An idea for a supernatural fantasy/horror:
Memories never die
What if memories, especially bad ones, could reanimate and come back as current experiences?
An idea for a supernatural fantasy/horror:
Memories never die
What if memories, especially bad ones, could reanimate and come back as current experiences?
Drop a pebble into still water and the energy of displacement radiates out in concentric waves of increasing circumference and proportionately decreasing intensity. That sounds so scientific, doesn’t it? That image occurred to me while lying in bed with my dog pressed against my chest. We live alone now, just “Bubba” and me, and although we have friends, relatives, business and social acquaintances, I began to wonder who might miss us when the inevitable time comes. The ripples my life has generated in the continuum of space and time, as explicated by the waves in the gentle pool, are spreading wider and wider, and are decreasing in their crest and trough. At some point their significance will likely diminish to the point of imperceptibility. Will anyone remember? Continue reading
After much contemplation, I have decided to address a topic that garners a significant amount of negative response and argument, mostly due to a complete misunderstanding of the facts. Yes, I am going to explain the importance of outlining a work of fiction before you start writing. Don’t hate me yet, let me explain. Continue reading
Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, or last week, last year, whatever, I woke up feeling really low and decided I didn’t care anymore. I reached for that mythical tether, that thread of sanity so important to steady one’s feet near that perilous edge of the intellectual and emotional abyss called depression; my tether was gone. Think about it, there are ten thousand reasons to feel hopeless in your God forsaken world, but as I once believed, it takes only one pseudo-sapient purpose to maintain that inane delusion that your life, your talent, your avocation might be a worthwhile pursuit. I reached and my tether was no longer there. The curser blinked on a blank screen: no words, no ideas, no meaning, not a single syllable gleaned from all the words of my studied vocabulary would follow my fingers to paper. I had nothing left to say, and no one seemed willing to listen. So I quit!
Yes, I know this alley smells like urine, well, maybe that and rancid garbage; I don’t really care. I didn’t invite you, if you want to go, go. I got two bottles and enough change to buy a third if I need it. This smell isn’t uncomfortable to me. People, now they are the great offense to my senses. I hate what I call, regular people. I hate it when I see them with their shallow laughs and empty smiles. No depth, no comprehension, no intuition; nothing is worse than an empty skull. I am talking about illiterate people who think they know about life, but everything they know is external and there is nothing on the inside. Most people are like poorly written books: A pretty cover luring your wallet while remunerated blurbs distract the eyes from the vulgar excuse for language inside. Twain called himself a misanthrope; now that would be a book club I could join.
I bought this wine at Kenny’s Mart across the way; I didn’t even have to speak to that ugly, pierced, tattooed cashier. I doubt Mary would remember me; she once was a brief $20.00 date when I needed one. Now she collects soiled money from soiled bodies that shun orthodox society and bide our time in drunken shadows while our meager insignificance fades to nothing. This is the caliginous part of town where the morose, cabalistic people come and spend our nights in the sanctity of darkened alleyways. We are not a lost people; we know where we are and why we are here. When I handed the cashier my crumpled money, I watched a lucid thought roll across the dimmed horizons of my mind: Would these two bottles give me any more satisfaction than the old whore’s mouth once did? I almost smiled. I collected my change without eye contact and retreated from the harsh light of my reality.
It’s okay, we can sit here. This doorway is safe; it’s deserted. It was once the kitchen entrance to some Italian ristorante or bistro or something, back when this was a better part of town. I ate here once. There are no restaurants in this neighborhood anymore. If your stomach can hold food, there’s a mission up that way about two blocks. They’ll make you pray for dinner. I don’t remember how to pray, or who to pray to, so when I get hungry, I just buy more wine.
You want some of this? I don’t mind; I’ll share, but then you are going to have to walk over and get some more from Mother Mary, or whatever she is calling herself these days. Do me a favor though, don’t shop by price. Get something with a little palate. There are some things I miss about my old life.
