Rules:
Note: I only bought one extra black rose, so there's only one to win.
However, if you'd like to enter for a chance to win it, here are the rules of this hopefully very fun game:
1. I'm going to use the dice to determine a winner. The first person to post will be considered #1, the second person #2, and so on, and I'll just role a random number out of those numbers. Everyone will have an equal change of winning, in other words.
2. I'll pick a winner next weekend, either Friday, Sat, or Sun. Sun (2/24/19) at the latest.
3. To enter, please write a 150 word or more story that focuses on capturing the setting of where you live or somewhere you've visited before.
You can use yourself or one of your characters.
Don't mention names of cities unless you want to.
I'm just trying to let people practice writing details of setting into stories and I'm also curious what types of environments our fellow roleplayers live in.
How do you describe a setting without mentioning a place name? Easy!
Let me give you some examples:
"In the middle of summer, the sun was so hot that the cement on the sidewalks burned our feet if we went without shoes."
"The skyscrappers on the horizon all lit up at sundown as the businesspeople went home and the clubbers and partiers took possession of downtown."
"I walked into the woods. The smell of cedar filled the air. I had to watch out for cactus plants as I walked toward the creek but that was a price worth paying to avoid the more prickly environment back in the apartment. In the woods with only birds as company, it was peaceful."
"The pollution filled the air and a warning was issued. But people streamed down the streets to the subway terminals, chattering like it was nothing because they were used to the orange gray glow in the sky and the occasional coughing fit from a kid with asthma or an elderly man on the subway car."
Here's an idea of how long 150 words is (not a lot):
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word Word word word word word word word word word word.
Have fun and good luck!
Note: I only bought one extra black rose, so there's only one to win.
However, if you'd like to enter for a chance to win it, here are the rules of this hopefully very fun game:
1. I'm going to use the dice to determine a winner. The first person to post will be considered #1, the second person #2, and so on, and I'll just role a random number out of those numbers. Everyone will have an equal change of winning, in other words.
2. I'll pick a winner next weekend, either Friday, Sat, or Sun. Sun (2/24/19) at the latest.
3. To enter, please write a 150 word or more story that focuses on capturing the setting of where you live or somewhere you've visited before.
You can use yourself or one of your characters.
Don't mention names of cities unless you want to.
I'm just trying to let people practice writing details of setting into stories and I'm also curious what types of environments our fellow roleplayers live in.
How do you describe a setting without mentioning a place name? Easy!
Let me give you some examples:
"In the middle of summer, the sun was so hot that the cement on the sidewalks burned our feet if we went without shoes."
"The skyscrappers on the horizon all lit up at sundown as the businesspeople went home and the clubbers and partiers took possession of downtown."
"I walked into the woods. The smell of cedar filled the air. I had to watch out for cactus plants as I walked toward the creek but that was a price worth paying to avoid the more prickly environment back in the apartment. In the woods with only birds as company, it was peaceful."
"The pollution filled the air and a warning was issued. But people streamed down the streets to the subway terminals, chattering like it was nothing because they were used to the orange gray glow in the sky and the occasional coughing fit from a kid with asthma or an elderly man on the subway car."
Here's an idea of how long 150 words is (not a lot):
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word wordWord word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word Word word word word word word word word word word.
Have fun and good luck!
In the deep damp forest sound was everywhere, so much sound that it muffled itself out upon itself. The droplets of water, falling from leaf to leaf, pouring into little pools of water at the bases of the trees. The trees stood like mighty giants, so tall like the earth was trying to touch the sky. The birds and squirrels, and creatures of the forest made their homes in these trees. Whether it is inside the tree, on the branches of the tree, or underground in the roots of the tree. All life clung to the tree, it was a central grounds for all life in the forest, these big, magnificent trees. Standing proud and tall, maybe hundreds, no thousands of years they spent growing. Hard to believe, that they like every creature once started off so small, but over time even the smallest insignificant thing, can grow to be something magnificent
I included my city name because it's a big city, so I really don't mind.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
StaticNightmares wrote:
I included my city name because it's a big city, so I really don't mind.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
man yours is so much better than mine ;-;
JustAGuy wrote:
In the deep damp forest sound was everywhere, so much sound that it muffled itself out upon itself. The droplets of water, falling from leaf to leaf, pouring into little pools of water at the bases of the trees. The trees stood like mighty giants, so tall like the earth was trying to touch the sky. The birds and squirrels, and creatures of the forest made their homes in these trees. Whether it is inside the tree, on the branches of the tree, or underground in the roots of the tree. All life clung to the tree, it was a central grounds for all life in the forest, these big, magnificent trees. Standing proud and tall, maybe hundreds, no thousands of years they spent growing. Hard to believe, that they like every creature once started off so small, but over time even the smallest insignificant thing, can grow to be something magnificent
Nice!
