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AlluringEnigma
Wet Narcissist
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2016
- Location
- Madness Incarnate
There are three rules for this exercise.
First Rule - PM with a response to the selection of text included after the rules. That will be the only criteria for how I choose a partner to write with. The text is incredibly open-ended on purpose. I want you to take it in whatever direction your heart desires. Intergalactic bank robbers? Sure why not. A destitute couple? Sounds good. A rehash of the last romcom you saw? Nope, original and fun ideas only. None of this is to say I won't be pulling the plot in my own direction (trust me whatever plan either of us have is going to be dashed upon the rocks) but I want to see someone with the creativity and initiative to intrigue me first.
Second Rule - You own your characters as much as I do. Which is to say not at all. People hate god modding. Why? We're telling a story. I can't do that without some control of your characters and you can't do that without some control of mine. I will be respectful as hell of your character as you should be of mine, but at the end of the day, I want to tell a good story. Whatever that will involve. If your character and their backstory is some sacred text I dare not defile, then I'm not the person for you.
Third Rule - No planning. None. I've done a lot of planning on this site. Honestly, I think a lot of people I meet enjoy planning more writing. I get it. The first and last chapters of a novel are much easier than the middle bits. However, I've resolved that I'm here to write a full story and its proper arc. If that piques your interest, then I'm your gal. (This doesn't mean we can't talk about limits or things we're comfortable with, though if you send me any discussion of those things on the first PM I won't reply - I'm pretty willing to adapt the kinks to whatever you're craving, though keep in mind I'm looking to serve the story, so the more fringe the kink, the less likely it'll work. It simply means no significant plot planning. We're diving in and winging it. This is improv not sketch comedy, so to speak.)
I look forward to any replies I receive. Assuming you follow the aforementioned rules, the worst you'll get from me is a polite "Thank you so very much, but it's not quite right. I wish you the best of luck finding someone you mesh with better." If you ignore or didn't read my rules, expect anything from a sarcastic snipe to no reply. My life is pretty consumed at the moment, so I'll pretty exclusively be responding at night - if you're looking for something more involved, I'm not your best bet.
Without further ado, here is a small sample of text I wrote as an opening.
The wind swept through the rolling hills, crinkled brown leaves following in its wake. Eddies of dead undergrowth hovered a few feet in the air before collapsing with the ebb and flow of the breeze, the peaks of activity accentuated by the crinkle cries of the prisoners caught up in its tempestuous prisons. The sky was grey and the grass was brown and the sun was well and truly hidden by an oppressive blanket of clouds and she was hunched over, nursing the delicate flame of a cigarette.
When the wind was settled, smoke would drift upwards and she would lean back on the isolated park bench, the painted black aluminum of the seat hardly helping the monochromatic scene. While no one would mistake the weather for a summer day, it was still a long shot from cold. Brisk, to be sure, as the light material of the black dress that clung to her curves was doing little to shelter her from the elements. Her outfit was completed by a pair of black flats, and a pair of square sunglasses that looked out of place in such a dismal setting.
The orange flame burned the cigarette down near its filter, and she took one last long drag from her companion before dropping it to the floor and snuffing it out with the toe of her left shoe. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, crisp fall air filling and expanding her lungs, awakening her senses like water on the head of a napping person.
"Alicia, it's nice to see you here." The voice came from behind her, and she hardly needed to turn her head to know its owner.
"Surprised I'm here, no doubt, Richard." A hint of a smirk crept across her sunken cheekbones, the pale light only further accentuating her pale visage.
"Everyone's a bit surprised, no doubt. You and John hardly parted on the best terms, and even an early grave only fixes so much."
She finally turned on the bench, twisting at the torso to face the tall, blonde man standing a few feet behind her. "Is that so? If you know so much, I'd love for you to tell me why I am here, then." Her words were spiteful, but there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm or anger in them. If anything she sounded distant. And cold.
Richard threw his hands up in the air slowly as if to admit defeat. "Far be it from me to tell you why you do anything. All I meant was if I had been screwed by John as much as he screwed you, well I'd only be at his funeral to laugh."
She cocked her head to the side. Her left arm, a frail and long appendage, pushed the brim of her sunglasses down. She pushed aside a wild lock of stark black hair and stared through Richard. Her blue eyes cut through the grayness of the afternoon, through the broad figure of Richard, and through the small gathering of mourners that had been invited to the funeral at some unknown point in the distance. "John screwed all of you, I just had the misfortune to recognize it."
Richard sighed and allowed his shoulders to slump. "Always a pleasure, Alicia. I won't pretend to know your plans, but we'll all be gathering for a memorial dinner tonight. It's a good excuse for everyone to see each other, it has been a while after all. John saw fit to invite you to the funeral, I see no reason not to invite you tonight as well." He took a moment to pause and find the right words between his feet. "We all missed you Alicia. Regardless of what happened between you and John." Richard gave her a faint smile and nod, and trekked back out to the main gathering, leaving Alicia alone once again.
She pushed the rims of her sunglasses back up and turned back around, leaning back against the bench once more. She pulled her pack of cigarettes out from her purse and pulled another from the box, placing it gingerly between her lips. In an expert motion, she flicked out a shimmering, brass lighter and lit the cigarette, taking a tentative draw.
Satisfied, she put away the lighter and carton in her purse. The cigarette sat between her lips, burning down as curls of smoke rose slowly around her.
When the wind blew away the trails of smoke, and with it the flame, she didn't bother to light it again. She discarded the half-burnt cigarette and stood briskly, adjourning to dinner. She took one glance behind her as she left and saw the looming, forsaken headstone - the dirt still freshly dug in front of it. Its gaze was as unbreakable as hers - never once leaving her figure until she disappeared over the horizon.
