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Come embarrass yourself (It will be fun)

Discussion in 'Writing Discussions' started by Ban, Jul 15, 2018.

  1. Ban

    Ban Sir Laserface Article Team

    Join me in a little self-embarrassment by digging through your files, papers and half-forgotten forum posts to find the oldest piece of writing you've yet to delete.
    Mine was posted on this site in early 2016, and although reading it again gives me a minor case of the red cheeks, I must say that I feel some satisfaction over how much I have improved. Nowadays my stories actually contain a plot :D

    Silence and Mourning

    Rossis, home of the emperors, pearl of the Crownlands and the cradle of western civilization, stood silent. Onirion's market was crowded to the brink yet not one voice was to be heard. Not one argument. Not one cough. Not even a whisper. Pure and simple silence. Only if you listened very carefully would you hear the sound of the wind and muffled footsteps. No one on the market could hear it though. All eyes were directed at the tall man in purple standing on the palace balcony.

    Moments turned into minutes. The man stood as calmly as he did before. The people on the market began to mumble. Softly and to no one in particular. Their eyes had not diverged far from the man in purple though, and they had not moved.

    Minutes had now turned into what felt like hours. The mumbling had progressed to whispering. Small groups of people were being formed, yet no one turned their eyes away too far from the man in purple.

    More time passed and larger groups had been formed. Smaller groups had bundled together under the watchful eyes of the figure on the balcony. The group closest to the northern entrance decided to make a run for it. The man in purple did not move. The runners manoeuvred the narrow streets of old Rossis. Behind them was silence still. One of them looked back and saw a motionless mob. The rest of the citizenry kept their eyes firmly directed at the figure on the balcony. Their footsteps reflected by the buildings was deafening to the runners. No sound for so long. They could not remember such a loud noise anymore. How long had it been since the purple man came? It did not matter. They would escape this day and then...

    There was no then. When the runners reached the wall they were greeted by the Silverskins. Emotionless and cold like the steel they wore and the city they occupied, they slayed the runners. Clean and effective were their cuts. Cold were their hearts. The Silverskins returned to their post, not looking at one another or their victims. The corpses were left unattended, probably never to be cleaned up, not even by the humans. So apathetic had the citizens become that they could not be bothered to care for the deceased. Where would they begin anyway? The dead were in such high numbers that they might as well be considered part of the decor. Their bodies did not smell, though. Nothing smelled. Nothing had taste either. At least to the people it didn't. Life had become monotonous, it was a chore. Children had been taken from their parents. Couples were separated. The old and the weak disappeared from their homes unexplained, only to be found motionless in an alley later. The rebels were close to being history. In this city there was no one to love anymore and so love died.

    On the market the groups had been disbanded. To make the man in purple think of you as a potential rebel was a bad idea. In the middle of the night people vanished without sound, like everything that happened in Rossis. No one knew what happened to them and neither did they care. The purple man's closed fist rose to the grim crowd, slowly. The slightest glimpse of emotion visible on each face, Anxious were they all. His hand opened and out fell one gold medallion. This cruel act he had played before. Whomever received the medallion was chosen to be a messenger to the empire and unofficially regained his or her freedom. The Silverskins had the task to keep all "citizens" detained, not safe, and so these events inevitably resulted in the loss of human lives as they trampled and murdered each other for a chance at freedom. As the market descended into chaos, the man in purple walked back inside. Cold and efficiently. Without sound.
  2. Svrtnsse

    Svrtnsse Staff Article Team

    Okay, I'm in!
    Below here is the first or second story I wrote after someone suggested I should try writing a story about someone living in the world I was working on at the time. Before this, I hadn't written anything like a story for nearly twenty years. Also, this is one of the few stories that I can remember writing in first person.

    Gerry - Sound Technician

    It was almost lunch, or very late morning. The sky was an overcast grey and I was on my way to work. I lived just a few minutes walk from the station but I had to take three different trains to get to the studio. I’ve got a bike but I tend not to use it. Biking is cheaper and healthier but the train is just quicker, so train it is.

    When I arrived at the platform it was empty, as it usually is at this hour. I live in a nice quiet neighborhood and the people here all have sensible nine-to-five jobs. The few times I have to be at the studio in the morning the platform is always filled with people and the train cars are packed. I like this better. I always manage to get a seat on the train.

    I went to the little kiosk at the end of the platform. Mr. Grebber was manning it. The old man’s been managing the kiosk together with his wife since the first homes were built here in this area. We commented on the weather, it would probably rain soon. I bought a newspaper and small bag of chewing gum.

    As I was about to leave I noticed Mr. Grebber look at something behind me. His usually cheerful face turned sour and he muttered under his breath.

    “Elf. I smell it.”

    I turned around and saw someone standing over at the other end of the platform. Far too far away for me to smell anything, but I guess old people have their ways. It was a girl, dressed in a baggy white sweater and long green skirt reaching all the way to the ground. She also wore sunglasses and a big green hood pulled down over her ears. I had no way of telling whether or not she really was an elf. Maybe that was the idea. She was short and skinny though so I guess she could be. I had no idea how Mr. Grebber knew.

    We never have elves in this part of town. Only humans live here and have always lived here. Not that the area had been settled for long. I’d heard Mr. Grebber talk about how the platform had been built here first and how the neighborhood had grown around it.