StaticNightmares wrote:
I included my city name because it's a big city, so I really don't mind.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
Beautiful!
JustAGuy wrote:
StaticNightmares wrote:
I included my city name because it's a big city, so I really don't mind.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
Peterborough.
There are houses everywhere. With little to no environment, the only patches of trees grass you see are on the round-a-bouts and down by the single lake near the hospital. The council packs rows and rows and rows of houses don crowded streets down in Hampton by Tesco's. Busy roads littered here there and everywhere, packed with car after car after car.
Constant car chases, ambulances rushing down the julies as accidents become more frequent during the river. Idiotic drivers who cut in front of people and almost crash, park on double yellows... And then there's the road ragers- the ones who beep their horns a million times at the slightest slip up. The ones who threaten to smash onto the sides of others' cars, the ones who call each other rude names.
Rubbish thrown on the streets, dim and broken lamposts and in some places, no lamposts at all. You can hardly see where your going half of the time.
"Save Tenter Hill!" They cry over in Stanground, protesting about the houses that the council want to build on one of the only remaining patches of greenery we can find. "Don't destroy Tenter Hill!" But their cries are ignored.
Police sirens echo down the Westwood streets as one of the office vans races to an old house- they're about to break the fourth drug deal this week... And it's only Wednesday.
Ambulance sirens echo as the mobile rushes down my back street. Someone had been hit by a car as they sped off. A drug deal gone wrong? Probably. Most likely, in fact.
And yet we do nothing to change this city. We as a whole decide to ignore the mess that we've caused by being a broken society and live our own lives. Sooner or later, someone's going to get fed up. And things are going to change. But for now... There's nothing we can do.
man yours is so much better than mine ;-;
Don't worry, everyone has an equal chance to win the rose because it's based on a dice role. The writing part qualifies you but doesn't influence the results.
The writing part is mainly for fun and for us all to improve on setting, starting with where we're at now, wherever that be. I enjoyed reading both of y'all's stories.
Keep 'em coming. Fun.
This is such a lovely thing to do! I've been really lacking on the creative writing front recently so I'll give this a wee go, hehe. ♥
The rain clattered against the glass of the old cottage windows; the steady trickling broken only by a sporadic gust of wind.
The sound was muffled by the surrounding forest's leaves, which gently caressed the droplets of water as they landed amongst the tree branches. A solitary chirp from a blackbird seems to echo through the midst; the faint tune of it's call carried off into the dim of the wet evening.
A calm stillness then descends, as the rain fades to a halt; the silence broken only by a car passing on the nearby road to town. In the dim, the distant loch appears almost foreboding as it looms in the background alongside it's mountainous backdrop. The nearby fields look far warmer, as sheep shelter and snuggle up to rest.
Breathing in the fresh, countryside air, you look up to the sky to see nothing but a proceeding darkness. On a clear night, the sky would be alight with thousands of stars - perhaps a satellite, planet, or a shooting star if you were lucky. Tonight though, the clouds will keep such a view from the earth.
I've been really lacking on the creative writing front recently so I'll give this a wee go, hehe. ♥The rain clattered against the glass of the old cottage windows; the steady trickling broken only by a sporadic gust of wind.
The sound was muffled by the surrounding forest's leaves, which gently caressed the droplets of water as they landed amongst the tree branches. A solitary chirp from a blackbird seems to echo through the midst; the faint tune of it's call carried off into the dim of the wet evening.
A calm stillness then descends, as the rain fades to a halt; the silence broken only by a car passing on the nearby road to town. In the dim, the distant loch appears almost foreboding as it looms in the background alongside it's mountainous backdrop. The nearby fields look far warmer, as sheep shelter and snuggle up to rest.
Breathing in the fresh, countryside air, you look up to the sky to see nothing but a proceeding darkness. On a clear night, the sky would be alight with thousands of stars - perhaps a satellite, planet, or a shooting star if you were lucky. Tonight though, the clouds will keep such a view from the earth.
