by Darren Lauser
Some of us Holy Worlders are on a project team. For part of this project, we are having a creative writing contest! Please spread the word! Maybe your uncle’s friend’s gardener would like to participate. 😉
You can find out more about the contest, and the greater project (if you like), at the following announcement:
Like many writings, this topic does not strictly fit into a narrow genre. Yes, it is historical fiction, but it has a fire-breathing dragon, like fantasy. It can also have science fiction elements. Why is that, you say? The likely historical setting is the early post-flood era. There is strong evidence that these societies had very high technology, that has since been lost.
HW members appreciate such a challenge, and we appreciate the calibre of writing we will receive from you.
by Lady Elanor
“Only in men’s imagination does every truth find an effective and undeniable existence. Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.”
– Joseph Conrad
There can sometimes be such a thing as too much detail. You know, you are trying to get into a book and then you get a chunk of description of an item of clothing, or over half a page of scenic landscape; your attention is lost swiftly. Not only is your attention lost, but that moment could be the difference between a reader finishing or not finishing your book. Continue reading
by Lady Elanor
I was watching a documentary a while ago about the World Wars. Once scene was of a death camp. Bodies had been piled up on top of one another in a mass grave; all you could see was bones, and skin stretched over rib cages. It was a scene that burned into my memory. I still can’t forget that picture, and it was just a few days later that I wrote this drabble with the scene in mind.
“No Resting Place”
Bulging eyes stared unseeing, a glassy gaze frozen in time. Taut skin stretched over jutting bones, starvation seeping through every feature; teeth protruded from pink, dry mouths, yellow and brown from filth and little care. Shaved heads, stubble, bruising and blood were what met my horrified stare. All heaped in one muddy pit, no loving resting place for these. Premature passing. A child screamed for his Mother as he clawed at her dead, naked body. A single shot. All was silent. I felt the shovel pushed at me. The iron handle felt cold to my sweaty hands.
“Dig,” a voice commanded.
For the forum’s latest birthday, Holy Worlds held a drabble contest. This story, by Mistress Rwebhu Kidh, was the other runner-up!
Charles lived in an old, old house, with his three-year-old daughter Anna. He opened her bedroom door at one AM.
He saw a cake with two hundred candles; an old man with skin the color of paper, and no eyes at all, smiling beatifically; and Anna, singing.
“Daddy,” she said, “this ghost is named Eeyore, and he was sad because nobody remembers his birthday anymore. I gave him a balloon. What will you give him?”
Charles put his hand in his pocket. There was just one thing to do.
“Many happy returns,” he said, and gave Eeyore his best pen.
For the forum’s latest birthday, Holy Worlds held a drabble contest. This story, by Caeli, was one of two runners-up!
“Welcome to our mystery,” the voice announced through the ship. The triangle windows filled with faces. Passengers peering into the universe while the voice directed their gaze. “Welcome to new life.” The dead planet below sparked and glimmered. “And the first successful terraforming.” The planet glowed and the voice rose, triumphant. “Welcome to the Mirror, on the day of its birth, on its day of Naming: the Mirror—a world reflecting a history it will never know and a future that is all its own.”
Far beneath, on the Mirror, something green began to grow.
For the forum’s latest birthday, Holy Worlds held a drabble contest. This story, by Elisabeth Grace Foley, was the winner!
Old Mr. Thurmond’s nose wrinkled up irritably as he entered the dining-room. Mrs. Haden was wearing her best lace collar and a fluttery smile, and there was a bunch of flowers on the table—things she did on special occasions. He’d sworn never to let that meddling woman know how old he was. He glared at his fellow-boarders as he slid into his chair—who’d found out and told her?
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Mrs. Haden, “tonight we celebrate the birthday of a venerable institution”—Mr. Thurmond glared more—“at all of five years old! To the Elm Street Rooming-House!”
by Lady Elanor
“You untangle a knot with slow teasing, not sharp pulling, and believe me we have here a knot such as I have never seen. But I will unpick it. I will.” ~ C.J Sansom
Writing mystery: it’s not just creating the mist that surrounds your characters and pulls the reader deeper in, it’s creating a maze. There can be so many different paths to take, so many corners that might lead to the ending – but there are also dead ends – red herrings, a path that ends up leading nowhere. A sudden twist can make you turn around and go back to keep on searching. I don’t just love the mystery; I love the chase, the confusion, the riddles, the suspense. The slow teasing to untangle that knot. Then there’s that final rush when you have the unveiling – the truth. All the little pieces of the puzzle finally making a perfect picture. This is why mystery is my favourite form of writing.
Personally, I find that when writing a mystery, the most important part to start with is a detailed plan. Continue reading
by Jonathan Garner
A long time ago, before storytellers had easy access to pen, paper, and computers, most storytellers spoke their stories. Jesus, for example, told parables to crowds of people, which meant He was physically present with every story.
Modern writers appear to have lost this connection between storytelling and speaking. It is as if we have come to see stories as separate entities that are detached from us and come to life through words on a page. I think this can cause moral confusion.
Writers occasionally have questions such as: Is the violence in this action story too graphic? Should I put foul language in the mouths of the villains? How far should I go with sexual content? And so on.
It seems to me that these questions are a lot easier to answer if we understand that our stories are a part of us. The words on the pages have to be spoken by us, through a pen or keyboard, the same as if they came out of our mouths. This does not mean, however, that our stories must avoid dark or adult subjects.
Jesus told a lot of sweet stories, including one about a kind shepherd caring for his lambs and another about a woman who found her lost coin. Yet He also told stories involving murderers (Matthew 21:33-46), prostitution (Luke 15:11-32), and a man tormented in hell (Luke 16:19-31). Continue reading
We were on the ground before the relevance of something Harry had said struck me. Rather, what Harry had failed to say. “Hey, you never said where Seabert is.”
Harry blinked in confusion, then quickly recovered. “Oh! I forgot about him for a minute. He went out.”
“Out?” I asked. “Without accompaniment?”
“Well, seeing as Mom doesn’t like to have us go to the bathroom in here, I figured sending him out was the more logical choice.”
“Ah.” I glanced toward the small hole in the wall through which the kittens enter and exit the barn. “How long ago was this?”
Harry thought for a moment. “Right after Mom left.”
“I’d say twenty minutes,” Musketeer put in.
“And he’s still gone?” Continue reading
Created by Aubrey Hansen.