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Post by sorenna on Aug 7, 2014 23:07:40 GMT
Ah! Finally a longer word limit! This will be fuuun!~
username on CS: Sorenna identity of protagonist: Her name is Kveldi, which is Icelandic for "Evening", but everyone calls her Lynx story: Drip. Drip. Drip. The rain patters on the roof. The windows. Crashes against the walls. It adds to my gloomy mood. I never did like the rain. It reminds me too much of... My past. I guess I've moved on pretty well. I still think about what happened over a cup of coffee each morning. Especially on rainy days like this one. My paw traces the edge of the cup. The coffee is growing cold now, but I don't mind. I look out, and I see the mountains in the distance. Even though the sound of the rain is hammering its way into my ears, I find peace. I look up at the shelf containing my expansive collection of handmade pottery. It's all painted; with pictures of bounding deer and rearing horses, as well as prowling felines and soaring birds. I painted all of this myself, on the many mental whims I fly into, where colorful abstract animals run through soft pink skies and green forests, with white waves crashing on a sun-bleached shore. It's my own little world to escape to, I suppose. Painting is one of the few thing's I'm good at. I do it for a living. I've been able to sustain myself just fine off of it, so why have regrets? I'm not a total loner; I'm sometimes invited to social events, but I usually decline. Social situations make me anxious. I'm not exactly a slim, beautiful lady. I'm me. My hair is always messy, I'm a bit chubby, and I'm always at home, hiding away like a hermit. The few times I do attend gatherings, they stare. They all stare. They stare until I burn bright red and hurry away shyly. So I've taken to just staying at home, working on my paintings and pottery. I'm happier this way. It's almost like this is my destiny. I'm no stranger to the norms of Kiamara society. I love music as much as anyone else. I'm a particular fan of Indie music. Some days I'll sit here with my coffee and listen, eyes closed, tumbling into a wondrous dreamland of color and wilderness.
I've always admired the wilderness. I hate big cities, personally. Everyone is always busy, the streets are hard, dark, and rigid. The sound of car horns makes my ears ache.
Everyone just needs to slow down. Enjoy life. See that it's worth living, and not simply another monotonous routine to go through day by day.
Enjoy the little things. That's what I always say.
I guess you could say I'm pretty caring. I adore kids and have had my fair share of crushes. I just really like everyone, I guess. I always see the good in others, even if all they see in me is a weird mountain hermit. That's just how life works. It's how life has worked since my dear friend passed away. I seek comfort in the sun, and blame the sadness on the rain. It makes life easier, I guess. Usually instinct tells everyone to blame each other. But I simply blame what cannot feel. Perhaps I could blame myself.
But that's life. There's no changing life. There's a balance, and I have to play my part too.
Even if it's taken quite the turn for the worse.
The coffee is cold now. I drink it anyways. I'm still lost in thought.
I still blame the rain, as silly as it sounds.
Ever since my friend died I've been terrified of swimming. I refuse to go in the water except to bathe. Even then, I never take baths. Only showers. I can't be in water higher than my ankles, or I go into panic mode. Painting water is cringy for me, and although in my mind, water is innocent... When I paint it, it turns dark. Dark and ominous. Often I don't show anyone these paintings. They'd drag me to therapy.
I don't need it though. Despite the occasional dark, horrific piece of artwork, I'm perfectly normal. That's what I tell myself, anyway. Perhaps I'm just as crazy as they say
So I just paint my suns and feathers and deer and grass, listen to my folk music, drink my coffee, avoid everyone out of awkwardness, and stare at the mountains from my window.
But inside my head, I'm a total mess.
I could be fixed. I'm sure I could. As much as I hate to admit it, I am broken.
But the problem is...
I have no one close enough to fix me.
word count: (754/1000 w) |
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adventure
New Member
I only swim freestyle.
Posts: 3 
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Post by adventure on Aug 7, 2014 23:13:31 GMT
username on CS: Adventure
identity of protagonist: (alias) Ido
story:
word count: __/1000 w
w.i.p
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Post by carmineflyer on Aug 7, 2014 23:44:17 GMT
username on CS:
.Carmine Flyer.
identity of protagonist:
he who was a dragon
story:
Growls and shrieks came from the meadow, and the boy and girl tussled with each other. Covered in dirt and all manner of meadow plants, the two snarled at each other in play, the girl shrieking as the boy chased her.
"Dragons eat lambs! You can't fight, dragons eat lambs, they don't fight them!" He yelled, face already settling into a pout. The girl stuck her tongue out in response, darting away from him, laughter ringing in the air. "This lamb will beat any dragon, including dumb ones like you!"
The boy snarled in exaggerated anger. "Well, the lamb can't swim the river like the dragon can! I swam the river thousands of times, and you haven't even tried it once!" Triumph settled on his face as he crossed his arms, certain he would best her this time.
The girl tossed her hair back and smiled. "You're on."
