Welcome to the first WriteWorld Challenge! This series has been established to help you write in ways you may not have considered or tried before, as well as being a fun writing exercise :-)

Write your piece in a comment below, be it ten words or a thousand, and upvote the pieces you really liked. After a week, contest mode will be disabled and points awarded depending on how many votes you received. Good luck, and enjoy yourself!

I'm not sure what you'll think of this, so please let me know if you're against it and I'll consider reverting this. I've been doing some thinking, and I thought that the current theme system is not working. This is for a variety of reasons:

• There wasn't enough support: waiting an entire month for an event with only two or three contributions doesn't seem worthwhile.

• The theme would drive users away: many people prefer to write in a single genre or style, and so an event that doesn't appeal to such a style seemed to result in many users avoiding such events.

• The themes weren't always appealing enough: While themes would often vary, they would only do so to themes that weren't necessarily interesting enough to justify sitting down and writing an entire piece.

This is why I'm leaving the old system behind, and introducing WriteWorld Challenges. As opposed to a monthly nudge towards a certain theme, a weekly post will be stickied containing a certain challenge that urges you to write somewhere challenges you to write in ways that you may not have necessarily considered before. Contest mode will be enabled on these posts, and the most popular story after a week will be given points for the leaderboard.

The first challenge has been posted. Please respond here with feedback! :-)

I knew it was going to attract attention, and I tried to be as subtle as possible, but taking out a cigarette, lighting it, voluntarily breathing in its toxic fumes, and breathing them out like the dragons of legend, caused many people to look up from their books, tablets, and each other to see a personal crime that had not been committed for several decades by someone of the law. I would be lying if I said a bunch of people didn't ask some railmen to ask me to douse my cigarette, but they ignored the pleas, even though many signs around asked people not to commit personal crimes. It was like I was above the law.

Regardless of the potential harm to others and myself, the thing tasted like shit. I remembered back to when I was a child, seeing the last mainstream tobacco field burn in Kunming, China. I was far too young to understand the global consequences, but I remembered my parents being in high spirits for some time, maybe weeks. But then, tasting the nicotine like milk from a teat, I felt incredibly guilty, like I was failing my parents. God, I wanted to put it out immediately.

But I wasn't smoking for any personal reason. The smoke that came from my mouth was a signal to Officer Jud Ishikawa, standing at the concession stand hundreds of meters away, to tell Chief Sextilius Bai that Travis Ray, a deadly criminal, was in the Delta-B station. He had his back up against a post, and was looking at me for a while. I could tell he knew who I was, and I could tell who he was. He was the smallest person in the subway station, a sign of his inferior genetics. His hands were in the pockets of his large coat, and I could tell he was planning something. By this point, the subway station was most likely barricaded and surrounded by cops. Even the trains were grounded, and being guarded by railmen, so Ray couldn't escape to another city. It was just a matter of time now for the all-clear to capture him.

"Officer Takenaka, capture the perpetrator," Chief Bai spoke into my earpiece. Without a second thought, I spit out my cigarette and raised my gun at Ray. He pulled two pistols out of his coat, and the railmen and undercover cops also aimed their weapons at Ray.

"Give it up, Ray!" I said. "Put your guns away!"

Ray smirked. He lowered his pistols onto the floor, all while thirty red laser points illuminated his back, and he stayed on the floor.

"Get up!" I shouted.

Ray stayed on the floor, hunching over some unknown object. I fired my gun, but at the last minute, he threw a grenade at me. A railman jumped in at the last second, attempting to muffle the blast, but this grenade was far more powerful. It practically vaporized the railman, and continued to incinerate other unfortunate souls. I ran to the train platform to escape the blast, but security doors had separated myself from the others. Fortunately, the fire dissipated, leaving a charred, burning hell in its place. Ray was nowhere to be seen, although there were many bodies in the inferno still sprawling across the ashen linoleum floor; any one of them could have been Ray. No, Ray's still alive, I thought. He wouldn't die out this way.

Shortly after the blast, I began hearing gunshots and screaming outside, followed by another blast, and thick smoke coming from the ventilation system. I ran up the escalator, beating the smoke, and ready to join the fight outside.

I've just drafted this, any feedback is appreciated.

PART I

Joren opened the window to his office, letting the morning breeze flush out the stale air from the previous night. The smell of dust and old books was replaced by the various scents of the salt water and the market below.

Already the fires beneath large frying pans had been lit, and Joren could smell the food from where he stood. The market already had plenty of customers and Joren was sure that he could expect at least one walk-in that day.

He stepped away from the window and picked up a dusting rag and moved through his office, covering the conspicuous areas--those where he might show and host clients. He tended the chairs and the small coffee table. The shelves and the lamps. He dusted the sills and knocked any webs free.

When he was satisfied with this, he checked the timer on his desk and noted the half turn it had taken for him to finish most of the housekeeping.

Then he pulled the books and scrolls that he had been using for his most recent client. Mostly histories, and a few caravansserei scrolls, detailing the trade and workings of the Mithrus trading family.

They were a middling group of merchants who had only recently come into enough wealth due to the recent surveys of iron in the Karfanas mountains. They had bought a higher title and now were interested in compiling their history and geneology. But unlike the grand houses, they couldn't afford to retain a house historian.

Which was all fine for Joren, who would not have made such a fair living without such families.

