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Writing Challenge goes live tomorrow!

So, if you saw my earlier post about a writing challenge, I mentioned that I was hoping folks would hold off until Wednesday to post them.

Why? So folks would have a chance to write their own creations without concept contamination. Or something like that.

How the heck will this work? Seeing stuff in comments is a pain!

Well, here is how I see it working.

If you have your own blog or website, just post it on your own location, and leave a link to it’s location in the comments of THIS POST tomorrow.

If you DO NOT have your own blog or website, post the entire thing in the comments of THIS POST. Make sure you sign  your work!

Tomorrow night, I will gather up all of those comment stories and links to stories, and put them all into one big post so that everyone can see them nice and easy.

Simple? Easy?

I hope so. If people write something, I just want to help others have a chance to read them all at their leisure.

I suppose I should write mine now, shouldn’t I?

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75 thoughts on “Writing Challenge goes live tomorrow!”

  2. Pingback: O Juicy Star! « Zwingli's Weblog O' WoW

  3. There is some food hidden underneath the wine rack. It is not as delicous as a juicy steak sandwich, you know the kind, grain bread toasted the meat is cut up already with salad and barbeque sauce that drips out as you take a bite.Salad isn’t my favourite food but I eat it unlike the cat. I tried giving her some beetroot once from a steak sanga and she took it straight to the cream couch , I haven’t been allowed to sit on the couch since then. I hate that cat.

    Look at it sunning itself in the shaft of sunlight coming through the kitchen window, pretty soon she will groom her black and white fur. So very vain, even for a cat you have probably heard the saying my dog thinks he is human my cat knows she is god. Not all gods are good. I should really rest, I have just come back from another round of chemotherapy.You see I am dying, and I need to save my energy to kill the cat without my family knowing it was me.

    After the purple stain incident I started to watch the cat carefully, she is evil. I am not a card carrying member of the “I hate cats” club.
    Our neighbours cats are cute and affectionate, it was their visits that led to aquiring this god, even the hardcore strays in the neighbourhood have less cunning and guile. If it were possible for cats to be declared vicious by the council she makes it purely on her thoughts.

    I got the idea on how to do it from when she broke her leg, we were packing up for a fishing trip. The god was playing this game with the children,
    they had this thing that looked like a small torch but it had a red lightbeam shining out of it and as they moved the lightbeam around the room
    she chased it until she failed to notice the open tackle box she jumped in, somehow she didn’t get hooked, and to this day I really don’t know how she broke her leg
    I just remember this fur ball whizzing round the room. My sounds of amusement and pleasure thankfully drowned out by my family’s panic and concern for her wellbeing.

    The vet bill was over three grand and with me being sick there was some discussion on if we could afford it but a decision to save her was made for the kids.
    So it wasn’t the money that made me think about killing her, and it wasn’t the canceled camping trip. Even though that trip was for me to boost my spirits.
    It was what she did on her fourth night back from the vets. I caught her climbing late one night when she was meant to be bedridden. When I woke up the whole house, she made it back to her bed before everyone could see her for the false god she is.

    There were mumbles as everyone else went back to bed about the chemo really having an affect on me. That night I knew she couldn’t outlive me, ok, the precise moment was when it won the staring competetion for the next seven weeks my whole family fussed over her, I mean you all found out I was dying the week before her accident and yet you worry about her slender frame (without comment on the chemo racking my body) and all but give her a gold star for her stupidity, someone always at home for her. Worshipping a false god can change anybody.

    The food is wedged under a signed 1990 Collingwood Premiership Port Bottle, the only way to get the food out without breaking the bottle is to lift the bottle out first.
    When she breaks that bottle swiping at the pigs ear to get it out our humans will have forgotten that they got me after I was kicked out of training to be an assistance dog, I barked at one cat and I flunked.
    These are the kind of humans that will choose sports over a god and euthanasise her on principle. Did I mention I an Essendon fan?

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      • I wasn’t going to post my response to BBB writing challenge originally, I was pleased enough in myself that I wrote it, then I remembered that if I were really a dog, I’d just do it. Dogs have an amazing zest for living ……even if that is lots of naps.

        I am embarrassed by my spelling and grammar. Skip, who is my dog, if he could would say something like ………..’spelling’ could be miss spelt as ‘smelling’, I know which I prefer to do, you gotta look at the upside of it Mum.

