Authors?

[Startedraining]

[i]I know a lot of people on this site write, so I'm thinking, do any of you have WIP novels that you'd like to discuss?

Get some advice from other authors and give some to blossoming writers.

Or we can talk about books we've read and enjoy.
]

[interestingword]

my buddy Gwenfoxe currently Fennec is either publishing a book, or has published it.

meanwhile, I'm slowly compiling my stories to lump together and try for a book.
sssllloooooooowwwwwlllyyyy.

[Startedraining]

Really? What ideas do you have? o:

I have a couple I'm working on but not many are worthy of writing.

[interestingword]

erm...murders...mostly by cereal, but I've got various others...meep.

[Startedraining]

erm...murders...mostly by cereal, but I've got various others...meep.

A murder writer :{D
I think we have a lot to discuss.

[interestingword]

erm...murders...mostly by cereal, but I've got various others...meep.

A murder writer :{D
I think we have a lot to discuss.

my most praised work is this one...then again, this one has had the most readers. *shrugs and scampers away nervously*
you name it, I write it, and I'm happy to pull up my old stories.

"They say never to work at your favorite restaurant, you know. You sure you want this job?" The interviewer asked cautiously, questioning Mike Johnson's request to work for Culvers.
"Oh, for sure sir! Nothing can ruin this place!"
The man in front of him raised an eyebrow at the enthusiasm of the new recruit, but only said," well then. You're hired."
The joy radiating from Mike was immeasurable. He got to work here! At Culvers! Finally, he could learn what made their burgers so tasty! He coul-
"You start work tomorrow at 10, we'll tell you what to do," the man informed him, interrupting the daydreams Mike was having. "See ya."

The next day, he showed up bright and early, ready to start work. "What do I do today?" He asked excitedly, bouncing on his heels impatiently. His supervisor, an elderly woman who clearly wanted to retire from this typist job, sighed and handed him a mop. "You can clean the place."
Seeing him standing there, hopes broken, she added,"get to work!" And proceeded to start making the custard for the day. Customers came and went, ordering everything from the signature butterburger to a generic soda, and nobody paid any mind to the cleaning boy.
This continued for days, weeks, and soon months, until he was promoted to register.
Again, every day was the same,"hello! May I take your order?" And "it will be ready in a few minutes." Day in, day out, the same thing. Eventually he decided that working his dream job wasn't a great as he thought, until, after six grueling order-taking months, he was promoted once more to food preparer.

The next morning, Mike walked into work, enthusiasm for his job reduced from level Spongebob to level Squidward. "What do I do today?" He asked automatically, as he always asked when he came in.
The supervisor called from the back,"cooking! Come over here!"
His eyes lit up once more, and he practically ran to the kitchen. "Do you mean it? You really mean it?"
"Mm-hm. Now, be a dear and grab some meat from the freezer, would you?"
He obliged gladly, but just as he was about to close the door, his gaze flicked to a suspicious package. Tan did not seem to be the color of cow they used, and everything they bought came pre-processed anyway. What? Upon closer examination, it turned out that it wasn't a cow.
It was an arm. A human arm lay, wrapped in plastic, in a restaurant freezer. It made Mike feel like throwing up. Shaking, he strode back to the supervisor and informed her of his find.
"Oh, you didn't know? We use human meat for out burgers," she explained nonchalantly, as if it was a common fact.
"But...where do you get the meat?" Mike questioned, still shaking. His nerves were being overloaded, freaking out so much that he looked like he was having a sugar rush. Another thought struck him, and the employee remembered his co-worker. "And where's Tina? I didn't really see her after that she got promoted here, did she quit?"
Yet another person stepped out from behind a shelf holding pots, and it was Mr. Culvers himself.
"Haha, nope. Sorry son, but you served her up the following day."
Too late did Mike see the knife that the businessman was holding, and his supervisor stood by as her employee got dragged, struggling, to the walk-in freezer. One last shrill scream was heard before an eery silence settled overrun them, and work resumed as usual, but if you listened very closely you could hear a knife sawing through the flesh of an innocent victim.
And his name was Mike.

[Startedraining]

my most praised work is this one...then again, this one has had the most readers. *shrugs and scampers away nervously*
you name it, I write it, and I'm happy to pull up my old stories.

