The Writing Thread -

Bob Page

Electronic Old Gendo Ikari
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
I am writing a story treatment for a Starcraft 2 custom campaign I plan to make.

- It would take place 19 years after LotV and 17 years after the Nova Covert Ops Campaign

-The United Earth Directorate will return to conquer the Koprulu Sector with their big guns and not stuff pilfered from dominion space.

-One of the UED officers will be the son of Admiral DuGalle(Who an heroed at the end of Brood War.)

-A lot of the characters from the books will be making appearances in some form.

-It will be a war story with the intention of capturing the tone of the old games.

-It would be kind of like Mass Effect 3, where you gather a large force for a last stand against a larger threat.
 
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Deadwaste

null is a GODDAMN SHIT BITCH
kiwifarms.net
thought i'd share a short prologue for something i began to write because that other thing is on a hiatus for god knows how long and at least i'm more determined to write up and finish this because it'd be for a writing contest i'm entering
Late into the afternoon, Ellis locked up the store begun to close up shop for another night. The old shopkeeper was already tired from his long day of work and was ready to go home. He began walking down the beaten dirt road he always walked on for years. The Texan sun was nearly gone, the frogs croaked in their ponds, the crickets in the distance chirped their lively tunes, some fireflies lit up the evening bright, and just before arriving at his home, he heard his mongrel of a dog barking off nearby. Probably got loose and spooked the neighbor’s cat he thought to himself, but when he finally saw his Jack Russell mutt on the road barking at something in a thorny pit, he thought that maybe something must’ve been wrong. He walked over to the pit and saw a humanoid shape stuck in the thorny bushes torn to shreds. At first, he thought it was a dead kid who got attacked by a couple of coyotes, but upon further inspection, he noticed the couple stray strands of straw poking out of the thing and it’s worn, black buttoned eyes. It was an old scarecrow. The old man bent down to the mutt.

“Calm down snapper,” he told his dog, rubbing the animal’s ears, “it’s just an old scarecrow down there. No reason to worry.” he picked the dog up and resumed walking back home, the dog continually barking at the old brush now surrounded by black crows flocking to the area. The man still had to wonder. What was a scarecrow doing this far from any farm land? And why was his dog so concerned about it. It wasn’t like it was alive or anything. Scarecrows were inanimate objects that didn’t even stave off a single crow. They don’t have feelings, a consciousness, or something in them that’d keep them alive. It was just a old scarecrow, he thought to himself, why was snapper so interested in it?

Meanwhile, in the thorny brush pit, the scarecrow lay stuck on a thorny bush, unable to move. It’s mouth picked apart, rendering it unable to call for help. It’s straw guts poured out onto the ground damp and moldy. A murder of crows surrounded the thing, ready to start picking again. Helpless and unable to yell for help, the old scarecrow sheds a tear from its only remaining eye button left.
feel free to leave some criticism for this
 
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Octopuff in kumquat

Kumquat... Kumquat... you know you love it, freaks
kiwifarms.net
I've been working on something dumb for the last 10+ years, that has even less chance than Sonichu (copyright) of being published, yet I feel I'm only doing it for me, and any friends who'll be into it. I've never been artistic in any way, especially when it comes to drawing, but always loved writing and I almost always aced my English classes (apart from boring poetry).

Perhaps, that's the true essence of writing. You want it done for yourself. But that's just my thought.
 
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Warden Cross

Overdramatic
kiwifarms.net
I've got an idea swirling around in my head, had it for a while, but actually starting to write it -- that's the problem. Can't figure out how to begin. Normally I'll develop and deepen concepts while writing the rough first draft, but hell, I've never had this much trouble actually getting something started. (:_(
 

