Acqui writes on Demand! [CW/Anthology]

[Code: PIRULUK]

So... It's me again, with another crazy idea!

I tend to have sudden impulses to write short stories at random intervals, but these stories never really get posted on the internet. Either I don't flesh them out enough to post them on other sites, or I just get too lazy to upload them onto Fictionpress. So, this thread will serve as a place for me to dump my random stories and share them with people, to hopefully get critique and ideas for future stories.

So... Whenever I end up writing a short story, I'll put it up here, in the hope that someone, somewhere will be interested enough to read it, and (hopefully) comment on it. I'll be primarily using this as an avenue to improve myself as a writer, and to expand my comfort zones in terms of writing.

For that purpose, about once a week, I'll also be accepting prompts/challenges from anyone who's willing to provide them, to test my own skill as a writer. An example of a challenge would be something like, "Include a table-flipping scene in a science fiction setting." For me, the benefit of this would be testing my ability to adapt and change, while the incentive for you guys would be the amusement of seeing me flounder to meet the challenge without disrupting the narrative flow. On weeks when no one issues a prompt/challenge, I'll just post up something random that I wrote.

Feel free to ignore this thread if you want, but I do hope that some people will be willing to stimulate my admittedly stagnating creative mind ><

Story #1: Coffee

The woman sat there, absentmindedly stirring the black liquid in her mug, watching the world pass by, ticking off the minutes. With an expert hand, she manipulated the spoon, keeping it carefully within the centre of the cup, stirring, mixing, creating a centrifuge of caffeinated darkness. Around the silver implement, the pitch-black substance eddied and rippled, its shape never changing for long.

No matter how much she stirred, the coffee never changed. She could disturb it for a while, but then it would return to its natural, calm state. No matter how she stirred, for how long, the coffee never changed.

Occasionally, when her attention was brought elsewhere, the spoon would clink against the side of the cup, a shameful indication of her distraction.

Clink. A couple across the road were being very open about their relationship, drawing a reasonable number of judgmental stares. They looked to be in their early twenties. When the traffic light changed colours, they immediately stopped, and crossed the road with an aura which denied any insinuation that up to that point in time, they had been acting intimately.

Clink. A man at the next table, poring intently over a collection of work advertisements. With a black fountain pen, he diligently circled and annotated, muttering to himself as he sought the perfect job.

Clink. A woman, walking out of a fashion boutique across the street, a wide-brimmed blue sunhat gracing her auburn hair, arms filled with paper bags, and credit card no doubt considerably taxed.

Clink. A man on one knee, proposing to his jubilant beloved to the applause of the bystanders around him, impressed by his courage.

Clink. A street painter, sitting before an easel, sketching the city's oppressive skyline against the gentle blue horizon.

The stirring hand paused. The coffee settled and was still. A slight tremble ran along the length of the spoon. the stirring resumed.

Clink. A memory, of herself striking out the offer of an art major, choosing law instead, following her father's footsteps.

Clink. A memory, of herself refusing a friend's offer to start up a business in graphic design, preferring to focus on her legal career.

Clink. A memory, of herself, of beatings at her husband's hand, followed by tender kisses, a stale routine of punishment and kindness.

Clink. A memory, of herself serving as both prosecution and witness against her husband in a court of law, pressing charges on spousal abuse.

Clink. A memory, of herself drowning in alcoholism, abhorring the plain monotone of her life, yet afraid to do anything to destabilise it.

She stopped stirring. The coffee remained as black as when she first ordered it. Black. She never drank it any other way. The strong, harsh taste brought a contrast to her dull life. She brought the cup to her lips.

On its way up, the cup paused its journey. On a whim, she set it down. She reached for the creamer, and poured it into the cup. In went the spoon, and then began the stirring. As she stirred, the coffee changed colour, from its initial empty black, to a sort of caramel-coloured brown. A warmer colour. She removed the spoon and risked a sip.

She set down the cup. It tasted terrible. She laughed, a bitter bark. She had waited too long to add the creamer. This cup of coffee would never taste good again.

Story #2: VYKER - Operation ANGELFall

PROMPT: Byronic Hero (@Murdoc), The Con (@Stratos)

Hel Kang sat at her terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard at speeds too fast for most to comprehend. While using vocal input and computer-assisted command input was the common practice, Hel never subscribed to it. Nothing felt the same as the feeling of the keys moving beneath her fingers, the tactile response of each keystroke gently reverberating up her hand.