    It’s a distinctly human concept; Build a railroad circuit in an area outside of town, just close enough that it connects to the main train system in the city. Build a number of platforms along it. Open the areas around the platforms up for settlement as the need arises and you’ll have little local suburbs conveniently connected to the city center. It was urban planning at its best. Or so they said.

    Elves didn’t like it. I'm not too sure of what they like really. They probably stay in the same location they've always stayed in for thousands of years. They become one with the soul of the ground or something like that. They don’t much like moving around once they settle down, that much I know.

    So what was she doing here, if she really was an elf?

    I personally don’t have anything against elves, but people here, like Mr. Grebber, aren’t overly fond of them. It’s rare to see them outside of their own areas or the city center and even more rare to see one all alone out here in the suburbs. Not that people here would actually hurt them or anything, but you know, things happen.

    I was stirred from my thoughts by the train arriving on the platform. I waved goodbye to Mr. Grebber and stepped on. The elf girl entered the car behind mine. There were more empty seats than occupied ones and I sat down by a window.

    It started to rain.​
  3. Heliotrope

    Heliotrope Staff Article Team

    This is the intro to the first story contest I entered on this site, in October, 2015... While I'm actually still sort of proud of the writing, the story jumps around all over the place and was super confusing. I have worked on clarity and transitions a lot since then. When I read it now I can't believe how far I've come.

    The Sole Survivor of Gihon Pass

    Sylvain faced the firing squad surrounded by a legion of ghosts. His hands were bound behind his back with a leather cord. He knelt in the muddy barn. Two flat oak panels supplied a footing on the slick floor for his executioners, two private soldiers of the Dorshan Army, directed by a Sergeant who in civilian life may have been a bar man.

    Closing his eyes, Sylvain pulled at the thick bands gripping his wrists. If I could free my hands, he thought. I might upright myself and run. The snow is thick and fog is close. I could evade the arrows and get back to Raidne. Hide, baby girl. He prayed. Please hide. Pale ghosts reached out for him, stretching their bloody hands.

    Sylvain’s thoughts unexpectedly turned to the memory of a parade. The Sergeant nodded to the soldiers. The soldiers cocked their bows.


    Commander Sylvain Irad shielded his eyes against the yellow and blue banners fluttering over the streets of As’bel. The irregular rippling of the triangular cloths turned his stomach. Balancing himself against the brick storefronts, the Commander staggered behind the cheering crowd, a half-drank bottle of Willy’s Best slippery in his plough-hardened hand. Once or twice he caught the gawk of a spectator before they glanced away, embarrassed by the old man’s drunkenness. Idiots, he thought, shoving a child aside. Ignorant morons.

    Sylvain loathed parades.

    To him they were less a celebration of victory, and more a pageantry of death. While others cheered for the living, Sylvain wept for the dead. He felt as if only he could see the thousands of ghosts marching alongside their comrades. Baleful eyes and bloody hands. He knew them all. These parades had changed over the years, but the faces of the ghosts remained the same. They searched for him and taunted his shame,

    Why did you leave us to die?

    Link to full story:

    Last edited: Jul 15, 2018
    Ban likes this.
  4. Orc Knight

    Orc Knight Auror

    A portion of the prologue for my first real foray into writing that wasn't fanfiction on a Transformers site. Way back in like '04-'06 was when this was written. So all my terrible writing and all.

    “They say,if you want to see death,look into a Banner man’s eyes.Hershio’s cold and frozen abyss is all you see.It will also be the last thing you see.”
    Memoirs of Athros Axier

    Two armies were clashing,though one could hardly hold the name of army,and the other,a surging tide of crimson,an invasion force bigger then the 88th had ever seen.The mountain knights of the 88th regiment,fought under the shadow of the southern range of the Northlands,a huge snow capped mountain range,covered in green pines and deciduous forests,and autumn gold and brown leaves fell to the blood red ground,where bodies lay,some pincushions for barbed arrows,others stabbed and slit.Horses whinnied, and charged headlong into the crimson spear men,silver spiked gauntlets shining off the banners that hung limply from their spears that were advancing foward.The horses,well armored,and built like moving rocks,muscle and sinew sticking out on stretched necks,surged into the attackers,dinner plate size hooves smashing men,and scattering them,the knights on top,all led in squads who were headed by a man who carried long spears and lances that had a banner,two white mountains,surrounded by a field of blue.

    The Banner men,the greatest knights on the known continent of Dromoria,feared and revered by all.They charged first,and always pulled away last,on the ground,and horse less,other banner men,led the 88th’s footmen,swinging swords,spears,maces and other weapons,leading their own offensive. Blood churned the ground into a red mud,and the occasional unlucky soul slipped,and was ground into the ground by horses and men.A knight and his squire stood in front of a few mounted men,and about thirty ground troops,the banner men holding spears upright and lining into formation.Both men on the large horses held spears,and had fur cloaks to keep the chill autumn wind off of them,when it came.

    Today was turning into another scorching one,on the younger of the two redheads,a hawk sat on his shoulder,mottled brown and red,holding his spear at complete ease,dressed in light armor,unlike the older,and had belts looping his lean body,studded in weapons,knives,daggers,and two swords on his back,creating an X on his back.The older of the two,had fewer weapons and more armor,and held his bannered spear rigidly,scarred and goteeed face contorted in anger,with the tradtional horse mane on his head,the younger's,clean shaved,hair the same,and squinting in the sun,holding his helmet in his hands,kept his face controlled.Thier red hair glowing in the morning sun,and green eyes matching each other in complete calmness.

