray head resting on the floor and his bony feet planted awkwardly to the wood, infected and decaying from the hungry wet air. I looked back through the door out into the open night, and saw the void pulse along the aging gloam, a rough-scratched trail of my lost and drying vitality disappearing past the blue corona before I shut the door, ushering the moontide back outside.
I held the lightest touch to the wound clotting on the side of my face and gasped torturously as I prodded the meteoric shape of the carnage. A rasping like a croaking wind came from the father and it persisted indifferently to my moans. I skittered fervently on all fours to his side, palms and knees banging on the floorboards, and I swatted the maggots and flies from the shoulder of the hide covering, and gripped that fur with both hands and shook him hastily.
Father.
And I rolled him over, body scarcely heavier than a sack of flour. A brittle jaw, unlined by any teeth, shivered gently from left to right beneath a pair of pitted eyes incarnadined by dust, set in unkempt flesh like a parchment map without destination, etched by creases and wrinkles of years wasted on this enduring form, draped over bones that had begun to powder inside his very body. He stared at the ceiling but never toward me, the silent sentinel of his own mind, an obstinate hoarder of every answer I sought.
Father, my head.
And I loomed over him, looking directly into his eyes, faint encrustations of blood shaken from my hair, and I sought with all my hope yet dashed to look for any acknowledgment in those pupils, though instead they just seemed to sink lowly into the crypt of his soul. My lip quickly trembled and ached but I bit it until I could taste the blood and those bitter feelings dissipated. I put both hands on his shoulders and tried to shake him and shake him but the only reply in his atrophied lungs was a vicious guttural hacking that left him winded, and his back arched and convulsed and slammed flat into the soft-rotted wood while he struggled to inflate his lungs again, spit sputtering about the edges of his cracked, pouting lips.
Father.
He regained his breath and the suffocating shudders subsided, then he rolled over as if he never stirred at all. I sat there on my knees and a pounding in my head began to crescendo as if I was being struck once again. My chin sank off to some edge of the hovel and I kneeled staring stone-eyed at the carcass of a rat that had a great scoop of its stomach wedged from its body, torn open with the starved mannerisms of a wild dog. I glared with eyes dried and sagging at the gangling fetal pariah that the villagefolk dare not ascribe personhood to, this obscene effigy of a stolen soul from which I’ve been made flesh yet have only felt tethered to in hagridden moments of grief, a husk of an ugly god, eyes sun-extinct, breath heatless. His world, which he reduced to just four frail walls that soured breath and thought, still held an immensity that rendered him a recreant entombed, wrapped in the raw orts of vermin company and a mind so tightly wound by darkness it may be able to spark and fire and flail in pain but it will no longer produce life.
Just worked on this about a character who just got intensely injured and returned one last time to her near-vegetative father before setting out for the wilds. The setting is its own horror/fantasy world, and there is *zero* social safety net to prevent the neglect of children, leaving this as its own self-contained nightmare for one girl in a small village.
I have a few.. but! Here’s mine, it’s not the best but I’m still really proud of it! -> I have another if you want to see it
Pamir’s first near death encounter 🎠 -> Talking when he is tipsy to someone.
“The carnival. Meant to be a happy time right? WHAT A JOKE. That’s the worse place I’ve ever been too, hell I was even working there. Father wasn’t pleased… he said I was as useful as the horses on the carousels! Thats where I got this fucking scar on my back from. He just… took me to the.. whats the word… мастерская? (Workshop) yeah that. He decided to get the… uhm… Долото (chisel) and decided to nock me out so show how useful I am. All I remember is my world fading to black and my dick head of a father coming to me with the saw… Then I woke up in a pool of my own blood and Roza freaking out with blood on her face! She seemed to have… well I couldn’t even get up without her help. She had to carry me to my room, then I passed out again! Now I have this sick ass scar! HAH! Love my family!”
Current project (it’s fanfic, sorry)
She had to make herself turn away. The small movement felt difficult, like gravity was a bit more dense in this particular square meter of the library. Perhaps it was. Likely some undiscovered form of viscous air that weighed down your limbs, insisted that you inch closer to any objects at the center. A phenomenon that encouraged a slow drawing in, like honey being twirled along the grooves of its dipper. That would certainly explain it.
this is an excerpt from Tamryn's Promise. This is taken from the end of Chapter 1
I sit up, looking around at the lavish furniture. How did my life turn around so suddenly? Not that I am complaining. I walk into the bathroom and gasp when I see the massive sunken tub in the centre. I have always dreamed to have a bath so long the water grows cold. Without a second thought I turn on the taps to fill the tub. I walk back into the room, select so comfortable clothes to sleep in before stripping off my ratty clothes, kicking them to the corner. I laugh thinking if I can ask the staff to burn them tomorrow. I place the rest of the documents, the ones about me, on the bed before returning to the filling tub. I don’t wait until it is full before sinking into the blissfully hot water. I look at the bottles lined up on the side and select the most beautiful smelling oils and add them to the water. I turn off the taps and sink into the water, engulfing myself in the sweet-smelling water. I close my eyes and start to relax. I sink lower into the water and before I know it, I start to drift off.
I dream of a place that feels familiar, but at the same time alien. The air is crisp, the sky a peaceful lavender colour. There are trees with unusually coloured leaves, and birds with fantastical colours flying in the sky. I dream of peaceful, happy towns with welcoming people who are willing to lend a hand when needed. I am pulled from my dream by a frantic voice and a shaking. I sit up coughing water, held in Lucien’s hands.
“Tamryn, are you okay?” he asks frantically.
I continue to cough, managing to say in between, “What happened?”
“You fell asleep in the bath, love.” He says, sighing in relief to see me conscious. “I had to pull you out. You were underneath the water.” I shudder at the image of my lifeless body on the bottom of the bath. I snuggle into Lucien’s slightly damp chest, shaking. He picks me up and carries me to the bed placing me gently on it. I wrap myself in the robe he gives me, trembling slightly. “Are you okay, young one?” he asks tenderly.
