Share Your Writing!


You can think of this kind of like an art thread but for words. Basically, a place where you can post anything - little blurbs from games you’re working on, poems, short stories, a tidbit of dialogue from two characters, original quotes, a one-shot response to a prompt, characterizations or character questions, word fluff, testing out different ‘styles’, etc. - without commitment! (I couldn’t find a thread like this but if there is one already established please redirect me. :sweat_smile: )

There are times when I just want to share something short from a novel I’ve written but won’t ever publish. Or I want a place to practice dialogue. Or post a short scene with two characters I’ve just created interacting. Or write a scene for fun that doesn’t belong to some grander thing and that I’m never going to finish.

So, here’s that place for everyone who feels the same.

Feel free to comment on people’s work but please keep your manners. Constructive feedback is fine, unless the author specifies otherwise, but being rude isn’t. :ok_hand:


I think this may be the single greatest piece of dialogue I’ve ever written:

“Mcfreakin’ ‘scuze me!”


You can’t possibly be wrong. That is glorious.


Hhhhmmmm I’m not at my computer right now but I’m commenting here in hopes that I’ll remember I wanted to post a dialogue blurb :sweat_smile:


Rocco’s train of though was interrupted by a lance of pain in his arm. But… well. Not the kind of pain you’d feel from a normal injury, or the kind of pain the mysterious gamemaster inflicted. He felt loss, sorrow, guilt and horror so deeply, it felt like every bad memory he’d ever had was happening all at once. A fresh, sucking wound of newly-remembered agony. And though this sensation disappeared, there was a hollow feeling left behind he couldn’t quite describe.

From the current draft of my novel, a fairly early scene I probably need to revisit.


Hi. I think this paragraph is really well written, but I think maybe you should change ‘Not the kind of pain you’d feel from a normal injury’ to ‘Not the kind of pain he’d feel from a normal injury’. Most of the paragraph seems to be about Rocco, and the you really threw me off when I was reading it.
Hope your novel goes well!


A guilty pleasure of mine but, I love writing reader-inserts. You know a romance story in second person where you use things [e/c] for eye color or [y/n] for their names? It really helps you get into the interactive fiction writing without having to do all the work. :yum:

This was/is the first ‘chapter’ of some really cheesy vampire x preacher’s daughter one that I will proudly admit to enjoy writing. It’s fun to make ‘cartoony and what even is subtly’ ‘show don’t tell, what even is that’ ‘just writing to write fancy words’ characters/stories on occasion and these types of things let you do it. After experimentation, it seems the audience who reads these also have a thing for murderous intent and insanely arrogant characters, to which I have tried to cater, so be warned.


Queen of the graces, you will even be so,
When, the last ritual said,
Beneath the grass and the fat flowers you go,
To mould among the dead.
Then, O my beauty, tell the insatiate worm,
Who wastes you with his kiss,
I have kept the godlike essence and the form
Of perishable bliss"

  • A Carcass

\And you found the most peace amidst the dead./

The flowers are dying.

You tenderly examine their wilting stalks with gentle hands. The petals are no longer vibrant oranges painted against a twilight canvas of fallen leaves - they have decayed into piteous remnants of shriveling browns and muted grey. You knew they had no hope, nothing here ever did, yet their still form manages to arouse your sympathy.

“Shall I just offer you an end now?” You muse to no one but the graves. Your voice is lost in the light rain that spills from overcast skies. Fingers running along their crumbling surface, you lean back against the tombstone that marks your haven of peace.

“Or shall I allow you to suffer through the end of the season, to finally perish after prolonged affliction?”

The quiet crunching off footsteps alerts you of a presence nearby.

A small, ironic smile pangs to your lips as your fingers gingerly fall into your lap. Though you would enjoy nothing more than to become a statue set out in the crisp autumn air, to melt into the soft patter of rain, you know that the sermon should be beginning soon.

The figure comes into view and all dreams are shot to be grounded, the flowers forgotten.

“Ah, [y/n], I knew I would find you out here.” He smiles kindly and offers you a hand. You are impressed how eyes so dark and void can be paired with a smile so dazzling.

Reaching for his outstretched appendage, you allow him to pull you off the ground. But only just for sake of etiquette. His skin always seems so cold to the touch and the feeling only deepens, you note, as he delicately takes your fingers into his.

“I was… paying my respects to the souls buried here. It is unfortunate to live a life not remembered in time.” You offer quietly, trailing off from your blatant lie. But that was you - quiet. So quiet and nice…so quite and nice. You would behave in face. It was so hard to be more, not allowed to be more.