    Yells greeted them from the sloped valleys,and drums pounded,beating out formations for the crimson clothed men.Trumpets came from behind the next hill,not the usual brassy,but a harsh,animal like one.The yelling man turned his helmeted head,and with a look of dismay,saw what came over the hill.Huge gray beasts with large ivory tusks,covered in crimson cloth,and a driver tugging at the ropes that were embedded in their odd flat ears.Behind the driver was a stand,that held almost seven archers,and goader's ran along beside them.There were hundreds of the beasts,and more horsemen,both light and heavy calvary,and thousands upon thousands footmen,arranged by weapons,pike and spear men in the front ranks,swordsmen behind them,and archers after.The older men rounded back on the younger,jerking the reins on his armored horse.

    “You see Cardigan!That's why you must leave!This battle is lost,look,we are being slaughtered!”His face shook.With an indifferent expression,Cardigan looked across to the man.He then winced when the hawk accidentally slipped and clawed his bandaged shoulder,the white cloth stained with blood.
    S.T. Ockenner, Darkfantasy and Ban like this.
  5. Devor

    Devor Fiery Keeper of the Hat Moderator

    Who had the bright idea of posting this in a PUBLIC forum?

    This is an old character background for a D&D game - I would've written it my last year of High School or first year of college. I believe I've actually posted it in the Showcase before. I have hardcopies of works that are older but I'd have to retype them.

    This story is embarrassing for reasons that may go beyond those intended by the OP.

    By the way, the ending to this story is about using the character in random "pick up" games without all the plot baggage. If he had ever found a regular campaign I would've asked the DM about changing the ending to keep his background more relevant.


    Every halfling child finds in himself a devotion to the simple pleasures that every race will admire. A glass of water, a long puff of the pipe, a breath of fresh air, and the smell of bread baking on a fire---these are the loves of every halfling, the promises given by their goddesses. The belief of the other races is that these things, and the peace that must be had to enjoy them, have driven from the halflings their aggression, but the halflings have merely twisted their aggressions into curiosity and eagerness. By their goddesses, they lovingly force creativity upon themselves.

    Twipple's kitchen talents came largely of his father, owner of the "Burrowed Brew." Baking came as the first of his skills, pressing loaf after loaf from the gnome-crafted, "wheat-rising, butter-applying, fire-insulated starch machine." Twipple would find himself inspired by the scent, entranced by the flavor, and calculative of the spices. He was always seconds from shouting "Ohh's . . . you's no trick's me! You's used's t'at parsleysey an's the rosemary's an's . . . I know's---marjoram!" . . . and of course, he would always shout in front of guests. Twipple wasn't foolish, though . . . giving away family recipes was his way of forcing his father into the kitchen with him to design new ones. Halfling brains at their finest.

    Twipple was never fond of cutlery, but Yolahan, the next-door ranger, once came in with the tenderest stag that Twipple's greenish eyes could fit on the roast. The halfling duo of Twipple and his dad struggled to keep the ropes from burning as they turned and seasoned the mighty venison, reaping the smell of the skinned carcass. The meat was spectacular, but Twipple's mother almost choked one of the un-removed sling bullets. It was his father's job to skin and clean the beast.

    By the time Twipple was through his twenties, mixing drinks was added to his mastery of taste. Enough dwarves found their way to the "Burrowed Brew" to expand the drink menu beyond gnomish "wine" and halfling juices. Griklar, the weapon merchant, was once asked why he was always in a halfling city when nobody there would buy weapons. He grunted, slammed his axe through the table, mumbled something about doing as he pleased, and shouted for more of Twipple's "dwarf-toppling" Ricle's Ale.

    Eventually, the "Burrowed Brew" became renowned, and Twipple's father took most of the credit. His mother had always been fond Twipple's skills, but his father had begun to get jealous. In thirty years, Twipple's spare time had done to the "Burrowed Brew" what sixty years of his father, and generations past, couldn't do with their entire lives. Twipple had the head for business, the knack for being social, the tastes for superb food, and the instinct that it took to tell exactly what each customer would enjoy---which, when he was on staff, was everything. Twipple was the one who had the rooms redecorated in darkened greens and the glasses sculpted of expensive crystal. It was Twipple who earned the sign "Welcome to Piddlewood---Home of the Burrowed Brew." The aging father just couldn't take it.

    Yolahan, the stag snagger, was leaning back in the green-leather stool when screaming erupted from the kitchen. He toppled the stool behind him as he rushed to see Twipple, aghast with halfling curiosity and concern. A dented pot met his view as he pushed the door open and shoved both himself and his hand between combative chefs. The father with wooden spoons, the son with metal forks, their partnership was wrecked. The loyal son would to this day have a bald spot where pot met scalp. Apparently, Twipple was using too much basil.

    Leaving with enough good-nature as to part with his recipes, Twipple smiled his farewells to his mother, nodded them sincerely to his tearful patrons, and expressed them regretfully to his fellow halflings. He hauled his trusted clump of herbs into his pouch, welcomingly looted the sack of gold behind the counter, grabbed his favorite pipe, tipped his favorite cap, and walked his favorite walk through the doors of the "Burrowed Brew."

    Five years later, the doors were chained and the torches put out, it's final drink served.

