A snippet of your writings

[BadMojo]

I've seen quite a few writers here. So why not use the forum to offer some feedback on what each other is working on. So, I'll start by posting a snippet of my work, and you can offer feedback, ignore it or perhaps post some of your own work.

Oh well, here we go. Hope you like it :)

Don't be afraid to criticize it.

1) Here I try to explain what creature a beholder is.

A beholder is a fleshy orb, that floats in mid air, so it won’t ruin your carpets unless it is drooling, which can occur if it’s hungry. This makes it a popular pet among evildoers in general.
The beholder comes in a large variety of colours and has neither arms nor legs. The most striking feature about a beholder is its many eyes. It has eyes everywhere from top to bottom - in fact is has got several eyes on its bottom.
Among it many eyes it has one great eye, just above its large fang-filled mouth. That’s its killing eye that can send death-rays – very deadly if you look at it while keeping eye-contact.
Normally knights and other heroes; the only one stupid enough to challenge a beholder, avoid looking at the beholder’s great eye, while slashing madly and blindly until they hit something - Which is hopefully not a captured princess. But some heroes fail since the Beholder is a very tricky being. It normally asks the most dreaded question ever heard by man: “Do I look fat in this dress?”
Of course the Beholder neither wears a dress nor any other clothing, but heroes simply have a weakness for that particular question.
This can be blamed on their many female companions, since they have a tendency to ask the exact same question! And because of that, heroes have developed a nasty habit of looking their female companions deep in the eyes, while saying “no, you look lovely”. The beholder exploits this weakness, and enjoys the benefit of being told that it looks lovely, while killing the poor fools.
The beholder is mostly carnivorous and eats canned food; like knights in shining armour - But it does eat salad once in a while, due to bad digestion. Because of its diet, Beholders usually smell quite foul. That is not because of its body odour, which is often quite nice, but because red meat makes them pass wind excessively. So just in case you want to go hunt for beholders, make sure you are going down-wind. Otherwise you might faint before you even see the lovely monster.
As you might have guessed, Beholders are evil creatures. They like killing, eating and are particularly fond of children. But that is only in the Beholders younger and prime years. Like humans, they change when they get old. But unlike older men, who have a tendency to become grumpy; Beholders have a tendency to become quite mellow and friendly when they reach a certain age. Of course they still kill people, but that’s because they lose control over their death-rays, and accidentally zaps a captured companion once in a while. Just like old men who sometimes pass water unwillingly – Perfectly natural.
This does have some drawbacks for the venerable beholders, since they become too dangerous to keep as pets. Therefore they often spend their remaining years secluded in their master’s old dungeons.



2) The young writer is lecturing the old evil wizard about language
“English has all those linguistic puns, linguistic jokes that only people who know English can understand.” The young writer said with huge enthusiasm and arm movements.

The wizard looked puzzled, since he didn’t know how ponds could have anything to do with language. Please note that the old wizard had a small English vocabulary, since his brain was crammed with magical words instead of English words; which was the reason why he asked himself “What is a linguistic pond?”

Being an old evil wizard, he didn’t want to look stupid in front of the younger man, so he tried to elaborate the meaning of the phrase.
“By saying linguistic ponds, do you mean like a collection of words liquefied in a whirlpool of transmitted conjurations, trapped by a stream of kinetic plasma, formed by the caster’s channelled energy, into an intended effect, like a fireball?” the wizard asked knowingly.
The young writer looked puzzled; to the old wizard’s delight.
“No, a pun is a play of words”. The young writer replied after a brief pause.
“Oh you mean like a spell.” The old wizard chuckled, admiring his own brilliance.
“No not quite, a pun is a funny figure of speech, like a joke”. The young writer patiently explained, ignoring the old wizard’s conjectures.
“A laughing-spell. Of course!” The old wizard exclaimed, quite sure he had got it right this time.
“No, forget about magic. This has nothing to do with magic. A pun is a linguistic joke based on a play of words. Not a laughing spell or a paddling pool infested by ducks!” The young writer cried out as his patience reached an end, forgetting that he actually feared the skinny man in front of him.

The old wizard looked confused, by the statement that magic had nothing to do with language. For some, this might have been easy to understand. But for the old wizard, who had been using magic for well over sixty years, it was quite hard to comprehend that there was something that didn’t have anything to do with magic.

The young writer saw the old wizard’s confused look, and continued explaining.
“Take for instance the word ‘pun’. That word sounds like, pond – a small lake. This means we have two words that sound the same, but we spell in two different ways. This is what we call a homophonic pun, since it sounds the same, but the spelling and meaning differs.”
The old wizard finally understood the young writer, but he was rather irritated by the fact that the young writer knew something he didn’t. To which he scornfully replied “Stupid and simple. You mean like right and right, right?”
“Yes, that is a pun, only that’s what we call a homographic pun, since it is spelled the same way, but the meaning of the words differs” The young writer said.
The old wizard started smiling. A malignant plan was extrapolating from the depths of his wicked mind. It would be a plan that would lecture the young writer about true knowledge.
The young writer saw the smile as a good sign, and continued his lecture about the use of language, not knowing what gruesome designs that were being conjured by the wizard’s depraved mind.

[BadMojo]

No one? Allah Dammit!

[deicruxified]

nice thread...

yesterday, i was praying to whatever pantheon to give me an insight or inspiration to write... whatever... i never asked for any topic but just simply i miss writing and i do personally think that my skills are degrading and that's one of my nightmares - having to see all my talents stagnate because of the crutches of the corporate world. indeed, an 8 hour job is a hindrance to whatever dream i got. on the literal sense, i suddenly wake up from a beautiful dream and then there goes my alarm clock...

having said all this, still i got nothing.

[Tsuru]

Here's a snippet from a completely stupid pirate story I wrote for some class. :P

Scabtooth is a son of a bitch. For all the riddles, puzzles, questions, and doubts of this world that plague my mind, there is one thing that I know for certain: one absolute that I can rely upon. Scabtooth is a son of a bitch. The most brutish malicious malevolent mean-hearted scalawag of a buccaneer to ever sail the seven seas. His heart pumps ice water through his veins, and is so black that death itself would be envious of the hue. He’d steal candy from a crippled baby or punch a homeless old lady in the kidneys to swipe her pills in the blink of an eye if it tickled his fancy. And laugh doing it. He’d slit his mother’s throat for a nickel and piss on her grave for a dime. If he were a religious man, he’d cordially invite the gods to kiss his ass. He’d be thrown out of hell for bad behavior: if he hadn’t raised so much of it on earth that there’s none left in the otherworld. Aye, the roughest rogue to don an eyepatch, scimitar, and parakeet in a hundred years. A real bastard!