        My dogs are my sons by another mother.

        Thank you Big Bear Butt, this has helped me find my style and voice and if I don’t end up blogging as me I am sure as hell going to blog as my dog.

        Gnome, 🙂 my mother’s sister, Aunty Jan, is an Essendon fan and my godmother, this should stop my family from ……nah this will be printed and handed out for eternity. “She wrote a story breaking the port bottle from the 1990 win and it was narrated from the viewpoint of an Essendon fan” may be my epitath if my mother outlives me.

        I am off to wordpress, again many thanks BBB.

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      • I would totally read your blog as written by your dog. Daily. Great story, and just as others said, incredibly powerful. Make sure you let us know where to find it if you do create it!

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      • Wheras I just found out fdrom Cassie that the Girl Scout cookies I ordered at work through a co-worker heling a friend’s daughter out were for a little girl in my son’s same class in school… one that is the nastiest, snottiest little ‘mean girl’ bully in the entire class.

        I’d rather have your good little old world. Trade you one snot for a cool writer, plzthxbai

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  4. Ok, so I know I’m not the writer alot of you are. BUt I decided to have some fun:

    The reporter looked the slender women up and down. He noticed her perfectly manicured nails, designer clothes and long mane of blonde hair without a strand out of place.
    “I wonder if she got all dolled up just to come see me?” He stopped for a minute considering which of them was, at that moment, the more vain.
    “So how can I help you?” I asked.
    She inhaled, and in a sultry voice replied, “It’s my bastard husband, he’s been fooling around on me, and I now I want to give him the shaft. He’s been carrying a torch for his secretary, and the bitch had the hots for him too.”
    “You know who I am and you know that he’s a big shot politician. You also know he’s up for re-election. This is the kind of thing he has to keep hidden if he wants to win. Well, screw him.” Now she was just plain mad. “Here’s what you need”, she said handing over a large manila envelope.
    “You print this, you get it out there, and your career takes off, you’ll be a star reporter.”
    She was right, this was the story of a lifetime. I took the package from her and opened it. I looked at the photos, and read the transcripts of phone conversations. Smiling, I rolled up my sleeves and started to type.

    -Manny Marshall

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    • No… not really. But at this point, we’ve seen poetry, songs (actual songs… go check out Zwinglis blog), three act plays, spiritual photo rendering, and basically a great example of creativity.

      Roll with what you got, just roll on. And post a link to it!

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  9. I give up on italics, please erase the last TWO posts, maybe the spacing will be right this time.

    The Queen rides at Night

    In the dark underbrush of the Blarian Forest, Alexin, a boy of ten years, crouches hidden. The night’s stillness is only broken by the occasional gust of wind rustling the tree branches and the scurrying of some critter through a pile of crunching leaves. Alexin struggles in vain to see something, anything, in the gloom caused by the overcast sky.

    Long ago, the excitement and nerves of joining the ambush have given way to boredom. Holding the slender shaft of his arrow, he stabs it into the dirt beside him. Die, Bitch Queen, die, he dares to whisper, repeating the swears he had overheard Drunken John yelling the night before, when everyone had thought Alexin had been asleep in his tent. Always in the back, he mutters. Sure, he didn’t understand about taxes and bandits and cessations, but that was no reason he couldn’t be allowed to go along.

    Suddenly, in the distance, torches flare to life like angry flame flies. Leaping to his feet, Alexin hears men shouting, the screaming neighing of horses and thunderous clash of steel on steel. Ahead, something is racing through the darkness, breaking through trees, crashing towards him. Fumbling with his bow, panicking, he fires a shot randomly at the dark shape bearing down on him. Hearing a juicy thud, and a high-pitched scream, Alexin dives aside as a riderless horse rushes past him disappearing into the night.

    Creeping slowly over to the still form, he hears quiet whimpers and the hollow rasping of breath coming from it. Just as Alexin reaches the body, the clouds part and the blue glow of the moon and stars reveals a young girl, not much older than him, with pale skin and silver-blond hair glinting in the moonlight.

    Her eyes dart like a trapped animal, fleeing from his face, to the arrow embedded in her chest, and then back again. With the arrow clutched weakly in one hand, her ragged breaths come faster as a foamy blood froth bubbles from her mouth. No, no, no, he chants to himself, dropping his bow as he kneels beside her, his hands frantically fluttering over the arrow, but not daring to touch it.