    Twipple took from Piddlewood only enough to eat well for a week. His skills and talents were completely in the kitchen, and it would be foolish to compete with his own recipes at the "Burrowed Brew." He knew that if he stayed, his father would apologize, but sometimes it's best to find excuse to leave. They both knew they could reconcile, but they both knew that things would just be the same. Change was good, halfling eagerness convinced them both, and as Twipple walked past Piddlewood's welcome sign, he took only a smile as his last good-bye.

    An hour later, Twipple, huddled in his winter blanket, ran back into town and hired a wagon. Still, it was three chilly days before the wagon could reach FuddlyShire, and the halfling spent most of what gold he had to pay for the horses, wagon and food.

    Twipple introduced himself to every inn, tavern and bar that he could find, and most of them had heard and loved the sizzle of his "Bigtley Stew." His talents fetched remarkable offers, and he was about to accept a seventy percent share of the "Dangling Teardrop Tavern" when divinity made its own offer.

    Twilyetha is the goddess of good taste. Secretly and selectively, her prowess flows into almost any race, developing the elven flair for wines, the dwarven sparkle that they leave in their axes, and the human's touch for speech. History has it of a rivalry between her and Garl Glittergold; things were said, and the gnomes were left with impeccably bad taste. Twilyetha, however, found herself inseparably fond of Yondalla and her treasure of the halflings, and it is because of her that flavored wines, shining axes, and human grammar rise in appreciation over time while halfling creativity meets its immediate greatness. Twipple, it seems, was granted the literal gift of instantly recognized good taste, and Twilyetha decided to call in a favor.

    Twipple was auditioning his personally styled wedding cake at "Gleeful's Bakery," knowing he would get one last offer before he decided, when the "Ohhs" and "Awes" he expected where replaced with gasps of excitement. They loved the taste, the look, the style, the cream, the color, and the homely expression, "Enjoy's Yous's Marriage!" Twilly, named after the goddess, was astonishingly impressed, and with a blushing bite of her lower lip, she offered him the job.

    Twipple left "Gleeful's Bakery" with more-than-subtle cheerfulness as he pondered something she had said. He had asked who usually patrons their business, and her reply was anyone whom Twilyetha brings to their door.

    Before long, he had negotiated a partnership between the "Dangling Teardrop Tavern" and "Gleeful's Bakery," himself with a fifty percent share of the result. The gold, largely with Twilly in his thoughts, was either placed back into the business or towards one of Twilyetha's few temples. The unrenowned goddess, Twipple soon found himself determined, would be given the gratefulness of all of halflingdom, for Twilly's sake. The way Twipple saw it, despite his chubby looks and mild disposition, Twilyetha had given both he and Twilly good taste in love.

    Within months, the tiny, halfling-dominated "Temple of Fine Foods" declared that Twilyetha had bred him as a priest. He was formally indoctrinated into their un-stringent order a few days later, and he was married to Twilly the following year. The "Dangling Teardrop Tavern" and "Gleeful's Bakery" soon bought "Elfish Decorum" and "Blind-Man's Dinnery," changing the name of the ladder. By the time Twipple was nearing forty, he had become the most famous halfling businessman for miles. He had the flair for attracting customers, and he had the head for hiring the best in bartenders. Two years later, he found himself alone, to himself and his goddess.

    Fine taste, good people, and "Create Food" spells don't protect your businesses from an earthquake. All of FuddlyShire found itself in ruins under the weight of its own burrowed mounds and high-held rooftops. Seven people died in the "Elfish Decorum," two more in "Gleeful's Bakery," and Twilly herself was found amongst the trio of corpses in the former "Blind-Man's Dinnery." The "Dangling Teardrop Tavern" survived with dangling shingles and signs, but even the "Temple of Fine Foods" found all three of its rooms to be rubble. FuddlyShire was ripped from its grandeur, and Twipple was forced nearly to bankruptcy. In depression, he left the "Dangling Teardrop Tavern" in the care of Friggletop, poor Twilly's brother, and he set out. He was sickened by the sight of the rubble, and though he gave his assurances that he would return, for Twilly's memory, he wasn't even sure from where he would be returning.
    Last edited: Jul 15, 2018
    S.T. Ockenner and Ban like this.
  6. Vaporo

    Vaporo Inkling

    Oh, you all think that your stories are soooooo embarrassing, don't you? You think that none can possibly match the poorness of your long-ago writing skills. Well, I am here to one-up you all! Sealed away in a plastic box, hidden deep in the back of a closet for almost a decade, but now uncovered and prepared to be unleashed upon the world. Here, transcribed letter for letter, I present to you "Superhero Freddy," a story that I wrote when I was six years old. Tremble before its terribleness! Mwahahahahaha!