He’s the best pirate captain I’ve ever worked under. But then again, he’s the only pirate captain I’ve ever worked under. A shiver of fear runs down my spine when I see that looming, wedge-shaped form hover on the edge of the poop deck, staring off into the depths of the sea with his one burning, steady eye. Like a hawk looking patiently for prey to rend asunder. I often wonder what hideous madness goes through his mind as he stands there peering into the depths of the horizon for hours on end. But that’s no question I’d ever ask him. No one aboard the ship approaches Captain Scabtooth at his staring-spot, as a matter of health....

And a snippet from my epic masterpiece entitled "an obese hillbilly eats some chicken"

The darkened walls of Billy-Bob’s abode flickered slightly from the dull, dim candlelight. There was an unsettling, terrorizing silence throughout the home, as if its halls were a soundless slithering snake, patiently waiting to catch one off guard to unexpectedly strike. Billy-Bob was alone. Alone for a sensual and romantic evening with his one true love - an extra extra large bucket of extra crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken. The lone, large pear-shaped figure dressed in tattered blue overalls resided in the center of the room, quivering in anticipation - his jowls jiggling violently as his body quaked.

The candlelight glistened off of Billy-Bob’s spotlessly bald head, not unlike the light of the noon-day sun refracting off of a freshly waxed car. The foul odor of sweat, chicken, and body-stink permeated the air of the room in an almost suffocating manner. The mood was perfect for Billy-Bob. He gazed longingly at his chicken bucket, his eyes wide and unfocused, and his mouth agape in its usual slack-jawed expression. Droplets of drool dribbled off of his bloated, rubbery lips. “Mmm-mmm... ’Ima get mah chicken on!” bellowed Billy-Bob in a phlegmy southern drawl.

He knew that his grumbling belly was about to be filled to its limit with deep fat fried delight. Armed with that knowledge he thrust his hand into the depths of the chicken bucket with the vigor of a thousand Zulu warriors. His fat, hair-covered hand made a fist around an especially greasy drumstick. As he brought the chicken to his mouth, gnashing and gnawing it into shreds with his yellow, tobacco stained teeth, his eyes glazed over in a trance of euphoria. THIS was the true enlightenment, he thought, feeling the joys of foodstuffs rampaging their way into his bloated, willing stomach. “It’s good to be alive,” Billy-Bob choked out, as bits of chicken gristle sprayed from his mouth. “It’s good to be alive...”

A shocking ending occurs. His fat leaves his body and becomes a malevolent sentient being bent on world domination. Hehe. XD

[BadMojo]

I really liked the story of Billy Bob. But the pirate story could use some more work.

[Tsuru]

I really liked the story of Billy Bob. But the pirate story could use some more work.

The pirate one is much longer, that was the first few paragraphs.~

I wrote those about 6 years ago, so no real intention of working on either. :P

[BadMojo]

Hehe. yes, but the words flow much better in the Billy Bob story. :D

[Capt57]

Here is a bit of my late night ramblings. Usually I'm a little buzzed.
This is from a recurring nightmare I had as a child. Reminds me of the Edvard Munch painting "The Scream"

The Shark,

A blank vacant eye, an engorged saw toothed maw.
This great gray demon pierces the night sea in a slow snake like swim.
Hope treads soft in His Sea.
We swim; each kick pricks the salty stew.
But every tread awakens dread and pulses across his great mass like a funeral drum.
Driven by ancient synaptic whispers this eater of horrible flesh stirs…ensuring the great rolling horror show of nature.

[Doppelbock]

Here is a satirical news article I wrote yesterday. Sorry, it's rather long.

FIRST DRAFT OF POE'S "THE RAVEN" FOUND

NEW YORK, NY (AP Newsliar) — An early version of Edgar Allen Poe’s "The Raven" has been discovered in the upper west side building where the famed American poet and author once lived. A construction worker performing renovations on the old building found the bundle of papers when a wall section was demolished, revealing an unused closet space that was likely walled in over a hundred years ago.

Cornell University library archivist and Poe historian Dr. Oliver Clozoff has inspected the documents and verified their authenticity. The papers are an early draft of what would eventually become the famed poet’s best known work, "The Raven", and also contain a brief correspondence between Poe and editor George Rex Graham.

A transcription of the papers follows.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Graham,

Please find enclosed my poem "The Raven" which I am submitting for your consideration as an entry in your esteemed publication "Graham’s Magazine."

Your humble servant,
Edgar A. Poe

* * * * * * * * * *

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, drunk and bleary,
Over many a tattered page of newsprint from two days before,
While I squatted, pants a-flapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As I sat in silence, crapping — rapping at my outhouse door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my outhouse door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
As I held my poor sick member, dripping down upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
Surcease from my sickly sorrow: disease caught from some cheap whore,
On one of my sojourns to the rougher parts of Baltimore,
Nameless here forevermore.

And the quiet wooden squeaking of the front step, softly creaking
Scared me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
Said I now, with thund'rous farting, and my poor John Thomas smarting,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my shithouse door,
This it is, and nothing more."

Reaching, as my soul grew bolder, for the toilet paper holder,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was crapping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my outhouse door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness spying, while the ointment I’m applying,
Dabbing, putting cream on parts of me that are quite sore;
And the silence quite disheartened, broken briefly as I farted,
And the only word imparted was a whispered "Baltimore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured right back, "Baltimore!"
Made me think of that old whore.

Back into the outhouse turning, my sore member still quite burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat lower than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something down the outhouse hole.
Let me see, then, what the noise is, and this mystery explore –
Let me take a gander in the pit beneath the outhouse floor –
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"

Peering down the shithouse gutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Up there came a mangy raven, covered all with shitty gore.
Not the least obeisance made he; smelling like a three-month old brie;
And with drippings of poo and pee, perched above the outhouse door.
Perched upon a half-moon cutout, just atop the outhouse door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the fecal drippings on the countenance it wore,
"Though thy feathers be shit splattered, thou," I said, "dost thought it mattered,
Ancient raven, I am flattered, that you’ve shown up at my door.
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Chancroid sore."