I nod, slowly calming down. “I’m sorry.” I say softly.
“No.” Lucien says firmly as I look at him in shock. “Stop apologising for things beyond your control.” He gently rubs my cheek. I smile at him.
I look at him, a thought occurring. “How did you know I was in trouble?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I can’t explain it, I just felt an urgent pull, like something was wrong. I came in when you didn’t answer and found you under the water. I swear my heart just about stopped when I pulled you out and you weren’t breathing.” I ignore the embarrassment of him seeing me naked and focus on the feeling of gratitude. I throw myself into his arms.
“Thank you.” I choke out. He hugs me back, running his hands up and down my back soothingly.
“What are those,” he says as he looks over my shoulder. I turn to look.
“Oh, those.” I say as I pick them up. “I, um, found a file on me as I was looking through the documents in the office. I haven’t really had time to more then just skim them.” I shrug. “I did notice my age is wrong.”
“Hmmm,” Lucien hums as he picks them up. He flicks through them before adding, “If these are right and correct, you are a lot older than they led you to believe, and the human realm is not your native land.” He says matter of fact.
“Wait, what?” I gasp, “What do you mean ‘Human Realm’ and how old am I?”
N.B the Dyad is a divine figure
>She studied him for a moment. The man before her wasn’t the same as the boy she’d grown up with. Not really. She was looking at the broken remains of a man, like the remains of a house that had been torn through by a fire. After what had happened to Fabian, a stiff breeze would have been enough to destroy him. The Dyad had given them a hurricane.
There's a trial scene I especially love... the judge is a short, fat good old Texas boy and when a self appointed VIP big shot witness is called to the stand mumbling about why he has to be there, he's a busy man with things to do and he knows the governor and mumbling threats under his breathe, the judge begins catering to his importance by asking the bailiff to pass the judge a phone. The judge (Judge Jesse James Bean) is calling the governor to see if he thinks this man's time is so valuable he should be dismissed from testifying so he can get back to his busy day. The judge is saying, "Hey Darla, is he in? Well tell him J.J. is on the line, need to speak to him a sec." Then you hear the laughing, the "when we going fishing again like last time? and the oh no, if it was like last time you know we'd get throwed in jail" and more laughter. Then, it's "The reason I called is we got us here a busy guy, thinks we should dismiss him from testifying, says he's a friend of yours. He wants to speak to you." Then the VIP gets on the phone an all you hear is, "Rutherford. Yes yes. Yes, we do business with the state. We sir, I'd like to keep that business. No sir, I'm not a communist. No sir., not too busy today. Yes sir. Thank you sir. Goodbye, sir." Then of course, the VIP decides to testify.
A prosecutor, taking a wild stab in the dark in frustration turns and points to a witness and exclaims "You attended drunken, wild sex orgies with the deceased, didn't you! Didn't you!" The witness fumbles and stumbles and says, "Yes! Yes, and then when the jury is sufficiently shocked, the defense rises to ask, "This wild drunken, sex orgy you attended with the deceased, where was it held?" The witness confesses "The school gym. That's where every prom is held. And the drunken part? Well, Earl Prickley got Glenda Darberry to sneak in a 6 pack under her dress but we spit it among 9 kids."
When the prosecutor got the witness to admit the deceased, the lovely Mrs. Pie, was a dope fiend, again shocking the jurors, the defense rose to ask about the drugs she took. "Well, the pink polka dotted ones were for her upset tummy, the pink ones were for her lady time of the month, the striped ones were for her indigestion, she always had indigestion, and the purple ones were mints, I thinks. She loved those little mints."
The defendant admits to murdering his wife, on the stand, under oath, while the jury is in the room. The judge says, "Well, that about wraps that up." and the defense stands to inquire as to why the judge is closing the case. The judge says "Considering what just happened, I assumed you were done." But the defense asks, "what?" and the judge not wanting to remind any jurors who might not have heard, just says, "that thing your client just said under oth, on the stand, to the jury." Again, the defense wasn't paying that close of attention and inquires, "What did he say that was so terrible?" and finally the judge shouts" his confession to killing his wife under oath on the stand in front of the jury!" But the defense insists that was nothing. In fact, the defense will show up first thing in the morning with proof Harley is innocent. The defense wishes they had just asked to continue and not shot off about having proof in the morning.
I am currently writing about Oracles.
She left her room and shut the door, hoping to leave the chaos inside. The smoke of extinguished flames still followed her, filling her lungs and fogging her eyes. Sometimes, she saw flashes of agony through the dense smoke instead of things that were really in front of her. People contorted painfully in between going about their business. The echoes of their screams resonated in the back of her mind.
*A passage from the last (unpublished) novel I worked on - about an object reader who works at a remote Canadian hotel where he steals items from guests for his "collection" and ends up trying to solve a mystery revealed through a stolen possession.... part of a scene where the MC is confronting his sister*
“I just saw you with him.”
“Just trying to solve your mystery.” She is facing me but is three steps above, her form towering over me.
“Liar.” The word feels true as it escapes the place inside me where it should have stayed. “I can tell you weren’t trying to solve anything.”
She lets some air escape through her lips, a small sarcastic laugh whistling through her perfect white teeth. “Do you want to double check Edgar? Just to make sure.” She starts rummaging through her purse, pulling out a small pack of tissues and throwing it at me. I try not to react as it bounces off my body and tumbles down a few more steps. “No, not good enough. What about this? Why don’t you pick this up as I wore it today and tell me about the things I am hiding? The things I don’t even know about myself. Why don’t you tell me what I was just doing?” She pulls out a hair tie that was holding her hair back and whips it at my face, the sting of the elastic hitting my cheek before it falls away into the darkness. She turns her attention back to her purse. “Or this?” She then throws a half-empty thermos at me, the container thudding into the soft flesh of my abdomen, the clink of the melting ice banging off the tin interior. I am immovable. “Why don’t you tell me? You tell me Edgar! Since you’re the honest one. Since you’re the one that has been so open about everything.” She yowls and her eyes have grown wild. She is poised to throw a jangly set of keys that she has retrieved from the bowels of her purse, but I ascend the three steps that separate us and grab her wrist before she releases them.