    chapter 1
    Superhero Freddy
    Once upon a time, there was a super-hero named Freddy. One day, his bad guy alarm went off. Before he could get started on the mission, the bad guy came-along. But then three pieces of the fan fell from the ceiling. So he put them together and wound them up. Then, a jack-in-the-box popped up. Then, the bad guy bounced around the room. Then a coil-spring popped out of the wall. Then the bad guy got stuck in it. Super Freddy laughed. Ho the bad guy escaped!
    chapter 2
    Freddy ran outsite. The bad guy flew away with a puppy. So, Freddy called in 321. Freddy said "Let's go save that puppy." So they whent and tryed. they found the puppy. At the bottm of a cliff. 321 jumped off the cliff and yelled. "Cawubuga"! smushing the bad guy. 321 and Freddy got the puppy. "bukle your seat belt" said 321. "the exit is here here here anywhere! And here we go!" the bad guy was after them. "321 stop acting silly." And went over the ocean. Soon the bad guy was gon.
    Chapter 3
    Ho No Freddy fell off! Freddy was in the ocean. "OOps" said 321. "wo wo are you sher? this is supposed to be happening? Yes! OK here we go." 321 went down! Freddy sied "i'l look in my lunch-box for sumthing to stop me." Freddy found PePPeroni. At last 321 got Freddy. To bad the bad guy was fol-lowing them. Freddy used his powers. Freddy used destructor and ice. Boom crack plunk! the bad guy was hurt.
    chapter 4
    Ho no! the bad guy went to the doctors. Freddy had a party. When the bad guy walked in. every body was scared except Freddy. Freddy was smart enough and brave enough. Freddy used ice krack chsh! The bad guy went down the drain. Hurrah for Freddy! every body cheered Freddy was a real hero now. so Freddy became the king of the Superhero island. the end

    It took six-year-old me three weeks to write this. All grammar and spelling errors are preserved to the best of my abilities. The story also came with a drawing of what I assume to be a statue erected in Freddy's honor. Image scanned at high resolution for maximum artistic preservation:
    Later, I may also transcribe a few pages of "The Powercake," which I wrote semi-continuously from the time I was ten to about the time I was thirteen.
    Last edited: Jul 15, 2018
  7. Ban

    Ban Sir Laserface Article Team

    If this were a competition, you'd win. I especially like that 6 year old you couldn't be bothered to come up with a name for the bad guy.

    And now I wish I still had the knock-off asterix & obelix comics I made when I was around 8 or 9, but sadly what remains of my embarrassing catalogue only goes back 2.5 years ago.
    DragonOfTheAerie and Vaporo like this.
  8. Taniwha

    Taniwha Scribe

    Aww man -I know its wordy etc etc but I want to read more! Lol
    Darkfantasy likes this.
  9. Ban

    Ban Sir Laserface Article Team

    :D well thank you very much. I still have the long-abandoned notebook for this world and story, so in the small chance I ever come back to it, I'll let you know ;)
    Taniwha likes this.
  10. Posted in 2011. Still working on this story. This prologue has gone the way of the do do though though.

    Blood Iron
    Shadows danced and flickered as the torches burned their deathly purple hue. Within the pale and disgusting light of those torches sat a group of people around a table bearing a symbol that all fear to see. A hand dripping blood floating above the Five Emblems of Magic; the Hammer and the Anvil, for metallurgy, the Swirl and Circle, for Seal magic, the Moon and Mist, for the Spirituals, the Flame, for the Mages, and finally the Fabric of Reality. There was though one oddity. In the background hung a sword with a skull for the pommel. This was the symbol of the Dark Bloods. This was the symbol of the Demon.

    Deep in the shadows a man sat listening to the endless dronings of some of his followers. In his boredom he often fingered the medallion that held the same symbol. This medallion was his and it reminded him of what he was. What he meant. They were in, what he had dubbed, the High Meeting where only he and his closest and most powerful generals could speak and discuss strategy, it is true he at times allowed others to come in but only to serve as a particularly terrible example to his servants. Contemno was speaking this time and was giving a very long description on what he was planning to do, which was to take some important farmland surrounding the great city which surrounded this great tower which twisted ever upwards. This tower was the pride of the Dark Bloods, the people of the Demon as many would call them, his people. The shadows stirred and danced. A voiced whispered in his ear. The details of what was said was unimportant he knew what it meant, his master would be coming.

    The Demon felt a little remorseful the presentation Contemno's performance was, at the very least, mildly entertaining. The Demon stood and Contemno was silenced right at the climax of his great battle prediction, and that was the Demon's favorite part. The group looked at their master with great expectation.

    ''My generals this meeting is ended.'' The Demon's voice was quiet yet the authority was still there. As his generals left Meritrici, the only attractive female general he had, waited a little behind until nearly all the generals had left. After a few moments she brushed up against him. It seems she wanted his company, he would oblige. As she walked away she made sure to accentuate he features with her walk. She did have a beautiful body. He smiled she was entirely his and no one elses.

    The door closed with a sharp and terrible echo, the Demon was left entirely alone. With his heart pounding with fear so that he could hear his blood pumping in his ears he waited. Fortunately the wait did not last long. The shadows stirred and writhed. Their master was coming. Twisting, contorting, bowing the shadows filled the room and the purple flames extinguished leaving the Demon to kneel in darkness. He could not see if the shadows had stopped their motions but he could feel it, what was worse was that there was the tension of expectation and when the shadows felt like that punishment would be dealt.

    ''So it seems that you're great vice is still well and strong.''

    ''I'm afraid I don't know what you mean master.''

    ''You don't know!'' The Master's voice was filled with unsurprised incredulity. It was expected for the Demon to lie for to tell the truth would bring a more terrible punishment than being caught in a lie. The shadows quivered with their master's rage. Shadows lashed out at last. ''You and you're desire for women has always been my greatest frustration with you!.'' Another blow from the shadows. ''For too long I have indulged you!'' Four more strikes. ''I have allowed this stupidity to last for far too long!'' Now shadows were stiking from every direction. ''By you and your weakness to have what never was to be yours you have put everything in danger.'' The shadows brought the Demon to lay on the ground flinching with every blow.

