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WriteYourHeartOut

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Working on an original story? Care to share a glimpse into the world you've been creating? Post here!

 

- Please try to keep all snippets under 500 words.

- This topic is not for discussing said snippets, but merely for sharing. If you're looking for feedback on your writing, please see this topic here instead.

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  • 1 month later...

From a fantasy novel that I had forgotten about. A glimpse into the main character's eyes.

 

I looked at my green dress, tracing the stitching in the long barrelled sleeves and embroidered little foxes, silver with onyx eyes. What was I now? Am I a socialite dining at royal courts? A leech? A pawn? Or was this still me sitting in this chair, with a face so familiar and a dress I could never hope to afford in my life?

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  • 3 weeks later...
Cold, broken glass was the cause. The crimson on my hands dripped onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. A crushing pain seared from the tips of my pale fingers, to the bony shoulders I’d gotten from my mother. I cursed under my breath, dropping the sharp piece of mirror, and letting the sound it made when it hit the floor resonate in my head. I looked at what was left of my reflection.

 

You are the heir to this great line. Tradition will not be foiled by your selfish desires. You will serve this kingdom until the day you take your last breath. You are meeting your princess tomorrow, at ten o’clock. Be ready, or face the consequences.

 

Words and actions had never deterred me, until now. I brought my bloodied dominant hand to my face, and stroked my jaw, leaving a trace of ruby red liquid to dry there, only to be washed off later.

 

Some fantasy I just found!

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  • 3 weeks later...

This is not a fantasy. It's a romance novel. I've started working on a new one (my old one lies almost finished but I need to get back to it after a break):

 

I saw him at the station, winding among hordes of unfamiliar faces and hurried feet. My eyes skimmed past him once before coming back to rest on his profile. His arms stuck to his sides as his baggy jeans hung off his frame loosely. A picture of a five-foot, ten-inch, lean young man swam to the forefront of my mind and I beamed. The sunlight softened his sparkling brown eyes behind the red-rimmed glasses. A soft, hesitant smile graced his lips as his eyes caught mine.

 

I wanted to run at him and away from him all at once.

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  • 11 months later...

Here's a quote from a recently completed OF.

I double-checked the forum and archive rules for this one and decided to put it in a spoiler just in case. The story itself is Mature but this snippet may not be? (I'm sorry in advance if this breaks the rules.)

 

Spoiler

 

What should I say?

“You really don’t need to answer him.”

Abby tugged and I turned to her with a smile I mustered up past the dark depths of my heart.

“I just wanted to learn how to love myself.”

Dana slammed a fist down on the table as Alex snorted in response.

“Stop it!” She shouted at him.

I’d never seen Dana angry before. I’ve seen her talk passionately but never angry. Dana, as far as I knew her, is a person overfilled with patience. Without her, my letter to my mother would have never been realized. If not for Dana, I wouldn’t know what my depression meant to me.

 

 

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I had to do some editing to post this because apparently every possible snippet has extra foul language, but I'm working on writing POV change ups and honestly I think I like Daniel and Thomas better than writing in Cass's perspective.

Quote

 

Daniel parallel parked and glanced down at the manilla folder on the console between them.

“You want to take the apothecary or are you serious–” Daniel paused before he erupted into laughter.

“Care to share with the class?” Thomas asked as he took the file from Daniel’s hand, but his own laughter prevented Daniel from having to actually answer.

“Snappy Pappy’s Gas and Grocery?” he asked when he caught his breath.

“If you think that one is bad, ask me what the name of the bar is in town.” Daniel regained composure, but tears of mirth lingered.

“I’ll bite. What is it?” Thomas raised a skeptical brow.

“The Cross Eyed Cricket.” Daniel broke into laughter all over again.

“Are you kidding me? There’s a fishing place, hang on, I have it in this file–” Thomas stooped over to dig through the folders stacked on the floorboard. “–Spittin’ Cricket Bait Shop.”