Triumph faded, whatever reaction he had been expecting, this wasn't it. But no matter, he would still best her in this challenge. "Fine. Race you to the river!"
And the young ones ran, never minding the stones that cut their feet, or the sticks that snapped back at them when they flew by. They were young, and as far as they where concerned, it would be like this forever.
It was clear as they grew that things where not always so perfect. The girl matured, becoming a beautiful women, and yet the boy stayed as a child, a caterpillar that could not turn into the butterfly it was meant to be. He stayed in the forest and played his little games, and the girl played in the beginning, yet came less and less, until one day, she didn't show up at all. He was confused, and felt betrayed in a childlike sense. But years passed, and the girl was forgotten. The concept of a lifetime of childhood didn't touch him, didn't bother him, he was too young to understand it.
What he did understand was that the world seemed like a giant playground to him, every extension of the forest a chance for fun. There were the endless opportunities to scare the others that wandered into the forest and sixty years of childhood allowed him to perfect his tactics. A berry bush made of branches that would disappear when the other turned their back, river water dumped on them where the river did not run, strange superstitious markings drawn on paths and the use of mirrors to create strange illusions, or scare animals right into the path of the unwary. The townspeople began calling the forest haunted, cursed. They claimed the spirit of a river dragon protected the forest, and you had to appease the spirit with gifts before going into his forest, else he would come after you to chase you out.
He did not know of these rumors, he simply knew the gifts placed at the forest were for him, and those who gave gifts were the friendly sort that you didn't bother. Sometimes he would try to talk to those who came in, but a child who dropped down from the trees, seemingly out of no where, was proof of the dragon to the villagers, and he was always confused when they ran from him.
One day he awoke to the sounds of the birds, the quick alarm that spread through the trees, signalling a predator. Running through the trees, he searched for the source, and found it in a motley group of his own kind. Two men and two women, most of them young or middle age, probably hunters, judging by the guns, and one women who seemed to be very old, judging by the startling white of her hair, and her frail stature. The others yelled at her, and she responded calmly, with a hint of a smile on her face, and the boy felt a sense of familiarity when he looked at her.
The yelling increased in volume, frustration coloring the tone. "Where is this dragon! The one you speak of in stories, the one everyone fears in this forest!"
The boy looked around the little camp, searching for gifts and finding only guns, weapons, and small pockets of food. He did not want a gun, and the food looked rather stale, so he decided these people would be chased out.
He ran out into the forest a ways, doubling back as he began herding birds towards the humans. Not all would fly in the direction he wished, but enough would to serve his purpose. He climbed one of the trees, shrieking all the while, and ran, following the birds in their dash for safety. He settled in a tree near the camp, and watched the hunters cry out, hands scrabbling for guns. After the hailstorm of birds passed, the boy began moving in a circle around the camp, hissing like a snake, occasionally throwing in a growl or snarl. The hunters swung their guns around wildly, eyes diluted in fear, and the boy waited until one of their backs was turned...
Now!
He launched himself at the closest hunter, shrieking like a wild cat, knocking him down, grabbing the gun and throwing it at the others. He threw in growls and barks, imitating every predator he could think of, and watch the hunters lose their nerve, running as he snapped at them. He counted them as they ran, one two three... He spun, and the fourth, the old women, was standing there laughing, staring at him with wonder. Confused, he stopped his animal noises to stare at her, confused. When her laughter finally subsided, she spoke to him, eyes full of mirth. "This lamb isn't going to be scared of a dragon like you."
word count: (959/1000 w)
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Post by cupcakefrosting on Aug 7, 2014 23:50:13 GMT
Hey.
I made an entry and I just realized it doesn't really have a protagonist. The character is distinguishable, though. I hope this counts.
username on CS: cupcake frosting
identity of protagonist: Cession
story: Cession took in some air and then took off. He skipped around the field, his hair bouncing in the warm, summer breeze. He screeched to a stop, grinning. "I win!- for the sixth time!" The loser of the race, Tocino, frowned. "Well," He said grumpily, "You have longer legs than me."
"True, true." Cession made a farting noise and his curly fur went up for a few seconds, and then it went down again slowly. "But last time you had a winning streak you won ten times, and you didn't see me complaining about you having shorter legs.
"But Cession, it was my first time racing and it was beginners luck." Cession ruffled Tocino's fur and smiled. "You know I don't believe in luck. Lets try again, anyway!" The two kiamaras ran to the starting line. Cession smiled and stuck out his tongue. "Good luck!"
The two kiamaras ran off, but Cession tripped over a rock and stumbled into a tree. "Ow!" Cession fell on his rump and rubbed his nose. "Stupid tree." Cession kicked the tree and hurt his paw. "Urgh." Tocino's eyes widened. "Are you okay?"
Cession nodded and looked at tocino. He made a 'Thppfft' noise and his fur stood up for a few seconds, and then fell down again, slowly. "Yeah, i'm okay, but I won't be able to race again today." Tocino sighed. "Oh well. I understand."
