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 Writers Cafe'

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nanotyrano
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PostSubject: Writers Cafe'   Thu Feb 16, 2012 4:52 am

Here you can write nice peices of writing that you came up with. Bewarned, some stories may contain violence!
Rules-
Same as regular rules for the forum. Keep violence to PG-13


Tonies adventure!
Tony walked into an interesting building. He felt terror and darkness rise over him, like someone was watching him. He was right. A masked man jumped out of the dark shadows and grabbed Tony! The man grabbed Tony's wallet and ran for the door. Tony wipped a gun out of his pocket and shot the poor guy. Slowly and cautiosly, he walked towards the body. He flipped the masked mans body to reveal his face. "No!" screamed Tony. The man was his uncle Jim. His uncle stared up into Tony's eyes. "Take good care of my family, and listen carefully... I have a mi-."
Jim's eyes closed and his heart stopped. Tears grew in Tony's eyes. He was a murderer, a criminal, he killed Jim. Suddenly a small ball slipped out of Jim's hand. There was a small button, and Tony pushed it. Nothing. In a flash it turned bright red and blew up! Tony launched into the air towards the roof, unable to move. He hit a metal pole, "Ouch! God da-!" CRUNCH! Tony fell back down from the roof, all limbs broken and some blood on his nose. Slowly the world around him turned black, and Tony was no longer a living humanoid.... affraid

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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Tue Jun 28, 2016 1:50 pm

good to see that there's a dedicated writing thread, even if it's four and a half years old with only one post Razz let's try to remedy that, shall we? this is still a work-in-progress that i'm having a bit of difficulty writing the rest of, but here's the opening to my first attempt at a straight horror story, intended to be more Lovecraftian than nanotyrano's, set in an alternate timeline to ours:

Bonavista

          The door to the room swung wide; the orderly was careful not to open it too quickly, so he wouldn’t startle the patient within. The doctor walked in first. The patient sat on a simple cot, giving the sunlight shining through the window a thousand-yard stare.
          The doctor spoke to him in Nahuatl, “Mr. Cōzahtli? Teniente Cōzahtli.” After a few more tries, the patient looked at him. “You have a visitor today, Teniente. A reporter from America. He’s gathering the tales of soldiers from the war, and would like to hear yours.”
          The patient, Cōzahtli, just stared for another moment, then his eyes widened. The doctor spoke again, “Would you share your story with him? He’s traveled all the way from New York City.” The reporter walked in next, adjusting his tie a bit.
          The reporter’s eyes widened, too, as Cōzahtli clutched his head and began screaming, “Amo! Amo! Amo! Aocmo! Aocmo!” He collapsed on the cot, convulsing, as the doctor and orderly ran over to help him.
          “Está teniendo un ataque! Pahtli!” the doctor shouted.
          “Zan niman, tepahtiani!” the orderly replied, handing him a syringe. The orderly held Cōzahtli down while the doctor injected him.
          “Aocmo! Aocmo! Aocmo…” he started to calm down as the sedative kicked in.
          “Ayohui, ayohui,” the doctor said in a calm voice. He explained what the reporter wanted again in Nahuatl. After a few minutes conversing—longer than it would have, since Cōzahtli’s thought processes were slowed by the drug—the patient said, “Ca ye cualli. Se lo diré.”
          The doctor turned to the reporter and said in Anglish, “He says that he’ll tell you about what happened.”
          “Tlazocamati,” the reporter said, completely butchering the pronunciation of the Nahuatl for ‘thank you.’ The orderly brought a chair for him as the reporter took out his pen and the journal he would write the patient’s story in; the doctor would be their interpreter, since neither the reporter nor the patient knew much of the other’s language. He glanced at his wristwatch and scribbled down the time.
          “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cōzahtli. Thank you for your time,” Russell extended his hand in greeting. Cōzahtli just stared at him even after the doctor translated for him. After a few moments, the reporter retracted his hand. He cleared his throat and said, “Can you tell me how it all began?” Once the doctor translated his question, Cōzahtli began his story.
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Fri Jul 01, 2016 1:08 am

After seeing the Purge Election Year, I started kicking around some ideas for a fan fiction. It'd be a crossover of Resident Evil and The Purge. Selectively, I'd use certain mythos and combine them. The idea is that the events of Resident Evil 0 and Resident Evil happened. Afterwards, Umbrella covered it up, and managed to clean things up before the Raccoon City incident happened in this timeline. Cut to a couple years later, and the New Founding Fathers are in power, and The Purge is a thing. The NFF still keep an eye on the world and there's still potential for wars, and everything else. They want new weapons, and Umbrella has been continuing their worker.

Albert Wesker steps in with an idea. As most Purging stays within the cities and towns, they plan to set up blocks around Raccoon City, shoot anyone leaving on site. And, as everyone is Purging, Umbrella drops several BOWs (aka Biological Organic Weapons) into the city as a weapons tests.

Haven't expanded upon the idea further, I actually got it watching the film earlier. It seems like an idea I'd really like to work on expanding.