And the raven, sitting lonely on that outhouse door, spoke only
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one phrase he did outpour.
Nothing further did he utter, not a feather did he flutter;
Till I came to softly mutter, "Other girls I’ve known before;
But with sorrow and regret I know it must have been that whore."
The bird agreed: "Chancroid sore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy owner, womanless and bashful loner,
Seeking to succor his boner, went to find a two-bit whore –
Till contracting the same sickness I’ve now had three weeks or more –
Of such painful chancroid sore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I sat upon the throne in front of bird, half-moon in door;
Then upon the toilet stinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, shit-stained and dripping, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Chancroid sore."

Then, methought, the air grew fouler, perfumed by this outhouse prowler,
Stirred by wings whose swift beatings flung shit upon the wooden floor.
"Wretch," I cried, “Satan hath sent thee – from hell’s foul depths, to torment me –
Guilt and pain and suffering, reminding me of filthy whore!
O amnesia, help me to forget that tramp in Baltimore!"
Quoth the raven, "Chancroid sore."

"Demon!" said I, "thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, though the wrong field I have played in,
Though I’ve clasped a tainted maiden, tell me truly, I implore:
Though the wrong bed I have laid in, will I be sick evermore?"
Quoth the raven, "Chancroid sore."

"Be that phrase our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –
"Get thee back into the outhouse shit hole dug beneath the floor!
Leave no black plume as a token of the whore of whom we’ve spoken!
Leave the silence quite unbroken! Speak about her nevermore!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Chancroid sore."

And the raven, never flitting, dripping filthy shit, still sitting
In the half-moon cutout at the apex of my outhouse door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
So I went inside and got some duct tape from a kitchen drawer;
And I bound his filthy beak, that what happens in Baltimore
Forever stays in Baltimore!

* * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Poe,

I am declining your request for publication of this poem. I found your use of symbolism to be quite effective — the raven representing a mournful, guilty, and never-ending remembrance of an episode best forgotten — but the overall subject matter to be quite distasteful. As usual, you come off three-fifths genius and two-fifths pure shite. I entreat you to re-pen this poem with the theme being the author’s conflict between desiring to both forget and to remember a lost love — a lost love of a more pure nature than, say, some trollop from Baltimore.

With regards,
George R. Graham

[HarleyQuinn]

I hate writing poetry in general but here's one (This was from 2005)

Following the Lead of Felix Nussbaum
The glittering
reflection was motionless
Lighted path
stepped upon often

Whooshes rang
through the air
Voices kept
silent whilst trudging

Trees swayed
oblivious to losses
Bitter sky
sported gray again
Brief excerpt from a 5 page short story called 40 Minutes

“I’m a horrible cook, probably explains my lack of a suitor. About the best I can do is macaroni and cheese in the microwave, and even that’s liable to end with three alarms blaring.” I can’t help but smile to myself. Normally I’m never this open, of course, this is an exceptional situation in an exceptional day, but I wonder if I’m doing this on purpose. I can’t really be trying to connect with Mr. Hutton, can I? “What?”

I shake my head out of my reverie as his eyes flicker to his rearview mirror. “Find a Mr. Right that can cook, and you won’t have no issues bustlin’ ‘round the kitchen. ‘Course, I ain’t much of a cook myself either.” He grins up at the mirror. He has a crown on three teeth on the lower left side. “Last time I cooked, damn near set fire to the buildin’, damn toaster not poppin’ up properly.” I glance at my watch, then flicker my eyes out the window to get an approximation of where we are. Twenty seven minutes to go and we are roughly twenty minutes away.

“If only men could be found that easily,” I laugh. “Who knows? Maybe my suitor in armor will bump into me when I walk around campus.”

He nods his head, slamming the brakes hard suddenly, causing my briefcase to clatter on the floor, and me to brace a hand on the leather next to me to hold myself from smashing forward. “Damn drivers. Don’t teach etiquette on the road no more, nuh-uh. Nowadays, people drivin’ around like they own the damn place. For what? If was up to me, I’d send every punk to jail who couldn’t follow the signs.”

“Yet taxi cabs are notorious for speed. At least in cities Northeast of Philadelphia.”

“Don’t be lumpin’ all us drivers together. I got friends who are right outta their gourds, just bonkers behind the wheel. Pay me one thousand bucks, and I still ain’t gettin’ in that passenger seat. However, people like me, we respectful, and aware of what’s going on ‘round us.” The gas pedal gets slammed as we zip through a yellow light, and I hit the back of the seat with a muffled whump. “Besides, at least we gettin’ paid to drive folks around. The rest of ya ain’t earning nothin’ and ya still acting like you all are racin’ the Indy 500.”

“Time is of the essence, or that’s what the public likes to believe anyway.”

[Rei]

Snippets?

Back when I still had tonnes of time on my hands I wrote spin off stories of really cool books etc.

This is to a degree embarrassing... it's from several years ago, haven't been proof-read for confusing lapses of parts of action scenes I left in my head... so don't expect anything amazing.
“Faelis, we’re counting on you.” A hoarse voice was saying. “Find the royal kid and bring the kid to me. Kill the others.”
“Consider it done my friend, another voice replied. For someone agreeing to such an intense mission, the voice sounded no more concerned than agreeing to go for a stroll in the park.
“The rest of you scoundrels take the walls. Once you get in, do whatever you want, take whatever pleases you.” A roar sounded through the musty room before it’s occupants each picked up their respective weapons and prepared themselves for the upcoming battle.







He slipped into the castle with no trouble, going through the now-deserted servant passages. All the servants were busy helping at the hospital or trying to keep the castle clean under these crowded conditions. Too predictable, the boy thought, a tall figure standing in front of a large walnut door.
“I have news from Princess Arya,” he lied smoothly. The door swung open almost instantly revealing a small girl of ten years. The innocent curls and eager blue eyes almost made Faelis forget his mission.
When the girl saw who was at the door, she jumped back instantly, upsetting a small birdcage by the door. She took a small knife from her bodice.
“Who are you!” her small voice demanded with all the courage any one person could possible posses.