 

 

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  • 3 months later...

I have three different short scenes with two that are actually from before my book and one that's a dream that will only be referenced. I'm working on exploring how characters were before, because things change a lot due to the main character's PTSD and the amount of time she's been away from everyone.

None of this is fully polished, since it's just for visualizing events and stuff for characterization purposes. First one is a nightmare.

Quote

 

The smell of burning bodies and ash sears my throat as I crash through the forest, using every ounce of speed my short legs can give.

Tilas pulls me by the hand as uncle Edon leads us from the onslaught. Even so close, they're only indistinct outlines in the dense smoke. At any moment they'll drop from Riktar arrows. At any time I'll feel a hard steel blade slip through my back. But still we run, none of us daring to look back. Sweat stings my eyes. My calves burn.

I stumble over a tree root. Any control I had is replaced by primal panic as a large burning branch falls, pinning me to the forest floor. My uncle and cousin are gone. Fire flickers up my left leg. My side. My arm. I thrash and scream and claw at the hot dirt with hands that no longer belong to a child. They're scarred. Skin stained with the same crimson that painted the attacker's golden armor.

In the dark haze figures form. Men. Women. A child whose throat leaks red. Varis appears among the crowd. Smiling as the whispers begin.

Over and over they all demand the same answer. Why?

I don't know why. I want to say I didn't have a choice. I want to shout at them to leave me alone. But no coherent words form.

All I can do is lay there, helpless. Sobbing. Gasping for air as the flames reach my face and the forms circle in. I'm not a child, but I still can't save myself, and Varis only watches. Silent even as the whispers turn to screams. Expressionless as cold hands tighten around my neck.

I should have listened.

 

 


Contemplation scene in the middle of a rough time.

Quote

 

Moonlight bathes the compound’s grounds in a dim pale light. The silence of the scene only broken by the movement of an occasional small animal in the trees and the shuffle of my feet through the wood’s snow blanketed trails.

No one gives a shit if I’m out on my own. They know I won’t run. But still. I miss my city. I miss the dirty alleyways and crowded streets. The noise of a dozen languages crashing into each other in the market square. It was a messy and ugly and dangerous place. It was also unpredictable and exciting. Warm with the thousands of bodies that called it home.

This place is too ordered. Its beauty an illusion to hide something cold and empty. I would give up everything to be back with the group of thieves I loved, but even if I could escape it won’t be the same. The Riktar aren't city guards that can be bribed into looking the other way. They'll come after me. I know too much. The rest of my life would be nothing but running.

Making my way to the pond I brush off a place for myself under a willow, then sit and stare out over the frozen water. Maybe if I’m lucky I'll freeze by sunrise.

 


A cute scene from my main character and her girlfriend!

Quote

 

Ria's hand feels warm as our fingers lock together,  arms touching as we sit against the training room’s back wall. No one else is here. It’s nice. Quiet.
She smiles, a mischievous look playing in her dark eyes. “So, which of us is going to break the news? Pretty sure the guys have been placing bets on who’d be the one to propose for the last three years. Whoever tells them isn’t getting away for a while.”

"I doubt it'll only be the guys. Though they'll probably be louder about it." I put on a thoughtful expression. “We could flip a coin for it. I snatched a few of those pretty silver pieces they use in Arn from a tourist yesterday. Forgot what they're called, but they're the ones with the fancy looking flowers on them.”

“Lors?”

“Yeah. Those.”

Laughing, she leans further into my side and places her head on my shoulder. “Could do it together. At least we’d be stuck with good company."
"You still want that coin for your collection?"

“Do you really have to ask?”

 


 

Edited by Shadowkat678
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  • 1 month later...

