Compilation of Writing

[KhaoticErase]

I was thinking. There must be so many writers on rmpx.org. Poets, Novelists, Playwrights. Why couldn't there be a special thread where everyone can post their original written works?

So I made one.

Personally, I've written about 50 poems, 5 short stories, 10 essays, and 2 plays. I know you're out there; I could hear your pencil scartching.

Don't be afraid to post your written works here. Poems can be any type, of course, but long ballads should be placed in a spoiler. All short stories should be placed in a spoiler as well, unless it's only, like, 5 sentences long. Essays, again, go in spoilers, and can be about any topic, so long as it's so opinionative and/or factual that it's not considered to be spam. Plays should also be in spoilers (AW HECK! EVERYTHING goes in a spoiler, okay?!), and should be written in play format, with a cast-list, and blocking* in italics.

*(Blocking is the term used for describing how an actor should move about the stage within a script)

I also think this is a great thread for telling our story ideas that are too (what's the word?) unqualified to be made into a game. I know I've got lots of those.

 

[OS]

No posts here yet? Wow, I thought Ammom would have been here by now.

Do you take snippets of stories? I have here three sentences that I am very proud of. I did this as an exercise to improve my writing. Tell me what you think.
If it's thought of as decent I may bring some more works here. Or...I may just...bring some anyways. They would all be in spoilers so people don't have to read them. So, here is (currently untitled) by OS:

Spoiler: Untitled

Although the rain had always fallen slowly, it seemed to be moving so lethargically that I couldn’t help but cry out at the wretched drops of frozen rain piercing my skin and leaving gashes of leaking crimson across my face; the taste of that icy crimson was enough to induce nostalgia, but I held my head high in the horrid pain-rain and bit my lip so as to deflect the irksome need to feast upon the hapless souls of man, what I wished so dear to be, what I longed so greatly to join, regardless of the wicked breath of a darker self falling on my neck. I am vampire. I sit in the pain-rain; light.

If it seems annoying, let me know, okay? Peace!

 

[KhaoticErase]

You're the second guy I know that thinks crimson is a synonym for blood.

But anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH. You have no idea how disappointing this was all getting. I thought for sure there'd be more writers on this site.

And yeah, it's perfectly fine to post short stories. But for long stories, please don't post them in a series of chapters over multiple, scattered posts. Finish the story, and then post it in a single post, separarting the chapters with multiple spoilers.

[Story deleted due to internet probs; will repost later]

 

[OS]

I don't think Crimson is a synonym for blood, but more like the metaphor "blood is the color crimson". It is symbolic of blood to many, as well.

I probably won't finish the above story, but I will most definitely be back with poems and short stories. I've got one I'm working on right now about a French demon hunter named Victor d'Enfer that might be interesting. Peace!

 

[candle]

I'm a little wary of posting any of my writings here, because someone could easily take it and try to pawn it off as their's. If you would like to read some of my work, however, you can go to my FF.net Profile. On there are summaries of my original stories and my fanfics. The only two stories on there to read are my current project and an old one that I've abandoned, (though not the premise, or plot) and plan to rewrite in the near future.

 

[Firestalker5]

This is a story I wrote when I was in Junior High. I consider myself religious, but this is a story I wanted to write. Hope it's everyones liking 8-) :

Spoiler: Believer

The Believer
By: Casey P. Ford
I fell asleep one night and found myself walking with My Savior, Jesus Christ. As we walked along the beach, I noticed that he was rather close to me, but thought nothing of it. My life experiences played in front of me and I watched contently. I did not say a word for I wasn't sure what to make of the display. I watched closely and noticed a figure in all of my doings who stood right next to me, exactly where Jesus was standing right now as we walked. I looked closer at the person next to me in the pictures of life and was overjoyed to realize that it was Jesus standing there, holding my hand through every stage and moment of my life. I could not express my joy at the moment of realization that Jesus was with me, but my happiness soon changed to despair and confusion as I looked behind me at the footprints in he sand behind us. At my most trying times in my life, there were only one set of footprints, where all other times had two. I looked at my feet and tried to make sense of the confusion. Jesus looked at me and his face reflected my pain.
"What is wrong, My Son." He asked kindly. I answered as kindly he had to me.
"I know I'm not to question you, but as I look back at the footprints I noticed that on my most trying times there is only one set of footprints. This upsets me greatly. Why did you leave me when I needed you the most?" Jesus smiled at me.
"My Son, look at the footprints of your most trying time." I did as I was told and found they weren't my footprints. I looked at Jesus and he continued to smile, "The times that were your most trying and hard were the times that I carried you." I smiled at him and he reflected the smile back. I felt such incredible love from him that I didn't want to wake up the next morning.