Outside, the bandits were beginning to take control of the outer walls. The first defense had been breached.
“Fall back!” a boy, nearly 16 called to his comrades. What was left of the archers followed him to the trapdoor which leads to the second wall, 20 feet apart from the first. Meanwhile, many broke out their swords to fight off attackers that tried to follow.
“Dryad! It’s Pip!” one of the soldiers called.
“What?” the boy looked followed the speaker’s gaze. “you guys go on, I’m going to to go check on Ayrll.” He blew a sharp whistle calling the small BIRD* to him. As soon as the bird gave him it’s attention, he called to it “Ayrll,” and it set off. He followed it toward the castle.
Panic washed through him as he ran. Someone must have slipped in amongst the chaos. Image of his younger sister laying dead in her own room swimming in his mind made him run faster. Going to through a window a level above Ayrll’s room, he treaded softly on it’s roof. In no time, he swung himself through her bedroom window, coincidentally putting himself between the intruder and his sister.
“Who are you!”
“My, you certainly love to ask that question around here. Though I’m quite sure what you really want to know, is why I’m here.” The older boy took a step toward them. “Get out of my way kid. I’m not in the mood to kill anyone today.”
“I didn’t come to step away and let you kill my sister.” Dryad replied in a hiss, drawing his sword, the royal emblem flashed in the light.
“Ah, prince. In armour, I like that. What a perfect disguise, I though you were one of the idiots out there.” Faelis replied, jerking his head toward the window. “but with an entrance like that, I should have known.”
“Quit with the bullshit. If you’re going to try to take Ayrll, you’ll have to get through me.”
“Alright, well I’m actually here for the both of you. But if it’s a fight you want, then it’s a fight you’ll get. I’ve been hoping to clash blades with an Usbeornay swordsman; and now with the Prince no less.”
Dryad urged Ayrll toward the other side of the room; and the two paced a circle around the centre of the room. The prince held his sword on guard, and Faelis lunged, towering over the slim boy. Dryad would not match him for strength, but surpassed him in speed as he shifter to the left, letting the blow glance off his sword.
“Impressive Prince, let’s see how long you’ll last.” This continued over several exchanges, Dryad being able to parry the attack one way or another. However, this had also pushed him back. The prince dodged next blow, and slipped behind his opponent with the edge of his sword running across Faelis’ throat.
“Kill me,” Faelis said simply. He was impressed by the young boy’s skill, but aware of his weakness.
“Get out and don’t let me see you again.” Dryad replied in a controlled growl. Faelis gave a small nod and leaped out the window into the chaos of battle raging below.

“What happened?” Dryad asked the 10-yearold who presently slipped out from behind a hidden door in the wall.
“He said he had news from Rya.”
“I did tell you not to open the door dir anyone didn’t I? I’d bring you the news personally.”
“Well you were fighting, I assumed you asked someone to pass the message.” The girl replied in a small voice. It was obvious she wanted to be involved in something, anything. Opening his mouth, he bit back the urge to yell at her, he understood her intentions. Just a week ago, he would feel the same, being locked up in his room, helpless. Had his father been alive, he would never have been allowed out of the castle doors.
“I wish you would be more careful, I can’t guarantee I’ll get here the next time. You’ve just caused me to abandon my men out there. Maybe you should go down to the medical ward. Keep out of trouble. Plus, a few dozen more eyes watching out for you doesn’t hurt. They need the help, take note how many people are there, hurt trying to defend you.” He said gently despite his anger.
A horn sounded somewhere west of their position.
“Fanelia, nee-san’s** back.” A look at his sister’s expression made him add, “follow close,” as he sheathed his sword and Aryll her knife. He swept down the corridor with his sister trotting to keep up with his commanding strides. They stepped into the balcony…


* reminder to research and select the perfect species of bird
** Japanese term for sister (affectionate/respectful)

EDIt: I just read what I wrote, and found statements I made for the idiot reader painfully obvious. *must make note to fix these*

Something I wrote for a school assignment sometime in gr 10 or something. (God, it's been ages since I've written poetry, kind of sad really.) It had to have something to do with an animal. Only thing my teacher ever gave me a high mark on, and it was only because she thought my partner wrote it. Of course, my partner was the drama girl, so I ended up making her do the act-out for it, so I was charged with the poem.
The Griffin
Under a tree I sat,
A book, cool in my hands.

Damp air encircled me.
Cheerful chirps of sparrows flooded my ears.
Sunlight shone through the dense leaves,
Dappled the ground on which I sat.
The fragrant aroma of willow,
Came from the towering tree above me.
Wind blew through the willow’s limbs,
Like the green-golden hair of fair forest spirits.

Opening the book, my hands shook.
A wave of blinding light swept over me as I read.

Into the book I fell,

Feathers tickled my neck,
Ears shrunk and disappeared from view,
As copper, auricular feathers grew over supple skin.
Wide ribs rounded out,
Shoulder blades glided forward,
Forcing me on what was now thickly padded fore claws.
A tingling sensation near my spine’s end,
Was the growing of a lion’s tail.
Large wings burst out from behind my shoulder blades,
Gold brimmed feathers sprouted from them.
They spread over my withers,
Around my neck and down muscled chest.
Sleek fur covered my body.

The tree I stood by was dwarfed by my size.
With my head held high,
I stood proudly gazing at my surroundings.
The sun shone highlighting my golden-brown feathers,
And copper sleek hide.
I took a graceful step forward,
Muscles rippled under my skin.
An aura of majesty surrounded me.
Truth and beauty was my purpose.

Looking above, an urge to fly came over me,
With a beat of my great wings,
I was airborne.
Warm air whistled through my feathers,
As I glided easily through the air.
A sense of freedom coursed through me.

Ignorant insects swarmed over a pond,
Whisking them away with my powerful tail,
With a stroke of my wings I rose,
Higher into the heavens, above all else.

[Firelie]

Here is a satirical news article I wrote yesterday. Sorry, it's rather long.

Oh Doppelbock, you scamp! That nearly had me cackling at work. Did you do the poem too, or just the news part?

[Doppelbock]

Oh Doppelbock, you scamp! That nearly had me cackling at work. Did you do the poem too, or just the news part?

I did the whole thing, lol.

thanks,
DB

[Capt57]

Nice work Doppelbock, Edgar is a guilty pleasure.

[Paul V]

I cannot believe I have not noticed this earlier.

This is what I do in another forum, I help writers of fan fiction with their works.

BadMojo: The first one is very funny, and stunningly witty. Too bad it loses effectiveness all by itself. The other one is quite good, but leaves you craving for more. What happens afterwards?