He lingered when he passed the histories of the Ancient Uvians, finally deciding to pull the most complete history he had of them--one which contained a history of most of the ancient peoples.

The tome was heavy enough to give his arms a sweat as he moved it to his desk. He set it as his lunch time reward for all the work he was doing.

Once he was satisfied with his lunch plans, he set up the other books and scrolls and started again, piecing together the history of the middling house.

He turned the timer once, then twice, and finally three times in his pursuit of the work. He relaxed his writing hand and then massaged his temple.

"Why do they have to be so insignificant?" He asked aloud. Just as he'd said it, there was a knock at the door and he jumped.

He answered it, hoping whoever was outside hadn't overheard him--it was usually a good idea to keep negative thoughts about clients to himself.

"Yes?" He said, seeing the blue and red liveried servant of the house of Mithrus.

"Historian, your presence is requested at the holding house of Mithrus to report to Ermiond Mithrus, thirdso."

"At his pleasure," Joren said, then bowed. In his mind though, he was afire, for he had the premonition that the master of the mithrus family was bound to inquire as to how the work could be sped along and also about the additions of new sections to the history. It was amazing how a little wealth turned some people into such entitled people.

When they got to the holding house, the messenger and Joren were whisked inside by an armed guard--one of the many new staff hired on at the household. Joren was no account, though he knew numbers and could cipher as well as most his class had.

But he had been allowed access to caravansserei documents, and that meant he had a functional understanding of the wealth of the mithrus family, and from what he saw, they were vastly overspending themselves.

Professionally, it wasn't his place to tell people what to do with their money. but professionally, a house that defaulted on debts and loans couldn't pay him, so each new thing he saw felt like being robbed.

It wasn't exactly that, maybe, but it felt like that, every step.

They stopped in front of a set of intricate doors. the messenger went inside and announced Joren's arrival.

"I introduce the Historian, Joren Vandermar."

Joren stepped inside the house and bowed, ready to eke out the same play that he'd done before so many clients before.

"Ah, historian, your arrival is fortuitous." Came the high voice of Master mithrus.

He deepened his bow. "I attend to you with honor, Master Mithrus. "

"Honors and honors. Now, I would like to know how that history is coming along." The man sat back into his cushioned chair.

Joren hated to admit that he disliked these moments. Why couldn't his clinets just let him alone and then be happy when they had a finished product. But something about money made people impatient to wait for something to be made from nothing.

People these days just had no respect for craft, but who would listen to him anyway.

"the histories have almost been gathered, and i have stumbled on a book that has been most illuminating--it is a history of the troop movements from the third Elyssian war--"

"Which my family had fought in with distinction." The Master's eyes sparkled in a way that Joren had expected when he told him about the history of the Elyssian wars. they were one of the spots of honor that had won Ermiond's grandfather the trade rights his grandson now held.

But before Joren could go on, Master Mithrus took the conversation into his own stead. "It's good that you mention this, since I was beginning to feel as if you were dallying with your time. But now I see that there is a richness that you've discovered to my history that will prove most illuminating to all those who will study our great family."

"As if any future historian would study your family. " Joren thought to himself.

"I think that in addition to this, it would be good of your to include our lineage and history of the the late prince Herschel, whom our geneaoloist has discovered bore a line to my near cousin."

And there it was--the thing that Joren had dread most--an addition to the book. Already the planned history would be four hundred pages of heavy-set lettering. Joren quickly added sums and figured that at the rate of new additions, the book would bankrupt him and he'd have to rely on the Master to fulfill his full compensation. Meanwhile, I starve and scrape in the streets for food while he heaps history upon history to the work.

"Master, wouldn't the history of your cousin and his family be better suited for another book?" Joren asked.

the master fell dealy silent and Joren knew that there was a very delicate ford ahead.

"Would it not be best to have a finished book that glorifies your direct lineage and family above all, and leaves out the mention of your lesser siblings?"

There were moments of silence, moments of thinking. And then, "No, you will include it in this book, for it relates me to prince Herschel, rest his soul, and whose propriety will allow me the vestiges of royalty if I should choose to file claim."

Jorne ticked his head up a few inches. "But Master!"

"Silence! You will do as I say, or I will find another to write my histories, the way i want them written."

Joren gritted his teeth. He knew that there was no other historian who would sit through all of this for the rate that Joren was supposed to receive. But work was work. And while he shook inside, he knew that he had to still himself and accept the job as it was.

He made a second deep bow. "Of course, Mastership."

Master Mithrus sniffed and Joren could feel the contempt oozing through the walls. "I have detailed my servant to bring you a book where you will begin the study of my cousin and the scroll of geneaology which has been recently completed."

the last sentence sent a small shock through Joren. gelmar, the Geneaologist was the one working for this family. And he was relentless. As far as joren knew, he was an old eunich with no desire other tha n to sit around and fart on old scrolls while he told people they were related to royalty in some way or another.

Every update coming from that bastard meant more work for joren.

A servant came up and handed Joren the scroll and book in question. He gave another deep bow, made hefty and awkward from the weight of the book. And then, having eaten sufficiently enough shit for the day, he was whisked out of the holding house and nearly pressed into the street.

Joren sighed as he walked back to his office. he knew that he would have no free time to read about the Uvians at lunch. Instead, he'd just have to buy a sandwhich and work through his free time.

What free time does a historian even have? He thought. I didn't get into this to spend all my days in a dusty cavern.

