Writers' Corner

[Austin Glau]

Haaaalo, Heeeeey, heeeey,

The plasma stains, burned deep into all my armor panes.

I knew I'd blow up your army, and so I let your harm me, before I did.

The pools of blood, all the bodies are soon turned into flood,

I knew when they were let out, That I better just get out before I'd die.

Halo PC, the convenant's against me on this halo ring, what is thing, Let's blow it up cause I'm the Master Chief

Halo PC, I think there's something fishy, but I can't imagine....why

Halo, Haaaaalo, Haaaalo

Just in time, the Control Room really shines and I feel free.

But now cortana's freakin, and she's yelling never speaking, Time to go find keyes.

What happened here? Oh look a camera, running gunning and lots of fear.

Is there something behind me, holy *** it's a ****in monster, what the **** is this?

Halo PC, the convenant's against me on this halo ring, what is thing, Let's blow it up cause I'm the Master Chief

Halo PC, I think there's something fishy, but I can't imagine....why

The way I can run from the flood, warthog red-lining it's so much fun

My sniper rifle can't do too much, when they don't feel pain so don't you touch, you see

I can drop the bomb, there is no equal, I wonder if I'll get a sequel.

Meh, prolly notttttt.

Halo PC, the convenant's against me on this halo ring, what is thing, Let's blow it up cause I'm the Master Chief

Halo PC, I think there's something fishy, but I can't imagine why

Halo PC, I think there's something fishy, but I can't imagine....why

Halo, Haaaaalo, Haaaalo

Halo, Haaaaalo, Haaaalo

Finish the Fight

(didn't make this, although i did encourage it lol)

[Chriso]

Hey all you awesome writers!

My name is Chriso, and I too am a writer. I am a senior this year, and am planning on majoring in Creative Writing in college. I haven't had the time to read every post on this thread yet, but I will soon! It is totally awesome and exciting to see so many writers out there! You all inspire me so much!

I have spent the past six years working on a a fiction novel. Additionally, I began formulating another novel about a year ago. I am also a musician, and have been writing songs for four years.

To help with my writing, I keep a word journal, in which I write down (and eventually define) any and all words that stand out to me. Sometimes it is rather comical; imagine a seventeen-year-old boy scrambling for his pen and "word journal" in the middle of math class because he noticed an interesting word in the directions of the quiz he was taking. About a month ago, I actually decided to type and print out about 75 of the words in my word journal and staple them to the ceiling of my bedroom. It was awesome. I also maintain an "idea journal" as well as a bucket list and a regular day-to-day journal (as often as I can) to help better my writing.

One of my favorite things to do is write down creative or unique sentences that I either hear, read, or think of. I do all this in the mindset that one day I will use it in some work that I am writing.

So that's a basic summary of what I do with writing. Now, I have a few questions all you awesome and wonderful souls: Are any of you in love with the idea of Creativity? How many of you consider yourselves "artists"? What is your relationship with your writing? Why do you like to write, what do you write, and what does writing mean to you? Do you have goals for you writing?

Please feel free to respond to any or all of these questions. I am sincerely interested in reading what you have to say!

Lastly, do you read any magazines or online publications that help you in any way with writing? Are there any good books that you've read that have helped you at all? Personally, I enjoy reading the magazine, Writers' Journal. Thank you all, and stay totally awesome! I look forward to reading everything that people have posted on this thread.

[Daedalus]

Hey all you awesome writers!

My name is Chriso, and I too am a writer. I am a senior this year, and am planning on majoring in Creative Writing in college. I haven't had the time to read every post on this thread yet, but I will soon! It is totally awesome and exciting to see so many writers out there! You all inspire me so much!

I have spent the past six years working on a a fiction novel. Additionally, I began formulating another novel about a year ago. I am also a musician, and have been writing songs for four years.

To help with my writing, I keep a word journal, in which I write down (and eventually define) any and all words that stand out to me. Sometimes it is rather comical; imagine a seventeen-year-old boy scrambling for his pen and "word journal" in the middle of math class because he noticed an interesting word in the directions of the quiz he was taking. About a month ago, I actually decided to type and print out about 75 of the words in my word journal and staple them to the ceiling of my bedroom. It was awesome. I also maintain an "idea journal" as well as a bucket list and a regular day-to-day journal (as often as I can) to help better my writing.