Cession smiled softly. "Aww, I knew you would. You best be going home now." Tocino nodded. "Yeah, Nobody said to be back before dinner." Cession flicked his tail as the young kiamara left. "Goodbye, Tocino. I'm sorry I can't play again." He smiled sadly as he stood up and turned to leave.
The traveler is known as a different kiamara everywhere he goes, and who knows? Maybe he is still here, playing and making friends. Who knows why? Maybe to help the shy? Maybe just so he isn't lonely? Anything is possible...
word count: 325
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Post by mangosherbet on Aug 8, 2014 1:39:44 GMT
one form per person.
for now we're going to say no, you may not describe the kia as having these things. remember, this is supposed to focus on the personality, not physical aspects.
yes, you can.
the point of this contest is not to create a custom, it's to create a concept that your kia will be based off. for this reason, fan characters are strongly discouraged. of course, you can take inspiration from existing characters, but since this is heavily based on personality there's not much of a point of using an existing one.
please do not "hint" at designs in your form, your concept should be strong enough to stand on its own.
sorry, this will take up a slot!
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Post by Micki. on Aug 8, 2014 2:05:56 GMT
username on CS:
Micki.
identity of protagonist:
Augustus/August/Auggie/Narrator
story:
--- "Strange Encounter" : Third Person POV ---
He was goofing around one day with a buddy of his, and she convinced him that it would be a cool idea to go to a club downtown. He sheepishly agreed after telling her that he'd never been to a club before. Once at the club, his friend ended up leaving with a guy she met at the club. August didn't mind, as he'd already become absorbed in a conversation with a very strange man. The man was talking about crazy nonsense, surely, but Auggie couldn't help but listen; it was so interesting, and it seemed so real. As the night went on, he sat there talking to this man. Finally, for some reason that he couldn't explain at the time, August was forced into believing all of the wild tales this man had been telling. He was convinced.
Completely and utterly convinced.
So, August went with this man to a strange building. It was run down, falling apart and it creaked with every step they took. It was exactly the sort of place you would expect to find people that believed in wild tales. A part of his heart sank a little as he followed the man; surely the stories weren't true-- this man was just some loon telling loony stories.. so why was Augustus still following him? He, himself, wouldn't have been able to tell you. He tried to turn around and leave a few times, but it was like something wouldn't allow him to leave, not just yet. When the two men entered a room it was already full to the brink, which made Auggie slightly uncomfortable. Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He just couldn't. The people in the room seemed rather bland and ordinary, most of them, which was both a bit surprising and a bit disappointing to August.
What happens next is all sort of a blur to Augustus, in that way where you can remember every little detail as clear as glass, but somehow you just can't wrap your head around it, so it seems all blurred and distorted.
Somehow he found himself on his knees, bent down before the most ordinary looking woman he'd ever seen. She looked a bit rough and tough, sure, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Her long black hair was in dreads and she must have been in her early thirties, neither of which were exactly uncommon in the city he lived in. She poured some sweet smelling liquid on top of August, and he let it run down the front of his face and down his shirt. He could feel the liquid wet his chest, and somehow it made his heart race. The woman he was bent before chanted a few words as the room full of people walked in a circle, lighting candles as they went.
The skylight above their heads shook and croaked and groaned in protest. Then it shattered, and a sudden, bone-chilling wind filled the room. It made Auggie shiver, and his teeth began to chatter. No one else seemed to notice, though, and they all went on about their chanting and lighting of candles. August might have known there was something amiss if he's looked at anyone else in the room, but he closed his eyes and let his shivering take control of him. Slowly, the young man's body lifted from his kneeling position, picked up by the strong wind. His ears were filled only with the sound of the screaming wind and the soft chanting of the black-haired woman. Without warning, everything stopped; the wind stopped howling, the cold went away, the chanting stopped. Augustus opened his eyes and he was still kneeling in front of the woman, and when he looked up he discovered the skylight had not shattered at all.
Then everything was black.
--- "Out of My Head" : Auggie's POV ---
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head, like, really, really stuck in your head? It's gotten to the point that you can actually hear it, and it's just repeating over and over and over again. As much as you love the song, it just won't stop and it's getting beyond frustrating.
Well, that's how I feel.
All the time.
Because OCD isn't liking things a particular way or doing cute, quirky little things, and it's most certainly not being neat and organized. It's repetitive, awful thoughts that you can't get rid of. You have a bad thought and you can't shake it off and forget. It replays over and over and over- for hours, for days, for months, sometimes for years. OCD makes you sit in your room and obsess over the one time the words "killing your best friend" scrolled through your mind. Now, five years later, you have come up with eight hundred and fifty-two different ways to kill your best friend, whom you love more than anything in the world. And you know that that isn't something normal, and you know that you shouldn't think about it, and you know that something is seriously wrong with you, and you think that you are the most awful person ever to live.. but you literally cannot get the thoughts, the images, out of your head, no matter what you do or say.
