As I am now pursuing the area where my true talents seem to lie as a writer, I found myself in a room on the third floor of the City Archives in Aberdeen searching through documents dating back 262 years...the Highlands and Islands or in Aberdeen City and Shire but it will eventually be rolled out across Scotland.  So, if you are eligible and have read the guidelines online, what are you waiting for

All right dear friends, it's that time again.  The time when I need to write something, but lack a theme, topic, motivation, etc.  If anybody could be so kind as to provide some sort storyline (it doesn't... if anyone could provide some topic or storyline, I'd be obliged.  Thank you all for taking the time to read through this muddled mess and thanks again if you take the time to consider my plight

Okay, so despite what my title sounds like, I'm in no trouble. Not really. I've just joined a creative writing club and they asked each of the members to write a piece and bring it in to share with the...sky (or any sort of flight) for her for quite some time. Because, quite possibly the worst thing about giving this boy her heart was that, even though he didn’t want it, he refused to give it back

“Laughing Sky knew that action had to be taken against Malsum, but he also knew that he needed more than just his hunting skills. He would need to set traps and aim to use every tool,...violence and rage grow in his heart. It was that much more convincing to hear it in that tone. Come back when you're older... Come back when you're older... Come back when you're older...

I had to write this for Creative Writing. Its supposed to be scary, but mostly its just grody. Enjoy. Vermin Control             My hands are stained with the blood of another human being...not from poison, not from bullets, and not from a beating. When the body was found miles away from where we dropped it, the coroner discovered water in his lungs. The filth had drowned in the river.

So, I was looking through old e-mails, and came upon this creative fiction story I wrote in grade 11, I think. I had to write a story about John Keats, who was a poet, based on research, but then also...just closed his eyes and went to sleep for the last time. I held his hand tightly to my chest as I began to weep uncontrollably, and vowed, from then on, to never take a single moment for granted.

I hate plays, with a passion. I CANNOT WRITE DIALOG AND I REFUSE TO TRY. It's not my problem that my creative writing professor is a playwrite; just because you are doesn't mean all of us are. Ask me to... I just wrote about fifty more things, then accidentally hit the wrong button, and it all got deleted. So fuck this. I'm in astronomy right now, so I guess I should attempt to pay attention

    Dagny Taggart knows how she's going to die, and as she sits at the breakfast table alone, she realizes that she's okay with it.  It comes to her in a vision, like something given to a prophet or a...her corn flakes, chewing slowly as she swallows like she's suppose to.  There's something comforting in knowing the end before you get there.  Apparently it's not just the good that die young

so much can be said for the crudely-drawn cats on my favorite coffee mug stained with day-old grounds and caked-on sugar granules

His hair was the dead grass on the neighbor's lawn and his eyes were the two most distant stars in the universe and his eyebrows were warring caterpillars and his nose was Little Bo Peep's hook and... and his marriage was a drunk behind the wheel and their flirtation was a pair of Pull-ups. She was Tuesday morning and shaved her legs for him. She was his toothbrush and he wore her out