What are you doing here anyway? Are you another writer doing one of those “Where Are They Now” series? Investigating to see if I’m following in the footsteps of the 20th century masters? Yeah, well I did; I’m a sot, too, okay?
There was a time when people called me an intellectual, but you knew that already. Did you know there were some who called me professor? A few even called me a great writer once, but only a few. Believe me I worked hard at writing. I wrote stuff that I thought would matter; apparently, it didn’t. I argued with publishers and the literati that the universal interest in the written word was not dead. I crusaded for years on campuses and in libraries to start a renaissance of culture and education through literature. I even tried to pen a new version of The Confidence Man, just to thumb my nose at the snooty readers of pulp. It worked for me almost as well as it worked for Melville. I couldn’t bring myself to write the sophomoric crap the public wanted, not for the sake of a paycheck. I languished in mediocre toils to write while refusing to compromise my education and talent for something as unredeeming as currency. My riches, I wanted to believe, were banked in the words I wrote.
I blame a lot on our television society. Give the public twenty-two minutes of meaningless dialogue and keep their attention long enough to get to the next commercial break. No complex plot, no instructive tutelage, no metaphoric allusion, just instant distraction; no mind required. A pathetic brain-washing, which billions of people are willing to subject themselves to nightly. And can we blame the emerging writer? Why spend time honing a craft, studying the greats, embedding thought, acculturation, and morals into a script when a thousand actors and directors, barely competent enough for a community theater, are willing to take anything and put it on film so that advertisers can defile the sensibilities of their mind-numbed consumers. Who cares if the script is without flavor or substance, the writer has earned a byline. Some might call that fame, but fame and pride are rarely compatible.
Please don’t tell me you write for some cheesy e-zine.
Yes, then came the web. The Internet ruined literature. In the old days, you could walk into any brick-and-mortar book store and find a thousand horribly written books, but at least you could be confident that some talentless editor and desperate publisher read the damn thing before subjecting the public to its content. Now, any hack with half an imagination can string a few sentences together and quote unquote, publish their tripe to an e-book. They are today’s published elite. Ha, some even call themselves authors.
Jaded? Yes, I’m jaded. I’ve lived long enough to have earned that title. I once had a shoebox with eighteen rejection letters to every piece I ever published. What do these new writers have?
Yes, I am sure there are some well written e-books floating around out there, but I would bet you another bottle of wine that you would have better luck winning a million dollars with a scratch-off lottery ticket than finding a masterpiece in the dollar section of e-book titles.
There is no intentional mastery anymore. No one writes in depth and then rereads, revises, edits and rewrites anymore. In today’s publishing world all that is needed is a cursory spellcheck, format and upload. I have had the misfortune of reading some that even skipped the spellcheck. Most of the billions of books out there contain no suggestion of the discipline of writing. How can an author be an author when they know nothing about syntax, punctuation, allusion, continuity, complementary word choice, symbolism or plot structure? Conflict, crisis, resolution? Hell, they would think I was talking about the six o’clock news. They claim their readers want Middle Earth and sorcery or sex charged characters bent on overly descriptive orgasms and violently jealous passions, but what they really mean is that is what they know how to write and everything else takes too much effort. Ask today’s writer about man’s inhumanity to man, the consequence of actions, and internal tumult? You know what they would say, how is it in internet lingo, WTF? Why struggle with the technical aspects when the goal is to show something written to other people? Like I said, fame and pride are inherently opposite.
It’s a shame, but as I have grown old, my world has gone the way of The Langoliers, and it isn’t even Four Past Midnight yet. Flaubert, Nabokov, and Kafka: they are no longer great teachers or the quintessential paradigm. Their names are now obscure references in the SparkNotes needed to pass the requisite high school English courses. It is unfortunate, but if you attempted to strike up a conversation with one of today’s authors on Queequeg’s juxtaposition to Christian hypocrisy, or von Aschenbach’s struggle with gender identity, or Edna Pontellier’s ill-timed advancement of female sexual liberation, you would draw vacuous responses from all but the fewest of those who consider themselves writers. But ask that same aggregation about The Bachelorette or The Big Bang Theory and you would likely get a diatribe of worthless, non-humanizing episodic recounts. Television is the new art of storytelling, and that my friend, is sad.