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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Thu Jul 28, 2016 3:17 pm

So for you that dont know ol' Spiegel, I'm a Veteran of the US Army. I deal from some mental health issues related to my deployments (No pity parties please, I'm fine) but I write about some of those issues on a facebook group of mine. I figured I could share them here as well. So here's just one, if you like it let me know and I can post more or link you to my FB group!

*Two Part Post, This Is Part One*
I stare into his eyes, hypnotized by his presence. I can feel his strength, the good intent in his soul flowing from him. He is caring, his virtues within reflecting outwardly. How awkward to look at another this way but I am drawn to him. Perhaps it’s that I once knew him. This moment reminds me of finding a picture of a friend I haven’t seen in years. I cannot help but to want to engage him, hear his stories, and learn more about him.
I simply cannot shake the feeling of association he gives me. Despite my feelings of an old friendship, of familiarity, he also seems foreign and strange to me. I want so badly to remember him. I have to. I must know this man but somehow I seem to have forgotten just who he is. I study him more as I try to identify just who he is and how much he must have impacted me to give me this feeling.
He is younger than I, not just in years but in innocence. I can see it as if he wears an untouched heart on the outside of his chest. His hair is thick and full, no signs of receding. Few wrinkles show on his face, a testament to his age. He is strong and courageous. Even without words I know this. His eyes say there is fierceness inside, like a caged animal ready to escape. His strength and power are amazing to me. Again too, I see the kindness in him. There is a hint, however, of pain. A side of him that says something is breaking on the inside. I want to comfort him but I am too ashamed to reach out to this man I do not know.
I continue to stare, trying to place my finger on it. This must be awkward for him to be eyed down as I am doing to him now. I begin to question if I ever knew him or it is simply the charisma he is at exuding that makes him seem known to me. Still, I cannot shake the feeling. He means something to me. He is more than an acquaintance. My mind is scrambling to locate a memory, a picture of his face hidden in my subconscious.
I find nothing. I feel heartbroken. My instinctual draw to this young man means something but I just cannot find it within myself to remember. I want to so badly, but I am simply unable. I must walk away now. I might not remember who he is but somehow I will miss him. Though I’m unsure what it is that has me so obsessed with him. If I see him again I will ask him who he is. I will ask to hear his story. I will explain that I recognize him but I simply cannot remember him. I hope he will remember me too. I want to see be pulled in by his charisma again and I want to comfort that part of him in pain. I wonder if he knows I can see the pain inside through his toughened exterior. I see the real him, even if no one else does, I do.
With that in mind, I turn to walk away before glimpsing back just once more but still I have no recollection. I wont give up on discovering who he is though. I will continue to search my mind but for now I am trying to recollect.
So I walk away from the mirror hanging in front of me to wonder who it was I was staring at.

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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Fri Jul 29, 2016 2:54 am

i came up with an idea for another writing project of mine, though it's related to a different project (i've mentioned it a few times, an alternate history timeline). the gist of it is that an alternate version of me (since this time it'll be easier to write it in first-person rather than my usual third-person) ends up in the alternate timeline and notes the differences between our timeline and this timeline, writing down his experiences in a journal, which includes going to a library and reading whatever he can about this timeline's history. it'll probably be a much more meta, "contextual" version of other writing projects i have for the TL (which are either written wiki/textbook style to give an objective viewpoint or in prose stories set within the TL, like the excerpt i posted before).

EDIT: now that i think about it, this idea is kind of stupid. i'll still be using the basic concept, but more to help demonstrate ideas from the timeline project to people unfamiliar with it (namely friends and family)


Last edited by Oshronosaurus on Sat Jul 30, 2016 5:46 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Fri Jul 29, 2016 3:33 am

I've always viewed myself as notorious for leaving my projects unfinished, but I've been working on what I hope to be a novel for the last five to six months. The ideas just really clicked together and everything has happened so naturally, it's been a great process. I'm currently on my second draft, and the plan is to give it to beta readers after I've finished a third draft.

I don't want to give away many details about it for my own sake. I don't really want creative input at this stage because I don't want to doubt myself. But I will say that it's weird, a little surreal, and of the horror genre.
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Aug 01, 2016 8:51 pm

Well figured I'd share another one just for the sake of sharing.