He stops walking and you feel the warmth return to digits as he releases you. “Do you think so?” He asks. His eyes flick to your’s. You feel the chill run down your spine.

You have always been taught to not judge on appearance alone but by action’s against God. However, there is something unsettling, unnerving, in the man before you. His words are always charming, his demeanor so polite and agreeable - really, it is no wonder the town is really quite enraptured -

Oh and how you were taught not to judge.

  • but, in his presence, you get a distinct feeling of unrest.

It’s the eyes. He laughs and smiles and talks with words afflicted with honey, always so subtle in nature, but his eyes always seem to swallow the world with apathy. And if not apathy, scrutiny. As if those before him were nothing more than childish toys that he had long grown tired of, or bugs meant to be squashed under heel.

“No.” You say. Your voice comes out short and you pause to catch restrain. “Do you?”

The question is laced with bite before you stop it and you immediately feel your cheeks pinken. “Ah, my apologies-” You begin, and mentally remark how unlike you that was, but freeze when you look back at your companion.

A smile like one you’ve never seen before is alight on his face and it’s enough to render you silent.

This one is even more frightening.

“I surmise that people should be giving little thought to what comes of them after death,” His smile falls into a half-lidded beam. “And focusing on staying alive in a world so rampant of hazard.” He says. A frown surfaces and that familiar look of disdain is aglow once more.

“Or, at the very least, to attempt to become so less miserably dull.”

You regard your fiancé with a still gaze. You never speak your mind, you never do, but the moment is frozen and those eyes, such a vibrant green, are burning holes into your soul. And, his words certainly are not within the realm of normal.

“I believe,” You breathe out and then suck in your breath. “That you are not the person you paint yourself to be.”

You don’t know why you said it. You are so quiet, so sweet, and your unfamiliar future-husband-to-be is not somebody you should antagonize. But you did. Now there is just waiting.

Until, he laughs. The spill of amusement and the coy smile teasing his lips is certainly not what you had envisioned your outburst to elicit.

The laugh only lasts a mere moment before a serious gaze, very reminiscent of a glare, rolls unto his visage. It’s almost comical how stark and sudden the disparity arises.

Leaning down to your ear, his breath tickling the hair of your neck, he whispers. “And I believe,” he draws out each syllable, and each, unlike his fingers, is hot against your skin. “That you are not the person you pretend to be, either.”

Before you can process his words, he is standing once more and carries no recognition for his actions. Re-lacing your hands, that oppressive cold returning in full force, he resumes his pace and offers you that plastered perfect smile.

Only this time you swear it almost reaches his eyes.

This was a reversed ‘Little Mermaid’ (siren reader) with…basically the same character reincarnated lmao. I’m so sorry in advance for the commas. I like, to, use, them, way, too, much.


And in that moment he knew that beauty had a face.

It was the burning of the lamplight that parted the darkness of the halls, erasing the shadows and scouring at the monsters who took haven in the twilight.

A quiet tap of footfall along stone was the only sound, save for the torrent of relentless gales that gnawed outside the windows, that reverberated in daunting echo and gave way to the slightest inquiry of intrigue that was walled behind each step of the saving illumination’s fore-bearer [who had offered to carry the holy wick by his own hand].

The young man, and young was the very nature of his mien, was tall and lean of frame, casting his own silhouette unto the cold slabs of stone that made up his pathway. The features on his face were nothing short of lovely when in the light; sharp angles and contours that rested into a mold of beauty. But, in the dim-lit glow of a silent night they took on a much more sinister resolve. Instead of the lightning blue of a new spring sky, where growth blooms forth from desolate earth and is painted with verdant buds, the orbs resting in his skull appeared inky and devoid of color. Two pits that drowned out the world and pulled with great magnitude their captor’s into the depth of their perceptions. Charcoal tresses were not brushed into silken strands, molded into a certain boyish air that was a depiction of the essence of youth, but rather hung freely down his face in a feral mess.

The young servant boy, having observed the disquiet of the scene, shivered through a sudden chill and clung to his arms in a misguided act of protection. The prince, in this moment, seemed to manifest as a fiend…something from the machinations of hell. Shaken more-so by this revelation, the boy clung to his arms tighter, a blanket of fictitious security, and, not out of entire conscious deduction, fell into a slower step.

The demon seemed to notice.

