What have you been writing lately? Please share a a snippet from it.
#1
This is part of a 3rd person POV fantasy story I was writing from the perspective of an unspecified "he":
Pain. Darkness. Rage. The other leaders of the Kingdoms watching, gleefully, as he was buried alive in the cold embrace of the Imprisoning Cavern, impaled on his own creation, the blue crystals, and left there to die.
But when a king like me dies, he mused to the silent shadows, he is reeborn as a god.
In a way, this was his death and he knew that soon, he would return, his power amplified a thousandfold, and he would not make the same mistakes that led to him rotting eternally in this abyssal hell. The knowledge of his imminent ascension filled him with thunderous triumph.
But for now, he would wait. Let them think he had truly met his end down here, deep below the kingdom he had once held dominion over.
He closed his eyes, dreaming of that tempting vengeance.
And he smiled.
Pain. Darkness. Rage. The other leaders of the Kingdoms watching, gleefully, as he was buried alive in the cold embrace of the Imprisoning Cavern, impaled on his own creation, the blue crystals, and left there to die.
But when a king like me dies, he mused to the silent shadows, he is reeborn as a god.
In a way, this was his death and he knew that soon, he would return, his power amplified a thousandfold, and he would not make the same mistakes that led to him rotting eternally in this abyssal hell. The knowledge of his imminent ascension filled him with thunderous triumph.
But for now, he would wait. Let them think he had truly met his end down here, deep below the kingdom he had once held dominion over.
He closed his eyes, dreaming of that tempting vengeance.
And he smiled.
3points
#2
A bit of this diary-style novel i've been working on from the perspective of a girl thrown into a second pandemic!
January 5th, 2025
It’s five days since New Year’s. Classes had begun in the midst of coughing—caused by some common cold someone had brought home.
Mother says it is nothing—that we live by the seashore and the salt air will cleanse our lungs and everything will be fine and it will be nothing like the last time. But the boy in my math class is coughing, and my French teacher is coughing, and we all live in the same few neighborhoods and see the same news on the old televisions that need a few seconds to crackle to life.
The news doesn’t report the coughing. Only one radio station does, listing off the names of old pandemics and viruses that wiped out millions, even whole countries in a go. It’s run by Harriet Davies, a college student graduated from my high school two years ago. Mother knew Harriet’s Mother, before they moved off to the city for college. She said Harriet was brilliant, a real smart young lady, and that she’d do big things in the city after school. Mother believes Harriet. Most other people don’t though—they say she was a little too brilliant, on the verge of insane, but her name faded from their lips only a week or two after graduation. The news stations don’t agree with her either, and most of them aren’t aware of her show, I’m sure. The Harriet Davies Show, she called it. I didn’t know of many listeners besides Mother, who switches on the radio to serve as audience when she plays the piano. When Mother plays piano, the keys are sharp and untuned to her touch, but she loves it all the same. She quit lessons when she was fourteen, the same age she let me quit most things I didn’t like, but for much different reasons.
When Mother was fourteen, the Pandemic made the country landlocked. It was a disease from further East, she said, transmitted from the strange animals they ate. She did everything she could to not get it. In the early stages, it could kill, a brutal, days long process of suffering till it took your ability to stand and your body collapsed. She showed me videos of the Pandemic once, when I was young and still putting things in my mouth first and asking questions later. I remember seeing blurred frames of a factory worker holding a clipboard, and then quietly crumpling to the ground. He was almost hit by another worker driving a forklift, it was so sudden. Mother says that half the department died the next day.
She says that history will not repeat itself if people are careful, then shuts off the Harriet Davies Show quick and cleans the whole house, top to bottom, taking extra care with the door handles and light switches.
January 22nd, 2025.
When I came home from school today, I came home to the smell of lemon cleaning solution coating the whole house, and the news that the boy from math class is dead.
I remember him being perfectly healthy, playing volleyball on the beach at lunch not four hours ago.
“Andrew Bethel has been pronounced dead today by authorities who deem the cause of…” Harriet’s voice reads, untrembling and clear as ever.
Mother has not moved from her place on the piano seat since the I got back. We don’t even know the Bethels, but she clutches her phone and cleaning solution till her knuckles burn white. I click off the show and begin to haul the radio up the stairs to my room, pausing to lean on the banister and catch my breath. From the top of the stairs, I see her still sitting there, a performer illuminated with a single lamp by her forgotten piano.
January 5th, 2025
It’s five days since New Year’s. Classes had begun in the midst of coughing—caused by some common cold someone had brought home.
Mother says it is nothing—that we live by the seashore and the salt air will cleanse our lungs and everything will be fine and it will be nothing like the last time. But the boy in my math class is coughing, and my French teacher is coughing, and we all live in the same few neighborhoods and see the same news on the old televisions that need a few seconds to crackle to life.
