Young Writers Society

So first off, check out the week's challenge in Writing Gooder, then fulfill the challenge and post your results here.

I'll post my attempts here as well.

Yep, I think that's it. Enjoy!

A- Alphabet Adjectives (Unfortunately I believe the original post for this was deleted from Writing Gooder somehow. But here's the example anyway.)

Astonishing. Bewildering. I can hardly take my eyes off the Colorless mug, Dainty in its Electric appearance. I find myself amazed by how Fearless the mug looks, in the way it seems Gloating and Haughty, bragging about the hot liquid within its edges. I cannot help but see the mug’s Intelligence, for it knows that keeping coffee inside its walls will keep out the biting cold of winter. Yet the mug is Jaunty and well Kempt as well, not of the ugliness of practicality surround it, for it knows how to be seen and noticed. I cannot even lift my fingers to take a sip of the heavenly liquid within the mug, for the mug is far too Luxurious and, if I dare say so, Majestic. It is Nice in every way, nice to see and nice to touch, and I can only hope that it is as Outstanding to the rest of the world as it is to me. I begin to wonder if the mug is not also Persuasive, and perhaps it is Queer that I find myself so attracted to its surfaces. Perhaps the mug is not as Royal as I first found it, though I cannot help but acknowledge that it must, at the very least, but Superior to all other mugs. There must be something to make the mug appear so Tantalizing in my hungry eyes. It must be Unique above all over mugs; it must be Virtuous is ever a mug was. And yet it seems Wasted now. It is more Xeric than anything else, as the coffee has been finished and there is no longer any sweet liquid to give the mug a purpose. It now looks Yearning, because it knows that its time has passed and there is no point to its Zeal.

B is for Being Blind (also unfortunately deleted from Writing Gooder. But this one was to write a story or poem about being blind with your eyes closed.


I remember the day that I first learned what sigt was. I had never known before what it meant that I saw only darkness, because in y ignorance I believed that I was not misssing out on anything. It was when I turned seven that I met her, the girl who told me what colors were. She was seven as well, onlly two deays older than me and a thousand times wiser. She had been born with the power of sight and lost her eyes when she was five. She told me what the wordl looked like, or at least she tried to. It was difficult because she would try to compare objects that I had never seen. How could you tell someone that the sky was orange if the person listening had never seen arange?

And so she compared the colors to noises and smells and touch. She would hand me an orange, and tell me to smell the fruit. "It smells fresh," I told her.
"That's what the color is ike, too," she told me, "fresh. Yellow is the same way, perhaps even more," and she fave me aglass of lemonade and told me to taste yellow.
And so together we learned to see the world in our own way. I felt snow and was told to understan the color blue, but I was also shown water and told that it too could be blue. I learned that colors could be different, and I learned that the world was so much more full than I could ever have imagined. She helped me through all of it, and I taught her to use smell an touch and taste and hearing even more than she could have imagined. We had a world of our own, a world all to ourselves, and it was wonderful.

C is for Convince the Cannibal http://www.writinggooder.com/2014/02/creative-catastrophe-c/

Dear Mr. Cannibal,
I am honored by your desire to have me for dinner; however, I am afraid I must decline. I imagine you have many reasons of why you believe I would make a splendid meal, but there are many more effective methods of feeding oneself.
You see, eating humans just for the sake of eating humans is simply preposterous! Have you never considered using humans to find more food for yourself? For example, you could start a farm, and then the same amount of people that would normally feed you for a week could become your slaves and feed you for a lifetime.
And if you insist on the taste of human flesh, then at least listen to what Jonathan Swift proposed in his short essay, “A Modest Proposal”, in which he outlines the idea of taking babies from poor families and using them as delicacies. This method could help you very much, as the parents would still be around to work in your farm and to produce children. You could save every third child and allow him or her to grow into adulthood and thereby keep your property well stocked all the time.
I suppose now you will ask if I care to become your first worker, but I must also decline that invitation. You can imagine that I am a very busy person, and I simply don’t have the time to spend growing food for cannibals. Not to mention I am extremely weak and can barely life five pounds. I would be beyond unhelpful in a farm setting, and I’m allergic to dust and animals and plants, all of which exist on farms. Trust me, you don’t want me sneezing into your soup or having an asthma attack while chopping vegetables.
I apologize again for not attending your dinner, and I sincerely hope that you can find someone else to replace me. I trust that you will take my suggestions into consideration and perhaps I may have the honor of visiting your farm if you do choose to take my advice.
Sincerely,
Me

D is Disorienting Dialogue http://www.writinggooder.com/2014/02/creative-catastrophe-d/

I did it all in my head.

