Hello! Welcome to the forum where I share some of my writing excerpts!

I am a notorious perfectionist, so I only ever share finished pieces, but this is my attempt at combating that! Here I will post almost anything. I might post poetry, little meaningless writings, or characters bios. Pretty much all the writing here are WIPs and nothing is finalised so feel free to give me constructive criticism or feedback! I'd really appreciate it! I'd prefer if you message me on my profile or something so as not to swamp this forum with posts.

PS: I am hopeless at titles so be aware of that. Most of the titles are just place-holder titles until I can think of better ones.

<3

#1 A Random Excerpt About Horse Racing

I have grown accustomed to the sound of my legs pounding into the dirt. It beats an echo to the throbbing of my heart. I find that the sounds keep me centred. Each stride must be longer than the last. With each stride, I put distance between myself and the starting line. The funny thing about race tracks though, is that you always end up in the same place that you started no matter how fast you run. I do not think about losing; thinking about losing is akin to thinking of my own death, and I don’t want to die. Despite my years, there is so much of life that I have not experienced. Running is all I know, so running is what I must do. So I think of my legs. They are what keep me alive. I outrun death with these legs.

Suddenly the beat skips. My heart no longer beats with a steady rhythm. The ground swells toward me and I do not turn away. I skid along the ground like a fallen star and my bulk rips through the dirt. I do not hear the crunch of my legs underneath me. I do not hear the screams, the shouts, the chaos. The sound of my pounding legs is no more. The silence is what frightens me the most.

#2 Gasp A Physical Detail Of My OC??

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that is to be the case, my soul is bared to all who cross me. I was not exempt from the large doe eyes that are apparent in my kin. In that way there are no lies in my family; A lie is not something one can easily hide when the inner turmoil of one’s soul is so easily observed. I am told my countenance is that of fire. My molten brown gaze furtive and flighty. My sisters and brothers, on the other hand, have eyes of the softest hazel. The bark of the fair olive tree resides in their eyes.

#2.5 Whiney Little Fawn Wants Some Adventure

My life is as unpredictable as the ocean. Yet it as repetitive as the push and pull of the tides. My family seem to never tire of these cycles. They wake with the sun, invigorated to see what new fortunes the coming day will bring. Yet their days are filled with nothing. They lounge on the grass and strum merry tunes on their lyres as if they had not done the same yesterday, and so many days preceding that the ancestors do not dare to count. They talk amicably between themselves, either unaware or undeterred by the fact that they have conversed over the same topics many times before. They climb trees and frolic between the floras, so much so that the winding paths between the olive trees become a map embroidered into the fabric of memory. Do they not exhaust their seemingly boundless patience? How can their minds be at peace when there is nothing with which to occupy its fretful vacancy? I am no blade of grass, content to spend my life sitting under the blazing Greek sun. I am restless. I am the budding orchid, eager to release my seedlings into the world and experience new and unique places. It is true we have a paradise here. My kin never pass a chance to remind me of our good fortune; Unlike the many less fortunate than us, we do not have a need to grovel, beg, and steal our living. The great god Pan provides for all our needs. All our needs except the need I alone seem to possess. The need for adventure. The need for a day that does not resemble its predecessor. The need to lead such a life where the contents of the next day were a mystery, and I could put faith in only my own cunning.

#3 A Failed Attempt At Angst

Mother says she’s fine,
As she gazes out to sea,
Mother says she’s fine,
As her arms are holding me.

Mother says she’s fine,
As her smile begins to crack,
Mother says she’s fine,
When her arms are getting slack.

Mother says she’s fine,
As she heads the coming storm,
Mother says she’s fine,
But I know she’s feeling worn.

Mother says she’s fine,
But her back begins to fold,
Mother says she’s fine,
But I know she’s getting old.