On the reservation beneath the changing leaves of autumn. The river flows past the village. The river is full of old logs and sticks which wash up the shore. The Sioux children and women pick up the dry timber to make a massive bonfire later. They also clean up the debris and garbage from the big city from them. They start the fire as the powwow drummers warm up and start their chants. One Sioux Indian warrior speaks "it is harvest time we must thank the great spirit for a bountiful harvest also for the constellations clouds heavens skies and stars". The village prepare for the powwow mothers dress their children in dancing regalia. The men stand proudly with their famlies. As the powwow starts the whole village is in unison singing on a warm autumn after noon summer has just passed. Winter is on the way with the bitter cold snow and wind chills. As the powwow starts the the elder chief speaks "This is a celebration of all the great spirit has given us". The powwow goes late into the evening as the Sioux village celebrates by having a massive feast and dance beneath the moonlight as the bonfire burns brightly on the faces of the village. The chiefs elders fathers mothers children as their ancestors look down from above smiling approvtily.
EarlyGrey wrote:
This is such a lovely thing to do! I've been really lacking on the creative writing front recently so I'll give this a wee go, hehe. ♥
The rain clattered against the glass of the old cottage windows; the steady trickling broken only by a sporadic gust of wind.
The sound was muffled by the surrounding forest's leaves, which gently caressed the droplets of water as they landed amongst the tree branches. A solitary chirp from a blackbird seems to echo through the midst; the faint tune of it's call carried off into the dim of the wet evening.
A calm stillness then descends, as the rain fades to a halt; the silence broken only by a car passing on the nearby road to town. In the dim, the distant loch appears almost foreboding as it looms in the background alongside it's mountainous backdrop. The nearby fields look far warmer, as sheep shelter and snuggle up to rest.
Breathing in the fresh, countryside air, you look up to the sky to see nothing but a proceeding darkness. On a clear night, the sky would be alight with thousands of stars - perhaps a satellite, planet, or a shooting star if you were lucky. Tonight though, the clouds will keep such a view from the earth.
I've been really lacking on the creative writing front recently so I'll give this a wee go, hehe. ♥The rain clattered against the glass of the old cottage windows; the steady trickling broken only by a sporadic gust of wind.
The sound was muffled by the surrounding forest's leaves, which gently caressed the droplets of water as they landed amongst the tree branches. A solitary chirp from a blackbird seems to echo through the midst; the faint tune of it's call carried off into the dim of the wet evening.
A calm stillness then descends, as the rain fades to a halt; the silence broken only by a car passing on the nearby road to town. In the dim, the distant loch appears almost foreboding as it looms in the background alongside it's mountainous backdrop. The nearby fields look far warmer, as sheep shelter and snuggle up to rest.
Breathing in the fresh, countryside air, you look up to the sky to see nothing but a proceeding darkness. On a clear night, the sky would be alight with thousands of stars - perhaps a satellite, planet, or a shooting star if you were lucky. Tonight though, the clouds will keep such a view from the earth.
Lovely!
SexySultryBabe wrote:
On the reservation beneath the changing leaves of autumn. The river flows past the village. The river is full of old logs and sticks which wash up the shore. The Sioux children and women pick up the dry timber to make a massive bonfire later. They also clean up the debris and garbage from the big city from them. They start the fire as the powwow drummers warm up and start their chants. One Sioux Indian warrior speaks "it is harvest time we must thank the great spirit for a bountiful harvest also for the constellations clouds heavens skies and stars". The village prepare for the powwow mothers dress their children in dancing regalia. The men stand proudly with their famlies. As the powwow starts the whole village is in unison singing on a warm autumn after noon summer has just passed. Winter is on the way with the bitter cold snow and wind chills. As the powwow starts the the elder chief speaks "This is a celebration of all the great spirit has given us". The powwow goes late into the evening as the Sioux village celebrates by having a massive feast and dance beneath the moonlight as the bonfire burns brightly on the faces of the village. The chiefs elders fathers mothers children as their ancestors look down from above smiling approvtily.
Gorgeous! (This is so fun and interesting, to read all these)
Abigail_Austin wrote:
SexySultryBabe wrote:
On the reservation beneath the changing leaves of autumn. The river flows past the village. The river is full of old logs and sticks which wash up the shore. The Sioux children and women pick up the dry timber to make a massive bonfire later. They also clean up the debris and garbage from the big city from them. They start the fire as the powwow drummers warm up and start their chants. One Sioux Indian warrior speaks "it is harvest time we must thank the great spirit for a bountiful harvest also for the constellations clouds heavens skies and stars". The village prepare for the powwow mothers dress their children in dancing regalia. The men stand proudly with their famlies. As the powwow starts the whole village is in unison singing on a warm autumn after noon summer has just passed. Winter is on the way with the bitter cold snow and wind chills. As the powwow starts the the elder chief speaks "This is a celebration of all the great spirit has given us". The powwow goes late into the evening as the Sioux village celebrates by having a massive feast and dance beneath the moonlight as the bonfire burns brightly on the faces of the village. The chiefs elders fathers mothers children as their ancestors look down from above smiling approvtily.
