Tips for Improving and Enriching Your WritingTips for Improving and Enriching Your Writing3 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Tips for Improving and Enriching Your Writing
Know the fundamentals of writing. If you don't know these or need help with them look copy and paste this link into your adress bar http://magicuser5656.deviantart.com/art/Things-Everyone-Should-Know-About-Writing-286645736
Know your audience. You need to be aware of the audience your writing is targeted towards. You'd never catch a zoologist using a children's picture book to learn about zebras!
Have an engaging opening sentence. This is your big chance at getting the reader interested after the title, and possibly a description! Use it well.
Shorter can be better. Shorter paragraphs, shorter sentences. A sentence doesn't have to be a run-on sentence to be considered too long. If your writing becomes too long you may loose the interest of some of your readers. Think short and sweet, but keep in mind short sentences make time fly by. Having longer sentences will slow tim
Things Everyone Should Know About WritingThings Everyone Should Know About Writing4 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Things That Everyone Should Know About Writing
Points of View
Things you need to be aware of before reading:
If you would like to quickly jump to a topic, press F3 on your keyboard and type in one of the preceding topics you wish to learn about.
I would like to point out that it IS possible for you to view this piece of writing with proper indenting. Just press the ¶ button in the top right corner then read away~
Points of View
Recently it has been brought to my attention that a good number of literary works that are lacking in basic skills and the fundamentals of writing. I believe that everyone, regardless of (a reasonable) age and skill level, should at least be aware the topics we will cover. We will discuss different points and simple ways to improve your overall writing skills.
First we will discuss the different narratives that you may choose to write in: first person, second per
Hema Tytto: BioHema Tytto: Bio2 years ago in Profiles More Like This
Name: Hema Tyttö
Personality Traits: Bossy, impatient, strict, motherly, sweet, loyal and very protective of her kingdom and her friends
Likes: Archery, cute animals, strawberry shortcakes and lemon pies
Dislikes: Pepper's refusal to bathe, men's chauvinistic behavior towards her, being perverted and getting seasick over the oceans
Attributes: Excellent archery skills, knows a few healing skills and marksmanship
Not much is known about Hema Goldstein yet... She's the princess of Eclian
Hippogriff Amigurumi PatternBuckbeak the Hippogriff AmigurumiHippogriff Amigurumi Pattern4 years ago in Profiles More Like This
Pattern by Bandotaku
You will need:
-F hook (main body), G hook (wings)
-Light gray yarn (head, wings, and upper body)
-Medium gray yarn (lower body and back legs)
-Dark gray yarn (front legs, beak, wing tips)
-Black yarn (hooves, tail)
-White or cream yarn OPTIONAL (for chest and upper-front-legs. It's m ore difficult to do, but it looks very pretty.)
-plastic safety eyes, approx. 12 mm. (felt or button eyes would also work)
Feel free to choose colors other than what I have directed. How about a brown hippogriff? A black one? Multi-colored?
Please make as many cute little hippogriffs as you'd like for you or your friends or sell them locally, but please do not sell them online.
The toe design I tweaked from this pattern http://sarselgurumi.blogspot.com/2011/05/toothless-amigurumi-pattern.html
The wings I borrowed from the same website, which was borrowed from a different source.
Because this is a free pattern, it has not been offici
The Fall of the MorningstarThe Angel of Death stood silent and statuesque, his gray hood cloaking his face in shadow. He stared at me, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight cast by his burning greatsword. He flared his wings and rose, otherwise motionless, effortlessly covering the foggy battlefield we occupied. My hands tightened around my silver trident.The Fall of the Morningstar8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He dropped altitude abruptly, swinging his enormous, flaming blade over his shoulder and downward, arcing it toward the crown of my head. I dropped back a pace and jerked my own weapon overhead, locking my shoulders and gritting my teeth. He bounced backward in a hail of embers and feathers. I joined him in the air and he swung again, too hard, too wide, far too wide. I ducked effortlessly and jabbed at him, a little too slow; he flapped once, hard, and rose just beyond my reach. He swooped and swung again. I rolled to the right, rose quickly, and shouldered him in the midsection. He grunted and managed to singe my robe, but no more.