No calculator,

No paper.

I didn’t know that.

Well, I didn’t want people to feel bad.

Ever seen Megamind?

Something like that.

Figure it out mathematically.

This could be either 116 thousand…

Pencil on paper.

Yawning.

A tapping finger.

I feel so smart.

I wasn’t getting it right.

I need my calculator.

I’m a stupid person, I need one.

You don’t need to add or anything.

Okay, look.

Oh, so six…

Yeah, that one fit.

This one…

You said this one.

So it’s this one.

Oh.

Seventy two.

I don’t know.

This one’s wrong.

Paper crumpling.

Yeah, because that…

Fine.

Is your internet working?

Chair slides.

Foot tapping.

Whispers.

Sigh.

No…

They trick me.

It’s not my fault.

Seriously?

I hate chemistry, it requires math.

What?

How do you go back?

Internet’s not working.

Loser.

I’m sorry.

I feel bad.

Wait, why is the heart on that green?

Yes, we actually have a lot of…

Sure it’s medical.

Mine was connected all yesterday.

I lived across the street from a place.

It was kind of sketchy.

I think your computer is.

No my computer is…

You’re computer is just too small.

I just wanna throw those things.

That’s mean.

Fail.

E is for Eccentric Eggs http://www.writinggooder.com/2014/02/creative-catastrophe-e/

Egg Haiku

New life in this shell
But we will tear it away
With no saddened thought

Here's my Eccentric Egg xp

Haiku:
This is harder than
it looks. Like seriously
how do you do this.

F is for Fort of Fortunate Feet

Here is my fort and my attempt at writing poetry with my foot. I would tell you what it says, but I failed at foot writing and can't decipher the scribbles.

Well, I decided to participate in Creative Catastrophe G! I used a poem I wrought not to long ago. Horton's Egg

First I translated it into Japanese and back.


Then I took that and translated it into Swahili and back.


That was really fun! Maybe I'll try it again sometime.

Original:

Russian and back:



Then Japanese:

So I went from English, to Russian, Dutch, Latvian, Japanese back to English.

This is the original:

‘Glesga’, my home.

Broken concrete,

Illiterate people,

Slang terms which roll off the tongue.

Slang no one can understand

Filled with profanity and welcoming insults.

~

Where mothers scream for their children

To come ‘hame’.

Where ‘yer da’ doesn’t scream

Instead leaves.

~

‘Auld’ men tend to be alcoholics

Sleeping on Jamaica Street begging for their next ‘bevvy’.

~

Oh, what a place I have been blessed to;

A failing school system;

A nation of drunkards

Blaming the state for their ‘state’.

Indeed I have been condemned to stand here.

~

‘Ack away ye go ya dungerheed,’

They say when I oppose Labour.

‘Yer fae Glesga, be Gleswegin.’

They encourage.

~

Sometimes I am proud.

We are a nation of laughter:

Men in tartan skirts, bagpipes are played as ‘music’.

We are sarcastic, loud, obnoxious.

~

And we are stubborn.

Stubborn as a mule.

A mule rooted to the ground.

Which will be our downfall.



And here is the end result. I got, I had a good laugh at it xD

" Glesga " my house .

Concrete crushed ,

The illiterate

Roll-off rules slang tongue .

Slang is not a can not understand anyone

It is filled with curse , welcome to insult .

~

Where is the mother screaming for her children

I will come to "clip" .

Here Do not Cry hidden Yes "

The leaf instead .

~

Guys " , is usually alcoholism

Lying to the street begging for Jamaica for the " drink " your next .

~

Oh , I kādavieta you are satisfied ;

Failure of the school system ;

Nation of drunk

To indicate the national debt , and for them the " state" .

Indeed , I have been accused of standing here .

~

"I ACK your move dungerheed "

They say when , I talked to work .

Glesga fairy "Oh is Gleswegin."

They are contributing .

~

Sometimes I am proud .

We , esamtauta a laugh :

Quilt of men , bagpipe playing as "music" .

We , in ironic loud , unpleasant .

~

And , we're stubborn .

Stubborn as a mule .

Mule was converted .

It will be our downfall .

