*I'll just post a story clip for y'all to build off of (if you want to):*
The wind howled through the canyon like a wild beast that had just lost a limb, forcing Finextra to lean against it to move forwards. Most dragons would have barely noticed the wind, noting it as barely a breeze, but Finextra was young, and no muscle-bound brute; no, she was known for being quick of both mind and body. The light from the twin suns in the sky hit her scales, causing flashes of purple to swirl among the black as she pushed onwards. Just as she nearly ran out of energy, she reached her target - a rock covering overlooking a small village of gnomish origin. The wind stopped completely and suddenly as she smiled, as if that simple act terrified the air itself; the gnomes were celebrating, but soon their cheers would be replaced by screams.
Google Docs? Or you could just write in the post here...
I want it planned out in case I exit out of here
oh
Ye
*Pat pat*
*hmm hmm*
*dreaming up a story as I go to sleep*
*here’s one I wrote for creative writing today — note I was feeling angry when I wrote it*
A Capitalist Christmas
It was nearly twilight, and the gloaming had already begun its trip across the lamplit pavement of New York. As the sun dipped below the horizon, signaling that cold was already approaching, most of the outdoors population — dog-walkers, late runners, and holiday shoppers alike passed the few out-till-witching-hour NYU students that jovially mocked the Salvation Army Santa, reaching down into his collection tin to grab some soon-to-be-beer money while his gaze was fixated upon the clock set above the Rolex shopfront across the street, waiting for quitting-hour. No joy comes in aiding those without anything, am I right? At the same time, the few residents without a home crawled back into their tents, ready to enjoy another dinner as threadbare as their blankets, lay back, and call it a Christmas Eve.
The grandiosity of Times Square quickly diminished, as it usually does at this time — yes, the blaring billboards still stand, a symbol of free Americana — compared against those communists whose giant-screen budget was repurposed for feeding the poor, of course America was a successful country! A whole flock of yellow taxicabs, reminiscent of the chickadees that had not so long ago fled Central Park — to return or for forever? Only those birding groups composed of 40-year-olds who somehow had spare time knew, and their efforts to tell anyone were futile — the only fliers that most people knew by name were pigeons and those metal things that soared from LaGuardia.
Joe Smith was distinguishable — not only a recent addition to the city, straight off the farm in Iowa that he left for the vegetarian celebrity pretenders of the East Coast, but also a tower of a human, standing at six foot seven — something that certainly wasn’t ignored by the younger side of the masses. He was known among his friends for having a patient, calm demeanor — he kind of fit into a stereotype, but a charming one. However, thirty-five minutes later, having advanced maybe ten feet through the spider’s web of Broadway traffic, he lost that patience — slamming the cab door, handing the cabbie a twenty, and then striding away through the endless lanes.
He wandered a while, taking in the streets, letting himself calm down. In no general direction other than <home>, he walked, tracing his path across the gently falling snow while parents ushered children towards laughter and Christmas lights. He grinned, something that even a blind man would still call wistful. This’ll be a fun Christmas, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets. No one with me, not much of anywhere to go — have you seen my place?, and nothing to do. Round of applause, please?
The sudden, loud sound of palm against palm surprised him — but only for a moment; the outdoor TV of a dingy pizza parlor across the street fritzed, sparks gently fizzing as the wind buffeted the open wires. A game show from some time long gone played out upon that screen, Joe watching, sitting on the curb of the desolate alleyway. After a while, one of the contestants eventually won, bright lights flashing across their podium. With a sigh, Joe lifted himself off the curb, across the street, and into the small parlor, ringing up a waiter and asking for a slice and something strong.
The man smiled — the first customer we’ve had today! Of course, the man knew why he couldn’t attract customers, but he needed customers — or a generous bank — to boost sales. He’d even gone to the Federal Reserve Bank down on Liberty Street earlier, hoping that —- and he thought himself rather witty in saying this —- the banks would liberate some of their money to help him out. As you can see, he wasn’t exactly a comedian, and he came back to the restaurant, face downcast, sans any money at all. He could now at least go home, proud of making something, he thought as he shoved the small paper bill into his pocket.
Joe devoured the meager slice of dough, the greasy pizza suffusing him with a small warmth. He placed his head against the table, tired and miserable — as he flicked his hand up for another beer, tears began to trickle down his face.
It’s funny how “no, just one” only needs four more letters to turn into “no, just one more”. And that’s the behavior our hero showcased this night — one after another, draining glass after glass. The bartender’s face went from glum to neutral to positively ecstatic as he watched cash flow from a hand to his hand. Every time he looked over, the dim lights on the small Christmas tree he’d picked up at a whim from a streetside vendor had seemingly brightened — just slightly, but brighter still.