Tsuru: The first one is very well described, I can really imagine the old evil captain. Too bad the main character is absolutely and completely inane. The other one is disgusting, but in a very good way. I can't help but wonder how it all ends. Will his fat be destroyed? Or will it become a source of evil and obesity?

Capt57: It's overall very good, but "drum" doesn't rhyme with the rest of the words, and there's a lack of flow in the second verse (too many syllables).

Doppelbock: Hah! I've once did that very same deed. Rewriting "The Raven" is indeed a rather hard task. I have been unable to finish that task, due to its sheer difficulty. It was magnificent, your work, I laughed out loud several times. Excellent!

HarleyQuinn: The poem is... nice, I suppose. I apologise, but I'm utterly useless when it comes to poetry. I was simply unable to see the greater meaning behind the words. The story was ok, but I was unable to determine the gender of the narrator, nor any other important feature about him/her. I suppose it is a woman, for the flirting, but then again, I've read too much yaoi to be completely sure of that fact. It'd do you a lot better if you'd allow us to see into her mind more.

Rei: The story is enthralling... but too fast paced. Even if that was your intention. There are virtually no descriptions of the surroundings, of the people, of the actions, nothing. You're also missing some punctuation marks here and there. But you have a wonderful plot, and it's a true shame that something so trivial like style deters the reader's attention from it. The poem is truly beautiful, I must say. Due to my inability for poetry, I'm unable to say anything more.

I hope this was useful to all of you, I'll see if I can dig out some works in English from the other forum.

[Capt57]

Nice work Paul V, appreciate your time and insights.

[Rei]

Thanks for the insight PaulV.

I usually get a comment that I delve in too much detail rather than too little. You're right, it does seem a bit rushed (though I think, when you stick it where it was meant to be - in the middle of a story - it should turn out alright). I think the lack of description is due to my utter inability to put sieges into words... there's way too much happening and not having introduced any other characters in the setting before hand makes it hard to write anything specific other than the main direction of the scene. I'll keep that in mind and rewrite this part... when I have some time on my hands....

The writing of this story has been stretched out over so many years that I think by the time I finish, I'll have to write it all over again - because the style in the first half is so different from the rest of it.

[OneBadMother]

I come up with more ideas than I do full stories, but here's some of my better work.

The Hermit

In a land where gusts of frigid wind oft chilled me to the bone
I took solace on a mountain by a hermit carved of stone.
On days of thaw a smile from his furrowed brow outshone
That I thought had been directed then to me and me alone.

But behind the shining smile still there lies a heart of stone
For the seeds to reap its nourishment have never yet been sown.
He sits high upon his mountaintop, a hermit hewn of stone,
A masterwork for me to see, but never mine to own.

This screenplay was written for a screenwriting class where the assignment was to convey a story without any dialogue.

FADE IN:

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD – DAY

6-year-old KATIE walks out the front door of her typical suburban house. It is early morning in autumn, one where the leaves are just turning brown and a few stray leaves get blown off the trees by the wind. The sun just barely peeks over the horizon. A school bus sits next to the sidewalk that lines the street.

The bus honks. Katie approaches.

She turns to face the house one last time, waves, and bounces smiling through the bus door.

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE – DAY

DANA, mid-30's, smiles back and turns away from the window. She sighs in relief.

She turns her gaze to the kitchen counter. Katie forgot to take her lunch!

Grabbing the phone, Dana punches in the speed-dial for MARK.

INT. MARK'S OFFICE – DAY

There is a picture of Dana and Katie on the desk, but alas, not a soul in sight. The phone rings out into emptiness.

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE – DAY

Dana slams down the phone. She grabs the little brown lunch bag.

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE'S GARAGE – DAY

Dana runs out into the garage and looks about. Garden utensils, a bag of soil, a toolbox, and a lawnmower. No vehicles!

She jabs a button on the wall.

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD – DAY

Dana rushes out of the opening garage door and bolts down the sidewalk, lunch still in hand. Kindly old MR. MACGREGOR next door waves hello. She charges right into him, knocking him right off his feet.

The sun's getting higher. Dana skids to a halt. Little girls are playing jump rope on a front lawn.

More importantly, a pink bicycle with tassles and a little white woven basket attached the front sits unguarded on the sidewalk.

It's now or never.
Dana snatches the bike and tosses the lunch into the little basket.

Though she's a little big for it, she clambers onto the little bike, peddling away.

The girls drop the jump rope and run a little distance after her, but to no avail. One of the girls pulls out a dog whistle and blows on it, conjuring a Chihuahua from the backyard. The DOG gives chase.

Dana, spying a steep dip in the sidewalk ahead, leans forward and pumps her legs on the pedals, speeding down the hill. The dog lags behind.

Finally he collapses halfway, belly-up, as Dana disappears into the distance.

EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY

Dana bikes out onto the highway, speeding down the roadside.

INT. SEDAN – DAY

The driver stares at the traffic ahead, then Dana. Dana is going much faster than him.

EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY

But not fast enough. The sun is now at its near-noon zenith. She needs something faster. Something with horsepower.

Something like a Harley-Davidson.

Grabbing the lunch, Dana shoves the tough-looking MOTORCYCLIST off his bike and hops onto it, hitting the gas.

The girl's bike lies ditched besides the motorcyclist, pink sparkly tassels and all. He looks at it and weeps.

Dana weaves between the lanes, past a police car.

INT. POLICE CAR – DAY

A COP spots Dana. He frowns and picks up his radio transmission device.

EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY

As if on signal, the bridge ahead starts folding up.
Dana revs up the motor, VROOMS up the ramp...

...and just BARELY clears the distance between the bridge halves.

INT. SCHOOL CAFETERIA – DAY

It's lunchtime. Katie sits all alone at one of the many tables.
Suddenly, Dana skids through the doorway on her motorcycle. Everyone stops what they're doing and stare in slack-jawed awe.

After a beat, Dana tosses the brown paper lunch bag onto Katie's table. Then, revving up the motor, she makes a sharp U-turn and zooms right back out.

There is a stunned silence as everyone's brains try to register this.

It doesn’t last long. Kids crowd around Katie, waving their arms and babbling all at once.

One of the kids points at the doorway, then Katie. She nods.

The kids move to sit at Katie's table.

[cylontoaster]

Here's a snippet of a fanfic I wrote a couple years ago.

I've been writing recently but the stories are too incoherent at the moment to put anything down. Sorry if its a bit too long. It was hard finding a section that could stand on its own.

