Welcome to tWR's third Affiliates Feature*, a monthly blog to showcase and feature some of our affiliates. If you have the time, please do check out & support these wonderful groups!
If you're interested in seeing the other groups we're affiliated with, you can find the list on the group's About Us page.
*Suggestions for a better name are most
(As are suggestions of any other kind!)
is one of the most inventive and respected writing prompt groups on dA. All of their prompts are specific, detailed, and will have you flexing your short-story writing muscles! If you are looking for a challenge to get you writing again, I definitely urge you to check this group out, because while writing to specifications can be difficult, it can really bring out and encourage your creativity, and some amazing
pieces have come out of this group.
Is thinking about what you're writing really that much of an issue? Busting something out in moments doesn't mean anything because you've invested practically nothing in the piece. If I post a prompt where you immediately think "I can't do anything with this"... at the risk of totally offending everyone here, I will say this about that: Nothing good comes easy. You might get the idea when you're least expecting it. Let it sit in the back of your mind. It'll come to you. You'll see.
Be open to silly ideas. Be open to scary ones. Be open to new ones. Be open to ones that you know will take time, planning, thought and motivation to write.
What else? #ScreamPrompts
's About Us
page (which includes their Manifesto) lists their guidelines and all the information you need to know about the group - check it out if you plan to join!
The Admins widget on their main page
's Office Hours and information about how best to keep up with the group's happenings.
Their latest prompt
- focusing on story hooks, and with lots of helpful guidance and links to resources! Harpy Holidays & New Year Business
, promoting a friend in need of help. #ScreamPrompts
' blog page
links (at the bottom of the widget on the right-hand side) to some helpful & interesting sermons.
The PullWhen I was younger, someone showed me a video gametoo weird for me, but it made her laugh, and she was pretty. You played as this little guy with a squishy hammer for a head, and you rolled a sticky ball around in front of you. As you rolled it, things got stuck until the ball was gigantic. And then... I don't know. I don't remember the point of the game, nor do I remember the name.
But that image comes back to me every time I am anxious. I am that little person running around, pushing a ball, and things stick to it. Only they aren't cows or trees or parts of buildings: they are things that make me nervous. The attention of people. My sparse resume. The way I can never look someone in the eye when we first meet.
Oh. And I don't have a squishy hammer for a head.
Regardless, today is like that. I've talked to too many people and some weird man had told me he was my father and my mother was on the back of a book with a different name but the same damn face.
While I was walking home,
BlackIt began in the quietest hours of the night. Granny was snoring up a storm, her bed creaking with each breath and twitch of her bigness. That's always the first thing I remember, thinking back. She always snored in the same way Pappy revved up the engines of his prized Cadillac. Loud, proud, and never ending.
I s'pose I should start with what happened before hand. Nothing will make sense if I don't. It don't make no sense anyhow, but the story won't be right if I don't start before everything got bad.
So we were in the market, Granny and I. We go every Sunday while my parents and siblings are at praise and worship with most of the rest of the town. We get all the best stuff that way without havin to elbow our way through the hordes of people doin their last minute shoppin for Sunday dinner. Granny always said that the best book couldn't keep her from making Sunday dinner, and no man in the sky gonna keep her from her shoppin.
"Jerry, you got them apples for me?" Grann
III. A Veil, DarklyHe looks so tired. I want to sweep my hand across his eyes, as people do for the dead in movies, gracefully lowering his lids with my palm to give him peace. But he is alive, and I am the one who is not.
It's a dinner, I gather, that keeps him up at night. A dinner for the ballet. He always was obsessive with his job, a right Diaghilev, though much kinder - no angry impresario, tapping his cane upon the floor to mark his displeasure. His is a more heartfelt lament, a downcast blue eye, a sigh of disappointment. The ballerinas stop their tapping at once and huddle, cooing like doves with concern for what they've done wrong, how can they improve, what has upset him so?
I hate them.
I've been, since birth, an envious sort. I would say unfortunately, but perhaps I should say ironically. These words have been so altered since their conception that I don't know anymore. They have tattooed their phonemes into something quite different, like reckless teenagers.
I have a reckless teenager. Had.