Mother says she’s fine,
As her head is hanging low,
Mother says she’s fine,
As if I didn’t know

Mother says she’s fine,
As I kiss her cheek goodbye,
Mother says she’s fine,
As she looks up to the sky

Mother says she’s fine,
As she steals her body for death,
Mother says she’s fine,
With her final haunting breath

Hopeless at titles = me as well XD
1) I like how you've inserted deeper thoughts into everything, giving things a deeper meaning. It also plays into making it darker ;') But I'm a fan of dark. Usually. Unless it's too dark, but this isn't. :')
Anyway. The mc's death would mean more if there was more explanation before it. For example, does the mc have family or friends who'll miss her? Why/how did she start racing in the first place?
2) The words sound very melodic and poetic, like a master storyteller is telling the story. You're getting a *little* bit purple (“the bark of the fair olive tree resides in their eyes” instead of just “their eyes are olive”) but not too bad.
2.5) Reminding me a lot of a Shakespeare sonnet. I like how the title gives the story a much lighter feel, and maybe even calls into question whether the faun is right in wanting more. I'd love it if there was a dialogue about how the rest of the family felt about their dreamer, but that's just me
3) I *really* like this one! It has a different voice than the rest of them, and the narrator feels much younger (with word choice.) It feels like a comfy, sad poem until the end, where it's taken a darker turn, but the narrator feels young the whole time, and the effect is pretty cool. The only thing I'm wondering about is whether the sea/storm theme is only metaphorical or actually part of the story, since it didn't have much of a part in the ending.

But feel free to tell me if I need to turn off my criticism :')

CJ_llama wrote:

#3 A Failed Attempt At Angst

Mother says she’s fine,
As she gazes out to sea,
Mother says she’s fine,
As her arms are holding me.

Mother says she’s fine,
As her smile begins to crack,
Mother says she’s fine,
When her arms are getting slack.

Mother says she’s fine,
As she heads the coming storm,
Mother says she’s fine,
But I know she’s feeling worn.

Mother says she’s fine,
But her back begins to fold,
Mother says she’s fine,
But I know she’s getting old.

Mother says she’s fine,
As her head is hanging low,
Mother says she’s fine,
As if I didn’t know

Mother says she’s fine,
As I kiss her cheek goodbye,
Mother says she’s fine,
As she looks up to the sky

Mother says she’s fine,
As she steals her body for death,
Mother says she’s fine,
With her final haunting breath

aaaa this is amazing!

These are really good!

I LOVE THESEe

#4 A letter to Evadne

Dear Evadne,

First and foremost, know that the world will remember you. Even now, your name is being whispered among the gossips of the gambling tables and the excited children of the market squares. Remember those days long ago, when in hushed tones of awe I would whisper to you tales of legend? Of warriors etching their glory in battle and defeating mythical beings of untold power? Now, this same story-teller tells the tale of Evadne: The tale of a hero.

It took me many weeks to return to Mount Pellion, as you could imagine. Gasping and spluttering, terror seizing my body, I had laid in that cave where the darkness was much too loud. The darkness sat atop my chest and stoppered my lungs. I spent long hours searching for any scrap of light that would let me know I was alive. I kept imagining that the water pooled under me was snaking up my arms and legs, swelling up and over me, biding its time before it would eventually drown me. Wouldn’t that have been a fitting death for me? You always said that the water disapproved of me; That I was “a land creature whose legs detested the land, forever longing the open air”. At the time I brushed away your teasing, but those throwaway lines come back to me now. Erratically, in lobs and volleys, I’ll hear your voice in my ears and I’ll spin. Each time I expect to see you standing behind me, just like you always were, but it’s never true. I know I always pestered you for the complicated tapestries you wove with your words, but now I see them for the art they are. The great poets you worshipped would have sold their souls to sit on the prow with you, as I did many for many days, listening to the waves echo your limericks. I wish I knew then how desperately I would cling to these memories that seem to ebb and flow like the tides.

The water never did drown me, no matter many times I watched it do so in that waxy purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness. Instead, the water dragged me out of that cave, my bitter protests swallowed by the pitiless waves. While the water never liked me, I assume this was its way of mourning your loss.

Loss is not what I thought it would be. Stories claimed that grief would be my awakening, the cruel but necessary inspiration a hero needed to see through their gruelling task. Am I simply weak? Was that why grief did not spur me to action with righteous fury as it did for so many others? It was as if I died beside you. Twin souls ripped from their bodies. Except, despite my unwillingness, my body lives on.