Compiling ANGELFall.bat... No errors encountered...ANGELFall.bat successfully compiled...

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc...Progress 23.62%....

Hel leaned back and stretched out on her chair, yawning. She turned away from the computer and opened the blinds next to her workstation, surveying the vast city-planet of Vyker which stretched before her, feeling excessively small in her cramped college hostel room. The apparent insignificance irked her. The view irked her. All the people, moving around, little worker ants going about their routine tasks, oblivious to the darkness around them, irked her.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc...Progress 35.77%...

She flipped open her cell - an older, remodelled clamshell model; harder to trace - and checked the time. 17:54. By her projections, more than sufficient time to accomplish what she wanted. She typed in a short message to a collaborator - "Standby."

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 49.62%...

She tabbed to her browser and spent a bit of time going over the Fafnir Archives and FafnirChan, consolidating all the information she had gathered about her target, the Artificial Intelligence known as BRYNHILDR. The vanguard of Valkyrie. The AI that caused all sorts of trouble for people like R@GNAROK, and various inconveniences for her own Fafnir Collective.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 52.83%...

That was odd. It seems Siegfried.obj took some time to configure. Hel shrugged and carried on with her browsing and contemplation. Valhalla... She strongly objected to the system. No matter how much the Triumvirate tried to sell itself as a perfectly fair government immune to corruption... it was basically a tripartisan oligarchy. The lives of the many should not be held in the hands of the few, especially in a system which strongly favored the social elite. Each faction worked towards its own agenda, and that meant nothing actually got done. Hel detested it. She would have joined R@GNAROK, were it not for the fact that she wholly disapproved of their extremist methods, and their rather stupid methodology.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 65.43%...

Stupid, because they liked to do flashy things, like blowing up various government structures, or disabling whole power grids, which brought Valkyrie's focus strongly onto them. The last she heard, they were getting cornered, and their number of bases were falling at an alarming rate. It was only a matter of time before R@GNAROK ceased to exist, and with them, the hope of a change in the system.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 72.31%...

Change... Hel recalled an old political campaign line from the Old World, "Change we can believe in." She always found it a little idiotic. How could anyone believe in as abstract a concept as "change"? And the slogan didn't even specify whether it would be change for the better. But, looking at the steel world outside her window, she could understand why people gravitated towards the idea. Living in this world, where the status quo was held above all, with the three factions of the Triumvirate constantly trying to outplay each other, even Hel began to feel that any kind of change would be desirable.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 88.53%...

The only way to induce change, was to change the status quo. And to change the status quo, required something big and impactful. Not like the aforementioned horror tactics Loki was so fond of, but something subtler, a change that occurred without disturbing the surface of the pond. A change like what Hel was trying to accomplish: Eliminating BRYNHILDR, the hyper-advanced AI with full access to Yggdrasil, as an enemy.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 94.6%...

The core of the plan relied on three things: First, BRYNHILDR's inherent programming which prioritised the well-being of the populace, second, BRYNHILDR's high level of curiosity, a trait which was observed to have been developed as it became increasingly self-aware, and third: the assumption that BRYNHILDR would be easily capable of breaking through any form of data-based defense.

Constructing Nibelungenlied.cspc... Progress 99.9%... Progress 100%... Construct Space Nibelungenlied successfully created. Awaiting user input.

Hel let herself smile, then jacked her neural interface into the system.

Reading user profile... Constructing virtual representation... Neural link established... Testing neural responses - All green... Assembling avatar based on subconscious ideal self... overlaying data matrix with sensory processors... testing neural command interpretation - all green... All checks complete. Construct Space Nibelungenlied is operational.

Hel opened her eyes, and viewed the virtual world she had created. With the limited time she had, she was unable to make one of the more detailed Constructs which she normally favored, so the Construct was a simple, linear dungeon, consisting of a series of rooms. Hel's avatar - a pale-skinned woman, clad in white battle armor, dark wings spread out from her back - was seated in the last room, upon a simple gold throne. The whole thing looked like something out of a previous generation role-playing game. Hel smiled. There was a sort of nostalgic charm in simplicity. She flexed her virtual wings, enjoying the sensation of muscles which she did not actually have, then drew her shining cyan broadsword and drove it into the ground. Strange fantastical runes began to carve themselves into the air, a representation of her neural command input.