Part of a time travel romance that has been floating around my head for a while:

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Andrew rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his drink, narrowly avoiding spilling it all over himself as a man pushed past him to order what looked like his sixth beer of the day. He took a step back from the bar and gave Marisol a warning look as she started eyeing another woman who walked up with her husband or boyfriend or someone on her arm. As he did, he felt his back hit someone’s shoulder and he stuck out his arm to keep his drink from spilling over from the sudden movement. He turned almost immediately, the apology already on his lips. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—” The words died in his mouth as the woman he bumped into turned around. 

Her bright blue eyes had been burned into his brain for as long as he could remember. Before she even smiled, he knew that one side of her mouth was going to pull up higher than the other and he would be able to see that she only had one dimple on her left cheek. Her hair was pinned back and the light in the bar was dim, but he knew that it was as black as the ink that seemed to be smudged all over the fingers of the had that was holding her drink. “Christine,” he whispered, but in the chaos of the bar, the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s alright, the drink is fine,” she said, taking a step closer as someone else brushed by her. She stuck out her hand, a crooked smile on her face. “Tina Larsen, Beaumont Enterprise. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

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from the OF I've just submitted to the archives

Quote

Martha is the youngest O’Malley. Well, she’s not so young. Fifteen, same as me. She’s a rascal if ever there was one, and my best friend, too. I have to be well-behaved, working for the family as I do, but Martha has no such constraints. She came back late from the schoolhouse last week with her good muslin skirt basket-full of blackberries. It’s stained purple for good. Her ma gave her a scolding, and a swat besides, but Martha just laughed and said for that she wouldn’t share the pie she made.

This is the narrator introducing the love interest. 

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  • 1 month later...

The opening to a dystopia I'm currently working on - the main character is the first female Archbishop of York.

Quote

Ruth Harwood was no great fan of social injustice, or of the current government, but that didn’t mean she went looking for trouble. She could do more good as a voice of reason, and the only way of getting a platform was to play by the rules, at least a bit. That was how she’d got her job, how she’d made it to the House of Lords, one of only five remaining Lords Spiritual since the reshuffle. How there were any Lords Spiritual left at all – because they hadn’t made themselves too unpopular.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Wendy Cope didn’t think like that. A name Ruth had met very early in her term, who she’d come to know perhaps slightly too well. Not because she disliked Wendy - quite the opposite, in fact – but more because their encounters tended to be for official reasons, and nobody should be communicating with their bishop quite that much. Particularly not when they had ten churches and an assistant curate to keep them busy. Nobody should be able to handle all that and find time for setting up new schemes and organising rallies.

Later on. Relatable...

Quote

A gentle tap on the door. She straightened up, tried to smooth her hair into order with her hands. “Come in!”

Tom opened the door and hobbled inside, pushing the door shut behind him. “I saw Wendy leaving. She looked rotten, and I figured you’d be worse…”

She slumped again, unable to pretend when he already seemed to know. With a hand, she kneaded the back of her head, a thoroughly ineffective gesture. He slid a packet of tablets in front of her.

“Paracetamol. I have ibuprofen if you prefer. Assuming you haven’t maxed out for the day already, in which case I can offer codeine…”

She took two and swallowed them dry, ignoring the glass of water on her desk. “Thanks. I tend to just put up with it.” Then she glanced sharply at his knee. “I don’t think codeine is something you’re supposed to be offering round.”

“You’re a wreck, I’ll give you whatever it takes.”

“It’s just a headache.”

“Sure.”

 

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These two snippets are from my novel The Gilded Rose

This first was something I enjoyed writing, and it is lightly based off of a real-life experience.

Quote

"So there Chris was shaking in his boots at the top of the mountain swearing that the rope wouldn't hold him as he repelled down the side of the mountain and then little spritely Steph slaps him on the back, calls him a wuss, and just leans back over the side of the mountain without batting an eye. The look on his face was priceless!" David wiped the mirth from his eyes.

"What you guys don't realize is Chris actually let out the smallest and most pathetic squeak that I have ever heard in my life," said Mandi, causing us all to laugh, save for Chris, who was trying his best to not show that he was blushing.