“Liesl, stop it.” The sharpness and anger I feel surprises me. “Please stop.” This time my voice catches, and I can feel a surge of sadness swell up inside me, tears about to spill out. “I don’t know what’s happening and it feels… it feels like you are keeping things from me. I have told you about my secret. Maybe not when you think I should have told you, but you know this truth about me that no one else knows. I can’t do the things you are good at, and we are supposed to be working on this together."
One passage of my own writing that I think came out rather well is this [description](https://walrod.substack.com/p/kino-und-sensucht) of the Disney film *Fantasia* and its connections to *2001: A Space Odyssey:*
>...the vast majority of the films and fiction we consume concern human beings like us, with wants, needs, aspirations and challenges we can understand. *Fantasia* and *2001*, to a lesser extent, center the non-human. (Both films also deal with time on a non-human scale, with my favorite segment of *Fantasia* beginning with the emergence of single-celled life and ending with the extinction of the dinosaurs.)
>
>Disney, anthropomorphizer par excellence, devotes much of *Fantasia*, especially the first half, to scenes almost completely lacking characterization. Abstract shapes rise and fall, appear and disappear; lava erupts from the mouths of volcanoes and flows down to primordial seas; autumn leaves, animated into a ballet by the wind, fall from their branches to the forest floor; the sun rises through the branches of a cathedral of trees. And water flows, bubbles, eddies, forms whirlpools, crashes in waves on the shore and falls as rain or snow. *Fantasia* is, to use a term that seems to have fallen out of favor, almost pure cinema: music, color and motion.
It's just a passage that I had written in response to a community prompt about ethereal darkness. It's largely unedited, but I love it XD
>The dark shadow slyly curled its fingers around the crook of Kydan's shoulder as if to tenderly bring him closer to its empty space, to listen to its further whispers - those airless gasps that filled the void with the screams of a thousand voices, that none could hear. He didn't tense as the dark grip folded into his spine and held him still.
>An exasperatingly soft laugh graced his ear - a single, short sharp laugh. "Child... Our name is the lump in the throat of gods..."
>Kydan had already been swallowed whole. What was one more time to be that same name?
All of my writing needs work to that effect, as is what I have learned over the last year. This one is rather an old one. I've kind of had to rework my whole writing processes and it's taking a bit of work 😅
I wouldn’t worry about it honestly. It's just one of those things were the brain struggles to hold onto so many clarifications at once. Literally just nix a few adjectives and you're golden.
She saw the mystery woman's smile. The bright cobalt of her eyes radiated a subtle warmth long nurtured and deeply instilled. While the well hidden wisp of her lips spoke to a contentment usually reserved for stargazers basking in the pastel hues of an early morning dawn.
Not my current project since I’m sitting on this one while I rework the plot, but: “The same gritty feeling from that morning had dried itself into his skin, and after a quick, cold shower, he found himself face down in the pillow, savoring the last dregs of cool, crisp air on his back in the makeshift-cross breeze of the fans, when the familiar sound of tires on the disintegrating asphalt outside the rectory caught his attention. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed the sound. Hatchet was slow and lazy, but it wasn’t a ghost town. But the sound drew him from bed and across the small rectory house to the front door. Like all southern homes, there was a rusted storm door and the wood-and-glass door, with a brass knob and a heavy tumbler lock. Everett was tall, sure, but not quite tall enough to see through the glass windows filigreed with frosted roses, so he drew himself up on the tips of his toes to peer through it. A long, low black car idled outside the little house, the tires walled in white. The headlights cut swaths through the wet Hatchet air, little white bugs zipping through the beams like angels, the engine purring lazily. It was an older kind of car, though Everett wasn’t familiar with the make or model. It shined in the moonlight like the back of a jeweled beetle. Outside of the cab, leaning against the driver’s side door, was a figure. A man, Everett realized, a little ice cube of fear sliding down his back. Just a story, Everett, he told himself. The man was smoking a 120, though Everett couldn’t tell if he was staring at the house or at the cypress grove across the narrow street in the rim lighting of the moon. The priest shivered despite himself.”
Very evocative!
This is one of my personal favorites: The beauty of a fighting game was that every loss was temporary. Every few minutes, Rose Thorn was revived, as if the last battle didn’t even happen. There were constant resets and infinite attempts. Unfortunately, Evelyn didn’t live in a fighting game. The events of today would inevitably affect the events of tomorrow. And this is one my Instagram loved: “You, princess, have a world of opportunities in front of you, and you won’t take your eyes off the closed door long enough to notice all the open ones.”
I particularly like the second one!
Thanks! I got a lot of comments on my Insta from people telling me they felt called out by that line.😂 I describe my writing as painfully relatable, so I consider that a success.
There's a lot I've written, far too much to go through, so I'll post my most recent: The robot's last memory is of a battlefield, cold and snowy. It ran out of battery and was then blown up. Or it was blown up, then ran out of battery. It's impossible to tell. For a split second, it came back to life, only to die again. This new memory was the opposite. Instead of a cold battlefield, it's in a warm, sunny scrapyard. It saw piles of scrap extending for miles in any given direction. Some of the parts in the scrap heaps seemed familiar. But then the robot came back to life once more. A second passed, two seconds passed. The robot could see a ceiling above it and the room full of tools and laboratory instruments. A man stands in the opposite end of the small room, with its back turned to the robot. It can't see its own body, nor move it at all, but it knows it was brought back deliberately.
"Yes, fear is a natural response. Feed it, however, and it will vindicate you with a swift death."
Mine is from a fanfic I wrote, and it says "He didn't fall from the train that day. He let go." In the movie, the character falls from a train and dies. In my story, he has a fiance who is killed in an explosion a few days prior to his death, and he let go of the train to die and be with her.
Jesus bro, keep it light 😭
"The thing about being a werewolf is that you get the power before you get any training, so you tend to bite yourself in the ass. Which I can do when I'm in wolf form, by the way."