One of my favorite things to do is write down creative or unique sentences that I either hear, read, or think of. I do all this in the mindset that one day I will use it in some work that I am writing.

So that's a basic summary of what I do with writing. Now, I have a few questions all you awesome and wonderful souls: Are any of you in love with the idea of Creativity? How many of you consider yourselves "artists"? What is your relationship with your writing? Why do you like to write, what do you write, and what does writing mean to you? Do you have goals for you writing?

Please feel free to respond to any or all of these questions. I am sincerely interested in reading what you have to say!

Lastly, do you read any magazines or online publications that help you in any way with writing? Are there any good books that you've read that have helped you at all? Personally, I enjoy reading the magazine, Writers' Journal. Thank you all, and stay totally awesome! I look forward to reading everything that people have posted on this thread.

deleted this post, because it just sound arrogant, in retrospect.

Edited November 7, 2011 by Daedalus

[purplespark22]

Hey all you awesome writers!

My name is Chriso, and I too am a writer. I am a senior this year, and am planning on majoring in Creative Writing in college. I haven't had the time to read every post on this thread yet, but I will soon! It is totally awesome and exciting to see so many writers out there! You all inspire me so much!

I have spent the past six years working on a a fiction novel. Additionally, I began formulating another novel about a year ago. I am also a musician, and have been writing songs for four years.

To help with my writing, I keep a word journal, in which I write down (and eventually define) any and all words that stand out to me. Sometimes it is rather comical; imagine a seventeen-year-old boy scrambling for his pen and "word journal" in the middle of math class because he noticed an interesting word in the directions of the quiz he was taking. About a month ago, I actually decided to type and print out about 75 of the words in my word journal and staple them to the ceiling of my bedroom. It was awesome. I also maintain an "idea journal" as well as a bucket list and a regular day-to-day journal (as often as I can) to help better my writing.

One of my favorite things to do is write down creative or unique sentences that I either hear, read, or think of. I do all this in the mindset that one day I will use it in some work that I am writing.

So that's a basic summary of what I do with writing. Now, I have a few questions all you awesome and wonderful souls: Are any of you in love with the idea of Creativity? How many of you consider yourselves "artists"? What is your relationship with your writing? Why do you like to write, what do you write, and what does writing mean to you? Do you have goals for you writing?

Please feel free to respond to any or all of these questions. I am sincerely interested in reading what you have to say!

Lastly, do you read any magazines or online publications that help you in any way with writing? Are there any good books that you've read that have helped you at all? Personally, I enjoy reading the magazine, Writers' Journal. Thank you all, and stay totally awesome! I look forward to reading everything that people have posted on this thread.

WOAAAAAAHHHH. I so totally love this thread. I absolutely love to write, and i don't care if i'm complete crap at it, i love it, i love it, i love it, i love it!!!!

I totally agree with you Chriso, it's amazing to see so many writers and really nice!

I'm planning to study Law and then International Relations later, but i would really love to take an English class on the side!

Your word journal is so interesting, and such a good idea! I have an "idea journal" as well, and jot down sentences i hear/read.

Okay i'll answer your questions now

I consider myself an artist; however, i am a musician as well and that might have something to do with it.

My relationship with writing? LOVE. i'm not even kidding, i love writing almost more than anything. Writing and singing are my two loves and i will have a threesome with them for the rest of my life. It's so amazing how people can describe situations or places in such different ways. Or how an ordinary moment can become extraordinary, depending on the words you use. To me, it's mind blowing that with words, you can do so much, like inspire someone, change their emotions or create an image in their head. I'm blown away by the fact that words (just squiggles on a page!) can craft something so beautiful.

Well yeah, i pretty much said why i like to write. I also find it very calming and a way to look at a situation objectively. It's also amazingly fun

I write short stories, poems and songs. I don't know really how to describe it (haha), but i write descriptions. For example, if i meet someone interesting, i'll describe the way they are and how they move and things like that

Writing means a lot to me. It's a way for someone to express emotions, or convey a message. That's what i use it for sometimes anyways

Yes i have goals for writing! Mainly to become better...haha no, but i would really like to take classes or have some sort of teaching in order to become a better writer. Not now (i don't have time :b) but someday i would also like to write a book, or a collection of poetry.