You are making me sober. Open another bottle, would you?
We’ve lost so much since William Faulkner’s time. How did he so elegantly phrase it back in 1950? “The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself, which alone can make good writing, because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.” Nothing has changed since the mid-century, it has only gotten worse.
The world of literature has faded like yesterday’s sunset. Today, writers get criticized for symbolism, multifarious vocabulary and allusions of every ilk. I once had a student complain that my writing was too complex; it made him have to think! Oh, my God, what have those study guides done to the classics. I feel nothing but pity for those who wish to read and write without using their minds.
A story is not just a story. There is so much more than a beginning, middle, and an end. A story is the writer’s antidote to mortality; his chance to exist in perpetuity. But for a writer to live on, the story must leave the reader with something to ponder after the book is closed, something the reader wishes to share with others, something to learn about himself and about society. That takes work, that takes discipline, and that takes time. No one wants to work at writing when they can easily point to their bibliography of unread, self-published titles and proclaim a legacy.
Yesterday is now a distant past. I have too much pride to live in this world, to count myself among the self-chosen throngs of penmen. I don’t know if I will be read after I am gone; I am content to know that while the opportunities still existed, I wrote with the discipline I learned from the masters. I guess that will be my eulogy. These young kids today, I don’t know what they’re going to say when it’s time for them to lie in their alleyways.
Yesterday, yesterday, yesterday… The world has changed, my purpose is fading, and I am so very tired from my unappreciated pursuit. My dying wish is that somewhere, huddled over a desk, there is another young, strong, writer who has learned that writing is more than putting words on paper. It is building the foundations of society, behavior and truth. I am spent, but I still have faith. I let you come here with me tonight because my chase is over. Maybe this thing you are doing will inspire some scribe to avail themselves of a college course. Maybe they will be tempted by the glorious words of those who preceded him. I hope so; just because I have given up, it does not mean society has to lose.
I never asked you if you read. Do you? It will make you a better writer, hell, it will make you a better person. The world needs more readers.
If in your travels, you come across some wayward writer full of learned ambition, please don’t let him read your “Where Are They Now” piece. Let him find his own way, mine didn’t work.
I’m so tired. I wish you the best young man. Find something to believe in and never compromise. Even now, as the stars begin to alight on my soul, I am proud I never gave in. For what it is worth, I still believe and I guess I still care after all.
You should leave now.
If you don’t mind, leave that other bottle.
It’s going to be cold tonight.
Evidence of Death. To the television crime show trained eye of young Benjamin, the stain was definitely blood. Jack and Mikey argued that it was the wrong color, and besides, “If it were blood, then why ain’t there no body, no foot prints, no drag marks.” The boys never put two and two together, if they had, the fate of Flatwater might have turned out differently.
The secret of the roustabout. It was the largest fair in the South, a melding of every other county fair in the region. The roustabouts worked around the clock assembling rides, doing safety checks and decorating the promenade. Until the fair closed, there would be no time for parties, tomfoolery or socializing with the locals. But Brent, the newest crewman, had a secret.
The Chalice Run is an oddity unique to the people of Houston County. No one knows or truly remembers when or why it started. Some of the oldest families in the hills believe it is Continue reading
This first one is a “think outside the box” type of post. Leave aside your phobic fears or killing instincts, and look for the story within, i.e. a malevolent and purposeful placement, an omen, a supernatural event, or explore from the non-human POV.
Remember to submit your work to be showcased here on the Gallery. It does not have to be motivated by these or any previous prompts. Adrianna and I are only looking to spur your imagination and cultivate your talents.