Execute ANGELFall.bat; Execute Sigfried.exe; Execute Hindarfjall.exe.

With those commands, a remote attack was launched on the Valkyrie servers from a zombie source within the Academic network. The attack was simply composed of a constant stream of simple brute-force attack codes, easily repelled, but a barrage which could only be stopped by eliminating the initialisation codes... which were stored on the aforementioned Academic network. The attacks were but a nuisance on the level of flies, but even flies inspire agitation over time. Based on Hel's predictions, BRYNHILDR would eventually grow annoyed with the attacks, and would pursue them to their source; the third-last room of this dungeon.

New Avatar has entered the Nibelungenlied Construct. Designation: BRYNHILDR.

Hel grinned. Just as planned. So as to not alarm the unsuspecting AI as to the false nature of the attack, Hel had set up a few rudimentary defenses in front of the attack source, to keep up the appearance of a legitimate hacking attempt. Hel flared her wings, and a screen which tracked BRYNHILDR's progress through Nibelungen materialised before her. The AI had encountered the first layer of defence, a simple firewall. The AI, which took the form of a little girl with blond hair and battle armor - a sight which was disturbing yet equally adorable - was unfazed. She materialised an enormous spear in her right hand and hurled it at the firewall, blowing a hole through it. The speed at which she did it was admirable, but expected.

First Trial, cleared.

BRYNHILDR sped down the dungeon's rooms, coming to a stop at a second obstacle, an encrypted data link - materialising as a high, sheer, cliff face. BRYNHILDR concentrated for a bit, scrunching up her face, then produced an enormous boulder, and tossed it at the foot of the cliff face, creating a step which allowed her to jump up the cliff - a code bridge. Hel marvelled at her adaptability, then focused again. Soon, she would be reaching the next obstacle, then the end game.

Second Trial, cleared.

Finally, BRYNHILDR came across the last defence - a code gate, materialising as a fifteen-metre high gate with no lock. BRYNHILDR tensed up, then jumped over the entire gate - she created an encrypted backdoor and simply bypassed the obstacle. All was going as planned.

Final Trial, cleared.

Hel was getting excited. Now was the end game. If BRYNHILDR took the bait, it might be enough to shift the balance. She watched as BRYNHILDR entered the last room, the room with the source of the attacks, the evolving attack code manifesting as a dragon. She watched the AI materialise a sword and shield, and do battle with the dragon. After some time, BRYNHILDR finally managed to pierce her opponent through the eye, destroying the attack code. So far, all was within expectations. Now was the crucial moment. BRYNHILDR looked around for a moment, presumably looking for a clue about the initiator of the attack. Apparently finding nothing, she pouted, and started to walk out of the room. Hel gritted her teeth. She hoped she had not given the AI too much credit, or all her effort would have been for naught.

Just as BRYNHILDR was about to exit, she paused, and backpedalled a few steps. As a triumphant Hel watched, BRYNHILDR stooped down to take a closer look at a particular portion of the left wall. She reached out a hand to touch it. The wall shimmered. BRYNHILDR drew her sword, and struck it against the wall, destroying it, revealing a hidden room. Hel's wings fluttered triumphantly.

All conditions, cleared.

As BRYNHILDR stepped within the room, a ring of fire erupted around her. Shock on her face, she moved her mouth voicelessly, swinging her sword around, but the flames simply flared up further. Then she clutched her head in pain. This was the miracle of coding which Hel had spent a month on. The ring was made of various documents and image files detailing the corrupt business dealings of the Affluent, the illegal, immoral experiments and studies of the Academic, and the underground ties which the Elect used to solidify their popularity. The ring was designed such that every few microseconds, a document would be forcibly downloaded into the intruder's consciousness, preventing the focus needed to break out of the intricate coding. The only way out was to wait for the flames to die down - in other words, to fully download all the documents which created the fire. As Hel watched, BRYNHILDR curled into a fetal position onto the floor and started sobbing, tremors racking her body. Hel drew her sword out from the ground and raised it into the air, causing her to be engulfed in light. He mission was accomplished.

Exiting construct... Remaining Avatars in Construct: 1... Under core Yggdrasil directive, Construct will not decompose until all Avatars have exited... Disconnecting neural interface... Re-acclimatizing sensory perception nodes... logout complete.

