To clear my head I wrote a horror flash fiction, the idea of the past haunting you even at the end of life seemed like a fun little experiment for a short piece. https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2309621-The-Wolf-You-Feed-A-horro... |
What is a story, is it a piece of someone's thought of the day or is it the dreams of the sub-conscience of society as a whole dreaming up countless possibilities to ease an easily bored mind? |
It is an escape from the mundane, worlds where the reader can rejoice with the hero and face the nemesis all in time for dinner. “Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisioned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we're partisans of liberty, then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” ― J.R.R. Tolkien |
"It's just a bunch of stuff that happened." ~Homer Simpson. For a serious answer - at least for my stories - they're simply me trying to make a point by unleashing created characters into an artificial environment that simulates reality closely enough for my point to hold water in the real world. |
I feel like the chimp on the typewriter tonight! I now hate this whole chapter.... “She is a grieving widow, and you don’t even want to see her? “ “would you want to look upon this face and see the ghost of the past staring back at you? A reminder of their failure to raise someone who can lead the human race to the next evolutionary step. |
"one day when the wolves are at your door, what do you do?" some stories are not linear, no matter what happens, the spiral will lead you to its center. exposing the true path that you have been on all along. you might have had a really bad first draft, or maybe the first year drawing. if you persevere you will finally finish what you set out to do! |
Today, is one of those days when I feel like i am just a bad writer, and why bother? but then I think to myself you got a page done today. This thing is going to be eventually written. Slow and steady wins the race. 350 words written is not a lot but we have a totally fun new way to explore in the week to come. |
Every word is a good word. What is written now was not written yesterday. Speed is not the issue, is never the issue. Just writing, getting words down, that's all that matters. One word is better than no words. And you're a step ahead of all those who say they're "gonna" write. You are writing. Keep on going. Doibng well. |
Its a Very rough. this is my first attempt at a longer piece of fiction. :P Echos of our fathers runs deep here. The weight of their boots felt throughout the halls of house Atlas. The statue of lord atlas himself looking across from courtyard guarding the homestead where only Crows and Ghosts remain. The god king himself Muria had suffered a great fate like we all do. Death had washed over him the night before. The corpse of house Atlas was rich for the picking. Crows where gathering on the belfry there feet gripping the edge like a vice not wanting to let go. Launched themselves into the sky searching for the next corpse to gorge themselves on the sweet remains of society. Let them indulge until there full belly pops. House Atlas’s personal noxram priest rovan walked through the archway up the stairs Click clack click his cane hit the stone steps as if they where where announcing the arrival of something grand approaching the halls of god. his purple clock creases running down it looked like he just threw it on. It so very unlike Rovan usually he was a very orderly man. With his giant top hat and his sleek new manticle he got from the libarum for his 20 years of service. Memories echo through these halls children's laughter. a million decrees. Death . All of it under the guise of one man his watch a whole Federation of planets under the leadership of one man. The great awakening freed the mind of the human race there was no more fighting over the most mundane things. You don’t need to choose your leader. Rovan would tell the kids the story of the great awakening almost every fortnight like clockwork. House atlas might be without there patriarch but the offspring remains. Prince urua the oldest. his father ruled over him like with a iron fist. No matter what he did to earn his fathers affection. His efforts where thrown away. Usually his face meeting the staff that he carried when he attended the counsel meetings. There is only one word to describe him he was the disappointing son the one who was lost To the flock. Come my son of perdition we have much to discuss. your mother would love to see you. Why have you been ignoring her? “She is a grieving widow, and you don’t even want to see her? |
There are going to be quite a bit of flashbacks.... just not sure how i am going to go about it with the dual narratives I have going on. when i first started this it started in a weird spot. it would be fine if it was a short story but this thing has grown in the telling. i there is a second POV that I can't wait to flesh out. I really want this thing to have an emotional response from the reader i sat out to write a story on childhood trauma, having a broken character start out in a very weird emotional state my terrible dad is dead. what does society expect of the failure of a prince who doesn't reach the heights of the Father who might be seen to the public as an amazing man of the people but his true face is something else! This has story is going to be very difficult for me to land. right now its setting at 10k words the scary part is that i have no idea how long this thing is going to be i did not set out to write a book,,,, My Goal is to make a story that's Disguisting, Dark, hopefully, makes you cry. But the prophet edgar allan poe must be reinterpreted in weird pretzel ways.my priest of the whales shall sing there endtime song.... Bring the sacred beings to water they shall nurture the soul bring forth your children pass the torch, let your heart bear the burdens of your forefathers the key to all |
Working on a new intro for my book/universe. whatever this thing is. Echos of our fathers runs deep here. The weight of their boots felt throughout the halls of house Atlas. The statue of lord atlas himself looking across from the courtyard guarding the homestead where only Crows and Ghosts remain. The god king himself Muria had suffered a great fate like we all do. Death had washed over him the night before. The corpse of house Atlas was rich for the picking. Crows were gathering on the belfry their feet gripping the edge like a vice not wanting to let go. Launched themselves into the sky searching for the next corpse to gorge themselves on the sweet remains of society. Let them indulge until their full belly pops. |
It feels weird, putting myself out here. my writing like everyone else's on the internet. all the tiny voices calling out from the ether wanting to be read and consumed. you ask yourself why should you the reader care? Maybe you will see the start of someone's career or a very spectacular crash and burn. so watch this space. I hope you find something you like from my badly written stories. something something why do writers have such giant egos? |