When the scratching and screaming started, Alphonse decided to turn on the silencer. He flipped a little gray switch with the tip of his pinky, and smiled when the immediate silence hit his ears.

Ah, silence.

Silence was nice. It was wonderful indeed. People said that the silence between the notes was what made music so enjoyable, but of course… well, silence was just not his thing.

Action! Excitement! Adventure!

Now, those were the things that Alphonse lived for. And who else but he, the great Alphonse Edward Stevenson, could spice up people’s lives and bring joy into their little cold hearts? Alphonse was the center of attention, he loved noise and excitement and fun, but there was a limit to what Alphonse could tolerate. Listening to wailing and screaming and pounding all day can only give a man so much pleasure.

So, for the moment Alphonse just wanted to talk, and since his partner was one of those silent and sulking types, he would be the one to spark a conversation in this hot little hell hole of theirs.

“Tell me this, Fred—” Alphonse began sickeningly sweet voice.

“For the last time, my name isn’t Fred--”

“—if a tree were to fall in a forest, and there was no one around to hear it— ”

“My name is Boma damn it, and don’t you dare finish that sentence.” His partner slammed a fist against the data tablets.

Alphonse paused, and looked at his easily excitable friend. Fred was such a simple man really, all Alphonse had to do was push a few buttons and he would bare his teeth, just the same as the last time. Toying with Fred was such predictable but wholesome fun

“Okay, how about this then,” Alphonse smiled and began again, “If a tree were to fall in a forest fire--”

“A forest fire?” Boma interjected.

“—what exactly would happen?”

“The tree would burn,” Boma answered.

“So says the pessimist,” Alphonse said, beaming with amusement at the other man’s furrowed brow. “You always look at things in only one way.”

“And what’s wrong with that? Fire burns things. It destroys things, obviously.”

“Ah, but what does it do in the process to the forest itself?”

“What does it do to the forest?” Boma repeated, exasperated. “Would you please tell me again why I should give a damn?”

Alphonse ignored him, and lectured on with the snottiest tone he could manage. “Well my dear friend, in the process of burning, the fire rejuvenates. A forest fire always brings the forest back to life. It clears away the sickly trees, gets rid of the underbrush, and puts nutrients back into the ground.” Alphonse paused. “So what happens when there isn’t a forest fire?”

Boma rubbed his forehead to ease his headache. “Shouldn’t it be clear then, that the tree just falls?”

“You’re missing the point again. The forest is sick because there hasn’t been a fire in ages. So the tree that fell is now extra fuel for fire. And the forest just keeps on getting sicklier as brush and undergrowth pile up.”

“And what’s the harm in that?”

“Well what happens when a spark comes by? Just a small flame?”

“It’ll burn.” Boma stated.

Alphonse grinned like his face was going to break. “Yes, Fred It’ll burn,” he said, “and when it does burn, it doesn’t just burn the stuff underneath, this time it’ll have so much fuel that it’ll reach the tops of the crowns of the big giant trees, and then everything will burn. That fire will get so big and hot that it’ll consume every branch, every twig, and every leaf. It’ll leave nothing but ash and dirt.”

“As I said before, fire destroys things.”

“And it rejuvenates.” Alphonse hummed with excitement, “After a very long time, something else will sprout there in that scorched earth, and turn into another lush and green forest.”

Boma just starred at him. “Wonderful. But I have yet to see a point in this conversation.”

“Oh? I sure thought it did.”

Boma took a deep breath, “Enough of this. Just press the red button, Alphonse.”

Red button… Red button… Oh that red button!

Alphonse turned around to look through the one way screen. He had almost forgotten about them with the silencer turned on. How shameful, to be neglecting his duties!

Behind the one way screen, they looked like they always did, dirty and below him, but something was different today. Today, these people were quite the screamers. Two of them men were pounding against the wall, others were wailing and crying. On most days, the people would just sit there and stare at the wall. This batch was much more… energetic.

Out of the corner of his eye Alphonse caught one long grimy face looking back through that one way screen. It was as if he could actually see Alphonse. But see him? They weren’t supposed to be able to see him. It was a one way screen! But still the old man looked at Alphonse, piecing the depths of his soul. And what was that man’s look on his face? Somehow it disgusted Alphonse. And what was it? Was it sadness? Was it anger? No—it was something much simpler than that. It was pity.

Pity for them? Save it for yourself, fool.

“What are you waiting for? Just press the button,” Boma repeated.

The old man bore into his soul and Alphonse smiled right back.

“—ello are you even listening to me? Would you push the goddamn butt--”

How fun! To end it all with a press of a button! How amazing it was to set off something so great with something so little.

A single push, to release the light—a wave of temperature and pressure—to incinerate, to destroy, to create a thousand shards of crystal gold. This power…

…all at the tips of his fingers.

Alphonse pushed the button.

The man’s face disappeared in a sea of white.

And somewhere, in a place where no one heard it, another tree fell in the forest.

[Paul V]

Nice work Paul V, appreciate your time and insights.

No problem! It's what I love to do! :thumbsup:

Thanks for the insight PaulV.

I usually get a comment that I delve in too much detail rather than too little. You're right, it does seem a bit rushed (though I think, when you stick it where it was meant to be - in the middle of a story - it should turn out alright). I think the lack of description is due to my utter inability to put sieges into words... there's way too much happening and not having introduced any other characters in the setting before hand makes it hard to write anything specific other than the main direction of the scene. I'll keep that in mind and rewrite this part... when I have some time on my hands....

The writing of this story has been stretched out over so many years that I think by the time I finish, I'll have to write it all over again - because the style in the first half is so different from the rest of it.

No problem. I honestly love reading the works of nubile writers, before they're corrupted by success, and their work becomes an obvious cashcow to be milked.

You're right, in the right place of the story, this can go unnoticed. However, an easy way to add some flesh to the writing without distracting the reader is to present an introduction to the siege, from the eyes of a bird or a ghost. Pick someone who can see everything from a detached point of view and start by describing what he/she/it sees, one thing at a time. And don't go omniscient narrator on the reader, just describe what they would see if they were incorporeal, invisible and aerial.

While that sounds disheartening, you should try to do one little thing at a time.

OneBadMother: The Hermit is sad and beautiful. It flows very well and the rhyme is quite good. However, I miss the meaning behind it (as I usually do with poetry). Who's the Hermit? What does it represent? Is there hope for him? Who is the narrator? What's the message behind the poem? Those might be blindingly obvious for others, but I suck at that...