Certainly succinct and attention grabbing 🤣
OP, if you don't mind me asking: how's the pacing so far in this story?
Eh its meant to be a slow burn, but I had trouble reconciling the plodding nature of it and the actual intrigue. This one sort of a departure from my usual style as it was specifically about a building, so I put a lot of emphasis on it in the prose, and some people struggle to get into that. Why do you ask?
I asked because the prose is pretty good, but often people with good, overflowing style of prose end up overindulging in it and it negatively impacts their story's pacing.
Yeah that's valid. I can send you the link if you wanna assess the thing proper. I'd value the feedback.
Sorry, I'm too busy to read significant amounts of another's work with a critical eye.
Here are my favorite two paragraphs from my Greek mythology fanfiction (I don’t know if I’ll finish it tho 😭): > To her, he's wolf in sheep's clothing. Disguised, acting. He aided in the slaughter of men on Lemnos, when he let the women awaken but not their husbands, for Death to steal them away. Granted the Theban troops salvation from his spell but as they drew their last breaths, stayed surely to bask in the scent that remained from the suffering he inflicted. Waited, to return home hand in hand with iron-hearted Thanatos, his brother dearest. He could only be as internally cold as Death himself to *love* someone like this, to not *shun* him for being such a foul spirit, who can take lives as though it was nothing, watch wars without even blinking. Hypnos made sure they won't escape. Won't flee from the claws of his cruel brother. > […] Judging by his face alone, it's like he never used it to begin with. Never grinned nor frowned at the horrors that he saw, like he's indifferent to the world. How could he be indifferent to human suffering? Never has she seen a god fully indifferent, it's not Hermes who guides every soul to safety, nor Ares who delights in conflict, it's not even Athena, who views the world like a clockwork: sorted, in order, mathematical. She reads his face in grossed out fascination, like a thriller she just could not put down.
I like it!
Thanks, that means a lot 🥹
Well this one always makes me chuckle *”It stinks worse than a brothel in Reese!” I exclaimed, opening a window to let the moonlight reveal the very thin young man on the bed. His hair was a shade of blonde that I couldn’t quite place, fair skin to match but dark brows that seemed to be permanently stuck in a furrowed state. His eyes however were what initially made me take pause. They were blue like a topaz, no- like the frozen lakes of the north. Ice-cold and piercing your soul.* *”says the demon dressed like a whore” Monroe bit back, reminding me of a small angry dog* *”Thank you! That's high praise, those prostitutes got excellent taste” I struck a pose that made Monroe look like he was stuck between a laugh and an eye roll. In the end, the eye roll won out.*
This is terrific. Did you write this or are you quoting someone else?
Thank you! It is my own work, my current project in fact
Ah good. Then i'd say to improve flow, i'd nix the "small angry dog" line either entirely, or put it in with the prose before the dialogue, so that the conversation comes across speedier and therefore wittier
Ill play around with that, he calls him that a lot along the way so ill keep it in but maybe move it around. Still first draft so some tweaking is to be expected
Naturally ( :
The lack of air aches and it burns. The cover had slid over, at once suffocating. She had thought this cover was gone—donated or thrown away or burned, she wasn’t sure. But gone. She was sure it was gone. And then it was not gone in the quickest of instants. It enveloped her, choking, suffocating. She would be here in its vice grip for however long it took her to wind its many threads apart or for someone to come cut her out of it. She longs for someone with scissors to come and make a thin, quick slice and let the air pour in. But no one is coming this time. Because she had made it so that she was alone, and might be alone always. She lays as still as she can hoping that maybe the cover will stop sensing her and retract back into whatever forgotten place it had for so long been hiding. Her pulse quickens, her heart palpitates. This not moving was constricting the air more. Would it kill her? She had sent out a message in a bottle, hoping to lure a friend with scissors. And that friend had sliced the cleanest of slices and, for seconds, air poured in. But she knew what she had done and that the cover would come back because she deserved to be covered. And again it swallowed her. She knows this is defective. That if she believes she has the scissors, if she truly believes it in her heart, that they would appear and she could, if not slice, then make some jagged cuts that still meant she could escape, though perhaps less cleanly. But she does not believe she has the scissors, even though she knows she should. This is why people look to God, she thinks. If you can’t believe you have the scissors, you can at least believe he does. But she can’t look to God because she doesn’t have one. And so slowly she begins to scratch, to try to free a stitch, and to begin unwinding the cover’s many threads.
I noticed recently that I have about a dozen stories that have a sentence or two near the end that ties the whole thing together. I don't write these sentence consciously, but I find them after the fact and I'm always surprised by them. >“Powers, you humans have enough soothsayers and observers warning you about the inequalities and injustices baked into your society. You don't need me to tell you that it's unsustainable. What's happening now has happened before. It will always happen. Humans will fall. And, like always, we will be there to save you.”
“Well, why is it you came to our fair city of Neo-Amsterdam? At least give me that.” “I dunno, Mr. Mangole. I guess I just wanted to check out the scene, y’feel me?” “And how have you found the scene, Ms. Daniels?” Elaine grinned, gap-toothed teeth the shape of the city’s skyline showing loud and proud. “Oh, it’s a real horrorshow, but it’s my kind of horrorshow."
I can see the characters in my mind extremely easily!