I literally worry about worrying sometimes. That's the most exhausting thing to worry about, to be honest, because you know that when you have OCD you will worry. It's just a fact of life when you have OCD.
word count: (912/1000 w)
I used wordcounter.net to calculate the total. I didn't include the titles of the two different stories, but I'm still not over the limit if you do include them.
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arrow
New Member
Posts: 27
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Post by arrow on Aug 8, 2014 2:34:52 GMT
Could it be in like half dairy half not in dairy?
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Post by the awkward one. on Aug 8, 2014 3:12:58 GMT
username on CS: the awkward one. story:
I will be interviewing in Black and bold Chandler will be in Blue and Bold
As I took a seat in a comfy chair a small creature walks into the room and sits across the table from me- her troubled face looking left to right as if someone was to jump out at her and attack. Suddenly resting her eyes on me she dipped a paw forward and gestured towards the platter on the table that held food- including miniature sandwiches. " Ern., you eat. My apologizes for being so worried.. " she murmured giving me a pleased nod as I just reached a hand forward to take up a small sandwich. " Uh... so. Your the famous Chandler ? " I asked taking a small bite of the sandwich before looking at her with a gentle and polite look- which what I got back in turn was not what I was expecting. Snapping her head towards me she bared sharp, pearly white fangs and raised a paw resting it on the table, " Don't speak my name so loudly ! I don't want the butler coming in just to the ring of my name. " Chandler hissed- clearly hating to hear that her name was to be mentioned.. a weak excuse to say she hated being known around the world. " Uh.. okay. Sorry. Well... you became famous for what now ?.. " I asked quietly taking out a notepad I had brought with me to jot down notes of the young kia. She stared at me for a moment before looking away- " Publishing a book. One that became famous. " she said sighing before turning back towards me and shrugging as if she didn't care at all what that book had done. " Okay.. and what book was that ? " I asked putting down why and how Vodka Black had gotten famous. " Black Beat " Chandler murmured looking about the room before looking back at me- her ears flat against her head as if she was also embarrassed by the title. " And why do you seem so... nervous and more.. puzzled by the shout of your own book's title ? " was the simple question I asked. Not even looking up from my pad to see what she was doing. " I'm just I guess... I wasn't expecting this. All of the credits. My book hitting sky height... me even being famous. My own little self ! " I was surprised- the poor female hadn't believed she would make it this far and it must've spooked her and or got her off guard now that she did. Also could've been why she moved way out into the woods- so mobs wouldn't crowd her. " Alright then- just a few more questions okay ? " " Okay. " And so ripping off the current page I turned to a new one and just looked up at her to see her flailing around in the air as she was out of her chair and waving her paws- she had tried to sip from a cup but instead had sent the cup out off her paw and into the air. " Um.. Uh-oh.. " she whimpered as she was on the ground now and staring up at the fine china tea-cup that was falling through the air. Letting out a small cry Chandler lunged forward to grab the cup but instead hit it with her front paw and made it fly forward for a moment before it smashed against the wooden ground- breaking into a thousand pieces. " Uhhhhh.. I'm so sorry. " she whimpered getting up quickly and putting both of her paws on her head as if she was a cowering Kiamara cub. " Uh- it wasn't mine.. it was yours ? " I asked confused putting my note pad down onto the table and resting my head on my hand- the table making a stand for my elbow. " Oh yeah.. I forgot.. sorry. " She mumbled as she stepped forward and slowly started to wipe the glass shards up with her paw- splinters of the cup everywhere. " Well.. I guess I'm going to go ? " I asked picking my note pad up and slowly getting up. " Uh sure.. " she murmured looking at me with sudden bright eyes. " Well.. it was nice to meet you.. you'll come again soon correct ? " Chandler asked in an actual happy tone- as if she literally wanted to see me again. " Sure- as long as your inviting I'm comin' over. " I said with a small smirk as the Kiamara stopped from her work to come over and wrap both of her paws around me in a hug while I did the same with my arms. " Weeeellll... Buh-bye ! " she said waving a paw- releasing herself from me and smiling. " Yeah.. buh-bye. " I echoed walking out the door- my jacket and note pad in hand.
word count: (855/1000 w) |
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Carissa
New Member
Sugar Skull OTP 4 lyfe <3
Posts: 28
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Post by Carissa on Aug 8, 2014 3:16:27 GMT
username on CS: Princess Celestia
identity of protagonist: She is the speaker
story: Jane Doe.
She was my everything, all that I had in this big wide world. I spent every moment of my life, every fiber of my being, every breath I had to find her. These lost girls, alone and forgotten, live on with me and my search. I have memorized countless cases, countless names, countless faces. I know by heart the numbers to police stations in states I've never seen, I know where every tree in forests on the other side of the country are, I know all the roads in areas I'll never go.