After being jostled from wave to wave my broken body washed ashore in a neighbouring fishing town. I stayed on the beach for many hours, days, a week may have even passed without my knowing. I couldn’t have left if I wanted to. My strength was all but gone, focused wholly on trying to comprehend the uncomprehend-able. I was sometimes fed by sympathising fishermen but left alone for the most part. Remember all those times you would tease me for my need to move, and talk, and entertain? Well, it will show you how broken I was that I finally learnt how to listen on that lonely beach. I learnt of your sisters’ grief from a particularly chatty fisherman. When your sisters learnt of your death, they destroyed the cave in a fit of rage. From that speck in the middle of the sea, tidal waves radiated like a throbbing echo. That insignificant blip in the map that was your final resting place is now nothing more than a continuation of an everchanging expanse of sea.

Finding my way back to the hometown we shared was so much harder than leaving. When we first left that sheltered cove I thought I would return as a hero. Many nights I had envisioned our heroic return. I would stand atop the same prow of the same sparkling clean ship we had left on, with the rotting head of the monstrous beast we had defeated and an epic tale of victory in tow. We would be shepherded to the king’s side to be rewarded for our noble quest. The night we returned would be full of feasting and frivolity. I would sit atop a lush chair, a chair fit for only the noblest of nobles. A chair that was untouched by common folk. The feast would be a menagerie of flavours. Each dish a symphony of spices. Nobles would look at me in awe, pleading for me to retell my epic tale of courage and bravery.

The boat that I returned on was not the same boat we had left on. After regaining my strength I had worked for a while as a kitchen hand. The pay was meagre, but after a number of weeks, I was able to scrounge together enough money to buy my passage back to Mt Pellion. I stayed below deck for the entirety of the trip. I couldn’t face the waves. I couldn’t face the view from the prow, knowing you weren’t standing there behind me. The rock of the boat was no longer the gentle sway of a loving mother. Instead, it was the impersonal bumping of two strangers on a busy pathway.

No matter how broken I was, the world was not able to shake my need for a story. I was not able to return with a story of victory. So I wove my own story. Not so much a tapestry but a cape. A cape I done on the shoulders of your memory. Our journey revealed that I am no hero, but with what little skills I possess I string together an image of you. An image that will outlast me.

Yours truly,
Arion

#5 A Day in the Life of Arion

Each day is governed by Apollo. Our routines are dictated by his ever-changing moods. If he deigns it to be a cool and sunny day we head to the shoreline and laze about in the shallow waters. If Apollo is feeling especially aggravated, and the sky is alight with his rage, we will remain under the cool shade of the olive trees, coaxing weary travellers from their refuges in the gambling parlours and pleasure halls with ethereal melodies that niggle at the curiosity. But I am getting ahead of myself. We never leave the grove in the morning. The mornings are reserved for patient pastimes and rest. Besides, the day’s tourists never arrive before the sun is well on his journey through the sky.

Midday is my favourite time of day. Once each and every member of my family has been coaxed into wakefulness, and instruments have been either located or made, we head toward the market square. Ultimately, I love the markets for their sense of cluttered chaos. You rarely meet the same person twice, and each newcomer brings with them stories of their travels to distant lands. While my many fathers, mothers, siblings, and cousins gather an audience for the day's show, I gather stories. Insatiably, I hurry from storefront to storefront, collecting my day’s hoard of tales from far off lands. When the sun is well on his descent, and I hear the music becoming lethargic and contented like a well-fed house cat, I make my way back to my family. Together, we stroll to our sanctuary, lips never leaving their reeds and fingers never straying from their lyres.

The chaos of the markets, stripped from our backs like a well-worn skin, is laid to the side and we amuse ourselves with easy melodies and empty conversation. I lay among my family and look to the star-speckled sky, retelling the tales of wonder that I had collected. My hands spread wide, describing the enormous flank of Hades’ hell hound. Next, my fingers curl in a crude imitation of the haggard sea witch who cursed sailors who refused her soup.