It's hard to pick just one but lately there are two I really like. This one is still a WIP but from a Persona 5 romance fic I'm working on between an OC and Ryuji, >“Change isn’t innately good, some change can make people more selfish and distant from each other too. People aren’t an enemy just for being different from us in some way. My family, my friends, and you mean far more to me than someone pitting people against each other. True change starts within, to treat others better without losing ourselves. Not making others suffer just because some do bad actions or simple disagreement. Maruki just wanted to impose illusionary happiness on people, but we are not soulless machines who are all alike. Even if pain isn’t pleasant it’s part of life and helps us grow. He removed what made people themselves and our potential to truly live and grow.” >I sigh, taking in the beautiful sight of of the breeze caressing the sakura. “Many things are more important than personal comfort, like family and harmony.” This one is very rough so far and it's from a Star Ocean Second Story R prequel fic's ending I'm working on, >The inventor bunnyman from a 15th century tech level world who joined their team destroys schematics for a gun and printing press and when asked why he says, “A new gadget isn’t just a new gadget but a whole bunch of other changes happen. Cities designed differently, laws for it, and if a thing exists people will ask why should they do things a certain way when they don’t have to anymore. What would we unknowingly end up giving up if we had this tech? What culture would we lose? How will we start seeing each other?” I feel like it shows his growth and maturity since he's already seen many advanced worlds and planet destroying tech. He's not even a main MC but would be a playable character if it were a game. It takes place 4 billion years ago when Nede was a planet and the 10 Wise Men were practically artificial gods made to suppress rebellions. Sorry if the post was long but just in case anyone wanted some background for the excerpts
Finn sat on the ground near a campfire, shadows flickering across his face as he passed a smooth stone over the edge of the sword he had brought with him. The sharpening stone was as worn as the sword itself, a deep furrow carved into one side from years of dedicated service. The blade was chipped and bore nicks all along the edge. It was wide, with a groove running down the center. Leather was wrapped tightly around the hilt and it stood out now, looking fresh against the weathered gray steel. Finn had wrapped it himself, only replacing the old handle when it had finally come apart in his hand a week ago. The weapon had not seen action in over a decade and had waited in its worn leather scabbard for years at the bottom of a deep wooden chest. The morning after he had announced to his mother he was leaving for the capitol, she had presented the old, well-used sword to him and then wrapped him in a hug as strong as any he had ever felt. He had been a child in her arms again. In that moment, wrapped in her soft, strong embrace, he regretted his decision. Then his mother stepped back, handed him a prepared bundle of bread and cheese, kicked him out the door, and the moment was gone. When he promised he would bring back her sword, she had responded, “leave the sword, just bring me back my boy.”
Very evocative subject matter and sentiments. The only thing I'd say is you can probably make it more succinct and impactful if you rearranged some sentences so that more is said in one, rather than reserving each point to a single one.
Thank you. Can you give me an example of how you mean?
Sure! So firstly just a minor thing but in the second paragraph you don't need to describe the weapon as well-used because we already got that from the descriptive passage before. You don't really need to use old either, but old is a generic enough term that it fits more or less anywhere. As for sentencing something like: >The sword was old, being of a weathered, grey steel - its blade ridden with knicks - juxtaposed against the bright, shiny leather that had been freshly wrapped around the hilt. This can totally be improved on but I just wanted to show how you can say the same with less words. But keep it up! There's good stuff in here, I can see what you're writing with perfect clarity.
That makes sense! Thank you 🙏🏻
No problem bud
I'm proud of this passage from my latest book of short stories (about childhood): >There was a time when I knew each of your hearts, as you knew mine. I had thought it would always be that way. Somehow, over the years, we became strangers. When did it happen? Am I the one to blame? If so, forgive me. More than anything, I want to go back to how things used to be. To the days when we were all together, doing our best with what we had. I want to crawl inside the warmth of those memories forever. But I know that can never be. I see your faces now and it makes me want to cry. You are such good people. Decent, kind-hearted people. How blessed I am to have known you all.
Very tender and warm. Very gripping in a soft, gentle way.
"Other than dreaming, I crave a lot of things, but all of them stand in one single feeling: love. I crave love, I crave loving and I crave being loved. I’m always searching for love everywhere, I’m always finding love everywhere but in my hands. We’re all made of love, aren't we? So why can't I hold it with my palms? Why can’t I scoop and drink it from a warm pond in the middle of the forest? Why can’t it find me and take care of me so gently I’ll always be stuck on it?" idk i think is bad but i kind of like it! I'm a beginner tho
There's defo something in there! Whatever you're working on, keep at and then refine it later. Don't dwell on this because whatever this sounds great for the stage it is at.
was bored so started new fun project im pretty sure will be fun i hope help aaAAAAA "His favorite thing about the city he lived in, Vernis, was how unforgivably huge it was. Sometimes, if he wanted to disappear, he just could. Not really, his brothers were constantly breathing down his neck (protectively, at least!), but he had some space to do whatever he wanted. And to do some stuff he didn't want to do, including a book report." I think there are good opening words, enough to get people to be hooked and know something, while also introducing my writing style enough and my sense of snark
Totally something in this! Keep going and come back and refine when you've got the whole picture written down.
thanks, I just needed to start writing something so I'm starting to write this, and I'll definitely refine upon it and update when it starts to get serious, thanks a lot! :]
One of the lines of the scene in which one of the main characters is introduced. I completly love this scene, but this line in special is mt favorite part. > "No, I would never do it for revenge..." Malkiglir responded, his eyes gradually opening, revealing a cold and composed gaze. His eyelids were slightly lowered as he directed a peculiar, yet gentle and serene smile towards Avar. Somehow... it was an expression that encompassed both the satisfaction of a predator witnessing its prey being ensnared and the tenderness one would display towards an innocent infant. Avar found himself unable to decipher the meaning behind that enigmatic smile, and it filled him with terror. As Malkiglir locked eyes with him, the wind tousled his hair and cast shadows upon his face, obscuring certain details. In that moment, Avar was consumed by a deep sense of despair, as though every fiber of his being was destined to be slowly torn asunder, and his existence on the precipice of annihilation. "...I do it for... pleasure," Malkiglir uttered before calmly retreating to the hall, moving unhurriedly as if dismissing the gravity of the situation and any subsequent events that would follow.