The Non-Believer

I remember falling asleep just as I got home from my job and having the strangest dream that I will ever have. I was on a dark and dreary beach, alone. I looked around and couldn't see anything, I was blinded by the darkness. I started to grow scared of the place and it grew cold. I wondered what I had done to deserve to be placed in such a place. As I pondered the question a light formed next to me and I watched as it shaped itself into a man. The light grew solid and I noticed that the man that emerged from it was in fact the Son of God Himself. Though I never believed in Him (I thought he was just a man that lived a long time ago.). I know now that I was wrong, but I still held my disbelief, for I knew this could only be a dream and my mind was playing with me.
I looked closely at the Son of God and noticed that He looked like he was just put through an intense battle. He had scratches across his face and he was bleeding immensely from his back. I thought of caring for him, but decided against it for I knew nothing of how to help him. He straightened and looked at me with a face that screamed in pain for him. It shot through my heart immediately. It hurt me to look at him.
"Jesus, who did this to you?" I asked not moving from my spot.
"You did, My Son. You did." He answered me. I took a step back, horror-struck. I don't remember ever physically beating on someone. I've made fun of people, but never actually hit someone. No, I couldn't be the one that did this to him. It had to be someone else. But still somewhere, somewhere deep in my heart and soul I knew he was right. No matter hard I tried to suppress it. It was a small feeling but strong enough to be felt.
"Will you follow me?" I wasn't sure if I should, but I nodded either way and slowly followed behind him. I was taking longer steps then He was and I was soon walking in front him. When I realized that I was ahead of Him I stopped and waited for Him to be even with me, but I never went to meet Him, and he never stood right next to me, he was always at least five feet away.
As we walked I looked at the sky and noticed that my life was playing before me. I watched with very little interest, for why should you watch something you've already seen. I watched only the parts that I wanted to see again, the parts that I've almost forgotten. I laughed and cried and grew angry and confused, all corresponding with the memories of the moment in front of me. Jesus continued to walk, he never faltered.
"Stop!" Jesus yelled and I stopped dead in my tracks. Jesus looked at me with eyes that spoke of confusion.
"I do not show you your life so you can ignore it. I show you to show how you did this to me." I took another step away from him. He reached His hand out to try and grab me as though I was falling into a great abyss, A tear slowly formed in his eye. I looked at him in confusion, wondering why he had tried to grab me like that. I held my ground and after awhile he lowered his hand and head in defeat.
"Look at your footprints in the sand, My Son." He said softly, almost under his breath. I was looked behind me and found that my most trying times were when only one set of footprints were found. I grew rather angry.
"Why did you leave me when I needed you the most? You were with me all the other times, why were my hard and trying times any different? I needed you and you left me. Your no Savior, your a nobody. That's why I never believed in you, because you never helped me when I needed you." Jesus shrank slightly. I never faltered. I stared him down. As I watched he react with pain, like someone whipped him in the back. I watched him drop to one knee, but I did not move.
I just stared at him, thinking he deserved it for abandoning me when I needed him most. Blood streaks across his back slowly flooded again as a new slash formed. I wasn't sure, but it looked like he had forty slashes across his back, including the new one that just formed. He had rather large tears trailing down his face, the look of pain across his face was almost to much even for my anger.
"Look at your life and tell me what you see." He slowly recovered from the invisible onslaught. I admit it right now I had no idea what I was supposed to look for, but I looked none-the-less. I saw nothing of importance, nothing at all.
"I see nothing but my life." I said honestly.
"That is because you have your eyes closed. Open your eyes then look at your life and tell me what you see." I was shaken by what he said. I had no idea what he meant when he said that I had my eyes closed. They were open, how else could I be seeing all that I was? I slowly moved my fingers up to my eyes and tried to feel my eyes. I was shocked as I found that my fingers felt skin, my eyelids were closed. But I saw my fingers touching my eyes as if they were touching my eyeballs. I tried to open my eyes, but it was so hard to do that I forced them open. I watched my life fly by 'with my eyes open' and I saw what Jesus wanted me to see, a figure that followed behind me throughout my life. Every time the figure would get close to me and start to walk next to me through my life I started to walk faster and push it away. I pushed the figure away many times, but it never got discouraged and it continued to try to walk with me.
The figure was Jesus.
I was awe struck at the persistence he had, and horrorified by the way I continually pushed him away. I was so enthrothed by the sight that I let go of my eyelids and I was blinded again. I looked at Jesus, who standing fully erect now. He seemed to read my mind, "Those times where you see only one set of footprints are the times when I carried you. The scratches you see across my face are from you trying to get out of my grasp."
"I know you needed help and when I tried to help you fought me. That is why your trying times were always more trying then anyone else's."
"You may have thought that you did on your own, but the truth of the matter is that you needed help and I was there to help you, whether you wanted it or not. Sometimes the person who needs the most help is the one that never asks for it. Even the tallest person has to stand on someones shoulders, sometimes. Your not alone, My Son, but the more you believe you are, the harder it is for me to help you."
"I am the Father that when his son is in trouble is the first one there to help and the last one to leave. I will never leave you and forsake you for any reason. I am the doctor that fights to heal a fatally ill patient and cries when he loses him."
"I fight to the death so that ONE person's soul may live, every time." I stared at Him and was stricken with a sudden realization that this wasn't a dream. My mind wasn't playing tricks on me and all my doubts disappeared. This realization opened my eyes permanently. I saw Jesus in a new light. Jesus's cuts and slashes were gone and I noticed that he glowed. I dropped to my knee's and cupped my hands together.
"Forgive me, Lord. I was lost, but now I'm found. Please, forgive me." I whispered.
Jesus looked down on me and said, "Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. You are forgiven, My Son. Welcome home." I stood up, gave him a hug, crying and noticed that there was singing around us. I looked around and saw angels rejoicing.


