creative writing about a town

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Writing the Small Town Setting

November 16, 2018 / Writing Tips / 18  COMMENTS

by Elizabeth S. Craig, @elizabethscraig

As a mystery writer, I’m especially fond of small town settings.  I have written larger cities (notably the Memphis Barbeque series), but to make it work, I basically created a small setting within a larger one (life surrounding a family-owned restaurant).

I think small town settings have a lot to offer writers of other genres, too.  That’s because it offers ample opportunity for conflict…and we all know that conflict drives stories.

You may have a more idealistic view of small towns.  That dichotomy is what makes it so interesting.

Here are the elements that I usually draw on in painting life in a small town:

Residents are friendly…and not.   One interesting aspect of small town life is that the residents can be friendly. You might not feel like a stranger when you first arrive in town because people are curious and that curiosity can translate into chattiness (especially in the American South). But later, you may find that residents usually want to protect their way of life and are very resistant to change. They can be especially hostile when they feel their way of life is threatened or if a newcomer claims to know how to make things better (and more like the place they moved away from).  This can lend a very insular feeling to a location.

Going along with the friendliness motif, small towns can be cliquey.   This may be because families tend to stick together (and cousins may be located all over town). It can be a cliquey aspect surrounding the various churches that residents attend.  And of course, it’s also cliquey because residents share so much backstory that they can’t really help but fall into the same patterns with the same people.

There is a lot of backstory in small towns.   Expanding on backstory–it’s everything in a small town.  You might be considered a newcomer, even if you lived your entire life in the town, if your parents or grandparents moved to the town.  There are so many people with personal histories deeply entrenched in town history that it’s hard to distinguish the person from the town. Maybe the resident comes from a long line of teachers and principals in the town.  Maybe the resident’s great-grandfather helped found one of the local churches or started the town newspaper.

Your history is your identity. It can be hard to escape it.  As a kid growing up, everyone knows about your family background and first impressions may be based more on who your family is than who you appear to be.

Town info hubs.   There are places where folks meet up…and possibly gossip about each other, too. These can include salons and barber shops, favorite restaurants/diners, and churches.

Gossip. Privacy can be key because otherwise the whole town knows.  This leads to that most exciting element in a mystery…secrets.

Grudges (including generational grudges). When people have known each other for a long time, and when their families have known each other for a long time, pettiness and grudges can occur.

Support.   This is a pro of small-town living.  If you experience hardship or loss, the town pitches in. You’re not suffering on your own, the town is suffering it right along with you. And in good times, the same applies–you’re not celebrating on your own.  There are also many rituals involved in both weddings and funerals…expectations that the residents may have on how both are handled.

Do you write small-town settings?  Have you ever lived in a small town? What types of small town elements have you included in your writing?

Photo credit: Onasill ~ Bill Badzo on Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-SA

I think small towns lend themselves well to mysteries more than most other genres. My Dennis Haggarty mysteries are set up as ‘big city detective meets small town’. I tend to show the less-than-pleasant aspects of small towns and I pulled a lot from my experiences living in and around small towns most of my life. The distrust of outsiders, the clique-ishness, the prejudices, the secrets… Bwa ha ha.

I like that concept! And then you’ve got so much conflict to work with as the detective tris to adjust.

I think you’re right…in fact, I was trying to think of other genres that could be well-served by small town settings and kind of struggled. Women’s fiction, maybe? Possibly romance novels? I don’t really see a dark psychological thriller in a small town, although it could be interesting to try!

This is so interesting, Elizabeth. And you’re right about the way small towns are. There are lots of opportunities for conflict, even in a small town where one seems very welcome, at least at first. I think the most interesting point you make is about the town’s history/the characters’ histories. Everyone does know your story when you live in a small town. And that can make all the difference…

They know your story and they won’t let you forget it, ha. :) Hope you have a great weekend, Margot!

I do have small towns in a couple off my unpublished works, but I’ve also found all of those characteristics in the older neighborhoods of bigger cities. Two of my published books are set in a decaying neighborhood in Chicago, similar to other blue-collar areas where the major employer – manufacturing or shipping or other kinds of large-scale industry – is gone and the area gradually falls apart because the younger people leave to find employment and a better life elsewhere. My imaginary Chicago neighborhood is similar to my husband’s family home. Most have the same ethnic heritage (Polish, in this case). Everyone has lived there since before WWII or came there right afterward, and they never left. They can track their association back to kindergarten! I like writing real small towns better, though, in romance, romantic mystery/suspense or women’s fiction, because I can keep all of my characters in one setting. They have to shop at a certain store, go to church together, use the same clinic, etc. because they don’t have many options. In a bigger city, even in a neighborhood like I described, people have more options.

That’s so interesting that some of the same elements are present in the neighborhoods of big cities! I’d never realized that. Your setting sounds like a really cool one that you’re well-familiar with.

Yes, it’s definitely easier to naturally mix characters in a small town setting–they’re bound to run into each other for important conversations at the grocery store, pharmacy, etc.

I don’t think it’s true of all city neighborhoods – just that particular demographic.

Thanks for the tip…something for writers to evaluate, for sure…maybe is also true in other areas to some degree.

Hi Elizabeth – so true … and Cathe’s idea I’m sure is right too – the suburb was swamped as the larger city/town grew over it … people adapted or not … and a living central small community that got lost as development took over … London, but where I grew up was out in the sticks … now it’s suburbia (almost London) … and then here on Vancouver Island – lots could be drawn from the history and future here … the rich, nouveau riche, those remaining, and those impoverished … Cheers Hilary

Very interesting thoughts on that, Hilary! I just finished reading “We Are Not Ourselves” which had a lot of those same dynamics and elements in the Queens area of NY (in a historically Irish neighborhood). As the protagonist’s small community changes (in her eyes, not for the better), she faced a lot of internal (and some external) conflict.

My romances are set in small towns – and I love them for the exact reasons you mentioned. Those wonderful neighbours who drive you batty with their nosiness but will have your back always!

The neighbors are good and bad all rolled up into one! Thanks for the insight on how they work with romance, Jemi!

I think the readers love small town settings, too because they feel as if they know the inhabitants of the town. It’s something they can come back to in each subsequent book, where they read about their “neighbors” and “friends.”

That’s such an important point and one that I left out. The small town lends itself well to strong recurring characters that can connect with readers. So small towns aren’t just good for the mystery puzzle itself (suspects, victim, murderer), but for the sidekick and quirky folks that populate other books in the series.

I also think that if a reader *doesn’t* live in a small town, there can be a bit of escapism in armchair traveling to one.

This will be useful to me. I’ve created a small town in the middle of cornfields outside Cleveland (authorial eminent domain) for my WIP novel and various short stories. Your column reminds me that the history/back story/relationships need more of my attention.

I’m glad to help, Eric! Back story is always tricky, but so important in a small town.

You have this nailed! “Quirky folks”, oh yea! I have to tone down the ones I knew when I use them on the page. No one would believe otherwise!

I couldn’t wait to get out as a kid.

Now I know what a rich cultural mine surrounded me back then.

Ha! My roots are showing… :)

The characters are so incredibly rich that they prove ‘truth is stranger than fiction.’

It’s so, so good to get out. Then…is it fun to go back at the other end, near retirement? Could be worth exploring in fiction, if not IRL. :)

Comments are closed.

SLAP HAPPY LARRY

Writing activity: describe main street of a small town.

MAIN STREET OF SHANCARRIG IN COPPER BEECH BY MAEVE BINCHY

Irish novelist Maeve Binchy offers a masterclass in how to describe the same locale via two different point of view.

The novel opens with the local Father Gunn preparing for a visit from the very important Bishop. Readers see this small Irish town as the Bishop is guided from the bus to the local school, escorted by the Father:

The Bishop seemed interested in everything he saw. They left the station and walked the narrow road to what might be called the centre of town had Shancarrig been a larger place. They paused at the Church of the Holy Redeemer for His Grace to say a silent prayer at the foot of the alter. Then they walked past the bus stop, the little line of shops, Ryan’s Commercial Hotel and The Terrace where the doctor, the solicitor and other people of importance lived. The Bishop seemed to nod approvingly when places looked well, and to frown slightly as he passed the poorer cottages. But perhaps that was all in Father Gunn’s mind. Maybe His Grace was unaware of his surroundings and was merely saying his prayers. As they walked along Father Gunn was only too conscious of the smell from the River Grane, low and muddy. As they crossed the bridge he saw out of the corner of his eye a few faces at the window of Johnny Finn Noted for Best Drinks. He prayed they wouldn’t find it necessary to open the window. Copper Beech by Maeve Binchy

Maeve Binchy changes the focal character at the beginning of the next chapter, to a nature-loving young woman called Maddy. Now we see the same small town from the point of view a completely different personality:

The Rosses had a small house on the bank of the River Grane, not near the rundown cottages, but further on towards Barna Woods which led up to the Old Rock. Almost anywhere you walked from Maddy Ross’s house was full of interest, whether it was up a side road to the school, or past the cottages to the bridge and into the heart of town, where The Terrace, Ryan’s Commercial Hotel and the row of shops all stood. But her favourite walk was to head out through the woods, which changed so much in each season they were like different woods altogether. She loved them most in autumn when everything was golden, when the ground was a carpet of leaves. You could imagine the trees were people, king big people about to embrace you with their branches, or that there was a world of tiny people living in the roots, people who couldn’t really be seen by humans. Copper Beech by Maeve Binchy

MAIN STREET FROM “COMING SOON” BY STEVEN MILLHAUSER

On weekends and evenings, whenever he was free, Levinson liked nothing better than to explore the streets of his town. Main Street was always alive, but that wasn’t the only part of town with an energy you could feel. On residential streets, houses displayed new roofs, renovated porches, bigger windows, fancier doors; in outlying neighborhoods, empty tracts of land blossomed with medical buildings, supermarkets, family restaurants. During early visits to the town, he’d seen a field of bramble bushes with a sluggish stream change into a flourishing shopping plaza, where stores shaded by awnings faced a parking lot studded with tree islands and flower beds, and shortly after his move he’d watched, day after day, as a stretch of woods at the west end of town was cut down and transformed into a community of stone-and-shingle houses on smooth streets lined with purple-leaved Norway maples. You could always find something new in this town—something you weren’t expecting. His city friends, skeptics and mockers all, could say what they liked about the small-town doldrums, the backwater blues, but that didn’t prevent them from coming up for the weekend, and even they seemed surprised at the vitality of the place, with its summer crowds, its merry-go-round in the park, its thronged farmers’ market, and, wherever you looked, on curbsides and street corners, in vacant lots and fenced-off fields, men and machines at work: front-end loaders lifting dirt into dump trucks, excavators digging their toothed buckets into the earth, truck-mounted cranes unfolding, rising, stretching higher and higher into the sky. “ Coming Soon “, Steven Millhauser

In the description below, author Nicholas Evans describes a small town first from a long shot point of view then, as the driver (Dan) drives into the town we see it as he would from a car window. The description of a ‘blink and you miss it’ town is not original, but the verb ‘fishboned’ is. By listing the shops, Evans gives us a good idea of the population of this town — their needs, their desires, and then injects a touch of irreverent humour by putting churches and bars into the same category.

HOPE, MONTANA FROM THE LOOP

In the far distance now, Dan saw the town looming. It was the kind of town you could drive through and barely know you’d been there. One straight street, a couple of hundred yards long, fishboned with a few side alleys. At one end stood a rundown motel and at the other a school, and in between you could find a gas station, a grocery, a hardware store, a diner, a laundromat and a taxidermist. Many of the town’s five hundred or so population lived scattered along the valley and to service their various spiritual needs there were two churches and two bars. There were also two gift shops, which said more about optimism than sound business sense; for although summer tourists often passed through Hope, few chose to longer. In an attempt to remedy this and to meet demand from the modest but growing band of subdivision newcomers, one of these shops (and by far the better) had last year installed a cappuccino bar. The Loop , Nicholas Evans

THE TOWN OF RIGBY FROM “GALLATIN CANYON” BY THOMAS MCGUANE

But there was Rigby, and, in the parlance of all who have extracted funds from locals, Rigby had been good to me. Main Street was lined with ambitious and beautiful stone buildings, old for this part of the world. Their second and third floors were now affordable housing, and their street levels were occupied by businesses hanging on by their fingernails. You could still detect the hopes of the dead, their dreams, even, though it seemed to be only a matter of time before the wind carried them away, once and for all. “Gallatin Canyon”

A SMALL SEASIDE TOWN IN NEW ZEALAND

Witi Ihimaera’s Sky Dancer is a comic novel. We first see the landscape via the viewpoint of birds. Now the camera is on the ground with two women, one older, one a ‘chick’. This reads like a description of many small New Zealand towns.

“Honey, please don’t tell me that this is where we’re staying,” Cora said. The main street led down to the small port. On one side was a pub, a fish and chip shop, a takeaway bar, a video rental shop and, interestingly, a massage parlour advertising in Korean and Japanese. On the other side of the street was another pub, a hall which looked like it offered Housie during the week and showed action and sci-fi movies during the weekends, a corner supermarket which also sold Lotto tickets and, next to it, an all-night diner. The diner had a couple of cars and a motorbike parked outside. “Look on the bright side,” Skylark said. “It’s off season, so it’s not costing us too much to stay here, and–” she pointed at the all-night diner — “at least there are some signs of a pulse.” Witi Ihimaera, Sky Dancer

A SMALL TOWN IN AN AUSTRALIAN SUMMER

If anything, the day has grown hotter, the glare beyond the shop awnings more dazzling. Nothing moves, except the shimmering heat haze rising from the street. The temperature must have hit forty, without a breath of wind. He walks into the brightness. Touching the roof of his car is like touching a skillet. Something moves in the stillness, a shifting at the edge of vision, but when he turns he can’t see anything. No—there, in the centre of the street: a lizard. He walks across. It’s a stumpy tail, still as death. Bitumen is seeping through cracks in the road and Martin wonders if the lizard has become stuck. But it scurries away, blood quickened by the heat, rushing under a parked car. Another sound. A spluttering cough. Martin turns, sees the man shuffling along under the awnings on the other side of the road.  Scrublands by Chris Hammer (2018)

BLACK HORSE, ONTARIO

The following is the opening of a short story by Canadian author, Alice Munro, who is describing a tiny ‘town’ somewhere in Ontario. The story was published at the end of the 1960s.

The place called Black Horse is marked on the map but there is nothing there except a store and three houses and an old cemetery and a livery shed which belonged to a church that burned down. It is a hot place in summer, with no shade on the road and no creek nearby. The houses and the store are built of red brick of a faded, gingery colour, with a random decoration of grey or white bricks across the chimneys and around the windows. Behind them the fields are full of milkweed and goldenrod and big purple thistles. People who are passing through, on their way to the Lakes of Muskoka and the northern bush, may notice that around here the bountiful landscape thins and flattens, worn elbows of rock appear in the diminishing fields and the deep, harmonious woodlots of elm and maple give way to a denser, less hospitable scrub-forest of birch and poplar, spruce and pine — where in the heat of the afternoon the pointed trees at the end of the road turn blue, transparent, retreating into the distance like a company of ghosts. “A Trip To The Coast” by Alice Munro

This evocative paragraph comprises:

• The name of the place (reminiscent of early settler times, of the frontier)
• What there is : A list of buildings and landmarks
• Climate in summer
• What there is not : a church, shade on the road, creek nearby
• Building materials
• Area surrounding the township (fields of weeds)
• What is noticed by someone unfamiliar to the area (people passing through)
• Geological and botanical descriptions, as if from a textbook
• A switch to the supernatural (juxtaposed against the textbook description)

Later in the same story, the eleven-year-old character starts to see her home differently after a trip to the coast is mentioned. Alice Munro describes the same tiny township again, but notice the difference:

The clouds were dingy; the world was filled with an old, dusty unfriendly light that seemed to come not from the sky alone but from the flat brick walls, the white roads, the grey bush-leaves rustling and the metal signs flapping in the hot, monotonous wind. “A Trip To The Coast” by Alice Munro

WRITE YOUR OWN

Using imagery from two or more of the images below and write a description of a Main Street.

Small Towns Make Great Horror Settings

The Dark Swamp: Horror Stories 709: Someone Is Doing Something TERRIFYING In This Town | The Dark Swamp

Spoon River America: Edgar Lee Masters and the Myth of the American Small Town  A literary and cultural milestone,  Spoon River Anthology  captured an idea of the rural Midwest that became a bedrock myth of life in small-town America. Jason Stacy places the book within the atmosphere of its time and follows its progress as the poetry took root and thrived. Published by Edgar Lee Masters in 1915,  Spoon River America: Edgar Lee Masters and the Myth of the American Small Town  (U Illinois Press, 2021) won praise from modernists while becoming an ongoing touchstone for American popular culture. Stacy charts the ways readers embraced, debated, and reshaped Masters’s work in literary controversies and culture war skirmishes; in films and other media that over time saw the small town as idyllic then conflicted then surreal; and as the source of three archetypes—populist, elite, and exile—that endure across the landscape of American culture in the twenty-first century. A wide-ranging reconsideration of a literary landmark,  Spoon River America  tells the story of how a Midwesterner’s poetry helped change a nation’s conception of itself. New Books Network

Header illustration: Stevan Dohanos, Main Street

CONTEMPORARY FICTION SET IN AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND (2023)

On paper, things look fine. Sam Dennon recently inherited significant wealth from his uncle. As a respected architect, Sam spends his days thinking about the family needs and rich lives of his clients. But privately? Even his enduring love of amateur astronomy is on the wane. Sam has built a sustainable-architecture display home for himself but hasn’t yet moved into it, preferring to sleep in his cocoon of a campervan. Although they never announced it publicly, Sam’s wife and business partner ended their marriage years ago due to lack of intimacy, leaving Sam with the sense he is irreparably broken.

Now his beloved uncle has died. An intensifying fear manifests as health anxiety, with night terrors from a half-remembered early childhood event. To assuage the loneliness, Sam embarks on a Personal Happiness Project:

1. Get a pet dog

2. Find a friend. Just one. Not too intense.

KINDLE EBOOK

Writing Nestling

How To Describe A Village In Writing (10 Creative Words, Quotes & Steps)

Describing a village in writing is akin to embarking on a poetic journey through a miniature universe, where every word becomes a brushstroke on the canvas of the reader’s imagination.

It is an art form that transcends mere description, allowing the writer to transport readers into a world rich with sensory delights, cultural tapestries, and the lives of the people who call it home.

In this exploration of the picturesque and the profound, the village becomes not just a setting but a living, breathing character, woven into the very fabric of the narrative.

This endeavor is a symphony of words, orchestrating the senses, emotions, and experiences of the reader, inviting them to wander the cobbled streets, breathe in the scents of a bustling marketplace, and connect with the souls that populate this rustic idyll.

Join us on this literary expedition, as we delve into the nuances, the techniques, and the magic of describing a village in writing , a journey that promises to ignite the imagination and leave an indelible mark on the literary landscape.

Table of Contents

How To Describe A Village In Writing

Describing a village in writing involves capturing its essence and painting a vivid picture for the reader. Here’s a step-by-step process to help you do just that:

Observation

Begin by visiting the village or recalling your memories if you’ve been there before. Pay close attention to its unique features, such as its natural surroundings, architecture, people, and culture.

Choose a Focus

Decide on the aspect of the village you want to emphasize. It could be the landscape, the community, a specific event, or the atmosphere. This focus will guide your description.

Create an Outline

Plan the structure of your description. Consider whether you want to follow a chronological order or organize your thoughts thematically. An outline will help you stay organized.

Start with an Introduction

Begin your description with a captivating introduction that sets the tone for the entire piece. Mention the name and location of the village and provide a brief overview of what readers can expect.

Describe the Landscape

Paint a picture of the natural surroundings. Mention the terrain, vegetation, bodies of water, and any prominent geographical features. Use descriptive language to convey the beauty and uniqueness of the landscape.

Capture the Sights

Describe the village’s buildings, landmarks, and any noteworthy structures. Highlight the architectural style and historical significance of these places.

Introduce the People

Provide insight into the community. Describe the residents, their way of life, traditions, and occupations. Share anecdotes or personal encounters to make the description more engaging.

Convey the Atmosphere

Use sensory details to convey the atmosphere of the village. Describe the sounds, smells, and general ambiance. Is it bustling with activity or peaceful and serene?

Highlight Unique Features

Mention any specific customs, festivals, or events that make the village distinct. Explain their significance and how they shape the culture of the place.

Include Personal Experiences

Share your personal experiences or feelings about the village. This adds a personal touch to your description and helps the reader connect with your perspective.

Use Descriptive Language

Employ vivid and sensory-rich language. Paint a picture with your words by using metaphors, similes, and descriptive adjectives.

Organize the Description

Make sure your description flows logically. Transition smoothly between different aspects of the village, ensuring that the reader can follow your narrative effortlessly.

Summarize your description by reiterating the key points and leaving a lasting impression on the reader. You can also share your overall feelings or insights about the village.

Proofread and Edit

Review your writing for grammar, spelling, and coherence. Make necessary revisions to enhance the clarity and quality of your description.

Seek Feedback

Share your description with others and ask for their feedback. They can provide valuable input on how well your writing conveys the essence of the village.

By following these steps, you can create a compelling and evocative description of a village in your writing .

Words To Describe Village

Quaint: The village, with its charming cottages and cobblestone streets, transports visitors to a simpler, bygone era.

Serene: Nestled in a valley, the village enjoys a tranquil atmosphere, offering a peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of city life.

Community-focused: Residents actively engage in communal activities, from shared gardening projects to local events, fostering a strong sense of belonging.

Scenic: Breathtaking vistas of rolling hills and meadows surround the village, creating a scenic backdrop that enhances its natural beauty.

Timeless: With historical buildings and traditional customs intact, the village feels timeless, preserving its cultural heritage for future generations.

Sustainable: Embracing eco-friendly practices, the village thrives on locally sourced produce and renewable energy, exemplifying a commitment to sustainability.

Welcoming: The friendly locals extend a warm welcome, making visitors feel like part of the community from the moment they arrive.

Rustic: Weathered barns and weather-worn fences contribute to the village’s rustic charm, embodying a connection to the land and its history.

Quirky: Eccentric festivals and unique local traditions add a touch of whimsy, making the village stand out with its own delightful idiosyncrasies.

Close-knit: Regular gatherings at the village square or communal spaces showcase the close bonds shared by neighbors, creating a tight-knit social fabric.

Quotes About Village

“Villages are like pearls. Each one is unique, formed with care, and treasured by those who truly appreciate their beauty.”

“Life in the village teaches us that happiness is found in simple pleasures, shared with the ones we love.”

“A village is not just a place on a map; it’s a tapestry of stories, woven together by the threads of its people.”

“Village life is a mosaic of faces, each telling a story of resilience, laughter, and the enduring spirit of community.”

Setting the Stage

Setting the stage for a village description is like selecting the perfect brush for a masterpiece or tuning the orchestra before a symphony.

It’s the magical moment when you choose the portal to transport your readers into a world where time slows, and nature’s brushstrokes paint the most exquisite landscapes.

The village you pick is the key, a hidden gem in the tapestry of your narrative, unlocking doors to a realm of sensory wonder.

The season and climate act as your mood-setters, whispering secrets of ambiance, their whispered cues woven into every word.

It’s the grand prologue to a tale of pastoral beauty or rustic mystique, and it all starts here, setting the stage for a journey of the senses.

Selecting the village for description

Selecting the village for description is a writer’s quest for the heart and soul of their narrative canvas. It’s an artful deliberation, a delicate dance between the personal and the poetic.

The village you choose can be a character in its own right, a silent protagonist in your literary tapestry. It may be a place you intimately know, where you’ve strolled its cobblestone streets and tasted the stories hidden in its nooks and crannies.

Alternatively, it might be an uncharted territory, where your research weaves an intricate web of discovery.

The choice is profound, for it shapes not only the setting but also the emotions, themes, and messages that will emerge from your work.

It’s an ode to the significance of place, a commitment to the magic of storytelling, and a promise to immerse your readers in the enchanting world you’re about to create.

Capturing the Senses

Capturing the senses in writing is akin to a symphony for the soul. It’s the art of weaving words that sing with the hues of visual tapestries, dance to the rhythm of ambient sounds, and beckon with fragrances both familiar and exotic.

With the deft strokes of a pen, a writer can conjure the warmth of a sun-soaked morning on your skin, the taste of freshly baked bread on your tongue, the whispers of wind rustling through leaves in your ears, and the fragrant embrace of a garden’s blossoms all around you.

Each sensory detail is a brushstroke on the canvas of imagination, inviting readers to not just read, but to feel, taste, hear, and smell the very essence of a world they’ve never physically inhabited.

In the realm of storytelling, it’s the symphony of senses that turns mere words into a sensory feast, captivating the heart and mind in a vivid, ethereal dance.

Visual imagery

Visual imagery in writing is the painter’s palette of words, a vivid and evocative tapestry for the reader’s mind. It’s the art of crafting scenes so rich in detail that they come alive, immersing the audience in a world of colors, shapes, and landscapes.

With carefully chosen metaphors and similes, a writer can transform mere words into living, breathing images that linger long after the page is turned.

Whether it’s the play of sunlight on rolling hills, the intricate carvings of ancient architecture, or the sparkle of stars against an indigo sky, visual imagery transcends the written word, enabling readers to see, feel, and even dream within the intricate landscapes painted by the author’s imagination.

Auditory elements

Auditory elements in writing are the symphony of sounds that bring a narrative to life. Just as a composer orchestrates melodies and harmonies, a skilled writer conducts a cacophony of sounds, creating a vivid auditory backdrop for the reader’s imagination.

Whether it’s the gentle rustling of leaves in a tranquil forest, the rhythmic cadence of a bustling market, or the haunting silence of a deserted corridor, these auditory details not only enhance the atmosphere of a story but also evoke a powerful emotional response.

The sounds of a narrative can be a conductor of tension, nostalgia, or comfort, serving as a bridge between the written word and the reader’s sensory experiences.

In the realm of storytelling, auditory elements compose the soundtrack of a world, inviting readers to listen, reflect, and become enchanted by the symphony of words.

Olfactory details

Olfactory details in writing are the aromatic keys that unlock hidden memories and emotions within a reader’s mind.

They’re the delicate fragrances that infuse a story with depth and resonance, allowing the narrative to transcend mere words and reach the very heart of human experience.

Whether it’s the mouthwatering scent of a grandmother’s apple pie, the intoxicating aroma of a forest after rain, or the pungent, acrid smell of urban decay, olfactory descriptions tap into the deeply rooted connections between scent and memory.

A well-crafted scent can transport readers to distant places and evoke forgotten sensations, making the world of a story not just visually tangible, but also viscerally alive.

In the tapestry of storytelling, olfactory details are the fragrant threads that weave the reader’s soul into the narrative, leaving an indelible imprint on their literary journey.

Human Presence

Human presence in a narrative is the heartbeat of a story, the ink that transforms words into living, breathing characters. It’s a diverse spectrum of souls, each one carrying the weight of their past, dreams of their future, and quirks that make them distinctly real.

These characters are not just names on paper; they’re the mirrors through which readers catch glimpses of their own humanity. As they traverse the pages, they laugh, cry, love, and sometimes falter, inviting readers to walk in their shoes, to embrace their triumphs and tribulations.

Whether a hero, a villain, or a complex tapestry of both, the human presence is the constellation of voices that echo within the story’s universe, each star shedding light on the human condition.

It’s a mesmerizing journey through the landscapes of emotion, a revelation of our shared vulnerabilities and the rich tapestry of human experience, a voyage that makes literature not just a pastime but a profound exploration of the heart and soul.

Characterizing the villagers

Characterizing the villagers is akin to peeling back the layers of an intricate tapestry woven with the threads of humanity. Each villager is a unique brushstroke on the canvas of a village’s collective identity, with distinct personalities, quirks, and stories to tell.

From the wise elder who carries the weight of history in their eyes to the mischievous child whose laughter fills the streets, the villagers breathe life into the narrative, shaping the very essence of the community.

Whether they are farmers tilling the soil, artisans crafting intricate wares, or storytellers passing down ancient legends, their occupations and traditions reflect the heart and soul of the village.

Through vivid characterizations, the villagers become more than words on a page; they become living, breathing beings, inviting readers to form a deep and lasting connection with the rich tapestry of human experiences that define this rural haven.

Describe the activities and interactions that define the village

The activities and interactions that define the village are the intricate dance of daily life, a mesmerizing choreography that paints the portrait of the community.

From the crack of dawn when the first rooster crows, to the rhythmic sound of children’s laughter as they chase each other through the cobblestone streets, the village thrives with its unique rituals and traditions. Farmers tend to their fields, vendors gather at the bustling market square, and families share meals under the shade of ancient trees.

Whether it’s the animated conversations at the local tea house, the spirited music of a village fair, or the whispered secrets exchanged by neighbors over picket fences, these interactions are the threads that weave the tapestry of the village’s vibrant social fabric.

It’s within these moments of connection and communion that the heart and soul of the village are unveiled, inviting readers to immerse themselves in the beauty of its daily rhythms and the warmth of its tight-knit community.

Historical and Cultural Layers

Historical and cultural layers in a narrative are like ancient manuscripts waiting to be deciphered by the curious reader. They are the archaeological digs that unearth the buried treasures of the past and the vibrant customs that breathe life into a story’s present.

Like layers of paint on a canvas, they add depth and richness, revealing the intricate tapestry of a society’s evolution. The village’s history is the silent architect of its present, leaving its imprints in every cobblestone and timeworn building.

Cultural influences, from the resonance of local dialects to the intricacies of age-old traditions, provide a unique lens through which the village’s identity is filtered.

Folklore and legends become the whispered secrets of the village, weaving tales of heroes and villains, and mirroring the dreams and fears that have shaped generations.

In the narrative’s exploration of historical and cultural layers, readers embark on a time-traveling journey through the complexities and nuances that define the heart of the village, a journey where past and present converge in a harmonious dance of storytelling.

The village’s history

The village’s history is a silent, ancient storyteller, etching its tales into the very fabric of the landscape. It is a narrative that unfolds in the gnarled bark of age-old trees, the cobblestones worn smooth by countless footsteps, and the timeworn facades of rustic cottages.

This historical chronicle paints a vivid picture of the village’s origins, revealing the trials and triumphs of its founding settlers. It whispers secrets of forgotten wars, celebrations, and the enduring spirit of the community through generations.

The village’s history provides a lens through which the present is understood, showing how it’s shaped by the footsteps of those who came before.

It’s a treasure trove of stories, waiting to be unearthed, and a testament to the enduring legacy of the people who have called this place home.

In the village’s history, readers find not just tales of the past but also a deeper connection to the essence of the community and the roots that anchor it in time.

Cultural influences

Cultural influences in a village’s narrative are the threads that weave together a rich and colorful tapestry of traditions, customs, and ways of life.

They are the mosaic of languages spoken in the streets, the vibrant festivals that punctuate the year, and the cherished rituals that have been passed down through generations.

