(Because I, @cirianne , just gave this to my irl writing group and wanted to share it with you guys, my online writing group. Just a little in-between-event, until we maybe start another big one)
Pick one or several of the cards in the photo (needs, relationship, location, object) that vibes best with your OC, and write a little scene for it!
If you finish it by the end of next week (April 16th), tag this blog or use #yourocsbackstory, and we'll probably reblog! Please add content warnings if necessary and use a read more for longer posts.
Text version under the cut.
Happy writing!
[And re: where this is from? A hilarious game called Fiasco by Bully Pulpit games that lets you and your friends make up stories about "powerful ambition and poor impulse control". Big recommendation!]
A/N: so, I am not taking part in NaNo for personal reasons but I wanted to try something new for @yourocsbackstory. This is an attempt, where I write using only descriptions and not using the terms for what I describe. This is based on this particular OC of mine for this WIP, and I’ll make another one for tomorrow. This has been a challenge because I had a hard time describing settings recently. No matter, at least I did this! ^-^
Word Count: 368
TW: None
***
On steady waves of a shore, a wooden ship settles towards the empty docks nearby. A rowdy crew goes outside to venture onto the area. A flurry of air passes by a black sail of a flag, rustling it up high until it gets pulled down. An anchor gets raised upwards a line, getting stored.
A deck and bridge of the ship remains empty with no person to be seen in sight.
Except a person opts to stay in their office, surrounded by plank walls, shelves of books, and trinkets. Crests filled with gold lean against a lower edge of a chair behind a desk. A scent of rum leaves a waft around the room.
Different types of swords made of finest blades hang up beside a window.
Settled against their chair, they count coins from an opened treasure chest. They run a fingertip over it's texture, examining it's actual authenicity.
They can't afford their success at taking from riches to be a mere ruse, an useless one at that.
A pale parrot enters through an open circular window and lands on the desk, shaking it's ruffled feathers. It squawks towards the occupant, who pats it in the head.
When they toss the coin back onto the box, they sigh. They grab a cap of their rum bottle, closing it.
Rising from their seat, they look out at a random window with their one eye. Their only good eye for they've long adjusted to it.
Seagulls caw as they fly across the ocean, soaring upwards towards the sky. They watch with a faint sense of interest and envy. For they wish they have wings to fly wherever they chose, instead of relying on this ship.
They remove their feathered hat and set it on their chair along with their buttoned coat. They rub their hands together, keeping their eye on anything strange in particular.
These recent few weeks proved to be a challenge for them. Ah, no matter for them for they aren't a stranger to challenges that enlightens their mind for a solution. To show they had what it takes to search for it.
For they are the stubborn pirate leader for their crew, and won't hesitate.
Prompt: Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger.
@yourocsbackstory
I stared at the cup clasped in my hands, wishing that the water within could tell me a way to escape my current situation. Three months free of my parents' influence, three months of living my best life, and this one little hiccup was going to bring it all crashing down.
“I need your name,” the policeman at the desk stated, holding up my brand new fake ID. “Because this ain’t you.”
“It is,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m Jessica Langam.”
He glanced at the ID again. “Jessica Langam is twenty-seven, while you barely look a day over eighteen.” He pressed his lips together, eyebrows raised, and stared at me until I looked away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to lie to the police?”
There was no way I could answer that question in a way he wouldn’t be annoyed with, especially as what I’d actually been taught was that they were inept and corrupt. “Can I have something to eat?” I asked instead.
“Does this look like a restaurant?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, returning my attention to the cup in my hands again.
The policeman huffed and shuffled the papers on the desk, a scowl forming on his face. “Let’s try this again. Your name, please. Then we’ll put you somewhere safe to sleep off your intoxication.”
