Creative Corner

@Vngel @Sentari
I want to join!
How long have you been writing? Oh yeesh... In like, 4th grade I was invited to a program to write a short story (which sadly had a word limit D:) and it was technically published! That would make roughly 8 years of writing.
Example of your writing: I tend to write large portions, so I'll just link a few dragons with lore --
Chromite, Nyddrar, and Cerlith, whose lore is all connected
TARS-092, a WIP and a writing style and character type I don't usually do so I'm fairly proud of it.
Why do you want to join? I've been battling a block due to depression for the past 4-5 years, and I think having other authors to encourage me would help a lot!
What should you give Sentari and Vngel? Elephants and horses
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [X] Monthly Newsletter: [X] New Members: []
Other: I don't think I'll be super active but I'll definitely lurk and try to join in every now and then haha

@Agion
:0 Hey there!

I have to admit... I LOVE experimental writing styles, and TARS-092 is just so COOL! I really hope you keep writing it, because the story is sick so far. And no pressure in terms of joining in vs lurking! Whatever works, works :D

@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PinkRose06 @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion

A little late for this week's prompt, but we made it! This week, Sentari and I want you to:

Before you begin, consider what makes a story loud. DOES THIS MAKE IT LOUD? How about this! What about onomatopoeias, like crash, snap, roar?

There's no right or wrong way to interpret the prompt, so be creative as you'd like.

GOOD LUCK!!!!!!!! (loud enough?)

yes please omg

@Vngel @Sentari
I want to join!
How long have you been writing? for as long as i can remember honestly
Example of your writing: poem, another poem, short story, experimental RPG-esque style
as a rule i tend towards darker themes oof. i've written plenty of stuff outside fr as well, but i'm too lazy to go link them
Why do you want to join? feedback = life. also i've wanted a true writer's group for as long as i can remember smh
What should you give Sentari and Vngel? right, an embarrassing secret. i mean the elephant in the room... uh... i used to really like horses as a kid! i like dragons more now tho XD
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [] Monthly Newsletter: [] New Members: []
Other: i don't have discord, but i look forward to doing my best to engage with the community anyways!

@fyi (@obanai)
I read Helena's bio--stunning! Your use of language is genuinely incredible, and you hit beautifully on concrete details. Accepted!

That's totally all right! We have another member who doesn't use discord :) Writers usually share their writing through this thread, so all of the club activity tends to be here!

@Vngel @Sentari
I want to join!

How long have you been writing?
5 years or so!! Been doing nanowrimo since 2019 c:

Example of your writing:
My bio!! But for convenience's sake, here's Forge!

Why do you want to join?
Community! Friendship! Camaraderie! Also I love reading unpublished writing. You know they poured their heart into it. c:

What should you give Sentari and Vngel? (remember to read the rules!)
Elephants and horses! This makes a lot more sense now I'm doing the form pfft

Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [x] Monthly Newsletter: [x] New Members: [x]

Other:
Sorry for jumping ahead!! Scatterbrain moment.

@ghostpath (@/obanai -- avoiding a double ping)

Absolutely no worries! And I took a look at Forge's bio--great scene writing! There is never a moment when the pacing drag(on)s (W H E E Z E). Accepted!

Don't forget to take a look at this week's prompt! Make a story as creatively loud as possible. The prompt will be replaced with a new prompt next Wednesday :)

@Vngel @Sentari
I want to join!
How long have you been writing?
For a long time. I recently found something I wrote with a friend when I was in kindergarten, but I think I really started in third grade.
Example of your writing: (note: this is rather outdated if you want my lore but it shows off how I write)
"Would you like to end your memory?"
Her voice is merely a breath on the wind.
Nobody can agree on what she does. She's a hero, a villain, a shopkeeper. None of these are right, and yet none are wrong. She dispenses amnesia and weaves tales into forgotten minds. Hire her, and you'll lose yourself in the depths of her shadowy pool. She cares not for morals, and she will bestow her service upon anyone you direct her at, for a price. Her appearance unknown, covered by the mists, with only flashes of jewel-bright wings and grey scale to say that there really is a dragon there.
Why do you want to join?
I like talking to other people who write and seeing what they make!
What should you give Sentari and Vngel?
Elephants are wonderful creatures, as are horses. (are you sure you aren't me and my childhood friend? we were absolutely obsessed with those)
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [*] Monthly Newsletter: [] New Members: []
edit:typo fixes

@BlurryReflection

The lore looks great! The character seems super interesting, and I love the way you wrote her, so trim and clean!