"You know I love you, big guy, right?" asked Steph, slugging him in the arm, causing a new chorus of laughter as Chris mumbled under his breath.

The laughter and joking was cut short as a shriek of fear broke out from across the cafeteria. The whole room paused in every way possible as all eyes turned to the direction of the girl who screamed. At her feet was a large hulking guy who looked something like a football player lying on the ground twitching almost uncontrollably.

"What the…?" I asked half standing up to look. My brain automatically started to run through emergency procedures my dad had taught me, but I was drawing a blank in coming up with a solution for this instance.

This second snippet is my favorite from the whole book.

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"Remind me never to try using sex as a tool to get information for an investigation," grumbled Sharon as she sat down beside me.

"Wh– What?" I demanded in shock, looking at Sharon as if some alien invader took over her body. I had learned long ago to expect the unexpected from her, but this was not something I anticipated. "Did you really –?" I asked, trailing off not wanting to finish the full question.

"Hmm?" Sharon was clearly distracted as she had already started looking to the gathered group around Katelyn. She took a second, before looking at me to realize what I was thinking. "No. Not like that, Winston. I went undercover this weekend to try to get some information from James. I wasn’t referring to intercourse; I meant the whole sexual thing of allowing my mouth to be violated in ways I never thought possible."

"You know you aren’t helping things, Sharon," I said candidly.

"I wasn’t meaning that, either. I just wasn’t entirely in favor of having James shove his tongue down my throat through over half of my investigation. I don't think there is a way to properly sanitize after that. All the same, the information was scarce. What about you and Monica, were you able to learn anything new from her?"

"You went out with James?" I was still stuck on that idea, rather than the one that Sharon wanted me on.

"I did." Sharon looked at me as if I had lost my ability to think properly, which may have been the case considering I didn’t quite get how Sharon was able to have a date with James.

 

 

Edited by scooterbug8515
Quotes went wonky so I fixed it.
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  • 5 months later...

I don't know about you all but I can never move forward if I don't like the first paragraph of each chapter. It took me ages to get the flow right for this and now I quite like it. So here's the opening of my OF project. :D

Context: it's set in the in-patient section of a non-profit mental health institute

Quote

Tick, tock; tick, tock. 

It’s a familiar sound, the ticking and tocking. A rhythmic beat that keeps the world moving, perfectly tuned and never a second out of place. It comes from a round-faced plastic clock that sits in the middle of an otherwise bare, cream-coloured wall, overlooking my small-but-good-enough bed and the dusty, rectangular face mirror that hangs next to it. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, this clock. A rather cheap make and model, it’s about the size of a dinner plate, with an elevated brown rim and thick, black hands that scream practical and not elegant, much like my life here. It was probably bought off a rickety roadside stall for around 70 rupees - that’s how much these things go for usually - and brought to its new home to serve an age-old purpose, no second thought given to it.

Sometimes I wonder how something can be so simple, and yet, so significant. 

Tick, tock; tick, tock. 

 

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  • 2 months later...

This is a short story snippet of the bond between a pseudodragon (think cat sized with telepathic abilities) and his caretaker. 

 

Quote

"Its only a small dragon. Practically not even a problem."

Wilfred crouched, his tail swishing behind him dangerously. The man reached out with a gloved hand, avoiding the small reptiles snapping maw. Suddenly his scales shifted to match the hair of the unconcious woman he guarded, a copper red he knew quiet well.

"No touch mother. Wilfred kill." He projected at the man. His wings shot out and he hissed and growled at the approaching hand.

Edited by galadriel
changed text colour to make it readable
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  • 5 weeks later...

i fell down a surreal rabbit hole while doing a bit of freewriting and now i can't stop. 