    Her hand shoots outs and grabs his in an iron grip, forcing him to stare into her face. Her lips move slowly, mouthing something inaudible, her chest rises deeply one last time, then deflates like a broken bellows. Alexin watches as the light fades from her eyes and they glaze over.

    Slumping to the ground, he starts weeping and sobbing, coughing as he grabs her and holds her. Die, Bitch Queen, die, he whimpers as he rocks back and forth. Die, Bitch Queen, die, he repeats, like a prayer, hoping that it will make him feel better, but secretly knowing it won’t.

    –James Fisher

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  13. Pingback: The Secret of the Scythe – Part One « Effraeti's RP

  15. Pingback: Resto is Epic » BBB Writing Challenge

  18. Pingback: My Answer to BBB’s Writing Challenge

  20. Gracefully the shimmering dollop of dew made its way down the slender shaft of wheat grass. Kuamala reached out her finger, let the juicy drop settle onto her skin and smiled at the simple beauty of nature. Hidden amongst the reeds, Kuamala was supposed to be watching the road for the Twilight Messenger. She’d diligently scanned the roadway for hours on end – still the messenger had not come. Silently making a wish on the Aegon Star, she began to despair that tonight’s watch, like so many others, would be in vain. A glimmer of light began to emerge above the crest of a nearby hill and instantly her hackles raised and her blood began to surge. Crouched low, she inched closer to the hill and the figure that was rimmed in the harsh glow of torch light. Her fingers reflexively gripped the handles of her twin daggers and she paused for one brief, soul-shattering moment. This was not the messenger she had been expecting. Steeling her resolve, Kuamala moved forward, closer to her destiny. Tonight revenge would be hers.

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  21. Riften. Temple of Mara.

    Taking a bite off a juicy apple, the Dovakiin was lost in his thoughts… “Many choices, little time…”
    Nord? Breton? Or Argonian? Where will I find a spouse? How will I choose?

    Imperial, she must be an Imperial. Very smart, versed in the arcane, one that has been to Winterhold College. Pretty face, dark eyes, and a slender body. Vain? Perhaps.

    What the heck, I’m the Dragonborn, I can do anything.

    Unknown to the Dovakiin, 2 years later a poisoned Daedric arrow with a shaft as black as the armor of a merciless Nightingale would pierce his knee and forever end his life as an adventurer.
    For life is short, unpredictable, and fragile above all. Will the stars guide you, or fall down upon you? Will the fire from the torch light your path, or burn down your house?
    Mysterious and always hidden are the treads of fate.

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  29. Not sure of the ESRB rating this one will receive: perhaps avert your children’s eyes… or delete the post, B3.

    Vincent wasn’t a vain man, even though his nickname in the industry was “The Torch”.
    He liked that name much better than “SoL” (Statue of Liberty).
    You see, Vincent’s hidden talant was that he could stand at attention and hold his enormous, slender shaft aloft.
    Vincent was the star of many juicy porn films… perhaps a not-so-hidden talent? 😉

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  30. Pingback: A Dragon’s Night « Zwingli's Weblog O' WoW

  31. Pingback: A Dragon’s (K)night « Zwingli's Weblog O' WoW

  35. Pingback: Big Bear Butt Writing Challenge | The MMO Compendium

  37. Pingback: I Accept, Mr. Butt « Amateur Azerothian

  39. Kev, Ainsley and Dave looked across the table at Mr Archer. Kev’s mentor, Charlie, said Mr Archer was the Central Bank’s lender of last resort.
    Dave thought he looked like an Arab, but Charlie had previously pointed out the skull-cap, he’s a Jew, see?
    It didn’t matter, soon he would be dead and he would wish he had lived life to the fullest; wine, women & song. But it would be too late to wish after the fact.
    “H-hi D-Denis”, Kev stuttered, as Denis walked in behind Mr Archer and thrust a razor sharp letter-opener through the base of Mr Archer’s skull. Charlie would be proud of such a clean kill.
    The foursome now went to the safe, which was located exactly where Charlie had said.
    Ainsley cracked it open expertly, but it was empty.

    As the five were led to their cells, the guards teased and laughed at them; the Central Bank holds no cash.
    Perhaps Charlie wasn’t the mastermind he had lead them to believe!?!

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