“Closing time!” the bartender announced jovially around two AM, although closing time was usually a bit earlier. With a groan, Joe shoved up, stumbled over to the door, and promptly fell face-first onto the pavement outside. “You need some help there, sir?”
“Nooooooooo…” Joe replied, his voice fragmented, drooping. “I-I’m ooookay…” He got up again, staggering down the block as if he’d been shot.
“Strange young man,” the bartender thought out loud. “A generous one, though.” He turned to leave, but then realized something — “Merry Christmas!” he called to Joe, before plodding off, boots splashing in the puddles of half-melted snow.
Joe wandered once again — no one on the streets now, the lamplight partly illuminating the streets. His head hurt, and he wished he’d brought some Tylenol, something. He wished he could be at home, warm on Christmas, waiting for presents to arrive — but, he reminded himself, there are no presents at home for you. It was hard to form a coherent thought, so he let his legs carry him where they pleased.
And that’s how he ended up, at three-thirty in the morning, standing outside of Macy’s — the world’s largest DEPARTMENT STORE, as a huge banner above the doors read.
Joe peered in the windows, looking at the illuminated, smiling reindeers and elves dancing through a snowy landscape. His thoughts were muddled, but he was glum. Everyone else in New York was happy — ready for Christmas, ready for something. He had nothing.
Something shifted in his mind, some presence moving around in his subconscious. And suddenly, he had something. He had pain, he had red — red, trickling down his face, but he had something. A small, plastic reindeer, gripped tightly in one hand. A loud noise blared, and his head began to ache. He resolved then to get away from the noise.
Scrambling through a maze of cardboard, wires, and glass shards, he crawled his way out of the display — they couldn’t find him in the window; they’d have to catch him. He leaped onto the floor with a crash, beginning to run through racks of clothes, looking for some sort of solace, an oasis from the noise.
His brain was atrophying during this — twisting in his head, doing gymnastics inside his cranium — ramming against the bones of his skull. His head flared with pain, and he let out a wrenching scream. He ran into the wall, fumbling, scrabbling, eyes closed, until he found something — a doorknob. He wrenched it open, fell inside a broom closet.
That’s where they found him, eyes rolled up, unconscious — splayed across a pile of brooms. Two policemen sighed, facepalmed in unison, and then frog-marched Joe out of the store, one talking hurriedly on the phone to other emergency forces. As they drove off, Joe snoring soundly in the back of the car, they looked at each other and laughed.
“Every Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you you all are the best people I know — thank you coming forth to rebehold the stars extended sig here, check it out!
*I'll just post a story clip for y'all to build off of (if you want to):*
The wind howled through the canyon like a wild beast that had just lost a limb, forcing Finextra to lean against it to move forwards. Most dragons would have barely noticed the wind, noting it as barely a breeze, but Finextra was young, and no muscle-bound brute; no, she was known for being quick of both mind and body. The light from the twin suns in the sky hit her scales, causing flashes of purple to swirl among the black as she pushed onwards. Just as she nearly ran out of energy, she reached her target - a rock covering overlooking a small village of gnomish origin. The wind stopped completely and suddenly as she smiled, as if that simple act terrified the air itself; the gnomes were celebrating, but soon their cheers would be replaced by screams.
*spoooooooky*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you you all are the best people I know — thank you coming forth to rebehold the stars extended sig here, check it out!
*posting here both to boink it and to remind myself of it later*
Haha! Glad to see you around these parts, pardner!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you you all are the best people I know — thank you coming forth to rebehold the stars extended sig here, check it out!
*I'll just post a story clip for y'all to build off of (if you want to):*
The wind howled through the canyon like a wild beast that had just lost a limb, forcing Finextra to lean against it to move forwards. Most dragons would have barely noticed the wind, noting it as barely a breeze, but Finextra was young, and no muscle-bound brute; no, she was known for being quick of both mind and body. The light from the twin suns in the sky hit her scales, causing flashes of purple to swirl among the black as she pushed onwards. Just as she nearly ran out of energy, she reached her target - a rock covering overlooking a small village of gnomish origin. The wind stopped completely and suddenly as she smiled, as if that simple act terrified the air itself; the gnomes were celebrating, but soon their cheers would be replaced by screams.