These influences reflect the essence of the community, offering a window into the beliefs, values, and identity of its people.

Whether it’s the spicy aroma of a local delicacy sizzling in a pan, the melodious tunes of traditional songs echoing through the village square, or the vibrant colors adorning the clothing of the residents, cultural influences are the strokes of paint that define the village’s unique character.

They infuse the narrative with authenticity, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a world where history, values, and customs blend seamlessly, making every street corner, every conversation, and every dish a testament to the enduring legacy of the village’s culture.

Mood and Atmosphere

Mood and atmosphere in a narrative are the master illusionists of storytelling, conjuring emotions, and painting the backdrop of a reader’s imagination with vivid brushstrokes of feeling.

They are the unseen puppeteers, pulling the strings of heartbeats and breaths, transforming mere words into palpable sensations. Whether it’s the heavy, oppressive air of an ominous night, the crisp, hopeful dawn of a new adventure, or the enchanting, ethereal haze of a hidden forest, these intangible elements whisper secrets to the reader’s soul.

They transcend the boundaries of the page, making readers not just observers but participants in the emotional symphony of the story.

In the realm of storytelling, mood and atmosphere are the enchantresses, inviting readers to step through the looking glass into a world where emotions are tangible, where the senses are engaged, and where the very air they breathe is alive with the magic of words.

Creating a sense of place

Creating a sense of place in writing is akin to being an architect of the reader’s mind. It’s about crafting an immersive environment so tangible that one can feel the cobblestones beneath their feet, smell the rain-soaked earth, and hear the echoes of distant conversations.

The alchemy of words can turn a mere setting into a living, breathing character, complete with a history, personality, and quirks. Whether it’s a bustling city square, a tranquil mountain hamlet, or a mysterious, long-forgotten ruins, the sense of place acts as the stage where characters dance, emotions swirl, and stories unfold.

It’s a portal to far-off lands, a vessel for memories, and a key to unlocking the reader’s imagination.

In the hands of a skilled writer, the sense of place becomes the heartbeat of the narrative, allowing readers to journey not just through words but through the very soul of a world waiting to be explored.

Conveying emotional tone

Conveying emotional tone in writing is like an orchestra’s conductor, wielding the power to set the mood, to make hearts race or tears well up, and to ensure the resonance of a narrative in the reader’s soul.

Through carefully chosen words, sentence structure, and imagery, a writer can evoke a wide spectrum of emotions, from joy and laughter to sorrow and despair.

The emotional tone becomes the life force of a story, infusing it with empathy, empathy, and a profound connection between the reader and the characters.

It’s the invisible brush that paints the feelings on the canvas of words, creating an atmosphere that lingers long after the last page is turned.

In the realm of storytelling, conveying emotional tone is an intricate dance of the heart, inviting readers to not just read the words but to feel the emotions coursing through the narrative’s veins, making it a powerful and immersive experience.

Symbolism and Themes

Symbolism and themes in writing are the secret tunnels that lead to hidden chambers within the reader’s imagination, a clandestine journey through a world of deeper meaning.

They are the riddles waiting to be unraveled, the enigmatic signs that form the literary constellations guiding the narrative’s path. Like alchemical elements, they transmute mere words into profound layers of thought, offering insights into human nature, society, and the human condition.

Whether it’s a recurring motif, a subtle metaphor, or a recurring symbol, they are the whispering guides that lead readers into the labyrinthine corridors of thought and reflection.

In the tapestry of storytelling, symbolism and themes are the mysterious relics, inviting readers to decode the hidden messages, to ponder the universal truths, and to explore the intricate tapestry of meaning woven into the narrative’s very fabric.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) about How To Describe A Village In Writing

What’s the best way to begin describing a village in writing.

Start by visiting the village or recalling your memories of it to observe its unique characteristics and atmosphere.

Why is it important to choose a focus when describing a village?

Choosing a focus helps you organize your description and ensures that your writing conveys a clear and engaging message.

How should I structure my description of the village?

You can structure your description chronologically or thematically, using an outline to keep your thoughts organized.

What should I include in the introduction of my description?

The introduction should provide the village’s name and location and offer a brief overview of what readers can expect in your description.

How can I effectively capture the sights of the village?

Describe the village’s buildings, landmarks, and significant structures, paying attention to architectural style and historical context.

Should I mention the people in the village?

Yes, it’s important to introduce the community, describing the residents, their way of life, traditions, and occupations. Sharing personal encounters can make your description more engaging.

What are some ways to convey the atmosphere of the village?

Use sensory details to describe the sounds, smells, and general ambiance. Convey whether the village is bustling or serene.

Are there any unique features I should focus on when describing a village?

Highlight customs, festivals, or events that make the village distinct. Explain their significance in shaping the village’s culture.

Is it okay to include personal experiences in my description?

Yes, sharing your personal experiences and feelings about the village adds a personal touch to your writing and helps readers connect with your perspective.

How can I make my description more vivid and engaging?

Use descriptive language, including metaphors, similes, and expressive adjectives, to paint a vivid picture with your words.

How do I ensure a logical flow in my description?

Organize your description to transition smoothly between different aspects of the village, ensuring that the reader can follow your narrative effortlessly.

What should I include in the conclusion of my village description?

In the conclusion, summarize key points and leave a lasting impression. You can also share your overall feelings or insights about the village.

What’s the importance of proofreading and editing in this process?

Proofreading and editing ensure that your writing is free from grammar and spelling errors, enhancing the clarity and quality of your description.

Is it beneficial to seek feedback on my village description?

Yes, sharing your description with others and asking for their feedback can provide valuable input on how well your writing conveys the essence of the village and help you improve it.

In the art of describing a village in writing , we have embarked on a journey where words are our brush, and the page our canvas.

Through the vivid tapestry of sensory details, the rich characterization of villagers, and the delicate interplay of history and culture, we have unraveled the secrets of crafting a world both picturesque and profound.

A village, once a mere backdrop, emerges as a vibrant character in its own right, inviting readers to step into its heart and experience the world we’ve painted with our words.

This exploration reminds us that in storytelling, the power lies not just in the plot but in the world we create, for it’s a world where readers can escape, explore, and expand their horizons.

The art of describing a village is a testament to the magic of literature, where words have the power to transport, captivate, and resonate, leaving an indelible mark on the reader’s soul, and promising that the world we’ve crafted will remain alive in their imagination long after the story ends.

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• How To Describe Summer Season In Writing (8 Important Steps)
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How to Write About a Fictional City

Last Updated: October 5, 2022 Fact Checked

This article was co-authored by Stephanie Wong Ken, MFA . Stephanie Wong Ken is a writer based in Canada. Stephanie's writing has appeared in Joyland, Catapult, Pithead Chapel, Cosmonaut's Avenue, and other publications. She holds an MFA in Fiction and Creative Writing from Portland State University. This article has been fact-checked, ensuring the accuracy of any cited facts and confirming the authority of its sources. This article has been viewed 95,407 times.

Writing about a fictional city can be a difficult challenge. We all know that real cities are sections of land with a population. But in order to create a fictional city and use it in a story, you will need to access your imagination and focus on the details of the city to get it right.

Looking at Examples of Fictional Cities

• The fictional city of Basin City or Sin City in Frank Miller’s Sin City .
• The fictional city of King’s Landing in George R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones .
• The fictional city of Oz (The Emerald City) in L.Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz .
• The fictional city of The Shire in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit .

• Most fictional cities are described using a map drawn by the author or by an illustrator working with the author. Examine the maps provided of the fictional cities and notice the level of detail that is put into the maps. For example, the map provided in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit includes the names of places in the language of the novel as well as major landmarks and structures in the fictional area.
• Look at the naming of the areas or streets in the fictional city. The names in a fictional city can carry a lot of importance, as the names come to symbolize certain aspects of the world of the book. For example, the naming of “Sin City” in Frank Miller’s Sin City graphic novels indicates that the area is known for its sinful inhabitants. The name tells the reader something about the area and what to expect from the characters that live in the area.
• Note how the author describes the city. Does she use certain descriptions to characterize the city? In The Game of Thrones by George R. Martin, for example, King’s Landing is described as dirty and smelly, but it is also the seat of the throne. These descriptions create an interesting contrast for the reader.

• Creating a fictional city will also allow you to use elements of a real city you know well, such as your hometown, and twist them around so they become fictional. If you are very familiar and comfortable in a certain real-life area, you can then use what you know and change them slightly to create a fictional world.
• Creating a fictional city will also improve your writing overall, as the more believable your city is in your book, the more believable the world of your book will be to readers. Making a convincing fictional city will strengthen your characters as well, as you can shape the city to fit with the actions and perspectives of your characters.

Creating the Basics of the Fictional City

• You may choose a name that feels generic and sort of “every small town” if you want your story to have a more universal feel to it. A name like Milton or Abbsortford, for example, does not tell readers too much about the town other than it is likely small and in North America. Avoid using a name like Springfield, as this immediately makes readers think of The Simpsons, which may not fit with your story.
• Consider a name that fits the region or area where your fictional city is located. If your city is located in Germany, for example, you may select a German name or a German term that could also function as a name. If your city is located in Canada, you may select a Canadian city that exists and change the name slightly to create a fictional name.
• Avoid names that seem obvious, such as Vengeance or Hell, as the reader will be alerted right away to the meaning behind the name. The use of obvious names can be effective if the town acts in contrast to the name. For example, a town named Hell that has the nicest, most pleasant townspeople.

• Who founded the city? This could be a lone explorer who stumbled on the land or Native peoples who built up the city piece by piece using basic tools. Think about the individual or individuals responsible for founding the city.
• When was the city founded? This can help you get a better sense of the development of the city, as a city founded 100 years ago will have a denser history than a city founded 15 years ago.
• Why was the city founded? Answering this question can help you better describe the city’s past. Maybe the city was founded through colonization, where a foreign explorer claimed the land and colonized it. Or maybe the city was founded by people who discovered empty land and built it up on their own. The reasons for the city’s existence will help you get a better sense of your characters, as they may have personal ties and connections to the city due to how the city was founded and why it was founded.
• How old is the city? The age of the city is another important element. An older city may have city planning details that have been preserved, while a newer city may have very few old buildings and an experimental approach to city planning.

• You should also think about the climate of the city. Is it hot and humid or cold and dry? The climate may also depend on the time of year when your story is taking place. If your story takes place in the middle of winter in a fictional town located in Northern California, for example, it may be warm during the day and cooler at night.

• Consider the racial and ethnic groups in your city. Are there more African American individuals than Latinos or Caucasians? Do certain ethnic groups live in certain areas of the city? Are there areas where certain ethnic groups are not allowed or feel uncomfortable being in?
• Think about the class dynamics in your city. This could mean a character who is middle-class lives in a certain area of the city and a character of an upper class lives in a more lavish or expensive area of the city. Your fictional city may be divided by class, with certain areas off-limits to all classes except for one class.

• You may also notate landscape details, like a mountain range that borders the city or sand dunes that protect the city from the outside. Try to add as many details as possible, as this will help you build a more convincing fictional world.
• If you have a friend who is talented at illustration, you may ask them to help you draw a map of the city in more detail. You can also use online resources to help you build the map. Use a program like Photoshop, for example, to cut and paste images from the internet to create a map or a physical representation of the city.

Adding the Specifics of the Fictional City

• You should also think about what the town is known for, according to the outside world. Maybe the city is known as the center of commerce or has one of the most renowned sports teams.
• Consider what locals love or enjoy about the city, as this will make it feel more unique. What are the hotspots and cool hang out areas in the city? What are the locals proud of in terms of their city and what are they ashamed of or afraid of in their city?

• For example, maybe your character spends a lot of time at the private school located in the city center. Take the time to think about small details of the school, from how the building appears within the surrounding area to the school colors and the school mascot. Focus on the area around the school and the layout of the school, including classrooms and areas your character spends a lot of time in.

• For example, maybe your city has a polluted river that runs through the area. Think of how it smells as you walk by the river. Have your characters comment on the stench of the river and the way the river looks or sounds.
• Your story will likely involve several locations or settings that recur. Focus on using the five senses to describe these recurring settings well, as this will help the world of the story feel more convincing.

• For example, your characters may spend time in a dense urban area in the city. The area may be populated with strange creatures and monsters but it may also have elements you may find in a real-life urban area, like buildings, streets, and alleyways. Having real-life details and imagined details together can make it easier to build a believable world.

• For example, if you have a character who needs to access a magical portal in the middle of the city to time travel, you should make sure the magical portal is described well in the fictional city. The magical portal should contain enough detail to be believable and your character should interact with it in an interesting way. This will ensure your fictional city is supporting your character’s needs and goals.

• Place your character in a situation where she has to walk around or interact with a certain section of the city. Or, have your character use a facility in the city that then allows her to describe how it feels to use the facility. This will give you the opportunity to have descriptions of the fictional city through the perspective of the character, which will feel more believable and convincing to the reader than simply telling the reader about the facility.
• You should also have your characters treat the more fantastical or strange elements of the fictional city casually and in a straightforward manner. If your fictional city is located under water, for example, a character who has lived in the city for a long period of time may not be surprised that he has to get in his submarine to visit with his neighbor. You can describe the character getting into the submarine and programming it for its destination in a casual, everyday kind of way. This will signal to the reader that submarines are common in this fictional city and used as a form of transportation without having to directly tell the reader that this is the case.

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• ↑ http://www.complex.com/pop-culture/2011/10/the-50-coolest-fictional-cities/
• ↑ http://thewritelife.com/worldbuilding/
• ↑ https://scottwrites.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/how-to-create-your-own-fake-town/
• ↑ http://www.springhole.net/writing/town-and-city-questions.htm
• ↑ http://io9.gizmodo.com/7-deadly-sins-of-worldbuilding-998817537
• ↑ http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/09/17/25-things-you-should-know-about-worldbuilding/

About This Article

To write about a fictional city, first think of a name that reflects your story world. For example, if your city is in Germany, you might use a German word for your name, or if it's in Canada, you could take an existing Canadian city and change it slightly. Next, write a historical record including details of why and when your city was founded. Then, write a description of your city to create a sense of its atmosphere, climate, and terrain. Finally, draw a map of your city, including major landmarks and where your main characters live and work. For more tips from our Creative Writing co-author, including how to add specific details, read on! Did this summary help you? Yes No

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Dwyer Murphy on How to Write About a City

“you’re going to want to get out and walk around.”.

The following  first appeared in Lit Hub’s  The Craft of Writing newsletter— sign up here .

You could go mad trying to write about a city. Taking the city as your subject, that is, and building a fiction around and within it. I’ve just tried it myself and I can tell you that it’s a fairly bewildering experience. My subject, supposedly, was New York. I wanted to write a mystery where people occasionally vanished, presumed dead, but really what the detective was looking for was a disappearing city: the little movie houses, twenty-four hour diners, used bookshops, news kiosks, bars, and restaurants that are always, inevitably moving through their own life cycles and waves of success and failure and sometimes you walk down the same street one weekend to the next and it appears every other storefront has turned over. A new sign up, new management. Maybe it’s a bank now, or a bagel shop, or just a metal shutter that’s been drawn.

So, how do you start? If your city is New York, or a comparably chronicled metropolis, you’re in luck, because the printed record is abundant and wildly colorful. So you’re going to want to get your hands on, say, a lot of old Village Voices or Time Out New Yorks, so you can read about the latest breathless coverage of art world openings and the kinds of bands that used to play in clubs and lounges just below Houston. You’re going to want, also, to see a collection of the dailies they used to hand out free on the subway, not to mention the various above-ground editions you paid for. If your preferred genre is crime, I’m begging you, also, go to the New York Historical Society, and then maybe one or two law libraries, because there’s nowhere in the world with better collections of old trial pamphlets, and how better to learn about a city than reading about the crimes people committed there? Lust, greed, confession, retribution—trial pamphlets have it all. Also, please don’t forget about the ‘zines. My God, all the beautiful, wild, eccentric ‘zines.

But that’s all for fun, really. There’s a bigger conceptual matter at play. A question, really: do you want your city to feel vast and intricate or personal and intimate? In New York terms, I think of this as the Price / Kushner divide, since I’ve long had Richard Price’s Lush Life and Rachel Kushner’s The Flamethrowers in mind as two fairly opposed storytelling approaches that both capture downtown New York at its core. For Kushner, the details of the city are about one character’s intimate memories, whereas Price is aiming to take on the city at a more structural level, incorporating as many different experiences as possible and throwing them into collision. (For those who like their craft with a tinge of francophilia, you could also think of this as the Modiano / Balzac division. Both writers conjure up an impossibly vivid and ambitious portrait of Paris, but Modiano’s is largely built of one person’s impressionist questioning of his own memories; whereas Balzac, he wasn’t going to quit until he wrote a book about every block.)

There’s one more crucial step to cover, and it’s going to take you a long time, maybe years to complete. You’re going to want to get out and walk around. I don’t just mean a few blocks. I’d suggest putting in a few thousand miles over the course of several years, if at all possible. Teju Cole’s Open City is, for me, the ultimate novel of wandering around New York: Julius, the doctor, on his uptown odyssey through neighborhoods, disappointments, memories. The flâneur novel is, after all, the essential form of city fiction, with characters who allow for a meandering, open perspective, taking in block after block, allowing the stories and lives to present themselves as they will. For my novel, I had the built-in formal excuse—I was writing a detective novel, which is really another form of flâneur fiction, at least in the American noir tradition, where the gumshoe is all but required to name the streets so that we can determine how mean they are.

Don’t scrimp on detail, either. If you want to claim your character could get from Williamsburg to Delancey Street on foot in under thirty-five minutes, write it down that way, because later, during the fact-checking process, when that timing is questioned, you’re going to have the rather wonderful task of actually leaving your old apartment on Manhattan Avenue, crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, and pouring down into the Lower East Side, so that everyone can agree on the precise, to the minute arrival. What could be more fun? Anyway, it’s better than writing.

Well, there’s a lot more to it, more tricks to pick up along the way, countless more novels to reference, but what do I know? Nothing authoritative. This is just one writer’s experience. And really, why go on, since, as I mentioned at the top, this entire task is destined for failure. You’re never going to capture the city as you might want. It’s too vast. There are too many lives carrying on. Too many mysteries to note and never to solve. Ultimately your city will be found wanting.

Better to just take the subway some miles away, walk home with an open mind, talk to a few people, then live quietly with your thoughts for a few hours, and you may find you have the start of something new, quite possibly a novel that wants to be written, and you’ll only have to wear out a few shoes and what’s left of your sanity working it through to the end.

__________________________________

An Honest Living by Dwyer Murphy is available via Viking.

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Creative Writing Exercises #1: The Home Town

For this start to our creative writing exercises, this one can only be done if you are home for the holidays, a vacation, or if you still live near the place where you grew up. You need some paper, a pencil or pen, and a good way to get around your town. Depending on the size of your town, you may just be able to use your own two feet.

You can start this exercise in the house you grew up in, if it’s still in your family’s possession (I don’t want to be responsible for any break ins :) ). You are going on a story hunt. You will be looking through your house for memories that might make good stories.

For example, when I am in “my room" at my parents’ house, I always think about the most terrifying night of my life. I was around four years old. Two weeks earlier I had gotten my tonsils taken out. This one night, my scars opened up internally and I began throwing up blood. I was taken to the emergency room and I got all patched up.

By actually being in that room, I can pick out more details about the story. I can remember what the walls looked like and what the room smelled like. When I remember these details, I start remembering little pieces of dialogue…

Me: I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! My Dad: You can breathe if you can talk.

I was sooo reassured :).

Now, not all of these stories need to be traumatic. A lot of them, however, will be rife with emotion because they were so formative in nature.

Once you have exhausted the stories from your house, start moving onto other parts of  your town.  Some general places that are must see: elementary, middle, and high school, Church, Synagogue, or any other religious building you may have frequented, houses of friends (if they still live there) and any restaurants or entertainment places that you and your friends attended.

Personally, a big location for me would be the basement of my friend Swam’s house. My group of high school friends hung out there at least twice a week to play ping pong,  Super Mario Kart on Super Nintendo,  and to drink ice cold Coca Cola. Already, the details of the story are building and I’m not even there :).  Once you’ve checked off the general places you can go to specific areas where more significant events took place. For me, I would be going to sports fields and date locations. I did not date between 7th and the beginning of 12th grade, so the things I did with my senior year girlfriend really stick out for me. I could go to the movie theatre where we had out first date or the athletic club where we spent our Senior Prom post party. Either one would inspire me with some great emotions or ideas.

You know your home town experience better than I do. You should go to as many places as you can fit in while doing this creative writing exercise. This process will only help you to the fullest extent if you let yourself be open to the emotions of the past. As a result, you will need to relax out these emotions, so be prepared.

Once you’ve completed this intense evaluation of your adolescence to generate story ideas, feel free to apply the exercise to your college town and/or anywhere else you’ve lived. Whenever you decide to stop you will end up with a list of so many story starters to develop, substitute, or adapt into a whole new thing. Now get to writing! 

Related Articles to Creative Writing Exercises #1: The Home Town The Lessons of Earl Nightingale #1: Thinking Free Creative Writing Prompts from the Heart, Part 1 Creative Writing Exercises #2: Relaxation

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ADDITIONAL INFO

motivation and inspiration for budding (and blooming) writers

Developing A Fictional City ~ Worldbuilding for Fantasy Writers

Creating a city from scratch can be an intimidating task for a fantasy writer — you want your city to feel like a living, breathing place, with its own personality, elements of fun and fantasy,  and believable enough and descriptive enough that the reader can imagine themselves plunked down into the middle of it.

Consider some of the best, most vividly written cities in fiction. Closing your eyes, you can see the snow-capped cottages of Hogsmeade that look like illustrations on Christmas cards; you can see the colorful and extraordinary shops of Diagon Alley, cluttered with stacks of cauldrons, barrels of beetle’s eyes, hooting owls in ironwork cages; shoppers in ankle-length Wizard robes. You can see the stone buildings climbing up the mountainside of Gondor, you can see the shifting grass plains of Rohan, can picture the Shire with its farms and flowers and so many green hillocks punctuated with round front doors.

Fantasy villages, towns, and cities are  scrumptious  to read about, they’re visceral and eye candy and  exciting . So, how do you go about creating one such (or  many such ) cities for your own fantasy novel?

Decide on Defining features

Decide on a few significant, tactile, defining features. For instance, as I mentioned above, Hogsmeade is a snowy city of cottages and shops that resemble a Christmas Card. Gondor is built up a mountain; Rohan has its horses. Find a few striking, significant details that define your city and make it unique from any other in your story. Come up with a sentence that will describe your city in a nutshell.

These details could come from …

Local Landmarks. Maybe your city is built up (or under) a mountain. Or it’s made of boats interconnected across a lake. Your city could be in the middle of a forest, or have a huge weeping willow in the middle of the town square. Maybe it’s wedged in a cavern behind a crashing waterfall, or built on stilts along a treacherous cliff. Maybe your city is slimy and smelly because it’s built around belching bog waters; or maybe it’s a prosperous fishing village built along the ocean. Place your city somewhere concrete and  interesting .

The General Atmosphere.  We almost always see Hogsmeade buried under snowfall. Maybe your character visits this city while it’s under a gloom of stormclouds or clashing thunder. Maybe the town is located at a high elevation where strong winds send the flags flapping and make the tall buildings creak. Maybe it’s a sad, sour city where the streets seem dark and greasy and the people glum and downtrodden. Maybe it’s a city of flaunted riches and exorbitant wealth. Assign a  feel to your city that relates (either mirror or contrasting) with your character’s internal feelings when they visit. For instance, Harry is bursting with joy to find out he’s a Wizard, and arrives in Diagon Alley to find it similarly bursting with amazing and interesting Wizarding gadgets and goods. His hunger for this new world is satiated by immersing himself in the bizarre bazaar of Wizarding shopping.

The townsfolk.  When you think of the Shire, you think of Hobbits growing crops and having feasts. When you think of Diagon Alley, you see Wizards and Witches with moneybags of golden coins happily shopping for owls and Potions ingredients and magical books. When developing your fictional city, think of the types of people unique to your city and how these townsfolk might populate and characterize the place they live.

For instance, in a Floridian city like the one I live in, you’re going to see a lot of beachy people in flipflops and leathery tans, and wrinkly old people shuffling along, and tourists getting obliviously in the way; whereas if you visited a university town, you might see a much younger, more diverse, maybe more raucous crowd walking the streets. You’ll find a different atmosphere in New Orleans versus Seattle or Washington DC.

Giving each city a unique aspect that makes it stand out from the rest will help your fictional locations cement themselves in your readers’ minds.

Choose a Name With Meaning

This is a whole post in and of itself and monstrously hard to talk about briefly, but choosing the right name for your fictional city is vital to its believability. There are lots of methods for naming locations that I won’t go into here, but here’s a launching pad for you:

Consider the landmarks and location of your city and create a name that incorporates that.

Find root words in Latin or Greek or other languages specific to your book’s culture and derive a name from them.

Consider the town’s history and maybe create a name from its founding members or specific mythology.

Find a word (or create one) that evokes the right atmosphere and mood.

When in doubt, use a name generator and play around with the results. Here are some resources: Mithril and Mages’  City and Town Name Generator // Name Generator 2’s  Town Name Generator // Chaotic Shiny’s  Place Name Generator .

When In Doubt, Lay It Out

Another thing to consider when building your city is the actual  layout . Is it built around the coast of an ocean, or along a winding river? Is there a rough downtown and more affluent uptown? If your character has to walk from their house to the tavern, how long should it reasonably take them? If they’re running for their life through an unfamiliar city, what districts might they run through, and where could they end up?

You can keep using the words “street corners” and “shops” and “she turned left”, but deciding on an actual layout will help you add depth and detail when describing your city. Even just scribbling a rough map on a piece of notebook paper to keep yourself oriented as your character walks around will help keep your story organized. The more real the city feels to  you , the more real it will seem as your characters explore it.

Items to consider:

How planned is your city? Is it neatly designed with specific districts for specific needs, or is a sprawling city that was built up, renovated, and repopulated over time?

How easy is it to travel from one location to the next? Are street names easily visible, is the city designed in a grid that anyone can understand, or is it full of sharp turns and hidden side streets and roads that frustratingly end in dead-ends? And what kind of  traffic might your character expect? Congested streets thick with car fumes, sidewalks packed shoulder-to-shoulder, or sparse dirt lanes with only the occasional passing tractor?

What kind of housing do people live in? Apartments? Cottages? Shacks? Do they live in grottos chiseled into the side of a mountain, or on boats docked along the riverbank? How far do they have to travel to get to work or school?

Is there some centralized location, like a town square, a university, a mall, or a church? This goes into how  planned your city was, and it’s worthwhile to consider, as this might involve useful landmarks your character might utilize as they travel. A city under the heel of an authoritarian government might be designed around the governor’s palace, while a city that’s bookish and intellectual might have a town square populated in libraries and bookshops. A religious city might have a religious statue or chapel in its beating heart, whereas a fishing village might built itself around a lake or riverbed.

Where do they get food and other supplies? Consider where the farms and orchards might be located, or the mines, or the places to hunt for food. A city might have rooftop gardens for sustenance; or maybe as you travel further south, you arrive at the farmlands and fields.

Let’s Go Shopping

This one is fun. And vital for imagining your city as having a living, breathing economy. Consider what kind of shops your character might use or walk past. Diagon Alley feels real because we can envision Ollivander’s, with boxes upon boxes of wands for sale, and Flourish and Blotts with shelves upon shelves of magical books. Make a list of goods relevant or unique to your fantasy city–If they need potions, there could be apothecaries and cauldron shops and dried herb markets. If they wear robes, consider seamstresses, fabric shops buried in ribbons and lace; shops that tailor in bottomless pockets for all occasions. A city that uses gemstone magic might have stores of mining supplies, or stalls along the sidewalks of people hawking their stones.

Where do your townsfolk buy their food? Farmer’s markets? Corner shops? Huge, baldly-lit grocery stores? What is sold in the average shop — farming supplies, traveling gear, swords, potions, makeup, pets, clothing, coffee? Populating your city with appropriate shopping and storefronts will make it even more tactile and easy to imagine being real.

You can have a lot of fun coming up with shop names, as well. Here are some resources to help jog your imagination:

Magical Shop Name Generator

Shop and Business Name Generator

1001 Mundane Shop Names  This one has a very useful (and HUGE) list of possible trades your fictional city might offer, which leads us into our next item…

Get to Work

Consider what jobs and trades and other economic opportunities your city might have.  Does your city have bankers? Shoe-shiners? Street peddlers? Theatres? Teachers? Real estate agents? Cobblers? Garbage men?

Speaking of jobs and shopping, consider your fictional currency . Do your townsfolk trade goods, or do they have a type of coin or cash to exchange for services?

For instance, in Diagon Alley we see Goblin bankers at Gringotts, Ministry of Magic employees passing through, seedy salesmen of suspicious things down Knockturn Alley, Madam Malkin the seamstress, Florean Fortescue, the owner of the ice cream parlor. Really dig deep and imagine what labor specific to your city you might populate your world with. You might not use all of these details in the actual story, but having a list of possible jobs and trades that might be going on in the background will come in handy eventually!

Add Splashes of Local Color

And finally, we consider the little details. The splashes of color that make your city come to life. How do people dress in your city? Is their any slang particular to this area, or other customs or traditions?

What sorts of problems does your fictional city have to deal with? What might people along the street be complaining about? Consider Harry walking through Diagon Alley for the first time and hearing a woman criticizing the prices outside of a shop. Does your city have a funky smell? A pushy police presence–or no police presence at all? Consider some of the pros and cons of your particular city in order to flesh it out more believably.

And going off of that, consider some of the banter and dialogue your character might pass on their journey. People sweeping their front stoops, chasing raccoons out of the garbage, throwing slop to pigs, pinning laundry to clothes lines, bartering for purchases, picking pockets, gossiping, giving coins to vagrants, or else stepping over the homeless without acknowledgement. Think of little actions specific to your city your character might see or overhear.

For instance, say you’ve got a city built along a beach. Your character might pass people untangling fishing line, polishing surfboards, selling oysters, complaining of sun burns. In a treetop city, you might have someone chasing squirrels out of their treehouse, or repairing a rope bridge, or hanging lanterns from the branches above their balcony. Details like this, significant to your fictional city, will make it more real and more easy to visualize for your readers.

I think that about wraps it up for us today! I hope I’ve inspired you to think up something wonderful and imaginative for your fictional city! If you liked this post, share it on social media via the links below, and be sure to leave a comment — What are some unique facets of your fictional cities? How do you come up with names for your cities, or for the shops and business that populate them?

happywriter

Christina is an aspiring novelist, who wanted to create a safe, fun place to share advice, inspiration, and motivation with other writers!

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Which extract is better?

The first extract, the second extract.

Reach229 New Member

Describing towns and cities. opinions wanted.

Discussion in ' Setting Development ' started by Reach229 , Mar 12, 2009 .