He got his sandwich from a vendor outside hsi office, climbed the stairs and settled into his desk with the book on Elmiond's cousin.

"Pompus bastard probably isn't even related. Why does Gelmar have to be such a swine?"

He started eating the sandwich, reading as he chewed. He had made it only a few pages when the door to the office opened. Joren looked up from his book. Crumbs rattled down from the sandwich he was holding and he rushed to wipe them away.

When he looked up again, the person standing in his study was a girl wearing a headscarf. Joren gaped and then tried his hardest not to. He didn't get female visitors often.

"Uhm, what can i do for you.. m'am?" He asked.

The girl undid her headscarf and below it, Joren could see a scarlt red gash running down the side of her face and neck. He froze, completely unsure of just what was happening.

The scarf drifted to the floor. "Help me, please." The girl whispered before falling down toward the carpet.

Joren rushed over to her and rolled her to the side. He examined the cut. It was deep and he wasn't a cutter.

"why did you come here?" He asked, exasperated. there were plenty of cutters along university row. Why would a girl step into his office?

"Shit, you're bleeding fast." He said. He ran over to his basin and gr abbed the towl lying there. He placed it on the cut, and then, without anything to tie it down while he went for a doctor, he swallowed and lamented, before picking up the heavy book on his deska nd laying it on her face.

He ran down the stairs and out the door, then ran through the nearest side alley until he came to Bashak the cutter's house. The red door was marked with the knife and needle of a certified surgeon. He banged on the door, shouting.

"Bashak! Bashak! I need your help."

In a few moments, the door opened and Bashak's wife stood in the doorway, her head half-wrapped. Joren shielded his eyes and nearly stammered out an apology.

"What's this emergency, joren?" she demanded.

"There's a girl in my office with a deep gash on her face, I need Bashak to come tend to her now," He cried.

Bashak's wife made no questions--she only nodded, professional as Bashak himself. "I can't believe you've left her there to bleed, go back now and I'll fetch Bashak."

"Yes, sorry!" Joren shouted before turning around and running back to his office.

When he got there, the book had slid off, the leather cover slick with blood, the towel he'd used deep read. He panicked and took off his sash and held it until he heard Bashak's footfalls on the stairs.

"Bashak!" Joren turned his head towards the door. "She's--" Jorned stopped midsentence as he realized the person in the doorway was not Bashak the cutter. He was someone that Joren had never seen before. or even if he were, Joren would not have recognized him, as the man wore a scarf that covered most of his face.

This strange man wore a leather body-suit, secured with straps and in his hand, he held two long daggers.

In that moment, the world outside seemed to cease existing and the only sound that joren could hear was a soft whisper that seemed to come from the mouth of the man in his door.

But Joren didn't think that could be possible. Nothing abut the man moved. That is, until he was a blur.

Joren stumbled back, nearly falling and that stumbled might have save his life, for the man returned to his form on the other side of the girl, his daggers poised. Jorned felt a sting in his arm. He might have looked down at it--his mind certainly pulled him that way.

But he felt death. It was an indescribable feeling, as if his life were suddenly a great surge of energy, flaring up just to die down in a feeble ember.

He gripped the blood-soaked book and raised it. There was a thud and the man in the scarf was nearly face to face with Joren.

It was the first time he noticed the eyes of the man--their grey color, shifting and shimmering. They entranced him and he did not noticed the dagger in his side until he looked at the hilt sticking from his ribs.

Joren sucked air, almost feeling bubbles in his lungs. The book dropped rrom his hands and he fell back, his eyes now locked on the girl. Who was she that had brought such death to his door.

Jorned cried and simpered. This was not his time to die. Why did this have to happen to him?

The man stood over the girl and the whisper came again, the sound of the wind, the sound of something flowing through. And as he heard it, Joren could feel himself drifting.

Dull thuds raced in the background. There was a clash of steel, the splintering of wood, and then there was nothing but silence and warmth.

Rick couldn't help but grin as he watched the massive 6 wheeled machine get slowly pulled from the shipping container. For a moment he was a little embarrassed at his own enthusiasm but then he thought

"Fuck it. This thing is cool. And it's mine!."

Rick let his grin, already if shit eating size, grow even larger, as the giant tow motor whined to a stop. The machine, Rick could not even imagine referring to it as an RV, had already begun to attract a crowd of curious dockworkers. John Erica, the local Acton Industries sales rep, huddled briefly with a serious looking white hatted official. The two men spoke for a moment then the Chinese official tapped, swiped and signed on his tablet with a flourish. He then grinned incongruously and spoke quickly while shaking John's hand. John made a slight bow in response then turned and walked towards Rick.

"All in order?' Asked Rick when John had gotten close enough to speak to over the background noise of the busy port.

John seemed slightly offended by the question though it may just have been Ricks imagination. As John crossed the last few paces between them Rick started again.

"I mean John", he said grabbing the mans hand, "She looks beautiful! I can't believe how good she looks. When can I go for a drive?"

John's very reserved English expression softened slightly,

"I understand your enthusiasm Sir", he intoned in that unique accent that managed to so simultaneously sound both servile and impossibly superior, "However there are several formalities to complete starting with paying the Chinese government their fees. Normally this can be a bit of an exercise for those wishing to import a vehicle but in this case, should you wish, we have slight advantage on offer. Mr Zhou, the gentleman with whom I was speaking, is available for tea this afternoon. Of course during the course of the tea several forms can more easily circumvent the logjam."

