forum Weekly writing prompts?

Started September 05, 2018 by @Nomadicd20 group

tune

oh thx!

You didn’t kill the chat. That was good. And I post every Wednesday.

oh oki den

Week 4: Write a poem about the loss of someone (Whether it be death or they/you just left)

No More Love
You left me there, right in the dust,
Did you think you could come back? No, you lost my trust.
What was the point of this?
All of it useless, even that one last kiss.
Was any of this worth it?
Even after that heartbreaking split?
It is now just awkward, being near you,
You didn’t see through my point of view.
You have disappeared, torn out of my life,
Gone, and left me in my strife.
You were selfish, only thinking of you,
No more love, I hate you too.

(This is a poem I wrote like 3 years ago, so…I learned a lot since then…I don't know if I really like this poem though)

I did

^-^ Thanks!

ooh this is cool

Week 5: Your hero and villain are on the same train. Where are they going?

Time to make up a hero, i only have villian

(Told from MC's point of view)
After being hunted for a few months–living in hiding, scavenging for food, and stealing–I've finally been caught by the Supremes… who I suspect have one of two plans for me. Either they want to return to me to my master, or they are taking me to the Alpha House to be interrogated. The latter is seems more accurate. I already see the city's tall, glittery buildings looming above the train. Never in all my life have I seen such beauty. I give my head a hard shake. The same men who built these towers banished your tribe into slavery, I remind myself. None of the oh-so-strong things they have contracted are worthy of your admiration. Just prepare yourself. It won't be long before we arrive… If the stories are true, the Alpha House is not something to be taken lightly…

Whoah that's cool

Cool

Avery slipped onto a train, walking through the crowd of people to find an empty seat. He sits next to a young adult male with silver hair, the silver hair was not uncommon. But what drew Avery's gaze was the man's eyes. The eyes were white, well more like pale cream, they looked like they had no iris. A stark comparison to Avery's eyes, which were dark brown almost completely black. Avery studied the man, taking in the familiar features. Where do I know him from? He thinks.
its a work in progress, an actual part of my story.//

Morrigan's heart beat in terrified tremors that shook her whole body, an earthquake of regret and fear and memories and years upon years of confusion. On her face was a mask of fierce calm, her eyes sending out the message 'leave me alone'. The train conductor was making some sort of announcement in the background, but she could hardly hear it over the sound of her painfully loud breathing. It was as if she was submerged under water, a current of memories dragging her deeper and deeper. An icy numbness had begun to overtake her, and with it, a detached determination. She slipped out of her compartment and into the aisle, letting her tangled curtain of black hair partially obscure her eyes. Everything was moving in slow motion around her, the constant chugging of the train engine muffled in her ears, the chatter of passengers fading to almost nothing as she made her way to the dining cart, in some sort of trance. Colours and smells blurred past her, the only word she could think filling up every thought, unearthing memories and re-opening the wounds she had so carefully stitched back together. Barry. The only thing she could hear was the sound of his laugh echoing through her mind. The only thing she could see was the hazy image of his face that her brain was constructing. All of these were in her head. It wasn't until they became a reality that she snapped out of her daze. Her bubble popped. The colour and sound returned.

And there he was, all messy brown hair and glasses and button-down flannels and laughter. Sitting at a table only a few meters away, lifting a delicate teacup to his lips. Barry. The sight of him only strengthened her resolve. Morrigan straightened her back and dipped a hand into the messenger bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. Her fingers brushed cool metal, a nozzle, a handle. A trigger. The reality of it made her want to laugh out loud. She was on a homeward-bound train to London, in the same compartment as her best friend and worst enemy, with a gun in her bag. She was coming home, and she was returning with a dead body.

Barry laughed again, the sound of it steeling her nerves. She wet her lips. Dipped her hand back into her bag. Wrapped her fingers around the handle of the gun. "Hey, Barry!" He paused, looking around confusedly until his eyes feel on her and the teacup fell from his hand, shattering on the floor. Morrigan raised the gun. Pointed it at him. Someone screamed a warning. She pulled the trigger.

Thats awesome!

thanks! I adapted and shortened a chapter I wrote some time ago to fit the prompt
Morrigan is my favorite OC

Avery is one of my favorites too.