The verse: St. Luke 15:10, from the Catholic Bible and the First part of the story was an adaptation of the "Footprints" poem Author Unknown; Everything else came from my head.

 

[CrymsenTears]

I will never let this topic die.

DEPRESSION WARNING: These may/may not depress you.

Spoiler: Soul

An impure oddity
Flow with raining radiance
Red the color
Black the intent

Expose your soul
Bleed out your fears
Grace comes to those who wait
Do not fear

Be wary
Your soul will be tainted
By tears
Of her sorrow

Spoiler: Blood Crusade

I left my body
Lying there as a reminder
That I am here

Bleed your tears
Cry your blood
To be unclear
Is not to rise above

Wake to find that you
Have nothing left to do
Let it run and run it dry
No one cares neither do I

Crusade mighty crusade of Blood
Crimson rush and hell above
Angels bow to the pure soul
Its not me, im in a hole

And of course the one in my Sig =]

 

[Loduel]

Okay this is no offence towards you or anything but I hate seeing free verse.... haha it is just too easy I find, there is no challenge to it.

I like some of the ways you write, but I think it would be better if you chose a type of meter and used it instead.

Sorry I know there wasn't any advice really just my opinion really. And definetly wait for some advice or complements from others.

 

[CrymsenTears]

I know I'm very freelance... Ha. My band would prolly laugh at your commet, but I understand.

 

[Fafnir]

I have an idea for a story that I want to write sometime, perhaps I'll post my basic premise... It's really dark though.... Like, really... like, a 15 year old should not be thinking this shit dark.

 

[holloway]

If I'm honest emo, those were awful. Not only were they bloody angsty but there was no rhythm, no rhyming, no patterns to speak of and the fact most of it was made up of "dead words" doesn't do it any favours either.

 

[OS]

It's been awhile.

Spoiler: Something Epic

Something Epic, by OS

Dreams of journeys
Cloud my mind,
In seeking grandeur,
What do I leave behind?

Something epic,
That’s what I wish to see,
A land of the unknown,
A mount, some woods, a sea,

Frozen wastes and burning hills,
Desolate valleys and wondrous thrills,
Something Epic, someday I wish to find,
As I seek it, what do I leave behind?

Probably something epic.

C & C please. It seems kind of young to me, but I guess it'll do for now. Peace!

 

[Gmanjudo]

no rhythm,

So? It's freelance.

no rhyming,

So? It's freelance.

no patterns to speak of

So? It's freelance.

and the fact most of it was made up of "dead words" doesn't do it any favours either.

Yeah... you should work on that.

 

[Broken Shadow]

Hola, new guy here. Felt kinda bad my first 2 posts were Script Request-Related... so I'm gonna start gettin' to know this community better. And you know what they say, "the only way to get knowledge is to give knowledge" or something like that. @_@

Anyways, a little background on this [btw... I tend to do this alot. It's probably not neccessary, so skip down to the spoiler if you so desire :thumb: ]

A few years ago, I was failing LA class. My teacher at the time [Mr. Fort], sat me down for a little meeting. "Why?" He asked. "I've read your writing, and you should be doing better in this class."