The Great Smoky Mountains took the last assault from the far north in stride and wore their dusting of powdered sugar with more pride than disdain. The weather prognosticators had warned of the approaching front; gardeners and nursery workers throughout the region scurried to protect the tender spring blooms, potted ornamentals and starter vegetables. The orchard tenders, those guardians of our delicious Autumn fruit, irrigated and fanned the tiny pink and purple flowers hoping with worry and dread that there would be no recurrence of the “year of no apples.” The feral critters of the woods took to their burrows and lairs; the flocks of avian songsters found refuse from the bitter winds in the eaves of rustic barns and in sheltered rocky crags; the domestic cattle, chickens, turkeys, donkeys and geese were all stowed with love by their kind custodian, the farmer. Quaint chimneys exhaled aromatic wisps while the townsfolk sipped mugs of hot cocoa or tea. Higher in the hills and deeper in the forest the scene would have been similar, but the sipping would be from Mason jars and the beverage, White Lightning.
It seemed as all Haywood County was hunkered down for this last winter storm.
As is typical for a late season storm, it blew in and blew out in less than 24 hours. By late afternoon of the day after, nowhere except on the faraway highest peaks was there any signs of snow, ice or the recent incursion by Old Man Winter. The storm was gone and the energy of the mountains once again turned to the greening of Spring.
From the front deck of my house, in the winter, while the trees are barren, I can see, far below, the county road that accesses the private lane up to this secluded ridge. As the season warms and the deciduous dendritic fingers push new tendrils out, the road becomes obscured to my view; it was a reversal in this annual refashioning that preempted my attention as I sipped my morning coffee yesterday, enjoying the early morning vista. I heard a distant engine and watched as one of the farm hands arrived at work. It was a troubling revelation that I could once again see approaching vehicles. In preparation for our recent freeze, it seems no one had warned our arboreal neighbors. The tender new leaves on the highest branches, those harbingers of the verdant spring, now drooped like the dry brown tears of a mourning mother. Her energy spent on the new growth wasted, the grandmotherly hemlock that resides near the front of my home, now has a sad and defeated look that touches me deep in my soul.
I don’t know if these trees will attempt resuscitate the vestiges of their recent proud array or shed them to make room for some as yet unborn buds. Mother Nature, in her often aloof and harsh benevolence, will nurture her children with a divine lenity that no mere mortal could ever understand. As an example, many of her less statuesque forest stock were shielded by their altitudinous parents and their new growth is still intact. Yes, the seasonal change has arrived in these mountains, and even in light of our late winter storm, let no one doubt the Spring Green. It is a wondrous time to live in the Smokys.
There is a sleepy hamlet several miles across the valley from my mountain lair. This morning as I sipped my coffee in the first few minutes of daylight, I thought what wondrous stories must lie in those simple cottages and tiny abodes. A tourist to these mountains might stand in awe at the innocent beauty of that distant community with its churches, backyards, and quaint porches, but I am a writer, and I see those opaque real life images as fodder for my next story.
Much of life is admittedly mundane with scarce moments of real drama, humor, terror, evil and pain, yet it is these ignoble human instincts that drive fiction. Somewhere in that congregation of modest dwellings there is a child crying, hungry for breakfast not yet served by an inattentive parent, a spouse deep in the degradation and self-loathing of infidelity, a couple enrapt in the passion of their new marriage ignorant of what lies ahead in the near future, another couple in utter desperation for the lack of financial stability, one woman hagridden with illogical hatred, and a hapless man bedeviled with impossible lust. But what makes me smile with anticipation is that within each of these malefic scenarios there are also those succulent yet purely human subtleties of maleficence, self-deceit, murderous urges, ironic twists, plots of sweet revenge, spiritual absolution, and apocalyptic revelation. What moral should I weave into the decrepit life of my next prosaic protagonist? For what good is a story that doesn’t teach something useful? What would you learn?
Across the valley, amid the worker ants scurrying off to their appointed labors, amid the queen ants tending to their nest, amid the nits learning their place within the colony, there lies a thousand stories waiting to be told. A writer is, after all, a lurid voyeur, obsessed with studying you, your conversations, motives, emotions, interactions and idiosyncrasies. I am watching you.