Come on, Gabe,
claycowardice runs deep, like a rich vein of redclay8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through the bottom of a Colorado river.
so I gathered that clay, scooped it up in my hands
and packed it, carefully, over my face
until it covered every inch; and my lidded eyes
were merely dents in the thick tan façade.
this was cleaner
than the traditional, Oedipal method
of blinding oneself.
alone, the clay
was not enough. I stayed inside
the house, too, under cover of a sturdy blue roof
that cordoned the horizon
because out here there is too much sky
to hide from.
and I ignored the phantoms
still flitting in my ears,
because they spoke of the kind of roses
that wilt and melt in the rain, dropping their petals
to storms and in truth I sometimes think
they look even more beautiful
that way, spreading and curling and darkening
into decadence, like glorious pink-frosted cake.
but I dont want to be weak
sometimes, when we watched movies, Id scratch
tiny eyeholes in the clay, so I could see
just a litt
emails to and from a friendthe weakness of their faith is that it becomes baffled by the occurrence of mountainsemails to and from a friend4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
believe me, i've loved you once
[to articulate the fall of airplanes]
pain is your voice leaving the body
we aren't going to make it
they left our bodies on the street
I didn't know you know how to smoke
things go wrong, i suppose,
things will go wrong
no one talks about you
it's like this, i guess
it's like all those songs you loved
that I can't seem to remember anymore
consider the detriments of freedom
you write to people that don't exist
i'm so sorry
i can't find your exit
you haven't called in so long they updated the memorial
to include a photo of a bird
it's like this everywhere i go
Objects will grown in their affections for other objects.
I'm so sorry I can't find your exit.
"The entanglements of atomic structures preexist San Diego;
you can believe everything all at on
Mantra: raging againstI want to read poetry like the crashing of waves on rocks,Mantra: raging against5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with shards in my eyes and salt lashing my tongue with every word,
with every splash of syllables that race across the earth;
I want to live in the boom of destruction,
be reborn in relentless tides.
I want to give voice with the rumble of a raging mountain,
with fire on my lips, dark clouds about my granite face,
and thunder in every sentence avalanched upon the world;
I want to stamp on the lies of the nations,
be the lightning in fading eyes.
I want to be the coming storm.
PyrePyrePyre6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
If our luck holds,
we will find ourselves
spread across three county lines,
charred knucklebones among corn,
in the whistle of swamp reeds, your hip
planted in loam and awaiting its flesh
of April snow, my skull home
to the golden Orb Weaver, asleep.
There are cinders in your witchlike eyes,
there are Lyre snakes in the crook
of your arms, and I would name your heart
I raise the window,
shout the silent goddamns of our distance
to a field, a forest, the celadon sea,
and weave together, by fireweed loom,
threads that fall from your heart, lupine
and tough, my frayed girl, my shepherd
of thistledown, my catbird darling.
There will be time and time
for your rebirth on a wing. You lived
as a stray child, strung taut
with words and fire. Now live
on the perch of my s
GreyscaleInsanity is never black and white.Greyscale5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You don't just reach a breaking point and crack,
As if your 'sane' switch flipped from white to black
And madness took you over overnight.
It's more a subtle shifting in your sights
And thoughts that run a little off the track.
At first you plow on through, pick up the slack,
At first you know that something isn't right.
Subconsciously you bury it inside,
Put on a happy mask to face the world.
You act like nothing's wrong, you act alright -
Now 'wrong' is your 'alright'; you never lied.
You find your truth distorted, bent and curled;
To you your greyscaled madness shines pure white.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeOur Duty2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
Observation without AffectionObservation without Affection6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She watched him, often, from the other side of his bedroom mirror, a floor to ceiling affair that allowed her the privilege of spectating from the comfort of her own space.
He would come and go, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. He would wrap himself in sheets of colour, most times his companions would too, but other times they would press just their flesh against one another.
This fascinated her.
The shapes his face made were peculiar, and she began to recognize them as states of being. Sometimes his face was broad, his mouth wide, insides showing white and gleaming. Other times his face creased, contracted in upon itself, on occasion becoming shiny in patches as he quivered.
An unusual specimen to be sure.
She knew she was pleasing, knew from the various shapes and colours of the creatures he kept company with that she too could be satisfying to him, be satisfied by him. She was certain that he would share with her his illuminated state of being, the broad face and gaping maw t
A Man Mourns His MuseA Man Mourns His MuseA Man Mourns His Muse8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We were all paired on Parnassus.
But when the city sank
under the howling water I left him.