Like you, i also have not read this whole thread, so i'm not sure if authors have been mentioned, but one of my favourite writers of all time is Jodi Picoult. The way she writes is breathtaking, if only i could be a tenth as good as she is!

[Arrowhead]

I love to write, although Film is my real passion. Writing in tandem with direction is what has made me truly happy at any point in my life. I'm currently doing my Law degree, but hope to pursue film at some point in the future. I don't know what it is about the way I write, but most of my work and especially my protagonists, turn out to be twisted and dark. Not even in a noir, or gothic way, just dark for the heck of it, and very angsty. It pisses me off sometimes, but my writing is what it is and I try not to think how it reflects on me that this is what I write about.

Anyway, below is a piece from one of the chapters of a book I'm in the midst of writing. This particular scene is inspired from a real life experience.

An excerpt from Chapter 3, Dreaming From Tomorrow by Me

The large, wooden door was gathering grime, a coating of dust adorned the once pristine silver fastenings on the left. I traced my hand up and down the indented doorframe. I wasn’t afraid someone might open it from the other side and slam me, nobody used this door anymore, and probably never will again.

It had been one year, five months and eleven days since I last faced this door, vowing never to return.

My palm collected dirt as I moved it along the indention, slowly it rose and fell. A faint smile graced my lips as I recalled its origin. Nearly ten years ago, we had crashed a steel pole at this door because it was locked and we wanted to get on the other side. It didn’t work, but the damage was done. I was skeptical from the beginning but he was convinced it would work; he seemed to believe that no matter what, the universe would bend to do his bidding; he always held an air of confidence and nonchalance. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

I giggled to myself as I wiped my hand clean on my jeans, staining the front but utterly blasé to its presence. He would have found it funny too because he knew how much I loved order, I loved precision – well, not anymore. Now I stained my own jeans, I marked myself in dirt and grime and dust, I didn’t like it, it unnerved me, yet it also strengthened me. It reminded me that regardless of nature, of being, of habit, man is set apart because of his great susceptibility to change and adaptation – whether it is change for the better is always in question.

I rubbed my hands together and I spread the mess, after all, why do anything halfway? What’s life if filled with incomplete promises and half-lived experiences? I stretched my hands, my palms faced outwards and turned them around to stare at them from all directions, noticing all the contours. They were slightly bigger than before, a little rougher, a little thinner. The changes were minute, but there nonetheless. As odd as it sounded, the passage of time became tangible to me, when I noticed these subtle changes. Every shift, change of structure, growth in nails, it reminded me of another moment that had passed, another second that separated us in the myriad of time.

I took a deep breath, this was getting out of hand – I had been standing in the same spot for thirty minutes. I had to do this; I had already done it so many times in the past, it shouldn’t have been this difficult. It’s been more than a year – one year, five months and eleven days to be specific – but that was enough time, it had to be.

With a renewed, steely resolve, I clasped the door handle with only a bare tremble of my fingers. A growing feeling of dread filled my gut as I turned the knob round and pulled it open. The door creaked – a loud squealing sound – it had never creaked before, not in all the years that I had opened it, but it creaked audibly today. My hand clamped down on the handle, as my knees felt weak, my mind went blank with anticipation and fear.

I took a step, a single half step, and my foot shook with worry, with an innate desire to run away, to turn around and scream bloody murder. My eyes were closed, my breath was erratic, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I was scared – I was petrified. I didn’t want to do this, I shouldn’t have had to do this, but there I was – ****, I hated my therapist, this was his half-baked idea! What was I thinking listening to that lunatic? He probably needed therapy more than I did anyway.

This was stupid!

This was madness!

This was wrong.