"They say never to work at your favorite restaurant, you know. You sure you want this job?" The interviewer asked cautiously, questioning Mike Johnson's request to work for Culvers.
"Oh, for sure sir! Nothing can ruin this place!"
The man in front of him raised an eyebrow at the enthusiasm of the new recruit, but only said," well then. You're hired."
The joy radiating from Mike was immeasurable. He got to work here! At Culvers! Finally, he could learn what made their burgers so tasty! He coul-
"You start work tomorrow at 10, we'll tell you what to do," the man informed him, interrupting the daydreams Mike was having. "See ya."

The next day, he showed up bright and early, ready to start work. "What do I do today?" He asked excitedly, bouncing on his heels impatiently. His supervisor, an elderly woman who clearly wanted to retire from this typist job, sighed and handed him a mop. "You can clean the place."
Seeing him standing there, hopes broken, she added,"get to work!" And proceeded to start making the custard for the day. Customers came and went, ordering everything from the signature butterburger to a generic soda, and nobody paid any mind to the cleaning boy.
This continued for days, weeks, and soon months, until he was promoted to register.
Again, every day was the same,"hello! May I take your order?" And "it will be ready in a few minutes." Day in, day out, the same thing. Eventually he decided that working his dream job wasn't a great as he thought, until, after six grueling order-taking months, he was promoted once more to food preparer.

The next morning, Mike walked into work, enthusiasm for his job reduced from level Spongebob to level Squidward. "What do I do today?" He asked automatically, as he always asked when he came in.
The supervisor called from the back,"cooking! Come over here!"
His eyes lit up once more, and he practically ran to the kitchen. "Do you mean it? You really mean it?"
"Mm-hm. Now, be a dear and grab some meat from the freezer, would you?"
He obliged gladly, but just as he was about to close the door, his gaze flicked to a suspicious package. Tan did not seem to be the color of cow they used, and everything they bought came pre-processed anyway. What? Upon closer examination, it turned out that it wasn't a cow.
It was an arm. A human arm lay, wrapped in plastic, in a restaurant freezer. It made Mike feel like throwing up. Shaking, he strode back to the supervisor and informed her of his find.
"Oh, you didn't know? We use human meat for out burgers," she explained nonchalantly, as if it was a common fact.
"But...where do you get the meat?" Mike questioned, still shaking. His nerves were being overloaded, freaking out so much that he looked like he was having a sugar rush. Another thought struck him, and the employee remembered his co-worker. "And where's Tina? I didn't really see her after that she got promoted here, did she quit?"
Yet another person stepped out from behind a shelf holding pots, and it was Mr. Culvers himself.
"Haha, nope. Sorry son, but you served her up the following day."
Too late did Mike see the knife that the businessman was holding, and his supervisor stood by as her employee got dragged, struggling, to the walk-in freezer. One last shrill scream was heard before an eery silence settled overrun them, and work resumed as usual, but if you listened very closely you could hear a knife sawing through the flesh of an innocent victim.
And his name was Mike.

I do enjoy it, but it could use some work p:
I write horror, not murder directly;

Dark rain pressed like tiny fingers on the windows, tapping, wanting desperately to enter. I walked further and further into the heart of the old, abandoned house. My footsteps echoed as I walked among the great, horrifying halls. I had let myself in, persuaded by the stinging rain and the realization that I was all alone. My parents had crashed the car, and had not survived. Only I drew breath. Soon the reporters came, clawing at me for a sob story, when all I felt was shock. Before too long, I seemed to go insane, and fled screaming from the scene, pushing my way through the police and the rain. I ran until I saw the only place they would not attempt to search- the old Decessus Mansion.

Spiders waltzed among their silver floors, and did not mind me as I numbly turned a corner. The building was ancient- it even smelled old. It was beautiful though- terribly beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful, I thought as my hands danced along the delicately papered walls. It was a sad, antique beauty that also sparked an ancient, terrible fear that would have stirred the lowest demon in hell. But for a teenage girl who had just lost everything, including her sanity it seems, it only made me cry. I quietly glided from room to room, glancing at each one as I passed. The echo of dripping tears ricocheted off the towering walls. When I had gone through all but one room, I had come to know this house as my own self. I gazed at the final, closed door, not knowing what horrors lay behind it. With the floorboards creaking and moaning beneath me, I turned the cold brass knob.

Crumbling, pathetic stairs fell into the darkness. I recoiled as the ancient stench reached my nose. Something must have fallen to its demise in the folds of the shadows, for the reek of death was overpowering. I should have left right then. I should have never come into that cursed place, but I did, and it cost me dearly. I found a candle, and with nothing to lose, I pulled my soaking shirt over my nose, and plunged into the nightmare.