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Hi all, im new to this forum so im not entirely sure what im doing, but if someone could help me that'd be really great. I just wanted to know, out of the following two paragraphs, which do people think is the best description of a town? They're extracts from two of my books, and are about different towns that are just passed through in the story, so are by no means important. I have my suspicions, but would really like some confirmation, so please, if you have a few minutes on your hands please give them a read and let me know which you think is best! First Extract: Soon enough, the group had met like usual outside the hotel where the contrast with the town of Terra became apparent. The town itself, was a beautiful and charming Mediterranean village of stone and whitewashed walls. And it was indeed surrounded by the system of trenches and bridges which prevented the town expanding so each building was packed tightly together making the streets narrow and overshadowed. Because of this there were street lamps scattered in the streets making vehicle travel impossible. However in the middle of this beautiful town the giant casino hotel lay. The building was metal and glass and the architecture was all wrong. It stood out like a sore thumb and the group had a sneaking suspicion the locals felt the same way. But it wasn’t their problem, they didn’t plan to be here too long. Second Extract: By that evening, the group could see from the top of a hill the town known as Fhlinas, it was a grey, country town with many small houses and structures scattered around a valley floor, through the centre ran a river that headed west to the ocean and over this, only two bridges joined the two halves of the town. The town lay peaceful and serene with very few people roaming the streets in brightly coloured, middle class type clothing. As the six entered they aimed to locate an inn or hotel and did so with relative ease. The pub Inn, called the ‘Haymaker’ was the biggest building in the town, save for the church-type building at the northern edge of the town, thanks to its steeple. The pub was of a thick grey stone and the streets around were lined with cobbles. thanks for your time!  

CharlieVer Contributor Contributor

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); It was a hard decision. Both painted an image for me, the first perhaps slightly better than the second, but both could use work. In the first extract. Analogies are good, but "stood out like a sore thumb" is a cliche. I'd go for an original analogy. Not a big deal, but you used "beautiful" twice. I like to vary my adjectives. I'm also not crazy about "the architecture was all wrong." I'd replace it, perhaps with "seemed out of place." Whose point of view is this from? It should be from a character's point of view, I think, and not "the group," although that would depend on surrounding context. In the second extract. A grey country town? The town was the color grey? I'd like to see some more details. In both extracts: Rather than vague adjectives like "beautiful," "peaceful and serene," I'd like more visual details. What was beautiful, peaceful and serene about it? There seemed more visual details in the first extract (the whitewashed walls) which is why I picked it. More significantly, I'd also like to see utilization of other senses than sight. Make the reader smell the town, feel the dry heat (or the cold dampness?), hear the sounds (the few people in the street... do their footsteps echo in the silence? is there a cawing of a bird in the distance, the sounds of far-away trucks, or is it silent?), even taste the air. Although you don't necessarily need to fully describe all five senses, mixing the sounds and the smells and other senses helps the reader feel like they're there, walking along with your characters! I hope I haven't been too harsh, and I hope I've helped! Best of luck! Charlie  

mammamaia nit-picker-in-chief Contributor

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); this is in the wrong section... this section is for suggestions related to the site itself... you should ask a mod to move it...  

Rei Contributor Contributor

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Besides, you're supposed to give reviews before you ask for any comments on your own writing.  

Aeroflot New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); The way you portrayed the town in the first extract is much more appealing to me, but the second extract was written much cleaner. If you rewrote the first one using the same style, then it would work. I think the problem with the first passage is the punctuation. Ask somebody to give you some advice on that because punctuation isn't my strong point.  

TwinPanther13 New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); The Second is better written and the first has a lot of imagery but is poorly written. Both could Use better writing but the second is noticibly cleaner. I think My spelling is horrible here stupid one hand typing  

Vayda New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); I like the second better. The first contains a lot of information that I don't, frankly, care at all about. And it's really unnecessary in a town that the group is just passing through. It makes it hard to read and easy to glaze over. The second is much cleaner and easy to read. The first tries to diagram the city, the second paints a picture.  

Dalouise New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); In my opinion you have far more problems with the quality of writing than the town descriuptions as such. Do some reviewing of other work on here until you "qualify" for a review on your own work and you will get some constructive criticism.  

Benska New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); I agree with most who say that the first has better imagery, whereas the second is much better/cleaner written. I'm not going to nitpick, but one thing is that you described it from the group's point of view in both examples; each individual character would see the town a different way, notice different things. For example, a more apathetic, or pesamistic character might only see the blandness of the whitewashed walls, the narrow streets which are preventing a relatively comfortable drive through the city, or the lacklustre shine of the streetlights. Howerver possibly a more cultured character may appreciate the historic value of the buildings etc. Anyway, you see my point... hopefully. But, as CharlieVer mentioned, it depends on the surrounding context. Hopefully I helped.  

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Wow thanks for all the comments, I'm taking them all into account and am glad to see that most people feel the same way about the work as I do. But I think I should probably explain a few things, as I think i've 'peed' a few people off here. As I said, Im totally new to this forum so didn't really know about the whole 'review and be reviewed' thing, but it seems completely fair so I'll definately go along with that. And I'm sorry for posting this in the wrong forum, I just saw the word 'feedback' and jumped ahead of myself! The stories each extract came from are both narrated in third person, and 'the group' (who I didn't see need to mention in more detail) each have varying personalities, so for instance, Benska, you can see how it would be difficult for me to consider the town from one persons view. Aeroflot and twin panther, your ideas were just what I had been thinking myself, when I found these parts I thought that the first one (incidentally, a much older piece of work) painted a better picture, but was written far worse than the second (a less old piece). Indeed, if I were to rewrite the first one, I would change a lot in terms of punctuation, grammar and layout. And Charlie, I wouldn't call your words harsh... In fact it's just that kind of 'kick up the rear' talk I need to hear sometimes. I totally agree with all your comments, especially the cliche 'sore thumb' nonsense (hey... We were all young once =D). Once again, I really am sorry if I've annoyed anyone, And thanks again for all the comments, Reach,  

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); As I said, Im totally new to this forum so didn't really know about the whole 'review and be reviewed' thing, but it seems completely fair so I'll definately go along with that. And I'm sorry for posting this in the wrong forum, I just saw the word 'feedback' and jumped ahead of myself! Click to expand...

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Reach229 said: ↑ Aeroflot and twin panther, your ideas were just what I had been thinking myself, when I found these parts I thought that the first one (incidentally, a much older piece of work) painted a better picture, but was written far worse than the second (a less old piece). Indeed, if I were to rewrite the first one, I would change a lot in terms of punctuation, grammar and layout. Click to expand...

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Reach229 said: ↑ The stories each extract came from are both narrated in third person, and 'the group' (who I didn't see need to mention in more detail) each have varying personalities, so for instance, Benska, you can see how it would be difficult for me to consider the town from one persons view. Click to expand...

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); benska said: Well then, consider my post irrelavant. Click to expand...

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Perhaps you'll take this as a lesson to learn the rules when you go somewhere new, on line or else where. You would have known this if you had read the rules of introduced yourself. Click to expand...

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); mammamaia said: ↑ to return the 'favor' you did me in the german title thread, 'elsewhere' is 1 word, not 2... and there's something seriously amiss with, 'if you had read the rules of introduced'... ;-) friendly-bantering hugs, m Click to expand...

love2listen New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Your sentences sound a bit tangled is the best way I can phrase it. You might want to straighten them out a bit. Like maybe rearrange the wording so it flows better. As an example, I would rephrase the first sentence as: "Soon enough, the group met, as they usually did, outside the hotel; here the contrast with the town of Terra was apparent." Do you see what I'm saying?  

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); still badly tangled... and a mix of tense/time... best course would be to divide up what is too much crammed into one over-wordy sentence and make it make better sense... such as: Before long, the group met outside the hotel, as they usually did. There, the contrast with Terra became apparent. Click to expand...

laciemn New Member

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); Aeroflot said: ↑ The way you portrayed the town in the first extract is much more appealing to me, but the second extract was written much cleaner. If you rewrote the first one using the same style, then it would work. I think the problem with the first passage is the punctuation. Ask somebody to give you some advice on that because punctuation isn't my strong point. Click to expand...

Neha Beyond Infinity. Contributor

googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('funpub_d97ecfef9020dcbfdade3a91da086445'); }); I liked the picture painted by the first extract better, so I voted for it. But I feel that you'd get a better result if you combine the two, so I sort of did one as an example(hope you don't mind): By that evening, when the group met, as usual, outside the hotel, the contrast from the town of Terra became obvious. This town, known as Fhlinhas, was a Mediterranean village of stone and whitewashed walls based around a river that headed west to the ocean. Two bridges criss-crossed over the river and linked the separate parts of the town together. It was a quaint little town, sorrounded by a system of trenches and bridges that prevented it from expanding, so the buildings were built close to each other and the streets were narrow and overshadowed. Travelling by vehicles was impossible in these streets due the presence of scattered street lamps and the streets had very few people, all dressed in a bright colorful and a typically middle class fashion. However, what flawed the beauty of the place was the giant casino hotel that lay right at the heart of the town. The building was a screaming architecture of metal and glass and scarred infrastructure. It stood out like a sore thumb, and the group had a sneaking suspicion that the locals felt the same way. But it wasn't their problem. They did not plan to be here too long. Forgive me for any grammer mistakes, my grammer's not all that great.  

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Top 100 Short Story Ideas

by Joe Bunting | 128 comments

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Do you want to write but just need a great story idea? Or perhaps you have too many ideas and can’t choose the best one? Well, good news. We’ve got you covered.

Below are one hundred short story ideas for all your favorite genres. You can use them as a book idea, as writing prompts for writing contests , for stories to publish in literary magazines , or just for fun!

Use these 100 story ideas to get your creative writing started now.

Editor’s note: This is a recurring guide, regularly updated with ideas and information.

If you're in a hurry, here's my 10 best story ideas in brief, or scroll down for the full version.

Top 10 Story Ideas

• Tell the story of a scar.
• A group of children discover a dead body.
• A young prodigy becomes orphaned.
• A middle-aged woman discovers a ghost.
• A woman who is deeply in love is crushed when her fiancé breaks up with her.
• A talented young man's deepest fear is holding his life back. 
• A poor young boy or girl comes into an unexpected fortune.
• A shy, young woman unexpectedly bumps into her soulmate.
• A long journey is interrupted by a disaster.
• A young couple run into the path of a psychopath.

Get The Write Structure here »

Why Creative Writing Prompts Are Helpful

Below, you'll find our best creative writing prompts and plot ideas for every genre, but first, why do we use prompts? Is it just a waste of time, or can they actually help you? Here are three reasons we  love writing prompts at The Write Practice:

1. Practice the Language!

Even for those of us who are native English speakers, we're all on a language journey to go from beginners to skilled writers. To make progress on this language journey, you have to practice, and at The Write Practice, believe it or not, we're really into practice! Creative writing prompts are easy, fun ways to practice.

Use the prompts below to practice your storytelling and use of language. The more you practice, the better of a writer you'll become.

2. When you have no ideas and are stuck.

Sometimes, you want to write, but you can't think up any ideas. You could either just sit there, staring at a blank page, or you could find a few ideas to help you get started. Even better if the list of ideas is curated from our best plot ideas over the last decade that we've been publishing lessons, writing exercises, and prompts.

Use the story ideas below to get your writing started. Then when your creativity is warmed up, you'll start to come up with your own ideas!

3. To develop your own ideas.

Maybe you do have an idea already, but you're not sure it's good. Or maybe you feel like it's just missing some small piece to make it better. By reading other ideas, and incorporating your favorites into your   story, you can fill your plot holes and generate creative ideas of your own.

Use the story ideas below to develop your own ideas.

4. They're fun!

Thousands of writers use the prompts below every month, some at home, some in classrooms, and even a few pros at their writing “office.” Why? Because writing prompts can be fun. They get your creativity started, help you come up with new ideas of your own, and often take your writing in new, unexpected directions.

Use the plot ideas to have more fun with writing!

How to Write a Story

One last thing before we get to the 100 story ideas, let’s talk about how to write a great short story . (Already know how to write a great story? No problem. Just skip down to the ideas below.)

• First, read stories. If you’ve never read a story, you’re going to have a hard time writing one. Where do you find great stories? There are a lot of places, but check out our list of  46 Literary Magazines  we’ve curated over here .
• Write your story in a single sitting. Write the first draft of your story in as short a time as possible, and if you’re writing a short story , try to write it in one sitting. Trust me, this works. Everyone hates being interrupted when they’re telling compelling stories. Use that to your advantage and don’t stop writing until you’ve finished telling yours.
• Read your draft. Read your story through once, without changing anything. This will give you a sense of what work it needs going forward.
• Write a premise. After reading your first draft, get your head around the main idea behind your story by summarizing your story in a one sentence premise. Your premise should contain four things: a character, a goal, a situation, and a special sauce. Not sure what that means or how to actually do that? Here’s a full premise writing guide .
• Write, edit, write, and edit. Good writing is rewriting. Use your second draft to fill in the plot holes and cut out the extraneous scenes and characters you discovered when you read the first draft in step #2. Then, polish up your final draft on the next round of edits.
• Submit! Real writers don’t keep their writing all to themselves. They share it. Submit your story to a literary magazine , an anthology series , enter it into a writing contest , or even share it with a small group of friends. And if it gets rejected, don’t feel bad. You’ll be in good company.

Want to know more? Learn more about how to write a great short story here .

Our 100 Best Short Story Ideas, Plot Ideas, and Creative Writing Prompts

Ready to get writing? Here are our 100 best short story ideas to kickstart your writing. Enjoy!

10 Best General Short Story Ideas

Our first batch of plot ideas are for any kind of story, whether a spy thriller or a memoir of your personal life story. Here are the best story ideas:

• Tell the story of a scar, whether a physical scar or emotional one. To be a writer, said Stephen King, “The only requirement is the ability to  remember every scar .”
• A group of children discover a dead body. Good writers don’t turn away from death, which is, after all, the  universal human experience. Instead, they look it directly into its dark face and describe what they see on the page.
• A young prodigy becomes orphaned. Orphans are uniquely vulnerable, and as such, they have the most potential for growth.
• A middle-aged woman discovers a ghost. What do Edgar Allen Poe, Ron Weasley, King Saul from the Bible, Odysseus, and Ebenezer Scrooge have in common? They all encountered ghosts!
• A woman who is deeply in love is crushed when her fiancé breaks up with her. “In life every ending is just a new beginning,” says Dakota Fanning’s character in Uptown Girls.
• A talented young man’s deepest fear is holding his life back. Your character’s biggest fear is your story’s secret weapon. Don’t run from it, write about it.
• A poor young boy or girl comes into an unexpected fortune. Not all fortunes are good. Sometimes discovering a fortune will destroy your life.
• A shy, young woman unexpectedly bumps into her soulmate (literally bumps into him). In film, this is called the “meet cute,” when the hero bumps into the heroine in the coffee shop or the department store or the hallway, knocking her books to the floor, and forcing them into conversation.
• A long journey is interrupted by a disaster. Who hasn’t been longing to get to a destination only to be delayed by something unexpected? This is the plot of  Gravity ,  The Odyssey , and even  Lord of the Rings .
• A young couple run into the path of a psychopath. Monsters, whether people who do monstrous things or scaly beasts or a monster of a natural disaster, reveal what’s really inside a person. Let your character fall into the path of a monster and see how they handle themselves.

Now that you have an idea, learn exactly what to do with it.  Check out my new book The Write Structure which helps writers take their ideas and write books readers love. Click to check out  The Write Structure  here.

More Short Story Ideas Based on Genre

Need more ideas? Here are ideas based on whichever literary genre you write. Use them as character inspiration, to start your own story, or borrow pieces to generate your own ideas. The only rule is, have fun writing!

By the way,  for more story writing tips for each these plot types, check out our full guide to the 10 types of stories here .

10 Thriller Story Ideas

A thriller is any story that “thrills” the reader—i.e., gets adrenaline pumping, the heart racing, and the emotions piqued.

Thrillers come in all shapes and forms, dipping freely into other genres. In other words, expect the unexpected!

Here are a few of my favorite thriller story ideas :

Rosa Rivera-Ortiz is an up-and-coming lawyer in a San Diego firm. Held back by her ethnicity and her gender, she works twice as hard as her colleagues, and she’s as surprised as anyone when she’s requested specifically for a high-profile case. Bron Welty, an A-list actor and action star, has been arrested for the murder of his live-in housekeeper. The cop heading the case is older, ex-military, a veteran of more than one war, and an occasional sufferer of PTSD. Rosa’s hired to defend the movie star; and it seems like an easy win until she uncovers some secrets that not only make her believe her client is guilty, but may be one of the worst serial killers in the past two decades… and he knows she found out .

It’s the Cold War. Sergei, a double-agent for the CIA working in Berlin, is about to retire when he’s given one final mission: he’s been asked to “defect” to the USSR to help find and assassinate a suspected double-agent for the Kremlin. Sergei is highly trusted, and he’s given to understand that this mission is need-to-know only between him and very few superior officers. But as he falls deeper into the folds of the Iron Curtain, he begins to suspect that his superior officer might just be the mole, and the mark Sergei’s been sent to kill is on the cusp of exposing the leak.

It is 1800. A lighthouse on a barren cliff in Canada. Two lighthouse keepers, German immigrants, are alone for the winter and effectively cut off from the rest of the world until the ice thaws. Both Wilhelm and Matthias are settled in for the long haul with warm clothes, canned goods, and matches a-plenty. Then Wilhelm starts hearing voices. His personal belongings disappear from where he’d placed them, only to reappear in strange spots—like the catwalk, or dangling beneath the spiral stair knotted in brown twine. Matthias begs innocence. Little by little, Wilhelm grows convinced that Matthias is trying to convince him (Wilhelm) to kill himself. Is the insanity real, or is this really Matthias’ doing? And if it is real, what will he do to defend himself? There are so many months until the thaw. 

20 Mystery Story Ideas

Enjoy a good whodunit? Then you’ll love these mystery story ideas .

Here are a few of my favorites:

Ever hear the phrase, “It is not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullet?” This is a philosophy Tomoe Gozen lives by. Brave and clever, Tomoe follows clues until she learns who ordered the murder: Emperor Antoku himself. But why would the emperor of Japan want to kill a lowly soldier?

Mystery writer Dan Rodriguez takes the subway every day. Every day, nothing happens. He wears earbuds and a hoodie; he’s ignored, and he ignores. Then one evening, on his way home from a stressful meeting with his publisher, Dan is startled out of his funk when a frantic Middle-Eastern man knocks him over at a dead run, then races up the stairs—pursued by several other thugs. The Middle-Eastern man is shot; and Dan discovers a mysterious package in the front pocket of his hoodie. What’s inside, and what does he need to do to survive the answer?

A headless corpse is found in a freshly-dug grave in Arkansas. The local police chief, Arley Socket, has never had to deal with more than missing gas cans and treed cats. His exploration of this weird murder digs up a mystery older than the 100-year-old town of Jericho that harkens all the way back to a European blood-feud.

20 Romance Story Ideas

Ready to write a love story? Or perhaps you want to create a subplot with a secondary character? We've got ideas for you!

Hint: When it comes to romance, a sense of humor is always a good idea. Have fun! Here are a few of my favorite love story ideas :

She’s a cop. He’s the owner of a jewelry store. A sudden rash of break-ins brings her to his store over and over and over again, until it becomes obvious that he might be tripping the alarm on purpose—just to see her. That’s illegal—but she’s kind of falling for him, too. Write the moment she realizes she has to do something about this crazy illicit courtship.

Colorado Animal Rescue has never been more challenging than after that zoo caught on fire. Sally Cougar (no jokes on the name, or she’ll kill you) tracks down three missing tiger cubs, only to find they’ve been adopted by millionaire Bryce Champion. Thanks to an antiquated law on the books, he legally has the right to keep them. It’s going to take everything Sally has to get those tiger cubs back.

He’s a museum curator with a fetish for perfection. No one’s ever gotten close to him; how could they? They’re never as perfect as the portraits, the sculptures, the art that never changes. Then one day, an intern is hired on—a young, messy, disorganized intern, whose hair and desk are in a constant state of disarray. The curator is going half-mad with this walking embodiment of chaos; so why can’t the he stand the thought of the intern leaving at the end of their assistantship?

20 Sci-Fi Story Ideas

From the minimum-wage-earning, ancient-artifact-hunting time traveller to the space-exploring, sentient dinosaurs, these sci-fi writing prompts will get you set loose your inner nerd.

Here are a few of my favorite sci-fi ideas :

In a future society, neural implants translate music into physical pleasure, and earphones (“jacking in”) are now the drug of choice. Write either from the perspective of a music addict, OR the Sonforce agent (sonance + enforcer) who has the job of cracking down.

It’s the year 5000. Our planet was wrecked in the great Crisis of 3500, and remaining human civilization survives only in a half dozen giant domed cities. There are two unbreakable rules: strict adherence to Life Quality (recycling doesn’t even begin to cover these laws), and a complete ban on reproduction (only the “worthy” are permitted to create new humans). Write from the perspective of a young woman who just discovered she’s been chosen to reproduce—but she has no interest in being a mother.

So yeah, ancient Egypt really was “all that” after all, and the pyramids turn out to be fully functional spaceships (the limestone was to preserve the electronics hidden inside). Write from the perspective of the tourist exploring the ancient society who accidentally turns one on.

20 Fantasy Story Ideas

Need a dose of sword-in-the-stone, hero and/or heroine packed coming-of-age glory?  We love fantasy stories!

Here are a few of my favorite fantasy story ideas:

Bored teenaged wizards throwing a graduation celebration.

Uncomfortable wedding preparation between a magic wielding family tree and those more on the Muggle side of things.

A fairy prince who decides to abandon his responsibilities to become a street musician.

Just try to not have fun writing (or even just reading!) these fantasy writing prompts.

The Secret to Choosing the Best Story Idea

Stories, more than any other artistic expression, have the power to make people care. Stories have the ability to change people’s lives.

But to write a great story, a life-changing story, don’t just write about what your characters did, said, and saw. Ask yourself, “Where do I fit in to this story? What is my personal connection to this story?”

Robert Frost said this:

If you can connect your personal story to the story you’re writing, you will not only be more motivated to finish your story, you might just be able to change the lives of your readers.

Next Step: Write Your Best Story

No matter how good your idea, writing a story or a book can be a long difficult process. How do you create an outline, come up with a great plot, and then actually  finish  it?

My new book  The Write Structure  will help. You'll learn how to take your idea and structure a strong plot around it. Then you'll be guided through the exact process I've used to write dozens of short stories and over fifteen books.

You can learn more about   The Write Structure  and get your copy here.

Have a great short story idea?  We'd love to hear it. Share it in the comments !

Choose one of these ideas and write a short story in one sitting (aim for 1,000 words or less!). When you're finished, share your story in the practice box below (or our latest writing contest ) for feedback from the community. And if you share, please be sure to comment on a few stories by other writers.

Joe Bunting

Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris , a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).

Want best-seller coaching? Book Joe here.

Work with Joe Bunting?

WSJ Bestselling author, founder of The Write Practice, and book coach with 14+ years experience. Joe Bunting specializes in working with Action, Adventure, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, How To, Literary Fiction, Memoir, Mystery, Nonfiction, Science Fiction, and Self Help books. Sound like a good fit for you?

128 Comments

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” —Robert Frost

Great quote, right?

i like porn

Your site is just awesome!

My latest project has been working on a TV-format screenplay. In TV writing, there are B storylines, which are plot lines that span the course of a season (or several seasons). Each episode, however, has an A storyline, which is the plot of the events in that particular episode. Each A storyline is essentially a short story, and churning them out is surprisingly difficult! Lately I’ve been outlining episodes for my own story. I’ve just completed one that I particularly like, and would love to hear what you all think!

The Vampire Cat

The episode opens with Leiko telling the rest of the crew The Dream of Akinosuke. She finishes the story and they all head off to bed. Leiko walks Shannon to her room. On the way, Shannon asks Leiko if the events of the story were the main character’s dreams or if they were real. Leiko replies that for the Japanese the line between dreams and reality is very thin. They say goodnight and part ways.

The next day, the crew touches down on planet Lorraine. Their mission is to rob an auction house of a valuable piece of art if their client is not able to purchase it. They attend the auction. The client is outbid, so that night they return to the auction house to steal the sculpture. While looking for it, Leiko uncovers a dimension hopping machine, which she assumes to be a piece of junk. The crew is surprised by the auction house’s guards. Shannon is shot in the fight. Leiko tries to help her, but is intercepted by a guard. They fight, and Leiko falls inside the dimension hopping machine. She falls against a lever. The doors to the machine close and it begins spinning very fast. Leiko is thrown to the floor and the impact knocks her unconscious.

When she awakes, Leiko is no longer in the machine or the auction house. She is in a 16th century Japanese barracks, surrounded by soldiers. Furthermore, she is dressed like them and they address her as Soda. When she catches a glimpse of her reflection, she realizes to everyone else she looks like a Japanese man. Unsure if she is dreaming or not, Leiko decides to play along. She hears from the other soldiers that the prince of the region is seriously ill, and thinks maybe with her advanced medical knowledge she can help. She sneaks into the castle to see him. On the way, she passes a group of court ladies. The most beautiful of them smiles at Leiko and her eyes flash yellow. Leiko shakes it off, assuming she must be seeing things. She reaches the prince’s room and is shocked to find Shannon lying close to death, surrounded by attendants. She is discovered and thrown out, but she begs to be told what’s happened to the prince, and is informed he has a mystery sickness no doctor can diagnose. It is feared he will die. The prince’s attendants suggest that if she is so worried about her sovereign, she should pray for his health. Before she leaves, she uses to her dagger to look at Shannon’s reflection, and sees that her reflection is in fact that of the prince. Leiko feels the whole situation is somehow strangely familiar, but unable to put her finger on why, she decides there is nothing for it but to follow the attendants’ advice.

That night she goes to the holy quarter and bathes at the well before praying to the statue of Buddha for the prince’s/Shannon’s recovery. A voice calls to her, and she looks up to see a figure in a window above her. The figure asks her to come up. Leiko goes into the building and finds a priest who introduces himself as Ruiten and tells her he has been brought to the castle to find the source of the prince’s illness and asks for her help. Leiko finally realizes why this all seems familiar to her – she is in the story of The Vampire Cat of Nabeshima, playing the part of the young soldier Ito Soda. She makes a conjecture: the dimension hopping machine really worked and has brought her to the spirit world. Shannon, after being shot, is dying, and her spirit has taken the place of the prince in the story. If Leiko saves the prince, she saves Shannon. Ruiten agrees that this may be possible. Leiko agrees to help him. Knowing how the story goes, she now has a hunch as to what is causing the prince’s sickness.

Leiko goes back to the castle, and straight to the house of the court ladies. She digs under the verandah and finds exactly what she thought she would – the body of the beautiful lady, with puncture wounds in her throat.

The next day, Ruiten obtains permission for Leiko to keep watch over the prince with his attendants. That night, all the attendants fall asleep. Leiko keeps herself awake by stabbing herself in the leg. Later in the night, the beautiful lady comes to the room. She says her name is O Toyo, and she is the prince’s favorite companion. Under Leiko’s watchful eye, she cannot harm the prince, so she leaves.

The next morning, Leiko goes to confront the false O Toyo. They fight. Before Leiko can kill her, the false O Toyo shifts to her true form – a demonic black cat – and escapes the castle. Ruiten sends soldiers after her. Just then, there’s a scream from the prince’s room. Leiko and Ruiten rush from to the room and are told the prince is dead. Leiko pushes her way to the bed and, taking Shannon in her arms, pleads with her to wake up. In course of this, Leiko realizes she’s in love with her friend. Suddenly Shannon opens her eyes and says Leiko’s name.

Leiko wakes up in the med bay of the Perseus, surrounded by the crew. Shannon is in the bed next to her, weak but alive. Leiko gets up to tend to her. Shannon asks if one of the crew was holding her, because she could have sworn she felt like she was lying in someone’s arms. Kaya jokes that she must have been having a good dream. Leiko remarks that maybe it was something more.

This is great! Seriously, I really enjoyed it. Now you have to write it! 🙂

Hey Sunny! Loving this website

Opps that was my grandma 🙂 But she right

Do you know of any Romance magazines that offer short story romances or literary magazines dedicated to just romance? Just curious.

I’m not familiar with any, but try googling “romance literary magazines” or “romance short stories” and I’m sure you’ll find some. Reply back if you find any that are particularly promising.

I just want to say, there are so many good stories on this website. This show the amount that you have helped all these people, maybe one day I will add myself to those people, thank you.

http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-genre/romance-by-writing-genre/romance_markets

بدأت تمطر ورأيت الناس يسرعون للإختباء من قطراته فابتسمت لذكرى جميلة عبرت خاطرى ..تذكرت امى عندما كانت ترقص تحت المطر بفستانها الوردى..الهى كم كنت أعشق هذا الفستان عليها..كان يناسب بشرتها الفاتحة ونحولة جسدها .جذبتنى من يدى يومها واخذنا ندور فى حلقات لا تبدء ولا تنتهى. شعرت ببرودة يديها تصعق يداى وبرودة المطر تبلل وجهى أحسست وبالسعادة تغمرنى لانك اخيرا بجانبى واخيرا تبتسمين اشتقتك يا اماه ..أشتقت لتفاصيلك وابتسامتك. أشتقت لمعنى وجودك جانبى ..المطر يهطل، أعلم أنك لو كنت الأن معى لجذبتينى ورسمنا بأقدامنا دوائر حتى تبتل عظامنا ..سأرقص لك فقط وسأبتسم لك فقط. بدأت عيون الناس تتجه نحوى ..تستنكر فعلتى ولكنى لا أفعل شئ.انا فقط أخبر أمى إنى بخير وأنى أشتاقها..ولكن للمطر طعم غريب يا أمى. له طعم ألم فراقك ،طعم الحياة بدونك ؛هو المطر وهى الحياة ولكن طعمهما مؤلمين يا أمى

I’m writing a “Thriller.” I’m very excited. A short story. Thank you. Right on time as usual!

Fun! Good luck LaCresha.

I’m wondering about “the sagging middle” in story structure right now. I’m happy with my beginning and ending, but the middle isn’t as dynamic as I want it to be. Does anyone have any experiences or advice about this? (It’s a 25 000 word story that’s due for a competition in about four months.)

Hey Rosie. We have a few resources on that. First check out our structure and plot cheatsheet: https://thewritepractice.com/plot-structure . Then, a great guest post on story structure with a hole in it: https://thewritepractice.com/story-hole . And I always recommend Save the Cat, which is a book for screenwriters, but is also very helpful for story structure in general: http://amzn.to/1TNpv2F . Highly recommend it.

The story grid is a good site and podcast for story structure. 🙂

But longer than 15 min but here it is.

I rub my fingers into the soft fuzz on the big brown chair. I can make designs if I move my fingers up or down. A dot makes one eye. Then another. A line for a smile finishes my chair picture. ‘Why would Daddy take money and blow it into the wind?’ I wonder as I draw.