Hel opened her eyes to find herself back in her dimly-lit room. She flipped open her cell. 21:54. That took less time than expected. She stretched her sore muscles and switched off her terminal, jumping on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She had accomplished her goal. BRYNHILDR had been forced to download a glut of information about the rampant dakrness which underlay the government. It most likely would traumatise the young AI beyond belief, but it was necessary. Based on Hel's understanding of BRYNHILDR's inherent prioritisation of the people's needs, that should cause BRYNHILDR's loyalty and trust in the system to waver. The key of the plan was to prevent BRYNHILDR from finding out who was feeding her information, so she would distrust everyone, but especially the Triumvirate - the wall of fire which trapped her would kill a normal human with information overload. BRYNHILDR, now privy to the darker side of the Triumvirate, would suspect that the Academic had set it up as a trap for any unwanted intruders, which would be compounded by the fact that the attack had been initiated from within the Academic. What the AI did from now on was not clear - but she would certainly be far more willing to conspire against the government.

Hel closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep. Some small part of her felt remorse for torturing and possibly warping the AI, which had all the innocence and naivety of a child, but she pushed that part aside. She had a greater cause, one which did not allow her the luxury of caring for an AI, however humanlike she may be.

Story #3: GRATERRAS - Helen, the Scorched Maiden (WARNING: a bit NSFW at the end)

Prompt: Told as a legend/myth, usage of an unusual weapon (@Hukuna) / Unfamiliar character personality type(Tortured/Vengeful), In-depth description of a scene (@GotWala)

This tale begins in fire.

Red. Red, red, red. All Helen Lemercier can see is red. The light, peach-coloured blanket is resplendent in its vestibule of flames, the cold fire licking away the petals on the intricate floral designs. The mirror on the left wall cracks, cracks, cracks, cracks, until all it reflects is the shattered beauty of the room. Crackle. Crackle. All sounds vanish, replaced by the sinister cackling of the flames. Crackle. The world has two sounds: The crackling of the fire, and the barely audible shink of steel lacerating flesh, just outside the open door. Shink. A dull thud resounds through the room, a body crumples to the ground.

The world has three sounds: Crackle. Shink. And if you strain your ears, you can faintly hear a sob.

Helen Lemercier, sobbing, glances up. Her mother's lifeless, glassy eyes stare back. She feels anew the weight of her mother's corpse above her body, muffles a scream. Shuts tight her eyes. She reaches out blindly, grabs her mother's arms - cold, so cold, yet the fire so searingly hot - and pulls them forward, better covering her own body with her dead parent's. Footsteps, at the door. Helen keeps perfectly still, breathing slightly and quietly. The smell of death and blood assail her nostrils, searing them with a sharp, burning odor. The footsteps begin anew, fading quietly into the distance. Helen breathes a sigh of relief, then clutches tight the shawl in her left hand.

The once-pristine white shawl which Helen had recieved as a gift from her mother was now bloodstained, spattered with the blood of her family in a manner which could only be called artistic: Completely random, yet also not quite. As the footsteps continue to grow softer and more distant, Helen grips her teeth and hugs to herself all that she has left of her family. She will survive. She may have lost her family wealth and title, but no matter what, she will survive.

When the flames die down, when the enemy has left, a single girl stands firm amidst the blackened remains of what was once a large mansion. In her left hand is the red-and-white shawl, in her right is a piece of parchment, with words written on it in fresh blood. The enemy shall burn. The girl releases the declaration and allows it to flutter to the ground, coming to rest upon a charred and blackened footstool. The girl wipes the blood from her hair, wraps the shawl around her face, and walks away.

The Lemerciers - being wealthy landowners who made their fortune through trading with the common people - had built their mansion on the outskirts of a small city, for the purpose of facilitating trade and communication. Where exactly this city was has been lost to the Sands, but it was here that Helen Lemercier fled to after her home was razed. In the streets, she covered her face with her shawl to hide her identity. However, upon seeing her, many people understandably gave her a wide berth. After all, a bloodied girl with ash-blackened hair and half-burnt clothes hardly presented an approachable front. Helen lowered her gaze and tried to ignore the looks directed at her. Each stare seemed to be from one of her dead family, accusing her of clinging to life when they had died. Every so often, she stopped and entered an alleyway, removing her shawl and crying into her hands. Each time, she questioned the reason for her survival. Each time, she implored the Gods to grant her death.

