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 Posted: Sat Jan 17, 2009 12:57 pm
pleeasse post your short stories hheerrre!
Short stories are good for developing characters for rping, getting a better idea for a novel you want to write, and it's just fun. (for young authors like us)
i dont have a story at the top of my head right now, but one'll come with time.
and im serious...post stories.
*poke poke*
^_^
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Posted: Sun Mar 14, 2010 5:27 pm
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Posted: Thu Mar 18, 2010 5:02 pm
That was amazing! No, I didn't see the twist coming, and I'm usually good at predicting stuff like that. XD Good job!!!
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Posted: Fri Mar 19, 2010 6:38 pm
Eh... This one's a bit too long to post here, so here's the URL to another writing guild I'm a part of... The Shadow Prince: The Ink Well GuildIt's becoming more of a novel than a short story... sweatdrop
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Posted: Sat Mar 27, 2010 2:44 pm
That was cool and I didint see that coming oh and I may post one of my stories soon so stay tuned in xD thanks
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Posted: Sat May 08, 2010 9:09 am
Sorry man, I found it completely predictable. It was pretty much a shortened version of one of my favourite books. xD But still, nicely done. Maybe a bit more work could have been done to describe emotions, feeling, expressions, instead of just the words that were said and the tones of voice that were used. It sounded a little more like a summary than a story, short or not. But all in all, pretty good. :]
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Posted: Sat May 22, 2010 8:00 pm
Yeah. After she started talking I thought you were the next muderer. But when she said the same guns and all I knew it was you.
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Posted: Mon Jun 14, 2010 11:16 pm
I've got one....Don't know if it is a true short story but w/e
"Change the way you live, fight for freedom today," Posters shout from their place on the walls of the abandoned laundry mat on Fifth and Marshall; "Join today, fight for change and freedom," Blares a television lost to an apartment of motionless bliss. This is my home, five years after the war had begun, freedom and change, huh, look what freedom and change had gotten us, death. Freedom of release, no, not anymore, as you die, your one of them, Scabs; Enjoying another fresh recruit. A plague humanity had set upon its self, a rabid dog tearing out our juguler, humanity had destroyed itself.
Scabs were once human, now just pure animalistic shell of their former selves. Insane beasts looking to create everyone in their god's image, an image of cracked and bleeding skin, of oozing greenish pus filled boils. Only eating the flesh of what was human or animal, while avoiding water and the sweet juices of fruits. Burns their mouths causing them to bleed and vomit up whatever was stationed in their stomachs, only to eat it once more. Humans lost to madness that change had caused.
Scabs were made by trying to prefect the Human Genome, by taking a piece of it out, a piece that was most vital, the ability to think for ones self, I didn't believe it at first, but it worked. The therom producer stated that " With the loss of their independance, we could create a better life for them, a freedom, a freedom from thought." We introduced a liquid, that supresses that part of the Human Genome, into the water supply, and saw results at once. We had created "The perfect human," not thinking for themselves. Chaos broke out, they had no one to lead them, to control them, so a god was created in their eyes, someone to lead them, someone very dear to me.
Their God, a woman, one of the people that were chosen to be a hive mind for the "Scabs." We picked over a million people, all of which we lost in the first two weeks, except one, my wife. She was the most beautiful person I had ever known, but the power of controling that many people started to eat at her sanity. It started with little things, avoiding water and fruit, they started to hurt her, would make her sick. I thought all these little things were because she was pregnant, I was going to be a father. My wife was the most beautiful person I had known, now shes a scab god. I go to meet her, to save whats left of her, whats left of humanity. These are the last words I'll ever say: End Record, Alex Rider Mornhaven, Final recording.
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Posted: Sat Jun 19, 2010 12:14 pm
Awesomeful! Continuuee iitt!! *pokepokepoke* XD
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Posted: Sun Jun 20, 2010 11:55 pm
I don't know if it does...
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Posted: Wed Aug 18, 2010 2:57 am
My pen flows like a river in a barren desert that is a blank page, a story of such elegance that my words have yet to write. A writer by trade, A writer by night, by day, by morning, by the black coffee spilled on the greasy black end-table, it doesn't matter. As the river that flows in the desert above on the burning sands, my word are lost to that heat, that heat that has kept me in the dark for sometime.
I had started writing for a girl, Elizabeth, she was my everything. For me, it was only night or day, if Elizabeth said so, Which is why I'm in my current slump, a slump that has lasted for weeks. I had asked Elizabeth to marry me and she just stared at me, as though I wasn't human. Slowly she burst in to a fit of melodic giggles, she shamed me.
I live in a run down, broken apartment on the bad side of town, I used to live in a quaint home on Pleasant and Marshall. This home, however, suits me for what I write; Murder stories, stories of unexplainable deaths, love, and dieing for love only to be betrayed. On a blank page the title sit perched upon the top line making a mockery of me, and what little talent i have left. Death had Created Something Beautiful, a fitting title for my last story.
I write with my red pen, " The writer lost to his own greedy ambition and his whore-ish words did not realise that the blade was about to fall." Blood splatters the page obscuring those last words forever.
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