“But I’m not even drunk!” I insisted, in a last ditch attempt to convince him to let me leave. “Can’t you just let me go? I won’t cause any trouble…”
The policeman’s scowl deepened. “You were wandering across the highway with no regard for traffic, necking a bottle of tequila. There’s no way we’re letting you leave until we’re sure you’re sober. And,” the way he stressed his words made me squirm, “you tell us your name.”
I really didn’t want to. I knew what would happen if I did: he would call my parents and then they would make me go home, and I hadn’t even had the opportunity to dye my hair a fun colour yet! I wasn’t ready to give up the fun I was having. I didn’t want the party to end.
But I also hadn’t known that being drunk and disorderly was something the police didn’t like - not that I thought I was drunk or disorderly, but apparently they did - and I was better off not upsetting them over my parents. But only barely.
I let out a sigh. “Bethany Norton.”
“ Norton,” he muttered under his breath, typing my name into the computer. “Beth-a-ny.” His hands froze on the keyboard and his eyes flicked to me, making me squirm once again. “You’re Henry and Eliza’s daughter?”
Oh no, he knew of them. “Yes.”
He typed something else into the computer, then reached for his phone.
“Please don’t call them!” It came out as a squeak, far more embarrassing than the calm request I’d intended to make.
“Do you have proof that’s who you are?”
Sullenly, I shook my head. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. If only I’d known I needed to take my birth certificate with me when I ran away from home.
“Then I need to call them to confirm you are who you say you are. You can’t claim to be the daughter of the largest developer in the country and not expect me to check, now do you?” His condescending tone made my skin crawl, and I dropped my head into my hands as he dialed. It was the middle of the night. They would be really upset at the intrusion.
“Hello,” he said after a minute. “This is Senior Constable Fleming with the Sydney Police Department. Can I please speak with Mr or Mrs Norton?” he stopped, waiting for whichever of the staff he’d woken to speak. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
I cringed, unable to decide which of my parents would be better for him to speak with. Neither of them would be happy with this situation.
Suddenly I realised he was speaking again. “...have a woman here claiming to be Bethany Norton and--” He paused. “Yes. Brown hair, brown eyes, five-seven.” He paused again. “Drunk and disorderly.”
I stared down at the floor, wishing it would swallow me whole.
“The Rocks Police Station,” he said after a minute. “Policy states we can’t release her until after eight, so you’re welcome to collect her then.” He hung up the call, returning his attention to me. “Good news, Miss Norton, they’re going to come in the morning to confirm who you are. Till then, you can wait in one of our finest cells. No drunk tank for you.”
Dear gods, couldn’t my curse just kill me now? It would be way less painful than what the morning would bring.
PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. When were they most afraid?
slides this in right at the deadline
@yourocsbackstory
This took me a while because I had to go back and establish a solid timeline for all the characters.😅 As a pantser I've really been winging the general timeframe of events, but before I could go into Brom's past I needed to know everyone's relative ages to each other. Now that that's done, enjoy!
For this prompt, we go back to Brom's childhood, when he was around 9 years old. His brother, Quartus, is about 15.
The sun rose, bright and early, and Brom rose with it, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was still hungry from the night before, and hopefully his brother had some yummy porridge waiting for him. But when he looked up at the stove, nothing bubbled atop it.
That was alright. He could eat the oats plain. Brom didn't really like porridge that didn't have water or milk to make it tastier, but he'd eaten worse. He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to get the pinches of hunger to subside, and stumbled over to the pantry.
It was bare.
Brom had known it would be, since Quartus had announced as much at supper when breaking the last of their bread, but he had hoped that maybe Quartus had managed to beg a few coins of his meager apprentice's pay in advance and gone early to the bakery. Maybe he was there even now.
But when Brom looked at the kitchen door, he saw that his brother's boots and cloak were still in their place by the door jamb.
Tears sprang to Brom's eyes. He didn't want to go out begging, not again. But his stomach hurt something fierce, so he mustered up the strength he did have and pushed open the door to Papa's old room. It was freezing, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen, and Brom rubbed his arms and shivered before hurrying over to the bed.
