#shared writing

[pixierainbows]

NWACS

The Northwest Augmentative Communication Society (NWACS) is a non-profit organization focusing on educating and raising awareness about augm

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tags @willtheweaver and @somethingclevermahogony!

Writing Share Game

Rules: Share some writing!

Seems simple enough! Let's share some stuff from To the Stars and Back (HO book 2)

Carefully, the man palmed a dagger and angled it towards the priests. In the polished surface, he could see where the attendants stood flanking their mistress. They were on guard, looking intently at every possible entryway. With the use of mirrored steel though, the man could stay out of sight. Once he’d lined up the shot, Sepo took one last deep breath, steadied himself for what was to come, and then leapt around the corner.

Thwack! His knife embedded itself into the nearest attendant’s skull, dropping her instantly. The other gave a cry and threw himself at the unexpected attacker. Almost faster than Sepo could track, the man drew twin sickles from under his voluminous robe and swung in from either side, hoping to catch Sepo in the middle.

But the siren was fast as well. Sepo whirled his shortstaff in a circular block, catching both sickles and smashing them off course. The attendant kept his grip though and in a single graceful motion, spun backwards into a guard position, one weapon held up over his head like a scorpion’s tail.

Taking the offense, the siren went in for a battering ram strike, only to feint to the side at the last moment, ignoring the surge of dizziness the maneuver produced. Turning on his heel, Sepo whirled his staff towards the attendant’s face.

The man ducked, shoving Sepo’s already overly-committed strike along on its path while slashing at his exposed stomach with his offhand. On instinct—and with the momentum of his strike giving him very few options—the siren went for a shoving kick.

The kick connected, pushing the attendant several feet with a satisfactory oomph, but not before the offhand sickle instead dug into the side of Sepo’s exposed knee. As the man staggered, his weapon tore a long gash from knee to ankle. The siren gasped in pain. It was electric. He half-fell, scrambling back into a defensive stance even as his leg threatened to buckle.

Damn, this was bad! His brain swam with vertigo as the attendant threw a low slash at his bad leg. The siren just barely blocked in time, absorbing the force of the impact through the shortstaff and into his arms with a grunt. He tried to pivot and strike up with the same end, hoping to pull the man’s sickle out of his grasp. No luck. The attendant twisted with the maneuver and went in for an offhanded blow that nearly took Sepo’s eye out.

Sensing he had the advantage, the attendant became relentless, coming in for blow after whirling blow that Sepo could barely block in time. The siren’s mind struggled against panic and pain, casting about for a plan. For anything!

Swish! A strike landed, cutting a claret line across Sepo’s collarbone. Then another, sending a flare of agony across his ribs. As every hit connected, as the attendant’s smile grew wider and wider, a familiar fury began to build within the siren.

Was he really going to let some human heretic be the end of him! Was this scrawny bastard going to be the reason Izjik never got to hear his voice in her head? Was he really going to die before making sure Djek knew Sepo’s life debt to him was settled?

Every ill in his life, every tragedy and near heart-attack of the last five days, grafted itself onto this overdressed, blasphemous shitbag. As the attendant came in with both sickles for an overhead strike, Sepo threw a double-handed block with all his might. The two combatants strained against each other, weapons locked.

Face-to-face with the grinning human, Sepo snarled like a halawemavar, then pressed out and up. With his height, he hardly needed strength; the leverage was already there. The human went tumbling back, sickles both shoved over his head. Desperately, the man tried to fall into a defensive position, but Sepo’s shortstaff caught him in the side of the knee with a sick crunch, sending him to the ground.

Leaping forward, Sepo screamed. There was no magic in his voice, not even a hint. Nothing but the sheer terror and impotence of the last week culminating into one savage strike.

With a wicked crack, the attendant crumpled to the floor, Sepo’s staff having cleaved into the side of his skull. Again, he struck, smashing into the man’s temple until his shortstaff was buried nearly a half-inch in the meaty matter. The attendant gave a final spasm and Sepo hit him once more, just to be sure. After that, the body lay still.

I'm gonna be real, so many priests die in these books. Hazard of the genre, I guess

I'll tag @thedynamicworm @whatwewrotepodcast @corinneglass @cssnder @dyrewrites and anyone else who wants in :)

[kindnessisstillhere]

Soulmates of Time

Words echo and sayings carry,

They shift with time and population,

But still they flow through time like sand.

I’ll never look for romance.

The pull just isn’t there.

But give me soulmates in my words,

Writers I find and cherish here.

Give me works from Eras gone

That Resonate my soul,

And let my own works carry on,

To reverberate another soul.

I don’t care for ties from space,

Carried on by mere proximity,

So let the words I’m writing now,

Echo beyond obscurity.

Let a soulmate be upon my shelves,

The books that I hold dear,

Then let my words be for someone else,

The things they need to hear.

No romance do I see in soulmates,

Just reflections and echos over time,

So let that be found by writing,

Beyond the time encompassing.

[pixierainbows]

Let's Talk AAC: Using Shared Writing to Support Literacy Development — NWACS

An exploration of shared writing to support literacy development.

[immperfectwriter-blog]

Writing with friends

OK, I’m going to try writing on here a bit more. Let me start with this little thing I’ve found fun to do with my friends that like to write.  I’m currently doing this with two friends at the moment, but we both share a document on google docs, and both write on the same story. What I like to do so that we aren’t stepping on each others toes constantly is to have two main characters, and they take turns telling the story.  This is especially helpful when you don’t have the same writing style as them.  If you were to read it not knowing it was two different people, you would think the author really took their time to differentiate their characters. I think its’s a good way to bond with your friends, while still improving your writing 

[dramaticskeleton]

New computer, beautiful keyboard; lovely inspiration. This piece is for @lizittude, a piece of writing that is long overdue. 

The man stood on top of a sand dune, keeping his balance by leaning against Tantor by his side. In front of him sprawled the royal city, all walled and protected. The face of the palace loomed above them, the highest spires reaching into the sky, as if to touch the gods in their home. The thatched roofs stretched from the base of the Royal Gate to only a few miles from where he now stood. It was too dark to see which homes belonged to the poor and which belonged to the rich, but he could guess. No doubt, the houses with white washed walls or, in the case of the extremely rich, the painted walls, would be closer to the palace. The poorer home would be on the outskirts, as far away from His Royal Fucking Highness as possible. Gods forbid he sees desolation right outside his front step. He wondered, inanely, if he would have ever been able to see the boots of the royal guardsmen, let along the pharaoh himself, if everything had gone right. If he hadn’t been brutally ripped from his childhood; if he hadn’t been forced to watch the horrific deaths of his beloved family and closest friends; if he hadn’t been made to run from his home, build a reputation and plan an attack… would he have been able to look at his lawful ruler with kind eyes? With awestruck eyes?

Unlikely. If everything had gone right, he wouldn’t even had had the chance to visit the royal city.

A light breeze blew past the Bakura, his treasured red cloak fluttered in the air behind him. With the wind came the faint sounds of music and merrymaking from the village. Even from where he stood, he could make out the outlines of people dancing around bonfires all around the village. There was a high reaching pile flames every few houses; it was a wonder the whole place didn’t burn down. Bakura smirked as he tried to imagine the screams and cries that would penetrate the thick walls of the pharaoh’s home.

He shook his head to clear his head. He had someplace to be; he didn’t have time to daydream. Next to him, Tantor stamped his feet, as if impatient to be off on their errand as well. Bakura stroked the thick neck of his trusted beast before swinging himself onto his back. He lightly kicked the horse into a trot to get them off the dunes and then urged him to move faster as they made their way up the sandy cliff.

[charter-back-keeping-yof]

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