"Well," I said to him, "To be honest, this is kinda boring. I mean, all we ever do is write crappy book reports on crappy books. I swear I must have read Bridge To Terrabithia every single year from 4th grade until this year. I want to do something meaningful, you know?"

"Ah." He said.

And so offered me a story, and a challenge. The story was Plato's famous Allegory of the Cave. And the challenge was this.

"I want you to make this story." He said. "And I don't mean THIS story. I want you to take everything you believe to be true, every bit of knowledge you have, and I want you to teach it to people." Sounded easy enough. "But there's a catch. No lectures. You're not allowed to preach to people. It all must be hidden... within symbols, within metaphors, it all must be hidden. So that way, only those who seek it shall find it."

[That was a paraphrase... At least I don't remember my LA teacher speaking like a LOTR character]

I took his challenge. But in the process, I stumbled upon something totally and completely wonderful. Something called "15 Eyes". To the people I've shared it with, it's mostly a bad-ass story with super-original characters, an immersive setting, and some of the best writing I've ever done. To me, it's a world that is constantly expanding, whether it be through collaberation, or the way everything seems to mean something, even if I don't know it when I write it. I set out to do my assignment and maybe pass an LA class. I failed at the latter [it's still not finished XD ], but I've stumbled onto something so much more. Something I'm just beginning to understand.

[END LAME AVANT-GARDE SELF-INDULGENT PSUEDO-RANT]

ANYWAYS, without further ado, here's the beginning of what's slowly becoming my entire life. ':|

Spoiler: free.1

Free

Desolation . I

Silence. Cold, dull silence, like the sidewalk's edge on a winter morning. A false sense of serenity. Warmth, dry and empty, fills the cell with lethargy, forging ambitions into hopelessness like scripture into stone. There is a sense of sterility. No feeling of connection. Chaos. A long, dreamless sleep.

The Prisoner opens his eyes, and the world floods into them, drowning him in the baptismal waters of perception. He sees only pure, monotonous grey, blanketed softly in the absence of light. He hears only the false promise of peace that is a bitter loneliness. The concrete underneath his palms cannot satisfy this hunger for recognition. The experience is simple, clean, and absolutely remarkable. He begins to move, and is introduced to pain. And, for what may be the first time in his life, pain gets the better of him.

As he falls, his head collides with the wall behind him, making a sound like a bird flying into a window. Hot blood tickles the back of his neck. It feels like the soft fingertips of lost love, and it saddens him. He falls asleep, and he does not dream.

Desolation . II

There is a young girl that comes to him. She does not speak, she only stares. Stares at him through the slat in the door. Her eyes a flourescent green, when she casts them in they are lanterns, filling this warm, grey place with the radiant frost of life. He knows those eyes, for he sees them when reality ceases, and what remains are his thoughts. It is dream. It is memory.

He knows those eyes.

Everyday, it's the same routine. Everyday they feed him stale slices of bread, and everyday he doesn't eat them. They are poison. They mock him like a caged animal. They mock what they have turned him into.

And everyday, the eyes come to watch him. To check on him. To make sure he's still hungry and alive. Those eyes care for him. Those eyes don't want him to go away.

It's all the same as the day before. And so it shall remain until the Day the world begins Again.

Desolation . III

Though his muscles have entrophied, the shell of his soul holds a frightening power. The steel door seems to shred like paper in his calloused hands, and soon, it too is dead, like all else in his world. There is light before him. He takes two steps forward.

A thought comes, but the meaning escapes.

His naked feet make dull, scraping sounds against the concrete of his cell. These two steps, these two beautifully agonizing steps, freedom at last. Time resumes, darkness falls away. Now, there is reality. The third step. He steals it away, like the breath in his lungs.

A soft, yet scratchy surface. Carpeting, he thinks. My freedom is carpeting.

In the moments before the incoming disaster, he surveys his new world. He is on a balcony, stairs on either side leading down to the floor below. The walls are a dull cream with bright red trim. The carpet, a soft burlap color. It is the same as his skin, and it comforts him. This is not a prison, he thinks. This is a home.

But he is wrong.

They descend upon him like so many incects, buzzing, screaming, Kill him. They carry steel in the shape of death, their fists clenched into hammers. They mean to stop him. They mean to take away this gift. But he will not be stopped.

Their aim is pitiful, endless bullets burying themselves in the off-white ocean behind him. He laughs, and he jumps, destroying the barricade in his way.

As he hits the floor, there is a thump not unlike dirt falling onto a coffin. All shots cease. There is silence for what seems like an eternity. And then, there is gunfire, and pain, and death. Holes pound into his body as he mows through them, destroying indiscriminantly and completely without vanity. They all go down without effort, and in the end there is only one left. He stands, bludgeon in hand, amongst a sea of dead.