I laughed out loud at the screenplay. It was excellent. Though perhaps I would've liked to see the mother dealing with everything she had to do to get there (the cops, the little girl's bicycle, the motorcyclist, the husband, etc). But it's really, really good.

cylontoaster: I love fanfics... What fandom is it from?

Oh, wow. Oh, my. Oh, dear. It's simply so beautiful, and so sad! Though I'm sure you know we (the readers) want to know more about that man who showed pity, and we definetely want Alphonse and Fred to pay. Oh, yes, we want them to pay for this senseless waste of human life.

[OneBadMother]

Thank you! Originally I was going to have the cop confront her directly, but I didn't know how she'd possibly wriggle her way out of it. Length limit was somewhat of a concern too.

The seed of the screenplay idea came from a Chef Boyardee commercial, of all things. The one where the Tin Man is running or something. I think it was the idea of schoolchildren and a chase.

As for The Hermit, I noticed that as I went through its revision process its meaning became more and more oblique. It's not too deep. Basically, it's a love poem, the only one I've been able to write with some measure of sincerity. I hope there's hope for the hermit, but while I appreciate him greatly, that hope doesn't seem to rest with me. But perhaps one day he'll find someone he admires, who also reciprocates.

[Rei]

No problem. I honestly love reading the works of nubile writers, before they're corrupted by success, and their work becomes an obvious cashcow to be milked.

You're right, in the right place of the story, this can go unnoticed. However, an easy way to add some flesh to the writing without distracting the reader is to present an introduction to the siege, from the eyes of a bird or a ghost. Pick someone who can see everything from a detached point of view and start by describing what he/she/it sees, one thing at a time. And don't go omniscient narrator on the reader, just describe what they would see if they were incorporeal, invisible and aerial.

While that sounds disheartening, you should try to do one little thing at a time.

Good suggestion. I have seen it done... can't believe I didn't think of that. Thanks!

Darn... now I feel like writing, but I can't :irked:

[Paul V]

Thank you! Originally I was going to have the cop confront her directly, but I didn't know how she'd possibly wriggle her way out of it. Length limit was somewhat of a concern too.

The seed of the screenplay idea came from a Chef Boyardee commercial, of all things. The one where the Tin Man is running or something. I think it was the idea of schoolchildren and a chase.

As for The Hermit, I noticed that as I went through its revision process its meaning became more and more oblique. It's not too deep. Basically, it's a love poem, the only one I've been able to write with some measure of sincerity. I hope there's hope for the hermit, but while I appreciate him greatly, that hope doesn't seem to rest with me. But perhaps one day he'll find someone he admires, who also reciprocates.

No problem! :) She could punch him and get away?

Never seen it, but I'm sure it must be hilarious.

ATo view links or images in this forum your post count must be 2 or greater. You currently have 0 posts. Still so sad. Perhaps we all know Hermits in our daily lives (or perhaps, WE are), and we'd wish for them to find someone who cares for them. Sigh.

Good suggestion. I have seen it done... can't believe I didn't think of that. Thanks!

Darn... now I feel like writing, but I can't :irked:

No problem! I don't mind at all receiving PMs asking for advice (though I may answer them late, depending on how often I log in).

Yes you can! All you have to do is find yourself some quiet time every day, and you're all set.

[BadMojo]

What the.. The thread has become active. Woohoo :D

@ Paul
Thanks for your comment. I appreciate it :)

[Paul V]

This is a small snippet of a fanfic I'm writing in fanfiction.net, called "Surviving the Aftermath".

“Billy, help!” It was all he heard. And it was all he needed to hear to know she was in deep trouble.

He had started to run the second he had heard the unnatural screams of the creatures, and he was still running when he had heard her soul-tearing plea for help. He had killed the abominations of white fur that prevented him from reaching Rebecca, but when he knelt down at the edge of the hole in the floor, he almost gave up. She was too far down, way out of his reach and holding on to a rusty pipe for dear life. He couldn’t get to her without a rope or a…

“Billy…” She had uttered, looking up to him, panting heavily.

“Don’t let go.” He had barked at her. He started remembering the mansion’s layout, trying to find the quickest way towards the second basement.

“I… can’t hold much longer.” She had whispered, and he just thought ‘Fuck it’.

“Don’t you dare let go, you hear me? It’s a fucking order!” He yelled, as he made a run for the door. There was no time to lose. He began a nightmarish race through the abandoned mansion, passing by the corpses of giant spiders, former inhabitants and other unspeakable horrors.

He had had to kill things on the fly, jump over obstacles, guess Rebecca’s direction and even break through a door. But he had managed to get to her on time. She had been slipping from the slippery pipe, a quarter of an inch at a time, sweaty hands trying to keep her from falling into an abyss of death and darkness, and she couldn’t hold on any longer, he had been too late, she was going to fall, her fingernails scratched the rust one last time before completely losing their grip…

“I got you.” He had panted, as he pulled her away from her untimely death. “I got you.”

And she had started crying. She had cried with relief, with fear, with gratitude and with happiness. She had cried on his shoulder. He had held her in a warm embrace. And when she had wiped away the tears, she had looked at him with appreciation and she had thanked him sincerely. For a brief moment, Billy had felt happy and satisfied, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Until she had made the dooming question.

“Billy… tell me the truth. Did you really kill all those people?” She had asked him, and any shred of happiness in him vanished. But she had looked at him with such honest and unassuming eyes, that he broke and told her everything. Bitter and enraged, he had told her absolutely everything in detail, from the landing in the jungles of Africa to the seconds prior to the attack in the Arklay forest. And she still did not judge him.

It's Resident Evil, in case you hadn't noticed. ;)

[ginandsour]

Here's the opening of a short story I was fiddling with a while back. I don't know what happens next, so into the shoebox it went!

Max told me once on the way to school he didn’t mind not having a father because this meant he got to collect them.

“What’s it like?” I asked, and he half shrugged at me from under his Tuesday camouflage and said, “He gets to be whoever I want, Sophie. He tells stories, like your dad does and he’s smart like Mr. Andrews.” We passed the national cemetery; flags dodged snow flurries for Veteran’s Day.

“Is it like collecting things? My dad collects things. Last year it was drinking glasses.”

“The ones in the windows at Nostalgia?”