All I want to do with my life is to help these poor unidentified women. I want so desperately to bring them home, to find their children, their loves, their parents, their grandmothers… anyone who's been missing them for all these years. I want to give the girls peace, to give them back their names, their histories, their lives… the things are were stolen from them all those years ago.
These women met their end long before I was even born, but something draws me to them. Although countless others have tried, real police officers and detectives too, I have to try myself. I can't just sit by and let it be, let them wait in hopeless agony for someone to finally piece together who they are. And so I pour myself into this.
I have no life aside from my girls. My apartment is dark, dirty, messy. Fast food wrappers litter the floor, clothes are strewn around haphazardly, even my hair is left to rot in tangled buns that can never be undone. No one ever calls, no one comes to my door. I have no friends, not much of a family… but I have my girls. Each one is special, unique, someone with an entire life. I wonder how they kept their homes, their apartments, their condos. I wonder if they had gardens, ate at fancy restaurants, liked to cook. The hairstyles I know so well from every picture, I wonder if the girls ever really wore their hair like that. Maybe it was just a bad day, a new style, a fluke. I wonder what their friends are like, their families. How many were running from an awful situation? How many were running to an awful situation?
To be frank, its not an easy hobby to partake in. Reading the cases, reviewing the evidence, taking in every detail of every photo and composite all while knowing what happened to them, knowing they've been lost for so many years, knowing no one has been able to bring them home… it weighs on one's soul in a way I can't even begin to describe. I have a very deep respect for detectives, police, doctors, everyone who has to deal with something even a bit similar.
Sometimes many others share your passion for a case, working alongside one another for years. Sharing new developments, new evidence, new possible matches. Those cases can be quite exciting, feeding off of one another's energy. But the cases that are the most haunting, the most painful to work on, are those you work on alone. Others might pop in from time to time, look around, maybe offer a snippet of new perspective, but no one stays. You're the only person calling the police departments, the only person submitting possible matches, the only person fighting for them. Sometimes those lonely cases feel like suffocation, like a race to find your Doe's name before some nonexistent clock runs out… before your own clock runs out, sometimes…
But even though this task is hard, almost impossible at times, there is reason to celebrate now and then. When you find the match, when you're responsible for putting a name to a Jane Doe, for bringing them home… words can't even begin to describe it. Its not a selfish happiness like getting some new gadget, or even a selfless overwhelming sort of happiness like welcoming a new baby into the world. Its like… like… I don't know. Like the first breath of fresh air after fires have raged the land for weeks. Like the sight of the end of the trail after a long hike. Like the way a child lights up when you find their lost toy. I don't know… Those don't really compare in magnitude, but the feeling… its there.
Each November, Día de Muertos brings me back to my family's roots and provides a way to honor those that have been lost. I build altars and shrines for those identified this year and for the cases I've been working on the most. I pull myself away from the seriousness and mourning that tends to follow me wherever I go, and morph almost like a butterfly just for those few nights. I dance, I sing, I laugh. I attend every celebration and party I can, doing my best to honor the spirits of my girls.
Most of my time in the few weeks leading up to Día de Muertos is spent preparing my favorite decorations: sugar skulls! They dominate my life most of the year, being featured on nearly every piece of clothing and trinket I own, but come October they're more like my life. I decorate my fur, covering it in full sugar skulls and their most common patterns. I paint them on the walls, sculpt them out of clay, build them out of cardboard, sew them out of fabric. Bake them into cookies, draw them onto cakes, make them from sugar cane...
Although most of my life is focused on the sad pieces of death - those left without a name, unidentified and without their family for years - the celebration of life, of their lives, is an amazing thing. I don't think I'd be able to do what I do without it...
word count: (971/1000 w) |
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Post by Clowesia on Aug 8, 2014 3:30:47 GMT
username on CS:
Clowesia
identity of protagonist: Cry-baby
story:
Her eyes stung as great big tears welled at the corners, her wet nose sniffing and sniveling. She tried to hold back her whimpers as her bottom lip quivered, but it was not an easy feat for the little cry baby. Baby’s resolve was broken as the cold white milk touched one of her paws. Letting out a heart wrenching wail she took a step back, her tail tucked between her hind legs in misery. The dam broke as tears poured down her fluffy cheeks, soaking the soft fur. Her heart had broken in that second the milk had slipped, the cap popping off before it had even hit the ground. The milk had soared in a graceful arc as the glass bottle completed a full rotation without its lid on, splattering all over the kitchen cupboard and subsequently, the floor.
She was going to be in so much trouble.
Sadly this was the life of Baby, the soft hearted little Kiamara she was. She had cried when she was born, cried when she was a child, and she cried even now, as an adult. If anything, she had become even more delicate in her age, her heart becoming softer with every break.
It was not as if she was an unhappy, morose Kia; In fact she probably tended to cry more when she was happy. She tried so hard in every pursuit of her life, acted with such confidence and zeal that when she either succeeded or failed, it was too much for her small, delicate heart to take and she would burst into tears.
