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File: 1378983885484.png (1.26 MB, 1094x1200, Octavia music room.png)

Today I wrote... Anonymous 7197

It doesn't need to be a story. It doesn't need to be in context. It doesn't need to be good. Post any snippet of fiction that you wrote in the last twenty-four hours. (Behind hide tags, if you please, so other posters aren't intimidated by your massive throbbing word count.)

This thread's here to motivate regular writing – daily writing. Whether it's a five minute prompt or a ten hour binge, whether it's Pony or Star Trek or Original Setting Do Not Steal, make a post that shouts to the universe, "I did the motherfucker."

Every post should contain {h}a new fictional snippet.{/h} The rest is up to you: offer context, talk about the process, propose prompts/ideas, comment on other people's stuff, or do none of the above as you please. (With one caveat: no criticism of written work posted. It's too new and too raw. Stick to the parts you like.)

Write! Share.

Anonymous 7199

File: 1378983991663.jpg (1.03 MB, 4096x1714, Rainbow Quest -- the icy north…)

"Rainbow Dash does something awesome" as the prompt. (Ask Dash fans, get Dash prompts.)
Chill mountain air nibbled through her flightsuit, two kilospans above sea level, but Rainbow Dash felt it only as an abstract twinge blotted out by adrenaline. She circled, up and up, waiting on her cue. Off in the distance, thick streams of smoke coiled around each other like a free-floating sconce.

Come on, Spitfire.

An orange glow burst from the base of the sconce, rising within the smoky confines, up and up in a fast shallow helix. Lighting the torch. Halfway, come on, hit the halfway, halfway up and it's…

Go time.

Dash dove as only she could, angled to catch the mountain slope. Its white peak thrust at her like a spear, then expanded to fill the bottom of her vision. Mach half, catch it at mach half…

She buzzed the incline a few feet high, adjusted, still gaining speed. Her wake cut streaks in the snow behind. Dash focused, intuiting the backwash as an extension of herself to cup the snow and tug. It resisted for a moment, dragged against its will. Then it began to roll.

Phew. Rolling, it would build naturally, and keep pace – at least a ton of snow by the time it hit the crowd. Just get it fast enough to jump the gorge. An easy ride from there.
The ball grew fast, faster than last time, already twice her size. Every extra flake brought another tug of inertia. Needed more juice. Rainbow gunned it–

And suddenly her wake was free, clear of the ball. Shit. She glanced back, quick, just a moment's peek so as not to spin out. The snowball followed directly behind her, but fallen behind her wake. 'k.

She pitched upwards, bleeding speed as the slope fell away, caught the sun and sky 'below' her as she flipped over. Passed her loop's peak, and back down; the ground closed in seemingly from above, and accelerating descent returned her to speed. She trusted her wings to regain the slope rather than strand her in a snowbank…

Dash came level behind a monstrous mass of rolling snow and dove past it, caught it again in the shockwave of her wake and sped it behind her, back to mach half and now over. The chasm gaped ahead; her snowball struck open air and fell below her, but she fell with it, shepherded it across like a speeding soccer ball. It struck the far slope with a rumbling splut and tore down the mountain's base as if it knew they’d hit the home stretch.

No snow this low. Rather than grow, it left a sleek white streak, shrinking but within the agreed-on size parameters. Ahead, the stands stood in two lanes. Like a bowling ball. Right down the middle.

Dash looped back again and dove in hard. The mach cone seemed to know her plan; it balked, it tugged, it fought, it clung to her in a scintillating sheath of color. It burst right before the stands, drew every eye and gave her an unstoppable rush of speed. She rolled tightly around the ball as she shot past, caught it in a rainbow path and drew it up, up, far above the Appleachian crowd. The rainboom wasn't finished; an overload of pegasus pony power shook and jostled her, demanding release. She gritted her teeth. Keep it together, just a little higher, and–


A ring of every color burst behind her, parallel to the ground, split the snowball into a fine mist that twinkled down to the ground behind her. Dash rose higher, panting, allowed her trail to fade. She disappeared from audience view behind the ‘offstage’ cloud bank and stagger-flapped to lap.

Her hooves touched cloud. A disbelieving grin crept up her face and took possession, spread out from her body in a cackling laugh. Beside her, Fleetfoot giggled, still psyching up for her own solo routine.

A midsummer rainbow flash-snow. Top that.

Anonymous 7205

File: 1379113119387.gif (26.25 KB, 125x125, my little twilight (autoplay).…)

>Start your story with the central problem in the first sentence.
Inspired by this prompt, although not quite adhering to it.

At first the heat comforted Thistle, like a sleeping lover intertwined. But then came flickering light – she covered her head, rolled to face the corner instead of the day – and finally the choke of smoke.