“It’s Dad’s favorite shop. We must have a dozen we’re not allowed to use. Julia says the metal causes age spots.” The year before was china sets, Nanking Cargo and Dresden styles. I know about them because Dad knows about them. He spent weekends repairing the chips while I wished he were like Linda’s dad, who took her camping, or Max’s dad, who was like God in that you knew he had to exist but never saw him.

Max’s eyes settled onto even rows of headstones, traced perfect lines heading to their mausoleum vanishing point. Max said that maybe one of these men was his father. How I met Max was here, in stretched shadows of crosses and apple trees, last edge of summer turning the pages of the book in his lap, something called Leviathan. I knew he wanted the season to turn so he could go back. Max seemed to fit there, he wasn’t like sunflowers people planted at the edge of the cemetery that were too strong and sharp, and so when Max said maybe somebody here was his Dad, I nodded.

My Dad came home that night with an antique clock. Julia asked why bought old things, when he could just turn on The History Channel like everyone else, but there it was, sitting on the mantle above the stockings my sister Gina labeled with glitter paint. She was mad at me the day she made them and wrote Sophie in pink letters on mine.

“I hate pink. It’s not even a Christmas color.”

“Why can’t you be more of a girl?” my sister asked. She popped her gum over her braces, red and green rubber bands for the holidays. “You aren’t wearing any of the makeup Mom bought you.”

I thought about the tube of lipstick upstairs on my dresser. I tried to wear some the way the woman at the counter showed me, but my lips turned into a dark red M, the way a child draws a bird in the sky and it took two days to take all the color away.

“Julia doesn’t have a monopoly on what it means to be a girl,” I said.

“She’s your Mom, too,” said Gina.

The words not really shaped behind my teeth and I held them there because Julia came through the living room. She leaned over me and turned a light on.

“Don’t read in the dark, Sophie, you’ll get crow’s feet.”

Julia turned down her headphones as Dad refinished wood detail to complain that you had to wind up the clock. I listened to them from the living room.

“It’s out of style. This belongs in a nursing home.”

“It has character. Someone put their soul into this.” The sound of old rags moving along grain stopped. “Nobody did that to your iPod.”

I heard him start to say something else, but Julia clicked the volume back up from her sweater pocket and walked upstairs. Pills crashed into her hand over the faucet she ran whenever she used the bathroom. She complained that the house was a cave, and why couldn’t we live in the new development off Parker Street? The house was quiet for a moment except for the hum of muted commercials, and the rags started to move again.

Max and I filled out college applications together. I watched him write unknown for half his parental history, when he put his pen down and said, “I found something in the attic last night.” He showed me a picture of Max’s mom except she was younger than I’d ever seen her, almost our age. Her hair was a different color and she had her arm around a guy wearing an aviator jacket and corduroy pants. They were outside a building at night and behind them was a David Bowie poster.

“She saved the concert ticket,” Max said.

“Do you think it’s him?”

“I worked out the math.”

“He kinda looks like you,” I said. “You look more your Mom in the face, but I can see this guy in your shoulders.”

Max looked at the picture, then at his feet. “I guess I’m not getting much taller.”

“What else did you find?”

“Just this picture, a ticket stub, and a record. But I don’t know what’s on it. The cover’s missing.”

I thought for a minute. “My Dad has a player

[pavman]

You can check out what I've written....

Here (To view links or images in this forum your post count must be 2 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.)... and here (To view links or images in this forum your post count must be 2 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.).

I'll post the second link...

Poetic Ramblings

Oh forebode do we pretend
That in the evening we’re just friends;
But during light’s reflected beauty
Truth be told our every duty
Will one day be set aright
Of true love gained in the night.

How untethered we do think
Our actions lie there in the sink.
Truth be told the heart does wrench,
And suffer much egregiousness.
For in the end there’s nothing said,
Nothing gained, and nothing lost…
truly indifference bares a cost!

Oh heart of mine where do you lie?
In a heaven in the sky?
Or are you really underground,
In a tomb not to be found?
When will Wisdom set you free
And help end this misery?

For now the heart begins to fade,
And takes on a pale shade.
The sadness cuts apart the air,
And rips at that no longer there.
But true to hope and love once more,
We shall see what was before.

NOTE: All works are copyright. All rights reserved.

[Lei Yang]

A fragment of a story I am still trying to finish, but looks like it wants a novel-life of its own...


A tower stands on a yellow sea. The sinking sun has coloured the sky a sickly mellow. The grass grows darkly, blown dancing by the wind. The tower rises on the jagged rocks, an extension of the darkness setting in. The hillside swarms the sky, stretching for the waning sun.
On the highest floor of the tower is a man, pacing impatiently. His skin is the colour of the blowing grass, his hair and eyes the tone of the beating rocks. He paces the room in deep thought, without any consciousness of self, but in certain control of his every steady step.
On the nightstand is a sculpture, the only piece of art in the otherwise utilitarian apartment. It represents a tall man, bending, yet steady, as tempered steel under pressure. Beneath him is a chasm in the stone, pulling him downwards. Above him is the towering pressure of the skies. He lifts his arms in defiance, but his back is rank with pride. His hair is blown upwards, as if pressured by the gaseous hotness of the chasm. If one were to look closely, as the man in the tower undoubtedly has in his endless moments of solitude, one will find what appear to be wings on the back of the statue, almost as if the man were to have grown wings. But these wings are charred, there are holes, and surely they are only stones in the background, mistaken for wings.

EDIT: Now that I read through it I really want to fix it, even this short excerpt, SO many OBVIOUS references to Rand that it's embarassing.

[thephoenix1414]

here's a piece of a current project:
Vapor Boiled. Air Rose. The clouds bubbled and frothed in an ascending fury that flattened as it collided with the stratosphere. An Anvil, Thor's Anvil. Mjolnir hammered and sparks burst forth as lightning that rent the sky and illuminated the darkening world. Melting, shaping, testing the mettle of men, not metal of the world.
He watched the progress of the thundercloud from his porch. It was sunset and the rolling hills and forests were visible only as silhouettes until their color was revealed in the brief flashes of light. In blue light, green revealed against a red sky. Primary colors for a brief instant, the basic truths rendered in pure energy. Thread of the World. Connecting earth and sky, light and energy. He knew he wasn't the only one who could see it, something as massive as the thundercloud could not be viewed by only one. But it is a singular judge and when held in its power we are alone.

critique please!