“Quartus. I'm hungry,” he said, reaching out to touch the bundled up lump on the straw mattress. There was no response, and he shook Quartus a little. “C'mon, get up. We have to go to the square.”
Quartus still said nothing, and apprehension twisted Brom's guts. He climbed onto the bed and crawled across his brother, twisting until he could see him properly.
Quartus was awake, eyes open, but staring at nothing.
Brom pressed at his face. “Quartus! Please, I'm hungry.”
His brother just lay there, a whispered, “I can't, Brom,” his only response.
“But my stomach hurts,” Brom pleaded, shaking Quartus. “Please, get up. Please.”
Quartus rolled over the other way, drawing the blankets up to his ears. “Not today. You'll have to go by yourself.”
Panic bloomed in Brom's chest. “You told me I should never go to the square without you. Please, you have to get up. I'm so hungry.” He climbed back over Quartus, and grabbed his face in his hands.
“Get off me, Brom!” Quartus yelled, and pushed him so hard he toppled over, hitting the wooden planks with a sick crack.
Brom looked at Quartus in stunned shock. His brother had never shoved him like that before. He scooted back a few paces, his rough sleeping chemise catching in the splinters. “Why did you do that?” he asked, voice watery with tears.
“Forgive me, little brother,” Quartus said, weariness lacing each word. “But I can't. I can't. I simply can't.”
“But what about your apprenticeship?”
“The apprenticeship can go hang.” Quartus rolled over again, showing his back to Brom.
Thoughts started to spin wildly through Brom's mind. If his brother didn't get up, they couldn't go to the square. They wouldn't have any food. He wouldn't even be able to drink a little water from the fountain.
He was so thirsty.
But if he did go to the square by himself, he could get lost. Someone might accuse him of stealing and throw him in the dungeon. A spy from Hyphantria might grab him and spirit him away to the spidery-filled Shalott caves where he'd be forced to slave away with hundreds of other children until his fingers were worn to the bone.
And the apprenticeship! If Quartus didn't report to his master, they would throw him in the dungeons, and then Brom would truly be alone. They might even take their house, the only thing they had left from Papa.
“Quartus!” Brom gasped, close to hysterics now. “I don't want to live on the streets.” They would surely freeze to death come winter. Even now, as the leaves turned gold, a chill hung in the air, leaving the kitchen the single warm room in the house. “What will we do when there's no more wood?”
What if Quartus never got out of bed again?
The ax was too heavy for Brom to swing more than a few times, and it always took the two of them all day to collect brush from the forest. And that was in the summer time. How was Brom supposed to struggle through waist-high snow with the wood-cart all alone?
Bracing himself to be yelled at again, Brom crept forward and shook Quartus with all his might, before tugging on his arms and legs, trying to drag his brother from the bed, uncontrollable tears running down his face as he did so.
“Leave me alone, Brom,” his brother whispered, curling into a ball and resisting all efforts to rouse him. “I just want to sleep.”
Images flashed into Brom's mind of their Papa, the last time he had ever seen him, white bandages swathing his chest as he struggled to breathe. Papa had said he was tired, and that a little rest would make him right as rain.
But he went to sleep and never woke up again.
Terror struck him.
Brom redoubled his attempts, sobbing until he could barely breathe, at which point he collapsed next to Quartus, face messy with tears, throat burning with each laboured gasp of air.
“Forgive me.” Quartus reached a hand out from under the blankets and grasped Brom's sweaty palm. “That you should be cursed with such a brother as me.” A single tear trickled from his closed eyes. He said no more, his shallow breathing Brom's only indication that he yet lived.
Brom lay there, thoroughly exhausted, holding his brother's hand in the dark and cold. Quartus must be near death indeed to stay so still after everything. The gnawing pit of fear in his stomach dug its tendrils into his heart, and Brom wept until he could weep no longer, convinced they would both waste away, as the dread seeping through his body whispered that neither of them would ever see the daylight again.