A wet spot lands by the mouth, making the brown turn dark. I try to wipe it away, but the face disappears instead. I lay back in the chair, bumping my twin brother and making the dim room spin. My pink and orange stripe shirt is soft as I wipe my eyes. James’s tears fall to the chair like rain, his mouth open like one of the squishy balls we play with. His cry is loud. I join the noise.

Mommy’s hair, as dark as the wet spot on our chair, poofs around her face. Her green eyes seem small with her eyebrows close together. Teeth and gums show as Mommy screams like a roaring lion. Daddy points a finger at her nose. He looks so big. He yells, trying to be louder than her. James and I try to cry louder than them. Maybe they will hear us. Maybe they will stop.

Mommy lets out one last angry scream and tries to push Daddy away. A long red line comes on his arm. Red water comes out of it. Daddy’s eyes widen. His face turns red. He grabs Mommy by her arms, lifts her, and pushes her to the door like a rhinoceros. The wood breaks as they go through.

The noise has stopped, except for sirens in the distance. I curl into a ball in the chair, James’s knee sticking into my back, and close my eyes.

James and I get to sleep in the same bed tonight. It’s strange having Daddy read and tuck us in by himself, but he tells us Mommy will be home soon. I still don’t understand why she went to jail. I thought jail was for bad guys, but Daddy says everything will be ok.

The lights go out bringing shadow monsters. I hug my brother.

Bit longer than 15 minutes, but here it is

‘Scars’

The noise has stopped, except for sirens in the distance. I curl into a ball in the chair, James’ knee sticking into my back, and close my eyes.

This was so good! You have a really good writing style!

“The wall, he decided, will always be there”

He awoke, or at least it seemed he did, for he could not tell if he had been dreaming or if he were dreaming now. He pushed the woollen, scratchy blanket away from his body. There were no sheets, and his skin stuck to the plastic mattress that smelled of others sweat and urine. After prying his flesh from the tenacious bedding, he managed to sit up. He was more tired than he had remembered. He was still dirty and thirsty and his eyes hurt as they squinted in the dim hazy light. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. For long moments, he sat that way fearing punishment for doing anything that might be wrong.

Eventually, however, his eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy light and he began to see things. Across from him he could see a wall. He wondered how long the wall had been there. The question struck him as absurd. The wall he decided would always be there. In this confusion, he meditated on the hardness before him until a thought of beauty entered his mind and the nakedness upset him. “There are no pictures…it has no pictures hanging from it.” Lacking the courage, or cowardice, to look away he continued staring blankly until his sight improved still further and he found something within the wall that excited him. “I forgot…about…colour…I can see the colour now!” He tried to give the colour a name. “Dirty…” he thought. “Filth.” he said out loud. “It is a filthy colour.” he whispered silently to himself.

Quickly, the excitement left him and he began to grow tired of looking at the wall, even the colour began to bore him. The boredom gave him a sense of courage and he became bold. He decided to explore. Cautiously he moved his eyes to the right where he saw…a corner, Then the head began to turn to follow the lead of the eyes. They continued past the corner until they gazed upon something he recognized.

He hated what he saw, the familiar object that hid in the shadows…the thing that kept him here. He glared at it, but the closed and bolted door remained unmoved. It was then that he turned back to the wall he had grown to know and the boredom…he had grown to love.

incredible first sentence!

Incredible first sentence and incredible last sentence. Shivers up my spine. Thank you.

3 words…. copy and paste

Omg how why are people so good at writing stuff?!?!?

idek!?!?!!! i’m a freshman in high school and i can’t even write a simple short story.

Give it time…

This was a wonderful read ^_^ Short and enticingly written. Drew me in right away with that first bit, and especially the way it was all tied together by that first sentence. Lovely!

I know it’s been two years but it’s still very good and still deserves praise. I like this trippy atmosphere, you managed to convey it very nicely.

Some great story ideas here. You could even combine some of them in interesting, tenuous ways for a multi-location epic.

Thanks Bridget! Absolutely. And there’s nothing I love more than a good epic.

These are great ideas. I like the idea of prompts. Though sometimes, I get stuck when I write from a prompt. And sometimes, I’m not able to write a story in one sitting. I have to think about how I want the story to play out. I might have done it once, and they were pretty short. But most of the time, it takes a couple of sessions. That’s how I’m wired, I suppose.

Ten years of therapy, about a million different types of pills and three psychiatrists have helped me enough to write this. I was eleven when it happened, my older sister, Quinn, was almost sixteen, and my best friend was ten. I’ll never forget it… I doubt anyone ever will.

It was a warm summer day, early June, my best friend, Harper was over and we were playing in the backyard. We were laughing and singing along to a song that I couldn’t tell you the name of now. It was the middle of a normal day, but that’s what they always think just before everything goes wrong. Well, anyways,Harper and I amused ourselves doing everything and nothing for a while before we decided that we wanted to go to upstairs and bug Quinn, who we thought was doing her online drivers ed. courses. We raced up to her room, giggling like the little girls we were. When we got to her room, Harper grabbed the doorknob and tried to fling the door open, but it was locked. That should have been my first sign that something was wrong, Quinn never locked her door, we weren’t allowed to. We yelled, laughing, “Let us in! Let us in!” We giggled and knocking on her door again and again. There was no response, so I remember grabbing the key my parents always had, it opened all of the doors to me and my sibling’s bedrooms… I wish I would’ve known what I know now. I wish I wouldn’t have opened that door.

That day was the last happy day for a long time. I remember everything clearly, the breeze ruffling my short hair, the sound of Harper screaming the lyrics to our favorite song at the top of her lungs. I especially remember the thing that has haunted me for the past ten years. I remember my sister’s lifeless body lying in a pool of her own blood on her bed. I remember the look on her face being more peaceful than I’ve ever seen it. I remember screaming as I stared at the image of Quinn, her wrists bleeding and her skin pale. I remember the sound of Harper frantically dialing 911 and I remember the ambulance arriving. I remember the paramedics calling my parents and hearing my mom’s piercing scream from the phone. I remember the paramedics forcing me out of Quinn’s room, while I kicked and screamed at them, begging them to let me stay with my sister. It was the last time I saw her face. I remember collapsing in my dad’s arms. That was the first time I heard him cry, it wouldn’t be the last.

She was already dead when the ambulance got there. Suicide, they said, she killed herself. It took a long time to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault. If I had only went to see her sooner I could’ve saved her. The funeral was closed casket and everyone cried. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was too numb. I don’t remember much of the funeral, it was just a blur of black and navy blue, with the occasional apology thrown in there. I never got why everyone apologized, it wouldn’t bring her back.

I was just a little girl and there I was with my childhood torn away from me. I was a younger sister and then I was an only child. A piece of me has been missing from me ever since that die and I doubt I’ll ever get it back again.

This was based on the boy or gets an unexpected fortune. I flushed out the typos, but its okay. Check it out! 😀 Caleb Pratt

Mistaken Divinity

My bar drinks of the wooded timberland were one of the most profound expeditions in my walk into becoming a god. I cupped the glass of cool bud light, and sipped it up at the mini bar table. I rested my hand on the wooden counter top, my fans and companions gambling each other on some high level daredevil match.

“Hey, Lexan, where you at,” I turned to see my friend Rodriguez. Fun man to have around with. He was had long grey hair, even for a guy. I pushed off the table and stood straight. I kept my hand in my pocket.

“You have a lot of realty in the new diversion your causing. Sherman hasn’t even sighted any more Divine Partakers, let alone, any Christian circumspect.”

“I know I know, but… we are, what they are… except the for the grace,” Rodriguez said.

“Right,” I narrow my eyes down towards the ground. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say about us Mormons being what the Christian Community isn’t. I mean, there almost all extinct, if not a hundred percent. We are the erected believers… who are in sure denial of the forthcoming of any later day saints.

“So where is your ceremonial magic been taking you,” Rodriguez said. “Anyhow I could help in the cemetery on Route 430?”

“Uhh… I mean… yeah unless you have a cloak and a specialized dagger. I’d have to get you one of those. You’ll be all dressed like a Celtic.”

We laughed.

Rodriguez was a good friend of mine. Much older though. I was in my teen years and he was in his fifties.

“Man, Lexan, you need to grow a beard. Your seventeen years old… yet you look like you’ve graduated college. What happened to your power to manipulate appearance? Funny… its a shame Christians don’t have this kind of power… even heathens can’t do anything we can.”

“Yeah I can tell Rodge. Tell me, why haven’t you been practicing your divinity? You seem a little out of shape to be wrestling with angles and demons….”

“Well I… yeah I mean, sure. Lets say I’m kind of in a predicament.”

“What…?”

I lay my back against the counter.

“Well, down on Armenia Rd. there was a cross fight between me and some other foe. Not sure what to suspect of him, but the “man-woman” was between two others working for her, or he… I don’t know.”

I rest my chin on my thumb and index finger. I realize and hear there are other phenomena of some other cultist group here in Sherman. Our cult is wacky on its own. Though I don’t know what to think of this “he-she man” thing….”

BZZZZZ! BZZZZZ!

‘I heard you! Shut up!’

‘Enough, you asshole!’

WHACK! Pieces of metal and plastic shattered on the wall.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she muttered softly as she fights her every being not to shed a tear. Alas, she lost once again.

It’s been days since she last saw light. The shadows on the walls seemed permanently etched. Her sanctuary once filled with love, lust, and happiness, now wreaks with despair, anguish, and palpable desperation.

‘How did I get here?’ she thought. The same desperate thought she’s been clutching onto for days. Or maybe weeks? Months? Years?

It doesn’t matter. To Emma, time no longer exists with this unrelenting pain.

Once in a while, the light would sneak through the thick, heavy curtains. And Emma would almost succumb to a hint of a smile until it haunts her again.

His resilient hands on her supple breasts. His soft lips caressing her neck and slender sternum. His sturdy chest against her trembling body. His whole palpitating manhood devouring her salacious being. Every ridges of Paul haunt her. Now, it all has to be distant memories. Unshakeable, soul crushing memories.

After what seemed like a lifetime of horizontal desolation, she finally mustered some strength to sit at the edge of her bed. She slowly opened her bulging eyes, and finally saw the mess she was in. Rotting pieces of food in cardboard boxes, sea of crumpled tissue strewn with nauseating piles of laundry, and dismantled pieces of her once chirpy alarm clock scattered all over her dingy floor.

As she moved her gazed from the floor, she noticed the dent on her pristine white wall. She couldn’t help but stare. ‘That dent will be there for a long time,’ she thought.

With a throbbing grunt, Emma slowly stood up and shuffled towards her once chirpy alarm clock. She picked up the pieces and followed the faint light peeking through her bathroom door. As she turned the door knob, more tears rolled down her cheeks. It was excruciating, but this time it was different. The door closed and the room was dark once again.

“His resilient hands on her supple breasts. His soft lips caressing her neck and slender sternum. His sturdy chest against her trembling body. His whole palpitating manhood devouring her salacious being. Every ridges of Paul haunt her. Now, it all has to be distant memories. Unshakeable, soul crushing memories.”

He had left his Gameboy behind. There was nothing to do without it, nothing to do but kick his feet and stare at the dull blank walls. Even annoying Di-Di had lost its colour. He didn’t care what Ma or Papa said. He had to get his Gameboy back.

He pushed into the room. Ah Boy, wait outside ah. Don’t come in! Papa had seemed firm, but he was old enough now to know how to get out of trouble. He would run to Ma, hide behind her legs, maybe tearfully declare that he would run away from home because Papa was so mean. Anyway, Papa seemed so busy with Ah Gong nowadays. He wouldn’t bother to cane a little boy like him.

Where had everyone gone? He couldn’t have been in the corridor for so long. The room that was once packed full of relatives was empty. It was only Ah Gong left in the hospital bed.

Immediately he noticed that the mask over Ah Gong’s nose and mouth was gone. Who had removed it? Without the strange alien-octopus-thing perched on his face, Ah Gong looked like the grandfather he remembered. He moved closer to get a better look.

As he approached the bed he realized the mask was lying on the chair. The inside was stained with a rustlike substance he did not recognize. He held up the mask to the light, and rubbed the stain with a cautious index finger. A powder came off in his hand. With a shiver of disgust he realized it was dried blood.

“Di-Di!” He didn’t know if he was terrified or excited. Where was his brother? Ma had always rushed to daub up any blood in their house – whether from Di-Di falling when learning to ride his bicycle, Di-Di scratching him during one of their many fights, Papa tripping over a wire and later needing stitches in his forehead. He couldn’t pass up this golden opportunity to share with his brother: the chance to investigate blood without an adult present.

The Gameboy lay in the room, forgotten.

Wrote on ‘a group of children discover a dead body’. In case it wasn’t obvious.

“I do like llamas very much,” said Charleston, “In fact, they even have names.” “You are one freaky man, Charleston.” stated Larry

Very well said!!

Jeremy Reynolds had a party one day. He decided it would be a special theme. Deez Nutz, he decided would be a fitting title for a beach party.

*I am only 14 so please, don’t mind me if there are any mistakes. I am still in the process of learning, but I tried really hard*

He could write. He could write and he knew it. No one else knew. He’d never show them his pieces; his collection of fantasies and mysteries. He wanted his friends to know. No, he wanted the world to know. But he was fearful. He was fearful of his stories failing, of him failing.

Abram had written many short stories and novels, all of them printed in manuscript and hidden in a black lock-box under his bed. He was unmarried, for he didn’t need any other love than that of his trusty typewriter and parchment. Writing was frowned upon, in his country. Books were burned. Even the classics. They were all burned in a pile on the streets.

He wouldn’t risk it. He didn’t want that fate for his books. He worked to hard. He spent too much time revising and perfecting the novel; there was no way he would let them die.

Sighing, Abram cracked his knuckles and stood. He yawned and walked over to his bed, where he bent down and grabbed the lock-box from beneath the bed. Abram had kept the key underneath the mattress, in case anyone were to find this box that contained all of his treasured secrets.

He opened the box he hadn’t opened in many years. Removing the pieces of parchment, he sat on floor, listening for the sounds of Nazi vehicles who somehow sensed the unpublished books. But none came. There was only silence, which, to Abram’s surprise, seemed to grow stronger as each second passed.

Before he knew it, Abram had been sitting on his hard floor for hours, thinking. Thinking about what he knew not. He just knew he was thinking.

Abram stood slowly; carefully as if he was trying not to disrupt the dust that covered the dark floor. Walking over to his desk, he left his lock-box open; something he’d never done in the years past. He sat and placed some more parchment into the typewriter and began writing, or typing, you could say. But this time, something was different. Abram wasn’t writing just for fun, he was writing for purpose. This time, he thought, this time, I will be published and my work may fuel the world. And with that, he revealed his talent to the world.

Thank you so much!!

much thanks <3

I’m sorry I’m late but I just wanted to say this story is fantastic! Soon enough this will become a book! I’m from Hawaii and all I do is write and draw all day… Keep up the work and never give up! God bless and aloha!

Yours was the best story that I read on this page…

thank you!!!

Very empowering!!! I was also around your age when I started writing on this site.

Anyways, that short story was so full of meaning. We just happened to be doing an essay on the value of literature in English class so this really fit in nicely for me with that. Lovely! 🙂

oh thank you sooo much!! I greatly appreciate it!!

I enjoyed your story. Thank you for sharing. I especially liked how Abram developed his talent, and despite the fear of having his manuscripts destroyed, he decided to publish his work. Well done and well told.

I have noticed some tiny grammatical mistakes in your Story and correct it for you as I know that this short Story has potential to go very far. Here is the corrected version: He could write. He could write, and he knew it. No one else knew. He’d never show them his pieces; his collection of fantasies and mysteries. He wanted his friends to know. No, he wanted the world to know. But he was fearful. He was fearful of his stories failing, of him failing.

Abram had written many short stories and novels, all of them printed in manuscript and hidden in a black lock-box under his bed. He was unmarried, for he didn’t need any other love than that of his trusty typewriter and parchment. Writing was frowned upon, in his country. Books were burnt. Even the classics. They were all burned in a pile on the streets.

He wouldn’t risk it. He didn’t want that fate for his books. He worked too hard. He spent too much time revising and perfecting the novel; there was no way he would let them die.

He opened the box he hadn’t opened in many years. Removing the pieces of parchment, he sat on the floor, listening for the sounds of Nazi vehicles who somehow sensed the unpublished books. But none came. There was only silence, which, to Abram’s surprise, seemed to grow stronger as each second passed.

Abram stood slowly; carefully as if he was trying not to disrupt the dust that covered the dark floor. Walking over to his desk, he left his lock-box open; something he’d never done in the years past. He sat and placed some more parchment into the typewriter and began writing, or typing, you could say. But this time, something was different. Abram wasn’t writing just for fun, he was writing for a purpose. This time, he thought, this time, I will be published, and my work may fuel the world. And with that, he revealed his talent to the world.

I hope my effort has helped!

Is it OK if I put this on a website I’m making. It will get me money I need to have. You said your only 14, 9 months ago, so you could be 15, well I’m only 12. I need to learn to save up and this will help me. Everything I said here is true, please help me. Also, this is a great story and that is why I chose your to be on my website.

dude thats like literally directly stealing someone’s work for money that only goes to you. Just write your own story instead of stealing someone else’s.

Admit it. I am probably some dude who can’t even make a website, well I am, so don’t worry.

This is the story I am working on now. I wrote it a long time ago, but I am upgrading it now. Changing all the errors, making the vocabulary more sophisticated:

In a valley close to a river where melt-water splashed and where rhododendrons and roses bloomed, where linnets flew with doves above the clustered trees, lay a cave, mostly hidden by the immense pines and the crag. In the cave, out of reach from the sunlight, was a portal. The portal’s frame was the darkest shade of gold, with glowing orange lines carved into it. Glowing flecks of bright blue glow in the darkness of the cave. The portal lay un opened, but the frame still glowed in the shadows of the sombre cave.

In a desert of torturing, immense heat, where scorching light, too blistering to be called sunlight, burns the dehydrated ground, was a tunnel, buried under the sand. In the tunnel there was an ever-growing fortress of burnt leaves and sand with over-boiled water dripping the top. This is all that remained of the desert, nothing could survive in the world above, nothing except from the portal. The fortress was built around the portal; the portal was the darkest shade of black, with red around the rims of the frame.

The sound of water hitting the cold tiles that topped the floor brought a sense of entertainment to the girl sat in the small room covered in a mixture of scars and bruises, awaiting the next blow of the hammer upon her fragile body which shivered in the night air and soft breeze which entered via the half barricaded window. Again and again, almost as if it was a cruel rhythm the metal tool came down, never missing a hit, always landing upon her chest. The storm brewing outside was bad enough without the maniac and his hammer. These are soft blows for a man of his build, she thought, she was certain he intended to make this last all night long. She wanted to struggle, to scream! But the leather bindings made it impossible, who cares anyway, she thought, no one near this basement would care.

The sticky taste of iron filled her mouth, blood. Her body started to shudder, shock. By this point the inmate hitting had dropped the hammer and injected another load of hydrocodone, such a waste of such an effective pain killer. At last she tried to struggle, but even with the drugs numbing the sharp pain shooting trough her body she still couldn’t gain the strength to fuel her ineffective hope of escaping the inmate, after all, even if she did escape, in a mass breakout like this? She could die in a more demanding way.

With my free hand I felt the imperfections, holes, scratches, patches of long since dry blood that covered thee wooden operation table I lay on. How old was it? Thirty years? Forty? Who cares, it had to be old to be in the basement of Twin Rivers Asylum. This psychiatric institution had housed many atrocities, after all, Nazis built this asylum, catered the inmates…put them to work. We are only barely off the English channel; here in Channel Island’s Twin rivers asylum we have many an inmates. Young and old, French and British, they are all welcome here, hell, we have a Swedish inmate, talks to himself all day and night, his names Toby Buchman, we call him Toby-Talkative, how very fitting being his nurse I should die by his hand…

Ouch, be gentler Toby. Even through my drugged up husk of a body I felt that one. I and the staff thought you were joking when you said you were very strong, looks like you weren’t joking…

For such a shrivelled blotch of bones you have surprisingly good and when it comes to instrument of torture, your quite strong, why wouldn’t you be? Killing young women is why your here, Toby, you are one hell of a sociopath, brilliant mind, you’re like a more sadistic Hannibal Lecter minus eating his victims after all, I’m so helpless you could take a couple of bites out of me as I lie here, in the dark basement…

Fun fact, a goldfish’s attention span is three seconds, the average lunar eclipse takes 11 minutes to pass, and a wooden hospital bed from 19th century takes an average of 63 hits to break trough, 54 if you incorporate a body which weighs approximately 130lbs, and guess how much I weigh.

Suddenly I heard the wood buckle under the next hit a glorious hit as well as my straps loosening. Come on Toby, you brilliant old sociopath, you can do it, one more well made hit could send me free. What could go wrong? Toby stood motionless on the spot for a moment later Toby took another blow. I couldn’t breathe. The pain was so intense I felt every cell in my body explode in a chain reaction. The pain was so intense that it felt like a piece of heated iron had been pressed onto my skin. Despite that, a strange sort of calm fell over me: I was dying. I wasn’t coming back from this. Part of me thought, All right. Make it count. I wobbled on one foot about to run to the door, but unfortunately Toby kicked me at the wall. He was so strong, I thought All froze the leaves on the trees didn’t clatter, Toby didn’t stink anymore, Then it was gone all the memories of life returning to me. Then it all went away, my life was It was the end, nothing could stop that now…

I awoke in a bed, in a white room with a marble floor and a silver carpet at the foot of the bed; the wall behind her was a fancy, white wallpaper, decorated to look like a real wall. The wall on the left of the bed and in front of the bed were normal and white, on the right of the bed was a window, now covered, with a beige curtain. In the bed- where the girl lay were multiple cushions, all lay side by side at the top of the bed; the blanket covering her was soft and light. On the sides of the bed were two bed-side cabinets, one with a lamp and the other one with a vase, holding tulips and rhododendrons, on books by her favourite author, many she didn’t recognise. Promptly, she got up noticing there was a small, white table- shaped as a cylinder, with a transparent glass top; also noticing the chair behind it too. The chair was a traditional, leather armchair with four small metal legs holding it up. Then she turned to the door. It was white made, smooth and made out of oak, with a metal handle, a small, square keyhole under it.

As soon as I placed my hand on the door handle, it flew open with a tall, handsome man in the way with bright blue hair shaped as a fire and red eyes. “Welcome, Kayla to Valhalla. Where are you off so fast” he shouted with glee. “I was going out,” Kyla said trembling on the spot. “I didn’t think this is where I should be.” “In this hotel we are all dedicated to make you feel like home, for you will be staying here for the rest of your life. Sorry for my wrong vocabulary, you are already dead. For the rest of the time you need to practice.” “What !?” she yelled. “Are you saying I’m dead” “Yes I am,” the man asked confused.”May I introduce you to your new home”

So the two walked through what seemed to be a endless tour, but eventually came to an end. “And this is the dining room where you have dinner… Here is your breakfast room you can freely come here and invite friends if you are feeling lonely…” “So you are saying this is the place where all people go if they are an extremex and if they died they come here and become an extraextremex” “Yes,” said he.”And also that you are our leader because you can see what specie people are also take away their powers if needed.” “Can I take away the powers of sociopaths or weaken them with my mind beams whatever things.”

“Yes, you can but if you do that you will be weakened too. Also that is a high level trick, you are not high level- no offense” “Offense taken,” said Kayla, with her head down. So they continued on their tour and went walking through all the different floors and introducing Kyla to all the different people and members of staff. On they went about the limits of people and a lot of different stuff. After time, they started her training.

“Focus on me, ” Blaze was explaining to her how to see what specie he was.”Do not think of anything else. Not the colour of my nose, not what room we are in just on me the thoughts and memories of me. Now listen to the sound of my voice. You should be in a universe of darkness; are you?” “Yes I see black in the background and there are flying things in it.” “Yes those are my thoughts.” “I can also see images swirling around” “Those are memories” “I can also feel heat and cold environment when I move around. Are those your emotions” “Yes, the heat is happiness and the cold is anxiety or sadness. Now let’s focus on the specie part. To determine if I’m an Extraextremex, a normal Extremex or even an Oigreog. If I am an Extraextremex then you will not feel motion. If I was an Extremex then you would sense tingling and if I am an Oigreog then you’ll sense shaking. Which one do you sense?” “I sense tingling and shaking so you are one of the Oigreog in the times when Extremex where starting to populate the world. This that means you are an Exremog or an Exoiig” “I am an Exoiig. I have not died yet.” “But how are you here?” “Because I was the first Exoiig alive. I made this place” “But how?” “I used my powers to do it. That is why all the walls are shades of red, orange and yellow.” “Why didn’t you make mine a different colour.” “Because I need to keep track of what specie everyone is. I used Conjuration and Mysticism to make sure that every specie got the same shade of red or whatever.” They blabbered on about what it was like when Oigreog ruled the world, what Black Magic could do and how to control Extraextremex powers…

Kayla went to bed with the thoughts of how the world was made and how it transformed into this planet, when at the start it was billions of monsters – the Oigreog – fought and then somehow transformed into normal people who never fought in their lives. She also didn’t understand how there was only one person who had the power to see what specie one was… She woke with her hair curled up covering her face.

Once she tossed the hair off her face she noticed there was a book on her bed-side cabinet beside the lamp. When she picked it up, she noticed it was a book called “The Arts of Necromancy and Enchantments”. She soon noticed it was the book Blaze used to learn Black Magic. She was filled with a mixture of joy and shock. Then the door flew open. A small brown-haired boy was standing in the way. “Hi,” he said, holding a hand out to shake, “I am Logan, someone from you floor” “Hi,” Kayla said, shaking his hand, “I’m Kayla, an Extraextremex” “Do you want to go and have breakfast” “I guess so” said Kayla.

In the hallway, my neighbours were starting to emerge. Thomas Jefferson Jr looked about my age. He had short curly hair, a lanky frame and a rifle slung over one shoulder. His blue wool coat had brass buttons and chevrons on the sleeve – a U.S. Army Civil War uniform, I guessed. He nodded and smiled. ‘How you doing?’

‘Um, dead, apparently,’ I said. He laughed. ‘Yeah. You’ll get used to it. Call me T.J.’ ‘Kayla,’ I said. ‘Come on.’ Logan pulled me along.

We passed a girl who must’ve been Mallory Keen. She had frizzy red hair, green eyes and a serrated knife, which she was shaking in the face of a six-foot-seven guy outside the door marked X.

‘Again with the pig’s head?’ Mallory Keen spoke in a faint Irish brogue. ‘X, do you think I want to see a severed pig’s head every time I step out of my front door?’

‘I could not eat any more,’ X rumbled. ‘The pig head does not fit in my refrigerator.’ Personally, I would not have antagonized the guy. He was built like a bomb-containment chamber. If you happened to have a live grenade, I was pretty sure you could safely dispose of it simply by asking X to swallow it. His skin was the colour of a shark’s belly, rippling with muscles and stippled with warts. There were so many welts on his face it was hard to tell which one was his nose. We walked past, X and Mallory too busy arguing to pay us any attention.

We entered a small elevator and the doors closed, making the elevator sound. “One question: How does everyone get here.” “People called Collectors fly around the world collecting souls of dead Extremex. I am a Collectors.”

‘And you?’ I asked. ‘How did you become a Collector? Did you die a noble death?’ She laughed. ‘Not yet. I’m still among the living.’ ‘How does that work exactly?’ ‘Well, I live a double life. Tonight, I’ll escort you to dinner. Then I have to rush home and finish my calculus homework.’ ‘You’re not joking, are you?’ ‘I never joke about calculus homework.’ The elevator doors opened. We stepped into a room the size of a concert arena. My mouth dropped. ‘Holy –’ ‘Welcome,’ Logan said, ‘to the Feast Hall of the Slain.’

Rows of long tables, like a stadium, curved downward from the nosebleed section. In the center of the room, instead of a basketball court, a tree rose taller than the Statue of Liberty. Its lowest branches were maybe a hundred feet up. Its canopy spread over the entire hall, scraping against the domed ceiling and sprouting through a massive opening at the top. Above, stars glittered in the night sky.

What’s supposed to be your point? If you are receiving money from something YOU DO NOT OWN then it is obviously theft. YOU DO NOT PUT SOMEONE ELSES WORK ON YOUR OWN WEBSITE AND USE THAT MONEY FOR YOURSELF. That is just pathetic, really. I hope you honestly realise what your doing here, because its seriously stupid.

kys nigga my bitch loves the cocaine nigga gucci gang nigga iwill fuck your bith tongiht nigga, drose out nigga fag nigga

I am very disappointed that there is not 100 of the story idea selection

I’m glad to see Joe’s book, Let’s Write a Short Story! is still availalbe and going strong! I purchased it as soon as it was published, still refer to it quite regularly to remind myself of some important but often over-looked elements of short story. Although my work has been published a number of times, we’re never too experienced to learn and to be reminded of what makes for a great story.

A short story idea: When I was very young, one of my best friends learned she had been adopted. We all know that people really can and do say some incredibly stupid things to children. Because my mother had very blond hair and blue eyes and both my hair and eyes are dark brown, strangers often said to me,”And just whose little girl are you?” I began to wonder whether I, too, was adopted and my parents simply weren’t telling me. What if, as an adult who never questioned your origins, you learned you had been adopted. Conversely, because I myself DO have an adopted child, what if you were told you were adopted but in fact, learned you were not. Write a short story!

here’s my story

Uncle joe was talking to his 5 year old nephew jane about how he’s getting old and how she’s going to have to start doing all the chores in the house joe is a little challenged in his life because he was bullied and doesn’t know how to control his anger. he gets in an argument with jane and Joe felt anger go through his mind his temper over flows and he got so mad he started hitting her. 2 years later she was still helping around as Jane’s face would turn red and she would start throwing tempers and joe would hit her. Over the years her fachel expiration started to change form because of all the hitting. Joe heard a scream of dying devastating noise outside and went to go see what it was he lifted up a bucket and under it was the phone book. Since he had anger issues he decided to call the evil scientist and ask him to fix bullying once and for all after he went to the evil scientist house something went wrong he came back as the demon he unlocked his nephew’s room there she was. she was crying.Jane slowly turned around she was mad crazy. He ordered her to clean the dishes. Since she was so mad crazy she didn’t listen to him and she smacked him across the face the Demons face turned red he felt like someone pierced him with a needle he got so mad that he trapped her in the mirror. She was screaming for help but it just circulated around in the mirror as she was she was trapped there another duplicate appeared it was a boy. He said his name was michael. He was 7 years old the evil demon erased the kids memories and put them in a microchip. Then he put him on the streets. Someone had found him and brought him home and He had been with his new parents for years.He was great at figuring anything out a after a while he found out about his uncle Joe. Since he was so good at researching things he even found directions to his uncle’s house so he decided to go on an adventure to find his uncle joe/the Demon once he found uncle Joe he wasn’t at all happy.