    ''My Lord what have I done to deserve such anger?''

    ''The prophesy has been fulfilled!''

    ''I'm afriad that I don't know what you mean.''

    ''The prophesy you fool. I feel it has been done. You have created our worst nightmare!''

    ''My Lord you and I both know that I never allow my pets to breed. Before they get the chance I make sure to kill them.''

    ''Which means that you must have had some...shred of mercy for one and let them live! And no I do not reference at all that slut you have for a general. It is someone else.''

    ''There is no one that I allow to live for long that is the way that I have been trained.''

    ''Perhaps I have been far too lenient. The shadows seemed to have failed me in teaching you what you must learn. Perhaps I should burn into you what is important, and it is not yor foolish childish desires.''

    The shadows lashed out and ripped the medallion off of his chest and consumed his prized medallion. Suddenly the medallion returned glowing an angry red. The Demon could feel the heat from where he stood as it rushed towards him. The hot metal touched his skin and started to burn. Pain descended on everyside and consumed the Demon until darkness was left. Darkness and fear.​
    Ban and Darkfantasy like this.
  11. Darkfantasy

    Darkfantasy Inkling

    Been putting off posting this here but Ok it's about time I did something gutsy so... Piece I wrote for english class when I was 15 so 12 years ago (i think)
    It was the stench that came first.

    Yes. Like the stench of a really bad drain, seeping through the cracks in the Closet door polluting the air with it's reek. Daddy said it was bad piping but Mummy said it was him. The air turned cold somehow, lapping against him like the winter waves of a river.

    James curled up tightly hugging his teddy bear close, his eyes riveted to the closet door waiting, waiting. The toy car that sat on the floor shuddered, then began to roll, rattling over the hard wooden floor. He watched it with narrowing eyes as it came closer and closer to the bed, then stopped dead.

    The room grew colder still.

    The door knob on the closet began to turn, the miserable squeak cutting through the silence. James held his breath and closed his eyes tightly.

    'It's not real,' he told himself sternly 'it's like a movie. Not real.”

    He let out a breath and watched it rise in the cold air like the stem from an old train. He heard the click of the door as it began to open. Switching on his torch, he aimed the light at the door.

    The heavy beam of light shined on the golden door knob. It was still. And all was quiet. He swallowed over a dry throat and switched off the light settling himself against his pillows.

    The darkness was loud with his breathing, loud with his racing heart, and he could hear the tiny clicks his eyes made when he blinked

    'Think about something else.' He told himself.

    The autumn night was more raw than cold. A light fog of the river hung breast-high over the rolling open hillside. Directly above peering in at him was a dying moon, pale and thin as a fish-hook. The long limbs of the tree outside his window scratched down the glass pane casting a ghostly claw on his bedroom wall.

    Then he heard it again. The screech of the door knob.

    Clasping his sweaty palms together, in an effort to stop his hands shaking, he dragged his eyes back.

    The door knob rotated, the lock clicked, the sound of it almost deafening in the silence, he heard breathing. He held his breath. It wasn't him breathing.

    “Go away,” he whispered, “Go away.”

    The closet door began to open, an inch every agonizing second.

    The fear built up circling inside him like a bat in a house, that harsh reek in his nose sometimes so strong he thought he could taste it, a tight tingling on his scalp like fingers through his hair. He grew in a breath and held it until he thought he might burst.

    Then room seemed to darken somehow, that insidious darkness rushing up his nose and into his ears damp fingers of dark crawled through is hair.

    With the dark came another sound. The sound of scratching, of little pink feet over hard wooden floor, squeaks and squeals. He peeked one eye from under the blanket and saw them, the rats scurrying around his bed room floor, their vicious eyes glowed red in the darkness, that foul stench intensified and then there he was.

    A huge black figure looming in the door way of the closet, with no face, no human features at all. He lifted a hand and pointed a him. James looked past him into the gloom of the closet, the never end abyss of darkness and from it rose the sweet sound of children, laughing. He could hear a voice, so much like his own singing 'ten green bottles'.

    The lights went on. His father was standing in the doorway.

    “What's wrong james can't you sleep?”

    “The man in the Closet!”

    His father ran to the closet and flicked on the light.

    “There's nothing there, see?” His father smiled but his eyes looked troubled he settled himself on chair beside James's bed.

    “You have to stop this Sport.” James watched his father reach out a lay a hand over his. “There's nothing in that closet. Lay down.”

    “Is this house safe?”

    His father smiled. “Yes it's safe. Why wouldn't it be safe?”

    “Mummy says it's not. He came out of the Closet.”

    “Him?” the humorous glint in his fathers eyes was unmistakable.

    “The Boogeyman.”

    “James there's not such thing,” his father said patiently.

    “Susan Whestley says he is and... and she says he lives in this house, she's seen him. They say he comes and takes people away and they're never seen again.”

    “You mustn't talk about Susan now,” his father said, “you know this. Susan's in heaven.”

    “She's here with me. She says he uses your fear. Plays with your mind.”

    “That's enough, James,” His father wasn't smiling now.

    “But it's true. Ask Mummy.”

    “Do you want to be like her?” he hissed, “Do you? Go to sleep.”

    “Will you check under my bed?”


    “Mummy always checked under my bed.”

    His father nodded and bent down to peer under his bed. It was then that he saw them. A pair of bright blue eyes staring back at him from a pale face, his arms wrapped around his teddy bear. James saw the look run across his father's face. Like he didn't believe what he was seeing.