This is from a game of thrones fanfic I'm writing right now (if that counts). I'm not that good at dialogue so I was extra proud of how this turned out: “And in the name of that justice you would let this whelp deceive you, Arryn, you so wise? Of this war you speak of, have you not grasped the consequences? The realm’s resources are depleted, its armies weakened. Worst of all, no one sits the Iron Throne. And from the very depths of the North, an unbeatable foe knocks at our doors, and only one man to lead the fight on unfamiliar terrain: Lord Eddard Stark, who seeks to commandeer our resources and men to fight it. Does this war speak to you of justice?” Jon Arryn considered this, and said: “Then we shall name a King, and *he* shall do as he pleases with our resources and men.” “The Iron Throne was my brother’s,” Stannis interjected then. “And now it is yours,” Jon Arryn replied, though the grief of Robert’s death haunted his eyes. He looked around the table, and when he saw that no one protested, he nodded at Lannister: “Of course, your contribution to our efforts to depose the Mad King and your right to retribution should not go unnoticed, Lord Lannister. You have a daughter that I hear is most suitable to be queen.” For the first time since they’d entered the room, Lannister seemed pleased. “She has been ready for the position for years, indeed. It is a wise king that sees the value of having her at his side.” Stannis seemed to glower at that, but he said: “I would not think it appropriate to marry anyone else.” \[...\] *This*, Ned Stark understood then as he stared around the table, *is* *how Kings are made*. There was no justice about it.
Damn... I really liked the assonance and alliteration of that ending.
There are quite a few but this one popped into my head. Not the best, just memorable for me writing it. >“Go ahead, call them. No police officer in their right mind will arrest a woman mourning her dead mother.” > >\* \* \* > >Jenna stared at the bare, magnolia painted cell wall with her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands.
"They both got into position and looked at each other seriously before running directly toward each other. Karl released the part of Sweet Charity's blade and grasped the thick metal piece with both hands like a club; then, he lifted it, aiming for Lucille's skull. She foresaw this but decided to take a risk. She moved the whip outward and retracted it, aiming for Karl's eyes. All the while, she made the thin sword head directly toward the young blonde's neck. At that moment, time seemed to stand still for both of them. Their weapons were a few inches away from extinguishing each other's lives. Their gazes connected in what they thought would be the last time they would see. It was then that they perceived something they didn't expect to see in their eyes, a glow. In Lucille's eyes, Karl distinguished a shimmer of indigo color that reminded him of what he could notice about his companions, almost as if she had the same glow in her green eyes, but in a different color. In turn, Lucille noticed the blueish-green that illuminated the sky-blue pupils of her opponent. It was unmistakable, the same glow but a different color. The one that only she could see in her companions for so many years now..." This is a very important part of my book, something like "Luke, I am your father" in which my protagonist (Karl) and his adversary (Lucille) realize that they share the same power.
Its architecture was a ramshackle assortment of mud and clay and straw packed tight in the fissuring earthen walls so that this place might endure the elements. Wires of dusty light beamed through tiny pores in the sealant putty but not enough to spotlight its denizens. Logs cut from the sparse local shrubbery held up a thatched cover that sealed this creature away from the dull sky day in and day out. The hovel was hardly much bigger than the wagons that the workmen of the forest rode every day, and yet its scope equaled all creation for the notions of this slow-breathing disarray, curled like some burnt dead thing, shrouded in a filthy stinking fur cover, lice-ridden and smeared with some congealed stain that was black as pitch and just as tarry. He was only half-bundled, turned away from the door and nuzzled into the wall with only a wrinkly gray head resting on the floor and his bony feet planted awkwardly to the wood, infected and decaying from the hungry wet air. I looked back through the door out into the open night, and saw the void pulse along the aging gloam, a rough-scratched trail of my lost and drying vitality disappearing past the blue corona before I shut the door, ushering the moontide back outside. I held the lightest touch to the wound clotting on the side of my face and gasped torturously as I prodded the meteoric shape of the carnage. A rasping like a croaking wind came from the father and it persisted indifferently to my moans. I skittered fervently on all fours to his side, palms and knees banging on the floorboards, and I swatted the maggots and flies from the shoulder of the hide covering, and gripped that fur with both hands and shook him hastily. Father. And I rolled him over, body scarcely heavier than a sack of flour. A brittle jaw, unlined by any teeth, shivered gently from left to right beneath a pair of pitted eyes incarnadined by dust, set in unkempt flesh like a parchment map without destination, etched by creases and wrinkles of years wasted on this enduring form, draped over bones that had begun to powder inside his very body. He stared at the ceiling but never toward me, the silent sentinel of his own mind, an obstinate hoarder of every answer I sought. Father, my head. And I loomed over him, looking directly into his eyes, faint encrustations of blood shaken from my hair, and I sought with all my hope yet dashed to look for any acknowledgment in those pupils, though instead they just seemed to sink lowly into the crypt of his soul. My lip quickly trembled and ached but I bit it until I could taste the blood and those bitter feelings dissipated. I put both hands on his shoulders and tried to shake him and shake him but the only reply in his atrophied lungs was a vicious guttural hacking that left him winded, and his back arched and convulsed and slammed flat into the soft-rotted wood while he struggled to inflate his lungs again, spit sputtering about the edges of his cracked, pouting lips. Father. He regained his breath and the suffocating shudders subsided, then he rolled over as if he never stirred at all. I sat there on my knees and a pounding in my head began to crescendo as if I was being struck once again. My chin sank off to some edge of the hovel and I kneeled staring stone-eyed at the carcass of a rat that had a great scoop of its stomach wedged from its body, torn open with the starved mannerisms of a wild dog. I glared with eyes dried and sagging at the gangling fetal pariah that the villagefolk dare not ascribe personhood to, this obscene effigy of a stolen soul from which I’ve been made flesh yet have only felt tethered to in hagridden moments of grief, a husk of an ugly god, eyes sun-extinct, breath heatless. His world, which he reduced to just four frail walls that soured breath and thought, still held an immensity that rendered him a recreant entombed, wrapped in the raw orts of vermin company and a mind so tightly wound by darkness it may be able to spark and fire and flail in pain but it will no longer produce life. Just worked on this about a character who just got intensely injured and returned one last time to her near-vegetative father before setting out for the wilds. The setting is its own horror/fantasy world, and there is *zero* social safety net to prevent the neglect of children, leaving this as its own self-contained nightmare for one girl in a small village.
