Tyrannical
- Locked due to inactivity on Jul 17, '23 3:54am
Thread Topic: Tyrannical
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Progress (so far)
Pages: 4
Words: 2083
Characters: 11356
Characters excluding spaces:
i wont post the plot unless i finish the book or decide to (eventually) give up on it. feel free to post in here ! ♡
Title: Tyrannical -
I would love to hear the plot I’m in the process of writing a book and am always looking for inspiration for different writing styles!
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<3 ill post what i have so far in a minute then ! hope it'll at least inspire a bit, and gl on ur book !
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1 | Poetry
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George E. Evans POV
It was the first time I had attempted to write a poem. It wasn’t nearly as simple as renowned authors made it seem; it was debilitating, even, trying to think of an original, creative concept that hadn’t already been written of before by previous centuries. Every pristine idea that rang out through my head was nothing short of a blank page.
I sat there in my small, dim bedroom, my pen in my left hand and the white sheet of paper in my right. I stared at the page intently, as if I could oblige words onto it by thinking hard enough. But every time, the page stood blank, and my mind remained silent.
I’m left feeling deflated and disheartened, as if I will never create something as amazing as some of the literature I have seen. However, I’m also determined to continue and reach the pinnacle of perfection that so many renowned poets reached before me. I began to feel inspired by the classics, and gripped my pen slightly tighter.
As I stared at the empty page and felt frustrated with its emptiness, inspiration struck. There was beauty in simplicity and not every piece of writing had to be complex, unique or revolutionary to be good; a good piece of work didn't need to be a grand masterpiece. At this moment, a poem took form in my head and I began to write.
My words come out as jumbled messes in the end, an amalgamation of gibberish that holds no weight or truth to it; all my ideas are stolen, I admit. I am the very embodiment of 'nothing is original', a sad excuse for a writer and a person. Nothing I can do is unique; it is all borrowed from somewhere or someone. I look at my words and I'm disgusted. I don't even want to write it down, but I have this constant nagging in the back of my mind telling me that I have to get these thoughts out.
I eventually heaved an exasperated sigh, folding my paper neatly and gently setting it aside for another time. I straightened up from my chair and stared out my bedroom window, glancing at the endless landscape that was outside. Even from my second story bedroom, I was nothing but a tiny speck in the middle of a seemingly infinite world.
My eyes skimmed the distant, vast horizons and the hustle and bustle of the city below. Pedestrians and traffic crowded the city streets, the majority of the vehicles being white and silver, a few red ones dotted in the mixture. I leaned forward, my hand brushing the windowsill of the window before I lifted the window and allowed the cool breeze to flow into my room. My hand was instantly met by a few droplets of rain, and I squinted outside, peaking at the overcast of darkened clouds. They were beginning to group together, and it was likely the rain was only going to progress.
The sound of heavy rainfall began to pitter-patter against my window; before long, this soft sound gave way to a pounding rhythm as the rain grew in force, the constant drum of the raindrops becoming so loud that the other sounds of the world began to grow silent. I couldn't even hear the hustle and bustle outside anymore, everything drowned out by the sound of the rain pouring down on the roof.
As the caliginous sky continued to hang over the city forebodingly, I allowed my window to remain open, before I turned back to my desk. The sounds of the gentle rhythm filled me with a sense of tranquility, and I allowed my mind to slip into the depths of its imagination. I stood still, closing my eyes and allowing the darkness and the calm sense of peace to envelope me in its serenity. -
I could feel a slight chill from the cool breeze outside, and a few stray drops of rain had managed to sneak their way into my room, lightly landing on my skin and causing me to shiver a little. I began to consider closing my window so that I would not get wet, but the sound of the rain was just too calming and tranquil. I resolved that I would just accept being slightly damp.
As my thoughts began to drift off, I found my mind wandering to a field of white, a vast plane of untouched grass that stretched endlessly in every direction. My eyes drifted to the ground right in front of me, and I noticed a single flower growing out of the ground. This flower was unlike any I had ever seen, not the normal colors of a flower, but a deep, rich mahogany red, each petal looking as if it was made of crystal, its beauty almost otherworldly.
My thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of my cellphone which had been propped on the polished desk in front of me. The flower in front of me immediately returned to the smooth birch oak flooring beneath me, and I heaved a small sigh of disappointment. As the phone toppled to the ground, continuing to buzz persistently, I turned towards it, before I bent down and scooped it up. My eyes hastily observed the number to see if it was anyone in my contacts.
I frowned slightly, discouraged at revealing an unfamiliar number from a foreign country. I didn’t recognize the coalescence of these numbers, and thought it to be another spam call, since I never received messages nor calls from anyone I knew, anyway.
I considered just ignoring the phone. The persistent buzzing had grown annoying, and I knew ignoring it would make the caller eventually give up, especially as a spam caller. But my curiosity eventually won out over my hesitation that it may be something important, and I swiped to accept the call, holding the receiver to my ear.
However, the moment I tapped ‘accept’, a steady ring could be discerned, followed by the call being cut off as the automated voice message could be heard shortly after. My scowl deepened, placing the phone on my desk. How unconventional of someone to randomly decide to call me and then hang up the heartbeat I reply. I brushed it off, though, taking it as it is. Someone may have gotten the wrong number and realized last second; it was nothing to fuss over.
As I set the phone back on my desk and returned to the desk as well, the sound of thunder came to be heard throughout the city, a loud boom that was loud enough to rumble the windows, my desk, and the floor beneath me. The pitter-patter of the rain against the window became a deafening roar of pounding water as the thunderstorm outside progressed. I hastily turned to close the window, before glancing down in dismay to reveal the floor now had a puddle from the heavy amount of rain which had been pouring inside. As I stared down at the puddle on my floor, the sound of thunder continued to rage in the background, and I could see flashes of light in my peripheral vision as the rain continued to pound down against the window.
I decided to simply ignore the pool of water for now, hence it being minor. I instead turned back to my desk and took a seat once again, leaning my head back on the chair for comfort and crossing my legs. I gripped my pen once again in my left hand, listening to the rhythmic patterns of the rain. A thought suddenly slipped into mind, and pen began to meet paper as I began to write my mind. Maybe a poem would be possible after all.
The rain continued to pour down, the pitter-patter of individual droplets slowly becoming a steady drum in the cacophony of the roaring thunder outside. The flashes of lightning illuminated through the window, filling the room with a brilliant white light for a few moments then fading back into total darkness. As the blaring bangs of thunder continued to pound throughout the room, I sat and looked fixedly out the window, letting the soothing pitter-patter of the rain fill my mind. A sudden flash of light irradiated the room, and a deafening sound filled my ears as I saw a bright light through the window.
I adverted my gaze back to my paper, as I had paused momentarily to watch the blinding lights. I disregarded the booming sensations, instead allowing myself to focus on the tempo of the storm rather than the trepidation of the moment.
The dim lighting made it difficult to see, but the steady sound of rain, paired with the intermittent claps of thunder, made for a peaceful background to my thoughts.
My pen began to flow, the ink drawing out individual letters which I perceived to be unique shapes as I began writing my poem, inspiration overcoming me.
The storm was a simple thing, but even in simplicity, even in the eye of the storm, beauty could be established with a more in-depth search.
After I had written the last line to my poem, I gazed down at my paper, my eyes skimming each line carefully, over and over again. I was searching for a single flaw to beat myself over; however, this poem screamed perfection, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride wash over me.
“Raindrops dance and sing through the breeze,
As they fall from the clouds with glee.
They form puddles and fill ditches,
As they are swept to the sea,
Where they form a river, like a ribbon.
And then the cycle repeats.
Just the way that nature dictates.
It is a circle and it is beautiful.”
“Stunning.”
A resonant voice of a man could be discerned from directly behind me as I finalized the verse composition. -
End of 1 | Poetry
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