He seems pretty cool!

Thanks, he's more… Evil then in the chapter.

lol

Week 6: Start your story (or short story, or poem, etc.) with this line: This is the fifth door s/he's knocked on.

This is the fifth door he's knocked on. "Where is it!" He muttered it was obvious that he hadn't gotten much sleep if his sluggish movements didn't show, it the bags under his golden eyes did. He was looking for a way back home, the only person he had met was this being named Duskie. She seemed hellbent on convincing him she was his author, whatever that meant.
sorry its short, Im a bit tired//

It's the fifth door she's knocked on, and still no one has answered. Frantic to the point of hysteria, she – rather than knocks – slams her fists against the next door.
"Help me!" She begs the non-existent citizen that has come to her rescue. She blinked, and the citizen was gone; faded into the dim light. The door in front of her remained bolted shut, as if it hadn't been open in years. She wanted to knock again, but she could hear the haunting whispers of her captor as it drew closer. Panic pulsed through her ears, and she bolted away from the door. One for door, one more door, she thought. Surely the owner would open for her this time! The eerie whispering came closer, so close that it could grab her by the hair, cover her mouth, and drag her away. The thought of this caused adrenaline to force it way into her bloodstream and heart, pumping it faster and harder so that she could make a desperate escape. She sped up – which already seemed impossible – and managed to increase the distance between her and her pursuer. She was so close to the next door. Just a little father –
"Help!" She wailed, practically slamming her entire body into the door. Her captor was close, almost close enough to grab her. This was her last chance! The only chance she would ever get. "Please! Help me!"
Someone grabbed her by the arms and yanked her away, shoving one hand over her mouth so she could not scream again. The man chasing her wrapped his arm around her neck and started to back away from the house, treating to snap her neck if she moved away. She wanted to cry; her plea for help had not been heard. She would be killed…
Suddenly the door sprang open and a man, still adorned in pajamas and a rope, leaped outside, wielding a shotgun. "Who goes there?" He shouted, then noticed the two figures scurrying away. Noticing something was wrong, he aimed the shotgun at the man holding her back, and warned him not to move. The captor froze in his tracks, as if considering what to do next. She took that moment to spring free of his grasp and once again scream for help. The man saw her and ran forward., pointing his gun directly her captor's head. "I was a military man not long ago1" He shouted. "I can shoot a rat in the woods at midnight!"
The captor, seeing that he was defeated, sang to his knees and put his hands on his head. The gun man's supposed wife peeked outside, took a moment to soak in the scene, then quickly summoned her inside. "Oh, the police!" The wife said high-pitched, wavering tone, and tugged her into the house. She felt a wave of relief wash over her. She was safe.

Nice

This was the fifth door she'd knocked on. A terrified shell of a woman, wrapped up in rags and an aura of fear. Matted hair with dried blood stuck in it hung from her scalp. Horrific burn marks covered her body, which was now turning blue in the cold. Her feet were bare, and clutched tightly in her arms was a swaddled baby. But this was the fifth door. Surely someone would answer, someone who didn't spit at her and slam the door. They had to. Please answer., she prayed silently, large watery eyes fastened onto the sleeping form of her child. The door swung open to reveal a fair man with greying hair, a crumpled button down shirt, and sad, tired eyes, which widened in surprise when he saw her. She couldn't have been more than twenty, but from the way her body sagged and her eyes flickered with sorrow you would think that she'd seen all the horrors of the world. "Ma'am?" The woman fell to her knees in front of him, not from reverence, but because her shaking legs could hold her no longer. "Please.", she rasped, holding the infant out to him. "Please." She coughed, splattering doorstep with blood. Bewildered and more than a little worried, the man took the child and held out a hand to her. "Ma'am, come inside, I'll call an ambulance for you." His voice rose, betraying his concern. But the ravaged woman merely shook her head and removed a dagger from her worn belt. The man stepped back quickly, frightened, but the woman just looked after him with tearful eyes and whispered "Thank you." before driving the dagger into her chest, all the way to the hilt.

Week 7: The news reached them by paper boat. Use this line as a basis for your story.

Is this thread dead or should I keep posting?

Keeping postiiing

Keep posting! I just might post because I might just not know what to do. :P