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fantasy

@iamfashionable
1Min Each
0
ENTRIES
Nymph Champions
✪ Submission Closed
PG-13
0
416
2
Community
Vote

Contestants must create a sex story which explore different environments and Your story must contain sex scenes which are embraced by love and fantasy can be part of the story. What are you waiting hit the road with a new era of romance

Flash
Community Vote
Read More
Nymph Champions

Contestants must create a sex story which explore different environments and Your story must contain sex scenes which are embraced by love and fantasy can be part of the story. What are you waiting hit the road with a new era of romance

Read More
Brian.C.SloanImascribbleINKYLOREKirishima Aoi
+3
3Mins Each
9
ENTRIES
Do You Believe In Magic?
✪ Submission Closed
G
8
2105
1
Creator's
Pick

Fantasy lovers, this is for you! Magic doesn't work the same way in every fantasy story and can be implemented differently. I want you to come up with a system of how magic works in a fantasy setting. Simply knowing the words of an incantation can be a baseline if you want, but I'll need more details. Here are some things to cover.

1. Where/when did magic originate? Was there a certain time period or event it was traced to, or has it always existed?

2. Must people be born with magic or can anyone do it?

3. Are symbols, objects, or certain actions needed to do magic?

4. What is the source of magical power? It can be unknown or uncertain.

5. Types or classiciations of magic.

Any other relevant information including if there are schools for magic, are there restrictions on who or where it can be used, how often can it be used, etc.

The more creative and in-depth the better. Most importantly, have fun!

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Do You Believe In Magic?

Fantasy lovers, this is for you! Magic doesn't work the same way in every fantasy story and can be implemented differently. I want you to come up with a system of how magic works in a fantasy setting. Simply knowing the words of an incantation can be a baseline if you want, but I'll need more details. Here are some things to cover.

1. Where/when did magic originate? Was there a certain time period or event it was traced to, or has it always existed?

2. Must people be born with magic or can anyone do it?

3. Are symbols, objects, or certain actions needed to do magic?

4. What is the source of magical power? It can be unknown or uncertain.

5. Types or classiciations of magic.

Any other relevant information including if there are schools for magic, are there restrictions on who or where it can be used, how often can it be used, etc.

The more creative and in-depth the better. Most importantly, have fun!

Read More
Michaela StormStormieMcNealioBakareaderFrozen BubblesJade Gem
4Mins Each
2
ENTRIES
Werewolves. More than you think.
✪ Submission Closed
PG-13
3
731
5
Creator's
Pick

Ever wanted to write a werewolf story. I know  there’s the whole cheesy world of twilight. That’s not what I mean though. There’s a whole Hierarchy in the wolf world. It’s male dominated. In some stories females can’t even become werewolves. I challenge you to write a story set in a werewolf world. It can be the typical romance of an independent girl and a hot headed Alpha. Or the tale of a a rogue meeting there mate. You could forgo the whole idea of a mate on your story. Maybe write about how mating would occur without the typical mates. There are many possibilities and these are just naming a few.

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Werewolves. More than you think.

Ever wanted to write a werewolf story. I know  there’s the whole cheesy world of twilight. That’s not what I mean though. There’s a whole Hierarchy in the wolf world. It’s male dominated. In some stories females can’t even become werewolves. I challenge you to write a story set in a werewolf world. It can be the typical romance of an independent girl and a hot headed Alpha. Or the tale of a a rogue meeting there mate. You could forgo the whole idea of a mate on your story. Maybe write about how mating would occur without the typical mates. There are many possibilities and these are just naming a few.

Read More
Traveler Tenshi no YamiCiroImascribble
+2
5Mins Each
70
ENTRIES
D&D-Like: Survival Meeting in the Afterlife Re-Do
✪ Submission Closed
PG-13
175
7531
415
Community
Vote

Choose a character that died in one of your stories or a character that you have not written of yet but want to test out.

Your character will wake up in an unknown dark warehouse with only the bare essentials. All of the contestant's characters will be separated into different warehouses in this old abandoned town. It's up to you to guide them into meeting up with the other contestants to figure out where they are and how to leave. If your character has powers then those powers have to be taken back throughout the story.

The direction of the story, twists, and turns, all depend on your creativity and teamwork with the other participating writers. I hope this will give birth to new friendships and renewed creativity.

Also, the first one to post on here will be the Main Character of this 12-week long saga, write with that in mind.

Serial
Community Vote
Read More
D&D-Like: Survival Meeting in the Afterlife Re-Do

Choose a character that died in one of your stories or a character that you have not written of yet but want to test out.