Quote

The day the world began to end, the clocks were stuck on half past three, news reporters covered a man scaling the side of the world’s tallest building, geese began to cry, airplanes were suspended mid-flight, monkeys roamed the roads, women cut down trees with their eyes, a lawyer was murdered in her backyard, and there was a mid-summer sale at Zara. On this day, rooftops began to crack, the sky was desolate, the sun was a biscuit chomped on slowly, bright and full this hour, nursing jagged edges in the next, the hours stuck between this one and the next, and a group of sailors sat in the middle of a desert contemplating loneliness.

Four hours after the clocks stopped spinning - or as close to four hours as it could get with time being broken - the moon was a prisoner of the night and the sun was a pinprick blister, cows paraded around the town square and the market was flooded with cheese. Policemen walked around on their hands, helmets hanging off their chins, toppling down potholes and fighting with angry hens.

 

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  • 7 months later...

So, this is from my purported 'poetry collection' that, for some reason, now includes a short story - 

 

Quote

Autumn had arrived, brusk and discourteous, wholly formed. For those few leaves clinging to life, it was an increasingly solitary affair. The winds did not care for Julian Barr’s peaceful sleep, locked in struggle as they were with the archaic architecture. His bare chest rose and fell arhythmically. Before long he’d thrown himself out of bed, determined to rise if only out of spite. 

The curtains billowed, caught in the breeze allowed by the open window--Julian’s room was starkly in order, an exercise in minimalism. His organizational spirit extended to his work, to no great pleasure of his. But that day, he had no clients, and no plans. 

The kitchen of his apartment was predictably occupied; Zaire relished in the early morning quiet, and it suited him. They were not very much alike in any of the transparent ways--an onlooker may not have understood what was shared between the two, but Julian could no longer divorce Zaire from the morning and hoped never to feel what it was like for the sun not to rise. 

 

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  • 11 months later...

This is the beginning of a story I finished yesterday:

Quote

On any other Tuesday morning, Claire would be at work. She almost wishes that she’d gone in today, but she’s been falling apart in the afternoons with startling regularity, and she doesn’t want that to happen at the desk she shares with the other reference librarians. If she did, her well-meaning colleagues would cluck their tongues and pat her back and give her sage wisdom. She doesn’t want their pity. It would make everything that’s happened too real.

She spends her mornings walking instead, wandering for hours through the large town that titled itself a city in a fit of hubris. Today it’s oppressively hot, and her shirt is sticking to her before she’s gone three blocks along the main street. When she reaches the church, its doors are propped open, and the inside looks so blessedly cool that she finds herself walking up the stairs and into its arms before she can think better of it. 

The sound of her footsteps echoing off the arched ceiling and the way the dust motes dance in the colored light of the looming windows remind her of all the years of her childhood that she’d spent happily returning to this imposing space. The church is too big for a town this size—at least, it seems that way to her now. Perhaps, when the town was built, they needed this much room to hold all the faithful. But now it seems pretentious to her.

She slumps into a pew, catching her breath and trying to soak up the coolness of the room. Her eyes drift over the painted paradise on the walls, but it does nothing to move her. The feeling of emptiness is worse than fear or rage, and as soon as she’s caught her breath she’s determined to leave this place. Frustrated tears sting her eyes, and as she blinks them away, she realizes she is not alone in the pew. A man of middle years, wearing an old-fashioned suit, is sitting with her, watching her with a bland smile. She can’t remember seeing anyone when she came in, and her hands start to sweat she she reaches for her keys to tuck them between her fingers in case she has to fight.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says.

“I’m not afraid,” she replies.

“Yes, you are. You don’t have to lie.” He extends a hand to her. “The name’s Frank Morgen. Nice to meet you Claire.”

She reaches out to shake his hand automatically, even as it registers somewhere in her mind that she’s not told him her name. As their hands come together, hers passes through his, and her skin pricks like she’s plunged it into ice water. Her eyes snap up to his face, and she snatches her hand away.

“What are you?” she demands, dreading the answer.

“I’m a librarian. Or I used to be. Now I’m a ghost.” 
 

 

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