Estranga ScottBy accidentally picking up the phone, she was forced to drive two hours toward her hometown of Green Tripp, population approximately 85,000. Seattle, she hoped, would still be there when she got back. The time spent driving would be not for worrying about her city life but about the tight knots tied inside of her stomach; she wondered with guilt how bad the situation would be once she arrived at her old front door. Her sister, Gracette, was not frantic on the phone when she had called, but really, that could mean anything, she thought as she drove closer and closer to a past existence. Eight times during the course of the two-hour trip, Estranga Scott had pulled her car over to the shoulder of the road and just waited there. Waited for some answer, a sign maybe to turn aroundback to her city and back to what she believed was her real life. Ten years was too long to suddenly start leaping back.
Estranga had picked up the phone on Th
Take a look at the rest of their Gallery
is a group dedicated to showcasing their members' best work which includes nearly every genre you could think of! If you're looking for some excellent literature to read I highly recommend you scour the group's gallery
as you're sure to find some real gems there. Always looking for ways to share their member's work, %Word-Smiths
has a twitter account, a website, and an e-zine sparked from the group's premise to do exactly that.
We are not an exclusive group. We do, however, want your best work. We want poetry and prose that says something - tells a story; evokes a mood or memory; stirs an emotion; takes the reader out of him or herself. Only finished work, please - and only what you consider to be your best..
' Group Info
You can find the group's rules beneath the "group info" drop down, which is found on the right hand-side menu bar.
As always read the group's rules before submitting!
From their recently ended Colors Contest
, the group gives a Poetry Feast
, a feature for the winning entrants.
Want to know what #Wordsmiths
is doing when you're on the go? Follow their twitter account
They even have their very own website
where they promote their member's work even further. Artsmith Magazine
Prufrock processed 01Etherised upon a table in a much-deserted street
being carved and spoken of by Michaelangelo
The cheap hotel we'd been in
the smog-stained yellow window glass
Back then there was a time
Back then was time for time
For being loved by sculptors
who would shape one's self to form
One form only to last forever
and end time
Fleshless form so hard and slippery
sliding quickly off the hotel terrace
cracking in a thousand fissures
sliding down the street
with only yellow smoke to hide in
yellow fog to grease the way
fleeing from Michaelangelo
escaping from his love
Reaching now the seashore
Paddling out beyond the surf line
Hairless arms so stiff and clumsy
Catch a wave and
with broken limbs
Thrown off and falling
Ground down on shore to sand
to beach and bottom of the sea
before she left for work, mother sprayed her perfume at the door and said, "it's a waste, to spray it just after i've dressed, because the scent will have faded by the time i've done my hair and i'll just have to spray it again."
black branches are painted on the pale sky, and the sun is a dim beacon beneath a bed of low-hanging clouds; i crane my neck, aware of the sloshing sounds my steps make when i dizzily stray onto the host's lawn, soaking my socks.
"i never liked these," my sister told me, pointing at her new shoes. they were red balletflats embellished by gold embroidery and plastic diamonds. "i bought them because mami liked them. they're ugly, no?"
smoke from my cigarette is caught by the humidity, lingering around my head like an omen; the porch groans, saturated with rainfall, loathsome of my weight. i go inside, back to the party.
tia tasha sprayed her perfume twice, and i repeated what mother said; tia said mother was always more prudent but kind of a
A Roadside ShrineBoth worlds merge at the waystone.
Ivy embraces the cold chiseled stone like a lover, wraps the green expanse of its shade around etchings worn apart by winds and fervent hands. Thrice around and over the angel’s winds, the old world of meadows and glades and rushing rivers meets the new order of stone and plainsong and the many-coloured scourge of the cathedral pane.
Her wings stretch and flex behind her, trapped on some hot heavenly spire. A face smooth and beautiful and pure stares into the beyond, matches the ecstasy, imprisoned by the presence of God and never wishing to count the hours.
A mason’s fine hammer struck out the block from alien stones. But only the God-touched could have tapped stone to flow in ripples from a cloak of finest velvet, to etch every feather across her broad wings and prepare them for the stark white and fiery vermilion of the artist.
It must have brought tears to a peasant’s eyes; barbaric and dim and dumb f
Take a look at the rest of their Gallery