I'm going to work my way through all of them! Here is my 'a' and I know I stole a few of your adjectives for the toughies... like 'x' hehe

Amazing.
There is no other way to describe such
a Beautiful creature. How their steps slope
as they slide down the street.

Colourful.
That’s what adorns their wrists:
pocketfuls of bright reflecting mirrors
that paint their skin so tight.

Different.
So very different from the bone they came from
and how they still hold themselves separate
like a fish that escapes the line.

Elegant.
It’s all I can see in the tilt of that head
as their mind wanders through the motions
that they drift through every day.

Flawless,
as if they’ve been blessed by a Grace
that no other could imitate. Their small
bounces of Happiness in a single stip.

Independent.
How they lean on an arm when given one,
but would refuse it till the point of collapse
as if finding Joy in proving themselves.

Kempt.
Not a breath of hair out of place,
wrapped around their pointed nails
which are Lusciously pampered.

Magnificent.
As if their diversity gives them an inner glow
which draws a man’s eyes out of their sleep
and onto their bodies.

Naughty.
Oh how they come alive through the night.
Their bodies gyrating and grinding in
Outlandish but arousing manners.

Plausible.
They know their place but they are take others,
with reason that no one can deny.
Quaint and Revengeful, no one stands in their way.

Sexy.
There is no other word as their Thin bodies
that Urge each other to drown out their Virginity.
Spinning it down the wet sink and away.

Wise.
They always know where to go, what to do.
How to replenish a Xeric soul and dispose
of the Yellowish poison that fills the cup.

Zany.
A woman, will always keep you guessing.
Because they can be all the things in the world,
but at the same time, none at all.

Aaaand my Google gallivanting one My fave so far! Original first, translations later...

The children move so quietly these days.
We told them to be seen, not heard
but they can still hear us. Even when we think
they can’t. They hear our cries for help as
we lose the world to our own sins.
They see what we’ve done, what we’ve committed
and are persecuted for it every day.

No, there are no more children these days.
They have all grown up in short little bodies.
Knowing the truth, but daring not to speak it,
and seeing solutions, but commanded to silence.
If only we asked their wisdom before we trained
and pounded their open minds into boxes like ours.

The children move so quietly these days,
but they are plotting against us. Because they have gathered
in words and numbers. They know the only way
to save themselves.
Is by killing us.

--

Children still.
Tell them that we see, hear,
But we can hear. Even if we think
Failure. Hear our voices
Generally, the loss we have.
We will try to see what we do, what we stand for
The aim is to provide on one day.

Of course, there's more than that, these days.
All small businesses grow.
To find out the truth, but dared not speak,
And find solutions, but also to stop it.
If their intelligence research, and problems just before
And control of their minds open window like us.

Children and even today,
But it is against us. Why reality
Sofia and figures. They know that the only way
Savings.
It kills us.

Deanie wrote:Aaaand my Google gallivanting one My fave so far! Original first, translations later...

The children move so quietly these days.
We told them to be seen, not heard
but they can still hear us. Even when we think
they can’t. They hear our cries for help as
we lose the world to our own sins.
They see what we’ve done, what we’ve committed
and are persecuted for it every day.

No, there are no more children these days.
They have all grown up in short little bodies.
Knowing the truth, but daring not to speak it,
and seeing solutions, but commanded to silence.
If only we asked their wisdom before we trained
and pounded their open minds into boxes like ours.

The children move so quietly these days,
but they are plotting against us. Because they have gathered
in words and numbers. They know the only way
to save themselves.
Is by killing us.

--

Children still.
Tell them that we see, hear,
But we can hear. Even if we think
Failure. Hear our voices
Generally, the loss we have.
We will try to see what we do, what we stand for
The aim is to provide on one day.

Of course, there's more than that, these days.
All small businesses grow.
To find out the truth, but dared not speak,
And find solutions, but also to stop it.
If their intelligence research, and problems just before
And control of their minds open window like us.

Children and even today,
But it is against us. Why reality
Sofia and figures. They know that the only way
Savings.
It kills us.

Reminds me of my youtube series where I take famous works of literature and put them through google translate

Hey Everybody!! Guess what? Creative Catastrophe is back up and running, starting where I left off at the letter R.
http://www.writinggooder.com/2014/10/cr ... strophe-r/
Be sure and check it out if you get a chance and pester me like crazy if I don't post something next Wednesday as well.