Your character will wake up in an unknown dark warehouse with only the bare essentials. All of the contestant's characters will be separated into different warehouses in this old abandoned town. It's up to you to guide them into meeting up with the other contestants to figure out where they are and how to leave. If your character has powers then those powers have to be taken back throughout the story.

The direction of the story, twists, and turns, all depend on your creativity and teamwork with the other participating writers. I hope this will give birth to new friendships and renewed creativity.

Also, the first one to post on here will be the Main Character of this 12-week long saga, write with that in mind.

Read More
SargambelwanshiSophia RoseAnvicNashe☆MelHope
4Mins Each
5
ENTRIES
Writing: Beyond The Limits
✪ Submission Closed
G
10
630
2
Creator's
Pick

Write a story that starts with a life-changing event.

No matter how long, Keep it interesting.

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Writing: Beyond The Limits

Write a story that starts with a life-changing event.

No matter how long, Keep it interesting.

Read More
SargambelwanshiAnvicAbby VMassivewaves1
+3
2Mins Each
7
ENTRIES
Ignite Penmanship
✪ Submission Closed
G
20
879
4
Creator's
Pick

Write a story that starts with two characters saying goodbye.

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Ignite Penmanship

Write a story that starts with two characters saying goodbye.

Read More
SargambelwanshiJade GemArsenic Daycoryjb5604
+17
4Mins Each
18
ENTRIES
Ready, Set, Publish!
✪ Submission Closed
G
51
2183
24
Creator's
Pick

Write a story about someone falling in love for the first time.

No pressure for happy/sad reunion end.

As the topic says the beauty of suspending your heart at a vulnerable state for the first time receives the limelight.

Let the wordsmith in you make me fall for your creation!

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Ready, Set, Publish!

Write a story about someone falling in love for the first time.

No pressure for happy/sad reunion end.

As the topic says the beauty of suspending your heart at a vulnerable state for the first time receives the limelight.

Let the wordsmith in you make me fall for your creation!

Read More
SargambelwanshiCiroParvin
2Mins Each
4
ENTRIES
Pointing at an Author
✪ Submission Closed
G
8
539
4
Creator's
Pick

Write a story revolving around a superstition.

You know the rules!

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Pointing at an Author

Write a story revolving around a superstition.

You know the rules!

Read More
Sargambelwanshiicequeen54Jesse Wolfesqueenjazmine27
+3
5Mins Each
6
ENTRIES
The Resturant Tales
✪ Submission Closed
G
7
789
2
Creator's
Pick

Write a short story from the perspective of a waitress working at one of the city's most romantic (and busy) restaurants.

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
The Resturant Tales

Write a short story from the perspective of a waitress working at one of the city's most romantic (and busy) restaurants.

Read More
SargambelwanshiDiamond TinkerDerpyTrashcanSparkleCadet
+4
1Min Each
8
ENTRIES
Remini-scences
✪ Submission Closed
G
15
931
1
Creator's
Pick

Your grandparent had once said, "if you only remember one thing, let it be this" and then gave you a piece of advice.

Can you mention the advice?

Question
Creator's Pick
Read More
Remini-scences

Your grandparent had once said, "if you only remember one thing, let it be this" and then gave you a piece of advice.

Can you mention the advice?

Read More
EmmaAnvicAri FinnMischeviousMalfais
3Mins Each
5
ENTRIES
Superpowered Characters!
✪ Submission Closed
PG
6
1550
0
Creator's
Pick

Create a character with powers of your choice. No power is too much! Make sure to include appearance, personality, backstory, description of what they can do and (optional- extra points if you do, however!) a short piece of them in action. Looking forward to seeing your ideas! I might even include them in a story... ;)

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Superpowered Characters!

Create a character with powers of your choice. No power is too much! Make sure to include appearance, personality, backstory, description of what they can do and (optional- extra points if you do, however!) a short piece of them in action. Looking forward to seeing your ideas! I might even include them in a story... ;)

Read More
Sargambelwanshi
1Min Each
0
ENTRIES
Monsoon Writing Festival
✪ Submission Closed
G
1
158
0
Creator's
Pick

Write a story that ends in the past.

Rules are to keep me hooked till the end!

Example :-

It’s like I said, I didn’t know him very well. He’d already graduated by the time I came along, and I only heard about him from his mother and ex-girlfriend and the chemistry teacher who thought he was spoiled.

I’d seen him once, when he came in to ask his mother about something. He came barging in through the dull fake-wood door and held a muttered conversation with his mother, who bore ink stains up to her elbow. She lit up when she saw him.