Joe hit Michael and he fell to the ground and fainted .when he was just slightly awake he found a microchip it said Michael’s memories michael picked it up Joe was coming towards him with a knife

Michael woke up right away and put the microchip to his chest if he dies Jane will vanish for ever Joe stabbed Michael in the chest.luckily the microchip blocked the knife from stabbing him and the microchip went into his chest it felt like a rainbow bursting through his skin the light went into his eyes and he got his memories back. He knew everything he knew that his clone was abused and everything he was ready to sacrifice himself for his clone so he ran inside the house and did bloody jane spinning around in circles and said bloody jane bloody jane bloody jane.

He trapped himself in the mirror and Bloody Jane was back Jane through her self out of the house and went to Joe in and punched him on the floor and they had a sword fight and Joe died and bloody Jane turned into the evil bloody demon.

(I like to write with comic characters (Peter Parker, ect.) so here we go… Based on the scars short story idea)

“Where did these come from?” I flinched and hurried to cover my back and arms up. “They’re old… They don’t hurt anymore…” I frowned, remembering the pain from each one of the marks that stained my skin forever. “That’s not what I asked…” I flinched as he slid the thin jacket off my shoulders to get a better look at them. I didn’t meet his eyes as he traced over them. Long and thin lines from knives. Round ones from cigars or cigarettes. Jagged ones from glass. The giant one that curled from just below my neck, all the way around my body before stopping at my right hip. I remembered the pain from each one, the cause of each one, the people who caused each and every one of them… “Pete, It’s a really long story…” We had been dating for about a month and I didn’t want to scare him away with my sob story. “I want to know.” His voice was soft as he had me sit on the bed facing him. I looked at him for a while, trying to sort my thoughts out. We had been friends since we were six, but I had hidden everything from him. He had no clue, and I wish he still wouldn’t… I took a deep breath and began to tell the story. “I’ve kept this from everyone… Please let me tell the whole story before you ask questions or leave me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did…” “Go ahead, I’ll let you finish. But I promise, I won’t leave you.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll see… It began when I was six. My parents weren’t the best as you know… They weren’t home much. Mom went out drinking until she was hammered, Dad went out on “business” calls. He would leave almost every night, coming home with perfume on him. Mom didn’t want to believe it. She was in denial, believed that he still loved her as he did in the past… She would come home smashed and would start sobbing. I tried to help as much as I could, but I didn’t know much. I would let her hug me, and would do my best to comfort her. I learned fast that I needed to take care of her. She would wake up with a hangover and the best I could do was give her one of my favorite juice pouches and a cookie. She would start crying again and tell me that I was such a good girl. Remember when I missed school for a week?” “Yeah, the teacher said you were really sick.” “Dad and mom got into a fight. They were screaming at each other, I didn’t know what to do… I ran away from home, I went to my cousin’s house. I got to stay there the week even though he called mom. When I got home, Dad was gone and mom was passed out on the couch surrounded by empty cans of alcohol. Dad never came back after that, and mom got increasingly depressed. I didn’t know what was happening, Dad wouldn’t come home, mom was sad, I learned how to do things for myself quick because I had to support myself and mom. When I turned seven the nice elderly woman from next door began to teach me how to cook, and clean. I would make her little crafts to sell in her shop as a “payment” for the lessons. Mom barely noticed I was gone for an hour afterschool. She tried to be there for me, she would ask me how my day was, and would constantly give me hugs. I thought life was going good, that everything would be okay. Then when I was eight, everything went downhill…” He squeezed my hand slightly. “Dad came back to the house. He… He said nasty things to mom. I didn’t understand that well back then but as I grew older I understood what he said to her. He.. broke her… She wouldn’t talk anymore, refused to eat, refused to drink… After I came home from the sleepover at your house, I saw her… She, She was hanging from the ceiling, tears running down her face.” Pete looked horrified, pulling me into a hug as I continued. “The elderly woman heard my scream, and rushed over to see me staring at my mother screaming and sobbing. She called the cops, quickly getting her to the ground, checking her pulse. I was taken to the woman’s home, the police announced her dead and found a letter…” “I knew she passed but didn’t know what happened exactly…” Pete’s voice was quiet. “Dad got custody over me. He didn’t like the fact that I looked like mom. He… He did things. He let his ‘friends’ do things. I was nine at the time, and he sold me to his ‘friend’ for the night. Gave him 10 bucks to have his way with me. I tried to fight back but…” Pete looked livid. “I felt sick, the bad thing is that I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb, emotionally and physically. You and the others were the only ones that made me feel something… It continued until I was twelve, I had tried to fight but it was pointless. One day, Dad had enough of it. He slapped me, kicked me, cut me, burned me… He let his ‘friends’ have their way with me. The reason I began to miss more and more school was because of him. I got lucky sometimes and was able to sneak out and see you. He would add a new mark to the collection each time. Then when I was fifteen, he got drunk. He.. Had his way with me, then threatened to kill me if I said anything. Aunt May was the one to notice, the one day I came over she saw a glimpse of them… I confided in her, I didn’t want you to know because you would look at me differently. Or give up on me and that would have killed me… Dad found out when May called the cops on him. He was not happy, the longest scar was his attempt to kill me. The police did a search, and the court plead him guilty. I was in the hospital that month I missed school… My cousin got custody of me, then the accident happened, and I got my abilities. That’s pretty much it… I guess you’ll be leaving then?” I lowered my head, waiting for the rejection. “I told you. I’ll never leave you. I love you too much to do that. I’m glad you told me…” He pulled me into a tight hug, kissing the top of my head. “Really?” I teared up a bit. “Really.” He held me as I cried. I really felt loved for once in my life… All I know is that it felt good to get that off my chest. “I don’t care about the marks. Because these scars make you look even more beautiful to me.”

( I have no idea if I did this right and I’m quite sure I might have made few mistakes but it’s worth a try)

Sometimes there are instances when you can see your own life flashing before your eyes and it gets you thinking ” Is this where I want to be? Is this the place I still want to be in another 5 years?”

I had a minor problem, a fault perhaps. I was surely and indefinitely addicted to Alcohol. Don’t get me wrong it was not that type of addiction where one would kill for a bottle of beer or something far more stronger that leaves that burning sensation down your throat and a sting behind your eyelids. It was a addiction where when I didn’t know what to do-how to react- specifically, I turned to my new found companion. It didn’t shout back at me, didn’t call me names, didn’t say that I was a worthless mistake.

Infact it welcomed me with open arms and I embraced the feeling of not caring. Sure it was a great weight off my shoulders just to forget everything for a moment and just…… be. But then I’d wake up regretting every single thing I did the night before. Trust me that plus having a blasting headache ? not the best hangover tonic.

Now here I am in front of my car trying to think yet failing since I can’t even think straight to even start thinking about thinking.

That’s when I feel it. something poking at the back of my head. A shadow looming behind me.

”Leave the keys on the ground and turn away without a second glance and you won’t get hurt.” His vice was rough and he reeked of old garbage and dried up voldka.

There I see it again. All The time I’ve spent wasting away drinking without actually doing what my 21 year old self was supposed to be doing.

I took my parents money for granted and had the time of my life. A Audi sports car, expensive designer clothes, latest IPhone, all the girls I could ever imagine. And yet I felt hollow. An empty nutshell disguised as a perfect fruit.

This is the moment I change that. This is the moment the fight back. I’m not going to whole away anymore. I won’t be that worthless mistake any more. I am Rane Alexander after all and I won’t let a label define me. I’m going to get past this hazy fog and I’ll see the horizon again.

So I turned back and grabbed the man by his arm and sling him over hard sending the gun skidding across the dim lit parking lot.

” Not today” I breathed.

Nice…well done. I thought the ending was empowering…

Standing Still

I would like to tell you a story about a girl. There was nothing special about her at all-she was simply a girl. Every day she lived in pain. She lived in her shared room feeling so alone. Everything was white: the walls, the beds, the furniture. There was no creativity in the room, no evidence of the girl’s individuality-no posters, no color, nothing. Although, she did have one orange throw pillow that she didn’t want nor like. She hated the bland, bland room. Until she was forced to live in this room she saw white as a symbol of purity, harmony, and peace. Now she saw white as a toxic color, something that wasn’t even really a color at all, something that was devoid of emotion. Every day the girl took a shower in an attempt to wash away her skin that had been tainted by the room, but that simple act of cleansing soon became tiresome and it eventually stopped working. The girl felt dirty, impure, and alone. She was afraid-so afraid. She was afraid of being alone in her shared room in a shared house of seven people. She was afraid of not being heard, of not being able to speak. She didn’t know how she felt and she didn’t know how to express it. One day, the girl stepped into her shower, and stared at the white walls and the white floors and the white curtain and the whiteness of it all and she felt numb. She felt as if the blandness of her room and of her life had finally driven her emotionless. She stood there, feeling every singular drop of water sting her skin as if she was on fire and she felt nothing. Nothing-the absence of anything-shouldn’t feel as if the world was being torn apart around her, it shouldn’t feel as though everyone and everything were pitted against her, and yet this is the way the girl felt. She forgot that she was in the shower, where she was supposed to feel refreshed and cleansed, and she forgot herself. She leaned her head against the shower wall she wondered why the walls looked as if they were in so much pain. It was as if the very walls around her were feeling just as she felt. She stood and she thought. She wondered how long she would be able to stand there, with her head resting on a cold, hard surface. She stood in the shower too long, she stood there until the hot water turned cold and even past that. She stood there until she felt as though the pain building up inside her couldn’t take it any longer. And then, she moved. She placed one hand against the tile wall and she pushed, testing her strength-the wall remained still. She thought about how meaningless her life was and how she couldn’t possibly do anything important or memorable and she felt selfish. She felt selfish for wanting to be important. She felt as though all of her thoughts were not her own and that society had simply conditioned her to think them and she felt nothing. She felt trapped. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no friends to run to, nothing. She felt alone. Her worst fear was unfolding as she began to panic. She thrashed in the shower as she desperately gasped for air, feeling nothing. Maybe she should stop gasping for air, maybe she should just give up. But no, she had to keep fighting. She turned and she turned the dreaded water off and it stopped. Just like that, it stopped, and she felt nothing yet again. She stood there, water dripping down her body, and she thought. She thought about how many mistakes she made and how many lies she’d told. She regretted everything. She wanted to stop feeling. She wanted to undo all of her wrongdoings and she wished she could fix the people she’d broken. She wished so desperately to fix herself. She stopped, she told herself to snap out of it and she felt nothing. She turned and she pulled back the bland, white curtain. She slowly took a step and then another. She stood right outside the shower and let herself feel the cold, rigid air on her skin because feeling something was better than nothing, right? She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself to shield her small, fragile body from the cold. She stood there outside of the shower, and she felt vulnerable. She felt neglected. She felt as if nobody cared at all. She truly thought that she had no one. She sat down on the cold tile bathroom floor and she felt defeated. She felt as if she could no longer go one. She stared at the water dripping from the faucet and she thought about how easy it would be to corrupt these white walls with her own blood just as they had tainted her with pain and sorrow and misery. She sat for what felt like hours and she thought. She realized that she couldn’t do what she so desperately wanted to do because she was just too afraid. She thought about spilling her own blood, just to leave at least a little bit of herself in that lonely room that would never truly be hers. She came so close-oh so close-to giving up, but then she remembered. She remembered a person and how that person made her feel. She remembered a smile like no other. She remembered arms that held her so tight and close that she actually felt safe. She remembered a face, a gorgeous face, that lit up the moment its eyes layed on her. She remembered feeling loved, so she stood up, turned to the door, walked into the white room, and the girl lived on to see another day, another sunrise, and another beautiful moment.

And I have a secret-that girl, that terrible terrible girl, is me.

I have a blog and have uploaded 190 articles and short stories averaging 1000-1400 words. 70% were political. My writing is purely a hobby although I did send one story to a publisher and they wrote that they liked it but being an unknown author I would be required to contribute £2,500 towards the cost of publishing this children’s picture book which was 800 words long. Is this normal?.

So far I have had 43,000 hits worldwide on my blog I am now writing fiction for girls aged between 12-17 and children’s picture books..

I have a blog and have uploaded 190 articles and short stories averaging 1000-1400 words. 70% were political. My writing is purely a hobby although I did send one story to a publisher and they wrote that they liked it but being an unknown author I would be required to contribute £2,500 towards the cost of publishing this children’s picture book which was 800 words long.

IS THIS NORMAL?.

Is this normal ?

I will get up off the chair and head for the PC, I will type two lines. At this stage they are nothing but the release of vague reflections triggered by my imagination. I may not use them but they have to escape the clutter and disarray of my thoughts and be planted like a seedling. Those two lines on a blank screen when germinated can blossom into an article, a story or a book; the blank computer screen is not unlike the painter’s blank palette waiting for the first glimmer of his/her artistry. A line of text can do the same, although it need not even be a line of text, one word can suffice.

The first line read “It was the evening of the annual Concert and Dance at……….. ” I turned the Pee Cee off and I went to bed. The next day the story took root and blossomed… ….

I will get up off the chair and head for the PC, I will type two lines. At this stage they are nothing but the release of vague reflections triggered by my imagination. I may not use them but they have to escape the clutter and disarray of my thoughts and be planted like a seedling.

Those two lines on a blank screen when germinated can blossom into an article, a story or a book; the blank computer screen is not unlike the painter’s blank palette waiting for the first glimmer of his/her artistry. A line of text can do the same, although it need not even be a line of text, one word can suffice.

The first line read “It was the evening of the annual Concert and Dance at the Denham College” I turned the Pee Cee off and I went to bed. The next day the story took root and blossomed… ….

Those two lines on a blank screen when germinated can blossom into an article, a story or a book; the blank computer screen is not unlike the painter’s blank palette waiting for the first glimmer of his/her artistry. A line of text can do the same, although it need not even be a line of text, one word can suffice. The first line read “It was the evening of the annual Concert and Dance at the Denham College.

I turned the Pee Cee off and I went to bed. The next day the story took root and blossomed… ….

Here a poem…

Roses are red Violets are blue I love you Do you love me?

Times I sit and think of you In hope as you think of me Your smile just makes me melt As I know my makes you melt.

I know you think I’m silly But you love me for it.

I hope this puts a smile on your face As it does my as I wrote it.

The sky is blue, the grass is green and the sun is warm just like my heart that beats for you. You make me smile more then the beautiful flowers that bloom under the warmth of spring and you put a sparkle in my eyes more then the stars shine in the night sky. You light my path better then a full moon in a clear night sky.

You are beautiful and I love you too.

It lights up my heart to see the words I write to you. I never thought I would ever meet someone like you. I have told you things happen for a reason and so they do. I want spend every waking moment to show you how I feel. My heart belongs to the moat amazing woman I know. Baby, that is you. I know here lately I’ve been hard to love but I promise things will get better. You are my rock and sanitary you keep me going when I think I can’t. I love u with all my heart, mind, body and soul. You’re my FOREVER. Just one more thing to say.

Don’t give up on me because I will make all your dreams come true in one way or another. I will love you until I take my last breath. Just keep on loving me for I know I am you’re Forever Love…..

That is the biggest poem I’ve ever seen

Merp, I like this

Beware: Bad language. These are two dispicible people being told honestly.

————-

Stew bent down and grabbed the dead man’s feet. “Because they’re faggots, that’s why. Why you care?”

Phil bent over and grabbed the dead man’s shoulders. “I just don’t think we should generalize people like that. That’s all.”

“One. Two. Three. Up.” They lifted the dead man off the pavement and shuffled over to the trunk of their Volkswagen. “I don’t give a fuck what you don’t think, they’re still dick-suckers. On three again. One. Two. Three.” They tossed the man into the trunk. Stew grabbed the dead man’s legs and contorted them in such a way that his fat ass fit inside, then he tossed a sheet over the body and slammed the trunk shut. “Queers, Phil. God ain’t got no love for a man sucking off another man.”

Phil was wiping his hands with a kerchief. When he was done he stuffed it back in his back pocket. The left one. “Maybe God doesn’t care, neither? Maybe we’re the ones, as a society, making a bigger deal out of it than it really is.”

Stew licked his thumb and rubbed it on his left tail light, smearing a dot of blood and making it worse. “Gimme’ a rag, would ya’?” Phil fetched a rag out of the backseat of the VW and tossed it to Stew. He spit on the rag and then wiped the taillight raw. “It’s in the fuckin’ bible, man. God said a man and a woman, not a man and a man. Now, don’t get me wrong, I got no problem with women dating women. I mean, come on, it’s sexy as hell. But two guys wagging their weiner’s in each other’s faces? Fucking gross.”

Phil stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it, closing his eyes and inhaling. He opened his eyes and exhaled. A kid on a bike rode by, tossing a newspaper wrapped in a blue bag on the edge of the driveway. Phil watched the boy as he pedaled away, dumping papers on every driveway down the street. “Maybe the bible does say that,” he said, turning back to Stew. “Why’s it our business, though? Long as they keep it between them, how’s it hurting you?”

“It’s the principle of the motherfuckin’ thing,” Stew said, tossing the rag to Phil.

Phil sidestepped out of the way and let the rag fall to the ground. “Fuck off, dude. I don’t want his fucking blood on my new suit.”

“Well at least put it in the trash.” Stew wiped his hands down his pants, at which Phil cringed, then walked over and opened the driver side door. “We gotta meet Don in half an hour and we’re runnin’ late. Let’s go.”

“Stop for a taco?” Phil asked, bending over and grabbing the rag between two fingers.

“Sure. I’m starving.”

I Tried This is what i have so far…:

Isra Sonnet liked the quiet. Which was why she wished she were back home with her parents back in California, her cousin Eric was snoring very loud on the top bunk of the beds. She tried to block out the noise, but he seemed to be getting louder, and louder with each snort. Having enough of this, Isra grabbed her pillow and climbed up with it.

Holding steady onto the ledge of the bed, she smacked him with it. Hard.

Waking up with a start Eric looked at Isra annoyed.

“What is wrong with you? I was trying to sleep!” He flings the pillow on by his face,to the floor.

“You’re loud enough to wake the dead. Stop snoring like an old man.”

“If you’re so mad about it go sleep somewhere else…” Eric says drifting back to sleep, too tired to argue.

Sighing Isra climbed back down to her bunk bed. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Eric would start snoring again. Gathering her pillow from the floor and the blanket from her bed, she walked out of the room closing the door behind her.

Now, it was quite dark in the house. Though, Isra knew her way around the house from memory. She was careful to go down the stairs, and not to make too much noise to wake Eric’s parents.

In the living room Isra made herself comfortable on one of the couches. Placing her pillow down and wrapping herself in the warmth of her blanket comforted her. She sighed in relief. Now she could finally sleep.

I really like it. It’s very detailed in my opinion. I’ve read a book like that called… “Wish”. I want to publish all six of my books when I get older. I’M ONLY NINE so maybe when i’m in my 20’s

dont worry about your age. you can be just as good as any other writer. i am only twelve and i am almost finished writing my book that i am hoping to publish. go for your dreams, dont let your age stop you.

I’m 16 and have published my first book, best experience of my life, I am very close to publishing my 2nd book and sooo excited! Don’t worry about your age, the younger the better I say! You go girl and good luck with your writing career. You are a very gifted young lady! Xx

If you want to publish your books, why not now? There isn’t a law against young authors. I’m not much older than you, but my book is being published this year. All you need is the money to publish–that’s the REAL hard part for a younger writer.

Hey, don’t worry, I’m eleven and I deeply enjoy writing, and I’m looking to get a book published very soon. There’s no law forbading youngsters from getting books published… In fact, becoming a young author is one of the VERY BEST things you could do to benefit you in the future.

Yea I’m 11 and I’m gonna start writing stories on an app called Wattpad

It’s a great way to get feed back and to start sharing your stories.

The temperature was searing. Tara squinted her eyes as wavy lines of heat danced in the distance. Michael shuffled out of the taxi behind her and bent to drop 30 pesos in the driver’s expectant hand. “Why did we have to come all the way to Acapulco just to get our teeth cleaned?” Tara whined like a child dreading the dentist. “We’re not just getting our teeth cleaned”, Michael explained, “I need 4 crowns, you could use some fillings, and dental work is so much cheaper in Mexico. Plus, it’ll be like a vacation as soon as we’re finished. I have 3 days of the most romantic stuff planned for us, just wait.” Tara smiled at the thought of what Michael’s idea of “romantic stuff” could be. It was 9:15 am Thursday, if all went to plan, they would be partying on the beach Friday night. The shop they had been dropped off in front of was a modest, stucco covered building with one dark window bearing a small sign that read “Dentista”. They were 45 minutes early for their appointments but hopefully that meant they would be done sooner. 30 minutes and 16 pages of paperwork later, they were ushered down a brightly lit corridor to a room containing an x-ray machine. Once finished there, they were led to adjoining rooms. Each contained nothing more than a large, green dental chair, procedure light, and metal rolling cart filled with shiny, sharp instruments. “The dentist will be right in,” said the plump assistant in a thick Mexican accent. Since the office saw so many tourists, the staff all spoke in English, and this reassured Tara that it wasn’t so bad after all. She was looking up at a poster of an aquarium filled with fish that was taped to the ceiling when the dentist strode in. He was tall, about 6 feet, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a brilliantly white smile. While peering at her x-ray films, he rattled off a list of work that she needed, and she agreed, not really understanding just wanting to get it over with. The plump assistant appeared and placed a mask over Tara’s nose and mouth as she crooned, “To make you comfortable!” The last thing she noticed before she lost consciousness was the poodle print scrubs the assistant was wearing. Tara woke up being shaken by Michael. “Come on let’s go, I’ve been finished for an hour.” She groggily sat up and placed her hand to her warm, swollen cheek. The assistant was back, handing Michael prescriptions for pain killers and giving him instructions not to eat for 2 hours. They stepped outside into the bright sun and began walking slowly towards the nearest intersection where they could hail a cab. After a short taxi ride they arrived at Hotel Catedral, a quaint, boutique inn on the outskirts of the city. The room was cramped, but clean, and after a quick shower, they both laid down and quickly fell asleep. The next 2 days were spent drinking, lounging on the beach, and making love. Tara awoke late Sunday morning and started packing. While she would miss relaxing on the beach, she couldn’t wait to get back home to her apartment. Her stomach had been bothering her on and off throughout the trip and she thought it may have been the water she was drinking. They took a taxi to the airport and the trip home was uneventful except for a few severe stomach pains Tara had on the flight. She took a few more pain pills and they eased up enough for her to take a nap. They barely had time to walk through the door when Tara felt a sudden urge and bolted to the bathroom. “Are you okay?” Michael called from the hall. “Fine, just gimme a minute!” Tara snapped, and Michael went in to the living room and laid down on the couch. When Tara had finished in the bathroom, she stood up and saw something strange in the toilet. It looked like what appeared to be several small balloons floating in the water. “What the…” Tara stared confused, and called for Michael to come into the bathroom. He popped his head in the door and looked at her questioningly. She pointed to the toilet and he shook his head as if to say, “I’m not going in there.” Tara walked to the sink and grabbed a pair of tweezers sitting near the mirror. When she reached towards the toilet, Michael yelped, “What are you doing?!” “Shush, hold on!” she said. She pulled back the tweezers and pinched in the end was one of the balloons. She carried it to the sink and quickly rinsed it off. Michael came closer and said, “That came out of you?” ‘Yeah, gimme something to cut it open.” He produced his pocket knife and she proceeded to make a small slice down the center of the balloon. A white powdery substance spilled from the cut. “Oh my god, it looks like drugs! Tara exclaimed. “How did this get inside me? It must have been the dentist! I told you we shouldn’t have went down there for dental work! What are we gonna do?” “Maybe we should go to the emergency room and get checked out? Michael suggested. “Ok but we should just say our stomachs are hurting and not say anything about the drugs. We don’t want them thinking it’s ours and taking us to jail.” After spending 4 hours in the ER, a CAT scan and bloodwork, the couple was assured that they were in perfect health and probably ate something bad. They headed home, relieved there were no more foreign objects in their bodies but worried about what to do about the dentist. “He can’t get away with this, said Tara excitedly, he probably does this to tourists all the time!” “But if we call the police and tell them our story, they might think we’re involved somehow,” said Michael. They arrived back at their small Austin apartment and decided to eat some dinner and think the matter over some more without rushing to alert the police. After all they were safe at home and had no plans on leaving the country any time soon. Maybe they could just put this whole thing behind them like a bad dream. A crazy story to tell the grandkids. Once the dishes for dinner had been washed and Tara was settling down on the sofa next to Michael, a knock sounded at the door. “Who could that be? “Michael asked. He got up, slowly walked to the door, and peeped through the eyehole. On the other side of the door were 3 well-dressed Latino men. The one standing closest to door was dressed in black pants and jacket with a tucked-in turquoise shirt. He spoke first. “We know you’re in there and you have something that belongs to our boss.”

I wrote two stories so far Murderous Twins (Mystery) and Pregnant at 18 (Drama n Romance) total words for both 27000

THANK YOU FOR THIS. I LOVE TO WRITE AND I NEEDED INSPIRATION!!!

My First Story.. I woke up late that morning, too excited to sleep at first and then I don’t remember when I dozed off to sleep early morning. Bright sunlight hit my half open eyes and I jumped off from the bed. It was 8:00 am already.

“Mama … why didn’t you wake me up? Has he left already?” Mother smiled “Its Sunday! Didn’t felt like waking you up from deep sleep you were in, besides you must have been dreaming, there was beautiful smile on your face. And don’t worry Papa won’t go without you.”

I was super relived and ran to hall, where my dad was ready, waiting for me. “We are going to City, right?” He simply nodded and smiled “Now get ready else we will miss the bus”

I ran to bathroom for shower and within seconds was out and in front of mirror combing my hairs. “Dry them properly, your hairs are wet, you’ll catch cold”

But here I was holding my dad’s hand and pulling him out of the door. We took bus from the bus stop and were on our way to City.

Finally the day had arrived when I was going to get my first Bicycle. It all started when my dad promised to get me Bicycle if I score good marks in final exam next year. All my friends had their own bicycle. Even my juniors had their own.

I patiently waited for one year to get my dream bike.

On the result day I was very nervous. When there was announcement that I stood first in 5th C, I jumped up in air and almost snatched my report card from our class Teachers hands.

I was telling everybody on my way back that I was going to get bicycle, since I stood first in class. After reaching home I told mom about the result and she was very happy. Then dad came back from work in the evening, he was very happy to hear about my results and patted on my back.

“So you are going to get me Bicycle” I said with glimmer in my eyes. “Let’s see” he simply said taking off his shoes

I was almost broken in tears to hear those words. He had not said no but neither did he say yes. I broke down “this is not fair, you promised”.

Next day, mom broke the news to me that finally I am going to get my Bike this Sunday.

Squeezing sound of halting break of bus brought me back to present. “We have reached, Lets go” said dad.

We reached the Big Bicycle store in Gol market. There were so many bikes, I just couldn’t take my eyes off. I picked the one with Marron color. Salesman explained the features to me. I looked at dad expectantly, he nodded and I hugged him.

Dad went in to meet the shop manager, I waited outside to see my bike being assembled by the worker. I saw dad having conversation with the shop owner. I don’t know what was wrong but dad came out.

“Let’s go now we will come next week, and take this Bike home” dad said with his fingers in my hairs. I couldn’t believe my ears. After waiting for almost a year I am getting my bike and now he is saying to wait for one more week.

I threw his hand away in disgust and ran away to hug my bike and started crying. Dad tried to convince me that He had assumed the Price of Bicycle to be lot less. And now he doesn’t have enough cash to buy this bike.

But I refused to budge down. I was so much carried away by anger, I couldn’t see the nervous face of my father. It must have been really awkward for him to face this situation.

“Okay. Let me see what can be done!” he went in. I waited outside partly sobbing and partly smiling.

Few moments later dad came out smiling. I knew he had bought the bike and we were going to be taking it home today. This was happiest day of my life.

It took me few years to understand that my dad had sold his ring that day to fulfill my wish!

This is what I’ve got so far:

Capt. Lee asked for interrogation volunteers. The Interrogation Rooms were full and there weren’t enough interrogators. Lt. Jones volunteered. She told him thee was a suspect in Interrogation room D. Should be easy — a straight-up homicide. Just tape the confession.

Entering IR D, he saw an inconspicuous middle-aged man. Inconspicuous? Maybe 100 years ago.

Lt. Jones introduced himself and sat down. He sat down and said he was there to get the man’s side of the story. Then he turned on the recorder. The man looked at him with amusement. “Do you really want my confession” he asked. Jones said he needed the man’s name and address first. “All right. I am Daniel Alan James, address 132321 Atlantic Avenue, Plot D3.”

Jones looked up sharply. “That’s a cemetery. Your real address please.” I get the nuts, he thought.

“I am not ‘pulling your leg’ as you so quaintly think. That is my address.”

“As to my confession. In 1869 in Palm Beach, I burgled May Palmer’s house I got a sackful of jewelry. I also hacked off her head. Sternly he looked at Jones. “You kept that back. He acted like that fact should have been publusged,, like he wanted credit for it.

“In 1920, in Miami Beach, I attended a speakeasy. I abducted a somewhat plump girl, Cynthia Handel, and eventually disposed her of in the Dismal Swamp.” Chuckling, he continued. You could say the alligators had a fine meal that night.

In 1936, Cleveland, Ohio. I presume you’ve heard of the Torso Murders there? The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run? It was never solved. Poor Eliot Ness — he wanted so badly to be Mayor of Cleveland and not just Safety Director. That case would have given him the Mayor’s office. I denied him that.””I

Above the gables of the orphanage roof, a tremulous, gentle sound began to keen. It began quietly, as oh so fragile a thing. I held my breath where I had awakened in my bed to keep from drowning it out- the sound of a human singing through a violin.

I knew exactly who it was that sang. She had come in just that day, eyes wide, mouth closed, and a violin case clutched to her chest like it was the only thing she had left in the world. I was older than her and so in a different dormitory, but still the sound found its way, sorrowfully, lovingly, through the still night air.

The sound of it made me want to cry, as it stirred in me a pain I’d long ago learned to shove away, the origin of which was the only thing that me and the little virtuoso child shared. It unfurled itself deep within me, reaching out for the sound as it grew, grew louder and more powerful as the beginning upset turned to something more violent, something filled with righteous indignation at what had happened to her… to… to me. Tears welled up in my eyes and I curled into my pillow as I fought the onslaught of emotions. The anger, the injustice, the harrowing *grief*. It all slashed and dove and resonated through the air- through my soul. I curled around the reopened wound, feeling the unreleased cry of pain inside of me. But the tears still fell. They were like rain.

Suddenly the vibrancy in the tone fell flat. The last ringing note was undulating through the air, twisting with fading passion, as a quieter, stiller strain took its place. Dispirited and exhausted, the muted notes struggled to find me, and I imagined them getting lost. It was both a relief and a loss as I felt the raw emotions drain away. It felt… hollow. It was like how I usually felt only much, much worse, the sheer weight of it making it a pain all its own, although it signified the absence of it. It was a rock I couldn’t push off my chest, or a vacuum inside of me. It *hurt*.