“Is something wrong?” The prince spoke softly in a tone of curiosity, of practiced sympathy. At least, that was the intention. The boy could catch the slightest hint of a bemused smile glimmering in the light from the flames.

He swallowed, nervous prey facing down its death. “No, my lord. I was… just lost in thought.”

“Oh? If anything is troubling you, please do seek me out for solace.” A pause, searching the eyes of his companion. After a moment of no reply, the kind turning of a smile proceeded. “Very well, I will not press you.” He beams. “Let’s continue on. I am quite so dreadfully excited to resolve this grandeur mystery.”

The boy felt his shoulders melt, relaxed. Of course his mind was being deceptive, he whispered to his worries. The prince was the personification of gentle and kind, the one befitting fitting of a ruler, and a sleep deprived awareness did not make for the most rational judgement.

His steps once again fell into pace with his young prince’s and all notions of delusion were simply extinguished from his mind.

The pair reached the carved doorway, an imposing portal that was sculpted into scenes of marbled artistic visions, that marked the end of their short journey. The prince paused in deliberation before turning back to his companion and offering the same kind smile as before.

“I must thank you for your assistance and for alerting me of my uncle’s return. You may go, if you wish, I can manage from here.” He lulled for a moment before letting out a soft sigh of indignation. “I would also like to apologize for the circumstances befallen to you. You have had the poor misfortune of being roused from your slumber, in the middle of such a dreadfully cold night, only to escort me on such a mundane dalliance…”

“Oh, i-it was no trouble, my lord. I am awed by your continued humbleness…” The boy flushed as a prickle of heat emerged across his cheeks. Looking at the ground, abashed, he shifted in hesitance deciding if it was truly alright to leave. While mewling over such a proposal, he regarded the prince once more. There he stood, simply allowing a half-lidded beam to grace his visage.

After another lapse of protracted quiet the boy finally managed to swivel around to make off before the moment of silence would extend into discomfort. Before more than a step could be executed, however, Prince Cecil spoke out once more in timed performance.

“A word of advice?” The voice called in query. Not pausing for a heat’s beat, the prince’s form moved to be in front of the boy. Leaning down until he was a mere hair breadth’s distance from the other’s own countenance, breaths almost intermingling if it were not for the fact that the servant had halted his inhalations in shock, he continued.

“A miscalculation is not always negligence.”

A prolonged pause. The boy’s orbs grew wide.

“You simply based your reaction, or rather inaction, on probability…” There it was again, that bemusement tugging his lips into a cruel simper. “You were wrong, of course. Though for that I do not care.”

If if were not for his current position and the beating of his own blood drowning out the sounds, the boy might have admired how intimidating a man could be without offering even the slightest physical peril. But he was not in such a situation, and the feat was lost on him.

“But if there is anything I loathe,” His eyes flashed with unrestrained detestation. They were no longer the mirrors of virtue that had painted the features of the light, but rather they slipped into empty sockets devoid of compassion. “It would be subservient ladled deceit.”

Just as soon as the words had started, his lips stopped in a tight line, hungering and wanting to say more but settling on silence. Instead, a bright burst of laughter opted to bubble out from his throat. “Goodnight.” He offered as that mask of merriment fell upon his manner and he straightened up once more, no acknowledgment from the somber fear that had fallen over the unfortunate servant.

The young boy, his face drained of color, managed to utter an unintelligible syllable, a short courtesy response, before scurrying as fast a pace that did not allude to escape. His legs only trembled when he was far out of sight.

The prince considered the thoughts for a brief second passed before deciding that the coward would probably go on to analyze the night and come to the conclusion that of course, he had merely exaggerated the encounter from his deprivation of sleep. Of course he would, the prince affirmed. Humans were so inevitable, hopeless, like pieces of a machine that never seemed to stop and question why. Always allowing the easiest beliefs, easiest truths, to settle their minds instead of allowing for the slightest prospect of a revision of preconceptions.

Cecil allowed himself to sigh, perhaps out of resignation, before running thin digits through his locks. “…My self-discipline is waning.”


Entering the throne room, there were two things to be noticed.

The first was the amount of life bustling in a congealed group towards the center of the prodigious room. They were very distinct and easily recognizable - his uncle’s obstreperous “crew” of men ranging from boorish and vulgar to austere and conniving. They were branded with the title of being sent after treasures and riches, “prospectors of great wealth” they would proclaim. What the men really were comprised of would be pirates, loutish thieves, and disgusting vagrants that gallivanted around with a convoluted sense of honor.

