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 Posted: Mon Sep 04, 2006 1:34 pm
for my stories I tend to type it in third person. For my poems, since I cant really rhyme, I free style I guess. Example of my poetry. Cruel loveIs it true?
Could it be?
That you no longer love me the way you promised so long ago
My eyes filled with shock
Sorrow
And disbelief
As I stood there my hair fringed with the fires of desolation
Youre standing there stiffly, eyes not meeting my own as if not wanting to show your true emotions
Hurts me more than I will ever let the world know
Theres nothing left for me now that our cruel world has taken your heart from me
So as I turn away a single tear falls from my eyes
And it was final,
There was nothing left for me in this cruel world
So I let go
I flew into the waters of a cruel death
Then it was over just like that
The end for me
As I floated away
And the stillness took over.
As it would forever
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Posted: Tue Sep 19, 2006 2:52 pm
I write fantasy that has an interesting view. For the bad things, i really go into detail, making my readers wince (or at least try to) and for happy moments, usually at the end, I try to... i don't know how to describe my 'book writing mode'. and, in poetry, one of my poems stay in one motive!
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Posted: Sat Oct 14, 2006 4:52 pm
I like writing poetry and I have written several pieces of fan fiction. Recently I have even started writing my own novel though I haven't got a name for it yet. Unfortunately I haven’t had a lot of time to work on it lately with the end of the school year coming up but I hope to spend lots of time on it over the holidays.
Here is an excerpt:
“Chief wants to see you. Rather urgently too by the sound of it.”
“Wonderful.” Lucy walked with Alphonse down the corridor to the large office at the end. She knocked politely at the great oak door and waited.
For what seemed a long time, nothing happened. Then the thin reedy voice of Mrs. Frens, the chief's secretary, floated out to them through the keyhole. “Come in Miss. McMillan.”
Lucy smiled at Alphonse, then turned the brass door handle and pushed the door open.
“Ah, Madam Lucy. It’s been such a long time. I'm sorry we had to cut short your time off, but we've got a spot of bother.” The small, gray haired man sat watching her with twinkling eyes.
“So I've been informed.” Lucy smiled back. The chief winked at Alphonse, who then turned and walked back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
“Please, take a seat.” The chief offered her a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Lucy smiled again. When she was seated, the Chief continued.
“As you are probably aware, most of our efforts lately have gone into protecting Professor Harredon and his latest invention, the Hydra Helix Drive. The thing is, last night we get a report that it was stolen.” He snapped his figures. “Just like that, and no one saw anything.”
“You mean it just disappeared?”
“Precisely. And you know even for the best of us, that's not an easy trick to pull.”
“Hmm. Any clues at all?”
“Just one.” He nodded to Mrs. Frens who brought over a small silver horn.
“This was found outside the warehouse where the Helix drive was being stored. It doesn't belong to any of our people who were working there at the time. Nor does it belong to any one on Valliant squad”.
He handed the horn to Lucy, who began to examine the object carefully.
“Most curios.”
“Indeed. We're in real trouble Lucy. That drive is capable of producing huge amounts of power from very little, if it was to be used in a weapon there could be disastrous results.”
“Best do something about it then.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth. Lucy I would like to introduce you to someone.” He stood and gestured with his hand for her to stand up and turn around.
Mrs. Frens opened the door and a tall young man stepped into the room.
“Miss Lucy McMillan. Mr. John Smith. You two are going to working together to recover the stolen drive and ether return it safely or destroy it if it proves necessary.”
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Posted: Mon Oct 16, 2006 1:12 pm
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Posted: Mon Nov 06, 2006 1:49 pm
I write two main genres, slightly skewed, teenage romance/ drama, and fanfiction from range of materail, mostly Battle Royale and DC comics.
This is the beginning from an as yet unnamed short story that is very nearly finished, I'm just haveing a few issues with getting to the end, though I know what happens.
Anyway: Effie looked sulkily around her as she dawdled along the seafront. Technically she was on holiday, but she was having the worst time she had had in a long time. Everything about the Spain she was seeing was wrong- there were burger stands and fish and chip cafés, lobster red men and leathery old women, and though she could hear German, English and French the only Spanish word seemed to be hearing was 'cerveva', beer. It was tacky, touristy and full of people striving to have the best time they could, as long as the Spain they were in was sanitized and full of people that spoke perfect English. She hated it.
Eventually she gave up, she was never going to get to a quiet bit of beach, not unless she walked miles, and she had to be back for tea. She turned around and began slouching her way back the way she had come, along the seafront, then up into the warren of identical looking villas and townhouses. A few roads away from her father and step-mother's apartment a car was parked outside a town house, with an Asian family unloading suitcases from it. There was, presumably, a mother and father, and four children, a boy of about 13, girls of about 9 and 6, and one other girl, older, but she was leaning over a suitcase, so all Effie could see was that she had long, black hair.