Both of them were so tall. Tall and strong. She was tall and bony and white-haired and had swum competitively for years, just like me. She wore glasses and gaudy shirts and found a loophole in every math problem that could be applied to every day life.

He was tall and black-haired and his cheeks were ruddy and bronzed, like he’d been outside for the morning in the fresh air. Piercing black eyes like a falcon. I suppose he was handsome, but I am prejudiced against good-looking males, and disliked him instantly. She told me later he was training to me an engineer.

She talked about him from time to time. She had a daughter who was a chemist in Florida, and two other girls who’d left home. William was her youngest, her only son, the one she must have doted on as many youngest children are. I knew Melanie, his ex-girlfriend. She was a black girl who dyed her hair white and wore it in huge long braids and had been the cheer captain. I liked her and feared her—she reminded me of myself. Not as popular, but with a clear inner strength and resolve.

I came to the school after they’d broken up but sometimes she still talked of him always dispassionately. There her strength was apparent. She’d moved on. I admired her. She was a senior the year I came.

It was interesting, the type of girls he attracted. It made me think, with circumstantial evidence, that he was strong and radiant as well.

The semester moved on like a great lumbering elephant, unsympathetic to the skittering students at its feet. Parabolas and matrices and probability and averages and keys on calculators that get stuck right when you need them. Spring break hit while I was beginning to get back into the rhythm of school. And then we were stuck at home and the rhythm fell away. She posted videos online of the lessons and talked over the phone. Sometimes she spoke of him.

Her name was Ann and I adored her.

She is probably fifty years older than I, fifty years and four children and many a math class taught in between, more than I’d ever sit through during my life. She showed me the easiest shortcuts and laughed with me about silly mathematicians and bonded over common logarithms. Through horrible mathematics and confusing formulas, we became friends.

With her at the helm, dispersing formulas and allowing use of calculators during tests and dismissing the ugly useless formulas the book would have had us learn, I became excellent.

I hate math. Hate it. It’s beautiful, I can understand that. Everything fits into place like a fractalling puzzle, a masterpiece. But it’s easily misunderstood, and when I can’t figure something out I become so frustrated I sometimes cry. It’s my character flaw.

But with Miss Ann teaching me, I grew to love it. She could explain away the tears and dispensed mercy when I forgot the negative sign.

The year was almost over, the elephant growing tired, readying itself for a summer-long nap. Math books put away, English research papers handed in with a prayer, teachers thanked and given cheap gifts. No finals, no grades, and the half-yard to the finish line was free and easy.

And then. And then the half-yard was marked with grief. Staggered the school, already burdened with disease and death stats.

The words just became symbols, I couldn’t understand it but this time frustration stayed away and shock took its place. I have no idea the belly-aching earthquake, lightning strike of pain, disembowelment of total horror which must have happened when Miss Ann saw those words.

It said something. I don’t care anymore, the words are meaningless.

I just knew that I didn’t care for the boy but I wept for her. The sun set slowly, I was freshly excited from a full day of birthday celebration—another year! How mature I am becoming!—but then my father showed the words to me. Senseless scribbles on a screen.

I never knew him, as I keep saying. I didn’t like him. But through her influence, her presence in my life, her friendship that held me steady through many a confusing math test, I couldn’t have felt the hurt more than if he were my best friend.

I wrote to her the next afternoon, sun high, robins singing innocently in the gumball trees. I said, Miss Ann, I heard about what happened to William. Please know I am so sorry and that you are in our prayers.

She must have felt so old, reading those words. So old and so tired and shaken to the bone by hurt she didn’t think could ever have been experienced.

I don’t know what she did. I don’t know how long she cried or sat on her knees by her bed that night and wondered Why with an empty mind and wet cheeks and dried ink stains on her elbows. I don’t know if she sat limp in a chair by the dusty window and watched the wind through the leaves with uninterested, preoccupied eyes, wanting to think of anything else. To forget. To know Why.

I wept for her.

I hate it when I cry. My cheeks grow hot and tight and my face goes all red for hours afterward. My face crumples and aches and my whole body shakes. Sitting on the hard wood stairs with my phone useless in my lap I leaned my head against the wall, looked at the expanding light downstairs, and wondered what Miss Ann must be thinking.

How do you move on from such tragedy? My mother told me a few days later it is the worst thing anyone can experience, the loss of a child. How do you move on? In your eighties you must stare at the wall, look at the pictures of your healthy grandchildren, and wonder what he might have looked like as he grew older.

I wonder. She must wonder, too. Though we’re still apart, forced away from each other by years in age and CDC regulations, I can still tell her, Miss Ann, I love you. I’m here for you. You’ve always got me.