First Rule - PM with a response to the selection of text included after the rules. That will be the only criteria for how I choose a partner to write with. The text is incredibly open-ended on purpose. I want you to take it in whatever direction your heart desires. Intergalactic bank robbers? Sure why not. A destitute couple? Sounds good. A rehash of the last romcom you saw? Nope, original and fun ideas only. None of this is to say I won't be pulling the plot in my own direction (trust me whatever plan either of us have is going to be dashed upon the rocks) but I want to see someone with the creativity and initiative to intrigue me first.
Second Rule - You own your characters as much as I do. Which is to say not at all. People hate god modding. Why? We're telling a story. I can't do that without some control of your characters and you can't do that without some control of mine. I will be respectful as hell of your character as you should be of mine, but at the end of the day, I want to tell a good story. Whatever that will involve. If your character and their backstory is some sacred text I dare not defile, then I'm not the person for you.
Third Rule - No planning. None. I've done a lot of planning on this site. Honestly, I think a lot of people I meet enjoy planning more writing. I get it. The first and last chapters of a novel are much easier than the middle bits. However, I've resolved that I'm here to write a full story and its proper arc. If that piques your interest, then I'm your gal. (This doesn't mean we can't talk about limits or things we're comfortable with, though if you send me any discussion of those things on the first PM I won't reply - I'm pretty willing to adapt the kinks to whatever you're craving, though keep in mind I'm looking to serve the story, so the more fringe the kink, the less likely it'll work. It simply means no significant plot planning. We're diving in and winging it. This is improv not sketch comedy, so to speak.)
I look forward to any replies I receive. Assuming you follow the aforementioned rules, the worst you'll get from me is a polite "Thank you so very much, but it's not quite right. I wish you the best of luck finding someone you mesh with better." If you ignore or didn't read my rules, expect anything from a sarcastic snipe to no reply. My life is pretty consumed at the moment, so I'll pretty exclusively be responding at night - if you're looking for something more involved, I'm not your best bet.
Without further ado, here is a small sample of text I wrote as an opening.
The wind swept through the rolling hills, crinkled brown leaves following in its wake. Eddies of dead undergrowth hovered a few feet in the air before collapsing with the ebb and flow of the breeze, the peaks of activity accentuated by the crinkle cries of the prisoners caught up in its tempestuous prisons. The sky was grey and the grass was brown and the sun was well and truly hidden by an oppressive blanket of clouds and she was hunched over, nursing the delicate flame of a cigarette.
When the wind was settled, smoke would drift upwards and she would lean back on the isolated park bench, the painted black aluminum of the seat hardly helping the monochromatic scene. While no one would mistake the weather for a summer day, it was still a long shot from cold. Brisk, to be sure, as the light material of the black dress that clung to her curves was doing little to shelter her from the elements. Her outfit was completed by a pair of black flats, and a pair of square sunglasses that looked out of place in such a dismal setting.
The orange flame burned the cigarette down near its filter, and she took one last long drag from her companion before dropping it to the floor and snuffing it out with the toe of her left shoe. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, crisp fall air filling and expanding her lungs, awakening her senses like water on the head of a napping person.
"Alicia, it's nice to see you here." The voice came from behind her, and she hardly needed to turn her head to know its owner.
"Surprised I'm here, no doubt, Richard." A hint of a smirk crept across her sunken cheekbones, the pale light only further accentuating her pale visage.
"Everyone's a bit surprised, no doubt. You and John hardly parted on the best terms, and even an early grave only fixes so much."
She finally turned on the bench, twisting at the torso to face the tall, blonde man standing a few feet behind her. "Is that so? If you know so much, I'd love for you to tell me why I am here, then." Her words were spiteful, but there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm or anger in them. If anything she sounded distant. And cold.
Richard threw his hands up in the air slowly as if to admit defeat. "Far be it from me to tell you why you do anything. All I meant was if I had been screwed by John as much as he screwed you, well I'd only be at his funeral to laugh."
She cocked her head to the side. Her left arm, a frail and long appendage, pushed the brim of her sunglasses down. She pushed aside a wild lock of stark black hair and stared through Richard. Her blue eyes cut through the grayness of the afternoon, through the broad figure of Richard, and through the small gathering of mourners that had been invited to the funeral at some unknown point in the distance. "John screwed all of you, I just had the misfortune to recognize it."
Richard sighed and allowed his shoulders to slump. "Always a pleasure, Alicia. I won't pretend to know your plans, but we'll all be gathering for a memorial dinner tonight. It's a good excuse for everyone to see each other, it has been a while after all. John saw fit to invite you to the funeral, I see no reason not to invite you tonight as well." He took a moment to pause and find the right words between his feet. "We all missed you Alicia. Regardless of what happened between you and John." Richard gave her a faint smile and nod, and trekked back out to the main gathering, leaving Alicia alone once again.
She pushed the rims of her sunglasses back up and turned back around, leaning back against the bench once more. She pulled her pack of cigarettes out from her purse and pulled another from the box, placing it gingerly between her lips. In an expert motion, she flicked out a shimmering, brass lighter and lit the cigarette, taking a tentative draw.
Satisfied, she put away the lighter and carton in her purse. The cigarette sat between her lips, burning down as curls of smoke rose slowly around her.
When the wind blew away the trails of smoke, and with it the flame, she didn't bother to light it again. She discarded the half-burnt cigarette and stood briskly, adjourning to dinner. She took one glance behind her as she left and saw the looming, forsaken headstone - the dirt still freshly dug in front of it. Its gaze was as unbreakable as hers - never once leaving her figure until she disappeared over the horizon.
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