Wrong. Incorrect. Injudicious. Inadvisable. Impudent. Imprudent. Foolish. Foolhardy. Idiotic. Absurd…

…And yet necessary

I sighed, my ears were ringing as I felt blood pound excessively in my body, a thin sheen of sweat littered my brow. I opened my eyes, not slowly, not carefully – as mentioned before this was foolhardy and absurd (among other things), why exercise caution when this situation was inadvisable and imprudent? – Like ripping a bandage, one single, fell sweep.

I expected it to hurt. I thought it would sting. I was preparing for the worst.

Nothing.

I took another step forward, this time, it was a full step, a proper stride that was confident, or at least, I thought it seemed confident.

The room looked the same, but it felt different. The walls were slightly beige on the far side, I saw the drawings I had made as a child. A single little dog beside another, slightly bigger, dog (although he was convinced they were fish for some reason). He had no artistic vision, then again neither did I.

I smiled faintly, my eyes moistened at the memory, childhood ignorance, the worries of the future a distant and unimaginable world. We were so young, so impressionable, so carefree, so naïve. I wished I could go back to that world.

I hadn’t realized I had walked to that wall, my hand traced the picture – now fading with time – I wanted to relive drawing this picture, I wanted to relive all those moments, of summers of misadventures, and midnight pre-exam breakdowns. Of thinking the world revolved around the answer of a girl, of utterly giving up on ever finishing the history portion, of dreams dreamed and futures planned, of having our first joint by the window, and settling him into bed after a night of drunken debauchery.

My index finger traced the smaller dog, the outline was chipping as the wall deteriorated. It also indicated the passage of time. We always argued the dubious representation of the smaller dog, the one to be taken care of, and the one needing care. Even after all these years, we never came to a resolution – now, we never will.

I took a few steps back and sat down on his rolling, blue desk chair. I remembered when he bent so far back on it that it toppled over. I was afraid he hurt his head, he just laughed it off and said he was too tough a nut to crack.

How wrong he was and yet how right.

I rotated the chair to face the desk, his papers still rested on the surface, untouched, and undisturbed. Nobody had bothered to move them, to put them in place. It was a testament to him, he never put anything in place, but he found everything within the crevices of his organized chaos. I hated his planned messes, I envied his organizational untidiness.

I flipped over the nearest exercise book, not realizing that it might be a trigger for my already fragile temperament. The cover turned and I choked on the air in my lungs.

‘Physics’, it read.

Images, reminiscences, memories swarmed my vision as bile rose to my throat.

Screams permeated the air as the dreaded stench of death consumed the environment. A limp body hung in midair, a metallic rope around his neck that was holding him up.

My vision blurred as my head unwittingly snapped upwards and stared at the glaring hole in the ceiling. The offending ceiling fan had been removed that day, I would know, I helped dismantle it. Although dismantle is a very technical word, the correct action would be destroy. I destroyed it, I utterly smashed it into pieces, my irrational rage at the aberrational piece of simplistic technology was unprecedented. I tore it apart, I blamed it for taking him away from me.

Of course that was wrong. My Mum says so, though she is sympathetic. My Dad also thought it was wrong, but he never actually came out and said it. My sister thought it was unhealthy (perhaps destroying her ceiling fan was a bit too much in hindsight). My therapist says its understandable, that I was venting rage, I felt like telling him that his mere ‘understanding’ expression fueled the raging inferno within me more than anything else did. No ceiling fan would ever grant me the pleasure that I would feel had I been able to rip him a new one.

But that is wrong. Hurting him would be wrong. Destroying ceiling fans was wrong. Thinking things like this was wrong. This room was wrong.

No wait… I love this room, or at least, I once loved this room. What happened in this room was wrong, it was unnatural, it shouldn’t have happened.

He shouldn’t have died, not in the way he did, not in this room, not at his own hand.

He was killed.

Directly, physically, it was the metallic rope that had originally been used as a cable for his television. He reinforced the strength of the cable by tying it with some strong, resistant thread and double tied it until it became strong enough to balance his weight. He then bound it tightly around that ****ing ceiling fan and pulled the other end down, to be bound in a similar fashion around his neck, as he stood on the very same desk chair I was sitting in. He then pushed the chair from under his feet and struggled in midair as the rope harmed his medulla oblongata and cut off his involuntary bodily functions, functions like his heart beating, his blood pumping, breathing. He died in seconds.