You, my reader, my friend, my colleague, I count each of you as yet another distant villager, and you, or at least a part of you, are destined to be my next character. Beware and cherish what you have, because I can assure you that the life you live is far less exciting and perilous than the life I have planned for you.
Yes, there is a picturesque village across the valley from my home pitched high on this mountain, and I am watching…
Unleash your creative minds; I know there is a story in each one of you. Yes, that IS an informal challenge. Use 1,000 to 2,500 words and send it in to DavidandAdrianna@yahoo.com and put your talents and imagination up against your peers. Continue reading
Don’t Stop! Green means go.
While looking out a window at night (any environment) the main character sees a green light in a distant window blinking off and on in an irregular pattern suggesting a code or signal. After several nights of observation, the MC goes to investigate during the day, only to find an empty home with no electricity.
A Life Better Lived
A popular well-liked neighbor attends a block-party / neighborhood gathering boasting of his new job promotion, financial security, and marital bliss. It is rumored that he has been fired and arrested for embezzlement, his wife has moved out with their children, and the bank has foreclosed on his house. He seems oblivious to his circumstances, even inviting his concerned and troubled friends over to his (now padlocked) house for an evening of beer and video games. (the story lies in the revelation of circumstances and the friends’ supportive and or derisive reaction)
It Takes a Thief
While perpetrating a covert industrial theft and espionage, the MC discovers the head of the company in a career destroying, compromising position. Both the MC / thief and the company head must depend on the other’s confidentiality to avoid personal ruin.
Behind Closed Doors
After a long, hard rainfall, a sinkhole opens in an open field behind the neighborhood. The crevasse reveals an array of subterranean rooms littered with the bones of tortured corpses. The access tunnel to these dungeon rooms leads to a secret doorway in the neighborhood’s favorite elderly couple’s basement.
“Mommy, why does Santa only come once a year?”
Oliver’s words burst through my stale thoughts.
“Because he can only make so many toys, sweetie. Those poor elves would never get a break if there were two Christmases,” I tell him in my chipper mommy-voice. I sigh, hoping my answer satisfies the four year old boy genius at my side. At home, in the peace of my own living room, snuggled on the sofa with him and a book, I might be inclined to come up with something more creative. Perhaps I would tell him all about the North Pole and Santa’s workshop and the eight or nine reindeer and all of the other bullshit that goes along with the secular Christmas story. Right here, right now, I’m more likely to pull out a semi-automatic weapon and start letting rounds fly into the mall crowd. And then the speakers, playing the endless loop of holiday music. Those would be the next to go. Continue reading
Last month, I recycled that fowl story of how my little burb in the mountains shot and killed Tom Gobbles, our beloved town turkey in celebration of Thanksgiving. Well, it’s December, which means it is Christmastime, so if you would indulge me, I would like to recycle my real-life childhood story of when I met Santa Claus. Before your imaginations run wild, he was not the rotund, pink-cheeked icon of Norman Rockwell and Coca-Cola fame; I am talking about the real honest-to-goodness, flesh-and-blood Santa dude.
Midnight Blue, the name reverberated through his system like an amateurish sound effect from a cheap sci-fi movie. Midnight Blue. (You can use any name — in my head, it was an inanimate name, but would also work with a person’s name)
New Family Members
A week before celebrating Christmas (or any holiday) with a new spouse’s family the MC is confronted by a destitute teenage child claiming them as his parent. The possibility exists (males from an unknown pregnancy — females from childbirth that resulted in infant adoption), but no one in the new family knows of that possibility.
He Did What?
Detectives confront your main character at home requesting an interview at the station. During the interview he/she finds out that forensic evidence strongly indicates a normally honest best friend murdered his/her next door neighbor, leaving the MC’s wallet and ID behind to throw off the investigation. The friend claims innocence.