Depression will really kick you when you're down, come into your home, steal everything you own and then light it all on fire.
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr
My contribution to this week’s @yourocsbackstory prompt for the Emotion event!
This one is set not long after Zofia started her position as a Maiden of Honour, so some time after the last few prompts (she is 18 here in this piece).
Just a quick warning, this scene involves Emil being creepy and harassing one of my girls. It is very brief and nothing happens beyond that.
I hope you enjoy!
POV: Zofia
Evenings with her Royal Highness are certainly a quieter part of the day. Not that there is much difference in how frequently she speaks to us. Maybe the occasional question about what we are doing for the day, or asking for an opinion. But in the evening is when she winds down, sits at her desk writing in her books, or reading one of those impossibly long encyclopedias while she sips away at her tea.
We don’t really engage with her unless she asks for it, so we tend to do our own thing too. Talk quietly amongst ourselves, if not doing some reading or drawing. The Princess doesn’t mind. She keeps to herself, and so do we.
It only dawned on me when I reached to pour myself another cup of tea from the pot that Karolina’s cup was still there, full, and there’s no wisps of steam gently rising out of the amber liquid. She had left the Princess’ room to go fetch something for her Royal Highness, but it really should not have taken her this long. She was only going to the kitchen manager two floors down.
So what is taking her so long?
I get up from my seat, using my cane for some extra support as I make my way over to the Princess. She looks up at me as I approach, still holding her pen in her hand.
“Excuse me, your Royal Highness,” I curtsy, looking at the little crease on the fabric of her cardigan on her shoulder, “we’re running out of tea, and I was wondering if you wanted me to fetch you some more too?”
She looks briefly at her pot beside her books. “No, thank you, Zofia. Thank you for asking.”
I nod and curtsy once more, before turning to make my way to the door, trying not to make my cane’s clicking too loud as I crossed the hardwood flooring.
“Zofia,” the Princess calls, a slight hesitance in her voice before she continued to speak, “if you happen to run in to Karolina, would you please ask her to come and see me?”
“Yes, your highness.”
When the door closes behind me, it dawns on me only then how strange of a request that is. She has never asked to speak with us, alone or otherwise, like that. It’s not like we’ve done anything wrong, especially not Karolina. But I don’t have time to dwell on any of that.
I like to think I’m getting the hang of the Residential Wing of the castle, knowing where I am going is ideal. It’s eerie how quiet it is in the evening, but even then we don’t exactly have any business wandering around at this time of day. Well… I suppose unless the Princess asked, like she did with Karolina.
I make my way down the stairs to the storey below, taking extra care by using my cane for extra support, and I can hear some voices on the stairwell below me. There’s definitely a man, but I’m not sure who -
No. I do know exactly who that is.
And I know who he’s speaking to, too.
“Karolina!”
Stood with her back to the wall, face to face with Captain Górskanki, she makes eye-contact me. The Captain steps back from her, and she pulls her hand back to her chest. He had a smirk on his face before, but that was certainly wiped off his face when he saw me.
Captain Górskanki is the King’s nephew - and is truly insufferable. We already learned that on the day we met him. He decided that the best way to make an impression on us was to ask his cousin if having personal servants is any good.
He’s a tall man, about a year older than myself maybe. He certainly had a resemblance to the King. Similar dark hair, brown eyes. He walked around with such self importance that it was astounding.
If he is a skilled soldier, then I’ll quit dancing, because I rarely see him doing anything with his regiment of men other than order them around. I guess I’m just grateful that I have no reason to see or interact with him in the course of my job.
Until now, I suppose.
“The Princess wants to see you,” I inform her, before looking over at the Captain, “if you’ll excuse us, Captain. Good night.”
Karolina and myself didn’t waste any time slipping up the stairs away from the Captain with me, retreating back the way I had come.