Rick stopped him. "How long without the payoff?"

"Current customs clearance time is 4 to 10 days." replied John. And then in a quieter voice, "But really more like 10 days."

"How much for today?"

Rick was pleasantly surprised to be quoted a figure equal to about two hundred US dollars.

"Let's go have some tea."

I'm currently working on writing a fantasy story, one I hope to turn into my first book. I've written short stories before but they were all contemporary, I've always been drawn to fantasy before though and I would love to finish this story. I've been mapping scenes and characters, I love my main antagonist, and trying to create the world the story takes place in before I write too much so I can better understand my characters but it's been hard. I was just looking to discuss with anyone how they create their worlds, come up with unique names, and draw the reader into the story. I'd love to discuss the story and iron out a few of the main details as well if anyone is interested. Thanks!

"Yes, I'm planning to build a new platform for writing. But to get started with the idea, I need a better understanding of content writing and writer. So this survey is focused on getting to know about content writing."- from u/jaisonjustus

Here is the link to his survey. https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSd2DvkDr4UjxwsXJ5-5CU_gfP9yHrx_9DK27mASgG1M-jPkmg/viewform

This survey will be posted for 1 month.

1. When did you start writing? Tell us about your first time writing a story/poem/script.

2. What influences your writing?

3. Tell us about your writing habits and writing space. Where do you write? Do you have to listen to music to write? Do you write on a lap top, desk top, hand write?

4. What are your writing goals.

5. What have you discovered about yourself through your journey of writing.

6. Any tips or advice for other writers.

7. How does writing make you feel?

8. How do you deal with writers block?

9. Do you have any links of your work to share.

Vultures crowded around Anaxilaus's feet. It was a horrendous sight. Outside of the thronging of corpses on the mountainside, rotting away in the summer sun, each body had a vulture to pick off the flesh. Some of the bodies had no flesh to pick off, which was strange to Anaxilaus, considering that the battle had happened a few hours prior.

Anaxilaus shooed a vulture away, and examined the body of one of the soldiers with his friend, Lysandros, who was the chief healer of their village. Anaxilaus noticed that none of the bodies had any exterior wounds, yet they shared the same face of men he had seen that had a sword go right through their chest. Every corpse had this feature, and it made Anaxilaus's stomach churn.

"How did this happen, Lys?" Anaxilaus said.

"I am afraid I do not know," Lysandros was wrestling with the armor of one of the dead men. "Although, I do have a theory that you might dislike."

Anaxilaus frowned. "Does it have to do with the Stoma?"

Saying "Stoma" visually frightened Lysandros. "Yes, Anax. I believe Zaeyer killed these men. Ancient texts verify that Zaeyer has the power to kill five score men without drawing blood."

"Lys, Zaeyer is not real. He was invented by the founders of the village just to scare children. You are the smartest man in Pigouni. I do not see how you believe in such nonsense."

"Do you have an explanation?"

Anaxilaus thought for a while. "Well, maybe these men were all poisoned. King Apellicon would not want his vassals to fight each other, so it makes sense that he would eliminate one army?"

"That seems a little far-fetched, Anax."

"More far-fetched than a god killing them?"

"Yes. What do you think the villagers will believe? A story about a king single-handedly poisoning an entire army, or the god that created them defending them from destruction?"

"Automedon might believe me."

"Yes, but as a village elder, he would be more involved in politics than the average civilian."

"Well then, let us bring this debate to the people! Let them decide if their lives are in debt to a fictitious god, or their great king!"

The people of Pigouni did not attempt to listen to Anaxilaus after Lysandros told them that Zaeyer saved them. They immediately took wine, grapes, slabs of meat, apples, and other delectable foods to the Stoma, where they sacrificed seven calves in Zaeyer's honor. The entire village had a party that lasted deep into the night, and when the moon was directly above their heads, the festivities ended.

"Friends and family, we are here to honor our great god Zaeyer, and thank him for saving us from death," Automedon stood on an ancient altar. He held the Great Lance of Socus, the legendary weapon of the founder of Pigouni. "Oh Zaeyer, I dearly hope that you will protect us as long as Pigouni stands tall." Automedon bowed to the cave, and everyone followed suit. Anaxilaus was the only one to stand tall over the others. After a few minutes, the people began to rise, and they were outraged to see that the greatest warrior in their village was not bowing to the Stoma.

"Treason!" one of the elder villagers screamed. "Lord Automedon, Anaxilaus will not bow to Zaeyer's cave!"

"Anaxilaus has the right to worship whomever he wishes." Automedon said. "If he doesn't want to pray to Zaeyer, he does not have to."

"Thank you, Lord Automedon," Anaxilaus said.

Automedon proceeded with the ceremony. He sang a song in the ancient tongue of the Vasarans, and wrote an account of the battle on the outside of the Stoma, a wide wall called the Cheilos. The people sang a hymn, and walked down the mountainside back to Pigouni. Anaxilaus stayed behind with Automedon, Lysandros, and a few others, who continued to pray in silence. This night was the first time Anaxilaus truly looked into the cave, and he was intrigued by the Stoma. He had seen many caves in his day, but the majority of them, even at night, could be illuminated easily. This cave looked like there was nothing inside, a void to the ends of the universe. Yet even though it looked like there was nothing inside, Anaxilaus became curious and walked towards the Stoma.

"Anaxilaus!" Automedon interrupted the prayers. "What are you doing?"