I wish I could have gone to her. Hugged her tight and long. I can just imagine it, though. And wish things were better. And hope for greater days. And ask for peace.

Just nineteen, so full of ruddy life, bursting with color, handsome in an aggravating way, life ahead of him with a good strong degree and a way with girls. So young, so full of ideals, cut. Life cut from him in a streak of unbending steel and screaming lights.

I can tell it in the tone of her writing. I can hear it in her voice when we talked on the phone. I feel timid speaking to her as an equal, but she reaches out. Across the years, across the time and space and wanting Heaven and aching loneliness. She grabs hold with both hands and asks me to tell her it’s going to be alright. That he’ll pick himself up from the asphalt and come bounding through the door full of light like he used to. That he’ll open his cold still eyes and smile up at her through thick black hair and laugh the way she remembers.

That he’ll leap up and hug her and say it was all a joke, he never meant to make her so afraid. Afraid? Of death. Afraid of loneliness. Of never having the answers.

I know she’s got better friends, the girls who graduated college with her and laughed with her at William’s first birthday nineteen years ago, teacher friends she made through coffee and stories of awful students. I know she’s got her husband and her three daughters all living in different countries. I know she’s got the faded words on her marked-up Bible and the folding of hands in the dark with tears down her face. She has the words of Jeremiah reaching up out of his pit of despair, singing through Jerusalem’s destruction lying about his knees, weeping that God is faithful and merciful, singing that he knows through the despair that God never turns away forever, words so familiar in that longing tone, the aching ringing voice begging for answers.

She has that. She wants more.

Answers.

And I don’t have them. I want to have them. I want to tell her everything, say it was all a pitiful joke, he’s not gone. He’ll be back.

I can’t. I can just say that I love you, I’m here for you, I understand you. I don’t know if it helps. I hope it does. I just offer words and more words, an essay less than two thousand words attempting to tell my grief the best I can. I can only stand here, a lone figure reaching in the darkness with open palms just like her, a student who is also a friend, trying to bring understanding to a grieving mother, and hope I am enough.

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Monsoon Writing Festival

Write a story that ends in the past.

Rules are to keep me hooked till the end!

Example :-

It’s like I said, I didn’t know him very well. He’d already graduated by the time I came along, and I only heard about him from his mother and ex-girlfriend and the chemistry teacher who thought he was spoiled.

I’d seen him once, when he came in to ask his mother about something. He came barging in through the dull fake-wood door and held a muttered conversation with his mother, who bore ink stains up to her elbow. She lit up when she saw him.

Both of them were so tall. Tall and strong. She was tall and bony and white-haired and had swum competitively for years, just like me. She wore glasses and gaudy shirts and found a loophole in every math problem that could be applied to every day life.

He was tall and black-haired and his cheeks were ruddy and bronzed, like he’d been outside for the morning in the fresh air. Piercing black eyes like a falcon. I suppose he was handsome, but I am prejudiced against good-looking males, and disliked him instantly. She told me later he was training to me an engineer.

She talked about him from time to time. She had a daughter who was a chemist in Florida, and two other girls who’d left home. William was her youngest, her only son, the one she must have doted on as many youngest children are. I knew Melanie, his ex-girlfriend. She was a black girl who dyed her hair white and wore it in huge long braids and had been the cheer captain. I liked her and feared her—she reminded me of myself. Not as popular, but with a clear inner strength and resolve.

I came to the school after they’d broken up but sometimes she still talked of him always dispassionately. There her strength was apparent. She’d moved on. I admired her. She was a senior the year I came.

It was interesting, the type of girls he attracted. It made me think, with circumstantial evidence, that he was strong and radiant as well.

The semester moved on like a great lumbering elephant, unsympathetic to the skittering students at its feet. Parabolas and matrices and probability and averages and keys on calculators that get stuck right when you need them. Spring break hit while I was beginning to get back into the rhythm of school. And then we were stuck at home and the rhythm fell away. She posted videos online of the lessons and talked over the phone. Sometimes she spoke of him.

Her name was Ann and I adored her.

She is probably fifty years older than I, fifty years and four children and many a math class taught in between, more than I’d ever sit through during my life. She showed me the easiest shortcuts and laughed with me about silly mathematicians and bonded over common logarithms. Through horrible mathematics and confusing formulas, we became friends.

With her at the helm, dispersing formulas and allowing use of calculators during tests and dismissing the ugly useless formulas the book would have had us learn, I became excellent.

I hate math. Hate it. It’s beautiful, I can understand that. Everything fits into place like a fractalling puzzle, a masterpiece. But it’s easily misunderstood, and when I can’t figure something out I become so frustrated I sometimes cry. It’s my character flaw.