“Thank you, Zofia,” she whispered to me, looking back over to her shoulder. “Really, I don’t know what I would’ve…”
“Don’t worry about it. Is that why you took so long?”
“He insisted on speaking with me. I tried to tell him that I had to get back to my post, but - well…”
“I didn’t think he’d dare try something like that. Especially with you, but what if,” I dropped my voice even lower, “what if he tried that with one of the others? With Matylda? How far would he go?”
“He’s creepy enough without escalating that further - especially with Matylda. She’s so young. I’m just glad you turned up when you did.”
“Maybe that’s what we should do. Never go anywhere alone.”
She nods at me, “that sounds like a good idea. At least, for now. Hopefully he’ll lose interest in bothering us.”
I look back over my shoulder as we approach the hallway that we live on, and don’t know if I’m glad or worried that there is no one there behind us. There’s no voices or footsteps at all behind us, not even a pair of patrolling guards.
What a disgusting encounter. What a disgusting person - I hate boys like him. Thinking that because of who he is, he can get away with anything. I hate the fact that he’s probably right in thinking that, considering who his *uncle* is. The military being a boy’s club is an almost sure-fire way that he won’t suffer any repercussions from his superiors or his colleagues for his actions.
A horrific reality, but one we have to live in. I suppose I could always keep my cane on me - a surefire way to keep him at arms length from us. I sound like my grandfather, when he used to use his cane to force my cousins apart when they were fighting, back when we were all so small. I used to think it was funny. But now, it seems almost childish to consider doing that to a grown man, a soldier no less. I suppose it would be embarrassing for him, but he deserves it.
I’m not even sure what kind of power the Princess would have to put him off if we told her. Would she even be able to control him? Keep him away from us?
I doubt it. The best thing we can do is control when we’re alone - and that is, to never be alone with him.
A bit late to the party, but I thought I'd give this another shot (I swear I'll try to finish this this time) with my girl Illysandre who is technically one of my antagonists. I played around a lot with what I could do for this prompt because 1st POV is not my forte and it just did not sound like Illysandre at all, so...here
———
The nursery is quiet. Blessedly quiet, the nursemaid would say when she told you that your son was a very fussy baby and loved to cry and scream at all hours of the night. You, of course, could not believe it. Nevermind that you had never learned, nor needed to learn, the intricacies of child-rearing when a nursemaid was always at hand to do much of the grunt work. Nor that your trips to the nursery are limited to the times of day when your son is quiet and happy and a bonny little boy.
Much like how he is today; his ruddy little cheeks and tiny, tiny hands such a wondrous sight to behold in the midafternoon, the sunlight heavily filtered through colorful curtains so that her little boy can still feel its warm embrace during his nap. Today, you had desired some time alone with your little jewel and asked all of your attendants to leave and enjoy a short break as you rocked your son’s bassinet.
You lean over the crib, shadowing your son’s sleeping figure, a long, elegant finger caressing his little cheeks. If your husband were to walk in at this moment, he would see you--poised, refined, and oh so beautiful— that you are sure he would compare you to Meidther herself. But he won’t. However much he claims to love children, he seemed to take great pains in placing distance between your, your son, and him. The wounds, perhaps, were too fresh. The separation too raw.
You can give him time. Time is all you have.
You brush your fingers over your son’s— Charles, named by the Queen Dowager herself, you benefactor and mistress during your days as one of her ladies-in-waiting— dark hair, wisps that curl and cling to his head. The edge of your fingernail lightly grazed his smooth skin.
He shifted his head, eyelashes fluttering to reveal a sliver of Drochonan silver.
You smile. “Do you know me, my little lion?”’
He tilts his head once more, eyes fluttering. A little gurgle escapes his mouth.
“That’s right my little prince. I am your mother.”