Accepted! C:

this was written mainly today (there was a paragraph or so done yesterday), and it ended up at 982 words! please point out any editorial things, I usually go back through and make a second pass but haven't yet. I used the word 'drew' far too often.

---

The first thing it remembered was the pencils. There weren’t many yet, but there were enough. It-they took up the pencils and drew a world beneath their feet. It was scribbly and rather bland, a hill with a tree on top of it and a box for the pencils beside, but it was ground to stand on, nothing like the strange white abyss that was everything, and they were proud. (the voices were not, but they didn’t let that bother them. They deserved this moment.)

They went on, drawing creatures and worlds into existence. When they thought they were ready, they drew a body for themself, with wings sketchy and indistinct that moved whenever you tried to look at them, feathery and darker than the blackest pencil they owned or like luminous ovals, with grey chevrons on the lower set, worn around them like a cloak. Their skin was coppery and shone where the sun hit it, their hair the same color as lavender blossoms and their eyes a darker purple. When they were done, they couldn’t see much of anything.

You messed up the retinas, said one of the voices, and they redrew the eyes. The world was blurry and one of them explained the concept of glasses, which were hastily drawn. (they planned to make a nicer pair later, but they never did.) And so, they drew. They ran out of room in their pencil box, and so they replaced the leaves of the tree with amber string and hung most of their pencils there, leaving only the most used.

They were lonely, with nobody to talk to but the voices in their head, and so they drew a person. The person was wingless (because they couldn’t get them quite right, or else they would have feathers that shimmered like the peacocks they had finalized not so much earlier) but otherwise like them, and though all they wanted was a companion, they were a god in the other’s eyes, and so they were cast down to the beautiful world below. They continued on, making people, hoping for even one who did not treat them as such. They failed. The voices told them that the people had started calling them the Artist. They liked that. They were the god of these worlds, and they embraced it. They ran out of room in the tree, and so they replaced the string with beautiful leaves and the sky with a cobalt web. The leaves didn’t match the rest of their island, and so they redrew that too, each knot in the bark or blade of grass or flower petal perfectly formed beneath pencil’s tip.

They created. (They were sitting under their tree, drawing concepts for a new creature, covered from head to toe in cats. They directed one of the cats to grab a particular pencil from the other side of the island, though it should have been in its place in the webbing that made up the sky. The cat, predictably, did not do so, and so they stood up to grab it, the cats falling from their form onto the grass, hissing.)

They destroyed. (They were standing in front of a shattered soul, the mist from inside pooling around the glassy shards that had been holding it in. The first creature with half a mind who hadn’t thought of them as someone to be revered, every whim to be followed to the best of their ability (One of the voices pointed out the cats, who didn’t take orders from anybody. The Artist pointed out that they were cats.), and they were dead, because the Artist thought that person might take their place as creator-god of the worlds. The person wouldn’t have done that. The person had wanted to be friends. Wasn’t that what they had wanted, at first? Before they had even the notion of godhood. Before they were the Protector. Before they were the Artist. When they were just lonely, yearning for anyone but the voices to speak with.)

They decided to visit the worlds they had made. (The voices didn’t like this, but they went ignored, like they were so often now.) They drifted down on radiant wings, and then they were caught by the wind. They swore, trying to regain control over their flight. Their wings shifted, no longer solid but a hazy mist, the air passing through them as they flapped wildly, trying to get them to condense, failing. They fell, landing with a sickening thud. They were glad that they were made mainly of magic, or else they would be very injured. The pencils they had with them seemed to be alright, at least. They were going to rest, and then they were going to find a way back. They walked to a clearing in the forest they were in, and they slept, and they forgot.

When they woke, they didn’t know why they had pencils that looked so much like those of their god. They walked to the nearest village, where they were a librarian and a storyteller, always seeking tales of the Artist. They were greeted as they walked through the square, asked where they had been and when they had gotten that cloak. They looked over their shoulder and saw two pairs of gleaming wings on their back, which shot up in surprise. They were confused, but it was getting late, and they would figure this out later. They continued for a few weeks in this manner, putting it off until they were asked about it again.

That night, they dreamed of godhood. They dreamed of voices that cared for their safety, of an island with a sky full of pencils strung up on cobalt, of wings. They dreamed of drawing life from nothing, and when they woke, they knew what they had to do. They flew, and they rose, and they remembered.