forum SHARE THE PARAGRAPH/SENTENCE YOU'RE MOST PROUD OF IN YOUR STORY.
Started by @Milani eco
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@Milani eco

Share the sentence or paragraph you are most proud of in your story, whether it be a WIP or a finished masterpiece. Go ahead! Impress us all! :)

Deleted user

I kinda have like a little paragraph I'm really proud of?

Deleted user

I'm just gonna post it anyway….

–

I look around and see that everyone else is further away than they should be. I glance over in time to see Mr Warner morph into Peter, and Peter morph into Kai, making it look like Peter and Papa are fighting.
I turn to see Dylan disappear and air become him, tricking Dad into fighting the air. I know that Dylan is coming towards me, but I can’t tell where he is.
“Show yourself, Dylan!” I yell. He appears in front of me and grabs my throat, a creepy grin on his face. I match the grin, only without the creep factor.
“I bet you feel all high and mighty, don’t you? With your stupid little suit and your scream that reduced my brother to a whimpering pussy.”
“You know what? No. I don’t feel high and mighty. Not now. Not ever. This suit means nothing. This scream means nothing. None of it means anything in the long run.”
I allow my suit to melt away, my hair falling out of the helmet and flowing softly in the wind.
“You want to fight? Let’s fight. One on one. Me and you. No powers.”
I grab his forearms and use them to lift myself up and kick him in the face with both feet. The force makes him drop me and move backwards. I roll as I hit the ground to try and take less impact.
“Come on Dylan! Gotta be better than that! I’ve already got the edge over you!”
He stands up, wiping the blood from his now broken nose. “Prove it then!” He yells at me. He begins to charge towards me, and I let him come. At the last second, I move to the side.
I land a punch on his jaw, then his abdomen and finally kicking his face again. This makes him angry and he grabs my throat again, punching my face a couple times. My bottom lip splits and I get cuts from Dylan’s metal arm.
I still smirk, ready to go as long as I need to. He gets even angrier and slams me into the ground. I wince at the impact but try to ignore it.
“Don’t you get it, Dylan? I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m done being afraid. Of you. Of myself. Of everyone around me. I have nothing to prove to you.”
With that, I scream. I put all my effort in, all my pain, all my anger towards him. It bursts his eardrums extremely quickly, quicker than Kai’s. He screams in agony, grabbing his ears as his hands get bloody. I don’t feel sorry for him.
I slowly stand up and stagger over to my family and Mr Warner, who have stopped fighting and have been watching. Mr Warner takes one look at me and hands himself over, obviously not wanting me to burst his eardrums either.

@saor_illust school

'tis oki
ill put mine in a spoiler cause
tw: mentions of suicide and self-harm

@Relsey-TheElder

"I was Icarus flying on fragile wings of your time, then, out came the sun of your neglect."

Not from a story but it is my favorite sentence I've written to date. Actually it's from the greatest thing I've ever written, It's a gorgeously structured fabulously written piece of work and unfortunately it happens to be me talking about how a friend of mine vanished from my life and how terribly that effected me. So I have this fantastic piece of work that I can't share with people and it's so frustrating.

@Young-Dusty-the-Monarch-of-Dusteria group

It was normally quite dark in the warehouse, and at first Rashawn, from his place in the doorway, thought it was still very hard to see inside. But the longer he stared at the hazy lattice of shadows, punctuated only weakly by light from the small high windows, the more he began to see things. Flickers of movement, jagged flashes of color like afterimages from looking at a neon sign too long, places where the darkness seemed to stretch and yawn beyond its logical boundaries–all were signs that the large space was very much occupied.
That, of course, and the screaming.
It wasn't a scream that Rashawn could really call human. In fact, it barely even sounded like something that could come from a creature with red, living lungs and a mouth of teeth and tongue. It was a sound that would have burst any bones trying to contain it, a sound that made Rashawn think of the trains he used to hear as a child, when he was laying in bed and couldn't sleep, off in the distance when the throats of the clouds were as orange as the city lights, and 1 a.m. was turned to noon. The sound sang like taught telephone wires in a storm, like saw-toothed steel on steel, like–
Rashawn blinked. How much time had passed? He couldn't get stuck here–Oscar needed him.