#6 The Forest Family and other such nonsense

The grass parted before my feet. They greeted me liked loved ones watching on as their child begins the long and trying journey from infancy to adulthood. Despite the lack of wind, the trees seemed to bend from at their waists from the weight of their age. They waited, as if for the kiss of their favourite grandchild. The arms of the trees held a medley of birds, bustling together in their cloaks of blushing plumage and bickering with one another over trivial matters. They seemed unaware that I watched their antics, too caught up in their squabbles to notice one person watching from far below. I did not envy their naivety, nor did I relish any thought of superiority. The only thing tugging my gaze from the complexities of the day-to-day lives of the birds was the feast my footsteps were trekking towards. The picnic rug did not have a single wrinkle; The only variance in the rug’s immaculate surface was where it was weighed down by steaming pots of soups and heaping dishes of vegetables I could not name. It seemed that this was the grass’s intended destination for me. I sat down, safe in the company of the oaks and pines; the buds and bulbs; and of course the dappled light that hid itself in the shelter of the saplings. I adorned a thick slice of bread with a generous helping of fish meat, then garnished the morsel in a dense crimson dip. I sat alone, but even then I understood that this was a family dinner and that this meal was to be shared. Touching the bread to my lips, I chewed slowly. The brushing of the branches against each other quieted and the birds settled with content. Gradually, with all the time of a forest being born, my ancestors laid their quarrels to rest and slept in the comfort of each other’s presence.

Hey, CJ! Overall, I think it is really great. I really like your use of descriptive words and sensory detail, one thing that I lack XD. I can see that it is a slow-paced story and you use a variety of words. The use of big words is nice, but I do find it a bit hard if a story I am reading has a whole bunch of big words. (Or maybe it's just my attention span.) Maybe put in a couple of smaller descriptive words? I think the flow could have a bit more work to have the story move smoother. Your use of figurative language is very appealing and really shows the scene. The imagery was really great. Good job, CJ! It was a great story!

AmazaEevee wrote:

Hey, CJ! Overall, I think it is really great. I really like your use of descriptive words and sensory detail, one thing that I lack XD. I can see that it is a slow-paced story and you use a variety of words. The use of big words is nice, but I do find it a bit hard if a story I am reading has a whole bunch of big words. (Or maybe it's just my attention span.) Maybe put in a couple of smaller descriptive words? I think the flow could have a bit more work to have the story move smoother. Your use of figurative language is very appealing and really shows the scene. The imagery was really great. Good job, CJ! It was a great story!

Thank you for the feedback! I do find that I tend to create run-on sentences that have uncommon words that make the sentences feel clunky. I also don't vary my sentence length very much. I'll keep that in mind and try and edit these pieces of writing!

IimitIess wrote:

This is an intense piece of writing that deserves some attention as it describes each feeling that you would experience if you were to horse race. I caught two mistakes, the word centered is spelled wrong and you should add a comma after the word stride. The way that I read this causes me to hang onto every word, anticipating the next. Not knowing what will happen, making me long to read what comes. The way you write is like a treasure, waiting to be discovered. I will continue to wait for your next piece of writing as this one makes my heart swell.

This critique alone was so beautifully written. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to write such a wonderfully worded critique. Thank you!

#7 A Father Built of Stone and a Mother Made of Music

The rooftop was a masterpiece of engineering. Each stone was carved to such precise measurements, with their placing so deliberate, that the entire structure was a work of art. The walls of the labyrinthine passageways were less a collection of stone, and more great serpents, backs arched against the thin dawn rays, stars showering their worn bodies.

The tiny palace was now held together by nothing but crumbling concrete and stubborn memories. Among the wreckage a small hammock slumped against an equally battered wall, old friends recovering from the bashing they had received the night before; The wind was not kind to the palace’s weary soul.

An unwelcome rumble shook the grains of soot and powder from the sun-baked stone. The sound was jarring, being the only noise the walls had heard for many weeks. The palace would not survive many more train passing’s, but this one was special.

Through the broken arch of the entryway, up the winding staircase of the turret, over the broken landing, sat a boy. His short fingers, still clinging to the plump flesh of childhood, traced patterns atop the dusty stone ring that encircled the turret’s lookout post. He was one of few that knew the runes that had once marked those stones, and his fingers knew the path of the strokes even when his memory had deserted him. Tears etched twin paths across his dirt-ridden face, but his brows knit together in defiance. The rumble grew louder, and with it, the reservations in the boy’s mind died in their beds.

Little boys did not cry. Little boys left their parents with their little heads held high and their little hearts full of rage. Little boys did not stuff the chipped-off corners of stones in their pockets, telling themselves that this stone was their father, and it would make them strong. Little boys certainly did not keep little broken shells in their pockets, telling themselves that this shell was their mother, reminding them to never forget the music and always remember home.