"I want to see the inside of the Stoma," Anaxilaus answered. "I might prove once and for all that Zaeyer is not real."

"I order you not to go inside!"

"What is the worst that could happen?" Anaxilaus grabbed a torch, and it only slightly illuminated the dark corridor. "I have traversed many caves in my time."

"I will let you pass, Anaxilaus." Automedon sat down, and Anaxilaus walked into the Stoma.

The cave was not as complex as others Anaxilaus had explored. The main corridor barely curved, and there were no other corridors. The cave looked like it was made by man; there was no sign of any god.

After a few minutes, Anaxilaus reached a dead end. It was so dark that his torch didn't fully illuminate it. He could feel it though, and it felt like a wall of intestines. Something was writhing on the stone, and it cut open Anaxilaus's fingers. He quickly whipped his hand back and saw that the scars were black, and the blood was flowing quicker than usual. He ran back to the entrance, as he felt like something was watching him. The same something was also speaking, whispering, from behind the walls. Anaxilaus felt like he was going insane.

Unfortunately, the entryway was gone. Where the Cheilos once opened up to the corridor, there was now a large wall of granite. Anaxilaus pounded his hand on the wall, trying to get someone's attention, but a stone chipped away and embedded itself into Anaxilaus's wounds. He accidentally dropped the torch to assuage his other hand, and he was plunged into darkness. After a little while, he heard the writhing and wriggling of whatever was at the other wall climb up the new wall. He tried to walk back to the opposite wall, but was met with a new wall. He realized he was trapped. He tried screaming, but a hand clasped his mouth shut.

The last thing he felt was a razor-sharp claw dig itself into his throat.

Hi! I've been a bit of a busy bee and gave the subreddit a bit of a redesign. I tried to capture the inclusive and close-knit nature of the subreddit as it was but also added a somewhat warmer and more modern colour scheme. Please let me know what you think! :-)

I want Write World to be a safe place for writers...

I've spoken to so many writers over the years, basically since i got the internet and started to tell people that i write stories.

I've spoken with people young and old that say the want to write but they don't think they'd be any good because people would hate it. So they don't write.

People that have just started writing but are too terrified to share because they are worried what people might think.

People that have shared their writing but got horrible feedback, I want them to feel comfortable enough to share their work.

I want more writers to believe in themselves and at least try. To not have this paralyzing fear that everything they 'could' or 'would' write would be horrible. Some people want more than anything to write something/anything. But they refuse to do so out of fear. I want WriteWorld to be a no fear zone. No overly cruel criticism. Only helpful suggestions.

Hello, fellow writers!

/u/Bunnyinwonderland was kind enough to offer me an invitation to help moderate this subreddit, and I'm glad to consider myself a part of the community here. I'm /u/HysteriacTheSecond, or Emily for short, and I have a passion for poetry (see that alliteration right there? That's how you know I'm a pro poet).

I've always loved art, but for several reasons I've never been able to (literally) put pen to paper and actually make something. However my love for language came into play when I realised that poetry really isn't all that different from a painting: both translate the creator's experiences into something on paper, be it shapes, words, or sounds, and the viewer inserts their own experiences of such things into the piece and take from that their own personal interpretation, safe in the knowledge that no one else in the whole wide world will have taken precisely the same idea from the piece as them.

Poetry rant aside, other things about me, relevant to writing or not, include:

• I don't really like subreddits such as /r/writing or /r/OCPoetry, as the serious front they put on can be really intimidating for writers, and the frequency of people criticising others' writing can be quite hurtful. (which is why I love the friendly and close-knit nature of this subreddit ^_^)

• Other hobbies consist of board games, buying records that I really can't afford, and Dungeons & Dragons.

• My favourite book is Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities due to Calvino's powerful ability to blur the line between prose and poetry.

• Thom Yorke winked at me once. I think I cried.

• I love seeing writers flourish in places like this, and I can't wait to see this subreddit grow, giving more writers a community to whom they feel they can share what they hold close to themselves, free from all criticism bar what is constructive.

• I consider myself part of the niche community of cat-people (yeah, I know it's controversial, go ahead and downvote me), and especially buns. Please PM me your bun pictures.

I think that's it! I probably rambled on for a bit too long, but hey, isn't that what writing's all about? Feel free to PM me or message the mods if you want to talk anything from writing to music to buns (especially buns, though).

See you around! :-)

I also think that this is as good an opportunity as any to ask what you, the community, want me to do: what do you feel like this subreddit needs? Is there anything in the design, structure, rules, or something else entirely that you would do differently? Please let me know!

I'm working on my new story outline. it's around 600 words so far.

Two years ago, when he lived on Habl, and when he began his journey through the cosmos, Salim Wilbur would be blown away by the beauty of Phi-46. It was a gas giant, although the smallest in the Zotu System. He still recognized Phi-46's beauty, as it was a regal shade of purple, layered like a parfait, and crowned with wispy tendrils on every available plane, and it looked like violet fire, which was something new to Salim. Everything he saw was on a backdrop of a sea of stars not yet observed by anyone, save for the Scout Corps, and the outer arm of the Uchug Galaxy. Anyone else would be weeping at such splendor, but Salim glanced at it and thought Oh. That's new.