Deadwaste

null is a GODDAMN SHIT BITCH
kiwifarms.net
thought i'd share a short prologue for something i began to write because that other thing is on a hiatus for god knows how long and at least i'm more determined to write up and finish this because it'd be for a writing contest i'm entering
Late into the afternoon, Ellis locked up the store begun to close up shop for another night. The old shopkeeper was already tired from his long day of work and was ready to go home. He began walking down the beaten dirt road he always walked on for years. The Texan sun was nearly gone, the frogs croaked in their ponds, the crickets in the distance chirped their lively tunes, some fireflies lit up the evening bright, and just before arriving at his home, he heard his mongrel of a dog barking off nearby. Probably got loose and spooked the neighbor’s cat he thought to himself, but when he finally saw his Jack Russell mutt on the road barking at something in a thorny pit, he thought that maybe something must’ve been wrong. He walked over to the pit and saw a humanoid shape stuck in the thorny bushes torn to shreds. At first, he thought it was a dead kid who got attacked by a couple of coyotes, but upon further inspection, he noticed the couple stray strands of straw poking out of the thing and it’s worn, black buttoned eyes. It was an old scarecrow. The old man bent down to the mutt.

“Calm down snapper,” he told his dog, rubbing the animal’s ears, “it’s just an old scarecrow down there. No reason to worry.” he picked the dog up and resumed walking back home, the dog continually barking at the old brush now surrounded by black crows flocking to the area. The man still had to wonder. What was a scarecrow doing this far from any farm land? And why was his dog so concerned about it. It wasn’t like it was alive or anything. Scarecrows were inanimate objects that didn’t even stave off a single crow. They don’t have feelings, a consciousness, or something in them that’d keep them alive. It was just a old scarecrow, he thought to himself, why was snapper so interested in it?

Meanwhile, in the thorny brush pit, the scarecrow lay stuck on a thorny bush, unable to move. It’s mouth picked apart, rendering it unable to call for help. It’s straw guts poured out onto the ground damp and moldy. A murder of crows surrounded the thing, ready to start picking again. Helpless and unable to yell for help, the old scarecrow sheds a tear from its only remaining eye button left.
feel free to leave some criticism for this
goddammit i forgot to be dedicated to this project and moved onto like 20 other ideas why the fuck
 
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Super Smash Bros. Fan

Likes It Hard
kiwifarms.net
I wrote a short story a couple of months ago. I figure that it would be good to receive feedback on this.

Today marked the end of an era. For the last time, he woke up in his bedroom, not groggily as usual at the morning’s tip. The night before, he packed his critical goods: shirts, pants, toothbrushes and every book he needed for college at his parents’ nagging. It bothered him that his parents lectured him about how he folded his pants were oh so off a nick. A dull, soft murmur of “No one cares,” escaped him while his mother reminded him not to wrinkle his dress shirts while folding. That was 10:30 p.m. last night and once he got done packing and took off his clothes, his body crashed into slumber. Now it was 7 a.m. and he scanned his eyes across the room.


The room’s warmness captivated Paul as he took in the heat’s sensation through his nose. If he was not rushing to school, he would stare at his TV, glancing at the current oddly-shaped controllers that nested below his TV. Without conscious, he cracked a smile. A reliable source of entertainment since childhood, he frequently locked himself in his room and played video games deep into the night. The cyber world of the gaming universe were his best friends and allowed him to maintain his happy-go-luck feelings that the real world expected him to abandon.


He made a rather slow departure from bed but the soft mattress’s cozy atmosphere did not attract his rested to stay for the last time. He drew himself to the console at a relaxed pace. After coming within playing distance, he paused and opened his hands to put on the carpet. He observed the cartridge connected to the console as he had drawn out the old game to replay after graduation from high school. He moved his hand, positioning it towards a red controller but resisted touching the controller.


‘I don’t know about this,’ he thought.


It never occurred to him that he could refuse to play. There was still a few hours left before he was supposed to be up anyway so why not sneak in time to replay his favorite games? Better yet, just pack up his collection of games and bring them to college.


‘There ought to be a gaming scene at the college I’m going to. Plus who knows, maybe I’ll come across a hot nerdy girl that’s into geeky stuff. I’m tired of girls rejecting me all the time’. Enthusiasm flushed through his brain, now coming up with brilliant ideas to incorporate everything he loves; gaming, women and the chance to direct his role-playing game as he felt ordained to do. Such an amazing, hopeful “happily ever after” scenario and what could be so wrong about this? Even his parents encouraged him to do so and they were on his case about his long nights in front of the TV.


‘Maybe no one will yell at me to go to sleep at college. At least, I hope my roommate aren’t one of those people’.


