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Fyshhed
August 8th, 2004, 07:53 PM
I was trailing off thought while responding to a thread( particularly while deciphering Galendir's text on a post), and I was thinking about the different writing styles utilized by the different members on this board. We're all pretty eloquent in our arguments and writings, excepting a few, and I'm not going to name any names (geetarcliff) about those who arent. However, I thought it would be interesting to put these skills to a test that has nothing to do with debate. I propose we have a creative writing competition. For highlights, here is what I thought of.
-We pick a topic to write about, and everybody involved writes something related to the topic
-We can write a short story, an essay, a memory, or some other piece that is generally restricted to a page or a few.
-We can set up a poll and decide whose work we like best.
-We can give each other advice on how to improve our technique and word choice etc.

All in all it's just an excuse to have some lighthearted fun, but I'd really like to see some entertaining writing come from the group of people here.

AuspiciousFist
August 8th, 2004, 07:58 PM
sounds like a good idea. I don't know if I'd enter (de[ends what the topid is), but it would be fun to read.

mrs_innocent
August 8th, 2004, 08:34 PM
We did something loosely similar a few months back; Withnail's poetry challenge. It seemed to be going okay, then it just kinda disappeared :?:. Are you talking about sort of a peer-editing deal? If I had more time, I'd be willing to jump on it, but I'm not sure... First things first: check with Apok, and see if there's a decent amount of interest.

Withnail
August 9th, 2004, 06:48 AM
The "Poetry challenge" seemed like a simple thing to run, but quickly became bogged down with site upkeep. Basically, polls had to be reset on the thread, something that a moderator had to do. Illuvatar had said that this would be easier to implement with the new site, and I had believed that the new site was nigh, so I discontinued the challenge. Then Illuvatar went on his vacation. I could start it again, but I'd need to start a new thread for each round, and that would quickly clog up one of the forums.
I'm sure Apok is aware of this and has said that he'd implement a creative writing section.
For the poetry challenge all I'd need is a forum to put it, as off topic just isn't quite it.

FruitandNut
August 10th, 2004, 03:15 AM
I'm game


Lord of all before you, nature's pinnacle of the tree,
constrained within a mortgaged box, just what is it that you see?
What far horizons greet you as you stand at your front door,
those undulating verdant hills or number thirtyfour?

The National Interest, the National Interest,
a phrase that makes me twitch,
is this interest in the poor, or is it in the rich.

The human spirit.
You strain at anger's Starting Gate and flash that vital challenge,
who stood fair ground before the hungry beast for Rome's amusement.
'Neith Orleans' towering walls, as maiden knight, you fought for France.
At Waterloo you wandered free past speeding ball, and on through serried scarlet ranks.
And now as unkempt boy with tousled hair, with orchard's fruit in hand and defiant stare,
you are creation's enigma.

Slipnish
August 10th, 2004, 08:41 AM
Me too.

Backyard

There's nil manmade, that is so grand,
As an ounce of shade, nor grain of sand.
No music, no art, no marble carved.
Comes even close, to my backyard.

FruitandNut
August 10th, 2004, 04:20 PM
To a paedophile

A trust and identity you did rape, when to that nursery you're familiar shape,
told shadowed secrets by childhood's bower, 'there's nothing to fear from parent power'.

Censored recall made for a normal life, to know happiness and fun and be a loving wife.
Then two became three, a joy but too brief, for memories stepped forward to become time's thief.

That life has paid dearly for your self serving kicks, in drugs, hospitals and ECTs six.
For when you forced that bud before its hour, the legacy you left was a damaged flower.


An Old Warrior Remembers (HMS Warspite.)

I was known as a lucky ship by my admiring crews,
from Jutland to Normandy steady turned my four bronzed screws.
'Though heavy shells brought havoc to armour plate and flesh,
with flame licked companionway and smoke scarred seamens' mess,
my eight big guns did defiantly give their answering address.

In Narvik's frozen fjord, the Kreigsmarine's sheltering den,
there I sank their finest, oh pity for the men.
Matapan saw my record for hits of longest range,
full twentysix thousand yards, that was our watery stage,
an Italian bore the evidence and struggled to disengage.

Bardia heard broadsided roar that blasted Rommel's tanks,
while Tommy in a sand blown trench offered up a silent thanks.
Across the broad Atlantic, like a sheepdog fussing sheep,
with Walrus flying overhead and sonar's trusty bleep,
I protected convoys from the dangers of the deep.

My duty now over, a long tow for scrap did start,
'til a heavy sea in the lea of Cornwall's edge did part.
Now I lie here rusting near coastline's rocky shore,
sheltering many schools and shoals from denizen's fearsome maw.
A charter boat comes out to fish, I'm serving man once more.

3rdPersonPlural
August 10th, 2004, 04:26 PM
If I'm a poet
then I don't know it
so I decline to show it
'cause I know I'll blow it.

Slipnish
August 11th, 2004, 10:50 AM
Here's a little ditty I composed shortly after the SO and I began to seriously ...er...date. :red:


REMEMBERANCE

I remember how the sunlight streamed,
Around the curtained gloom.
How it gathered upon thy face,
Brightening the room.

Golden hair a’haloed,
Upon the pillow soft.
Gentle breath upon the air.
Even deep and soft.

What dreams might an angel have?
I ponder as I peer.
Are your dreams of me or God?
Or wonder, hope, or fear?

How beautiful her countenance.
How graceful is her line.
And how I sat, and stared, and wondered,
Ensorcelled for a time.

What mortal sin it must be,
To not let angels lie.
As soon let the Devil win.
Or stand in line to die.

Oh sweet peace upon thy face,
As in twin arms you lay.
Mine and Lord Morpheus,
With neither holding sway.

How innocent, thy Sylvan self.
Oh Heart! Beat thou hushed.
For I am watching an angel dream,
And such should not be rushed.

Rest you now, my Angel.
I’ll guard thee, ‘til you wake.
Hoping in thy beauty pure,
My own thirst to slake.

KneeLess
August 11th, 2004, 10:53 AM
I'd really like a short story contest. I think I'd win.