The news doesn’t report the coughing. Only one radio station does, listing off the names of old pandemics and viruses that wiped out millions, even whole countries in a go. It’s run by Harriet Davies, a college student graduated from my high school two years ago. Mother knew Harriet’s Mother, before they moved off to the city for college. She said Harriet was brilliant, a real smart young lady, and that she’d do big things in the city after school. Mother believes Harriet. Most other people don’t though—they say she was a little too brilliant, on the verge of insane, but her name faded from their lips only a week or two after graduation. The news stations don’t agree with her either, and most of them aren’t aware of her show, I’m sure. The Harriet Davies Show, she called it. I didn’t know of many listeners besides Mother, who switches on the radio to serve as audience when she plays the piano. When Mother plays piano, the keys are sharp and untuned to her touch, but she loves it all the same. She quit lessons when she was fourteen, the same age she let me quit most things I didn’t like, but for much different reasons.
When Mother was fourteen, the Pandemic made the country landlocked. It was a disease from further East, she said, transmitted from the strange animals they ate. She did everything she could to not get it. In the early stages, it could kill, a brutal, days long process of suffering till it took your ability to stand and your body collapsed. She showed me videos of the Pandemic once, when I was young and still putting things in my mouth first and asking questions later. I remember seeing blurred frames of a factory worker holding a clipboard, and then quietly crumpling to the ground. He was almost hit by another worker driving a forklift, it was so sudden. Mother says that half the department died the next day.
She says that history will not repeat itself if people are careful, then shuts off the Harriet Davies Show quick and cleans the whole house, top to bottom, taking extra care with the door handles and light switches.
January 22nd, 2025.
When I came home from school today, I came home to the smell of lemon cleaning solution coating the whole house, and the news that the boy from math class is dead.
I remember him being perfectly healthy, playing volleyball on the beach at lunch not four hours ago.
“Andrew Bethel has been pronounced dead today by authorities who deem the cause of…” Harriet’s voice reads, untrembling and clear as ever.
Mother has not moved from her place on the piano seat since the I got back. We don’t even know the Bethels, but she clutches her phone and cleaning solution till her knuckles burn white. I click off the show and begin to haul the radio up the stairs to my room, pausing to lean on the banister and catch my breath. From the top of the stairs, I see her still sitting there, a performer illuminated with a single lamp by her forgotten piano.
2points
#3
This is from a story I've been writing, it hasn't gotten far, but it is what it is. Please do give me feedback, I just started writing, and I would like some pointers, Thank you! :D
The bell rang and they departed to their next class.
it came to lunch, the only other time they see each other in the day. Instead of sitting in the fifth seat as always, she sat at the very end of the table. She turned towards Jay, "Hey," Callie started as he turned around, "So-" She picked up again, but she got cut off.
"Hello you two lovebirds!" She knew it was Coco without even looking. Causing glances, Coco walked over and sat beside Callie.
"Ugh" Callie mumbled, closing her eyes.
The bell rang and they departed to their next class.
it came to lunch, the only other time they see each other in the day. Instead of sitting in the fifth seat as always, she sat at the very end of the table. She turned towards Jay, "Hey," Callie started as he turned around, "So-" She picked up again, but she got cut off.
"Hello you two lovebirds!" She knew it was Coco without even looking. Causing glances, Coco walked over and sat beside Callie.
"Ugh" Callie mumbled, closing her eyes.
2points
#4
wrote this for school The donut that started a war
When you first meet Frank he is eating cheese on a curb. He looks up and sees a pigeon eating a donut. He thinks ”Aww, how cute”. Then he looks up even more and sees a steaming mad person. “Hold up,” he thinks,”haven’t I seen this guy before?”. Then it hits him! He is that retired astronaut dude! The astronaut scoops up the pigeon and leaves. Frank is thinking about what happened, and then his friend The Inventor comes by and invites him to his lab. Frank says, “ok” and follows him through the tunnel, over a river, and through an underwear factory, and finally to his lab. Frank is gawking at all the cool stuff and he asks The Inventor,”Do you think you could make me one of these?” he asks, nodding at a model 247 rocket booster board that is capable of flying through space (while supplies last). The Inventor nods and says “Just pass me your skateboard”. Frank does and in a matter of seconds he has a model 247 rocket booster board that is capable of flying through space! Then The Inventor gives him some snacks, and wishes him luck, and Frank is on his way!
When you first meet Frank he is eating cheese on a curb. He looks up and sees a pigeon eating a donut. He thinks ”Aww, how cute”. Then he looks up even more and sees a steaming mad person. “Hold up,” he thinks,”haven’t I seen this guy before?”. Then it hits him! He is that retired astronaut dude! The astronaut scoops up the pigeon and leaves. Frank is thinking about what happened, and then his friend The Inventor comes by and invites him to his lab. Frank says, “ok” and follows him through the tunnel, over a river, and through an underwear factory, and finally to his lab. Frank is gawking at all the cool stuff and he asks The Inventor,”Do you think you could make me one of these?” he asks, nodding at a model 247 rocket booster board that is capable of flying through space (while supplies last). The Inventor nods and says “Just pass me your skateboard”. Frank does and in a matter of seconds he has a model 247 rocket booster board that is capable of flying through space! Then The Inventor gives him some snacks, and wishes him luck, and Frank is on his way!