Her family and friends didn't know what to make of it; especially that one time where she had simply burst into tears while shoveling cake into her mouth. How many times had Baby cried all over her cakes? How many times would she be gorging on her favourite cream filled puffs, or cream covered sponge only to have the taste of her own tears on her tongue? Those snapped up macarons tasted so good, especially the ones that were just about to hit the ground and instead fell into her waiting mouth. That feeling of relief would break the dam and out the tears would flow.
‘Thank God.’ She would think ‘I caught it just before it was lost for good.’
Baby may have also been slightly over-dramatic.
Her family worried so much when she had been a baby that wouldn’t stop crying, and that worry simply grew worse every year as she seemed to never stop. That worry certainly wasn’t helped by Baby’s over embellishments on the severity of things; she’d often cry ‘wolf’ when all she meant was ‘puppy.’
When naught but a newborn, her father managed to stumble onto one trick that ceased the endless wailing. That trick, was Baby’s weakness; the feeling of soft down feathers. The velvety feel of being surrounded by goose down would immediately soothe her fragile heart. Her father would bathe her in the small, silken feathers collected from the birds he raised and her heart would mellow and her tears would stop. Above all else, however, the feather she loved most to feel on her face, was the soft feather tied around her fathers tail. The feeling of it tickling her nose would not only delight her, but bring her a sense of peace and calm with it.
But Baby had no downy soft feathers to help her in the here and now, and no father to rest her on her back in his arm and dangle his feather over her, she was by herself. This realization caused her to wail even harder, a long drawn out howl tacking on to the end of it.
All of a sudden she choked up as she felt a soft hand placed on the top of her head. A soft feminine voice followed.
“Come on now Baby, no need to cry over spilt milk.”
She sniffled one more time before she began rubbing at an eye with the back of her milk sodden paw, trying to clean the tears from her fur.
“Besides, we have some mint choc chip ice cream in the freezer.” The voice remarked, a soft giggle at the end. Baby couldn’t but feel a bit happier now, joining in with her own girlish giggle.
Luckily in her age she had become better at stopping the tears once they had broken.
word count: 737/1000 w
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Post by peachtea on Aug 8, 2014 3:55:22 GMT
o my god marking
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losty
New Member
Posts: 7
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Post by losty on Aug 8, 2014 4:14:16 GMT
username on CS: The Lost soul
identity of protagonist: The guitarist who sings(point of view)
story:
The dim setting was quiet, the hundreds of hushed murmurs echoing around the huge, colossus theater. Lights clicked on and shed a red glow on the scene, 5 figures standing on the stage. Cheers ripped out of the crowds and the music started to go. Slow, soft beats of a drum.
"Traitor...." Came a whisper from the mic and the big screens came on, showing off the faces of the band present. The stage exploded with sound, harsh and vicious, cords ripped at, the vibrating tones singing out. The drums crashed behind him, sounding like the beat of war in his bones. His face lifted, malicious amusement glowing in those devilish, sadistic eyes. His voice shot out in a cry as words fell off his lips and called out with passion and anger, mixed together in a symphony that held such weight.
"I brought you life, and you gave me pain,
You took my offerings, and left me lost in this world,
Oh you traitor! Stab me in the back!
The poison you breathe sings in my veins,
can't you see? I gave you everything!!"
He cried, the music burning inside of him. He cast his gaze down, eyes shutting as he let the cords take the chorus. The way it felt, running from the tips of his fingers and rushing through the air. It was beautiful. He tilted her head up, letting loose a hum that held to the tune, barely holding back before the words came out again. His head whipped back and he snapped his teeth barely a centimeter from the mic, his optics full of a vengeful inferno.
" You're a traitor! Traitor!
Left me praying for someone to save me!
Broke my heart, stole my soul, left me beaten,
and here I am, dragging out my days!
Can't you see I gave you everything?!" He shouted and screamed into the mic, the aggressive poison seeping through his words filled the audience.
"TRAITOR!" He shouted and grabbed the mic's stand, bringing it in to let loose the words.
"You left me hungry for more,
and all you could give was pain!
My blood was your drug!
You can't deny what you did!
Let Hell bring down the rain!
Can't you see?! I gave you EVERYTHING!!"
His head whipped back as the music took the stage, pulling back from the mic, his pick raking over the metal strings, making them cry out with the emotions laced within the words. His body moved with the drum beats, his head bobbing to the beat and he jumped slightly, slamming his feet down as the drums crashed and shot into a chaos of music, fierce like a battle and loose with rage and fury. Every note, every line, and every movement was played with purpose. It wasn't just noise.... it was merely a encoded translation of the souls who gave their very hearts, bleeding them dry into this harmony. Sweat slid from his neck, silvery beads flying as he yanked and writhed his body while he played, knowing every single ounce of the song's composition by heart. Lifting his head, he let loose a cry once more.