You place a finger near Charles’ tiny fists, which he latches onto. He tugs on the appendage, but you hardly feel it. What a fascinating little creature. So fragile, so helpless. It is this tiny, breakable, perfect little creature that has come out of your womb. That you have nurtured and cared for nine months, taking every precaution to ensure his safe delivery. That such a creature will grow to be your savior— the next king of Aetier— baffles and excites you in every way.
“I will protect you, little one,” you whisper. Under your watch, no harm will fall onto your child. He will grow, and he will grow strong, and when the time comes he will take the crown from his father and finally, finally, House Sorell will have its own blood on the throne. No longer will they have to fear anyone usurping their powers--all given through your own marriage with the king— when their nephew, their cousin, their grandson, is the one that sits on the Phoenix Throne. No longer will you have to fear anyone, even the Queen Dowager, if you yourself were the Dowager Queen.
And all that you needed to do was to ensure Charles’ safe journey into manhood, and that no rival should ever come up to claim his throne.
Let Dantalion bring in as many consorts as he wants. All will know that she is his Consort Premier and the mother of his heir. Let others mock her for never being given her rightful title as Queen, for she is queen in all but name. With Charles under her wing, she will survive, and she will thrive. And when he takes the throne, her own influence will be unstoppable.
“The path to the throne is a long and arduous one, my sweet,” you whisper. “It is filled with a kind of darkness unimaginable to you now, but worry not. Your mother will take care of it. I will do whatever it takes to make you king. All you need to do is grow up safely, and to love your mother as I do you. Protect me as I do you.
“For you are mine; of my body, of my blood. And so, as I fight for your birthright, so to must you fight for me.”
You are Illysandre of House Sorell. Consort-Premier to King Dantalion and the First Lady of the Kingdom of Aetier. But most importantly, you are the mother to the future king, and may the Trinity have mercy on whoever attempts to harm your child.
Your power, right now, is unmatched, but the web of politics is forever shifting. The best way to secure a victory is to make sure no one ever had a chance, to begin with.
(You remember a ball when that Caldonian Ambassador had presented portraits of their princess to the king. The king--and you would know this more than anyone else--has never been swayed by a pretty face, no matter the lists of accomplishments behind it. What he is interested in, is politics; and if sacrificing a spot in his bed is all it will take to help smooth over a new treatise, then it will be done. But new members of the harem meant rivals, and though you have never taken a life into your own hands, you have spent enough time at the side of the Empress Dowager to know what must be done to secure a throne.)
If Charle were to find out, he might hate you for it. But even if he did, he will thank you all the same when he is crowned and the world kneels at his feet proclaiming him: king. And you, in all your grace and poise and daggered smiles, will be there by his side, helping him.
“Alright.” Jamie pressed record. “Please state your name and give your consent for filming this interview.”
Anya was unsure as to where to look. She knew she was supposed to look at the camera, but she wanted to look at Jamie, because he was talking to her.
Jamie cleared his throat.
Oh, right, she was supposed to answer. “My name is Anastasia Romanova. I agree to being filmed.”
“Good, thank you. I will now ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable to do so.”
Anya nodded. Thankfully she knew how this worked. She had watched Connor and Garrett being interviewed the days before. She knew it was important, but it just felt so weird.
“When and where were you born?”, Jamie asked the first question.
“I don’t remember.” Obviously. No one actually did. “Neither do my parents. It was long ago.”
“Can you give us a vague date?”
Anya shook her head. “A few years after Garrett. I don’t know how long.”
“He is your brother, if I remember correctly.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Hey, I can hear you”, Garrett complained in the background.
“Be quiet, would you?” Anya focused on the camera again.
“Do you have any other family besides him?”, Jamie asked.
“No.” She stopped. That was not true anymore. “Well, I recently learned that my biological parents are still alive, but I don’t really know them. It was always just Garrett and me.”
“Your brother is a warlock. What kind of being are you?”
“A witch”, Anya answered and leaned back in the armchair, trying not to look too defensive. “And a necromancer, which is exactly what it sounds like.”