No, this little boy would not be strong. His family were the strongest, most melodic, most stubborn people he knew, but now they were returning to the dust they were born from. No, this little boy would not be them. Rising to meet this new challenger, the little boy hurried down from the safety of his perch and made his way to the unblinking lights of the train.



Pressed against the train window he watched the palace shrink away from him, like a frightened animal curling itself into a ball. The little boy did not hear the faint melody of the wind chime, sitting alone in the heart of the castle, the clink of its shells calling for him to come home.

#8 Death is Beautiful, Can Life Say the Same?

The scissors glinted golden in the fading afternoon light, catching the sun’s dazzling rays for a brief moment before she plunged them toward the fabric. With a satisfying tear the two pieces fell away. The shape, now free of the excess material, held the potential for magnificence. This vision, however, resided only in the artist’s eye that currently scrutinised the work laying on the grazed wooden table. Gazing over the silken threads with an unhurried eye, the seamstress began the punishing task of coaxing her vision to life. This was no easy task as the silk, content with continuing life as a formless shape of elegant ambiguity, did not want any part in the girl’s vision.

No matter the stubborn material’s resistance to being stirred, the humble dressmaker vowed to teach the silk how to dance. This silk had never been handled, and naively believed that its battle would be a short and victorious one. Yet when calloused hands swept it onto the foam model, and pins raised the fabric into delicate arches and waves, the silk despaired. This seamstress, so unassuming in looks, possessed the power of making the static look fluid, of making miracles out of the ordinary. The silk flowed in a glorious pearl river down the bust of the model. Despite the death of its shapeless past, the silk shed no tears, as now the silk now cradled a new and glorious purpose.

Many days later the ethereal garment stood waiting to get introduced to its intended wearer. Their body descended into the dress as if it were their birthright, the garment parting like the gentle wake of an aquatic predator and washing over their bronze skin in a fond ripple. Light reflected onto the dress’s gathered edges from the shine of the scythe in the wearer’s hands. The blade sang in the morning light, cleaned and sharpened to a stunning point.

(was gonna add an ending but it started getting… violent… so have a cliffhanger <3)

#9 The Plight of the Eldest Child

“And close your eyes, your soul flies high; I’ll sing you ashen lullabies” - Symphony, by Alba

I don’t know whether or not to cry as I light the match.

The flame is insignificant in the dark, but quickly circles the pile at my feet. The albums are the first to catch, big spiral monstrosities filled with smiling faces and fishing trips. The photos make a popping sound as they curl into themselves, like the staccato crack of a pistol. The photos I could do without, they feel less real than the cheap plastic they were printed on, but as the scarf catches so too does my throat. It was an ugly lump of a thing, with holes and missing stitches and fraying edges, but it was the product of many golden afternoons sitting in a grownup’s lap, my pudgy fingers being taught to hold the needles until I could clumsily make my way through a row on my own.

I almost reach in and snatch it from the pile. Almost.

My body strains, unsure what to listen to, but ultimately my will prevails. I remain a stoic statue to my childhood’s demise. The scarf relinquishes its bright colours to the cold night air and greets the albums in a pile of ash in the dirt. The flames make a sombre march across the relics of my past, making a final stand atop my teddy bear. The lopsided head tilts as the arm lights. Now my knees do buckle. Innocent button eyes question me as I scream. Loneliness suffocates me. Hands of smoke and ash close around my throat. My lungs fill with fire. I stand helpless as the fire burns, my fingers clenched around dirt and ash.

Many hours later I still lay before the dying fire, my muscles relaxing as the embers softly pulse. It is finished. I’m charred and smoking, but what’s left is cold and unbroken.

I don’t know whether or not to cry.

#10 The Curse of Girlhood (CW: mentions deviIs and blood I guess)

Seven deviIs rest on my shoulder. Seven little deviIs for seven unforgivable sins.

The first came when I was nine, when there were still gaps in my smile and laughter in my head. Back when my knees were scratched raw from climbing trees and the only thing I had to fear was the fall, and sometimes I didn’t even fear that. My thoughts were on only the sky, of whatever lay beyond the clouds, but now my mind is filled with fear. It spills out the sides in great, endless, tidal waves. Sometimes it’s the only thing in my head. I could live off the stuff if given the chance. When I fell that day, I fell hard. Hard enough that I didn’t dare live fearless again.