Snap. I caught him old
on his deathbed. He spoke
quietly. I leaned in, deftly:
Once I dreamt
of flickering elms
the dancing cars
O I chased them till I wept.
I could not match them
for speed. They threw
spooling loops of light
as though they knew
I would not catch them.
In another dream
the wafer of light
between evening and night
until the moon rose
and I fell. Today I felt
I'd slipped into the space
between terraced houses.
He could not have known.
I dreamt and he could not
have known to wake me.
He died and now I am free.
Drawn from the HeartDrawn from the Heart3 years ago in Romance More Like This
John stares at the sticky note affixed to the fridge.
It says: 'We need milk and biscuits. And a boning knife.'
It's a perfectly normal note except that the dots on the i's are all little lovehearts instead of dots. It's a grocery list left by a 13 year old girl, but it's in Sherlock's handwriting.
Another sticky note below the first says 'Please also extract the remaining half of the old boning knife from the sofa.' The i's on that note are normal dots. Instead, the whole note is framed in a loveheart. Elegantly drawn, with a dynamic swirl on the tail.
Bemused but delighted, John pockets the two notes and goes shopping.
When he comes home, Sherlock is still out, so he finds a hygienic shelf on the fridge for the milk, puts the biscuits in the tin, the new knife on the counter, and goes upstairs to sort the washing. He'd rather be chasing villains across London, frankly, but he supposes it'll be a good idea to have clean socks for the next time it's necessary.
He hears Sherlock return
CreepyPasta: YoungBlood - PrologueCreepyPasta: YoungBlood - Prologue3 years ago in Horror More Like This
Night time in a desolate woods. The only thing that illuminated the sky was a full moon.
In this dark and eerie woods, chants and celebration could be heard. If one went on to have a closer look, you could see all sorts of ghoulish and eerie people celebrating. These strange people were called The C.P. Syndicate. Part of the gang were Slender Man, Herobrine, Smile Dog, Masky and Hoody, Eyeless Jack, The Tails Doll, The Rake, and BEN. They were celebrating the birth of a child. But who's child was it?
All of a sudden, a young man, about in his early twenties with a white hoodie and black pants, came forth; holding a baby in his arms. This was none other than Jeff the Killer. He smiled at the others with wide, white eyes that were burnt around it and a smile that looked hideous.
"My brethren! Tonight, we are gathered here to celebrate a new member of the C.P. Syndicate! This child is the future and terror of mankind. With his incredible powers on our side, we will become invincible and r
Behind Eastworksparallel to the bike trackBehind Eastworks5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the group walks convincingly
through the canopy floor
of hard roots and thorn stalks
and accidental land marks:
a t-shirt hangs lynched
flush against the bough
of a winter-dead tree
a hollowed out bug spray bottle
sits in spectacle
its companions dragged under by reeds
in the pond scum puddles
across from the playground
Why are we here
The exertion pecks at my bones
as we move on through the brush
along the rusted barbed wire enclosure
surrounding the boarded up building.
I wanted to see this
while he slips past the wires and
pulls himself onto a ledge under
a blasted out window
his cramped hand newly filled
with broken glass.
Memorial under StreetlightsRemember:Memorial under Streetlights9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the drag of grit against shredded skin,
our chilled spasms on concrete pillows;
we were siblings to cracked paint
and the broken windows of orphaned alleys;
our tribe hunted under steel canopies,
each kill stripped, cleaned,
and sold on anew to feed us.
the taste of ozone in the fretting wind
as exhausts roared their challenges;
our wings were tied to the ground,
yet we chased Icarus through traffic lights;
we ignored the bright city's aging, tired song
and crazed through the streets of our youth.
But after the race is done:
when hair resembles a sanded down chassis
and only time still scars our faces;
when the city's slow song is our guide,
and the engines of our minds grow cold;
when the steel of our limbs rust
and our eyes cannot see the road,
a narrativea crow,a narrative5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
perched on my shoulder,
on my shoulder,
and soon his crowing,
his gorgeous crowing
he turned his head from my ear
so he could point his beak towards a man
catching his gold-haired daughter in his arms,
and turned back to my ear,
that man, that man over there, over there, over there,
his is as filled with dissapointment
as the sea with water,
look how he drowns;
looking at the gold-haired girl,
a bundle of giggles,
a bundle of giggles,
in her father's arms,
I brushed the crow
off my shoulder,
off my shoulder,
and watched him go,
and crow, so beautiful,
and crow, so beautiful,
in someone else's ear,
I miss him so.