He racked his brain to recall the last occasion where his parents confronted him about his extensive gaming at the front of his TV, his hands fused with his controller. It had been several months since he was called out over his gaming habits, usually by his mom who periodically called him out. But he always erased the brief conflicts from his mind as it consisted of his mother telling him to go to bed late at night. An especially searing memory then jolted his mind.



He moved around his boxes of games and discovered a file of papers he presumed to be where his latest report card to be to prove he was not failing his class. In the dim room at the top of an unsealed and partially torn box, he grabbed a paper that wasn’t his hideous drawings and deciphered a progress report that he assumed was current and certainly from his high school. After deciding this was what he was looking for, he grabbed the report and showed it to his short Mom, who took it. To his surprise, Mom brought out her phone and swiped through it for a few seconds before a flash light popped out. Only halfway right, the report was from sophomore year; the class listed geometry and he was in pre-calculus. Seeing her gnashing teeth and anticipating his snarl, he began to move his feet to discover his displaced latest report but the damage was done.


“Who do you think I am Paul, an old bat?” Mom said.


“Mom, let me find my progress report and then…”


Stiff as a hundred-year-old tree, Paul froze in place as his mother strained her head up to him. His physical stature, what little he had, still left his chest shaking when he got the stick.


“Your father and I did not raise a gaming addict, an anti-social nerd,” and here comes an eruption “and we most certainly did not raise a liar!”


“Oh come on, what you are expecting when I can’t see anything!” and pointed towards Mom’s glasses.


“You’re always losing stuff so I bet you have no better luck trying to see what’s in that black closet.”


“If seeing in the dark, where is your phone that you always carry around that we spent hundreds of dollars on for you to chat with your friends that you could always hang out with but never do?”


“They’re online friends, it’s not the…”


That excuse sure marked him in the face.


“How can you have friend you will never meet and why does this matter? You don’t have your report card because you’re failing all of your classes! Your future is dependent on your exam score and here you are playing video games all day and night.”


Tears began to weld up on her face.


We saved up money so that you could go to college, but you are turning our hard work into ashes. Our own son can’t even pass a test!”



“You don’t even read my report card! All you do is grab my mail and then send it to me. So what if I’m not able to locate my report card in five seconds? Quit acting like I’m a genie who knows everything!”


“Even if your grades are all A’s like you claim they are…”


“I said A’s and B’s”


“Don’t interrupt me!”


“Why won’t you leave me alone!” yelling to the highest mountains.


She paused for a moment. Her outright scowl transformed to slumping her lips, less hysterical than the past few minutes. These lips would soon separate.


“If that’s what you want and you continue to treat your flesh and blood with contempt, fine. You don’t even respect us or show love when we try so hard to reach out to you. You know what, go ahead. Play your silly games all day and fail all your classes. Then rot outside in a dumpster.”


She tramped the ground with a drumming sensation and jerked the door beneath her. Once that painful memory finished with a bang, he snapped back into reality and sensed his brain clearing a rut. That inherit desire to play video games regularly no longer occurred to him. He could develop games for reasons other than his own personal satisfaction. To bring people together is a more important reason as gaming is meant to be a social event gathering with friends and families. It can also speak of the human condition, of what is true in everyone, even to himself.


He felt streams of tears on his eyes. It was as if his last sense of innocent were stripped away from him. He was no longer a boy but a man. The games would not come with him, deciding to leave his consoles and controllers where they were and got dressed. After doing so, his paces were like walking on water. Just before shutting his door one last time, his mother arrived in her nightgown, her auburn hair graying by her ears.


“Do you want me to help pack your games?”


“No Mom, I’m not taking them. I have other stuffs I want to do.”


Her eyes widen. Even he was surprised by what he had just said.


“Are you sure?”


“It will be fine.”


She lifted her lips up and kiss her son in the cheek. They then exchanged a cordial smile. He still had a few hours before it was time to say goodbye. If only he could stay and talk to his parents for much longer. Both walked into the living room side-by-side with Mom noting,


“Since we have a few hours, let us discuss about college and plans for the future. It’s very important to be ready for it.”
 