The second thing to be noticed, or perhaps the most eye-catching disparagement of the scene, was the girl. Girl not really bringing justice to the being that sat chained in the middle of the aforementioned congregation of ruffians. Her face was painted into a picture of abhorrence the prince had never witnessed before - eyebrows draw in grim-set permanence and each target caught in her line of vision seemed to be burned to ashes in her mind. Despite the fury, however, and despite the chains that fastened her hands and feet in shackled restraint, the [e/c] of that stare and the irradiating splendor was otherworldly. Not in appearance, no, thought for that there could be no fault, but in the very emanation that her spirit educed.

In that moment, he felt transfixed. He felt irrational - something that he had promised never to be.

And in that moment he knew, it was a thought descending into more than affirmations, because in that moment he knew that beauty had a face.


there is some premise to this but I’ll skip to the main bit

“How does a chemist respond to a riddle?.. With a solution!!!”

*I’ll admit that may not be the best joke I’ve ever written…


“What the frick-frack tic tac did you just say to me, young lady?”

Honestly, I got this from a friend who claimed that she was my mother and was chastising me for… something. I started using this.


“Friggin’ heck that,” he chortled.


"He has a project due on Monday that he had a month to do but obviously he procrastinated, so now he’s going full North Korea and withdrawing into a single dorm with a hundred cans of Red Bull and enough Doritos Locos Tacos to down a rhinoceros with heart disease.”

Oof, you never go full North Korea.”

“Did that sexy bastard just oust me as leader?”

“You’re awfully quiet. Anything to add?”

“Does snoring count?”

"The only people who go monster slaying in school uniforms are anime protagonists and people who aren’t as cool as me.”

“Hooray for vague promises!”


This is the fate of all of those with power: obsession.


Her lip curls up in a sickened snarl before her head quickly turns to look at you, lightly nodding her head, you salute her in response. The governor does not retort, merely nodding his head before speaking quietly.

“Yes ma’am.” He responds meekly.

Her features relax as her glare turns into a hungry, almost predatory stare.

“Good, make sure to keep me appraised of the situation, and Governor—if you fail, I will flay you myself.”

Making a gesture across her neck, she cuts the feed, leaving you and the governor in silence.


Five lines from the future…

“I’ll teach you the secrets of power. I’ll teach you how to find it and how to cultivate it. I’ll teach you how to wield it and how to break it. And then, ultimately, I will teach you how to kill it.”

“The most intimate relationship, the most intimate conversation, is not between a person and their lover, but a person and their torturer. In this room, the only thing that exists is us, and the only thing that matters is our ability to listen to each other.”

“There will always be a price to pay. There is a price for power and there is a price for success. I love you and I fear for you. Because I’m terrified that you’ll achieve both.”

“I’ll do anything for you. I’ll love you terribly and horribly and selfishly. My love will place you above everyone else. These choices, I will make them knowingly and without remorse, for it brings me one step closer to you. I am not psychotic, and yet to everyone else I will be gripped by psychosis. Love will make me a monster.”

“Stop! There is nothing for you up there. There is nothing for anyone up there. The only thing that lies up there is for them, and the pain they’ve caused each other.”


a piece of dialogue from a little project I started while I was taking a break from writing some high-fantasy stuffs and never finished

  • I don’t understand. These readings defy all known properties of quantum mechanics.

  • You’re over-thinking this too much. Listen to your emotions and instincts. What do they tell you?

  • Listen to my emotions? I’m a scientist!!! Only a fool would let his heart triumph over his mind

  • Emotions are simply bio-chemical reactions in our brain, my dear boy. They are no less in our heads than logical thoughts. Now, relax and tell me how you feel about this apparent anomaly.


We will corrupt your world, and we will consume it.
The time has come, and your Light will not stop us.


The ancient ebony clock’s strikes echo down the stretches of dusty corridor. Midnight. You’re too late. You fly through the house as fast as your feet can take you, clutching a stitch in your side and gasping for breath because you forgot to wake Death up for school.

All in all, not the best way to start your day.


“We’ve got a priest, an occult detective, and a dog that likes to eat cereal for some reason. I’m a garden-variety wackjob who gets laughed at because I believe in aliens. What’s your story?”

Everyone in the room turned towards the young man sitting in the corner. He’d been silent the whole time, content with listening to the others as they recounted their stories. Upon seeing everyone look at him, a sigh escaped his lips. He leaned forward in his seat, face serious and jaw set.