I am burning. The turmoil and despair of my every action acting like dry tinder to the flames, fueling the fire. How this started, where it began I can not say. It sears the skin, a constant pain. Each movement reminds of searing agony brought on by the inferno. The flames dance across my skin as if to dance in joyous celebration of my damnation. They taunt me. I want to close my eyes, to avoid seeing the flames as if it will grant some relief. I am unable. Perhaps the lids that once allowed for me to escape seeing what I no longer wanted are gone or simply seared open. I cannot escape.
The flesh is charred and warped into hideous form. Forward movement seems more difficult with each passing moment as the skin squeezes ever tighter under the immense heat. I feel as though my own body is becoming my prison. The flesh pulls tight and dry. Though it seems there is nothing left to burn, somehow the fire continues. It is the destruction of everything I am both inside and out. My boiling point is reached and my wounds grievous. There is no hope. Everything I am is burning, everything I could be scorched, and everything I was ash.
Each day the flame grows as I stumble forward. Any movement is slow and painful with no guidance. I have no course ahead of me for outside the flame is only darkness and bitter cold. There seems to be no aid, no help, and no relief from the torment. This must be hell. What so people fear in their living years before death is already consuming me in life. Destruction, heat, and pain devour me and yet around me is only darkness and cold. I am lost and burning.
Yet, somehow, I find comfort.
I am burning, burning bright, sending my light out into the dark as a barrier against the void surrounding me. The heat that singes my being is also the warmth that keeps against the cold. I am warm and I can see through the darkness. The very destruction of my being drives me forward in search of any means to quench the flames. The pain is a constant motivation to continue the struggle forward, for at some point I will find what will quell this bonfire. I carry on, unable to blink and forced to see every moment of my own struggle.
It occurs to me, enlightenment.
I am not burning. The flames that destroy me are not from outside but within. The ash I leave behind me is the destruction of those things I will no longer carry with me. My charred flesh is only the outer layer and the innermost character remains intact, moving toward the former surface. Its way is lit by the flames of my past as they are consumed. The warmth is the hope for a better future, a new me. My pain is the determination, the motivation, and the very inspiration that drives me forward. I can not close my eyes but I no longer wish to. I must face every struggle head on and with eyes wide open now, it feeds my inner growth through my outward perception.
There is fire. It is pain and destruction. It is warmth and light.
I know now, I am not burning.
I am ablaze.
Let the flames caress the skin and sear the nerves. Let the pain come and let the ash fall. Allow the inferno to light the way and the scorching heat bring me warmth.
I am not burning, I am alight and blazing.
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Sep 18, 2017 9:28 am

Been sorta working on this mini-short story concering 9/11 and time-travel. Think of it as some sort of lost Twilight Zone episode script. Hit a rut when trying to write an alternative terrorist group that would commit a 9/11-esque event in an Al Gore presidency. Eugh.

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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Sep 18, 2017 9:37 pm

Levine wrote:
Been sorta working on this mini-short story concering 9/11 and time-travel. Think of it as some sort of lost Twilight Zone episode script. Hit a rut when trying to write an alternative terrorist group that would commit a 9/11-esque event in an Al Gore presidency. Eugh.
the obvious choice is far-right white supremacists convinced that the world is controlled by the Jews or similar. if you want to branch out, consider a similar group opposed to a different secret society, real or not--the Freemasons or Skull & Bones Society come to mind
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Sep 18, 2017 9:41 pm

Oshronosaurus wrote:
Levine wrote:
Been sorta working on this mini-short story concering 9/11 and time-travel. Think of it as some sort of lost Twilight Zone episode script. Hit a rut when trying to write an alternative terrorist group that would commit a 9/11-esque event in an Al Gore presidency. Eugh.
the obvious choice is far-right white supremacists convinced that the world is controlled by the Jews or similar. if you want to branch out, consider a similar group opposed to a different secret society, real or not--the Freemasons or Skull & Bones Society come to mind
Would far right supremacists be able to get their hands on nuclear devices?
You can PM if you want and I can send you a syn opsis and workshop it.

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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Sep 18, 2017 9:49 pm

Levine wrote:
Oshronosaurus wrote:
Levine wrote:
Been sorta working on this mini-short story concering 9/11 and time-travel. Think of it as some sort of lost Twilight Zone episode script. Hit a rut when trying to write an alternative terrorist group that would commit a 9/11-esque event in an Al Gore presidency. Eugh.
the obvious choice is far-right white supremacists convinced that the world is controlled by the Jews or similar. if you want to branch out, consider a similar group opposed to a different secret society, real or not--the Freemasons or Skull & Bones Society come to mind
Would far right supremacists be able to get their hands on nuclear devices?
You can PM if you want and I can send you a syn opsis and workshop it.

I remember how in the 90's the FBI or U.S. Marshall conducted a sting that had the Russian Mob offering to sell them a nuke. Granted this was when Russia as a democracy was very weak and the Russian Mob ran a lot of the country. Now that Putin is in power, they can't do that anymore. I don't think a black market nuke is possible as it was in the 1990's. Homemade biological weapons or a group infiltrating the government and having access to them would be a far more believable idea.
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Mon Sep 18, 2017 9:50 pm

you never said anything about nukes, Levine Razz you may well just want to make up a country--say that they're from Ruritania or something

interestingly enough, i have my own idea for a short story set during an alternate 9/11 where, by sheer coincidence, an anti-government militia hijacks one of the exact same planes as al-Qaeda and the story would end right when they declare they're taking over the plane...at the exact same time as the al-Qaeda agents

knowing me, though, i'll probably never get around to writing that. i'm much more invested in writing stories set within my alternate history project, anyway, and a 9/11 story isn't compatible with that.
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PostSubject: Re: Writers Cafe'   Tue Oct 03, 2017 10:37 pm

Wrote a short horror story recently which I titled Night Fishing, and I'd love if people could read it and give their opinions on it. It's pretty short, but fair warning there's some inappropriate language. You can read it here.
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