I was soon walking further and further into prehistoric halls, and my tiny flame danced wildly among the elderly walls. Each stair moaned, and threatened to give way, but it held on by some dark magic. My hands began to trace the hard, cold, damp walls. A bug skittered over it, and I gasped as another crunched under my foot. I treaded carefully, beginning to hear the warnings. Go back, the pattering rain murmured. This is not where you belong. Ignoring what was truly a warning from God, I walked further down the skeleton stairs.

The rain began to fade away, and the drip drip of falling condensation once again told me to return to the world above ground. I was deaf to its benevolent pleas. The stench got stronger and stronger as I retreated deeper into the bowels of this pit. My curiosity was waning as the smell became all the more unbearable, and the routine of going down the wretched stairs was beginning to bore me, dragging my mind back the reality that I was alone. Then, something in the candlelight interested me. A corner. It sang songs of hope to my frayed mind, yet now I know that it was only a lion dressed as a lamb. I heard lightning crash outside. A final cry to me, yet I did not listen. How foolish.As I turned the corner, a piercing scream escaped my lips. Rotting bodies littered the floor, reeking of pain. Many more danced from nooses tied to the rafters, swaying to their own horrific melodies. Others laid among the ground, spoiling in their own demise. A few loosely fingered guns, some wore knives in their chests, and a couple sprawled across the blood-stained ground, heads cracked like oh-so-fragile eggs. One corpse sat against the wall, empty bottles surrounding his remains. Bitter, acidic bile gnawed at my throat, as I watched rats feasting on the freshest body. The drip I had heard earlier was not water, but I fact the liquefied remains of one of the eldest bodies swinging from the rafters. I did not stop screaming. Unlike the rest of this cursed house, there was no beauty in this terror. I stood there and shrieked, until the arm of one of the tenants gave into gravity, and fell to the ground with a wet thud.

I dropped my candle, and sprinted through the darkness, as if I was being chased by the devil himself.I fell many times, but threw back unto my feet. When I came to the entrance of the hall, I slammed the door shut, wanting nothing more than to blur the previous image from my mind, and to burn this house to the ground. I refused to stop for long. As soon as I had gulped in the pure air, I was off again, but something detained me as I ran into it.

I fell to the ground, dazed and terrified. Shaking, I let myself be pulled up by a mysterious force. When my brain could slightly control itself, it pieced together the image of a boy dressed in black. He wore heavy eyeliner, streaked by tears. Trembling, I stared at him. He gazed back at me through hopeless eyes.

"Are you here for the Hanging House too?" He whispered.

Bewildered, I stared at him."W-what?" I stammered, images of the room below flashing in my head. I wanted to scream don't go down there, but I could not.

"This is Decessus Mansion, you know, Death Mansion. Most of us call it The Hanging House though. It's for people to commit suicide. It's a place to die." I let the truth sink into me. It was a place for people to throw away the pain and the suffering.

"Please, don't go down there." I finally squeaked. He sighed and hung his head.

"I have to. I have to end this pain. Goodbye." He said with dignity as he opened the monstrous door, and walked down to his death. I watched in terror as he was swallowed by the darkness. When he was gone, I fled. I ran, not stopping until the dark rain stung my face. Lightning lit up the world. I threw myself onto the ground, trembling and afraid, but I could not shelter myself from the crystal clear shatter of a bullet. As my body gave into the hysterical screaming, I had one last clear thought. Be it death bed, car wreck, or Hanging House, we all must have a place to die.



Not necessarily fond of the ending, but what're you gonna do cx

[interestingword]

man, seeing actual writing like yours makss me remember just how shabby my stories are. >.<
basically, everything I write is a rough draft.
everything.

whoa...that is brilliant. I love horror stories, but all I can think of for plots are murders, particularly realistic ones. Since January, I've seen enough murder advice on the internet that, if my writing was better, I could compile a handbook,

[Startedraining]

Aye, but then my writing isn't absolutely perfect either. I have a lot of work to do, most of it minor grammar errors and sometimes entire plots just don't work.


My writing takes a turn when romance comes into play though. I physically cannot write romance. It doesn't work.

[interestingword]

Aye, but then my writing isn't absolutely perfect either. I have a lot of work to do, most of it minor grammar errors and sometimes entire plots just don't work.


My writing takes a turn when romance comes into play though. I physically cannot write romance. It doesn't work.

erlgh, romance. Never written it, never want to, I can't write what I've never experienced.
though I hope someone is wondering about my murder stories after this statement.