Of smoke.

Thistle scrabbled, found her feet, blinked sleep from blinded eyes and found the day come down mid night. She called for Frisk but her voice was almost drowned in a background roar that had somehow crept up on her. Where was Frisk?

His thing. He'd gone to find his thing. Not here to protect. Protect yourself.

Thistle poked out of her knothole. Hotter. Acrid stink, jittered her like a predator but not a predator, some other latent fear. Bright, too bright, and yet she saw the sky buried in a thin black cloud that scraped her treetops. A bird hurtled past, its panic lit from below. Or maybe the panic was her own, reflected in its beak.

The world had flipped. She could not fight or flee. Hide? Would the nightmare pass her by?

Thistle looked down. A rabbit sprinted across the mulchy ground, stumbled and was overtaken by the heavy padding of a wolf. Thistle steeled herself for blood, but the wolf raced on, ignored the rabbit, and was gone among the trees.

Fleeing. All three, the same direction. If all three thought that way was safe, Thistle would follow. Any plan, better than none. Now run.


File: 1379219367529.png (884.25 KB, 894x819, Twilight Sparkle snow.png)

Prompt: It was the first snowfall of the year.

These two characters are from a story I'm supposedly writing. Lonnie's the protagonist and viewpoint character of that story, in which she becomes locked inside a transdimensional hotel that eats souls. She's a wizard in training; clever and studious, but without the innate power to become a proper magus. Rough-spoken and masculine by nature.

Turin is a bard plucked from his time a hundred years ago, forced to serve as staff for the hotel until Lonnie busts him free. The following text would fall much later, as Lonnie continues the journey that was interrupted by the hotel.

It was the first snowfall of the year, not yet begun to stick, thank Pratos. Turin held tight to Lonnie as she controlled the thundering beast on which they rode. Her form felt tense and not the slightest bit supple, clutched through cold-weather cloaks. Fear and scent aroused him nonetheless. He tried not to make it obvious.

Other inputs crept to the fore. His ass chafed. The snow was beautiful, more so than he remembered before his time out of the world. It obscured his vision like a speckled fog, and gave the path ahead a sense of mystery. A few flakes stuck in his fur. Turin's body began to relax, drew all the nervous tension from his limbs back to his fluttering heart, which loyally pumped it right up to his mouth.

"November, that's early for snow," he prattled, "isn't it? That's part of going north. When we pass around the Horkset range and head back south, it should be warm again. Warm-ish."

Lonnie grunted. "Think so."

"Well. Good. My paws dry out in the cold. It's hard on the voice. And the wolf tribes we might meet up here, well…" He grinned, as charming as he could make it, for the benefit of the back of her head. "I'd love to sit around a fire, but I've no plans to be eaten or to buy a nomad's sheep. Still–"

"Stop." He stopped, peered around her curiously. "You're too staccato. Distracting. Making it hard to watch our trail with mage-touch." Turin licked his lips. Magic remained a mystery to him. It never aligned with the exploits in song. "Do something rhythmic. Sing. Show the snow that pretty voice."

An old tune came to him. He shut his eyes for a moment, imagined plucking the strings to play its introduction. They'd ditched his lute for weight, not that it would do him good on horseback.

"I knew a maid like winter's breath
Blew through the mirky hills
Behind her slunk a trail of death
Her father lord of trills.
And in a carriage all of ice–"

"Trill? That some kind of old country?" Her voice was airy. Mind elsewhere, at magery.

Turin shook his head, tried to keep his voice relaxing even as it shook with the horse's incessant jostle. "No, they're villains. Huge horned toads from the fen, with rusty scimitars. In stories. This song has their king madly covet his daughter, a beauty who leaves for the noble realms of–"

"She a trill-maid?"

He frowned. "No, a mouse. The trill king has a mouse daughter. He ravages the countryside to get her back."


"She's coldhearted, but a hero thaws her out and saves her from her father." A wild notion crossed his head, too dashing not to voice. "I'd fight a trill king to protect you."

Lonnie shook in his arms, so small and so slight. He wrapped himself more reassuringly around her. She broke out in a giggling fit.

"Hehee… the mighty Turin!" Lonnie snorted, giggled again. "I'll see a blacksmith… get you some shining armor. Some kind of pony, maybe, to ride…"

Not a fair joke to make him the butt of. "I thought you were maging."

"Yeah." Lonnie nodded. "Didn't spy anything, but yeah. Sorry, but, really. Come on."

Turin fumed, looked pointlessly at leafbare trees. At least he wasn't hard now.

Anonymous 7238

File: 1379302795577.png (2.67 MB, 1920x1200, Derpy wet mane.png)

No prompt, just started from an image of waves on beach. The initial bit didn't look like it had potential to carry on, so I figured it could serve as intro and cut to a different group.