But really, honestly, that wasn’t the reason he died. He was a genius, I knew that, he knew it too, everyone knew it in fact. He was a genius fated for great things and greater discoveries. He was determined to figure out the world. I was always beside him, to cheer him on in his never-ending crusades.

‘The world is a machine, you open it up, pick it apart, understand its nuances and put it back together and BOOM: the secret of the universe is at your fingertips.’ He believed it was that simple, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.

He was a radical and a visionary. IIT thought so, so did MIT and Stanford concurred.

But he would never live up to his innate potential. He would never go to university. He would never discover the secret of the universe.

He died because he was a simple boy with big dreams. He was killed because he was from a simple home in a big city. He was strangled because he had a simple vision but lacked the big bucks to fund it.

Poverty was his failing, monetary limitations drove him to desperation, his efforts made him smart enough, but his birth didn’t make him rich enough.

Maybe it was irrational to think the world was to blame for his demise. Maybe it was unreasonable to believe that he held no part in this fatal failing of his own psyche. Maybe, if there weren’t a recession, he’d still be alive.

There were so many ‘maybe’s’ and ‘what if’s’ to consider, it was unnerving, it was maddening.

But the fact doesn’t change that he gave up, he couldn’t fight against the world anymore, his crusade ended far before the fight really began. The world swallowed him whole and the recession ate at his dreams.

He died unfulfilled, the secret of the universe still beyond his grasp.

I hesitantly lowered my eyes from the spot they had been staring at, at the ceiling. I was shaking, but it was a good kind of shaking. My hands held the barest of tremours as tears swirled in my vision, but I held them back.

There was nothing left to cry over, nothing left to consider. His hand had been dealt and he folded.

One year, five months and eleven days ago, my oldest friend was killed by the world. The official report said suicide, but I know better. When I sit alone at night and stare at the stars, in the quiet blankness and silence that encompass my evenings, I find the only closure imaginable.

Maybe, hopefully, wherever he is, he finally discovered the secret of the universe.

I opened the door confidently – it didn’t creak – my footsteps resonated in the quietness of the barren hallway to the room that no one frequented anymore.

Maybe my therapist wasn’t as mental as I originally thought.

~ FINISH

Let me know what you guys thought of it, its not my best work, but it is some of my most poignant work. Any advice or criticism, good or bad, are entirely welcome.

Edited July 12, 2011 by Arrowhead

[Jaymi]

oh my gosh! i love this thread!=D

Everybody here are such amazing writers:) Im writing a novel as well, but i started it when i was 14, haven;t touched it since i started IB, just haven't found the time. Its called "The War between Heaven and Hell" yea i know, pretty corny, but hey! i was 14. haha. Anyway , besides that i love writing poetry=) i've even won a few competitions which means they were published. This is my first poem of mine that was published, i was 14. Its about Zimbabwe.

I HAVE A DREAM

A place full of wildlife

Of animals both great and small

Each tiny little something

Is provided with protection

From this land-locked beauty.

Living in the beauty of the world

Is a different adventure day after day

With a new day brings a new tale of wonder

That shall be upon us

Till the day we part

This place that brings me joy

That fills my heart with happiness

As the sun sets

A new day comes

And brings with it

More splendor than that day before

The sun sets over the water

Leaving the sky with a rosy, dreamlike tint

Bring out the stars that shine above us

That gives us new hope

I have a dream,

For a new day is coming

We watch the sunrise,

New joy and happiness came and gave us hope

We are still living

Living in this place

My dream

And this poem is my most recent poem which was published. It was last year.

CONFLICT DIAMONDS

Look at you.

Such stunning value,

Emblematic clarity,

Roaring indemnity,

Magnificent evidence,

Precious brilliance.

If only you knew.

Slaughter of existences,

Tears of orphans,

Slashing dreams,

There’s nothing extraordinary

About you.

Only despair.

Look at you.

Timeless treasures,

Gleaming heirlooms,

Tender fortunes,

Sinful pleasures,

Precious radiance.

If only you knew.

Murder of reality’s,

Moans of offspring,

Hacking aspirations,

There’s nothing exceptional

About you.