Still, my eyes dried as I listened to the dispassionate, lilting notes. They bumped into each other with pattern but no passion. The lack of colour in it compared to everything else the little violin girl had played almost made me want to cry again- for her this time, instead of me. I wanted to comfort her. To tell her that she could find a family here again… even if it wasn’t the same.

But then- then something magical happened. I heard something in a note shift. Just ever so slightly, regaining some of its lost fullness. My heart jumped against my rib cage at it, like a baby bird too eager to be out of the nest. The sound broadened and deepened, spinning and growing to an unimaginable size and intensity, filled with such thought and memory as one can only know inside themselves. I couldn’t imagine that something of such monumental size was coming from such a tiny person and her instrument- no, her partner. Her friend. It had to be her friend to join her in all this.

The graceful creature grew and grew on when I thought it could grow more. Time had lost all meaning to me as it tapered and streamlined itself into something lighter- losing its weight and despair- but not its memory. That stayed. I could feel it within me, too- the warmth that was spreading through the song. It touched at my fingers and toes, the tip of my nose, and the center of my belly. I let out a breath as the weight- the vacuum, whatever it was- released, no longer afraid of it or drowning out the soaring melody that cozied into the corners of the resting place of me and so many others that had experienced what this other child was experiencing right now.

But I knew, as the music carried on through the night, a peaceful balance between love and light and sorrow, that she was going to be just fine. We were all going to be just fine.

This inspired me so i tried it came up with this so far

Things have been difficult lately. Even breathing seems to take a lot of effort. But grief often shuts people down. And everything seems to blur out. You must be wondering what broke me? Nothing just the same old heartbreak that broke souls in every time period.

That night I made my way Aden’s house. We had been dating for almost four years. He had asked me to marry him a week ago and I had to ask my parents if they accepted they’re daughter to get married at 21. To my surprise my parents had said yes and I was on my way to blow Aden’s mind with the amazing news. I rang his doorbell several times even though I knew where they key to the door was kept but manners were still important. After fifteen minutes of standing out the door my mind started exploding with thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking about. Aden’s car was still parked in the garage which meant that he was still home. I rushed to get the keys from under a plant pot and opened the door. Aden’s house was a mess but Aden was a clean freak. I made my way to Aden’s room and gently opened the door to see my whole world crashing in front of me.

Aden lay in bed with another women pressed to his side as they slept. No words, no tears just an apology. Just two words “ I’m sorry “ and I ran down the stairs, across the street and away from the person I had given my everything.

You see every person leaves a mark behind. But Aden , Aden left behind the deepest scars.

(please don’t judge, I’m only 12. And btw I’m a girl. I’m using my dad’s account)

It’s dark. My own shadows drown me. This is nothing new to me though, I’m not shocked or scared. Just lonely. Nothing to look forward to I’ll thing myself sitting and think, hoping. I don’t know how long this lasts, seconds, minutes, hours. I can’t sense the time passing, I don’t fully understand it. I don’t know how I got here or when I’ll leave. My life feels like it has no meaning. But yet, somehow I feel like I’m waiting for something, this longing for something to happen. But at this moment in time…I’m not really sure. I must have had more than this life, I must have lived in something different, color, happiness, friends, family….love…maybe, or is that me dreaming?

Have I lost my mind completely now. Maybe I’m not even here, In this darkness. Am I just mad? Why am I even asking…I’ll never get an answer. Sitting here hoping dreaming will do me no good! I must fight back. I’m not sure what I’m fighting for but if I do have a motive to fight then it must be worth it. Without thinking I lunge into the dark clouds. Fighting, not with any weapons but just by my longing for whatever is outside this lonely cage. The chains of my fear and uncertainty tug at my arms pulling me back but using all my force I shake them off and continue forward through the endless darkness…This place must end. There must be an ending for me, more than this dark realm. I jump forward, ready to scream as I hit the floor but I don’t have to. I didn’t fall…Am I..floating?

No, I don’t feel like I’m standing. I feel something on my hand but I can’t see what it is or even move to shake it off. Then I suddenly realize. The thought that I’ll no longer be lonely, this thing I feel, it’s a person. These thoughts, my feelings they allow me to take control. I slowly open my eyes. It all shoots my at once colour…light! I’m lying down on a bed, a hospital bed. My memories come soaring back. I look over to my right hand and see the lady holding it, in shock, but smiling brightly. It’s my mother! And in what seems like the longest time ever…I smile.

Clark stood at the window and watch as the first snow started to fall. He thought back to when he was a little boy and how he loved to go outside and play in the snow. The snowmen him and his sister would build, the snowball fights him and his friends would have. Then his smile changed to a sad face. He remember the last first snow fall that happen when he was a kid. That was the last time he was happy about seeing the snow. Clark’s father Ernest was at the local convenience store, when two mask men came in to rob the place. One of the robbers told Ernest to give him his wallet. He did but a long noise from the back of the store in scared the robber that he jumped and the gun he had pointed at Clark’s father went off and shot him in the chest.

Clark was home in the bed, but he jumped up out of his sleep, he felt that something was wrong. He got out the bed and went looking for his mother. When he got to the end of the hall he saw his mother at the door talking to some police. She turned when she heard the floor Creek. ” Clark honey, what are you doing up”? His mother asked with blood soaking red eyes . ” mother is everything alright? ” with every step he took closer to his mother he knew that what ever reason the police was at his house it wasn’t good. Every since that Dreadful night Clark, the night his dad was killed, he has hated the snow. It always seems to remind him of that night. It’s like all the good times he had in the snow was replace by the death of his dad, his hero, the man he wanted to grow up and be. They never did find the guys that robbed that convenience store.

Conceited Conflict

Simon did not die…

The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee had been enough to persuade him to walk straight into the little beach-side shack without as much as a second thought. He had made a mental note to thank Danny–his colleague and friend–for suggesting the place for a quick getaway.

People close to Simon knew that he savored these small pleasures of life: a peaceful evening relaxing at the beach, the blushing horizon as the sun set for the day, the scents of the tropical sea, the areca nut trees swaying to the music of the breeze, the waves at the shallow end lightly caressing his feet, the warm texture of the sand slipping away beneath his toes, children running around flying colorful kites… cocoa-rich dark chocolates, and fresh coffee.

And why not? After all, he thought, what was life without these? Nothing but a stressful grind, it was. To fight the distressing official battles day in and day out. To struggle to defeat the unethical schemes of the back-stabbing lot who lurked among colleagues and friends. To come back home to the nagging demands of a materialistic spouse. All that did nothing good for the soul.

It was late evening when Simon had walked toward the shack. When he got closer, he had noticed two men standing engulfed by the dark shadows behind the shack. Although he could not discern their features, and they were speaking only in whispers, their body language had betrayed the fact that they had been exchanging an agitated conversation.

As Simon was about to enter the shack, one of the men thrust a wad of money into the other’s hand. The other man briefly regarded the bundle before stuffing it into his trouser pocket.

A drug deal, likely–Simon had thought–or some other such shady business. How could these people come to such spectacular and peaceful places and engage in such disreputable and squalid acts? What a disgusting lot!

He had shaken his head to clear his thoughts, and inhaled deeply as he entered the shack. Freshly brewed coffee! He had smiled as he sat at a small, round, plastic table in a corner. All other concerns would have to wait for half an hour, at least.

Outside, unknown to Simon, the deal had been concluded. The men had followed up by exchanging a small vial of some sort. Then one of them had raised the hood of his jacket over his head and walked away swiftly without turning back, with his hands in his pockets. The other man had vanished into the darker shadows behind the shack.

The next afternoon…

Although–when it concerned professional life–Danny lacked severely in the department of moral and ethical values, he was regarded in their circles as a gem when it concerned friendship. He had rushed to the hospital at once when Simon’s wife had called. Dysentery–she had told him, repeating the doctor’s diagnosis–perhaps acute food poisoning. Very severe symptoms. Quite unbearable. Must have been something he ate yesterday.

Danny had stayed on at the hospital with Simon’s wife to lend her moral and emotional support. He wanted to make sure–he had said–that she got all the help she needed; he wanted to make sure that Simon recovered all right.

The third evening…

Simon rested motionless on a bed at St Sebastian Hospital. Motionless. Still. He wasn’t even breathing. He was finally free of all suffering.

Epilogue 1…

Normally, convincing a chemist and obtaining the required substance might have been the biggest challenge. On this occasion, however, a well-maintained friendship with a pharmaceutical assistant had proved quite rewarding.

The rest was simple to plan and execute. Simple did not mean without risk, but in this case the desired reward would be sufficient compensation for the risk.

The dosage would be just right. The doctor would have only the patient’s symptoms to go on, which would be easily mistaken for those of common diseases such as food poisoning or dysentery.

It would all be over even before anyone suspected foul play. Even if other signs did manifest afterwards, there was no incriminating evidence.

Epilogue 2…

Simon had felt the first signs of fatigue when he was almost half way back home from his getaway spot. He had believed that the nausea was caused by travel-sickness. Later that night his condition had become worse, and next morning he had tried home remedies for diarrhea. By afternoon, he had started discharging blood, and had to be hospitalized immediately.

Danny had stood by his bed in the hospital, looking in his weak eyes, holding his hand reassuringly. Behind those heavy eyelids, in those weak eyes about to close, Danny had seen a faint spark of realization. The reality of the deal he had witnessed behind the coffee shack had dawned on Simon. I wish you understood, my friend–Danny had thought–that it was nothing personal, that everything is fair in professional rivalry. In any case, it was too late now. There was no turning back.

Don’t strain yourself trying to talk–Danny had said–Just close your eyes, let go and relax.

— End —

(I’m only 12 so don’t judge me, I tried :D)

I’m alone. I’m surrounded by darkness. I’m lonely, I have no-one except silence to keep me company. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here…Minutes, hours….days? They mean nothing to me, I don’t know how time passes and why it matters. I’m too close to giving up. Surely my life must mean something. I can’t have been made to just be nothing, to exist only feeling, loneliness and fear. The fear of being forgotten, by this world, by myself. If I’m not already.

There must be meaning for me, something bugger, better. It’s all I want, all I ever dream about. A life with meaning, color, happiness…family. But that’s just a dream. That can’t be real, I have no memories out of this place why would I be suddenly be gifted such happiness. Is this it? I am going mad? Have I been here so long just lost my mind? No. That can’t be. I can’t give up, I must try….try escape this realm of darkness. I stand up, shaking slightly. No, I must be strong! I run forward, not sure where I’m going. Not sure if this place even ends.

I start hearing voices, they’re speaking to me… “stay…strong…everything’s going to be ok” I hear the voice saying. It was comforting, gentle and kind sounded. It sounds familiar….I run faster, using all of strength. I race through the darkness, wind smacking my face until I come to what looks like the edge. It was a drop, so deep I couldn’t see the bottom. Without thinking, using all my desire, the want to be somewhere with meaning and happiness I lunge forward and jump.

I…I didn’t fall. I’m alive, I think. I don’t feel like I’m standing. Wait, am I floating? No, don’t be silly. I’m…lying. I feel something touch my hand but I don’t have strength to even shake it off. I can’t see anything…Then suddenly reality hits me. I slowly open my eyes…It all hits me at once: Color, sound, people. I look over to my right hand to see who was holding it. She was crying but smiling at the same time. It was mother. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I smiled.

“I’m borrowing one of your geese.”

Asta jumped in her seat by the fireplace, woken from her accidental nap. She whirled in her seet to see Jeppa, the slightly unhinged neighbour, filling the doorframe. He looked like any regular farmer, brown coveralls and pipe dangling from the side of his mouth, but sported a permanent wide-eyed stare that made the children (and everyone else) wary of him. Asta had half a mind to go back to sleep and let Jeppa be Jeppa, but curiousity got the best of her.

“Pardon?” She asked, slowly getting up, her arthritis crackling in her knees. “You’re borrowing what?”

“I’m borrowing one of your geese,” He repeated, unblinking. Then he turned on the spot, as if the conversation was over and done with.

“But why?” Asta exclaimed, hopping after him on stiff legs into the front yard. Three of her large, snowy geese were drowsily waddling through the hole in her white fence as Jeppa marched over and seized one of them by the neck. The other two hurried into a nearby hedgerow, abandoning their brother to fate. Jeppa stood there for a moment and admired the view over Asta’s fields, completely obvious to the furious flapping and hissing of the goose.

“What are you doing? Let go of him!” Asta cried, but Jeppa remained blissfully ignorant to the chaos he created.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Jeppa sighed happily, still unblinking. Then, remembering why he was strangling a goose, he heaved it up under one arm and took off towards his own rickety cottage a few hundred yards down the gravel road.

“Wait!” Asta cried, limping after him. When she finally caught up to him he was crawling up a worn ladder propped against his roof, hissing goose tucked into his armpit as if it was nothing more than the daily newspaper.

Finding her best old-angry-crone voice, she howled; “Jeppa! Get down this instant! What on earth are you doing with Herman?”

This seemed to reach the decision centre in Jeppa’s head, and he stopped on the topmost rung. He stared at the wobbly chimney for a moment, as if pondering its existence, before replying. “I can’t afford a chimney sweep,” he commented simply. Then, with both hands, he heaved the goose up in one fluent motion and dumped it into the chimney. The hissing and flapping increased in volume, projected into the open air by the narrow chimney, until it became unbearable to listen to. Then it stopped. The goose must have fallen into his fireplace.

Asta’s mouth fell open. She sat down on her bum like a baffled toddler.

“Are you alright there? You look like you saw a ghost!” Jeppa chuckled obliviously as he descended from the roof and moved to let the goose out of his kitchen. The moment the door opened, a great, fluffy black thing scuttled out and down the road, hisses and quacks flying about it like the soot covering it.

“That,” Asta said, her voice quivering, “was my prized competition goose, Herman.”

Jeppa finally seemed to realise the extent of his actions. Wringing his hands he inched towards the door, hoping to use it for protection when she exploded, which she was bound to do.

“Isn’t… isn’t there a competition for black geese, perhaps?” Jeppa asked, hopefully unblinking.

Most short story ideas I have are too big write in just one sitting. The first one I wrote took months. It’s why I can’t write flash fiction.

I’m trying to write Flash Fiction. I love the challenge. It’s amazing how you can cut out redundant word from each editing. Try it, Sebastian. It’s good practice.

Okay, here goes: Persephone, Persephone Akeldama. She was a beautiful girl, slender waist, flowing blonde locks, petite figure. This quiet girl was often referred to by her fellow students as the “perfect doll”, due to her stunning looks and the love she received from the teachers. In a the darker half of this world, her nickname was not much different. The flawless puppet, she was called. Flawless because of her swift assassinations, and puppet because of her emotionless features. No one in school knew her profession, and no one in the dark world knew her real age, or even what she looked like. She was a complete mystery to both sides, only this was known about her: She is a prodigy. Of course, “Prodigy” meaning different things in either sides of the world. There was a large gap between prodigy killer and prodigy student. Not many assassins are born into their jobs, Persephone being an exception. At three, she was already trained to fight, and at the early age of twelve, she was already a well known assassin. due to her quick learning, her parents payed even more attention to her, punishing her whenever her actions did not fit into the range of perfection, training her more than any twelve year old should ever have to endure. And of course, making her kill. One by one, Persephone’s emotions died, every person she killed, every order she received. She carried them out with swift and deadly accuracy, losing all her innocence. Her purity was lost long ago.

So she found nothing wrong with killing her parents.

Persephone never loved anyone, because she was a killing machine, exactly how her parents had designed her. Her mothers last words: I’m so proud. Her fathers? :I’ve trained you well. A now orphaned Persephone felt no remorse, no guilt, no grief. Only a small pang of loneliness.

And that was the last emotion she would ever feel.

Ummmm, I got the juices flowing, just need my writing to flow……in the right direction.

So I combined all 10 of the “general ideas” into one premise. I think this is more the premise of a collection now… Oh well. Here’s the premise (or the rough draft)

As a child, Kell, a painting prodigy, discovers her parents’ dead bodies, leaving her emotionally scarred. Later in life, she clings to her boyfriends for moral support, which leads to many failed relationships. Her Fiance and colleague breaks up with her because he needs to spend more time on his work, even though it crushes both of them. Kell doesn’t look when she’s walking down the street, sobbing, and she bumps into her rich soulmate, Neil. They have a whirlwind romance, which ends up with their marriage. On their honeymoon, though, Kell’s mother’s ghost confronts her and warns her to delay the journey. Kell and Neil go anyways. A hurricane strikes, and the couple is stranded with a phycopath who just so happen to be Kell’s parents’ murderer. The couple doesn’t make it out alive.

I know that’s pretty dark, especially for a 17-year-old. It’s also not that great. But hey, I hope it gave you an idea or two! Happy writing!

You should really think about turning this into a novel! You’ve got quite the imagination.

The last laugh Kate Bester

“What? Oh heavens no! When?” Faye dragged the pink sweatband back from her forehead and shook her shoulder length blonde hair off her neck. She had just returned from the gym when the house phone rang.

“…sometime last night, peacefully. She had to go sometime, Faye.” Debbie’s longsuffering voice was irritating.

Faye sighed and shifted the weight from one shapely leg to the other. She crossed one ankle over the other and stared at her Reebok trainers. She bit her tongue before she could blurt out what came into her mind – why now? She had a very special and important occasion coming up and serious shopping to do!

“Mom was nearly eighty, you know Faye, but death is always unexpected, I know,” Debbie went on. Was she imagining it or was there a touch of accusation in Debbie’s voice? Deborah, her older sister, had never married. Instead, she stayed with Mom after Dad passed on ten years ago and took charge of the rambling old house in George. Come to think of it, when Debbie gave up nursing, moving in with Mom was the natural thing to do.

Faye had to muster all the self-control that she could to sound genuine and concerned. It was Mother after all…

“When is the funeral, then? Do you want me to come and help you with the arrangements?” she kept her voice low and even in case Debbie thought she was serious about the offer to help.

“No thanks, Faye, everything is fine. Mom had everything in place as usual. It will be a cremation of course…”

Debbie’s voice trailed off and Faye could just about suppress the groan that escaped from her chest before she said goodbye to her sister. She sank down in the closest, huge, overstuffed chair after she had put down the receiver. Of course. That is Mother. Well, was she corrected herself. Nothing ordinary or conventional. A cremation no less, so that all her old hippie friends could attend in their colourful rags and long hair and chant and blow their flutes and shake their tambourines. Faye had to admit to herself that a cremation at least would be better than embalmment. Her mother was quite capable of having them roll her in the scales of the boophone bulb like the Khoisan did with their dead.

Faye groaned again. She must be in shock otherwise why wasn’t she crying. Crying? No, she’d done enough crying after the second divorce in eight years. The last one was particularly messy but this time she stuck to her guns and got the house and a stiff alimony. Not that it’s about the money, which is never enough anyway, but one has to keep up appearances. She had spent a fortune on refurbishing the gazebo next to the pool. Oh gosh yes, and she must still pay for the embroidered voile curtains around the patio. And for the plant containers and cane furniture from Bali…

Faye sighed as she levered her challenged limbs from the chair. She will have a warm shower and then make her calls. Damn! Now she will have to drive all the way to George. She smiled. Yes, she will have to. Because of Mother’s pendant. She had to have it. Must be worth a small fortune by now…

That pendant was given to her mother by a very grateful Indian businessman. Mother had met him on a plane to Mumbai all those years ago when she travelled to India to see for herself what mysteries lay behind the lotus curtain. She ended up in his luxurious home and taught the whole family to speak English while she enjoyed every facet of that exquisite culture. If memory doesn’t fail her, the pendant has a top quality eleven carat flawless ruby, enhanced by… a shiver of delight passed through Faye’s body despite the warm gush of water.

At the garage to fill up and prepare the vehicle for the trip, she remembered how bored she was on weekends as a child. They travelled endless dusty roads, slept in tents, either sweating or freezing. Her botanist parents would be off in the veld , ooohing or aaahing, clicking their tongues and cameras. Deborah would be whooping somewhere in a shallow river. In her tent, her feet against the anchor pole, Faye swore she would never live this way. She would have money and everything it could buy. These bunny-hugging weirdo’s – her family – may enjoy the outdoors but she despised the smell of citronella candles, morning coffee and tinned food. Not to mention the squatting behind a bush when nature called. Ugh!

At nine o’clock the next morning, Faye was over the Overberg Pass and heading for Caledon. She would stop for tea at the Blue Crane and buy some of her mother’s favourite dried herbs. Yes, some buchu and lavender and rosemary. She’ll keep them on her lap during the cremation service and speeches to soothe her mind. Afterwards she will let them join her mother’s body to nirvana…

It was exactly twenty past one when she saw the huge pine trees and the red brick house behind it. The garden was a botanist’s dream. Like her mother exactly – colourful, mysterious, exciting and completely unusual. Faye’s eyes followed the garden path up to the porch. Handfuls of laurel tied with raffia or beads or leather thongs garnished the pathway from the gate to the porch and around the open door’s frame where fairy lights twinkled.

She opened the car door and slid off the seat. The manicured feet in the Blahnik sandals stepped together neatly on the tarmac as she automatically pressed the remote lock. Gingerly she approached the garden path and as daintily as possible made her way to the house.

Then it hit her. This wasn’t a welcome for her. The laurel symbolized Apollo’s way to remember his Daphne! Daphne didn’t want to marry Apollo and begged her father, Perenaeus, to hide her. He promptly turned her into a laurel tree. From then on Apollo worshipped the tree, hugged it, spoke to it and let all heroes and kings wear a laurel wreath on the head as adornment. This was for Mother.

Suddenly, there was her sister. Oh heavens, clad in a flowing caftan, pearls, beads, feathers and leather thong sandals, she could’ve been Mother!

Quickly Faye went over and folded her sister in her arms. While her sister was yoga-breathing against her shoulder, she took in the room behind. She smiled to herself . Ostrich feather boas were draped over the window frames, door frames and thrown over the backs of chairs. Huge black and white photographs of ostriches in all poses adorned the walls. Ostrich eggs and paraphernalia were displayed everywhere. This was a shrine to the ostrich as Nieuw-Bethesda was to the owl…

She let go of Debbie and cleared her throat. She took a deep breath, “Debs, what are we going to do with all this stuff ?” she hoped her chicanery would go undetected. Back in her mind there was an image of Mother’s ostrich leather handbags, shoes and purses she had collected before it became export posh. Her heart went on a gallop from excitement and anticipation.

At last they were alone. They cleared away the last few cups and plates. In the kitchen, Faye poured two large tumblers of Merlot for her and her sister.

“Sis, if you’re up to it, we can go through Mom’s things and decide what to do about some of it.”

“Of course, my dear.” Faye gulped.

Then the pendant was in the palm of her hand. This was a testing moment. She wanted to hang it around her neck immediately but thought it would seem callous. She let the heavy gold chain slide sensuously through her fingers while the ruby’s red eye winked at her.

“You have it, Faye, it’s too ostentatious for me. Mom also never wore it for that reason.”

“And these, Sis.” Debbie was on all fours in front of a deep drawer. She was pulling out ostrich leather gloves in every colour, handbags, clutch bags, more boas. They lay on the Kelim carpet like offerings to a queen. Faye stared and stared. “Oh yes!” her mind sang.

After breakfast the next day, Faye took her leave of Debbie who promised to visit as soon as everything was tied up and settled. When she was passing Mossel Bay, she started to relax and fingered the pendant at her throat. A warm glow filled her and she stretched to see it again in the rear mirror. It was an exquisite piece! She still felt surprised at how nonchalant Debbie was.

She decided to stop for refreshments outside Swellendam. She enjoyed stretching her legs in the shade of the old trees and watching the goats, chickens and ostriches they kept there for entertainment. She parked in the shade of a huge oak tree and went to the restaurant. She carried her fruit juice over to the enclosure on the lawn. A billy goat came towards her. Behind him a young ostrich craned its neck. A sheep, two lambs and a kid trotted up. Faye leaned forward.

She shrieked, jumped back and feverishly fumbling at her throat, she saw it

Ostriches also like jewellery.

I have not written a very long piece. It a quite short story. So…here it is…

Sydney woke up with a start, as beads of sweat adorned her furrowed brows. Next to her was her twin sister, Tanya, sleeping peaceful as Sydney had been a couple of moments before. She looked around as if searching for something or someone. Sydney almost dismissed the episode and went back to sleep when she heard it again, this time, even evident. The sound that had woken her up from her slumber. The sound that made her shiver and was even vexing than the sound of nails on chalkboard.

And then, it stopped. She looked around her for the source of what she heard. She decided to get some fresh air and walked out of the room she shared with her twin.

As she walked to the porch, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong but she knew something was. She leaned in to get a closer look at her reflection when something hit her head and she fainted. When she regained her consciousness, she looked around her. She was in the porch and it was dawn. She went back into her house when she glanced at the mirror again. She could see her mother, her sister and her father. They all looked around as if searching for someone. What she couldn’t understand was why she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror. Then, realization struck her like a ton of bricks. She was in the other side. Of the mirror.

Then the ending credits rolled in. Though it was just a trailer, it was well shot. Everyone couldn’t wait to see the full movie. We congratulated our friend, Mills, who had shot the film and went to hang out at her place.

Wonderful ideas. Thanks for inspiration.

*I’ve been wanting to write for a long time but never really got the push until right now. Sorry if it’s bad, it’s my first short and I’m 14* “One, two, three. Perfect, now I can go…” I quietly say to myself. I have something called Pure-O. Some people think that it’s worse than “normal OCD”. The others think that it’s completely unreal and it’s made up. What people don’t know about me is that I have Pure-O and it’s completely real and my life revolves around it. I make sure that people don’t find out about it because I am considered “ popular and high-status” where I live. “ Happy, good thoughts. Nothing bad.” I think to myself. “They won’t find out….hopefully. I am Claire Williams who has the best makeup and the straightest hair. Not the Crazy Williams girl that broke down in front of everyone because her presentation wasn’t how she planned it.” I think. Then the flashbacks swoop in and fill my brain. “Hi my name is Claire Williams and I am doing my presentation on the Economic Downfall of 2008…” I pause and look around. I see people snicker and talking. The teacher is just looking at me and gesturing for me to continue. I get scared and forget everything that I worked so hard to memorize. “Umm. I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t finish.” I tell my Economics teacher. When I try to move and collect everything, I can’t move. “No no no no no this can’t be happening. I can’t be having a panic attack at school.” I think to myself. I feel tears well up into my eyes. They slowly fall down my face and I taste the warm salty fluid. I suddenly tense up and can’t breath. Because no one knows about my condition, no one can help me. “Look! Williams is going crazy! Crazy Williams.” I hear people snicker from the back and the attack gets worse. I hear something new in my flashback…. It sounds almost as a ringing. I realize the bell is ringing for the students to get to class. I come back to reality and hope for the best on my first day of Senior year. I mean after all, it’s just school. Nothing bad could happen right?

PEN-082a 694w Anne Frank, Bella and Me by Helen Kudatsky

At nine, I bought my mom, Bella, a birthday gift on June 12th, a magenta lipstick for 19c. I was so proud. First present I ever purchased. She made me return it; It was too extravagant, and besides, she said, “every day is my birthday.” I cried. I knew her secret though. although a proper Jewish woman, sometimes she longed to be a gypsy.

Now, 60 years later, I’m reading “The Diary of a Young Girl” by Anne Frank, here in the home where I live. Though nursed, I’m often blue that I can’t dance or paint anymore. But I love to read and write, and my friend, Julie, the librarian, kindly brought me Anne’s book, which I am now devouring.

Anne was an eloquent writer, describing her schoolmates and boyfriends. She began the diary at 13, disclosing her first period, having a special secret and becoming a woman. I too began to menstruate at 13, pondering the mystery. It’s horrid to imagine eight people in 1944, crammed into the Secret Annexe, handling eating, sleeping, hygiene and trying to stay alive, while whispering and tiptoeing to avoid discovery by the Gestapo.

To maintain normalcy, the adults set up a plan. The children continued their studies: Dutch, French, English, history, geography and art. Although Anne liked most subjects, she found algebra notably loathsome. I’m in that club too.

Her people have become my friends and family: Anne Frank herself, Edith, her Mummy, Otto, her beloved father, Margot, her sister, and the others hiding with them: the VanDaans, their son, Peter who was first, her friend, then later, her crush and confidant, Dr. Albert Dussel, the dentist and Moortjie, the cat. Four of Otto’s devoted employees provided food, supplies and world news, which kept them alive and boosted their morale.

After the war, Miep, a helper, found Anne’s diary in the demolished remains and rubble of the annexe. She gave it to Otto, the sole survivor of the group. He was stunned by Anne’s maturity and the breadth of her feelings. The Diary has been published in 67 languages, portrayed on stage and screen, and is considered one of the most moving accounts of the Holocaust.

For those of us beholding atrocity, Anne Frank is a beacon: humorous, inquisitive, forgiving, cheerful. Sometimes moody, though, she was nicknamed “the incurable chatterbox.” as she’d quarrel with others in the Secret Annexe they occupied for their 25 months in hiding.

My mom, Bella, shared a birthday with Anne Frank, June 12th, but didn’t know of it until years after Anne’s death. Bella lived to be 95. She loved reading as much as Anne did, and she wrote poetry and stories, but didn‘t start until middle-age. Anne, 15, died in March 1945, just two weeks before the war’s end, when she would have been liberated. In two years of hiding, Anne was devoted to writing in the diary, at times prosaic, sometimes distraught, frequently terrifying, but often funny, spiritual and uplifting.

If the war had only ended sooner, I imagine the writing that Anne could have produced and I envision Bella meeting her. Bella, born in 1913, Anne in 1929, 16 years her junior, they could have been aunt and niece; I see them sharing a Shabbat dinner, singing a Hanukah song; I picture them speaking one of their languages. They believed in the same things. Finally, I dream of them proudly sharing their writings, a mystery, a story of love and longing, a poem, and of course, on June 12th, their mutual birthday.

I dream of them walking hand in hand, pale wrinkled fingers holding a smooth teenaged palm. They come to a table set before them, on it matzoh brei with applesauce, a plate of potato latkes with sour cream. There are apples and honey, wine and rugalech. Bella and Anne eat heartily and shout for joy, no longer whispering or tiptoeing, no longer afraid to be Jewish women writers, no longer afraid at all.

PEN-082a-Anne Frank, Bella and Me.wps by Helen Kudatsky w:09/03/17 ei 09/19/17 694 wds 08 mn 99 Park St.#104 Brookline,MA 02446 C-617-939-3387 e-m: [email protected]

My story plot is of the fantasy/adventure type.