The Lost Week
Your main character awakens and listening to the news discovers it is exactly one week later than it should be and he/she has no memory of the last seven days. Because of a history of mental illness, the character cannot admit the lapse but must deal with the consequences of people confronting him or her about the week’s uncharacteristic behaviors while trying to keep their job and relationship.
When I first attempted to write a play, I approached it like I would write a novel; rich with creative juices and big words and dramatic language. This was completely wrong. A play is essentially a script, therefore primarily dialogue. I found this out whilst on a short playwriting course, which I found brilliant. The reason it was brilliant was because the two people running it provided us with many excellent word games, and they helped me to focus on how to write in the style of a play. It took a couple of weeks, but I soon learned that I needed to concentrate on writing dialogue, and think about how this would translate onto a stage.
And so here are my top 5 beginners’ tips for writing a play: Continue reading
Izzy was waiting, and he knew that to leave a woman wanting and waiting would only lead to disaster. The shortcut required a trespass across a cow pasture. It was almost 600 yards from the tree that he used to scale the barbed wire, to the tractor gate on the lane. It was a long trek through the minefield of cow pies and green-headed biting flies, but it saved more than a mile going by road. Continue reading
Dear James was inspired by Nariman’s own Visual Writing Prompt
of the Mowbray Cemetery on a dismal day
An air of desolation turned the world to grey. From inside her car, Sarah sat in silence not ready to venture out.
“Coward!” she berated herself.
It was a year since she was robbed of him, and it took her a year to get this far. She had made it to the foot of the hill before; then to the edge of the cemetery from where she could make out the tops of the tombstones. And on one particularly sunny and brave day, she made it all the way to the gate, peered inside; and with a faltering heart, drove away never Continue reading
“Get in the boat,” he said. “Sit mid ship, child, between the oars. I’ll load the tool chest.”
“But I’ve never rowed before, sir.”
“You’ll row today, child, and the next, and the day after. The fourth day, I’ll row so your hands can heal. From the fifth day on, you will row.” Continue reading
I was surprised that we didn’t see any submissions from last week’s prompts. I thought they were pretty good. There is no time limit on any of these, so whether it is from this week’s, last week’s or any of the previous prompts, if you write something worth posting please submit it to DavidandAdrianna@yahoo.com. Please include your name, picture, contact information, identify the prompt used and if your approach was innovative a short summary of how the story evolved.
Adrianna and I have the privilege, and sometimes the tedious task, of reading many stories and pieces by a huge variety of writers. Between students, writers that I mentor, the Writer’s Gallery, and my editing work (Adrianna has about the same sources), I see some really excellent writing, and some that leaves me cowering in the corner with bloodied eyes. Continue reading
This Challenge is a Theme Exercise. We want to challenge not only your creativity and writing skills, but your idea formulation.
You can write in any style, genre or voice as long as it complies with the rules below. Think outside the box. Look at Christmas from the viewpoint of other cultures, nationalities and religions, in situ or displaced. How does it affect a person’s fellowship, charity, isolation and depression? What are the implications of Faith juxtaposed to commercialism? Examine the battle ground for political and cultural bias. Do the myths and legends of Christmas add to or detract from the acculturation of society? And finally consider your story from an unusual perspective, a pet, a homeless person in a mission, an orphan, the guy dressed as Santa at the mall, or a pickpocket / criminal looking to exploit the season.
All we ask is that it pertains to Christmas.
-Each participant is responsible for his/her own edits.
-Minimum word count is 2,000. Maximum is 4,000.
-Entries must be submitted to firstname.lastname@example.org
-Any entries submitted via Post or thread will not be included in the Challenge.
-Voting will take place December 16, 2013 to December 20, 2013.
-Everyone submits their own work.
-Voting will be open to the public. All votes will be tallied through ‘’Likes’’ and Ratings.
-There will be 1 winner chosen by the public by popular vote.
-Winner will receive his/her own copy of one of the following books listed at the bottom. Winner chooses.
-Winning entry displayed in the Writer’s Gallery with a photo and short bio of the author.