First writing session in a while done on paper. Paper's great.

Spearheads glittered on the tide. The Inspector chewed an opiate straw and eyed the wreck, presumbed to be the armsrunner Kamassa.

"So what sunk her?" Lord Parslow demanded. "I see ship to ship, doesn't look anything like it. Golby reef only dumps crashers south of here. Where's the crew?"

The Inspector shut her eyes. Waves broke in rhythm that drowned distraction and let the fragments of intuition slur together. Almost visibly…

Ah. "Sabotage."

Captain Gaross did not go down with his ship, but down he went; strength finally sappy by icy water and blood loss from the blast. Even around a meager fire, his son refused to speak. Mourning, Tildy supposed. Or shock.

"Too bloody quiet," Tango muttered, though he was one to talk since he was one never to talk. "Dag. Tell us 'bout Tiberia."

Dag made to speak, lanky old patchfur that he was, but quick Kiti beat him to it. "Tang, you know he makes up every word."

"Ki, I'll tan your hide, promise it on every day I live," Dag declared. "Ain't afraid to tan a woman, and you ain't but half a woman."

Tildy giggled and snorted all at once, then clapped her hands over her mouth at the sudden attention. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the other four, faintly illuminated by fire and moon.

Dag chuckled. "Them spellticklers ain't got half an inch o' conversatin' courtesy. I once knew a spelltickler with bosoms down to here…"

Anonymous 7254

File: 1379454426442.gif (125.71 KB, 320x180, Twidash summoning.gif)

Listened to a song with a blank doc open. Typed a few words of the song, typed a few words that seemed to follow naturally, and then wrote whatever that snipped inspired. "Dissipating in the night like a long-forgotten life." Stuff that sounds poetic but doesn't actually make much sense = perfect prompt.
Entropy presides over the plains, chilling our world, costing every farmer his crops until the end of time. For time is ending.

We believed that entropy compounded itself naturally; that force had to be applied to wrench it into order. The force of nature, powered by the planet and the sun. But the application of chaos was never uniform.

Rokel got beaten with the 'order' stick. Some kind of counterbalance to the raging elements, who can say? He's static. Undying, unchanging, save for minimal internal shifts. He moves, he talks, but his memories are locked in place, and no power we've tried can alter his body beyond the most superficial dimpling of the skin. For a few minutes, he's like a person; then he forgets. No deep memories.

Some of us locked up partially. Tomeia's leg froze, jammed the flow of blood. Her heart burst before anyone though to hack it off.

Katim nudges me. I do not feel it in my skin – my spine is paralyzed – but the little shake jostles my jaw and the back of my head. "What news?"

"The silo," she says. "Melwit figured out a trick. Come see."

Katim is not the brightest. To my knowledge, entropy has let her be, but her mind was clumsy before. Still, her body is more than strong enough to carry one crippled elder. "Carry me."

Gentle paws lift me like a babe. Katim is often unwelcome around children, as she forgets to sheath her claws, but if they prick my skin I cannot feel.

The land is a patchwork of natural and bizarre. A stork and a bat have somehow fused, and the bat clings to its back so as not to be killed. The stork tries to flap, buffeting the bat but without clearing the ground. Easy prey if we grow desperate. If we are not already desperate.

A wintery microclimate dominates the center of what used to be a cornfield. Much talk has gone of planting onions, or some equally hardy crop, but no one wants to face the chill or hail of tiny clouds that hover five feet off the ground. Perhaps I should give an order. A more optimistic leader would.

Katim adjusts me in her arms. Now I see only her chest and chin, covered in thin fur but otherwise bare. She will not be a mother, it is agreed. There is no need for her to cover.

"Look," she says. "See?"

I do not, of course. Only a blurry hint from the corner of my eyes. "Turn me, young one. Let these old eyes see what Melwit has done with our lost silo."

Katim wraps her arms around my middle, holds me up as if to stand. The grain silo remains discolored by entropic frost. I see it as blue in one strong shade, but others perceive differently. One extra mystery.

Melwit gestures excitedly to a group, as a child dressed for winter clambers in and out of the silo with a bag slung over his shoulder. Mel spots me and scurries over, grinning so wide his teeth are like the crescent moon.

"It's endless, Gram!" he squeals. (We are not blood related, but share affection.) "The silo doesn't change. But we can still get grain! The trick is, you need it in contact with altered material. So Temi says, 'why don't we weave a bag from the ruined canvas?' So she did because I can't weave and it's not a good bag because grain still seeps out but when you touch it to the grain the grain stops being timestuck and you can take it out but the silo stays full and I think this will really–"

I close my eyes and let his moment carry me into the first peaceful sleep in months. Clever youth. Life found a way.

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