NarcosisNarcosis7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
Truger loathed recreational narcotics; he could never understand the point. Hallucinogens, depressants, all of them ran completely counter to his personality.
This made his current situation unbearable.
He remembered the moments before the crash, the low orbit sky-fight, the enemy fighters he'd engaged and the victory that he'd been sure of, one snatched away in a hail of flak as they'd strayed too close to the anti-aircraft emplacements. His last memory was of the gaping hole in his cockpit, and the cauterized stumps of his freshly truncated arms and leg.
He remembered waking here.
The first hallucination had been the spiders. He hadn't seen them as his eyes were bandaged, but he felt them navigate across his body, clicking and chattering, poking and prodding. He'd been trained to overcome foreign chemicals in his system, and he tried as best he could. The bandages were peeled back from his eyes, tiny metal appendages pulling away the mesh to let the light in. Somewhere far away, some
A man for some seasonsA dreary bus at night, some time ago;A man for some seasons7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my thoughts were drifting with the rain
when a torrent of speech crashed against me.
I'll not forget his damaged face,
the uncertain eyes and vacant smile:
he was a man who had been kicked around by life,
then kicked again.
Minutes moved through childhood, developed into an hour,
and the pattern of his words told me his life's story:
they rushed in all directions; fleeing, defying coherence,
yet seeking some small measure of comprehension.
The hour grew old, the sky was grey to match it,
and I was called upon to part company with man and bus.
I turned my thoughts and umbrella back to the rain,
and drifted homeward in silence.
Sometimes, in the scattered voice of the rain
and the nervous grasping of the wind, I remember him still:
a bruised, clouded face with water-heavy eyes.
The Lady Of The LakeHer voice is a like a tremble. It slips down and past mossy stones and empties out into a quiet and secluded lake, from where it again splinters and drains away. Animal bones and the discarded skeletons of old children's toys are bobbing on its surface peacefully; ribbons of black ichor and dirt spiral off of them into the water. It is polluted by my perception.The Lady Of The Lake8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I do not speak as I float across the lake silently in my little boat. There are a few subdued ripples as I dip my oars under the skin of the water. I slowly paddle to the center of the lake and look into the water, where it is deepest. I see swirling charcoal masses; fragments of hair and lichen stir together. There is a pale unlit face amongst them. Her eyes are half-closed and streams of purple blood stain her lips and gently spill outwards as she glides underneath my boat. I reach down and dip my finger into the water.
A pale and stained hand slowly weaves its way out of the depths and gently grasps mine. Her nails are neatl
UnrequitedThere is a congregation of stars in this sky,Unrequited9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as if the dew fell up this morning and stuck,
caught in the filaments of a web woven
by a moon too round and white,
too distantly delicate.
Down in the wet green by your white skin,
your still-life arms wrap me in a cold embrace.
Your fingertips are daggers, cutting up
my insides, my insides twisted up in you.
I shudder and bleed little loves.
I swallow you up and pretend that you dissolve,
wishing you didn't writhe inside my chest
like an angry child's tantrum. The taste
of sweat on my tongue turns my stomach;
I suffer through it for the chance to be near you.
You're whispering something to me,
but I don't want to listen. Those words
you didn't say are licking at my ears
like serpent's tongues, singing sweet
lies to me in someone else's voice.
like Trotsky in Mexicoi conjugate apples to appleslike Trotsky in Mexico9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
replacing you with
syntactic dribble, spilling onto
my shirt, buttoned
collar to crotch
i am marrying words
like you married your
dolls in the seventh grade
the little weddings, bride
a tacky white christmas tree,
white as pearl, crashing into
a cake, breast-like goblets
as the groom snickered
softly to himself
and slipped the ring
down his throat like
a hook on a fishing line.
she was left, a Great Red Spot
on her Jupiter panties,
a glazed wreck
on the tongue of red velvet.
i break myself on the wheel,
stretched like taffy over a
slow grid, my feet raped
by icy stirrups.
you both watched gleefully
as Joan of Arc burned as paper,
blowing into dust.
he said he wanted your smell
he said he wanted your taste
he wanted to wake up,
his breath all in yours,
his socks, bunched in a
corner of the room
he wanted your children,
and he wanted your life.
but i guess i am just
Trotsky in Meixco,
an icepick in my head.
i caught a glimpse of