The others came soon after. DeviIs two and three came before I could blow out the candles on my thirteenth birthday cake. They were there before I even knew a name for them. DeviI number four crept out from under the bed that night, around the same night Uncle Don’t Ask stopped coming around for family dinners. At that point it was getting pretty crowded on my shoulders, already heavy with the weight of my sins.

DeviI number five surprised me from behind a mirror, hiding in my reflection so that I almost didn’t recognise the horns protruding from its head. My surprise was clear when my own reflection leapt out at me and claimed its spot atop my shoulders. Confusion silenced any protests that could have passed my lips.

I had tried to show my father the little sprites making a home in my shoulder blades, but apparently only I could see them. He patted my head in that way fathers did, and left me defenceless in a way that fathers definitely didn’t. DeviI number six jumped out from dad’s pocket when I wasn’t watching, and no matter how many times I shoved it away it would only laugh and burrow deeper into my chest.

My whole body ached with their presence. Their tiny claws were covered in my bIood, but what was I to do? My shoulders sagged with time, and eventually my eyes fell to the ground, more focused on trying not to fall than any thought of flying. DeviI number six reminded me of the dangers that lay in those closest to me: I would not survive another resident in my bones. I was the unwilling host of too many guests, and soon this hotel would have to close for good. I hid away from the world, content to sit and watch as my body was hollowed out by those tiny claws. It was a testament to the pain I was enduring that I didn’t even feel the horns growing in until the deviIs began snickering about it. Six little deviIs? What’s the harm in one more?

jhtao;qbnbr this is AMAZING, such descriptive writing. you can really feel the character, it's incredible, love it!

CJ_llama wrote:

#1 A Random Excerpt About Horse Racing

I have grown accustomed to the sound of my legs pounding into the dirt. It beats an echo to the throbbing of my heart. I find that the sounds keep me centred. Each stride must be longer than the last. With each stride, I put distance between myself and the starting line. The funny thing about race tracks though, is that you always end up in the same place that you started no matter how fast you run. I do not think about losing; thinking about losing is akin to thinking of my own death, and I don’t want to die. Despite my years, there is so much of life that I have not experienced. Running is all I know, so running is what I must do. So I think of my legs. They are what keep me alive. I outrun death with these legs.

Suddenly the beat skips. My heart no longer beats with a steady rhythm. The ground swells toward me and I do not turn away. I skid along the ground like a fallen star and my bulk rips through the dirt. I do not hear the crunch of my legs underneath me. I do not hear the screams, the shouts, the chaos. The sound of my pounding legs is no more. The silence is what frightens me the most.

I really love this little piece of writing.
It has vivid descriptions and is put together really well.
It is clear that you took time on each word and thought everything out
and that is something that I love.

Something I did notice though is characters.
I know that it is hard to get a feel of the characters in two paragraphs of a story but I generally did not get a great feel of the protagonist.
Getting a good feel of characters can really take a story to the next level and it is important to have in your story if you want things to stay interesting.

The final thing I would like to comment on is the writing style.
It is sweet and consistent you stay in the direct tense the entire time and maintained 1st person.
you keep it clean and your writing has a good rhythm.

Thank you for letting me read this.
It was a really great piece of writing and I was interested the whole time.
Also sorry if any of it comes off a bit rude this is my first Critique and I really enjoyed your writing in fact it was hard to find something that needed improvement.

clarem12 wrote:

I really love this little piece of writing.
It has vivid descriptions and is put together really well.
It is clear that you took time on each word and thought everything out
and that is something that I love.

Something I did notice though is characters.
I know that it is hard to get a feel of the characters in two paragraphs of a story but I generally did not get a great feel of the protagonist.
Getting a good feel of characters can really take a story to the next level and it is important to have in your story if you want things to stay interesting.

The final thing I would like to comment on is the writing style.
It is sweet and consistent you stay in the direct tense the entire time and maintained 1st person.
you keep it clean and your writing has a good rhythm.

Thank you for letting me read this.
It was a really great piece of writing and I was interested the whole time.
Also sorry if any of it comes off a bit rude this is my first Critique and I really enjoyed your writing in fact it was hard to find something that needed improvement.

Thank you so much for the critique! I see where you're coming from with those improvements and I'll try and work on them! <3