(A bit out of context, but I'm very happy with the prose here XD)

@WriteOutofTime

I've made the decision to write as lavishly as I want without trying to be concise because it's more fun, so here's one of my favorite bits:

He didn’t kill the hours, he watched them live each second like it was a life time, watched the sun inch across the sky and sink behind his house. Watched the sky fade to light blue, to pink, to orange, to red, and then to black. He wished suddenly that he’d created the sunset, or at least copied it in its full glory against a blank canvas. Instead he’d just sat and roasted in the heat, tanned his face and burned his shoulders, meditated on Lana’s lips and smell and eyes. He wanted to miss her in a way that he had no right to. Wanted to be missed like that. Instead he missed the way her lips felt on his.

(I also like this paragraph)

Half an hour later and the world was a washing machine of color, and he wasn’t sure why but it smelled like watermelon and tasted like lemongrass pepper chicken. Honey brown eyes swelled and sensations were colors and light and he could smell love and taste pain. He wasn’t sure what Lana was doing when she broke away from him every few minutes, he just knew she would come back and get close to him and she was kissing him. Her nose dripped blood and he grinned messily against her mouth.

@TryToDoItWrite

I'm actually not that great at descriptive prose inside my attempts at "novel" writing. But I get little spurts of 2 AM poetry/prose that make my heart feel funny things:

Once, somewhere at the beginning of time,
a man asked himself what it all meant,
Why we live such a short while, just to die in the grime
Of our own small pathetic making, time spent
Doing nothing but wishing for money and bliss

And what he concluded was this:
There’s meaning in the mundane,
Purpose in our futures and reminisces,
If, even once, we bore someone else’s pain,
And said “I love you” and meant it

Or

What color is the dusk?
it's a brief minute of violent golden red followed by a blanket of purple. it's dove calls and crickets and the last cars headed home. it's porch lights flicking on and the last exhale of another day falling into night

Or my personal favorite

When the sunlight hits me in the morning, I don't want to dread it
I want to want it.
I want to scoop it up in my hands and like a man mad with thirst drink and drink and drink until the last burning drops of sunset…
and then – I want to want to taste the moonlight.

@Milani eco

'tis oki
ill put mine in a spoiler cause
tw: mentions of suicide and self-harm

omg… that hit so deep.

@Milani eco

oh- someone found it ahahahahah…
uhhh glad you like it i guess? idrk what to say…

wait was it real or fake. I hope it wasnt real.

@Milani eco

ohno, it was definitely a pure fiction thingy, but its kinda scary how much i relate to some of it so…

oh ok…….

@darling-velocipede group

“I think I’m in love with you,” Zephyr whispered. The words were dry on his tongue, with such reverence he said them. In his mind he built a chapel in this still, nighttime room, the heat of their unseen bodies playing prayers; the ache of unknowing offerings.
“And here I thought you were the clever one,” Sebastian said into the dark. He didn’t so much as lower his voice. Around him, Zephyr’s temple crumbled. There were no holy things here.

Deleted user

(It's eh…needs work. But here's one of mine that I kinda like.)

Michael. . . is only a child. Only a fraction of her life lived, and yet she has an old and tired soul, similar those who have lived one hundred years. She has seen and experienced horrors that one so young of age should have never been witness to. Her heart has already been stolen and abused. Her eyes infected with the impure images of this destructive world. That innocence that a child is so well known for is absent in her mind. Her insainity should not exist. Yet here she is, standing in front of me with those glossed over eyes and that lost soul. Broken and torn to such an extent that she is barely alive. Her insainity eats at her. Slowly killing her until she is nothing but mindless and numb. And no one sees the damage she has done to herself.