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Juscum

Unmistakable Serial Killer Vibe
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net

Smash that like if you, too, experience a searing resentment for Moksha's little queue tracker. It's torture. I've refreshed it a million times and I won't move. :(
 

Venus

Dat bitch
kiwifarms.net
So what are your thoughts on having a story start off light hearted, but then it gets dark really fast? I am currently writing one that starts off as any typical YA novel does, sugar coated with some feel-good themes for the first twelve chapters; but the main thing I'm trying to accomplish is establishing to the reader that something is horribly off about it all. Then from chapter thirteen onwards, things start going to hell.

There is no revolution though, as the protagonist's idealist outlook on the world is deconstructed over the course of the story. Her naive and innocent nature is something that other characters often take advantage of due to her being too trusting of other people, leading to her becoming jaded and wondering if her journey has any meaning anymore. She also ends up learning that the antagonist was right, even if his outlook appears to be pretty cold at first it ends up making complete sense. The antagonist throughout the story is constantly trying to warn her about the harsh reality behind the world that they live in, mainly in that she cannot save everyone nor can she always hope to be righteous. Up until the climax of the story, she refuses to listen to anything the antagonist tries to tell her. Once she is hit with reality though, she desperately tries reaching out to him but is instead met with a cold shoulder.

That's at least a very rough idea of what I'm working with in my fantasy novel.
 

Replicant Sasquatch

Do Lolcows Dream of Electric Hedgehog Pokemon?
kiwifarms.net
So what are your thoughts on having a story start off light hearted, but then it gets dark really fast?
Can work really well, but:
I am currently writing one that starts off as any typical YA novel does, sugar coated with some feel-good themes for the first twelve chapters; but the main thing I'm trying to accomplish is establishing to the reader that something is horribly off about it all
.
Taking twelve whole chapters to actually get to the important stuff isn't "really fast". Unless you're going the Maradonia route and having three page chapters. Darkness isn't necessary for interesting stories but I do hope something is actually happening in those first twelve chapters. Don't make it all filler because that's boring.


There is no revolution though, as the protagonist's idealist outlook on the world is deconstructed over the course of the story. Her naive and innocent nature is something that other characters often take advantage of due to her being too trusting of other people, leading to her becoming jaded and wondering if her journey has any meaning anymore.
Then what is the plot? What is she doing, and how is she coming into contact with all these shady people? Rebellion stories are played out but there's clearly some kind of contrast between her goals and her enemies'.

She also ends up learning that the antagonist was right, even if his outlook appears to be pretty cold at first it ends up making complete sense. The antagonist throughout the story is constantly trying to warn her about the harsh reality behind the world that they live in, mainly in that she cannot save everyone nor can she always hope to be righteous. Up until the climax of the story, she refuses to listen to anything the antagonist tries to tell her. Once she is hit with reality though, she desperately tries reaching out to him but is instead met with a cold shoulder.
This is where you lose me. It reeks of long stretches of boring monologues from the villain about how he's the real good guy. I only ever see that in anime and in fiction written by people who watch anime. Temptation is interesting but I don't quite see how that can play out other than these two people arguing politics all the time. This can work if you're writing something like 1984 but I get the sense this is some kind of adventure story.
 

D. Sweatshirt

Shit's real, grip the wheel, lift steel
kiwifarms.net
She danced like a demon. An eerie light surrounded her lustrous form; there was a rhythm there that only she could match. There were men who tried but couldn’t take the cold; women who tried and felt a burning heat. A dancer from hell.

How odd it was that you, a simple bassist playing behind the studio glass, could match her piano playing so perfectly. You were just a session player to her; a man behind the glass for her to keep her tempo. Your drum break was just a sample for her keyboard to loop over; your rhythm guitar a cover for her crashing violin. You thought it would never end, that this music would keep on oozing out from the speakers with such violence that it could command a battlefield.

Then you flub a single note. Just one. The smallest note in the world.

The glass breaks. Flaming shards fly at you from all angles. Pieces slide deeply into your shoulder and abdomen. You feel hot tears roll down your cheeks. Blood pours from your stomach.

There’s no music anymore. Just screaming. Screaming in tongues you can’t understand.