    “Daddy,” James whispered, “there's a boy on my bed.”
    Ban likes this.
    So I wrote my first full length book when I was twelve. It was 79,000ish words. And yeah. It was a mess of every fantasy cliche out there.
    I'm sharing this chapter because of the "prophecy", the "WHY ME??" and the really unfunny attempts at humor. I mean, for a twelve year old, its not bad?? but it is really really bad


    “I am very sorry,” Cedar sighed, “that I kept this a secret from you. I was afraid that I was wrong. But now, there is no doubt,”

    I stared at him, wondering what had gotten into him.

    He found a page near the back of the book and showed it to me.

    A darkness is rising.

    The balance of power is shifting.

    For thousands of years the past has lain still in its grave, but the earth is crumbling.

    Something dark lies ahead, something we cannot fight.

    But there is yet hope.

    Seven will come from the land, sea and air,

    Seven warriors to fight this darkness.

    Conceived in fire, born in water, forged in blood,

    Seven powers and seven elements.

    The Stars will return, forged at the beginning,

    And come to the hands of darkness.

    Though all may fall before it,

    The Warriors will be the hope of this world.

    In the end, the fire will fall, the shadows will dissipate, and the earth itself shall perish in water.

    My skin tingled as he read the words aloud. The foretelling was so dark. What could be this darkness? Who had written this prophecy? Seven will come. Slowly, I realized that he was telling me this for a reason. Could he mean…

    He fixed me with a serious look. “Only four individual books in Malterra have this prophecy written in them, out of the hundreds of prophecy books in existence. It was given exactly one thousand years ago. Now, I believe that the things that have been happening have everything to do with this prophecy,”

    I couldn’t stop myself. “And you think I’m one of them?”

    He paused. His brilliant green eyes stared into space, so long that I wondered if he was even going to answer. He was thinking about it, wondering if disclosing his suspicions, now made so real, would be a terrible mistake. He turned back to me, but his eyes were still lost in space. “Yes,”

    I sat there for a minute, or five minutes, or perhaps an hour, trying to soak in the enormity of this information. Was Cedar crazy? Foolish? Or was he right? Was the prophecy even real?

    What evidence did I have to believe it, anyway? Strange things had happened, but that didn’t mean I was part of some ancient prophecy. Ancient prophecies never came true. Did they? Why would it be me, anyway? I was just a runaway slave, not yet old enough to get a job. Cedar was insane.

    I looked back up at him. He didn’t look insane. He looked—stressed. Confused. Bewildered. Almost scared. I didn’t like it.

    “How should I feel?” I asked. “If I was the First?”

    He didn’t answer. He looked suddenly exhausted. His head was in his hands, and, as deep in thought as he was, he was as dead to the world as a clam at the bottom of a cold, dark sea. He had never seemed so lethargic, and it almost scared me. Almost unconsciously I reached into his mind, and briefly felt a pang of what he was feeling. Despair. Regret. But mostly fear. I tried to find out more, but his mind was now shut to me. What was he afraid of? Should I be afraid of it too?

    “What’s wrong?” I asked.

    “I’m sorry,” he said, turning pale. “Our paths should never have crossed. You know not who I am,”

    “You are Cedar the Handsome, leader of Kitarra, Tararu,”

    “Not just that,” he said. Then, he reached into his bag, retrieving something from it. In his hand was a yellow gem that glowed faintly, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was about the size of his fist, but energy seemed to radiate out from it into the stuffy interior of the tent. When I looked at it, I felt a sudden surge of power. I saw light swirling inside it, and knew that this was no ordinary jewel.

    “What is it?” I breathed,

    “The Fire Star,” he said. “Only the most powerful object within reach of the Canidor. I was entrusted by my father to guard this gem. He gave it to me with the Prophecy Book. If one of the Seven holds this gem, their power will be so magnified that they will be able to do nearly anything they can imagine,”

    “What happens if I hold it?”

    “No,” he said quickly. “You are not strong enough,” He tucked the gem into his belt. “But now, the Canidor are searching for both the Fire Star and you,”


    “To do what they have been longing for since before anyone can remember. Rule the humans. Rule the jungles. Rule Tararu. Rule the whole continent. We cannot allow this to happen. If they were to find a way to use its power, they would be unmatched. Unmatched, except for you,”

    “You must trust that the prophecy will be fulfilled,” I said, though I didn’t really know why I said it. Did I really believe?

    Cedar was almost beginning to look green. “I-I shouldn’t have told you,” he said. “Leave me,”

    I got up silently and left. I needed to think. I forgot the Canidor, forgot the healing shoulder wound, forgot the Galaxy Dragon. I was back in Daratachuru now, looking for a lost memory. To someone who wasn’t looking for it, it would become a part of the fading snapshots of the small, naïve world of childhood, and seem as natural as breathing. But now I remembered. I remembered seeing people’s words before they left their lips, seeing memories of others flash through my head and disappear. I had never noticed it. But I had it. I had it all along.

    I never knew.

    I veered down a hill, into the forest, where I was alone with my thoughts. In a world of life and serenity, the answers I longed for would come more easily.

    I thought of the prophecy again. A darkness is rising. Was that what Cedar had been afraid of? Maybe he was afraid for me.