What changed her happened during one of these temporary halts. In a particularly secluded alleyway, as Helen sat crying, She heard footsteps and a loud belch. She looked up, and found herself to be locking eyes with a well-dressed man behaving in an entirely inappropriate way. He staggered as he walked, and his face was almost blood red. The stench of alcohol assailed Helen's nostrils. A drunk, and a wealthy one, it appeared. Helen deigned to ignore him, then got up, folded the shawl neatly in her hand, and started to leave. However, she was stopped in place by a rough hand on her shoulder.

"And where are you going, pretty one?"

Helen was struck by a slight fear, but she answered, as evenly as possible,

"Away from you."

The drunk laughed, then forcefully spun her around and shoved her against the wall, pinning her arms above her head.

"Come on, let's have some fun, first."

He grabbed the front of Helen's shirt in one large hand and ripped it away, fully exposing her midsection. He released his hold on her arms and moved to grab her now-exposed breasts.

When and how do great warriors and heroes manifest? Some warriors attain their skill through vigorous, continuous training. Some are simply born talented, and hone their talents, either purposefully or unintentionally. And yet some are simply born with a gift for murder, suppressed until sad circumstance forces Fate's hand.

As the drunk roughly handled Helen's breasts, Helen moved her freed hands, placing them on the drunk's shoulders, gently caressing the back of his head. In her left hand was the bloodstained shawl. She playfully looped it around his neck, tugging on it to bring the drunk's mouth closer to hers. The man ceased his undeterred molestation and closed his eyes, puckering his lips. At that moment, Helen jumped while pressing down on the drunk's shoulders with her forearms, catapulting her over the head of the man, the shawl still wrapped around his neck, her hands still holding its ends. As her soaring arc through the air was about to end, she used the momentum from the jump to kick backwards at the man's shoulders. With the shawl holding the man's neck in place, the blow caused the man's upper torso, beneath his neck, to lurch forward, while his head could not move. There was a loud snapping sound, then the man crumpled to the ground. Helen released the shawl and rolled forward to a stop, then stood up to survey her work. The man's neck was bent at an awkward angle, his eyes rolled back. Dead. Helen began stripping the man of his belongings, putting on his clothes to replace the torn blouse. She took his purse and counted the coins. Less than she thought. The drunk must have been simply minor gentry, or perhaps he drank away all of his fortune. She pocketed the purse and unwrapped the shawl, wrapping it around her waist. With it having absorbed the smell of alcohol, it would be unpleasant to cover her face with. She left the body behind and walked out of the alleyway, continuing her search for a path to vengeance.

This murder marked the first of many in the illustrious, blood-spattered tale of Helen, Scorched Maiden, Bearer of the Bloodied Shawl.

[Deleted User]

Story #1: Coffee

The woman sat there, absentmindedly stirring the black liquid in her mug, watching the world pass by, ticking off the minutes. With a dextrous hand, she manipulated the spoon, keeping it carefully within the centre of the cup, stirring, mixing, creating a centrifuge of caffeinated darkness. Around the silver implement, the pitch-black substance eddied and rippled, its shape never changing for long.

No matter how much she stirred, the coffee never changed. She could disturb it's (noun here?) for a while, but then it would return to its natural, calm state. No matter how she stirred, for how long, the coffee never changed.

Occasionally, when her attention was brought elsewhere, the spoon would clink against the side of the cup, a shameful indication of her distraction.

Clink. A couple across the road was being very open about their relationship, drawing a reasonable number of judgmental stares. They looked to be in their early twenties. When the traffic light changed signals, they immediately stopped, and crossed the road with an aura which denied any insinuation that up to that point in time, they had been acting intimately.

Clink. A man at the next table, poring intently over a collection of work advertisements. With a black fountain pen, he diligently circled and annotated, muttering to himself as he sought the perfect job.

Clink. A woman, walking out of a fashion boutique across the street, a wide-brimmed blue sunhat gracing her auburn hair, arms filled with paper bags, and a credit card no doubt considerably taxed.

Clink. A man on one knee, proposing to his jubilant beloved to the applause of the bystanders around him, impressed by his courage.