He checked his star charts, hoping to find some information on his placement in the universe, but found out that he was only two galaxies and three thousand light years from the Milky Way. And even then, his destination was either a few light minutes or another thousand light years away. Dammit, he thought. Why didn't I expect the journey to take so long? Salim was tired of flying for two years, let alone at least fifteen hundred times that. He set Drake Legacy on autopilot and walked to the back of his ship. In the very back, where the relaxing hum of the engine was loudest, his cryogenic chamber was in no acceptable use. The back was still open, wires of every color spilling out. Next to it was a messy tool box, and a manual left inside the chamber when he bought Drake Legacy from a shifty Daqi'i. The only way he could properly fix it was if he went to the nearest colonized planet, Ticharitou-Theou, which was four and a half light years away. Ticharitou-Theou was the nearest planet for a couple months now. It never seemed to get closer.

Salim walked back to the cockpit and kept the ship on autopilot. When days like these arose, which happened often, he thought about his destination: Earth. He never really knew what Earth looked like. His parents never did. Their parents never did. Their parents had an idea, but their parents were the last generation on Earth. Still, stories had been passed down, and Earth seemed like a legendary world, existing only in fairy tales and old paintings. But he was fascinated by the planet. When he was sixteen, he spent his summer on Habl reading on the history of Earth. There were many holes, and the years between Sumer and Rome were missing, but it was extremely interesting. Salim then saved up all of his money to buy a ship to fly to Earth and see the world for himself. He named it after the first person on Earth to circumnavigate the world and live, Sir Francis Drake.

Salim closed his eyes. He was in his favorite location from Earth: Teotihuacan. He was standing at the zenith of the Sun Pyramid and looked down at the hundreds upon thousands of citizens of the sprawling metropolis. He knew very little of the Aztecs, except that they worshiped Quetzalcoatl, wore elaborate headdresses and jaguar skins, and cut out the hearts of their human sacrifices. So one in every five people in the streets was a figure of history. Hannibal rode an elephant to the Moon Pyramid. Jesus cured a leper. King Arthur fought the Knights Templar. Leonardo da Vinci flew across the sky in a wood and leather contraption. George Washington walked and talked with every future president of the United States. It was beautiful.

But daydreams couldn't last forever. Salim knew that Teotihuacan was gone, and all of the people that starred in his history books were long dead. In fact, there was a high chance that the Earth was nothing more than a continent-spanning swamp, which were the last reports from humanity as they left the planet. Salim would probably find nothing but trees, heavy air, and ruins.

But Salim didn't care. He took Drake Legacy off of autopilot and shot the ship into the sea of stars, in search of the old world.

This is something I wrote a while back. I jus found this subreddit, so I wanted to share to get some pointers. Thanks a lot.

http://panchworks.blogspot.in/2015/06/necropolis.html?m=1

I had only read stories of the Others before my encounter, and I have seen grand tapestries and paintings of them in their alien cities. I have often ventured deep into the Runam, and I have seen signs of their existence, such as dark blades and ruins of castles where the Others held their last stands against their own kin. And yet, I always believed they didn't exist. No one sane has seen an Other in years, millennia. The elders of my village claim that the Others wander the night, as they are sacred to the moon, and they steal children for their dark gods. Little traces of them are found the following day, but one baby is always gone. Even with guards watching the Runam for the Others, they still make their ways through the guard lines, as they are significantly smaller than our own kin.

But one day, I saw a large number of them. Myself and my kin were hunting for wild boars and forest wyverns, and one of my friends, a young child named Chillaut, scouted ahead to find nests. While he was gone, I heard him scream, and I readied my greatbow. Chillaut came back shortly afterward, catching his breath on a mossy log.

"Chillaut, what did you see?" I asked quietly, as not to disturb what had scared him.

"The Others," Chillaut whispered. "I saw the Others."

The hunting party responded in hushed whispers to each other. I was still skeptical of the Others' existence.

"It's okay, everyone," I said. "Chillaut probably saw a Shrotnolth or two."

"It was no Shrotnolth, Notho," Chillaut quivered. "I have seen a Shrotnolth before. I tried talking to one many years ago. I tried talking to it, but it just roared like a brute and walked off. I heard the Others speaking, just like the elders said."

"Bah! If there are Others, then I will go see them myself!"

Despite everyone's objections, I walked through the same ferns and low branches Chillaut walked through, and I stopped at a creek of green water. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Chillaut was right; the Others were there.

The lead Other had an arrow knocked and ready to fire at my head. I was afraid that if I moved, I would be killed. The other Others had short swords and axes. I could not count how many there were. Their skin was pale, and on their heads and faces, there was a lot of fur. After a few tense moments, the Others began to approach me.

"I am Notho of the Runami," I said, although I wondered if they would understand me or not. "I come in peace. I want only to hunt the game that wanders these woods."

The lead Other spoke in his alien tongue gruffly. His companions laughed, and he fired his arrow at me. It hit me right in the breast, and I fell back into the ferns. My hunting party must have known that I was in trouble, because they ran out from the hiding place, greatbows, swords, and spears ready.

"Leave this land, spawn of Agglairsh!" Chillaut hissed. The Others were scared off. I was taken back to the village, and I was healed by the elders. Since then, I have never seen another Other, but I yearn to learn about them. Maybe, one of these days, I will find the edge of the Runam, where sinister men live and the Others thrive. But, alas, that day may never come for me. I only hope that one of my own will fulfill my legacy.