Only anguish.

Let me know what you all think=) X

[ankitd1994]

How about this one:

Flux

It seems

every time

we attempt to

transform its flaws,

they grow with such rapidity

that traces of destruction

self-obliterate.

Meanwhile,

we sing

rhymes

of old kings

and rusted swords

in seamless synchronization

as the flowers melt away.

-Ankit Damani

[d3athlig3r]

Here's one I wrote like 2 years back. I used to write heaps of poetry (of course nothing exceeding mediocre), but I never really typed them up except this:

The easiest riddle your eyes will meet

I am a whole, I make you Incomplete

I am what you call sleeping in the street

And having no food for days, to eat

I am the reason your friends are few

I am the reason your rent is overdue

I am your demise, and your lies, it’s true

And when you die and rot, only your fleas mourn you

You drown in your tears, from your hunger, your pain

And through a long period, I render you insane

This relationship we have, I will maintain

But regardless, you hope, you never meet me again

You slip out of my grip, and look for ways to hide

You know you cannot escape me, you know it inside

You try to forget I exist, through a drunken Night

But the next day I am back, and so is your fright

You must know me by now

Inspired by George Orwell's famous Down and Out in Paris and London.

EDIT: Jaymi, amazing poetry, I love the diamond one.

I should read everyone else's work. You creative IBers

Edited August 18, 2011 by d3athlig3r

[Daniel Inchan Jung]

I like writing in general be it short stories, poetry, and even essays (yes even Extended Essays).

I'll share something I wrote during my first IB year during '11.

Unchallenged in Beauty

A butterfly flutters softly in the wind.

The morning sun, rises to the heavens,

The lush, green grass sways,

As the soft wind blows.

A blooming flower, all red and white,

Glorifies life and offers peace.

Cherry blossoms, heartwarming pink,

Scatter in the warm wind.

So beautiful is the world,

Unchallenged in beauty.

The seaside, waves crashing onto shore,

Alone a royal tern glides,

As if calmly searching,

For a partner, a lover for life.

The forest, engulfed in a sea of green,

So quiet, yet disturbingly loud.

The graceful stag, watches over his home,

In the calm of spring day.

So beautiful is the world,

Unchallenged in beauty

Two lovebirds in harmony,

Live in the harsh desert,

Chirping their love for the other,

Without a care for the world.

Everything in pairs,

The creatures of the earth,

All in twos,

Reminding me...

So beautiful is the world,

Unchallenged in beauty.

A twinkling light, from the heavens,

Gleams down upon Earth,

The rustling grass, where I lay,

Thinking... believing...

So beautiful is the world,

But not as beautiful as you.

Edited November 9, 2011 by Daniel Inchan Jung

[Maks123456]

I am glad such thread exists!

I am a great fan of reading as well as writing, although I consider myself not so good at it. I write poems whenever inspiration hits me, which doesn't happen quite often. I look forward to reading other poet's/writer's works, learning from them and improving myself!

Here is something I wrote for my boyfriend. We've been together for 9 months now.

"I love you"

Like butterfly wings your eyelashes

fluttered

as gravity pulled me down to

kiss you,

your hands felt like cotton,

so I held them tighter,

afraid you would slip away in between

my fingers

I smiled

until my eyes hid behind

my cheeks,

not like frightened children,

but

like two stars in the shadow of

the most beautiful half-moon they had ever

encountered

Thoughts of

whose mad artist's draft you were,

were clouds that never crossed

my fields of grass

nor mountains

but I was always thankful

he never perfected you

because perfection never meant beauty

in the end of light,

you remain the only one

who has heard me whisper

"as do I"

[spereira14]

I wrote this short story for my IGCSE English as a First Language and I want to upload it but I'm not sure if I should wait until I get my results (January 23rd) is it ok to upload it now?

[Sandwich]

I wrote this short story for my IGCSE English as a First Language and I want to upload it but I'm not sure if I should wait until I get my results (January 23rd) is it ok to upload it now?

I would wait until you have your results, to be on the safe side Not too far away!