As Effie got closer the older girl straightened up, pulling her hair out of her face with a smooth, practised movement. Effie was dumbstruck, she was utterly beautiful, slim, with huge eyes and a quirky, unusual face. It took a lot of control for Effie to remember to keep walking, and not to stare, though she did walk faster from then on, too caught up in her thoughts to remember about being a stroppy, civilised teenager.
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Posted: Tue Nov 07, 2006 10:13 am
I write very hard, and hardly write poetry, I'm a perfectionist to boot but am slowly breaking the habbit by simply writing something, then going back and rewriting it, that makes me happy instead of spending hours fixing a single chapter.
I enjoy writing fantasy and science fiction, black poetry (not dark, black, the other OTHER dark poetry), and I wish I could write suspence/horror. I have a very descriptive and evolving way of writing, I tend to let the reader find out things through other characters, most notable things are names and hidden plot twists, though the latter I try and do very subtly. I try and immerse the reader when I'm introducing something important, into a full on euphoria of buttery, sweet and numbing adjectives, depending on the effect I want.
I guess since I have... an hour and a half till my next class starts I'll pull a little something out of my butt for all to nibble on.
New Fantasy Blargh #8
Roky dismounted the hulking beast, it gave a disgruntled snort and padded the wet earth. He walked silently on the wet sand, the towering waves crashing methodically at his feet. Their dieing fingers slipping back into the water to be consumed by the next.
Down the beach, a lone figure stood, knee deep in the sand, he had been on the beach well before the sun had risen, the sand eroding lovingly around his legs. Roky eyed the man, his weapon hilted on the wrong side, he had forgotten this man was off-handed.
"Is this how we are to meet our end Roky? In the company of giants?" His voice was barely audible over the crashing waves but Roky turned and stared hopelessly out into the eye of the water. "Are we but tools serving a greater purpose? Have we lost ourselves and been found again on the bridge of death, here before the great eye of the world? We are awake when the world is not, we are when it is, will our toil never end, or are we doomed to walk forever, never resting even when the great sun puts head to bed and becomes still?"
Roky valued his words, a year ago they were the closest allies and today they were the fiercest of enemies. He watched the waves pull the sand around his boots and remembered a lifetime ago when he walked upon his own world's beaches. The cool, wet sand between his toes, the squawk of gulls overhead. Only the waves, the towering goliaths crashing onto the beach bore any semblance to his world, the smell of the sand, the taste of the air, this world was not Earth, this man was no longer his dearest friend.
"Can there be no friendship for us Tabarka? Did we not slay together in the northern campaigns, were we not brothers in arms as much then as we are now? Or are we simply armed brothers? If it were possible I would give you my house and my posessions, but my soldiers hate you for reasons I cannot remember and yours do to me an injustice I cannot stay even on my end for you." Roky's voice began to crack with the strain of memories that flooded his visage.
The memory of Tabarka throwing himself over Roky when he battled the mammoth general of the eastern tribesmen as his axe came crashing down on Roky. Countless memories, each owing the other debts they could not repay in a hundred lifetimes but merely contented themselves with burdening the other with countless more.
Roky knew he could cut down his friend. It would be quick, he promised closing his eyes. Tabarka would die if he chose to fight, it was not in Roky's nature to die, it was often believed the god man For, ruler of the West, blessed Roky once, giving him the gift of immortality. Roky himself had no memory of this and simply waved the story off whenever it was told. He turned to face the man, he surprised the man was looking back. His strong eyes red with tears, his battle hardened features trembled under the weight of Roky's eyes.
Tabarka stepped out of the sand and drew his sword.
Roky unsheathed his, turned and sighed, waiting for the attack.
The tall man strode slowly forward, his eyes never left Roky's. Tabarka marched right up to the boy who did not even flinch and wrapped his arms around him, breaking down into a heap of sobs. "Is this all worth the money and power in the world my friend?" Roky spoke over the moans, tears welling in his own eyes.
"We should leave it all." Tabarka choked out, releasing Roky from his grasp. "Go north again, or to the dark lands. We can start again, go back to the old days."
Roky looked down on his pitiable friend and enemy. "They would hunt us, besides..." Roky patted the man's head with his gloved hand. "Money and power mean the world to me."
The man froze, his grip tightened on his sword but Roky had slipped his boot over the blade, pinning it in the sand. He drew his sword up and plunged the blade into his neck. He quickly snapped the spine and held up the severed head. "I promised you a quick death old friend."
Roky strode back to his mount and stabbed the head onto the end of long, white horn of the beast and strapped it down. He took one last look at the beach and sighed, the crashing giants were already laying claim to the corpse. He kicked the beast into a trot and took his time making his way back to the city, the day would bring him closer to establishing his indomitable will over the people of Berg.
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Posted: Mon Dec 04, 2006 2:46 pm
I'm not sure what my style is, though I always seem to dislike whatever I write the day after I write it. redface Here's a couple of posts from an RP I'm in, what do you think?