In the fictional town of Surron, Colorado (which is surrounded by high mountainsides from every angle, a tragedy occurs on September 5, 1963. Six-year old Robert “Bert” Aruson witnesses his drunken, abusive father murder his mother with a broken beer bottle. Advancing on him, the father sleeps on another discarded bottle and trips, impaling himself on the bottle with which he killed his wife. Robert runs off into the forest to escape his father to look of help, unaware of his father’s death. With his parents living far back into the woods, he ends becoming lost and spending the night in the forest. A mother bear, Dewa, with two cubs of her own, the boy Gemape and girl Biha, discover the young boy and adopt him into their family, christening him with the new name Nuun. Ten years later in 1973, Nuun has led a happy existence with his loving and supportive new family, having even made new friends like the crow Hai and the mouse Naeene. He even prevented unnecessary violence between his family and a wolf pack led by Dande and Gupa. Any hunters that come into the forest have their weapons stolen and permanently disposed of in the night by Nuun. By this time, Nuun and his actions have become something of an urban legend in Surron. Back in that town, the mayor Aaron Burdon (who resides upon a hill overlooking the town) runs the town, though he views it with contempt due to one incident. His younger brother, Reagan, was beaten by thugs hoping to steal money off of his rich person, leaving him with brain damage. Despite this, the townspeople started treating him and his brother differently afterwards, cruelly even. This has caused his hatred to ferment over the years until he comes up with a plan to destroy the town’s population with explosives at the upcoming July 4 picnic. His wealth and power make the workers unable to resist him, as they will become jobless should he imprisoned. “Nuun” comes across one of Burdon’s worksites and almost steals workers lunchbox, but is chased away. News soon spreads through the town and Nuun finds his happy life in danger of being shattered once again unless he can have assistance from friends both human and animal.

Nikita This is the story of me, Nikita, an orphaned girl, who didn’t know anything about her family. I was kept in the orphanage with a bunch of other girls. Ms.Keeper, the owner of the orphanage doesn’t tell anyone anything about themselves or their family. I didn’t know anything about myself, but everyone knew that in Ms.Keepers room there was a filing cabinet with documents of the real stories of our lives. Nobody ever dared to go in there though. Ms.Keeper looked like she was somewhere in the 30’s, she had grey hair, bags under her brown eyes, a slim body and a huge pimple on her long nose. She was not married. I have brown hair, brown eyes, freckles and a healthy, slim body.

I always thought of running away. I felt like I was in that orphanage forever. I remember growing up in there since I was a child and now that I’m 17 years old, I’m still here, hoping to find my family. But that, I thought was too unrealistic. I was sitting in an orphanage, hoping to find my family. No, I wanted to DO something to find my family. The only thing that held me back was Ms.Keeper and the thought that I really had no family. Ms.Keeper was always afraid of one of the girls running away, that’s why she made some workers put a stronger fence around the orphanage property. Ms.Keeper was also afraid of talking to the government. I thought so because the government will shut down her orphanage. One time, I overheard Ms.Keeper talking on the phone to the government and they said that it was illegal to not show the orphans their identity and who they are, but Ms.Keeper ignored them and kept talking about something else. Also, at 18 years old, you are free to leave the orphanage and become independent. I just turned 17. No one else was my age except another girl, aged 14 and all the rest were smaller than her. There was once a girl named Gabby who was the only person who was older than me. Just last year, she turned 18 and was supposed to go. On her birthday, Ms.Keeper made an announcement at the last moment that Gabby was leaving right now and is right by the door. Every girl ran out to give her hugs and goodbyes. Ms.Keeper didn’t even move. She didn’t even say bye. It was so cruel of her. We didn’t have a birthday cake with Gabby because Ms.Keeper threw her out the door on her birthday!

Everyday, Ms.Keeper lets us go outside for one hour, three times a day. We ate mostly sandwiches and drank water and sometimes juice. We also had some snacks, which were mostly fruits. We did school during the day too but this wasn’t real school. Ms.Keeper taught us everything. Ms.Keeper also bought us a TV, which was in the dining room. We mostly had everything we needed, except a family.

One day, when Ms.Keeper let us go outside, I was lying on the grass by myself at the farthest point from the orphanage. Then all of a sudden I heard someone coming. I looked up but saw no one. When I turned around, I saw a boy, looked like he was 15. He had brown hair, blue eyes and was tall. He said “hi” to me and I said “hi” back. We talked to each other for awhile until Ms.Keeper called us in. I really hoped that Ms.Keeper didn’t see me talk to that boy because she would punish me.

For the next three days, I talked to that boy over the fence every recess. He told me about his life and it really surprised me. He said he had a house as big as the whole orphanage (the orphanage is as big as a hotel). He said he had his mom and dad living with him, that he has money, any kind of drink, and lots of junk food. He played video games everyday and watched TV and also he quit school. His mom and dad don’t care about what he does as long as he’s home by midnight! When he told me this, I started thinking, is every life out there like his? What is everyone’s else’s life like? I couldn’t sleep that night or any other night after that day.

Soon, we became friends and he asked if the orphanage was boring. I didn’t even know what to say because it was alright living in the orphanage but compared to his life, it was nothing. I didn’t say anything and he asked if I wanted to run away to his house. I, of course, was surprised and didn’t say anything for awhile but then I said I would think about it. Ms.Keeper called us inside, and I don’t know why but she never caught me talking to him. Ms.Keeper usually stands by the door of the orphanage, looking into the field of how we are playing. I was farthest away from her so maybe she doesn’t see so well.

After those days, I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking of running away. But how was I supposed to run away? If I got caught, I would be punished and I would have to be a slave to everyone, washing dishes, sweeping, and cleaning. Besides, I couldn’t run away because we all slept in rooms with four people to each room. Our room was the farthest away from the exit. I would have to tip-toe (at night?!?) through the whole orphanage just to get to the exit. No, I couldn’t do it. I was too scared. But that boy kept assuring me that everything will be okay.

I talked it over with the boy and I decided to run away with him at night, at 11pm because he had to be home by 12pm. By 8pm, all the girls in the orphanage would be sleeping, but Ms.Keeper stays up till 10pm, listening to classical music in her favourite rocking chair. As not to wake Ms.Keeper, the boy suggested that he would come to my window at night and I would climb over. Our room was on the lowest level – level one- so it was the closest to the ground. It was supposed to happen in two days from then. I was very nervous and scared, and I kept looking at Ms.Keeper if she had any suspicions, but it didn’t look like it.

It was the day of the run. I packed all my stuff, which wasn’t really much. I put all my clothes in my pockets (it fit perfectly). I was wide awake that night, listening till Ms.Keeper turned off her classical music and went to bed. It was perfectly silent. You could hear every single breath of the girls. My tummy had a trillion butterflies in it and I couldn’t stop my heavy breathing. At 11pm, there was a quiet knock at my window and I knocked back. That was our signal for letting each other know we were ready. I then looked at everyone in the room. They were sound asleep. I opened the window and it’s super squeaky. I waited a moment to see if anyone woke up, but no one moved. I climbed over the window to the boy. I closed the window with a loud squeak and started running with the boy to wherever my feet let me go. It was a dark night and only the half-lit moon was our source of light. The boy led me through streets and streets of houses until we came to a huge house. It was so pretty. It looked like the orphanage but it had no spiderwebs. It was clean and super nice. It looked like they were rich to have all those diamond stuff on the door.

They boy opened the door and the light hurt my eyes. It was so bright in there, so big. The stairs were curved, like I only saw in fairy tales, and there was his mom standing in the doorway. She first smiled, but when she saw me, she made a confused face and came closer. I was so scared. What would his mom do? Did he tell his mom about me? My brain threw me a thousand questions to answer of which I didn’t know the answers for. The lady came closer and asked the boy slowly who I was. He told his mom that I was a friend from the orphanage. His mom got angry, her face started to turn red and she started to talk louder. She started saying that I’m filthy and that she doesn’t want to see me ever again and to get out off this house. I looked at the boy. He started to cry. I tear went down his cheek. He begged his mom to let her stay for the night but his mom didn’t budge. The boy’s mom shut the door on me and I was outside in the cold.

All of this was for nothing. This meet we had. All the recesses we talked, all the nights I didn’t sleep, and I couldn’t go back to the orphanage now. I was alone. I didn’t even know where to go. I got off the boys lawn and I sat down on the sidewalk, crying and I realized I didn’t even know what the boy’s name was! Suddenly, I heard a door open. I looked back to see if it was the boy’s mom. No, it wasn’t. I looked around and saw that the boy’s neighbor has opened the door and was calling me. The person at the door was a grandma. She told me to come in. I stood up and came inside. She told me that she heard the neighbors talking loudly so she went to see what the commotion was about. She asked me if I wanted to eat but I refused. She sent me to bed, not knowing anything about me. She was so kind to me. She sent me upstairs where I had my own room. I fell asleep very fast, and I slept till lunch the next day. I forgot all about the orphanage and went downstairs to meet my hero. She was making breakfast for me. We sat down at the table and she told me her name ( Grandma Laura ) and I told her all about my life. Every single thing. When I came to the part about the orphanage, her eyes widened.

Grandma Laura told me that many many years ago, she was the owner of the orphanage! The government fired her because they thought she wasn’t suitable for the job. When she went away, she made photocopies of the documents of the girls and kept them because the girls were so precious to her that she couldn’t just leave them. Grandma Laura stood up and went upstairs to go get them. When she came back down, she had a whole ton of documents! She found one by the name of Nikita.

That morning changed my life. She let me read my own document. It figures out that my real mom died while having me. My dad was still alive. My dad’s name was Walter Eggons. The grandma’s eyes widened when I told her the name of my dad. She told me that that was her husband! So Grandma Laura was my mom? She didn’t die? But Grandma told me the whole story. My dad, Walter, first married a lady named Agnes, and they had a baby named Nikita ( that was me) and during childbirth, Agnes died, but I lived. Later, my dad could no longer care after me so he dropped me off at the orphanage when I was 1 year’s old. For my dad, that was a hard decision. He had to work but he couldn’t leave me at home and there was no one to look after me. After my dad’s wife died, he married Laura. Laura was sitting in front of me, tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. She then told me the saddest news- my dad died of cancer a couple months ago. I started choking back sobs, and then tears. Grandma Laura was the only family I had. She was my stepmother.

It has been seven years since that happened and right now I am sitting with tears in my eyes, telling you this. I live with my stepmom and my husband, Jeffrey. Turns out that after that day, I lived with my stepmom for a couple months but then the boy’s mom found out that I was still in this neighborhood. The boy was so happy to hear that, and he told me his name- Jeffrey Jones. We soon joined our friendship together and a couple months later, we were married. Also,he wasn’t 15 years old, like I thought, he was 17.

-Written by Nikita Eggons-Jones

I hope you like this so far tell me what to improve on.

Gunnvor is the daugter of a powerful samurai but that is only thing that they have in common. Her father is a ruthless man who fights for war, on the other hand Gunnvor fights for humanity, no one can see her true colors because they want to believe she wants bloodshed as well like her father. She hates their thoughts, imprisoned in her fathers hand, the only way to escape, is for some one, like her, to save her in the outside.

As she swoon her sword with grace she sliced the broom like heads off. Her father and mother were observing her progress as a warrior, when she was do she went to her parents and bowed. She left leaving them behind a cold chill settled on them, the mother knew why the father ignored. Gunnvor loved to walk in the town down below her house, all the people were Good-hearted and kind in every way. She sometimes is jealous of the children for having such free lives. But she does not listen to her selfish conscience, she walked across the flower bridge as a gentle men suddenly bumped into her. “Oh sorry about that I didn’t see you,” Gunnvor quickly got up embarrassed for fall. She looked up and saw man that was strong but kind, she then noticed that he didn’t recognized him, he look like he was from another country. She then suddenly pulled her sword pointed it near his neck. the man was taken aback, he looked shocked and then said ” Yes did I say some thing offensive.”

“your not from here are you,” She moved a little closer, her sword started to dig into skin. “Yea I’m just traveling, I came from the neighboring kingdom, I thought they were in good terms…..right?” He backed away a little from the sword cutting his neck. Gunnvor then lowered her sword slowly, The man rubbed his neck just to find that it is bleeding “by the way what is your name,” she sheathed her sword in it’s case. “My name is gunnvor,” He quickly whipped his head to her “What the, Gunnvor, the daugter of the samurai.”

“Yes.” she turned and started to walk away and stop slightly turned her head ” And you,”

“Uh my name is Cota.” he said then Gunnvor walked away, when she arrived at home she swept past her father to her bed room. That night she could not stop thinking of Cota, she thought how strange he was dressed and the way he looked. The next how ever her father again trained gunnvor, the train this time was diffrent, he was pushing her to far.

Many days have past and Gunnvor noticed that Cota was spotted many times near her house. Then when she training with her father which was basically torture, Cota came up to her father ” You will stop hurting her,” He said slowly and manically. However he was not moved “My wife has convinced you to protect her,”

“No I came In my own accord.” The father then spun and grabbed his sword and pointed to cota. “Well then can fight me,”

“We”l see,” cota grabbed his sword and the two fought, they fought for a few hours and the father was vanquished. Cota then went to Gunnvor and asked her hand in marriage.

Nikita This is the story of me, Nikita, an orphaned girl, who didn’t know anything about her family. I was kept in the orphanage with a bunch of other girls. Ms.Keeper, the owner of the orphanage doesn’t tell anyone anything about themselves or their family. I didn’t know anything about myself, but everyone knew that in Ms.Keepers room there was a filing cabinet with documents of the real stories of our lives. Nobody ever dared to go in there though. Ms.Keeper looked like she was somewhere in the 30’s, she had grey hair, bags under her brown eyes, a slim body and a huge pimple on her long nose. She was not married. I have brown hair, brown eyes, freckles and a healthy, slim body. I always thought of running away. I felt like I was in that orphanage forever. I remember growing up in there since I was a child and now that I’m 17 years old, I’m still here, hoping to find my family. But that, I thought was too unrealistic. I was sitting in an orphanage, hoping to find my family. No, I wanted to DO something to find my family. The only thing that held me back was Ms.Keeper and the thought that I really had no family. Ms.Keeper was always afraid of one of the girls running away, that’s why she made some workers put a stronger fence around the orphanage property. Ms.Keeper was also afraid of talking to the government. I thought so because the government will shut down her orphanage. One time, I overheard Ms.Keeper talking on the phone to the government and they said that it was illegal to not show the orphans their identity and who they are, but Ms.Keeper ignored them and kept talking about something else. Also, at 18 years old, you are free to leave the orphanage and become independent. I just turned 17. No one else was my age except another girl, aged 14 and all the rest were smaller than her. There was once a girl named Gabby who was the only person who was older than me. Just last year, she turned 18 and was supposed to go. On her birthday, Ms.Keeper made an announcement at the last moment that Gabby was leaving right now and is right by the door. Every girl ran out to give her hugs and goodbyes. Ms.Keeper didn’t even move. She didn’t even say bye. It was so cruel of her. We didn’t have a birthday cake with Gabby because Ms.Keeper threw her out the door on her birthday! Everyday, Ms.Keeper lets us go outside for one hour, three times a day. We ate mostly sandwiches and drank water and sometimes juice. We also had some snacks, which were mostly fruits. We did school during the day too but this wasn’t real school. Ms.Keeper taught us everything. Ms.Keeper also bought us a TV, which was in the dining room. We mostly had everything we needed, except a family. One day, when Ms.Keeper let us go outside, I was lying on the grass by myself at the farthest point from the orphanage. Then all of a sudden I heard someone coming. I looked up but saw no one. When I turned around, I saw a boy, looked like he was 15. He had brown hair, blue eyes and was tall. He said “hi” to me and I said “hi” back. We talked to each other for awhile until Ms.Keeper called us in. I really hoped that Ms.Keeper didn’t see me talk to that boy because she would punish me. For the next three days, I talked to that boy over the fence every recess. He told me about his life and it really surprised me. He said he had a house as big as the whole orphanage (the orphanage is as big as a hotel). He said he had his mom and dad living with him, that he has money, any kind of drink, and lots of junk food. He played video games everyday and watched TV and also he quit school. His mom and dad don’t care about what he does as long as he’s home by midnight! When he told me this, I started thinking, is every life out there like his? What is everyone’s else’s life like? I couldn’t sleep that night or any other night after that day. Soon, we became friends and he asked if the orphanage was boring. I didn’t even know what to say because it was alright living in the orphanage but compared to his life, it was nothing. I didn’t say anything and he asked if I wanted to run away to his house. I, of course, was surprised and didn’t say anything for awhile but then I said I would think about it. Ms.Keeper called us inside, and I don’t know why but she never caught me talking to him. Ms.Keeper usually stands by the door of the orphanage, looking into the field of how we are playing. I was farthest away from her so maybe she doesn’t see so well. After those days, I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking of running away. But how was I supposed to run away? If I got caught, I would be punished and I would have to be a slave to everyone, washing dishes, sweeping, and cleaning. Besides, I couldn’t run away because we all slept in rooms with four people to each room. Our room was the farthest away from the exit. I would have to tip-toe (at night?!?) through the whole orphanage just to get to the exit. No, I couldn’t do it. I was too scared. But that boy kept assuring me that everything will be okay. I talked it over with the boy and I decided to run away with him at night, at 11pm because he had to be home by 12pm. By 8pm, all the girls in the orphanage would be sleeping, but Ms.Keeper stays up till 10pm, listening to classical music in her favourite rocking chair. As not to wake Ms.Keeper, the boy suggested that he would come to my window at night and I would climb over. Our room was on the lowest level – level one- so it was the closest to the ground. It was supposed to happen in two days from then. I was very nervous and scared, and I kept looking at Ms.Keeper if she had any suspicions, but it didn’t look like it. It was the day of the run. I packed all my stuff, which wasn’t really much. I put all my clothes in my pockets (it fit perfectly). I was wide awake that night, listening till Ms.Keeper turned off her classical music and went to bed. It was perfectly silent. You could hear every single breath of the girls. My tummy had a trillion butterflies in it and I couldn’t stop my heavy breathing. At 11pm, there was a quiet knock at my window and I knocked back. That was our signal for letting each other know we were ready. I then looked at everyone in the room. They were sound asleep. I opened the window and it’s super squeaky. I waited a moment to see if anyone woke up, but no one moved. I climbed over the window to the boy. I closed the window with a loud squeak and started running with the boy to wherever my feet let me go. It was a dark night and only the half-lit moon was our source of light. The boy led me through streets and streets of houses until we came to a huge house. It was so pretty. It looked like the orphanage but it had no spiderwebs. It was clean and super nice. It looked like they were rich to have all those diamond stuff on the door. They boy opened the door and the light hurt my eyes. It was so bright in there, so big. The stairs were curved, like I only saw in fairy tales, and there was his mom standing in the doorway. She first smiled, but when she saw me, she made a confused face and came closer. I was so scared. What would his mom do? Did he tell his mom about me? My brain threw me a thousand questions to answer of which I didn’t know the answers for. The lady came closer and asked the boy slowly who I was. He told his mom that I was a friend from the orphanage. His mom got angry, her face started to turn red and she started to talk louder. She started saying that I’m filthy and that she doesn’t want to see me ever again and to get out off this house. I looked at the boy. He started to cry. I tear went down his cheek. He begged his mom to let her stay for the night but his mom didn’t budge. The boy’s mom shut the door on me and I was outside in the cold. All of this was for nothing. This meet we had. All the recesses we talked, all the nights I didn’t sleep, and I couldn’t go back to the orphanage now. I was alone. I didn’t even know where to go. I got off the boys lawn and I sat down on the sidewalk, crying and I realized I didn’t even know what the boy’s name was! Suddenly, I heard a door open. I looked back to see if it was the boy’s mom. No, it wasn’t. I looked around and saw that the boy’s neighbor has opened the door and was calling me. The person at the door was a grandma. She told me to come in. I stood up and came inside. She told me that she heard the neighbors talking loudly so she went to see what the commotion was about. She asked me if I wanted to eat but I refused. She sent me to bed, not knowing anything about me. She was so kind to me. She sent me upstairs where I had my own room. I fell asleep very fast, and I slept till lunch the next day. I forgot all about the orphanage and went downstairs to meet my hero. She was making breakfast for me. We sat down at the table and she told me her name ( Grandma Laura ) and I told her all about my life. Every single thing. When I came to the part about the orphanage, her eyes widened. Grandma Laura told me that many many years ago, she was the owner of the orphanage! The government fired her because they thought she wasn’t suitable for the job. When she went away, she made photocopies of the documents of the girls and kept them because the girls were so precious to her that she couldn’t just leave them. Grandma Laura stood up and went upstairs to go get them. When she came back down, she had a whole ton of documents! She found one by the name of Nikita. That morning changed my life. She let me read my own document. It figures out that my real mom died while having me. My dad was still alive. My dad’s name was Walter Eggons. The grandma’s eyes widened when I told her the name of my dad. She told me that that was her husband! So Grandma Laura was my mom? She didn’t die? But Grandma told me the whole story. My dad, Walter, first married a lady named Agnes, and they had a baby named Nikita ( that was me) and during childbirth, Agnes died, but I lived. Later, my dad could no longer care after me so he dropped me off at the orphanage when I was 1 year’s old. For my dad, that was a hard decision. He had to work but he couldn’t leave me at home and there was no one to look after me. After my dad’s wife died, he married Laura. Laura was sitting in front of me, tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. She then told me the saddest news- my dad died of cancer a couple months ago. I started choking back sobs, and then tears. Grandma Laura was the only family I had. She was my stepmother. It has been seven years since that happened and right now I am sitting with tears in my eyes, telling you this. I live with my stepmom and my husband, Jeffrey. Turns out that after that day, I lived with my stepmom for a couple months but then the boy’s mom found out that I was still in this neighborhood. The boy was so happy to hear that, and he told me his name- Jeffrey Jones. We soon joined our friendship together and a couple months later, we were married. Also,he wasn’t 15 years old, like I thought, he was 17. -Written by Nikita Eggons-Jones

Yoyoyo its generikb here and today we are playing roller coaster tycoon

Anyone got ideas for a short story titled as Leornard’s Fatal Oversight. In need of help asap.

Ugh, this is getting do frustrating! I thought to myself as I struggled through the streets. My ankles kept twisting every time I slipped. Heels are so not comfy. I shouldn’t have worn them. As if my struggle wasn’t enough, people were pushing me as they passed me by. I was being shoved left and right amidst the bustling sidewalks of New York. Feeling fed up, I decided to lean onto a nearby store to regain my balance. What an awful idea it was. Unfortunately, I have miscalculated the distance between me and the store and I ended up leaning on thin air. I tried to right my footing before it was too late but I ended up tripping on my own feet. With a loud oomph I slammed into a passerby. Papers went flying around us as we both fell to the ground.

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry.” I tried to hurriedly stand up but I ended flat on the ground again. “I didn’t mean to! I was just trying to lean on the wall to regain my balance since it’s the first time to wear heels, and oh my god, it is very hard and painful.”

The person nodded quietly and started gathering the papers. I got to my knees and tried to help. “I was supposed to be looking smart for today’s meeting, but I don’t think it’s been working out so well. I bet I look as smart as a baboon’s butt.” I heard the person chuckle but I went on with my rant, “I also bet that I am a total mess; I don’t how will I meet everyone at work this way. Oh man! They sure will give me an earful of criticism!” I didn’t realize I had been holding on to the few papers I collected while he tried to pull them from my grasp. “Oh, I am so sorry, once again,” I said still holding on to the papers while I got up, “I didn’t realize I was holding on to the documents…it’s not like I’ve read them; I’m just guessing they were documents as your suit looks neat and yeah.” I tugged gently on the lapel of the suit and finally raised my eyes to his face. My eyes probably widened as I saw him for the first time. To cut it short, he was hot! Like smoking salmon hot; or more like hot chili pepper that Indians eat hot! Now I’ll give all the details, I know you want them…I would want them if I was listening to one of my friends telling me such a story. Anyways, he stood a good foot or so taller than me. He had light brown hair styled backwards. His angular, defined jaw was covered with a five o’clock shadow. Bright hazel eyes shone with amusement as a slight smile covered his lips. “I don’t usually talk to strangers as much as I do. God! I’m coming off as talkative! I am not usually the talkative type; I seriously don’t know what is wrong with me today. And whoa, you look handsome,” my eyes widened in shock as he raised both eyebrows, “Did I say that out loud? Oh my god, I said that out loud. I didn’t mean to say that…I don’t mean you’re not handsome, because you’re one hell of a man; I just mean…Ugh! Now I’m coming off as a weird man-gazing half-crazed stalker. That is if I’m not fully crazed. I don’t think I’m making any sense…I should probably get going.” I went to turn around when I felt a tug onto something I’m holding to. With a confused look I looked to my hands and found the stack of papers. With a not so faint blush, I handed him the papers, “I’m sorry again.” I threw my hand behind my shoulder pointing in the opposite direction, “I should probably get going,” I said with a sheepish smile. I turned to leave again, but I was stopped…again. He cleared his throat, “I think you’re forgetting something.” “Um…no, I think I’m,” I turned his way to find him holding my bag. I awkwardly stepped to take it and said, “Thanks. I’ll see you around, not that I know where you are…I’ll just get going.” I took my bag and headed off in the opposite direction before I could embarrass myself any further. As I waited for the subway, I recalled what just happened and face palmed. I took the short ride to the office to compose myself. I was in for a surprise once I entered the meeting room, though. The man I bumped into was standing at the head of the table. “Good morning everyone, before starting today’s meeting, I would like to introduce you to the company’s new CEO…” Well, I wasn’t expecting this. I sat rigidly on the chair once we were told to. “Good morning everyone, I am Nathaniel and I am looking forwards to working with everyone on this team,” he said with a smile on his face. “Mr. Nathaniel, I would like you to meet our best employee, Ms. Felicity Brown.”My boss pointed my way and I wish he hadn’t. Nathaniel’s eyes found mine. They were filled with amusement. Oh this was going to be a long day.

And this, kids, is how I met your father.

A great (and family friendly) writing site is http://www.storybird.com

I might write a story about a girl who was born a princess but all her family died on a ship except her aunt and cousin…she gets taken to an orphanage and everyone else thinks she died too and she gets adopted a few Years later she goes to school and everyone is talking about her…one days she finds out that… oh u want to know well I’ll probs write a story about it on wattpad so u can look for it, it will be called…A princess???

Four new members have a look at couch on top of Crestwood center ship

high school graduation sports activitiestrail Softballand therefore Swimmingbeach ball Tennismales adolescent girls info Field HS HS WrestlingCollege Pro Submit ScoresSubmit

WRIGHT TWP. In all perhaps had to be the most significant reorganization matching presented among Luzerne regional 11 institutions zones, Crestwood school panel swore located in four sign ups compared to the ne member, repairing incumbents which are either of them missing in action unique reelection tenders belonging to the primary or elected to get not to research another phase.

wayne Brogna, Stacey Haddix, Kimberly Spath and thus Lauren McCurdy got been sworn appearing in thursday night. The four bought conducted completely considering that the to produce enhancement community. really earning incumbent from a big part that do survived habitual grievance in past times two very long time came anna Hollock Bibla, which will garnered your ex first four year terms the particular snowboard. you become a member of in 2017 because of profitable an exclusive two year sitting.

The aboard had been proven a good solid director in just cost Jones deleted the primary. He extended in the direction this quite get-together ahead departing the barrier. But contact considering his or place for year isn an exciting new face. really 5 4 election with all four rookies in opposition of, james Costello vice president in the past year came branded president.

following the meeting, Brogna documented can lone even talk to gain themselves even so that he fully Costello ran into finished loads of dubious ballots the actual game board during the last two growth cycles. he explained he’s talked containing Costello together n’ your own questions that can the pup, but admitted no sign ups may possibly well most try out the us president job, if he or she. so which he wasn safe voting for Costello.

barry Boone is unanimously specified as vice chairman, Maureen McGovern came chosen assistant, and after that Brogna been recently branded as treasurer.

all of the reconstituted block have their first finding for normal establishment votes arrange for Dec. 19, Five days right after the contract over curious law firms in order to post proposals on a structured feasibility study, sense my blackboard can have to be able to merit a legal contract.

Four newbies your day Crestwood their school panel accept the promise of health care office at some stage in thurs reorganization talking. right between lead are actually Stacy Haddix, Kimberly Spath, Lauren McCurdy and as a consequence randy Brogna. 17 public speaking.

while prompt wednesday authorities chairman paul Belusko should become aware of if will probably be at center arena this booked careers class a better or at site of the event thus more people beautiful vietnamese women may easily give priority to.

Belusko proclaimed she will be polling an additional four authorities musicians in email’s over the past weekend on recommendation mayor choose George light brown undertaken especially during tuesday night time seeing replace the to and time production for the.

looking to you can keep them respond back to me made by the following thursday, Belusko considered that Friday.

maybe authorities decides to transfer an appointment it provides a week in order to place and with seating rather than a unique fourth area chambers.

was regarded as thinking that it is recently doing open talking long before the performance visit someplace (home buyers and thus local authority or council) may questionthings just to associated with us transfer to the author’s your job session. which unfortunately whatever i thinking about, Belusko claims.

you will most likely plumbing service in sunday night-time show results demonstrations that when local authority or council could not vote on awaiting the law. comments together with inquires are allowed even though council monday date the general public get togethers. timetabled start.

village owner david Gazenski suggested it authorities call on which direction to start.

over council if that they move this approach to a different store, Gazenski alleged.

nearly as Belusko may reaching out to authorities, so too will white because of main receiving area for the mans professional recommendation.

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Town Creative Writings Samples For Students

45 samples of this type

No matter how high you rate your writing skills, it's always a worthy idea to check out a competently written Creative Writing example, especially when you're dealing with a sophisticated Town topic. This is exactly the case when WowEssays.com directory of sample Creative Writings on Town will come in handy. Whether you need to come up with a fresh and meaningful Town Creative Writing topic or look into the paper's structure or formatting peculiarities, our samples will provide you with the required material.

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Example Of Creative Writing On Segregation

Question one.

Segregation was a common vice that to place in most of the social amenities. The fact that the available public facilitates were used separately by the white and black due to the concern of superiority and inferiority that existed between the two races. Although the separate facilitate did attribute to the segregation it also had benefits on the fight against the segregation practice (Brinkley, 2007 p.34).

Talladega Creative Writing Sample

Talladega is a city in Talladega County, Alabama, United States. At the 2010 registration the populace was 15,676.the city is the area seat of Talladega County. Talladega is roughly 50 miles (80 km) east of Birmingham, Alabama.the city is home to the Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind and the Talladega Municipal Airport, an open general avionics air terminal. The Talladega Superspeedway, Talladega College and the International Motorsports Hall of Fame are placed adjacent. The First National Bank of Talladega is the most established bank in the State of Alabama, being established in 1848.

Sample Creative Writing On Chicago: City of the Century

The second episode of “Chicago: City of the Century” is dedicated to the events happening in Chicago after the big fire until the mass protests and conflicts of anarchists and socialists with capitalists in the beginning of the 20th century. The author focuses spectators’ attention to the strikes and social conflicts in Chicago on the eve of the new century and shows the fullness of this problem.

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125 Old Road

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Example Of Letter Regarding The Constitution Creative Writing

Environmental benefits of urban substantial creative writing example.