[santa]

Wipe your tears

Take away the anguish matter-

All that's left, my dear

Is the lonely tatter

Behind the disguise of fears

[spereira14]

I finally got my IGCSE grades, so I think I can post my short story now it's not that good, but I wanted to post something here, as I feel this is a really important thread, where we can all share our ideas.

Here it is:

I’d never felt so alone.

Not enough blankets could keep me warm as I lied huddled in one of the thousands of cots in an american shelter just off Kabul.

Nightmares and thoughts haunted my mind, sweat ran down my spine and my mouth twitched uncontrollably as if possessed by demons; but I knew I was safe now.

The only thing I could do now was remember.

The heat of the summer pushed down on me as I awoke from a deep slumber.

“Amina! Father has brought a lamb from the hunt!” screeched my young sister Forogh in my ear.

The smell of food made my stomach grumble even more than it had usually done in the past days, and my throat as dry as the nearby desert, made me wish that the nearby stream had finally given the water we prayed so much for.

I rose from the hay I’d been lying on since last night and crossed the room, inquiring about the water to my mother.

“The leaders say it still doesn’t show any signs of moisture, but your cousin Asal brought back two full buckets from the big river from across the dunes last night before the sun rose” she answered, as she handed me a small share of the water.

My lips quivered as I brought the small wooden glass to them, and my 13 year old windpipe was finally released of the drought it had been suffering for the last days.

Droughts, rationing and hunger had been normal to me my whole life, and that was an average suffocating summer day.

The days passed and the temperatures rose, but still things stayed the same, that was until the day they came.

Forogh and I had been playing with great grandfather’s dice outside the hut when we saw them great green automobiles coming. The sand blew though the whole village and we retreated to the inside of our undersized home. We watched as they shot the boys playing with the tired, old ball and the wise tribe matriarchs.

I grabbed Forogh’s hand and we ran, past the limiting dunes and through the mountainous valleys, we ran until our feet burned and our lungs tried to leave our bodies. Night fell, and we trembled in the fear of our loneliness, there was no more Father hunting for our food, Asal bringing us water or Mother kissing us goodbye...That night we were just two terrified and alone Afghani tribal girls.

We kept walking, the hot sun burning ravenous black hair on our heads, and our clothes filling with sand and dirt. We came across one of the oasis Father said he used to visit as a child and we bathed and drank until nightfall, we’d gotten used to our rumbling stomachs and the cries of the wild dogs not far off.

The next day we reached a village where a fair skinned woman gave us some bread and a place to spend the night. But the peace didn’t last long.

As if on our trail, the men came again the following morning, the gunfire waking me from my hope-filled dreams. I shook Forogh into consciousness and again we started running towards the valley, jumping over the kind woman’s body lying lifeless on the ground. Suddenly, Forogh’s pull on my hand loosened and as I turned I saw her on the sand, a carmine coloured stain forming on the back of her virginal white cotton dress.

I rolled her over, closed her eyes, and kept on running. Memories about how Forogh meant brightness and how her eyes had reminded me of it and how I’d instructed myself never to let it be shadowed flooded my mind, and I willed myself not to cry.

With a knife I’d found with Forogh and provisions I’d smuggled from the woman I took off into the desert.

As overwhelming as the summer was, the winter was worse. Temperatures dropped and the snow began falling. I hunted and learned where to find sources of water, covered myself in sheep’s wool as I slept in dark caves and put on a brave face for the bats whose home I’d just invaded.

From my hiding places I could see men cross the desert in their automobiles, all colours and sizes; men who looked like my father and men with fire coloured hair and skin as white as porcelain. My instincts told me to hide and I did, but I kept on running until I reached Kabul.

The city was flooded with colours, food and people. In my village everything was red and brown like mud, but here there dresses the colour of fresh grass and scarves of gold and silver wherever my eyes pointed to.

I thought I was in paradise; and for a minute, as I watched a small woman arrange her daughter’s hair, I forgot about my own suffering.

But then everything went black. The only thing I could feel was unfathomable pain and arms carrying me away from the screams of the people. The sounds I will never forget; parents yelling their children’s name and men talking in strange tongues as I heard myself being put into one of those automobiles I’d feared so much.