Laying her staff along the raggedy steps of the church entrance, Rieka ruffled the fur of a stray cat she had found wandering about. With glops of mud smeared over it's pure black fur and sticks and leaves tangled all over as well, it could make one wonder what this cat has been up to. "You look like you've come a long way," she whispered to the cat.
"Purr," the cat replied, as it rolled about on the ground trying to rub off some of it's filth.
Picking the cat up by the scruff of it's neck, Rieka held it to her face. Eye to eye, she stared at it. "Purr," the cat repeated. "Purr."
"You know," said Rieka, "this is hardly the place a cat should like to be. You seem a bit unusual too. You know, I'm unusual too," she said, smiling at the cat in her hands. Usually Rieka just like animals, but this cat was different. She didn't just like him. She liked him.
"I was just going down to the coffee shop for a morning drink. Come on, maybe we'll get you a bowl of milk on the way," said Rieka. Without a purr, the little cat followed her.
Arriving at the coffee shop, Rieka seated herself by a table in the corner of the room and scanned the menu, as the cat nudged against her leg softly. She leaned her staff against the wall and rocked back and forth on the creaking chair. "One cup of coffee, extra sugar, please," she said to the waitress. "And a bowl of milk," she added.
xd
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Posted: Mon Dec 04, 2006 6:45 pm
I'm not sure of my writing style. I like to switch point of view with my characters since all of them play big roles in the plot line. Other than that, I think I have my own style. Usually I write something, then go back and add more detail. If I add to much detail in the beginning I tend to lose my train of thought. sweatdrop
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Posted: Tue Dec 05, 2006 11:05 pm
crystalsmuse What is your writing style and what do you mostly write? Feel free to include excerpts of your writing as an example.
I usually write fantasy (short stories and poetry) but one day I'd like to write a real fantasy novel.
A fantastic fantasy novel of course! lol I'd like to have a great success with it, have many fans, buy a new house for my Mum, buy a new car for me and... Oo, oops, sorry I was dreaming for a while... rofl
I can't show you any of my short stories, they're written in my mother tongue (Czech), so you wouldn't understand I bet. twisted
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Posted: Thu Dec 14, 2006 4:45 pm
My writing style. Hm. That's a toughie for me.
I'm a creature of extremes. Either very dark or very light, very heavy, or very light, very interesting or very boring (on purpuse, always), very poetic or very story-esque, very 1st person or very 3rd (and I mean real extremes there).
However, I cross genres like nothing. Fantasy and Sci-Fi, Fiction and either (much more rare), and scientific and magical.
Try getting a style out of that. If you can, you have my tip of the hat.
-LD
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Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:28 pm
I don't think have any one particular style. In general I like to stick to First person, but if I'm dealing with several characters, my story is probably more effective in third person. Here's an example of my first person point of view from a short story of mine: The D'rrynger
Know that I have never been named, though several have sought to do so. I had a name once, but it would do me no great service to make it known to you. You're young yet. If it means that much to you, I'm sure you'll name me on your own.
You've come to me because you crave something. Something that keeps you from enjoying your life like the rest of your people, who waste theirs ignorant and petty.
No, I do not read minds. Many powers have been attributed to me unneccesarily. When you are old enough to be ageless, and you have seen what I have seen, then you will see that mind-reading is a waste of time. But I digress.
You have no doubt been waiting your whole life for me, wanting to know what I have to say. I will tell you my story. You have earned it....And now for an example of my third person style: from Tiger's Eye
Cherry sat by the fireplace for two hours before deciding to go out looking for her husband. She put on a heavy raincoat, boots, and hat and ran out into the storm. It was very hard to see with all the tree limbs and leaves whirling in the air around her, and the blackish gray clouds blocking out the sun didn't help either. She would have been grateful for the intermittent lightning flashes providing visibility if they hadn't been accompanied by thunder. Cherry stumbled her way to the generator, using her memory more than her vision.
Derrick wasn't there. At first Cherry thought he was playing a joke on her, that maybe he was hiding on the other side of the groaning boxlike device. He wasn't. She checked the garage to see if he went there for tools or spare parts, but he wasn't inside. Cherry went back into her house again, thinking that maybe he'd gone there, but he hadn't.
Cherry was scared. Where was he? All of their cars were there, so he hadn't driven off somewhere. Why would he leave her alone like this, in this weather? Had something happened to him? With that thought, Cherry bit her lip and went out into the storm again. She called out his name, screaming it, but she couldn't even hear herself with all the wind. Cherry didn't want to go into the woods, but she didn't see what choice she had. There was no other place her husband could be.I can generally write in in any genre, but I like to stick to Fantasy/Sci-fi. And humor. Lots and lots of humor and satire. Even if someone's dying in a story, I think they outta go out with a song and dance number! 3nodding
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