Gorgeous! (This is so fun and interesting, to read all these)
A small bird waddled along the wet rocks and bricks to be scared off by a dog leaving it’s indoor home. The noise responsible for both was a car splashing through the puddles. It was a bit strange to have such sudden rain in a usually hot area. The drops of water spilled from the sky, the only noise other than the dog barking. Without the barks and growls, Derrie could just fall asleep, right there in the middle of her show. The rain drowned out the television’s audio, which was quite low, but not the nearby birds’ songs. Such noises to fall asleep to. The rain, sadly, had stopped and only the quick little drops of leftover water drowned hardly anything. The noise was still quite calming, and with a thick fluff of a blanket over her, she could just... well, fall asleep. Her eyes slowly closed shut, cuddling the fluffy blanket closer to her chest. The bird’s singing had seemed louder now that the rain’d stopped. The world around, which was mostly houses and a few trees, and a blanket of grass in the middle of the street. The rain gently plopped onto the shards of green grass, silence taking over her street. She’d fallen asleep, finally. The noise of the dog barking became audible again, along with the now quite loud noises of the television. The silence usually broke so quickly.
//Oof. Didn’t count words, but could be close...//
//Oof. Didn’t count words, but could be close...//
WhatsInTheCube wrote:
A small bird waddled along the wet rocks and bricks to be scared off by a dog leaving it’s indoor home. The noise responsible for both was a car splashing through the puddles. It was a bit strange to have such sudden rain in a usually hot area. The drops of water spilled from the sky, the only noise pther than the dog barking. Without the barks and growls, Derrie could just fall asleep, right there in the middle of her show. The rain drowned out the television’s audio, which was quite low, but not the nearby birds’ songs. Such noises to fall asleep to. The rain, sadly, had stopped and only the quick little drops of leftover water drowned hardly anything. The noise was still quite calming, and with a thick fluff of a blanket over her, she could just... well, fall asleep. Her eyes slowly closed shut, cuddling the fluffy blanket closer to her chest. The bird’s singing had seemed louder now that the rain’d stopped. The world around, which was mostly houses and a few trees, and a blanket of grass in the middle of the street. The rain gently plopped onto the shards of green grass, silence taking over her street. She’d fallen asleep, finally.
//Oof. Didn’t count words, but could be close...//
//Oof. Didn’t count words, but could be close...//
It's great! Thanks!
Entries so far:
1. JustAGuy
2. StaticNightmares
3. EarlyGrey
4. SexySultryBabe
5. WhatsInTheCube
6. LastOfMyKind
1. JustAGuy
2. StaticNightmares
3. EarlyGrey
4. SexySultryBabe
5. WhatsInTheCube
6. LastOfMyKind
When you re-read your entry and realise how crappy your city is:
MOM LETS MOVE TO NEWCASTLE THEY ACTUALLY GET SNOW.
Mom: ...no
MOM LETS MOVE TO NEWCASTLE THEY ACTUALLY GET SNOW.
Mom: ...no
My neighborhood is one with a simple design, with clustering pale houses flanked by expansive yards. I know only an infinitesimal fraction of its inhabitants. It is a neighborhood that is only a piece to the larger jigsaw of houses, which in turn is only a piece of the swirling chalice of farmland and city. Elsewhere, it evolves into complex puzzles of nothing taller than a two-story building, rugged with old Broncos, decrepit brick walls, and crumbling roads. The city tries to keep the streets from webbing with cracks, but it is a futile effort. (On the way to and from the high school which I attend, our bus driver constantly complains about the road quality... She has to shout over the rattle of the engine, though, .)
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
My experiences in my homeland, which don't really matter but are interesting anyhow:
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
LastOfMyKind wrote:
My neighborhood is one with a simple design, with clustering pale houses flanked by expansive yards. I know only an infinitesimal fraction of its inhabitants. It is a neighborhood that is only a piece to the larger jigsaw of houses, which in turn is only a piece of the swirling chalice of farmland and city. Elsewhere, it evolves into complex puzzles of nothing taller than a two-story building, rugged with old Broncos, decrepit brick walls, and crumbling roads. The city tries to keep the streets from webbing with cracks, but it is a futile effort. (On the way to and from the high school which I attend, our bus driver constantly complains about the road quality... She has to shout over the rattle of the engine, though, .)