1point
#5
The Beaufort Solution
(alternative history)
In 1485, at the Battle of Bosworth,
Henry Tudor defeated Richard lll
and became Henry Vll of England.
Richard lll has always been blamed
for the deaths in the Tower of his
two nephews, whose elder sister Elizabeth
Henry married when he became King.
But what if Richard had won?
And what did happen to the Princes in the Tower?
Wounded, bloodied, but victorious, the king sat astride his horse and surveyed the now silent battle field. He watched, his grey eyes hard and tired but not entirely lacking in pity as the body of his erstwhile opponent was dragged before him. His mouth tightened and he looked down at the corpse and the flatness of his tone did not entirely hide his emotions.
"See he is given a decent burial, and a stone in the churchyard." Tiredly he shook his head. "He fought well."
Beside him, Lord Stanley spoke almost hesitantly. His indecision and that of his brother might have cost Richard the battle, but they had both finally opted to put their strength behind the king.
"He would not have honoured you thus, sire, had victory been his." He continued, his voice low. "My wife, his lady mother, will weep when she hears what has happened." Clearly, he did not relish having to be the bearer of such tidings. Margaret Beaufort, although tiny physically, was an intimidating woman, especially where the welfare of her one much idolised son was concerned.
But Richard cared little for Henry's mother and her grief. The woman had been a thorn in his side for a long time. He brushed aside Stanley's concerns.
"Had victory been his, I do not know how he would have behaved. Victory however is mine. Courtesy and honour to a dead foe cost nothing. As for his lady mother, your wife, it will be better for her if she does not ever again present herself at court." His voice became edged. "This time, my lord Stanley, see she is kept away from matters that do not concern her, or I shall not be responsible for her fate. Now ensure all is done as I have commanded."
And Richard lll, King of England, wheeled his horse and rode away from Bosworth field. Behind him Henry Tudor lay dead, his army scattered in defeat. Now the last - no, not quite last - threat to his sovereignty had been removed, and he had a kingdom to rule. There would be peace now he had time to rule the country as it should be ruled, with fairness and honour to all. He would see England left a fruitful and peaceful land, but nonetheless a strong land.
Left? Left to whom? he asked himself bitterly, and the chronic frown settled itself upon his face again. He had to sire children, sons to take his place. Therein lay a problem. Then he sighed. Time enough for that on the morrow.
(alternative history)
In 1485, at the Battle of Bosworth,
Henry Tudor defeated Richard lll
and became Henry Vll of England.
Richard lll has always been blamed
for the deaths in the Tower of his
two nephews, whose elder sister Elizabeth
Henry married when he became King.
But what if Richard had won?
And what did happen to the Princes in the Tower?
Wounded, bloodied, but victorious, the king sat astride his horse and surveyed the now silent battle field. He watched, his grey eyes hard and tired but not entirely lacking in pity as the body of his erstwhile opponent was dragged before him. His mouth tightened and he looked down at the corpse and the flatness of his tone did not entirely hide his emotions.
"See he is given a decent burial, and a stone in the churchyard." Tiredly he shook his head. "He fought well."
Beside him, Lord Stanley spoke almost hesitantly. His indecision and that of his brother might have cost Richard the battle, but they had both finally opted to put their strength behind the king.
"He would not have honoured you thus, sire, had victory been his." He continued, his voice low. "My wife, his lady mother, will weep when she hears what has happened." Clearly, he did not relish having to be the bearer of such tidings. Margaret Beaufort, although tiny physically, was an intimidating woman, especially where the welfare of her one much idolised son was concerned.
But Richard cared little for Henry's mother and her grief. The woman had been a thorn in his side for a long time. He brushed aside Stanley's concerns.
"Had victory been his, I do not know how he would have behaved. Victory however is mine. Courtesy and honour to a dead foe cost nothing. As for his lady mother, your wife, it will be better for her if she does not ever again present herself at court." His voice became edged. "This time, my lord Stanley, see she is kept away from matters that do not concern her, or I shall not be responsible for her fate. Now ensure all is done as I have commanded."
And Richard lll, King of England, wheeled his horse and rode away from Bosworth field. Behind him Henry Tudor lay dead, his army scattered in defeat. Now the last - no, not quite last - threat to his sovereignty had been removed, and he had a kingdom to rule. There would be peace now he had time to rule the country as it should be ruled, with fairness and honour to all. He would see England left a fruitful and peaceful land, but nonetheless a strong land.
Left? Left to whom? he asked himself bitterly, and the chronic frown settled itself upon his face again. He had to sire children, sons to take his place. Therein lay a problem. Then he sighed. Time enough for that on the morrow.
1point
#6
I'm writing a self investigation about my clumsiness called "There's a Reason Mom Didn't Call Me Grace". The most recent vignette is acknowledging that flip flops are a hazardous devil shoe .
0points