BYC Writer thread

[iluvorpingtons]

Can I post some of my story here?

 

[horsecrazychicklovingkid]

Can I post some of my story here?

Go for it!!!

 

[clucky3255]

Can I post some of my story here?

Yeah! Totally! That is what the thread is for!...

 

[clucky3255]

 

[clucky3255]

Can't wait to read it!!

 

[clucky3255]

I have to go any minute now. Bye!

 

[iluvorpingtons]

Untitled
(I'll edit in the title once I come up with one)

As the day moves on the long-furred dog with a coat the color of sorrow stretches out on the old wooden porch. His pink tongue lolling less than an inch from the ancient wood. His eyes half-closed in a sleepless dream. Many memories does this dog have. This long-furred dog with a coat the color of a foggy day. He reminisces in the light of a fading day. The long, happy days of his youth reclaiming him.

~*~​

The little husky pup knew little of the world beyond the soft walls of his mother's dog bed. That isn't to say he didn't want to find out. His little paws scrabbled at the puffy lining of his mama's sleeping place long before his eyes were even open.
His father, a tall and proud as he would one day become, was the next-door dog, and at the puppy's time of birth he did not even know there was such thing as his father.
His mother, of course, was his world. He would tussle with his sisters and brother for a nice spot to drink after a day of--what else--tussling with them.
His mother, a large black husky, was a dog of impure linage. She came from the streets many years ago, only a pup with an age that was not very greater than that of her current litter. To her son she was only a long, warm tongue that would caress him every once and a while, until he could open his eyes, that is.
And that day would come sooner than he would ever know.

~*~​

The gray tabby she-cat was quite use to the hustle of the city. Every day she would slink along the same path: to the fence, over the fence, and to the old fast food joint that left their scraps in the back.
Fence, building, food. That was the life of the small tabby, and she was satisfied with it.
Then there was the tom.
He was a large cat for the mix of breed that ran through his veins. His coat was black as a raven's wing on a moonless night, with a white belly that was always covered with some kind of filth. No cat or human or living soul in the town of the gray tabby knew where he had come from. But, oh, did everyone realize his presence the day he cam sauntering in, his fur all matted and his eyes so wise and mournful.
Every night he would sit on his perch: the fence of a person who had long left the town. Every night would he dig his claws into the ole scrub oak wood and serenade the calico she-cat who resided two houses away.
But there came the time that the calico she-cat went out walking on the black road that stank of cars and bikes and tires
and did not return.
The black tom, the one with a coat as black as a raven's wing, yowled many nights of his loss. So many say that is why his wise eyes are so mournful to this day.
Even with the sadness that clung to his heart for many nights, there comes a time when life picks you up and gives you another chance at another life.
That chance was the gray tabby she-cat.



Okay, I know its really boring now, but you'll see what happens later!!!

 

[iluvorpingtons]

Sorry the writing isn't as good as I wish it was. I wrote this story a few months ago.

 

[Dutchgirl]

Well, I'm a bit of a writer. I suppose I can whip something up right now, just because I feel like it. I'm sure it's pure garbage, but I don't care. I have plenty of other opportunity to write better, and this is just to satisfy my hunger.

It's a well-framed picture, I suppose you'd say. That is, if you're standing at the right angle, like we are. In fact, you could even take the camera from the girl's bag -- no, not that one -- the smaller one. There's a camera there. You can't see it, of course. It's covered up, but it's there.
Her name is Bethany Shale. She was blond when she was younger, but brown streaks have come in. Dirty blond? Yes, that's what I'd call it. She's standing right there in the center of the sidewalk that leads up to the library. She's dressed in nice clothing, but she's kept it simple. Shirt, nice jacket, pants that don't quite fit, some black flats that are so shiny they look like they must have been bought just for this occasion. Her back, which is facing us, is criss-crossed with two thick, black straps. The straps are attached to heavy-looking black bags. You know, the ones I mentioned earlier. The smaller, squarish one is her camera bag, and the other one holds a laptop. No, they don't belong to her parents, but she didn't exactly buy them herself. It's rather complicated, you see.
Why is she here, you wonder? I can tell you that. She's meeting in one of the back rooms with the editor of a family magazine. Didn't you wonder what the laptop and camera are for? She's going to see if she can get a job there. What as? I can't tell you that, not yet. She has to meet with the editor first. She's going to apply for a photography job, but it's possible she may be just doing some side things. You know, advertisements, graphics, text... oh yes, graphics and text. She's a triple threat - she can write, she can draw, and she can take pictures. Don't gawk, please. It's not very becoming.
How old is she? Twelve. Of course it's legal. Under special circumstances, of course... but I don't know all the details.
Wait -- she's stopped staring at the library now. I think she's going to go in. She's walking in ... My, but she looks scared. Don't you think? I hope she does well.

Who am I, you ask? How do I know so much about her? I don't know what you're talking about. I know very little about her. I AM her author, after all.

 

[horsecrazychicklovingkid]

Untitled
(I'll edit in the title once I come up with one)

As the day moves on the long-furred dog with a coat the color of sorrow stretches out on the old wooden porch. His pink tongue lolling less than an inch from the ancient wood. His eyes half-closed in a sleepless dream. Many memories does this dog have. This long-furred dog with a coat the color of a foggy day. He reminisces in the light of a fading day. The long, happy days of his youth reclaiming him.

~*~​

The little husky pup knew little of the world beyond the soft walls of his mother's dog bed. That isn't to say he didn't want to find out. His little paws scrabbled at the puffy lining of his mama's sleeping place long before his eyes were even open.
His father, a tall and proud as he would one day become, was the next-door dog, and at the puppy's time of birth he did not even know there was such thing as his father.
His mother, of course, was his world. He would tussle with his sisters and brother for a nice spot to drink after a day of--what else--tussling with them.
His mother, a large black husky, was a dog of impure linage. She came from the streets many years ago, only a pup with an age that was not very greater than that of her current litter. To her son she was only a long, warm tongue that would caress him every once and a while, until he could open his eyes, that is.
And that day would come sooner than he would ever know.

~*~​

The gray tabby she-cat was quite use to the hustle of the city. Every day she would slink along the same path: to the fence, over the fence, and to the old fast food joint that left their scraps in the back.
Fence, building, food. That was the life of the small tabby, and she was satisfied with it.
Then there was the tom.
He was a large cat for the mix of breed that ran through his veins. His coat was black as a raven's wing on a moonless night, with a white belly that was always covered with some kind of filth. No cat or human or living soul in the town of the gray tabby knew where he had come from. But, oh, did everyone realize his presence the day he cam sauntering in, his fur all matted and his eyes so wise and mournful.
Every night he would sit on his perch: the fence of a person who had long left the town. Every night would he dig his claws into the ole scrub oak wood and serenade the calico she-cat who resided two houses away.
But there came the time that the calico she-cat went out walking on the black road that stank of cars and bikes and tires
and did not return.
The black tom, the one with a coat as black as a raven's wing, yowled many nights of his loss. So many say that is why his wise eyes are so mournful to this day.
Even with the sadness that clung to his heart for many nights, there comes a time when life picks you up and gives you another chance at another life.
That chance was the gray tabby she-cat.



Okay, I know its really boring now, but you'll see what happens later!!!

The cat one is my favorite! And the old dog.