*spoooooooky*
*This may be a slightly edited version of something I wrote for a creative writing assignment (a low-scale one).*
*I'll just post a story clip for y'all to build off of (if you want to):*
The wind howled through the canyon like a wild beast that had just lost a limb, forcing Finextra to lean against it to move forwards. Most dragons would have barely noticed the wind, noting it as barely a breeze, but Finextra was young, and no muscle-bound brute; no, she was known for being quick of both mind and body. The light from the twin suns in the sky hit her scales, causing flashes of purple to swirl among the black as she pushed onwards. Just as she nearly ran out of energy, she reached her target - a rock covering overlooking a small village of gnomish origin. The wind stopped completely and suddenly as she smiled, as if that simple act terrified the air itself; the gnomes were celebrating, but soon their cheers would be replaced by screams.
*spoooooooky*
*This may be a slightly edited version of something I wrote for a creative writing assignment (a low-scale one).*
*Hey, it’s still cool!*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you you all are the best people I know — thank you coming forth to rebehold the stars extended sig here, check it out!
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*I'll just post a story clip for y'all to build off of (if you want to):*
The wind howled through the canyon like a wild beast that had just lost a limb, forcing Finextra to lean against it to move forwards. Most dragons would have barely noticed the wind, noting it as barely a breeze, but Finextra was young, and no muscle-bound brute; no, she was known for being quick of both mind and body. The light from the twin suns in the sky hit her scales, causing flashes of purple to swirl among the black as she pushed onwards. Just as she nearly ran out of energy, she reached her target - a rock covering overlooking a small village of gnomish origin. The wind stopped completely and suddenly as she smiled, as if that simple act terrified the air itself; the gnomes were celebrating, but soon their cheers would be replaced by screams.
My head's underwater
but I'm breathing fine
You're crazy
And I'm out of my mind
Extended Signature: (^v^)
*hmm hmm*
*dreaming up a story as I go to sleep*
*here’s one I wrote for creative writing today — note I was feeling angry when I wrote it*
A Capitalist Christmas
It was nearly twilight, and the gloaming had already begun its trip across the lamplit pavement of New York. As the sun dipped below the horizon, signaling that cold was already approaching, most of the outdoors population — dog-walkers, late runners, and holiday shoppers alike passed the few out-till-witching-hour NYU students that jovially mocked the Salvation Army Santa, reaching down into his collection tin to grab some soon-to-be-beer money while his gaze was fixated upon the clock set above the Rolex shopfront across the street, waiting for quitting-hour. No joy comes in aiding those without anything, am I right? At the same time, the few residents without a home crawled back into their tents, ready to enjoy another dinner as threadbare as their blankets, lay back, and call it a Christmas Eve.
The grandiosity of Times Square quickly diminished, as it usually does at this time — yes, the blaring billboards still stand, a symbol of free Americana — compared against those communists whose giant-screen budget was repurposed for feeding the poor, of course America was a successful country! A whole flock of yellow taxicabs, reminiscent of the chickadees that had not so long ago fled Central Park — to return or for forever? Only those birding groups composed of 40-year-olds who somehow had spare time knew, and their efforts to tell anyone were futile — the only fliers that most people knew by name were pigeons and those metal things that soared from LaGuardia.
Joe Smith was distinguishable — not only a recent addition to the city, straight off the farm in Iowa that he left for the vegetarian celebrity pretenders of the East Coast, but also a tower of a human, standing at six foot seven — something that certainly wasn’t ignored by the younger side of the masses. He was known among his friends for having a patient, calm demeanor — he kind of fit into a stereotype, but a charming one. However, thirty-five minutes later, having advanced maybe ten feet through the spider’s web of Broadway traffic, he lost that patience — slamming the cab door, handing the cabbie a twenty, and then striding away through the endless lanes.
He wandered a while, taking in the streets, letting himself calm down. In no general direction other than <home>, he walked, tracing his path across the gently falling snow while parents ushered children towards laughter and Christmas lights. He grinned, something that even a blind man would still call wistful. This’ll be a fun Christmas, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets. No one with me, not much of anywhere to go — have you seen my place?, and nothing to do. Round of applause, please?
The sudden, loud sound of palm against palm surprised him — but only for a moment; the outdoor TV of a dingy pizza parlor across the street fritzed, sparks gently fizzing as the wind buffeted the open wires. A game show from some time long gone played out upon that screen, Joe watching, sitting on the curb of the desolate alleyway. After a while, one of the contestants eventually won, bright lights flashing across their podium. With a sigh, Joe lifted himself off the curb, across the street, and into the small parlor, ringing up a waiter and asking for a slice and something strong.
The man smiled — the first customer we’ve had today! Of course, the man knew why he couldn’t attract customers, but he needed customers — or a generous bank — to boost sales. He’d even gone to the Federal Reserve Bank down on Liberty Street earlier, hoping that —- and he thought himself rather witty in saying this —- the banks would liberate some of their money to help him out. As you can see, he wasn’t exactly a comedian, and he came back to the restaurant, face downcast, sans any money at all. He could now at least go home, proud of making something, he thought as he shoved the small paper bill into his pocket.