You’re lying there, bleeding out, and she’s still dancing. A crowd starts cheering from somewhere; you’re not sure where. As you start to lose consciousness, it all suddenly stops. The woman in black walks over to you, eyes piercing into your tattered soul. She says something in a voice to you, but you can’t make it out; your volume’s set to mute. As your vision fades into darkness, she takes some of your blood and scrawls something on your forehead.

One word, and one word only.

“Lovely.”

Wrote this as a really short story after having some girl troubles. It's kind of old but I thought you guys might like it.
 

Venus

Dat bitch
kiwifarms.net
She danced like a demon. An eerie light surrounded her lustrous form; there was a rhythm there that only she could match. There were men who tried but couldn’t take the cold; women who tried and felt a burning heat. A dancer from hell.

How odd it was that you, a simple bassist playing behind the studio glass, could match her piano playing so perfectly. You were just a session player to her; a man behind the glass for her to keep her tempo. Your drum break was just a sample for her keyboard to loop over; your rhythm guitar a cover for her crashing violin. You thought it would never end, that this music would keep on oozing out from the speakers with such violence that it could command a battlefield.

Then you flub a single note. Just one. The smallest note in the world.

The glass breaks. Flaming shards fly at you from all angles. Pieces slide deeply into your shoulder and abdomen. You feel hot tears roll down your cheeks. Blood pours from your stomach.

There’s no music anymore. Just screaming. Screaming in tongues you can’t understand.

You’re lying there, bleeding out, and she’s still dancing. A crowd starts cheering from somewhere; you’re not sure where. As you start to lose consciousness, it all suddenly stops. The woman in black walks over to you, eyes piercing into your tattered soul. She says something in a voice to you, but you can’t make it out; your volume’s set to mute. As your vision fades into darkness, she takes some of your blood and scrawls something on your forehead.

One word, and one word only.

“Lovely.”

Wrote this as a really short story after having some girl troubles. It's kind of old but I thought you guys might like it.
Though I find it a little too short, I like your use of macabre imagery
 

Probably Opal

i wish i could art
kiwifarms.net
I like writing, but I do not have anything that is anywhere close to being ready to be posted anywhere. If I did, I'd post it. I might write something short, but... probably not.
 
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Yaoi Huntress Earth

My avatar is problematic.
kiwifarms.net
This wonderfully awful idea came to me recently...

Elmo: James Woods, Elmo wants to know why Mr. Trump doesn't like those "undocumented people".

James Woods: Think of it this way Elmo: Let's say there's a stand selling fresh apple pies.

Elmo: Oh boy!

James Woods: And you managed to save enough pocket money and sit through a long line to get one. Just when you're about to get one, someone else rushes in, cuts in front of you and demands a pie; not caring they they didn't bother to bring any money with them. How would take make you feel?

Elmo: That would make Elmo sad.

James Wood: That's how a lot of us feel when people get into the country illegally.

Elmo: Elmo thinks if you're going to get something, it should be fairly and honestly.

James Woods: Now you got it.

Elmo: (Goes over to hug him.) Let's build that wall.
 

Star Stuff

:ok_hand:
kiwifarms.net
I actually love writing and the English language all whilst having a pretty strong vocabulary. That said, I have absolutely abysmal sense of sentence structure and just generally every other rule that makes a story, a story. Aside from college, where did you guys learn how to not write like 50 Shades of Tumblr?
 
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Deadwaste

null is a GODDAMN SHIT BITCH
kiwifarms.net
This wonderfully awful idea came to me recently...

Elmo: James Woods, Elmo wants to know why Mr. Trump doesn't like those "undocumented people".

James Woods: Think of it this way Elmo: Let's say there's a stand selling fresh apple pies.

Elmo: Oh boy!

James Woods: And you managed to save enough pocket money and sit through a long line to get one. Just when you're about to get one, someone else rushes in, cuts in front of you and demands a pie; not caring they they didn't bother to bring any money with them. How would take make you feel?

Elmo: That would make Elmo sad.

James Wood: That's how a lot of us feel when people get into the country illegally.

Elmo: Elmo thinks if you're going to get something, it should be fairly and honestly.

James Woods: Now you got it.

Elmo: (Goes over to hug him.) Let's build that wall.
when do they fuck?
 
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