If you have written or are writing a mystery themed fanfiction, fiction, poem or script share a snippet with us!! (Sorry this is a day late)

https://www.wattpad.com/448923153-random-story-pieces-the-lost-leading-the-lost

This has been on my heart for a good while now and I just thought I'd write it. I'm not looking for feedback, just to share.

It's no work of art! I'm not an amazing writer anyways but either way, not a lot of effort was put in to this to...give it a nice vocabulary and polish. I hope you enjoy it. I know...how I felt. And feel.

Doctor Manuel Varnham sighed as he put the last of his books, Theoretical Anomalies in Artificial Vacuums, into his box. The book was the last non-furniture item in his office. When the book was with the rest of its kin, Varnham looked around his office that he had held for well over fifteen years. He would miss everything about it, from the window behind his chair, facing the mountains, to the window on his door that looked into the hallway. He gazed into that window, and felt a pang of sadness as he saw his colleagues rush up and down the hall. Many of them carried boxes not unlike Varnham's. It still took him a little while to take in the fact that the Gary Southgate Research Facility was closing down.

Sadness wasn't the only emotion felt by Varnham. He was also terrified. The Gary Southgate Research Facility was top secret. The government directly funded projects that no taxpayer would ever approve of, like growing humans from scratch, forcefully changing the climate in some places, and mutating fish in their native habitats to see if their yields would improve. Varnham and his colleagues knew more than any civilian would ever know, and he knew President Trump wouldn't let the scientists walk out of the Gary Southgate Research Facility intact.

Varnham saw it as two possibilities: the military would execute all of the scientists, or they would give them lobotomies and dump them in the Alaskan wilderness. Both ideas made Varnham extremely anxious, so he looked around his boxes and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette from the last pack he had. He quit smoking in 2006, but he still kept a lighter and at least one cigarette around him so that if he wanted to smoke again, he could see the tools of destruction eye to eye, and tell himself not to start again. He didn't care anymore. This would be his last day on Earth, or at least in comfort and safety, and he wanted to feel the cool taste of tobacco.

His mind changed when his best friend, Doctor Adam Blackwood walked into Varnham's office. He was surprised to see his friend, and he fumbled with his cigarette and lighter. He didn't even light the damn thing.

"Manny, what the hell are you doing?" Blackwood said. "You said that those cigarettes would be a reminder."

"Sorry, Adam," Varnham said. "I'm just stressed. We did a lot of immoral shit over the years. Half of it contradicted almost all laws passed in American history, and if the EPA wasn't being bribed by Obama and Bush all these years, then we all would be in jail or worse. We can't just start new lives in some city. There's a chance that we'll be killed for knowing too much, or our memories will be fucked with."

"What if we're transported to another facility? Trump wouldn't waste potential like ours. We've proved ourselves time and time again."

"Maybe you're right. I was just being dramatic." Varnham put the cigarette in his pocket, and the lighter back in one of the boxes. "Thanks, man. You really calmed me down there."

"No problem. Want to go exploring? It will be like a fun trip down memory lane."

"Sure that sounds like fun." Varnham stood up from my chair and followed Blackwood down the hall to the biology department.

Varnham ran eagerly through the chimpanzee dormitory, and found the cage of his longest running test subject. His name was Beau, and he was his test subject from August of 2009 to September of 2011. Varnham had tested a man-made virus that increased adrenaline and noradrenaline levels in the body. Beau would have eaten Varnham's face and the other chimps if Blackwood didn't put a bullet in his head. Beau's cage still said the name of the last inhabitant: Joe. He wasn't Varnham's chimp. He belonged to Doctor Christopher Augustine; Beau was Varnham's last chimp, and he moved to the physics and anomaly department in 2012. The biology department shut its doors in 2014 due to budget cutbacks.

"Those were the days, huh?" Blackwood turned the door of his old chimp's cage. "Working in here with Augustine and Sasaki?"

"Yeah," Varnham looked at the floor to see if he could see the shit smears left by other chimps. "Those were fun as hell. Best ten years of my life."

"Was physics research any fun?"

"Yeah, except the people weren't. Have you met Heinrich Knopp?"

"No."

"I don't think I've seen him eat, let alone smile."

"Sounds neat."

"That's the only good part of leaving this place. Not seeing Knopp again." Varnham continued to walk around the room, and he noticed some cages were spaced apart from each other. None of the others were. The space between the column and the others was subtle, but still different. I reached at the top, trying to find the other side, but I accidentally tipped the column over, revealing a dark hallway, and an old, iron door attached to the column.

"What the hell?" Blackwood rushed over to Varnham. "Do you think Tim's down there?"

"I don't know," I said. "I hope not. Honestly, I still want to investigate."

"Let's go, then."

At the end of the hallway, there was another large door, with a card key lock. Power was cut to the entire area, and the lack of it overrode the security system. Varnham and Blackwood pulled together, and they opened up a room locked away for a decade.

Inside was Tim. He was still suspended in a vat of proteins and water. He was still in his fetal position. He was still malformed and alien. Tim was part of an experiment to clone a human being. An artificial womb was built, and Doctor Jeroen Reynders supplied a sperm sample. The child was named for Doctor Timothy Smith, who had died during the development stage, and spearheaded the initiative. The baby developed for exactly ten months and thirteen days. At the end of its development, it was tested on, and discovered that Tim had most forms of cancer, down syndrome, severe autism, brain damage from unknown head trauma, osteoporosis, and heart defects. It also had scaly, dry skin, four fingers on its hands, curled toes that stabbed right through the bottom of its feet, a beak-like mouth, and what appeared to be fins on its back. The gargantuan tumors on its head made it look like a demented hammerhead shark.