But with Miss Ann teaching me, I grew to love it. She could explain away the tears and dispensed mercy when I forgot the negative sign.

The year was almost over, the elephant growing tired, readying itself for a summer-long nap. Math books put away, English research papers handed in with a prayer, teachers thanked and given cheap gifts. No finals, no grades, and the half-yard to the finish line was free and easy.

And then. And then the half-yard was marked with grief. Staggered the school, already burdened with disease and death stats.

The words just became symbols, I couldn’t understand it but this time frustration stayed away and shock took its place. I have no idea the belly-aching earthquake, lightning strike of pain, disembowelment of total horror which must have happened when Miss Ann saw those words.

It said something. I don’t care anymore, the words are meaningless.

I just knew that I didn’t care for the boy but I wept for her. The sun set slowly, I was freshly excited from a full day of birthday celebration—another year! How mature I am becoming!—but then my father showed the words to me. Senseless scribbles on a screen.

I never knew him, as I keep saying. I didn’t like him. But through her influence, her presence in my life, her friendship that held me steady through many a confusing math test, I couldn’t have felt the hurt more than if he were my best friend.

I wrote to her the next afternoon, sun high, robins singing innocently in the gumball trees. I said, Miss Ann, I heard about what happened to William. Please know I am so sorry and that you are in our prayers.

She must have felt so old, reading those words. So old and so tired and shaken to the bone by hurt she didn’t think could ever have been experienced.

I don’t know what she did. I don’t know how long she cried or sat on her knees by her bed that night and wondered Why with an empty mind and wet cheeks and dried ink stains on her elbows. I don’t know if she sat limp in a chair by the dusty window and watched the wind through the leaves with uninterested, preoccupied eyes, wanting to think of anything else. To forget. To know Why.

I wept for her.

I hate it when I cry. My cheeks grow hot and tight and my face goes all red for hours afterward. My face crumples and aches and my whole body shakes. Sitting on the hard wood stairs with my phone useless in my lap I leaned my head against the wall, looked at the expanding light downstairs, and wondered what Miss Ann must be thinking.

How do you move on from such tragedy? My mother told me a few days later it is the worst thing anyone can experience, the loss of a child. How do you move on? In your eighties you must stare at the wall, look at the pictures of your healthy grandchildren, and wonder what he might have looked like as he grew older.

I wonder. She must wonder, too. Though we’re still apart, forced away from each other by years in age and CDC regulations, I can still tell her, Miss Ann, I love you. I’m here for you. You’ve always got me.

I wish I could have gone to her. Hugged her tight and long. I can just imagine it, though. And wish things were better. And hope for greater days. And ask for peace.

Just nineteen, so full of ruddy life, bursting with color, handsome in an aggravating way, life ahead of him with a good strong degree and a way with girls. So young, so full of ideals, cut. Life cut from him in a streak of unbending steel and screaming lights.

I can tell it in the tone of her writing. I can hear it in her voice when we talked on the phone. I feel timid speaking to her as an equal, but she reaches out. Across the years, across the time and space and wanting Heaven and aching loneliness. She grabs hold with both hands and asks me to tell her it’s going to be alright. That he’ll pick himself up from the asphalt and come bounding through the door full of light like he used to. That he’ll open his cold still eyes and smile up at her through thick black hair and laugh the way she remembers.

That he’ll leap up and hug her and say it was all a joke, he never meant to make her so afraid. Afraid? Of death. Afraid of loneliness. Of never having the answers.

I know she’s got better friends, the girls who graduated college with her and laughed with her at William’s first birthday nineteen years ago, teacher friends she made through coffee and stories of awful students. I know she’s got her husband and her three daughters all living in different countries. I know she’s got the faded words on her marked-up Bible and the folding of hands in the dark with tears down her face. She has the words of Jeremiah reaching up out of his pit of despair, singing through Jerusalem’s destruction lying about his knees, weeping that God is faithful and merciful, singing that he knows through the despair that God never turns away forever, words so familiar in that longing tone, the aching ringing voice begging for answers.

She has that. She wants more.

Answers.

And I don’t have them. I want to have them. I want to tell her everything, say it was all a pitiful joke, he’s not gone. He’ll be back.

I can’t. I can just say that I love you, I’m here for you, I understand you. I don’t know if it helps. I hope it does. I just offer words and more words, an essay less than two thousand words attempting to tell my grief the best I can. I can only stand here, a lone figure reaching in the darkness with open palms just like her, a student who is also a friend, trying to bring understanding to a grieving mother, and hope I am enough.

Read More