"TRAITOR!!" He shouted, his voice echoing through the auditorium, drowning out the crowds before him. This was where he felt alive... He yanked his pick across the cords one last time and panted, looking out at the seas of fans that called out their names. While the others waved and smiled, he stood there, glaring out at them. These songs weren't made for them.... but it would have to do. The camera turned to him, plastering his face on the big screen and he looked up at it, his eyes hateful and unamused. He narrowed in on the direction it came from and faced the lens shining back at him, reflecting the lights on the stage. He gave it a nasty snarl, turning away and heading over to get off the stage. He'd sang his song.... his part was done. Now he had to wade through the paparazzi and fans to get home.... ugh. He loved the music, and he loved the stage, and he loved his band, but he couldn't stand the intoxicating chaos. He carried his guitar still, shaking from the exertion. The songs came from his heart, and each time it felt great to let it out. His hand slid back his hair, the strands weaving through his fingers like a thick-toothed comb and falling roughly into place. Just as he neared the back door, he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around. Ah... his drummer.
"Hey man, you did great.... you okay?" He asked, eyes bright with life and excitement. He didn't answer though...
"Alright, practice tomorrow?"
"Yeah," He grunted and pushed open the door, wincing as the cries of fans nearly shattered his ears. His hand went up to shield his face, shepherded by bodyguards towards a car. He was always first to leave. Their manager always tried to encourage him to spend more time with the fans and stick around for questions, but the 'bad boy' attitude seemed to draw in a lot of fans. Within seconds he was pushed into a leather seat and the door shut.
"You alive back there?" Came the familiar voice of his regular driver. He slumped across the back seat and sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Alive..." He confirmed and looked over at the driver. One of his closest friends... she drove him home without too much hassle. She made sure to not run over any fans. She also let him sleep in the back seat after concerts, which was awesome. He shut his eyes and sighed, a heavy, content sigh. His body ached and his mind was numbing. He could still hear the music in his head... those hate-filled words were his lullaby as he dozed off, the driver careful to take things slow and easy as to not disturb him. Man....that felt amazing, but so exhausting.
word count: (999/1000 w)(I think, but different counters read different numbers)
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Post by mangosherbet on Aug 8, 2014 4:34:41 GMT
Could it be in like half dairy half not in dairy? you may write it however you want, there are very little restrictions on the writing itself. |
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Post by captaintamashi on Aug 8, 2014 4:43:12 GMT
username on cs; captain-tamashi
identity of protagonist: Bonny, female
story:
The wind blew rough, the salty air pelting the sides of the ship, coordinating with the gigantic waves rocking the boat side to side. The crew members scurried about the deck, pushing barrels into corners, locking them in with ropes. The rain drops started and the crew all bailed to the lower decks.
The only crew member left was little Bonny, still pushing the last of the barrels into the corners. "Those dumb men." She let out under her breath. She pushed her feet up against the barrels to push them in tighter, of course slipping and smacking her entire underside on the wood of the deck.
Bonny took a moment to look at her work to make sure it was secure before running at near full speed towards the lower decks. Almost tripping on a few steps before making it down. Bonny barely got the chance to shake the water off of her before she heard, "Bonny! Go get me some rum!" she stood there, stunned that this guy could have the audacity to say that right now. It wasn't something she didn't hear every ten minutes, but really? Right now? When a brutal storm was coming to them?
However, she didn't argue, boy, she had learned her lesson from the last time. She made her way back up, almost hesitant to head out since the rain was dumping onto the deck. She rolled her eyes thinking of the crew mates' request, and ran towards the closest set of barrels.
SLAM
Her ears pricked, the sound was so loud you could hear it over the rain and waves. She turned toward the source. The door to the captain's quarters? Her attention drifted towards the higher deck, where the wheel was. No one. Her eyes widened. What a wimp captain! Bonny was a girl, a gender stereotypically known for being weak, and she was still out here! "This ship is full of cowardice and lazy men!" She grit her teeth, knocking the barrel of rum down. She pushed the barrel to the stairs and pushed it down. "Here's 'ya stinkin' rum!"
She turned on her heel and made her way up the steps to the higher deck. The wheel was spinning uncontrollably. That certainly wasn't helping keep the boat even a bit stable. She wrapped her paws around part of the wheel, holding with all her might to keep it still. A huge gust of wind blew the boat and the wheel went flying, luckily not hurting Bonny too badly.
Bonny looked around, scanning the deck for something useful. Just some rope, a ruined cloth, and empty bottles of rum. She huffed, angry at the men and herself. She plopped on the deck, the rain soaking her fur and creating puddles around her. She just stared at the wheel, her eyes welling with tears.
"I'm so useless... I had to agree to this stupid job. Of course they'd make me a waitress! I'm a girl!" she smashed her paw against the wood in anger before curling into a ball to leave herself to cry.