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
My experiences in my homeland, which don't really matter but are interesting anyhow:
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
Quite interesting!
StaticNightmares wrote:
When you re-read your entry and realise how crappy your city is:
MOM LETS MOVE TO NEWCASTLE THEY ACTUALLY GET SNOW.
Mom: ...no
MOM LETS MOVE TO NEWCASTLE THEY ACTUALLY GET SNOW.
Mom: ...no
Lol...that's hilarious.
LastOfMyKind wrote:
My neighborhood is one with a simple design, with clustering pale houses flanked by expansive yards. I know only an infinitesimal fraction of its inhabitants. It is a neighborhood that is only a piece to the larger jigsaw of houses, which in turn is only a piece of the swirling chalice of farmland and city. Elsewhere, it evolves into complex puzzles of nothing taller than a two-story building, rugged with old Broncos, decrepit brick walls, and crumbling roads. The city tries to keep the streets from webbing with cracks, but it is a futile effort. (On the way to and from the high school which I attend, our bus driver constantly complains about the road quality... She has to shout over the rattle of the engine, though, .)
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
But my city isn't quite akin to a ghost town, though there are plenty of those scattered throughout the mountains and desert elsewhere. There are over 80,000 people that live here--farmers, businesspeople, miners, those who waste away in cubicles... This was a primarily agricultural state, once upon a time. Here in the valley, where you can find sagebrush and dirt 20 miles in any direction, we don't get much snow. Or rain. And yet we manage to use the snowmelt from the mountains to farm. Some do, at least; many people live urban lives instead.
My experiences in my homeland, which don't really matter but are interesting anyhow:
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
And many of these farms are old and unowned except by the state, and a few of these I have explored: a farm where peacocks still breed, a building in which an old woman died. There are peeling, bee-infested sheds overrun by weeds, and there are massive buildings from the first days of our city that smell of dust and history. Basements that are awash with foreboding, empty rows of slouching tractors and bleary-eyed cattle.
In the mountains to the north and northeast, past the scraggly foothills and dry wasteland, you can find undisclosed forests where lost mines and abandoned towns lay in shadow. These I have visited with my grandfather and my dad; I have heard a whisper reflected from the darkness of an ancient mine, and I have discovered the rotting hut that huddled within the burned, silver forest. In the mountains, I know a lake that swarms with leeches (and disgusts my sister to this day); in the desert, I know a gleaming black lava field that stretches for miles on end. Far to the east, there are caves that freeze even in the summer, glittering with ice and waterdrops. To the south, there are mysterious vales that have been the site of Maypole gatherings; these vales are within driving distance of a yawning, dizzying chasm that shatters the monotony of the desert hills. Towering labyrinths of stone dot these hills, pocketed with caves and snake dens that you have to "stay away from, or you could run into a rattler."
I know cliffs that jut from the dirt and weeds, smeared with white bird droppings, and I know where the ticks and crickets gather in the spring. I have watched bats flood the sky in the orange gathering dusk, twisting among the dead branches of the tree that was the only thing besides sagebrush for miles around. I have thrown rocks from the top of a gorge and watched them tumble down the jagged stones, smash into the white water at the bottom.
In the green fairy forest in the mountains to the southeast, the water washes away the color when it rains, but in the north the raindrops magnify and expand the colors and textures. The thunder that rolls from the far east, over patched hills of trees, raises the hair on the back of your neck, and the foreboding black thunderheads march through the sky like the fabled ghost riders. Fields of flowers from the mountains contrast with the deathly white skulls found in the desert, though bones are just bones and have been found even in Paradise Valley. The absolute majesty of the mountains is contested by the calming solitude of the desert, where you might be the only person around for a hundred miles or more. But both are equally awesome, and I could not honestly choose a favorite... even if my life depended on it.
These experiences are only a few that I've had. Looking over them, I realize just how much can happen in a span of less than 18 years. I could tell you countless stories about my uncle's cabin, about my camping trips with my grandfather. It's amazing, this place... Sometimes you don't know it until you try and make it sound so.
I just gotta say, this collapsed description of your experience is some darn beautiful writing. And you say homeland like it's another country but based on the rattlesnakes and the sagebrush I'm guessing it has to be the southwestern U.S...because in Texas we have those, so I'm like...hmmmmmm. Paradise Valley. Hmmm.
Anyway...nice job!
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