When I awoke, I was being comforted by a woman whose hair was the colour of straw; and everything was peaceful, just like my name.

[troll11]

Hey everyone! I SIMPLY ADORE WRITING! However, I do not write literary pieces like stories or poems. I love writing articles on random stuff because I want to be a journalist. However, I did use to write short stories and poems when I was a kid. I also tried my hand at writing a novel, but had to leave it halfway through because I began the 1st year of IB. I hope to continue writing it again once my IB is over.

[LeahItIs]

Oooh! Me!! I love writing!! Have any of you done NaNoWriMo?? I completed it in 11 days.

HMS and Bandev, your poems are both really good! I could totally see IB kids studying them.

I haven't written much lately because of school work, but I find it very relaxing. I want to write a television series one day. All my writing idols are TV script writers.

Here, I'll post a poem I wrote when I was 10.

I have a homework machine at home,

a dog: his name is Fred.

He doesn't do my homework,

but he rips it up instead.

I never do my homework,

I always just have fun.

So when I go to school next day,

my homework's never done.

My teacher asks, "Where is your homework?

I'm going to have a fit!

If you don't fix that dog of yours,

I will get rid of it!"

I didn't do my homework,

so now my dog is gone.

And now I have to do my homework: boring!

What a yawn.

There is a lesson learned in this,

and this I truly mean.

Never try to do your homework

with a furry homework machine.

... 10, people. Let's all be kind.

Caitlin [word stylist]

That is so cute!

[fleetfeet]

I assume this is relevant to this thread, but is anyone doing NaNoWriMo? I'm excited!

"National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30."

http://2007.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano

[Dmetri Tabor]

Hi there, I have written a couple things, mostly stories, but since they're too long to post here, I might as well post this poem that I've written:

The Beast Below

Jaws that bite on those much weaker

Claws which reach to catch the seeker

Of him whose glory reigns on high

The Beast Below, the King of Lies

He watches, pliding with eyes in two

Ever watching he longs for you

Beware the Beast who longs to rule

Over mimsy lands, with ways most cruel

The Beast’s disaster will not cease

‘Til the Lord above smoothes this crease

A fate strung in prophetic verse

His end draws near, and with him sin’s curse

A curse borne through ancient mistake

The end will be done when God spake

To bridge the gap and gain a pass

The price was paid, His blood on the grass

The fiery lake awaits the Beast

On Christ’s return he’ll lay in defeat

While those who believed will prosper

The Beast below will suffer on

[Liniyay]

This is a short story I wrote when I was 10

Saadly it is in german. I still hope some of you can read it

BUM und die BUMMER

Bum und die Bummer waren Ausserirdische. Sie lebten auf dem Planeten Puddingdur. Der Puddingdur-Planet bestand aus einer Masse welche wabbelte, und weil sie wabbelte wurde der Ton jedes Schrittes um das Tausendfache lauter. Bei jedem Schritt eines Bummers hörte man kein TAP TAP sondern ein BUMM BUMM.

Bum war ein Aussenseiter. Alle anderern Bummer machten sich lustig über seinen Namen, denn Bum war anders. Er war der einzige auf dem ganzen Planeten bei dessen Schritten kein BUMM BUMM ertönte, sondern nur ein leises TAP TAP. Manche fürchteten sich sogar vor Bum, zurecht. Was sie nämlich nicht wussten war, dass Bum die Lautstärke mit jedem Schritt in sich hineinzog. Eines Tages ging es Bum zu weit, denn ein Bummerkind trällerte: „Bum Bum du bist so stumm, deine TAP TAP Schritte sind so DUMM“, und knuffte ihn. Mit diesem Knuff, brach die gesamte gesammelte Lautstärke aus Bum heraus. Er schrie so LAUT: „BUUUMMM“, dass das Trommelfell der gesamten Bummer-Bevölkerung platzte! Und von diesem Tag an gab es kein BUMM BUMM und kein TAP TAP mehr. Denn nun klangen alle Schritte gleich und zwar nach gar nichts.

[-._._.-]

Wow everyone here is so talented! The work is amazing!

I always say "oh it seems fun to write" "oh I want to start writing" but I never get round to it.