WRITERS' CORNER discussion

editing. under construction.

So just a tiny workshop for me to showcase some snippets and small storylines - pretty much everything that's done but not really.

inspired by one of this group's challenges ;

To me, it's a scientist's diary with the world's secrets written in ink inside it. To him, it's the one and only holy bible which must be protected at all costs, even if it means sacrificing himself to Hell's darkest flames and an eternity of darkness, torture and pain that can make the Devil itself cry and run to its mommy. He treats it like it's god. Well, maybe it's worth that title. It probably has churches built for itself. Haha, yeah. Very funny, Natalia.

No, it doesn't have churches built for itself. But it has thousands of people, millions even, happy to die for it. I am not one of that stupid cult. And maybe that's why it's a bad idea to leave the precious embodiment of god with me. I mean, even a young man with a twisted leg and bleeding skull would protect it with more passion than I would. If anybody were to pounce on me right now, I would slap them with the diary and then run for my life.

Oh, and I would leave the diary with them, because that's what they want, right? I'm not in the mood to be skinned for this pathetic diary's jacket.

But it's god. And you know what gods are. Charismatic people that will change your opinion of them and make you their faithful servant the moment their pretty butts are exposed to danger. Right now, god is a tattered diary stashed in my bag which could possibly save my father and brother if I hand it to the right people. So hey, guess what. I'm going to bleed out anyone who tries to lay their dirty hands on it. Not that my hands will be any cleaner once I'm done.

Joshua has a twisted leg and a bleeding skull. I have a dagger and a diary. They have an assortment of daggers and knives and - hold up - does that guy have a gun? Praise the diary, it's just a spear. The two of us? We can take them on anytime. And I'm talking about me and my dagger.

I shoot Joshua a glance and he closes his eyes. He's going to play dead while I sneak up behind those two soldiers and slit their necks. Such a great plan. I stand and stuff the diary into one of the vases on my way out the window. In a workshop full of those vases, it'd take some time for them to find it as they raid the place and strip it of everything precious. Which means they won't touch Joshua - they'll assume they aren't the first to raid this place. And they aren't, really. The come in second to me and Joshua.

I climb up the back of the workshop as they kick open the front door. I hear vases being tossed to the ground and shattered. Good boys. I race across the roof as silently as I can, even though they probably wouldn't hear my footsteps over the sound of vases shattering. Nosy raiders are stupid raiders. I reach the edge of the roof and find one of the raiders standing there keeping guard. Not so stupid after all. Before he looks up, I swing down and tackle him. My legs wrap around his neck and I stab him where his larynx is, just like my father taught me.

His blood spills. And soon after his friend's will, too. See this diary? This god? It makes people do evil things.

inspired by fall out boy songs ;

Her heart was an instrument and her blood was music, thrumming in her veins, singing warnings of oblivion. Every pulse, every hastened heartbeat, was another note to the musical composition of her destruction, recorded by thin green lines - as thin as her fingers - on an unforgiving black screen. Fear began to consume her, seizing her heart and delaying the next due note, injecting as many gaping pauses into her music as they did with the bitter elixirs they believed would save her.

But nobody could save a broken heart or tie the fragile, snapped strings of a violin back together and expect it to ever be the same. Nothing, neither potion nor pill, could mend the broken fingers of a musician or coax any music back into her soul once the thrumming - so full of life - died and was replaced by cold silence. It was a state where no soul deserved to be, and where nothing should be able to send anything to.

Nothing but a whispered, soulful promise from the lips of a liar.

inspired by anterograde tomorrow ;

Maybe it's the moments that feel so normal that it makes them special and precious. Maybe it's them that make you grab a pen and scratch it against paper, leaving marks of secrets that are too secret to be known, all that are sewn in thin, almost invisible, threads, to the significantly insignificant moments that make you feel something.

Maybe that's the only thing you can do. Leave marks. Before the sky turns dark, the streets become emptier and the city falls asleep. Before night takes everything under its wing and paints your world black again.

-

You start with black paper. Because the better things are much brighter in the dark.

Black paper and bright colours. They remind you of the night sky and stars. They remind you of you. Because you are like the night sky, a deep dark abyss littered with good deeds and memories, all of which flicker and die out when the time comes.

When night arrives and the day is forgotten.

These are all great Al, you should think about continuing them. Personally the last one is my favorite, I'm not sure how you would continue it, but I would definitely read it if you did.