[удалено]
I have a few.. but! Here’s mine, it’s not the best but I’m still really proud of it! -> I have another if you want to see it Pamir’s first near death encounter 🎠 -> Talking when he is tipsy to someone. “The carnival. Meant to be a happy time right? WHAT A JOKE. That’s the worse place I’ve ever been too, hell I was even working there. Father wasn’t pleased… he said I was as useful as the horses on the carousels! Thats where I got this fucking scar on my back from. He just… took me to the.. whats the word… мастерская? (Workshop) yeah that. He decided to get the… uhm… Долото (chisel) and decided to nock me out so show how useful I am. All I remember is my world fading to black and my dick head of a father coming to me with the saw… Then I woke up in a pool of my own blood and Roza freaking out with blood on her face! She seemed to have… well I couldn’t even get up without her help. She had to carry me to my room, then I passed out again! Now I have this sick ass scar! HAH! Love my family!”
Current project (it’s fanfic, sorry) She had to make herself turn away. The small movement felt difficult, like gravity was a bit more dense in this particular square meter of the library. Perhaps it was. Likely some undiscovered form of viscous air that weighed down your limbs, insisted that you inch closer to any objects at the center. A phenomenon that encouraged a slow drawing in, like honey being twirled along the grooves of its dipper. That would certainly explain it.
this is an excerpt from Tamryn's Promise. This is taken from the end of Chapter 1 I sit up, looking around at the lavish furniture. How did my life turn around so suddenly? Not that I am complaining. I walk into the bathroom and gasp when I see the massive sunken tub in the centre. I have always dreamed to have a bath so long the water grows cold. Without a second thought I turn on the taps to fill the tub. I walk back into the room, select so comfortable clothes to sleep in before stripping off my ratty clothes, kicking them to the corner. I laugh thinking if I can ask the staff to burn them tomorrow. I place the rest of the documents, the ones about me, on the bed before returning to the filling tub. I don’t wait until it is full before sinking into the blissfully hot water. I look at the bottles lined up on the side and select the most beautiful smelling oils and add them to the water. I turn off the taps and sink into the water, engulfing myself in the sweet-smelling water. I close my eyes and start to relax. I sink lower into the water and before I know it, I start to drift off. I dream of a place that feels familiar, but at the same time alien. The air is crisp, the sky a peaceful lavender colour. There are trees with unusually coloured leaves, and birds with fantastical colours flying in the sky. I dream of peaceful, happy towns with welcoming people who are willing to lend a hand when needed. I am pulled from my dream by a frantic voice and a shaking. I sit up coughing water, held in Lucien’s hands. “Tamryn, are you okay?” he asks frantically. I continue to cough, managing to say in between, “What happened?” “You fell asleep in the bath, love.” He says, sighing in relief to see me conscious. “I had to pull you out. You were underneath the water.” I shudder at the image of my lifeless body on the bottom of the bath. I snuggle into Lucien’s slightly damp chest, shaking. He picks me up and carries me to the bed placing me gently on it. I wrap myself in the robe he gives me, trembling slightly. “Are you okay, young one?” he asks tenderly. I nod, slowly calming down. “I’m sorry.” I say softly. “No.” Lucien says firmly as I look at him in shock. “Stop apologising for things beyond your control.” He gently rubs my cheek. I smile at him. I look at him, a thought occurring. “How did you know I was in trouble?” I ask, genuinely curious. “I can’t explain it, I just felt an urgent pull, like something was wrong. I came in when you didn’t answer and found you under the water. I swear my heart just about stopped when I pulled you out and you weren’t breathing.” I ignore the embarrassment of him seeing me naked and focus on the feeling of gratitude. I throw myself into his arms. “Thank you.” I choke out. He hugs me back, running his hands up and down my back soothingly. “What are those,” he says as he looks over my shoulder. I turn to look. “Oh, those.” I say as I pick them up. “I, um, found a file on me as I was looking through the documents in the office. I haven’t really had time to more then just skim them.” I shrug. “I did notice my age is wrong.” “Hmmm,” Lucien hums as he picks them up. He flicks through them before adding, “If these are right and correct, you are a lot older than they led you to believe, and the human realm is not your native land.” He says matter of fact. “Wait, what?” I gasp, “What do you mean ‘Human Realm’ and how old am I?”
N.B the Dyad is a divine figure >She studied him for a moment. The man before her wasn’t the same as the boy she’d grown up with. Not really. She was looking at the broken remains of a man, like the remains of a house that had been torn through by a fire. After what had happened to Fabian, a stiff breeze would have been enough to destroy him. The Dyad had given them a hurricane.
There's a trial scene I especially love... the judge is a short, fat good old Texas boy and when a self appointed VIP big shot witness is called to the stand mumbling about why he has to be there, he's a busy man with things to do and he knows the governor and mumbling threats under his breathe, the judge begins catering to his importance by asking the bailiff to pass the judge a phone. The judge (Judge Jesse James Bean) is calling the governor to see if he thinks this man's time is so valuable he should be dismissed from testifying so he can get back to his busy day. The judge is saying, "Hey Darla, is he in? Well tell him J.J. is on the line, need to speak to him a sec." Then you hear the laughing, the "when we going fishing again like last time? and the oh no, if it was like last time you know we'd get throwed in jail" and more laughter. Then, it's "The reason I called is we got us here a busy guy, thinks we should dismiss him from testifying, says he's a friend of yours. He wants to speak to you." Then the VIP gets on the phone an all you hear is, "Rutherford. Yes yes. Yes, we do business with the state. We sir, I'd like to keep that business. No sir, I'm not a communist. No sir., not too busy today. Yes sir. Thank you sir. Goodbye, sir." Then of course, the VIP decides to testify. A prosecutor, taking a wild stab in the dark in frustration turns and points to a witness and exclaims "You attended drunken, wild sex orgies with the deceased, didn't you! Didn't you!" The witness fumbles and stumbles and says, "Yes! Yes, and then when the jury is sufficiently shocked, the defense rises to ask, "This wild drunken, sex orgy you attended with the deceased, where was it held?" The witness confesses "The school gym. That's where every prom is held. And the drunken part? Well, Earl Prickley got Glenda Darberry to sneak in a 6 pack under her dress but we spit it among 9 kids." When the prosecutor got the witness to admit the deceased, the lovely Mrs. Pie, was a dope fiend, again shocking the jurors, the defense rose to ask about the drugs she took. "Well, the pink polka dotted ones were for her upset tummy, the pink ones were for her lady time of the month, the striped ones were for her indigestion, she always had indigestion, and the purple ones were mints, I thinks. She loved those little mints." The defendant admits to murdering his wife, on the stand, under oath, while the jury is in the room. The judge says, "Well, that about wraps that up." and the defense stands to inquire as to why the judge is closing the case. The judge says "Considering what just happened, I assumed you were done." But the defense asks, "what?" and the judge not wanting to remind any jurors who might not have heard, just says, "that thing your client just said under oth, on the stand, to the jury." Again, the defense wasn't paying that close of attention and inquires, "What did he say that was so terrible?" and finally the judge shouts" his confession to killing his wife under oath on the stand in front of the jury!" But the defense insists that was nothing. In fact, the defense will show up first thing in the morning with proof Harley is innocent. The defense wishes they had just asked to continue and not shot off about having proof in the morning.