"Devil!" Says the man.

"Man." Says the devil.

His dying screams could be heard from miles away, were there anyone out there to hear it.

Commentz?

 

[Broken Shadow]

ACCIDENTAL TRIPLE POST.
[way to make a first impression XD]

Please Delete.

 

[Broken Shadow]

ACCIDENTAL TRIPLE POST.

Please Delete.

 

[Bogus]

Oh, what the hell. This looks like a fun thing to do. I have a few story pieces, inspiration is much like a butterfly for me, it lands on me at the most inopportune moments and never stays long enough to enjoy it's company.

Here it is, ignore the title as I'm not too happy with it but can't think of a better one just yet. Also, this is more of a prologue and I wrote it in some what of a poetry form...or so people tell me. I have a tendency to rhyme in my writing, not sure why. Criticism appreciated, and if you guys like it I'll post more.

Spoiler: Past Unity

Upon a throne of clouds she sits, pondering the times of love and unrelenting bliss. She gazes below her to the Puppets on the soft green plains. Master delicately pulling their strings. To fight, to pray, to kill, to sing...they do it all for their mighty King. The faithful servants, so willing to abide, as they worry and they wonder of Darker Times. Beside her, head held low, she spots the Light One, the being the Master shall soon let go. His euphoric smile has faded, and his light has all but left, as he sits as well to ponder what shall come next. His heart is stricken with hatred for Master and his Plan, so damned irritated by the strings held in his hands. These precious toys he makes dance for his own delight, filling them with bliss only to erase it with fright. Most beautiful of beings that have ever graced her sight and now he is fading and so is his brilliant Light. Once the mighty one, once a gracious servant as the others...she looked to him in awe once and now sees him as a blunder. Such a blemish on this perfect canvas, such a mistake by the hands of his Master...yet why? Why does he look to them, down below, with such a solemn expression? Why worry of their place, why wonder of their transgressions? He has no need to fear them, he has no need to question, yet there he sits in silence with a look of determination.
"A battle cometh..." She whispers into the nothing.
"A battle cometh and all shall be broken..."
With a glance above her to that high golden throne, she wonders to herself if she is but another drone. A puppet like the Weak Ones, are her strings tied as tight? Can she be toyed with, filled with the ethereal fright?
"A battle cometh...and all shall be broken...A battle cometh...and we shall smite them."
The mighty throne begins to shake as upon her cloud her soul quakes. The Light One grins down to the Puppets before he takes flight and travels upwards. With a crash of steal and a clash of thunder the Peaceful Island is torn asunder.

Upon her knees now, covered in blood, she looks to herself now and wonders how come. She has never bled and she has never felt an ounce of pain, yet now to her feet she must strain. Here without her soul, without His love, without her cloud floating high above. Something has occurred, what she cannot remember, all she knows is there was something she had to surrender. The Puppets are among her and she cowers in fear, catching herself and feeling quite queer. Puppets among her, something unheard of, she had never visited, yet remained high above. Now He has abandoned her, He has taken the Great Love. He has stolen her way to return to her Home, something is off now, something not right here. The Puppets are among her, and she can feel their fear. Why feel their pain, why feel their joy? She feels them near and it begins to annoy. Such irritating emotions these Weak Ones hold, such aggravating delusions of courage to be bold. They disgrace us all with their presence here, they have no idea what the Master has done. They do not see their strings, they do not feel His Love, they never saw the Light One, and they never made it above. The Light One?...dear Prince...where has he gone off to?...Why have I come here, why was I lied to?....The Puppets, the Puppets, too many of them here...why have I come...why do I feel?

...Below the plains and below the clouds, the light shines even brighter now. As the Prince marks his day and extends his finger to the Master, showing Him that strings cannot hold the one whose destiny he's mastered. The Light One has assumed the Plan, watching for so long the strings within his Master's hands. There He sits, playing with His new toys, playing like a selfish boy, pulling and tugging and watching them fall, while laughing and prodding and remembering it all. Such a horrid plan He had, no idea how it would fail. He told them all of His Plan...the Puppets ate it up from His loving hands...and now they cower in fear, awaiting the tragic year...the year that shall not come. The trials will not reveal themselves and the wicked will not fall. "You lied to them Master, you lied to us all..."

..Be gentle..

 

[holloway]

So? It's freelance.

Freelance may be a style of poetry, but it doesn't make something good or act as an excuse for not trying rhythm and patterns. Look at the best poetry- they may use free RHYMING, but without some sort of pattern or beat you cannot hope for it to be any good.