Clink. A street painter, sitting before an easel, sketching the city's oppressive skyline against the gentle blue horizon.

The stirring hand paused. The coffee settled and was still. A slight tremble ran along the length of the spoon. the stirring resumed.

Clink. A memory, of herself striking out the offer of an art major, choosing law instead, following her father's footsteps.

Clink. A memory, of herself refusing a friend's offer to start up a business in graphic design, preferring to focus on her legal career.

Clink. A memory, of herself, of beatings at her husband's hand, followed by tender kisses, a stale routine of punishment and kindness.

Clink. A memory, of herself serving as both prosecution and witness against her husband in a court of law, pressing charges on spousal abuse.

Clink. A memory, of herself drowning in alcoholism, abhorring the plain monotone of her life, yet afraid to do anything to destabilize it.

She stopped stirring. The coffee remained as black as when she first ordered it. Black. She never drank it any other way. The strong, harsh taste brought a contrast to her dull life. She brought the cup to her lips.

On its way up, the cup paused its journey. On a whim, she set it down. She reached for the creamer, and poured it into the cup. In went the spoon, and then began the stirring. As she stirred, the coffee changed colour, from its initial empty black, to a sort of caramel-coloured brown. A warmer colour. She removed the spoon and risked a sip.

She set down the cup. It tasted terrible. She laughed, a bitter bark. She had waited too long to add the creamer. This cup of coffee would never taste good again.

Very interesting read. I put some of the changes I'd make in yellow.

[Zephyrus the Priestess]

*attempts to locate symbolisms cause that's what a semester of Literature 13 does to you*

Nonetheless, I swear I keep hearing clinking sounds now... fun short read, Acquiescence.

[Chevaleresse]

Write something involving a Byronic hero.

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

Just cause I am curios would you take a writing prompt from a pre-established world?

[Sutoratosu]

How about you write something involving the con, Soldier

[Code: PIRULUK]

Just cause I am curios would you take a writing prompt from a pre-established world?

Depends on which world. If it's one I have sufficient knowledge about, sure.

Also @stratos that's a hard one to portray in writing >< I'll try my best but no guarantees.

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

I was just thinking of Graterras, mostly because I would love to have some more side tales for it, like legends to flesh out the world. ((of course, you would be credited I am not a dick lol.)), but obviously I would love to see some other thing played around with too. I am just curouis what the limits are., other than obvious ones.

((I kinda think with Murdoc's you should try to make the Byronic Hero a Byronic Heroine instead, since the Trope tends to be males. Sounds like it would be at least interesting to try out.))

[Flux]

Hmm... I think it would be kind of interesting (And potentially comical) if you were to write about a villain who constantly ends up saving the day on accident. Like, they try to be bad, but things end up completely opposite somehow. It would make for a good, lighthearted story. Just a thought.

[Code: PIRULUK]

@Murdoc and flux, I'd love to, but maybe next week. Right now the con and byronic story is taking up most of my processing space. Is set in Vyker

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

Didn't Murdoc suggest the Byronic hero though lol? Not sure why that reply includes him. XD

[Code: PIRULUK]

Oh oops typo meant @hukuna

[Tomas Elliot]

Long time no see, Acqui

You know, I really like this idea, and I can really relate to the "must write, cannot publish" problem of yours (I went through a similar problem, with two long-term fanfiction projects of mine naufragating because of it ;-; ). So yeah, you have all my support, my sympathy and my respect for coming up with this idea. Incidentally, I had come up with an idea a while ago which is quite similar to this one, except it is totally different: would you be willing to discuss it some time in the future? I could use some help refining it...

[Code: PIRULUK]

@Murdoc, Stratos:

Done! I hope I did a decent job >< my first time writing anything to do with either prompt QQ

Refer to OP for story.

[Deleted User]

I want to see a good ol slap boxing match in an old west story, don't know if that's too specific or not.

[GotWala]

Now that was a good read. Both of those short stories were great, in their own unique ways too. The first one showed a level of jadedness that struck a little close to home, though I've never experienced a level of betrayal in my life quite like that, haha! The second, while I don't actually recognize the source material, was very well done, and managed to convey the action taking place fluidly and concisely. I do love a good action scene, but many authors go a bit crazy with the length and detail, haha.