“I can punch ghosts”


Ooh, fun! I’m going to share the first bit of the second game I’m working on, The Glamouriste, up to the first choice. I’m fairly proud of it at the moment.


Once upon a time, there existed a château of extraordinary beauty upon which the sun shone brightly and ivy lazily crawled up its pale yellow walls. Even more lovely than this château was the garden which surrounded it, a garden that was full-to-bursting with flowers of every kind, erupting with a vibrant explosion of color and fragrance. Bees, butterflies, and birds floated through the abundant vegetation with abandon, for they were welcome guests and ever provided for there.

But this was no ordinary garden.

Music was carried on every breeze, filling the air with the soft sound of flutes and chimes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Even on the sunniest days, stars hung low through the canopy of flowering trees and spread out into the open, twinkling brightly but forever just out of reach of those who sought to catch them. They moved slowly and of their own accord, and each day they formed new constellations. There were bushes of roses whose petals were of a silver so pure they reflected with a clarity rivaling that of the finest looking-glasses, yet they were just as soft and delicate as any common garden flower. The large burbling fountain which sat in the center of the garden overflowed with liquid sunsets, and each ripple in the crepuscular water revealed yet another swirling layer of twilight color.

It was within this not-so-ordinary garden that you sat, still but a young child, and watched as your mother turned the rotting wood of gnarled shrub into clear, prismatic glass that glittered and cast rainbows with every shift of the light.

It wasn’t the first time you had seen your mother alter the garden in such a way. Indeed, she had been doing so for as long as you could remember, and the magical alterations were commonplace, changing as frequently and unexpectedly as her appearance. In one moment the fountain would be a majestic display of stags mid-leap and her hair a burnished gold, and the next it would be a modest sculpture of simple geometric shapes with her hair now a midnight black.

It never seemed odd to you, your mother’s fluid appearance and the ever-changing design of the garden; you thought it was simply how the world worked. You didn’t learn the truth of it until, frustrated from waiting for your own image to transform, you asked when you would change as she did.

Your mother laughed, throwing her head back, and placed a gentle kiss upon your head. You adored her laugh. It sounded like a melody played upon a harpsichord, a song familiar yet unknown, blessed to forever haunt you yet cursed to never be fully remembered. “Ah, my dear,” she said with pity, “I cannot say if you’ll ever change quite as I do.”

“Why not?” you demanded.

“Most people do not,” she said. “It is not a natural thing, for one’s hair to turn as mine does from red to brown to yellow whenever I wish. Most have their hair remain a single color until time turns it grey.”

“Then why does yours change?”

She smiled then. It was a sly thing, full of mischief, and it made her eyes, her only constant feature, twinkle with mirth. “It’s Glamour, my dear.”

“What’s Glamour?” you asked her.

She did not answer you right away. Instead, she yanked a decorative button off her bodice and held it in her palm for you to see. You stared at it curiously, and before your eyes it ceased to be a button and transformed with a shimmer of gold into a bejeweled crystal apple.

That is Glamour,” said your mother. She handed you the apple, and you were surprised to that find that it weighed no more than the button it had been just seconds ago. “It’s a gift to our people from the Fair Folk who once inhabited this land. With it, we can turn even the plainest things into something beautiful. It’s what makes our country, fair Beltere, so lovely and so much better than anywhere else.”


He sprinted down the street, mocking cries of his avian pursuers cutting through the street’s quiet. His lungs burned and muscles ached as he sprinted through the alley, driven by fear and the birdmen’s taunts.
This was a foolish plan.
An amateur witch-assassin, newly accepted into the Bladed Wand, made overconfident by a string of successes, venturing into the Beast Quarter on an impossible contract on the resident cyberlich’s head.
And now the Tonino Siblings were after him.
An elf could not hope to outrun a beastkin, not for long, not without trickery.
But trickery was what he specialised in.
With trembling hands, and, perhaps more importantly, when one is in immense panic from the very real possibility of being eviscerated by vengeful birdmen, it isn’t easy to invoke a glyph, but Vorn carried a few disposable charms for such situations.
He flung a wire-wrapped shadowgem to the ground, a charm for protection from visibility, and vanished from sight as the crystal shattered. The assassin rounded a corner, hidden, and, still running, closed his eyes and lifted a prayer to the spirits, not an eloquent request like he was used to, but a desperate plea for survival.
He opened his eyes and stumbled, nearly fell over in shock at the sight of Velia Tonino staring him down, casually weaving her dice between her feathered finger-analogues.