An idea rushed into her head like a bullet. The rope and cloth! Why didn't she think of that before? She rolled over onto her feet and bounded over to the rope. She could use the wind to her advantage! Grabbing the rope and quickly running to the cloth, she made what looked like a huge kite. She threw it into the air, luckily taking flight with the powerful gusts. Bonny quickly tied the other end of the rope to the wheel, and moved herself to the other side of it. "Use my legs to push and it should go." she thought aloud. She positioned herself to push the wheel and gave herself a smirk before she used all her power to push the wheel.
Feeling the boat turn, Bonny howled a cheer.
After a few moments of turning, Bonny's stomach hit the deck. She quickly stood, looking around for some more rope. She managed to find some more hanging over the railing. She pulled it up and tied it to a different notch in the wheel and then pulled with all the strength she could to keep it steady, tying it to a poll.
"That should do it." she told herself through pants. She stepped away as she felt the boat move with a jerk, maybe the men finally got to paddling? She slowly made her way downstairs, completely drained of energy. She plopped herself in a corner so she'd be out of the way. She looked around the deck, all the men working. And none of them would know she'd just saved their tails.
word count: (780/1000 w)
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Post by kyuubihiro on Aug 8, 2014 5:02:39 GMT
username on CS: KyuubiHiro
identity of protagonist: Sir Galahad
story: "Twas many a night ago, snow heldeth the land cold and dreaded. The land of Camelot was youthful, inspiring, and still spawning its knights of bravery. And as though fate would haveth it, the darkened sky awakened the young, holy soul of the soon-to-beith Sir Galahad of Camelot. Born and raised as but a young wart of a farming man, young Galahad aspired to be like the men in his mother's takes; a knight, one of honor, nobility, courage, and thirsty for brave conquest. From a wart of the plains, to King Arthur Pendragon's most holiest and brave of knights. I, Merlin the Wizard, will see toith, a successful, yet hard journey for the youthful Galahad of Golden Camelot.
"Our legend of this gallant of knights predominately begins with his abandonment of his home. Young Galahad was son to Camelot's hardest working farmer; Hector the Strong, and his wife, the Scotland beauty; Elena of Glasgow. Since he couldeth walk, Galahad worked the farm, tending proficiently to the haystacks, crops, eggs and meat, which brought great promise to the farm clan he was born of. This would bolden the pride of Hector. But of course, this was not meanteth to be. Galahad hated his line of duty. Perhaps at fault, Elena, his mother, always talked tales of the knights of Camelot, and how Galahad's Uncle, Lancelot the High, was a man of many feats, including the slay of Mortem the Ice Dragon, the capture of Madam Mymm the Sorceress, and the founder of the King's mighty Blade; Excalibur.
"Due to such tales, Galahad aspired to become a knight. So he left his home, received permission from Lancelot, and soon proved himself worthy at a seat of Arthur's round table. But of course, no knight could holdeth his seat without bearing his worthy legend. Before long, Arthur grew ill weary, and should he fail to receive a medicinal saviour, the good king would perish long before his son's birth. Brave and daring, Galahad soon gathered his closest ally on the table, Sir Bors the Younger, and the elderly but wise Sir Percival the Grand, and with haste of dragons, they fled the land of Camelot in search of God's Holy Grail.
"Along the way, our noble and holy knights marched through war torn land, devastated by flame and blood. Many a devil's crony and more a demon's spawnling did they slay. Children, Ladies, and peasant people alike thanked them with kindness, dinner, and sleep for their actions. The rest and sustenance was much needed, for just moments before the Holy Grail's fabled location, stood an old, almost Godly beast that protected it; Ignitus the Scourge, the same accursed Dragon who rid the left arm of Sir Lancelot, and ceased the reign of King Uther Pendragon. With swords drawn, the three knights charged into what wouth be a carnage.
Ignitus soared free, though while severely injured, he still held victory with the demise of Sir Bors and Sir Percival. Saddened and enraged, Galahad would now beridden of a haunting memory, accompanied with a spiteful resentment towards Dragon kind. But, his pure soul awakened the dwelling sleep of the Holy Grail. The Goblet, as though speaking to the Hero, understood his pain, but remedied it with kind words of cheer and endearment. But, it forgot not to remind him that a certain king would be shifted closer to death with every moment mourning the bravely defeated.
"With a heart of haste, Galahad rode back to Camelot, with the Shining Holy Goblet in paw. Conjuring water, and after its conversion to holy liquid, Arthur drank from the cup, and soon, he was healed of illness. And with that, the miracle of the once thought false Holy Grail, Galahad was entitled as Arthur's Holiest Knight, redubbed as "Galahad the Holy". But of course, Galahad could not stay in Camelot forever. With His Majesty's approval, Galahad left the kingdom, in search of the Sword of the Red Hilt, a blade thought to hold the power of reviving the bravely defeated. His quest to bring his closest friends back from Heaven was mission enough for the brave, Holiest Knight if Golden Camelot."
word count: (694/1000 w)
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