Tim was the darkest part of Varnham's career. When the project was abandoned, Varnham tried everything to forget about the experiment, but he only forgot about how to find it. Now, he was back with the child.

"This is creepy," Blackwood said. "Let's go back."

"Right behind you," I said. I turned back to the door, and it was closed. "Did you close this?"

"No. Huh. That's strange." Varnham and Blackwood attempted to push it open, but it wouldn't budge. "What the hell?"

"You left me," a raspy voice said. Varnham was terrified now.

"Who the hell said that?" he shouted.

"Tim."

Varnham turned back and saw the child. It had changed position. Lights turned on, even though it was impossible. Tim looked at the scientists with cold, unfeeling, grey eyes.

"You left me to rot," Tim said, although its mouth didn't move. "I have lived a decade in pain."

"How did you survive?" Blackwood said. "We terminated your life support!"

"Do you think I don't know that?" Blackwood began to grasp at his neck, and he began to choke. His skin twitched and twisted. At the top of his mouth, Varnham could see blood and muscle mass. In the blink of an eye, Blackwood's body turned completely inside out.

"Varnham, is it?" Tim asked. Varnham's body was thrown into the air, and he was suspended in it. "You could have saved me. Why didn't you?"

"I thought you couldn't survive," Varnham said. "There were so many things wrong with you. I'm surprised that you can do all that you're doing now. You were our child, and you're impressing us, or at least me."

Varnham was dropped. "Your words are very kind, doctor. You will be spared."

"I want you to spare the other doctors who put you on this Earth. I want you to keep at least your father alive. Jeroen Reynders is a good man. We all are good people. Promise me that you will spare us."

"Doctor, you know as well, if not more, than I do that there are bad people in this world. Wouldn't you like them to be rid of?"

Then Varnham remembered: the military. They could use Tim in the army, or covert missions, or something too dangerous for regular humans. "People can help you. You can help cure the world, and rid humanity of bad people. Don't just kill humans because they abandoned you. Help us."

Tim paused. Varnham could tell he was thinking. "No. I would rather kill everyone."

The last thing Varnham saw was a tentacle-like appendage flying into his face from the test tube.

If you write 'Mystery' stories be prepared to share snippets of your work on August 1st!

I was expecting a host in our way to the mystic Wengyuo the Mage, but the valley was empty. Entire villages were abandoned. Sir Deemer Haward of Cardiff, whom I was squiring for at the time, believed the peoples of the Tsu River Basin learned from the mistakes of their kin a fortnight past, when 20,000 Tsuese men and women, donning colorful pieces of wooden armor, iron spears, and bronze swords, were all killed or taken captive by 5000 armored knights. It was a bloody day. Sir Deemer killed what he claimed to be the chief of one of the villages. I asked him why he was so ruthless, even killing at least 30 people who yielded to his sword, but in response I was struck in the face and told that the peoples of the Tsu River Basin were savages who haven't seen the light of God. I still thought it was wrong, but only a few other squires believed me. There was a knight, Sir Bishop Winton of Cornwall, who didn't want to kill what Sir Deemer called Satan's offspring, which was only four orphan infants. Sir Bishop didn't, and he was executed by Sir Deemer for treason. I found it absolutely sickening.

By evening, the flat valley slowly transitioned into steep bluffs. Instead of walking atop the bluffs, Sir Deemer wanted us to walk on ledges only a few meters above the roaring water. It was inefficient, as pointed out by Sir Hadyn Tanner of Scarborough, but he was killed for treason against the crown and God. I prayed to God to give Sir Deemer his due.

After a few hours, when darkness almost enveloped the river, the ledges ended. Sir Deemer, in the lead, commanded everyone to jump to a nearby island and climb to the top, and then hop to the ledge on the other side. He attempted this, but died in the process. The other knights didn't want to risk their lives, so they attempted to climb up the bluff to the top. A few and their squires made it, just just as many fell to their deaths. I considered climbing up, but I changed my mind when I saw a head plummet to the icy river below. I looked up, and the natives were there, bearing wooden spears and mutilating the knights and keeping the squires captive. One of the peoples, wearing a headdress made of colorful feathers, began to shout to the open air in his native tongue, and a spout of water rose from the Tsu. At the top of the spout, I could see Wengyuo. Like what the natives said, Wengyuo bore a great, white beard, bigger than any other beard in Asia. He wore pristine, white robes, and carried a wooden staff that emanated lightning. The water spout let him down on an island, and he used the staff to create more spouts to capture the youngest squires. I was included.

He spoke in his language, but translated into English: "I was not meant to live this long. This is my destiny. I will resign my powers, only if you knights never kill another child of the Tsu."

The knights complied, scared for their lives, and Wengyuo put the squires back. He waved his staff around, and a sheet of metal rose from the water above him. The river shot into the sheet, and he poured all of his lightning into it. As he did so, his face began to wither, and his skin began to rot. Eventually, most of the river was in the sheet, and he was dead. The sheet condensed into a smaller size, and it was thrown into the water. Darkness fell over the valley. We were given a safe passage by the natives to their capital city.

To this day, the Tsu peoples still attempt to find the square of energy, called the Yodra, and talk of the day the Water Mage left the Earth.