Joe devoured the meager slice of dough, the greasy pizza suffusing him with a small warmth. He placed his head against the table, tired and miserable — as he flicked his hand up for another beer, tears began to trickle down his face.
It’s funny how “no, just one” only needs four more letters to turn into “no, just one more”. And that’s the behavior our hero showcased this night — one after another, draining glass after glass. The bartender’s face went from glum to neutral to positively ecstatic as he watched cash flow from a hand to his hand. Every time he looked over, the dim lights on the small Christmas tree he’d picked up at a whim from a streetside vendor had seemingly brightened — just slightly, but brighter still.
“Closing time!” the bartender announced jovially around two AM, although closing time was usually a bit earlier. With a groan, Joe shoved up, stumbled over to the door, and promptly fell face-first onto the pavement outside. “You need some help there, sir?”
“Nooooooooo…” Joe replied, his voice fragmented, drooping. “I-I’m ooookay…” He got up again, staggering down the block as if he’d been shot.
“Strange young man,” the bartender thought out loud. “A generous one, though.” He turned to leave, but then realized something — “Merry Christmas!” he called to Joe, before plodding off, boots splashing in the puddles of half-melted snow.
Joe wandered once again — no one on the streets now, the lamplight partly illuminating the streets. His head hurt, and he wished he’d brought some Tylenol, something. He wished he could be at home, warm on Christmas, waiting for presents to arrive — but, he reminded himself, there are no presents at home for you. It was hard to form a coherent thought, so he let his legs carry him where they pleased.
And that’s how he ended up, at three-thirty in the morning, standing outside of Macy’s — the world’s largest DEPARTMENT STORE, as a huge banner above the doors read.
Joe peered in the windows, looking at the illuminated, smiling reindeers and elves dancing through a snowy landscape. His thoughts were muddled, but he was glum. Everyone else in New York was happy — ready for Christmas, ready for something. He had nothing.
Something shifted in his mind, some presence moving around in his subconscious. And suddenly, he had something. He had pain, he had red — red, trickling down his face, but he had something. A small, plastic reindeer, gripped tightly in one hand. A loud noise blared, and his head began to ache. He resolved then to get away from the noise.
Scrambling through a maze of cardboard, wires, and glass shards, he crawled his way out of the display — they couldn’t find him in the window; they’d have to catch him. He leaped onto the floor with a crash, beginning to run through racks of clothes, looking for some sort of solace, an oasis from the noise.
His brain was atrophying during this — twisting in his head, doing gymnastics inside his cranium — ramming against the bones of his skull. His head flared with pain, and he let out a wrenching scream. He ran into the wall, fumbling, scrabbling, eyes closed, until he found something — a doorknob. He wrenched it open, fell inside a broom closet.
That’s where they found him, eyes rolled up, unconscious — splayed across a pile of brooms. Two policemen sighed, facepalmed in unison, and then frog-marched Joe out of the store, one talking hurriedly on the phone to other emergency forces. As they drove off, Joe snoring soundly in the back of the car, they looked at each other and laughed.
“Every Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch
The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator
join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you
you all are the best people I know — thank you
coming forth to rebehold the stars
extended sig here, check it out!
*spoooooooky*
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch
The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator
join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you
you all are the best people I know — thank you
coming forth to rebehold the stars
extended sig here, check it out!
*posting here both to boink it and to remind myself of it later*
Hello! I am a perfectly sane gibberer. Hi! :D
Locations are dead, the Temple of Potassium has fallen but its ideals live on
A mysterious link of chain... (Extended signature). PRAISE JEFF THE EVIL ROOMBA! REALLY cool video.
One of the Warlock Patrons on the forums. Low, low price of your soul, firstborn child and liver!
Titles: The Echoing Story Spewer (Drummer), the Endless Maws (Isis), the Mad Murderer (PJ), more on my extended sig
Haha! Glad to see you around these parts, pardner!
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch
The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator
join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you
you all are the best people I know — thank you
coming forth to rebehold the stars
extended sig here, check it out!
*This may be a slightly edited version of something I wrote for a creative writing assignment (a low-scale one).*
My head's underwater
but I'm breathing fine
You're crazy
And I'm out of my mind
Extended Signature: (^v^)
*Hey, it’s still cool!*
wes (he/him, bi) — DM, romantic, a little bit eldritch
The Soft in the Storm, your Friendly Neighborhood Storysmith, The Fae Conspirator
join the new story-writing thread please I beg of you
you all are the best people I know — thank you
coming forth to rebehold the stars
extended sig here, check it out!