If you are not confident with your writing and you feel like you need to practise on your creative writing then just find a random picture and make a story about it. Here are some pictures with numbers, in the replies, say which picture you are choosing and then write your heart out, remeber to give it a title and relatable characters [if needed] Let us get Started. Number One. Number Two. Number Three. Number Four. Number Five. Number Six. Number Seven. Number Eight. Number Nine. Number Ten.
Here's an Example of what I mean- Number Five: The sound of the pelting rain had died down for a moment, making all other noises rise. Stark looked around for her, unaware of what had happened, a figure came into sight that seemed to be lying down onto the wet mud, he began to jog over to its destination. A layer of Ginger hair was at the top of the figure, his eyes had immediately filled up with tears of emotion, he got to his knee's, not caring about how dirty his trousers would get. It was Sophie. Her body lay pale next to his lap, loud cries had risen from his mouth, he pulled up her body and rested it against his-- That was obviously not the full story but it is the beginning of what i mean with writing your own 'short stories' on this post, if you enjoy this, send feedback and i might post more [you can write about more than one picture, -Bye.
By the way, I just want to say that this a pretty good idea! Here's mine, though this is on such a quick whim! Highly unpolished, but hey Number 7 (let's just imagine the picture has a somewhat darker tone) "A Hunter must be fearless," they said. Marthine walks through the deep snow, his boots clawing its path towards the bay in the horizon, piercing the frost with his spear in each step. The place tempts him with a harsh nostalgia. It always has, but in this dark, November sunset, he feels numb. He could no longer smell the burning Ashwood, nor the stench of cold, spilled blood. He fails to identify the names that the buried, frozen corpses around him once possessed. He could not even remember his parents' names, for it was an abandoned memory. He cannot even remember how the screams of the townsfolk sound, only that of the beasts', the demons' and their desperate, crazed shrieks. Not even of his first heartbreak, nor his last love. "Purpose and strength - a hunter's greatest weapons," they said. A mere haze of memories now remain, bleak and fond, but fogged, nonetheless. The nightmares have long been forgotten, but the purpose it forged burns on, and the will it strengthened persists. Fate gave him those weapons, and it brought him to a path of honor and blood. A path forsaken, and feared. The path of a hunter. The path of a slayer. The path of a Vigilant of the Mother. The path of a monster. "Only a monster hunts, only a monster kills," they said. For a demon sleeps within us all, one of savagery and evil. One of love. He has reached the bay. In front of him stands a memory revived and made clear again. Cissei was still so beautiful. Her skin is of a paler white, and her teeth even more so. Her hair has withered, but her eyes were the same as the day he met her. Blue, grey, purple, a mysterious hue pools her irises with a crying madness. She even put on some weight, Marthine jokes to himself. "A heart must be numb to stand unwavering," they said. It was a dogma to him. It was a sacred philosophy. It was this that fans his flames, his dying embers. It was what fueled his now broken purpose. What was his purpose in the first place? He cannot remember even that. Time has toned his body, has honed his skills, has hardened his heart, has made his purpose dim. Was it for Justice? Or for Retribution? For redemption? Or for blood lust? Cissei screams and shrieks, desperate and crazed, the same way the beasts did countless years ago. His eyes grow keen, his senses heighten. Marthine pulls out his spear and wields it with unfailing familiarity. The hunter will hunt. The monster will kill. His memory is fazed. His purpose is unsure. His flames are flickering. Yet his will endures. His love for Cissei prevails, but his heart- His heart. He has only realized the brutal reality now. "A hunter must be heartless," he said.
Wow, Theoneandonly That.. was amazing i really liked how you used your minor sentences and thankyou so much for agreeing that it is good idea, i think so too. Just one question: What is the Title of that Great Short Story?
I don't really know what to put as a title. Maybe in the near days, I'll come up with one But hey, thanks! Very flattering to hear that.
Reply to Picture #2, "Almost Home" I did not want to leave you. I wanted to stay with your hand in mine. I wanted your the warmth of your companionship in close proximity. I wanted you. You held on to me. You held on to my every word. Regardless of the tone or intent, you welcomed my utterances. You wanted to hear my voice. You wanted to listen to my heart. And you heard plenty. You wanted me. But the officer in command needed you, too. I sensed the tension, I saw the tearing, I felt the growing sensation to let you go. But this I did not want. Instead, I wanted to go up to the person in charge and speak my mind-- in a way that would signal his looming defeat. But I did not do this, because you left to help. I wanted you, but your desire burned another direction. You went out, at about 7, when the last star melted into the sun's light. And that's when I thought I lost you, as your back cast a shadow on my wanting frame. That's when I saw a friend leave a stranger, to be a soldier for a worthy cause. But me? I stood, until I could not carry my pain. I fell to the dirt. I cried, because I wanted you. Seasons passed, mornings grew warmer without you and nights began to look bright-- even without your countenance, the one which held my favor a few years back. I was singing, in fact, and not a thought was owed you. "Going on, moving up; letting go, and growing up. That's what nature was made to do. That's how I created you." I sang to my child, as I teased him before his first day of class. The day went on. I arrived at my job. I breezed through my work, that of copy-righter. I heard the fellows crack jokes, some to my distaste. But that was only because my mouth was Captain to their "sailors' talk." After sitting unimpressed, enduring their mediocre melodies, I barely opened my mouth to flat-line their feeble attempts, as they would soon be entangled in awe. And this might have happened, except there was a phone from my boss, actual boss. "You, you are not going to believe who is coming to town!" It was my significant other. It was the one who received my love, and kept it. "He survived?" I could not make my mind join the information given. I could not allow my heart to swell, only to have it again deflate at his will. I could not let Cassius learn of his thought-to-be-dead father. "But I must!" I convinced myself. And so, that evening, I readied myself for, dare I say, my man. Denial aside, I wanted him. "Does he want me?" I wondered. There, in the offbeat place of morning, that time when even roosters sleep-- I saw him. I saw the man who'd trusted guidance of a male, compared to the cries of my heart. I wanted him, and though choice and years separated, I ran to accept his love. And he did offer it! I saw him running, raising his hands up, calling my name, and drawing closer. That was before the arrow, however. He was not calling for my hug. He was seeking a medic. He wanted someone else. So I left him... just as he left me... weak, falling to Earth. The End