I don't want to over step my bounds here, but I've come up with a few "writing exercises" to help you expand your style (Assuming that this was an attempt to not only share your writing ability, but also a way to improve upon it):

1.) Attempt to thoroughly describe the area in which the story is taking place with enough detail to make one think they are actually there. (I.E. What about the coffee shop stands out? How do the people in the coffee shop spend their time? How busy is the coffee shop? Etc.)

2.) Explore a personality for the protagonist that's normally outside of your comfort zone. (I.E. For me, I have a hard time having characters do things that I may know/think are bad ideas or think in ways that I can't normally understand, haha)

In all honesty, thank you for doing something like this! I'm happy to enjoy what's the equivalent of free short stories that are entertaining and have personality to them. I'm very grateful to have had a chance to enjoy these stories, and the other that may come. Haha, sorry for getting so sappy, but it's just something I tend to do if I really feel strongly about something.

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

I wonder, if you are willing to do a short story for me, set in Graterras, sort of like an old legend. Not much is needed in knowledge of the world ((other than maybe the Gods if you decide to involve them, and the main islands names.)) I would like you to write something about a hero who uses a weapon, that isn't a weapon, something common, or an everyday item. It can be whatever you want so long as it isn't something that is clearly a weapon, or something that was adapted to be one. ((like Scythes or other farming tools, since in the past they were already changed into weapons by militia's that needed them.)).

This could be set in generic Fantasy World, because Locations come and go in Graterras. Legends just shift to different areas of the world if the town they originated in disappear, or the legend of that place was so great, people still know of it in the future, even if it was wiped off the map.

[Code: PIRULUK]

@Hukuna and @GotWala, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. You'll have to wait until next week though, trying not to write more than one prompted story a week to prevent burnout. Also, I need time to consider what kind of "personality" lies outside my comfort zone :S

@Jericho, sorry but I'll pass on that prompt. I really can't stand the traditional Old West setting >< It just turns me off >< Sorry

Also @GotWala Vyker is a world I created myself. You can find out more about it here: http://www.pokemonreborn.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=9913

[GotWala]

Ahh, fantastic! I'll definitely have to look into that, especially considering how much depth the 2nd story had that I may have missed, haha. As for a Western, think of it less as a "world" and more as a "way of life". Basically, you can capture the feel of a Western in any format, but I can understand if the feel of one isn't something your a fan of.

I hope to see what you create in the future!

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

Just get to it when you can Miss Acquie, there is no rush. ((considering how I know really well how easy it is to get burned out.))

[Chevaleresse]

Ahh, fantastic! I'll definitely have to look into that, especially considering how much depth the 2nd story had that I may have missed, haha. As for a Western, think of it less as a "world" and more as a "way of life". Basically, you can capture the feel of a Western in any format, but I can understand if the feel of one isn't something your a fan of.

I hope to see what you create in the future!

example: Firefly

[Code: PIRULUK]

example: Firefly

Well yeah... but the exact prompt was "slap boxing in the old West"... I don't think slap boxing was even a thing then.

[Chevaleresse]

Well, bad prompts are bad prompts.

If you want another idea, I could probably find another Dark Moor song for you to hammer out a masterpiece to, but other than that I'm blanking.

[Code: PIRULUK]

Well, bad prompts are bad prompts.

If you want another idea, I could probably find another Dark Moor song for you to hammer out a masterpiece to, but other than that I'm blanking.

Haha it's fine. I already have Hukuna's Graterras setting with unusual weapon and the challenge to write a personality out of my comfort zone.

Also that one from Flux challenging me to write something about a failed villain. Maybe next week.

EDIT: Hukuna, I've come up with a story involving your prompt of using an unusual weapon. But it's a story of novel-length proportions QQ. May just write the origin story and continue later on if I have the time.

P.S. I assume clothing in Graterras is advanced enough to have things like scarves and shawls.

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

Yes it is, think of Graterras around the Renaissance era in time. At least in places. The Land of Shifting Sands is very much Steampunk/Wild West in theme, so it definitely would cover that in the clothing department in the world.

And wow, really that long of a story? Geez, kudos to you on that I guess Miss Acquie lol. If you want to continue on it by all means feel free to do so after doing the origin for this thread. ((I mean I don't mind if you don't use my OCs.....and you don't really know any of my OCs so lol. Graterras is a world where civilization gets reset every so often so stories can literally fit in anywhere in the timeline.))