    Was I really the first? I wanted to say it aloud, to give some voice to my thoughts, but I was not sure I was out of earshot. It seemed stupid, now that my mind was clear. It seemed doubtful that it was even happening. Why me? Why not some fierce warrior who knew what she was doing and at least wouldn’t be out-fished by a dragon the size of a Diving Cat kit! I strolled deeper into the woods. The clamor of the camp gradually grew farther and farther away. I tilted my head skyward. “Why?” I asked aloud, saying it to no one. “Why me? Is this even real?”

    My foot struck a sharp and painful rock as I wandered deeper into the woods. I fell to the ground, hissing. That was my answer. Does that feel real?

    I stood back up and regained my composure. “Well, at least it could have been someone over the age of eighteen,” I growled. “Or seventeen. Or sixteen. At least someone that age could legally go to war if she wanted,”

    There was no sign of any answer. I began to mope around in the area, snapping off twigs and twisting them in my fingers.

    Which way am I supposed to go? I thought. Am I supposed to be preparing for a big battle or something? I felt the need to speak aloud again. “Well, maybe I should just ignore it for now. Because I’m fourteen years old and eligible for three death sentences. Not exactly the best time to prepare for some horrible thing that’s going to devour the world like a butter crème cake, huh?”

    No answer. Only a slight breeze weaving through the trees.

    “And what about that gem?” It made me feel better to vent everything. “You see, I’m not ready for this. For these things to happen, I need to find the others. The Seven must unite, he says. But how? The Canidor are on our tail, Cedar has a secret job guarding the most powerful artifact in Malterra, and I’m just plain confused,”

    No one answered. I turned around and traveled back to our stopping place. I wanted to forget about everything. Maybe I should have been excited, or happy, to be a prophesied warrior. But I wasn’t. I was confused, upset, and afraid. I was stuck between believing the prophecy and that I was part of it or passing Cedar and the prophecy off as silly. But I didn’t want to do either. I didn’t want to be a warrior. I would rather be in her Fan Club.


    Ban likes this.
  13. Mwahahaha. You guys got nothing on the badness of the stuff i wrote when I was 6. I wrote a story about dinosaurs and the bad guy was a guy who wanted to make all the dinosaurs extinct. His name was Dino Dangerer Man.
  14. Skybreaker Sin K'al

    Skybreaker Sin K'al Troubadour

    I remember I wrote a 1 page book about my cat meeting an alien... yeah, I was like 3.
    S.T. Ockenner likes this.
  15. I love three year old stories. My son constantly tells stories about him as a ghost fighter and his best friend Duke Ducky. They get into all kinds of scraps that the boy saves them from with his might ghost chopping sword.
    Skybreaker Sin K'al likes this.
  16. Laurence

    Laurence Inkling

    Reading everyone’s stuff makes me very aware that I’m still at the very beginning of my writing career!

    Can anyone go further to point out the flaws in their ‘bad writing’?
    Skybreaker Sin K'al likes this.
  17. Ban

    Ban Sir Laserface Article Team

    Sure, I'll start.

    The piece that I submitted is by no means the worst thing I have ever written, but it is the oldest writing I can find. There are some good parts to it, in the form of the setting and the general feel, but what makes this story 'bad' is that it barely has a story. There is the set-up for the story followed by an event and then nothing, it ends. This lack of a resolution wouldn't be terrible if the situation was resolved in a later chapter, but it wasn't. Back in those days my approach to writing was to keep creating new situations and new problems, and only resolve them at the last minute (if at all) in an unsatisfying manner.

    Besides this glaring issue, this story is also weakened by a lack of emotional anchorage. I provided no character for the reader to become emotionally attached to, and therefore the cold silence portrayed in the story lacks the impact that it could have had.
    Laurence likes this.
  18. Laurence

    Laurence Inkling

    All good points! I think I have an issue in that when reading any story excerpt online (as opposed to in a book I know I'm going to finish), I find it near impossible to grow any connection to the story / characters regardless of how well it's written.
    Skybreaker Sin K'al likes this.
  19. S.T. Ockenner

    S.T. Ockenner Auror

    A sample of one of my 6th Grade stories (note: better than my 4th grade ones) (had a lot more illustrations)(I wrote it with other writers as well)
    One day Bob Foodloo was watching birds. He was an outcast. The other dwarves hated him because (b/c) he liked the surface world. So he got kicked out. It didn't matter, because he loved nature, especially the birds. This was his happy place. His favorite bird was the blue bird. He fed them every day. Then he saw something. It was a huge army of orcs! Bob grabbed his druid staff and ran. He looked at his magic map. Then he said "I think I lost them." then he saw a house. It looked like an abandoned house. So he goes into this house, "Oh my gosh, this house is so beautiful." So he said "I'm going to live here and they won't find me." Suddenly a beast appeared.
    "This is my house!"
  20. The Dark One

    The Dark One Archmage

    My god there's some rubbish here.

    My admission is a little different. It looks, at first, as though I'm showing off, but bear with me...

    When I was in 6th grade a major assignment was to write and illustrate a story of about 500 words. That was brilliant! I loved writing stories so I threw myself into it with gusto and produced a masterpiece about two fleas. The story duly topped the class, and the best part of 30 years later my niece who was then attending the same school told me that my story was still trotted out every year as a shining example of how to write a short story.

    Hooray for me!!!

    Except that...the story I produced bore little resemblance to the finished product which had been very heavily edited by my mother (who had been a frustrated novelist herself).

    Glad I finally got that off my chest.
    S.T. Ockenner likes this.

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