Good morning distinguished guests, tutors, my fellow classmates, ladies and gentlemen. I take this opportunity to present a speech on environmental benefits of urban substantial. My speech will analyze three key issues. First, I will identify the local challenges found in urban planning, which are related to the environment. Second, I will discuss the benefits of having a substantial urban living with a perfect environment. Lastly, I will give strategic recommendations towards maintaining a clean environment in urban centers. The local authority has the mandate over urban planning, and this discussion mostly targets the local level.

Cultural Event That Changed Me Creative Writing Examples

I have to admit that I like to think of myself as a nerd. I hardly go out. I like reading my books and having fun my own way. I am the late bloomer, I get trends last , and I am not that cool and I like my room, and occasionally my passionate moments with nature. This is how I lead my life. However, this was to change just by one event.

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This essay presents a diary of what I did during my stay in Sydney, Australia, where I spent all my time with my cousin Nina, who took me to see many interesting sights in Sydney, such as the New Town, the Opera House, the Bondi Beach. It was a really wonderful experience, one I will never forget.

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Creative Writing On The Rector Of Veilbye

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The internet has become a limitless advance of space where individuals can write anything or be anyone. Information is not always valid, nor are the faces we look at. Virtually everything we see on the internet has the capacity to be doctored in some way. Essentially we could be hoaxed as many times a day as we dare to click our mouse’s button. Unfortunately, I have several stories involving internet hoaxes and the damage that they can cause in the lives of people who are unaware of them. One involves disinformation; the other involves dishonesty.

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The Veldt by Ray Bradbury The Character: George Hadley

Creative Writing On Creative Writings On Their Eyes Were Watching God - Janie’s Character Analysis

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How to Describe a Ghost Town in a Story

By Isobel Coughlan

Do you need some tips on how to describe a ghost town in a story? Use the 10 words featured in this post as guide to help you.

Somewhere with a scary atmosphere that could be haunted.

“He didn’t want to visit the spooky ghost town, but he was worried what the group would call him if he said no.”

“The spooky ghost town was real and scary, unlike those kitsch fairground rides that can’t even scare children.”

How it Adds Description

The word “spooky” is a perfect pairing for a ghost town as it implies an area is scary or even haunted. If your ghost town is literally home to spirits or ghosts, this word can signify their presence. However, it can also point to a general unpleasant atmosphere and portray that your characters are creeped out .

2. Intimidating

Someone or somewhere that’s frightening to the point you lose confidence .

“She took one step towards the intimidating ghost town and changed her mind. She wasn’t going to face her fears today.”

“They looked at the intimidating ghost town and it looked back, taunting them with its presence.”

If your ghost town scares your characters, the word “intimidating” can show the effect it’s having on them. “Intimidating” shows someone is feeling nervous or frightened, and this is a perfect way to show the intensity of your ghost-like setting. It can also foreshadow future plot points in the town, ideal if you want to hint at the future.

Somewhere that’s home to ghosts or spirits.

“But the haunted ghost town is just an old tale… Isn’t it?”

“She flat-out refused to talk about the haunted ghost town, and everyone had to respect her decision.”

The adjective “haunted” clearly implies that the location is home to ghosts or spirits. This is a powerful word to use if you’re writing a horror novel, as it helps to build a scary setting. It can also hint at the ghost town’s past, and you can use this word to build up curiosity surrounding your fictional world’s history.

Somewhere very quiet and almost silent.

“The hushed ghost town didn’t bother her. It was the people back home that got on her nerves.”

“He was shocked by the hushed ghost town. He expected hustle and bustle in all the streets.”

The word “hushed” conveys a place is very quiet or silent. If your ghost town is uninhabited or home to a scare population, “hushed” can portray the atmosphere there. “Hushed” can also build suspense, and you can pair this adjective with creepy action to scare your reader and characters.

Something or somewhere not being used by anyone.

“Don’t turn left off the freeway, there’s an old vacant ghost town over there. People haven’t lived there in years.”

“He crept through the vacant ghost town as if someone was watching him, but no one had lived here since the accident.”

The word “vacant” describes a place that’s completely empty, which is perfect when describing a ghost town. This word lets your reader know there’s no inhabitants. It can also be used to build an image of a neglected place, for example a run-down town that has bad infrastructure.

6. Disgraced

Somewhere that has lost the respect of the authorities of people.

“The locals had left the disgraced ghost town after the accident, and they had no intentions of coming back.”

“The disgraced ghost town never regained respect, and it has been left to rot.”

If your ghost town has been abandoned because of an incident or stigma, the word “disgraced” can help explain the situation to your reader. “Disgraced” describes somewhere that’s fallen out of favor with local opinion, and this can hint that something bad happened in the town. It also implies the town is a bad place, and the inhabitants questionable.

7. Chilling

Somewhere very scary.

“Even the thought of the chilling ghost town made her hair stand up on end.”

“The chilling ghost town made him question his courage; he did not feel safe there at all.”

If your ghost town is unpleasant and scary, “chilling” is a helpful word to use. This adjective shows that the location has a physical effect on the characters, as “chilling” refers to a type of fear that resonates in the body.

Somewhere far away from urban areas or cities.

“She didn’t want to leave the comfort of the city for a remote ghost town, but she had to honor her manager’s instructions.”

“Don’t talk to me about community, you live in a remote ghost town!”

Ghost towns with few inhabitants are common as you move further away from urban areas. Therefore, “remote” is a good adjective to use if you want to illustrate more about the ghost town’s location. In a horror story, “remote” can create a sense of helplessness, as there are no nearby authorities to help the characters.

9. Disturbing

Somewhere that evokes feelings of sadness or worry.

“It was a disturbing ghost town. All the houses looked as if they were frozen in time.”

“She awoke in the disturbing ghost town, and her stomach instantly sank.”

If you simply want to illustrate how horrible your ghost town is, the word “disturbing” can help. This adjective points to a location that’s scary or physically unpleasant, which is great for building a clear mental image of the settlement.

Somewhere that makes you feel nervous or is slightly strange .

“She couldn’t take the eerie ghost town anymore; it was too quiet and uncanny.”

“Together, they explored the eerie ghost town, but they were shocked at the reason it was so quiet.”

“Eerie” is linked to places that are odd or scary, and this is a great way to insight fear in your reader. The word “eerie” can also help to portray your character’s anxiety, especially when you pair it with more negative descriptive language.

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Creative Writing- The Tsunami

                                Creative Writing- The Tsunami                                

The tides came crashing through, eliminating everything that came in their way. We were like little ants scurrying around looking for our home, a shelter, anything that would protect us from the savage tide that wanted to wipe us off of the face of the earth. It was too late for the people on the beach; they had already been taken prisoner, drowned forever in their tears of sorrow and fear.

It didn’t feel like it would be much longer before I was shackled and chained up as well. I felt like I had been running for hours, I wouldn’t have been able to keep it up for much longer. The tide just kept coming and there was nothing powerful enough to stop it. What about God? What about The Almighty One that I had been praying to for all these years? This would’ve been a great time for Him to make an entrance. I began to feel the water around my ankles. They were trying to clasp me… trying to imprison me for eternity. It felt like it was over for me, time to give up and hand myself in… but for what? I mean I hadn’t done anything wrong and I’ve still got my whole life ahead of me. I wasn’t about to give in just yet, and luckily God just made His entrance. I could hear the tide slowing down behind me, but it wasn’t over yet though. I could see a rising shadow going on for at least two hundred yards ahead of me, I turned around with apprehension and looked it in the eye. It looked back snarling, the blue, translucent wave crashed on top of me.

I woke up squinting; the light was penetrating my eye. I stood up and found myself naked in the middle of the Sri Lankan jungle. Was it Sri Lanka? Or was it heaven? Last thing I remember was me knocked out after something hit me. Was it a fist? Was it a bus? I hadn’t a clue. I guess this must be heaven. Wow, I would never have thought I’d die at the age of sixteen. Well at least I don’t have to go to school tomorrow!

I searched around the Garden of Eden; there was no shortage of sweet coconuts or juicy mangos, but where was everyone else? Could this be hell and not heaven? I mean hell doesn’t necessarily have to be a fiery cave where there’s a guy in a red cape prodding you with his trident. I heard about this sort of thing, my mum told me. She said hell is your worst nightmare, you may not even know what it is, but it is your worst nightmare. My heart began to beat faster, what if this is hell? What if I’m never going to see my parent’s again? I began to run. I don’t know where I was running to, but I just had to get out of this place. ‘Garden of Eden’! What was I thinking?

It began to get dark and I was still naked without a single cloth to cover my shame. I was cold and frightened so I used the large palm leaves to keep myself warm over the night.

I woke up, still distraught. ‘He’s over here! I found him! He’s over here!’ announced a dirty, scruffy man strapped with an AK-47. Confused and afraid I began to back off as he tried to come nearer. I drew further away as he drew nearer. Another man came up behind me and another two had me from the sides… I was surrounded.

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They began to snarl and snigger, telling me I had nowhere to hide. One of them drew nearer not knowing that I was aware of him, he tried to pounce and that’s when I made a break for it. He came up from behind and tried to grab me into a headlock, I spun around leaving him head first in the dirt and just ran. The others, after tending to their partner, began to chase me. They had no chance of catching me. I was young, fit and scared out of my wits…I ran for my life.

Once establishing they had no chance of catching me they began to shoot. Four or five whizzed passed my shoulder until one hit me in the leg. It pierced my left leg ripped through my muscle and came out through the front. I hit the ground pretty hard and banged my head against a blunt rock that was ‘conveniently’ right where my head was.

I was knocked out again and woke up in a cell, this time I was dressed. One of the guys from earlier was rattling the cell bars to wake everyone up. Someone opened my cell door and began to walk towards me, I was still frightened and huddled myself in a corner. He violently grabbed me by my hair and threw me out of the cell. There were other prisoners there, some that I’m positive I recognised from before I got knocked out and ended up in the jungle. What on earth was going on? Was this really hell?

The guard who dragged me by the hair asked me what was wrong with me. I had a million things wrong with me, I didn’t know where to begin. Instead I just kept quiet and unwillingly got into the line.

 We marched to the showers outside. For some reason I was hesitant to get into the showers, I just felt like there was a danger or something when it came to water. The guards arrived soon and I was forced to take a shower. I wasn’t about to try and find out what would happen if I didn’t. After the shower, we were taken to some sort of boot camp. There was an assault course, rifle shooting, everything, as though we were some kind of trainee army. There were no women here it was just men. The ages ranged from about twelve to forty. We were being treated like dogs, we had to complete the assault course fifteen times within a time limit, or otherwise they would shoot us in the foot. I didn’t know what was going on, but I decided that I was just going to do as I was told.

I saw one of the younger kid’s he was about thirteen years old with short hair, he was struggling a lot with the course and began to lose his breath. He fell at the second to last hurdle and everyone began to over take him. I looked over to the guards… they noticed him. One of the guards came rushing over, swearing at the boy and lifted the boy by his ear. The boy began to whimper as the guard threw countless slaps across the boy’s face. The guard took the boy into the jungle… every one stopped when they began to hear the boy wailing and crying out for help. The boy came out whimpering, holding on to his falling trousers as he ran in to the toilets. The guard came out a few seconds after with a satisfied smirk on his face, tucking his shirt in to his trousers. Everyone glared at the guard with the most piercing of looks. The guard, tense and somewhat frightened, shot his rifle in the air and yelled at everyone to get back to what they were doing.

I was first to finish the assault course and I asked if I could go to the toilet. The guard said ‘be quick’. When I got to the toilet I heard whimpering, it was the young boy. I found him curled up inside one of the cubicles. He told me to go away when I asked him what happened in the jungle.

“I’m only here to help, I won’t tell anyone… what happened?”

“As if you don’t know”

He replied in a shuddering voice. I asked him his name, he replied ‘Bhavan’. I asked Bhavan how he got here. He gave me a weird look and replied ‘You know very well how I got here you bastard, leave me alone!’ I didn’t know what I had done to make him so angry with me.

“Look here’s the deal, I woke up yesterday in the middle of that jungle, and some men chased me then shot me. I woke up this morning in the cell without a clue where I am, what I’m doing here, who these people are, or how I’m going to get out of here! Now can you help me with any of these question’s or not?”

“You’re that boy aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re that boy, the one that survived the tsunami”

“What tsu-…”

That’s when it hit me I began to remember everything. I was out with my family; my mum, my dad and my little sister. We were on our way to the beach, but mum forgot the sun tan lotion and

I had to go back home and get it. When I got home I went upstairs to check in mum and dad’s bedroom. I couldn’t find it so I came back downstairs and saw it in the living room on the coffee table. I went to retrieve it… when I heard screams, very loud screams.

I rushed out side to see what it was. I saw an army of people, including my parents and my little sister, running towards me screaming and yelling for help. Still I was unsure what they were running away from and suddenly out of nowhere a gargantuan tidal wave washed them clean away. Shocked and unbelieving I stood there for at least another minute rubbing my eyes in disbelief. I saw another wave heading my way. I ran and I ran but the wave got me too. But…I didn’t die. Someone…those guards they rescued me. They took my body before the water back flowed in to the ocean. Once I’d regained consciousness…. that guard… the one that took Bhavan into the jungle, I remember him whispering some thing in my ear as I woke up. He told me he’d be gentle. He said to be quiet. He said this was our little secret. I looked around and we were…we were naked? Confused and frightened I stood up shocked. He asked me to calm down and when I refused, we got into a bit of a fight, and then he injected me with something; a sleepy drug that knocks you out and erases your memory or something. Before the drug got to its full effect I managed to break free of his grasp and made a run for it to the jungle. Then those guards shot at me and I woke up here.

 When I told Bhavan all of this his face looked as though it had just seen a ghost. Bhavan told me that these ‘soldiers’ were the ‘Tamil Tigers’ a rebel gang that wanted to overtake the Sri Lankan government. They were recruiting young orphans and those who have nothing to lose to fight for them. The guard that raped Bhavan and I was General Gander, he ran this place. He was behind so many attacks on civilians in Sri Lanka. As Bhavan told me all this I became shocked and enraged, I was absolutely fuming, I needed to do something, I had to get back at General Gander for what he’d done.

That night I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about my family…well at least they were together. I started to reminisce all the good times I used to have with my family. All of the joyous moments we shared together, like that time when we went to India and that monkey was following us everywhere, he stole Suzie’s lunch.

I couldn’t take it any more! What was the use in me living!? I don’t believe in a single thing that these ‘rebels’ were fighting for. And that General Gander… I wanted to murder him!

The next morning I awoke sharp and alert, the perfect soldier, only spoke when spoken to, best at the rifle shooting, didn’t make eye contact with anyone… Then he arrived.

 That sadistic monster crawled out of his hole and came out to inspect the rifle shooting. Bhavan was shooting about ten yards away and there were four people between us. Bhavan began to shake and shiver, he couldn’t even hold his rifle upright when Gander arrived. Bhavan was next to be inspected and he started to whimper again. Gander waltzed up behind with a smirk. He grasped a hold of Bhavan’s buttocks and whispered something in his ear. Bhavan began to shiver and shake so much that his knees turned to jelly and he couldn’t even stand up. The poor boy wet his pants and was standing in a puddle of his own urine. A few of the guards and some of the other younger prisoners began to laugh at him. Gander didn’t have a clue what was going to happen when he got to me.

He was done with the guy beside me then he came over to me. This was it, this was my chance to kill him and no way was I about to hesitate. Gander didn’t recognise me I kept my face forward and he stood behind me. He wrote a few things on his clipboard then moved on.

I grabbed Gander from behind. I locked my right arm around his neck and held my rifle to his head. All the guards raised their AK-47’s and aimed them straight at me. They kept shouting at me to put the gun down. Why couldn’t I pull the trigger? I’d been planning this all day and night.          

   I failed… I couldn’t pull the trigger… I don’t know what happened. The need I had for Gander’s blood was lost and as I loosened my grip around Gander’s neck he was able to escape and shouted;

“Cuff up this Bastard!”

The soldiers beat me to my knees in front of everyone. They held me still and pulled my head back from my hair as Gander reached for his pistol.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you, if you think you can take me this is what happens!”         

As he was cocking his pistol he aimed it directly at my throat. It was the end for me, I had my chance and I blew it. Everyone stood anxious and nervous to see if he was really going to shoot.

“BANG!”

I opened my eyes and I was still there. I had no wounds, no blood was pouring out of the back of my head. I was still alive. Gander collapsed to the ground a clean bullet hole went straight through his head. Behind him stood Bhavan still shivering and whimpering this time his hands clasped a smoking rifle that was aimed directly at Gander’s head.

The guards didn’t know what to do. They were shocked, still holding my hair. I stood up and pushed them aside. All the prisoners, armed with rifles. We stood side by side facing the weak and vulnerable guards. One of the guards reached for his weapon, and then we just started firing. We shot and shot at them until the end of our magazines.

We were free, no more Gander, no more guards. The prisoners began to dance and hoololate.

“We are free!”  

One man shouted. I still didn’t feel free… I thought the death of Gander would bring me joy and happiness. I ran to the jungle. Once I got there I just started to run and run some more, in no particular direction, just until the day comes that I may join my parents and my little sister.  

Document Details

• Word Count 2700
• Page Count 4
• Subject English

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Creative Writing

How to Describe a Beach in Writing (21 Best Tips & Examples)

The gentle ebb and flow of waves, the warmth of golden sands, and the melodies of seagulls overhead – beaches captivate the senses.

I’ve described beaches many times in my own short stories and novels.

Here’s how to describe a beach in writing :

Describe a beach in writing by focusing on its unique size, climate, sand color, and location. Explore sensory details such as the sound of waves, the scent of saltwater, and the feel of the sand. Highlight cultural elements, marine life, vegetation, seasonal shifts, and local activities.

In this guide, you’ll learn everything you need to know to describe a beach in writing.

1. Unearth the Sands of Time

Table of Contents

Every beach tells a story.

Some are age-old resting spots for local fishermen, while others have seen shipwrecks, invasions, or have been silent witnesses to lovers’ tales.

Before diving into descriptions, research the history of the beach you’re writing about.

This will not only add depth to your narrative but also connect readers to a bygone era.

Plus, if you love beaches as much as I do, then this will be pure heaven for you.

While some beaches have preserved their old-world charm with untouched landscapes, others boast modern-day beach shacks, surfing schools, or yoga retreats.

Distinguishing between the ancient sands and modernized coasts can set the mood for your description.

2. Palette of the Sands

Not all beaches are golden.

Some have white, powdery sands, while others flaunt a rare black, pink, or even green hue.

The color of the sand can significantly influence the ambiance of the beach.

Dive into the specifics – is the sand fine or coarse? Is it cool to the touch or sun-baked and warm?

Often, the sand isn’t just sand. It’s interspersed with shells, pebbles, seaweed, and sometimes even fragments of corals. Highlight these unique elements as they add character to the beach and provide sensory details for readers.

3. Dance of the Tides

Some beaches are known for their calm, lapping waves, making them ideal for relaxation.

In contrast, others are marked by powerful, crashing waves perfect for adventurous activities like surfing.

Describe the rhythm, sound, and sight of the waves to convey the beach’s spirit.

Understanding the tidal patterns can greatly enhance your description.

Low tides might expose hidden tidal pools, while high tides might bring with them a sense of mystery and anticipation.

This also affects the beach’s width and appearance at different times.

4. Symphony of the Shore

The beach isn’t silent.

From the cries of the seagulls to the whispers of the winds and the rhythmic sound of waves, nature creates a symphony.

Use auditory descriptions to transport readers to the shore.

On popular beaches, the sound of children’s laughter, chatter from nearby cafes, or tunes from a distant radio can add layers to the auditory experience.

Decide whether your beach is serene and untouched or bustling with activity.

5. Coastal Climate Chronicles

Is the beach sun-drenched, making it ideal for sunbathing? Or is it frequently cloaked in mist, giving it a mysterious aura?

The weather plays a crucial role in setting the scene and can influence activities, moods, and narratives.

Beaches transform with seasons.

While summer brings in crowds and vibrant energy, winter might render the beach desolate, with only the bravest souls venturing out.

Describe these shifts to add depth to your narrative.

6. Sunlit Spectacles

The magic of a beach often unfolds during the golden hours.

Narrate the transformation of the horizon as the sun rises, casting a delicate pink and gold hue, or as it sets, engulfing the world in fiery reds and deep purples.

The changing colors reflect not only in the sky but also in the water and sand.

While sunrise and sunset are dramatic, the midday sun brings out the vibrancy of beach activities, and nighttime might unveil a sky full of stars or even bioluminescent waves on certain beaches.

7. Flora’s Flourish

Many beaches are lined with specific vegetation, from towering palm trees to delicate dune flowers.

Describe the flora’s color, shape, and how it dances in the breeze, adding life to the coastal landscape.

Floral aromas mixed with the salty sea air can create a heady combination.

Bring out the varied fragrances one might encounter while taking a leisurely stroll.

8. Fauna Features

Tidal pools might house starfish, crabs, or tiny fishes.

Coral beaches might be teeming with colorful marine life. Delve into the beauty of the creatures that call the beach their home.

From seagulls to pelicans and sandpipers, the avian world adds movement and sound to the beach.

Their behaviors, from hunting for fish to playful chases, can be delightful to describe.

9. Activity Avenues

Be it children building sandcastles, surfers riding waves, or yoga enthusiasts greeting the sun, beaches often become hubs of activities.

Depicting these can give readers a sense of the beach’s energy.

Not all beachgoers seek company.

Some look for solitude – a quiet corner to read, meditate, or just gaze at the horizon.

Highlighting these moments adds depth and contrast.

10. Textures and Touch

Beyond visuals, the feel of the beach is vital.

Is the sand powdery soft, or is it grainy and rough? Does the water feel icy cold or pleasantly warm?

Engaging the sense of touch can make descriptions palpable.

How does the beach make one feel? Tranquil, exhilarated, nostalgic?

Tapping into emotions can resonate deeply with readers.

11. Tastes of the Tides

A trip to the beach is incomplete without the taste of salt on your lips from the sea spray.

For many beaches, nearby stalls serve fresh seafood.

Describing the tantalizing flavors of the ocean’s bounty can make readers’ mouths water.

Beach destinations often have signature beverages – from coconut water to adult drinks.

Highlighting these drinks can set the tone and mood of the beach scene.

12. Auditory Adventures

Every beach has its unique sound of waves – from gentle lapping to roaring surfs.

These sounds are soothing and rhythmic, making them integral to a beach description.

Include the distant laughter of beachgoers, the chirping of coastal birds, or the playful shout of children.

Such sounds breathe life into the scene.

13. Historical Hints

Many beaches have rich histories, from pirate tales to ancient civilizations.

Weaving in some historical elements can give depth to the beach’s narrative.

Statues, forts, or old lighthouses can stand as silent witnesses to the past. Mentioning these can make a beach scene more vivid and layered.

14. Moods of the Sea

The mood of the sea changes with weather and tides.

While a calm sea can be serene and inviting, a stormy sea can be wild and dramatic. Depicting these moods can influence the story’s atmosphere.

Low tide might reveal hidden treasures like shells or ancient shipwrecks, while high tide brings in waves and fresh mysteries.

The ebb and flow of tides can be metaphorical and descriptive.

15. Colorful Canvases

Describing the varying shades of blues, greens, and golds of the sea, sky, and sand can paint a vivid picture.

Sunlight plays a role in these changing hues, so consider the time of day.

Beaches at night transform into a world of silvery moonlight, shadows, and possibly bioluminescent creatures.

Using a palette of darker shades can set a contrasting and mystical scene.

16. Human Imprints

From lone footprints in the sand to majestic sandcastles, human touch is evident on many beaches.

Describing these imprints can suggest recent activity or age-old legacies.

Sadly, not all human imprints are poetic (or positive).

Describing signs of pollution, like plastic waste, can serve as a stark reminder and add an environmental angle to your narrative.

17. Unique Underwater Worlds

Many beaches are gateways to underwater paradises.

Vividly describing the diverse, colorful corals can transport readers into a magical realm.

Each coral formation has its own charm, from brain corals’ intricate patterns to the elegant sway of sea fans.

Beaches often harbor rich marine ecosystems.

Describing encounters with playful dolphins, curious turtles, or schools of shimmering fish can add depth and wonder to your narrative.

18. Local Life and Culture

Many coastal communities have age-old traditions linked to the sea.

Highlighting local festivals, rituals, or even daily activities like fish markets can provide readers with a cultural immersion.

Local handicrafts or special beachside dishes can offer a sensory feast.

Be it a description of intricate seashell jewelry or the tantalizing aroma of grilled seafood, integrating local flavors can enrich your beach description.

19. Dynamic Dunes and Vegetation

Sand dunes, shaped by the wind, can change forms and create mesmerizing patterns.

Describing these dynamic landscapes can add an element of nature’s artistry to your narrative.

Coastal vegetation, from tall palm trees to dense mangroves, not only adds to the beach’s visual appeal but also plays a crucial role in maintaining coastal ecology.

Diving into descriptions of these can add both beauty and educational value.

20. Seasonal Shifts

While summer might bring in sunbathers, winter could wrap the beach in misty allure. Capturing these seasonal nuances can create varied and engaging settings.

Monsoon or hurricane seasons can drastically change beach atmospheres.

Describing the sheer power of nature during such times can infuse drama and tension into your story.

21. Adventure and Activities

From surfing monstrous waves to peaceful kayaking sessions, beaches offer numerous adventure opportunities.

Describing the thrill and challenges of these activities can inject action into your beach scenes.

Leisurely activities like beachcombing can be therapeutic and rewarding.

Detailed descriptions of discovering seashells, driftwood, or even messages in bottles can add mystery and intrigue.

Here is my video that I made about how to describe a beach in writing:

30 Best Words to Describe a Beach in Writing

I’ve collected some of the best words to describe beaches.

Feel free to use these words to bring beaches to life in your own stories:

• Sun-drenched
• Crystal-clear
• Picturesque

30 Best Phrases to Describe a Beach in Writing

Consider using these phrases to describe the beaches in your stories:

• Waves lapping at the shore
• Blanket of golden sands
• Palm trees swaying gently
• Horizon stretching endlessly
• Colors of the setting sun
• Children building sandcastles
• Echo of distant seagulls
• Soft whisper of the ocean breeze
• Shells scattered like treasures
• Footprints washed away
• Secrets of the deep blue
• Calm before the storm
• A dance of playful dolphins
• Reflection of a crimson sky
• Nature’s perfect canvas
• Dunes shaped by the wind
• Taste of salt on the lips
• Shadows growing longer
• Aromas of beachside grills
• Moonlit silver waters
• Mystery of tidal patterns
• Laughter and beach games
• Sway of coastal grasses
• Rhythms of the coastal life
• Stories the tide brings in
• Gentle embrace of the sea
• Paradise found and lost
• Hideaway for dreamers
• Dance of light on waves
• Sands of time standing still

3 Examples of How to Describe a Beach

Let’s look at three imaginative depictions of beaches, each resonating with the unique essence of its respective genre.

• Romance : The serene beach under the moon’s embrace seemed to whisper tales of ageless romances. The moonlight cast a silvery glow on the quiet beach, where waves serenaded the shores. The sands, cool beneath their feet, became their dance floor. Their hearts resonated with the rhythm of the waves, as they lost themselves in each other’s embrace, amidst the vastness of the ocean.
• Mystery/Thriller : A heavy atmosphere weighed down on the beach, with secrets buried as deep as its oceanic abyss. The beach was eerily silent, save for the relentless pounding of the waves. A thick fog hung low, concealing much of the shore. As Detective Adams approached, the beam from his flashlight revealed a set of footprints, leading into the mysterious abyss of the night.
• Fantasy : To the common eye, it’s a beach. But for those with the sight, The Golden Sands of Elaria were gateways to otherworldly adventures. As dawn broke, the sands sparkled with magic. Mermaids emerged from the turquoise depths, dragons soared above the azure skies, and ancient runes appeared, guiding brave adventurers to hidden realms beneath.

Final Thoughts: How to Describe a Beach in Writing

Describing beaches is truly an ocean of opportunities.

Dive into more treasures by exploring other articles on our site – you never know what pearls of wisdom you’ll unearth!

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AI Teaching App Miteacher.ai Helps Improve Creative Writing Skills

Miteacher.ai is a shining example of innovation, changing the way students get ready for important tests like the 11+ and Year 6 SAT English examinations. The innovative teaching assistant app uses state-of-the-art AI to evaluate, develop, and improve students’ abilities, especially in 11 plus creative writing, which is a critical component of these assessments.

Mi Teacher AI is designed to help students succeed academically by adjusting to the changing needs of educators, parents, and students. Combining advanced AI technology with expert teaching methods, the creative writing tutor provides tailored exercises, personalized analyses, and targeted guidance to enhance writing skills in areas that are commonly identified as challenging, such as those in the 11+ and Year 6 SAT assessments.

Key Features:

Personalized Assessment – Mi Teacher Ai uses sophisticated algorithms to assess students’ 11 plus creative writing abilities, taking into account elements like coherence, language use, and quick compliance. Students receive immediate feedback that helps them improve their writing skills.

Adaptive Training Modules – Offering personalized lessons and practice scenarios, the creative writing tutor adaptive learning modules dynamically adapt to each student's competence level. Mi Teacher AI offers a wide range of writing components essential for success in 11 plus creative writing and Year 6 SAT English tests, from brainstorming strategies to story structure.

Professional Tutoring Support – Miteacher.ai functions as a virtual instructor for creative writing, assisting students with interactive sessions and offering advice on improving. Students can enhance their studies outside of the classroom by having access to an extensive library of teaching materials and educational tools.

Analytics and Development Tracking – The creative writing tutor offers an extensive analytics dashboard that enables parents and teachers to monitor their children’s academic development in real time. Stakeholders are better equipped to assist children when they have access to comprehensive performance indicators that highlight strengths, areas for growth, and milestone accomplishments.

Mi Teacher Ai introduces a transformative solution for students preparing for 11 plus creative writing and Year 6 SAT English assessments. The app helps them access top-notch education and enables every student to reach their creative writing potential through its AI-driven methodology. The AI teaching app has already won praise from early adopters, such as parents, teachers, and students, demonstrating its effectiveness. This teaching app begins a new era in educational excellence by bridging the gap between conventional teaching approaches and technology innovation.

For more details about the innovative AI teaching app, visit https://miteacher.ai/ .

About Mi Teacher AI

An innovative AI teaching assistant app is devoted to helping students improve their creative writing abilities for the 11-plus and Year 6 SATS English assessments. With the use of artificial intelligence, tailored feedback, and professional direction, Mi Teacher AI enables students to achieve success not just in standardized tests but also in other areas.

Media Contact

Mr. James Goldsmith – Mi Teacher Ai

Address: The Old Fire Station, South Street, Great Waltham, CM3 1DF

Phone: (+44) 1245 806351

Website: https://miteacher.ai/

Crunchbase: https://www.crunchbase.com/organization/mi-teacher-ai

Email: [email protected]

newsroom: news.38digitalmarket.com

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