“So you can bring people back from the dead.”
She nodded again. “Theoretically. I usually don’t do it. What is dead is supposed to stay dead.”
“Have there been exceptions?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Anya sighed. “I’d prefer not to answer that.”
Garrett shot a knowing glance at her. The whole world didn't have to know why she brought Connor back. They didn't have to know she couldn’t save his life in time. And they certainly didn't have to know she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Again.
“What was your role in the past crisis?”, Jamie continued.
Yes, what was her role? Everything from ally to greyzoned to traitor. A lot had happened. “I tried to do what was right, which mostly meant to try and support the guardians and to stop Marah and the brotherhood.”
Jamie fortunately didn't ask any further. He knew anyway and the rest of the world didn't have to know that either. “How do you see the existence of the supernatural being common knowledge now? Do you think it was the right decision to make it public?”
Anya tilted her head and thought for a second. “I … I think making our existence public was the only option we had. Certainly the most feasible one. I don’t think we had another choice. I for one am … not exactly scared, but nervous. Humans think they know and are superior to everything. And they’re scared of what they don’t know. This will need some getting used to.”
“Do you think there will be problems?”
“Definitely.” That was out of the questions. Humans tended to cause trouble wherever they went. “But we’ll get through it eventually. We always do. We’ve always been in hiding and I am so tired of it. I’m tired of running and I’m tired of fighting. This is our chance to make things better.”
Tagging: @wilde-writing @wortfinder @aschenink @lady-redshield-writes @crystallizedchronicles @cirianne @writerofscribbles | tell me to be added to or removed from this list | also tagging @yourocsbackstory
It is on, everyone. The newest edition of Backstory Weeks is about to start. This time, an all new theme. In the coming weeks, we’ll look at how core emotions have shaped our OC’s pasts, how they deal (or dealt) with feelings and what makes them them.
How does it work? Use a character from one of your WIPs (planned or in progress, or even finished); I recommend you stick with one, but it’s not required. Think about the questions, then use the prompts to write a scene set before the main story. That scene may be one that has significant impact on who they are today - or simply one that just showcases an important part of their past. Just see where you end up. And - have fun.
What matters? Be creative and support others! Check out their characters and scenes, find what you like, share, comment and make new friends!
What to do to be reblogged? Finish until the respective Sunday (your time or mine, doesn’t matter) and let me know you did it. Tag me, send it to me directly or tag with #yob7 or #yourocsbackstory. If it’s more than 500 words, please use a cut. Edits are welcome but not at all necessary. Please add content warnings before a cut if applicable. If you’re insprired, feel free to write nsfw entries, but I will not share them. This is a sfw blog.
Week 0 Introduction - prompt.
For week 0, we’ll focus on introduction and stick to the same questions we have before.
Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger.
Here’s some possible prompts for that:
(a) Imagine they are stuck somewhere (waiting in an airport, adrift in a lifeboat, having their curls done at the hairdresser, whatever) and a young kid asks them „who are you?“. How would that dialogue play out?.
(b) Start with the words “My name is [your character’s name]” and have them introduce themself!
(c) Have them stuck in a police interrogation (guilty or not...), and make the detective desperate to find out who that person on the other side of the table is.
(d) Have them interviewed by a news host on television or in radio.
(e) Well, whatever you want really ;) Just let them talk.
Preliminary Schedule under the cut:
Week 0 “Introduction” - prompt NOW, entries until March 7th
Week 1 “Fear” - prompt posted on March 8th, entries until March 14th
Week 2 “Joy” - prompt posted on March 15th, entries until March 21st
Week 3 “Disgust” - prompt posted on March 22nd, entries until March 28th
Week 4 “Sadness” - prompt posted on March 29th, entries until April 11th (2 weeks due to Easter in between)
Week 5 “Anger” - prompt posted on April 12th, entries until April 18th
Week 6 Free Week - prompt posted on April 19th, entries until April 25th