-There will be up to four others chosen by your hosts, David Kent and Adrianna Joleigh. (The number of choices depends on how many entries there are.) These chosen few will be shown in the Galleries showcase along with photograph of the author and a short bio, sharing a link to their sites, etc.
This writing prompt might inspire something metaphysical, a moral piece on unintended consequences, the birth of evil intent or self-loathing hatched from unmanaged anger. If you come up with something innovative and well written, let us know at DavidandAdrianna@yahoo.com
You learn that the hateful curses you make against people you are temporarily mad at, come to pass years later. “He’s such an ass, I wish…..!“ “Oh shut up! I wish……!” “She calls herself your friend, and then look what she does, I just wish…..!“
Hello fellow writers and everyone aspiring to be a better writer!!
Hi, I am David Kent, a writer, an editor, a teacher, a mentor, and a dreamer. Although my pen seems to work in just about every writing field from academic to technical to legal, my background and education is in Literary Writing. That’s where the dreamer comes in: I dream of a day when society once again incorporates literature into the acculturation of our children, giving them the value of history, morals and cultural diversity through the magic of well-written fiction. We desperately need to replace the empty calories of the 22 minute sitcoms and mindless reality TV with the nutrient rich repast of the classics and soon to be classic. But first we must learn, then we must write, then encourage everyone to read, and finally, we must all hope for the best.
Those who know me, know that I am also in the midst of learning this craft and bettering my techniques on a daily basis. I have been blessed to have come across so many talentedfriends. From some of you, I’ve learned how to express my art, from others I’ve gained the technical knowledge to polish my craft and from everyone I have received the encouragement and motivation to strive to reach my fullest potential as a writer. I would like to return these favors with the help of my dear friend/co-writer/editor/inspiration and co-conspirator, David Kent, by providing this site as a source of knowledge, shared experience, fun competitions, comparative idea sharing and public promotion of your work.
David and I designed this site to promote and encourage the education and advancement of writers everywhere, from the tyro student, to emerging talent, to the established authors. We are all on this path together, so join us in our exercises, our discussions, and blend your experience with our experiences to become the writer that others aspire to be. Forget about trying to be like the others. Be yourself,express your individuality, discover your own style and voice, and then work at perfecting your craft.
You are unique and that alone will set you apart from the rest. Stand out and be proud and learn to feed and thrive off your imaginations.
We are here to have fun and grow together. Please join us in our Writer Challenges, Contests, Prompts and more!!
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Have a question you’d like to find answers to but too shy to answer in public? Just email us at , and we will respond ASAP! Or! you can hunt us down on G+ and p.m us there, as well.
After a long series of ambiguous yet terrifying nightmares, he/she notices the personification of evil born within, disguise itself as a regular person around town in everyday situations.
A family plot in the Mowbray Cemetery on a dismal day taken a few months back on my mobile from the comfort of my car.
Nariman Parker is a writer and photographer from Cape Town, South Africa. Her amazing eye for capturing interesting subjects and her extraordinary written perspectives on the subtleties of human relationships captivated THIS fan from the first time I met her.
When I first saw this shot my mind reeled with all of the possibilities. This picture could be an enticing book jacket photo and/or an intense writing prompt. The suggestive grey hues captured by Nariman’s lens, the rain splashed windows symbolic of both the comfort within and the dismal existence outside, the history of an ancient cemetery implying both a mystery and its answer, and finally, the juxtaposition of the majestic tree-life stretching toward Heaven from a hallowed place of interment.
This deserves the careful attention of your imagination and creative soul (pun intended); have fun and let Nariman, Adrianna and me know what you came up with. David Kent
Thanks again Nariman!!!! Visit her Google+ page for more photos,
and read her blog Flashes for her flashes of brilliant writing.
What’s the difference between ordinary writing and extraordinary works?
That is not some editorial decree to run out and buy a new thesaurus (although if you don’t own J. I. Rodale’s Synonym Finder, you should go get it), there is a lot more to word choice than a simple book learned substitution of terms. Continue reading