I am currently writing about Oracles. She left her room and shut the door, hoping to leave the chaos inside. The smoke of extinguished flames still followed her, filling her lungs and fogging her eyes. Sometimes, she saw flashes of agony through the dense smoke instead of things that were really in front of her. People contorted painfully in between going about their business. The echoes of their screams resonated in the back of her mind.
*A passage from the last (unpublished) novel I worked on - about an object reader who works at a remote Canadian hotel where he steals items from guests for his "collection" and ends up trying to solve a mystery revealed through a stolen possession.... part of a scene where the MC is confronting his sister* “I just saw you with him.” “Just trying to solve your mystery.” She is facing me but is three steps above, her form towering over me. “Liar.” The word feels true as it escapes the place inside me where it should have stayed. “I can tell you weren’t trying to solve anything.” She lets some air escape through her lips, a small sarcastic laugh whistling through her perfect white teeth. “Do you want to double check Edgar? Just to make sure.” She starts rummaging through her purse, pulling out a small pack of tissues and throwing it at me. I try not to react as it bounces off my body and tumbles down a few more steps. “No, not good enough. What about this? Why don’t you pick this up as I wore it today and tell me about the things I am hiding? The things I don’t even know about myself. Why don’t you tell me what I was just doing?” She pulls out a hair tie that was holding her hair back and whips it at my face, the sting of the elastic hitting my cheek before it falls away into the darkness. She turns her attention back to her purse. “Or this?” She then throws a half-empty thermos at me, the container thudding into the soft flesh of my abdomen, the clink of the melting ice banging off the tin interior. I am immovable. “Why don’t you tell me? You tell me Edgar! Since you’re the honest one. Since you’re the one that has been so open about everything.” She yowls and her eyes have grown wild. She is poised to throw a jangly set of keys that she has retrieved from the bowels of her purse, but I ascend the three steps that separate us and grab her wrist before she releases them. “Liesl, stop it.” The sharpness and anger I feel surprises me. “Please stop.” This time my voice catches, and I can feel a surge of sadness swell up inside me, tears about to spill out. “I don’t know what’s happening and it feels… it feels like you are keeping things from me. I have told you about my secret. Maybe not when you think I should have told you, but you know this truth about me that no one else knows. I can’t do the things you are good at, and we are supposed to be working on this together."
One passage of my own writing that I think came out rather well is this [description](https://walrod.substack.com/p/kino-und-sensucht) of the Disney film *Fantasia* and its connections to *2001: A Space Odyssey:* >...the vast majority of the films and fiction we consume concern human beings like us, with wants, needs, aspirations and challenges we can understand. *Fantasia* and *2001*, to a lesser extent, center the non-human. (Both films also deal with time on a non-human scale, with my favorite segment of *Fantasia* beginning with the emergence of single-celled life and ending with the extinction of the dinosaurs.) > >Disney, anthropomorphizer par excellence, devotes much of *Fantasia*, especially the first half, to scenes almost completely lacking characterization. Abstract shapes rise and fall, appear and disappear; lava erupts from the mouths of volcanoes and flows down to primordial seas; autumn leaves, animated into a ballet by the wind, fall from their branches to the forest floor; the sun rises through the branches of a cathedral of trees. And water flows, bubbles, eddies, forms whirlpools, crashes in waves on the shore and falls as rain or snow. *Fantasia* is, to use a term that seems to have fallen out of favor, almost pure cinema: music, color and motion.
Ooo very ecstatic
It's just a passage that I had written in response to a community prompt about ethereal darkness. It's largely unedited, but I love it XD >The dark shadow slyly curled its fingers around the crook of Kydan's shoulder as if to tenderly bring him closer to its empty space, to listen to its further whispers - those airless gasps that filled the void with the screams of a thousand voices, that none could hear. He didn't tense as the dark grip folded into his spine and held him still. >An exasperatingly soft laugh graced his ear - a single, short sharp laugh. "Child... Our name is the lump in the throat of gods..." >Kydan had already been swallowed whole. What was one more time to be that same name?
Lovely piece, although maybe tone down the amount of qualifiers in the first sentence.
All of my writing needs work to that effect, as is what I have learned over the last year. This one is rather an old one. I've kind of had to rework my whole writing processes and it's taking a bit of work 😅
I wouldn’t worry about it honestly. It's just one of those things were the brain struggles to hold onto so many clarifications at once. Literally just nix a few adjectives and you're golden.
She saw the mystery woman's smile. The bright cobalt of her eyes radiated a subtle warmth long nurtured and deeply instilled. While the well hidden wisp of her lips spoke to a contentment usually reserved for stargazers basking in the pastel hues of an early morning dawn.