Write your own stories thread :)


I like to write my own stories regardless if they’re weird or not, but I lost the motivation to write because all my focus in on this game most of the time. I want to get back into the mood, and I do have ideas in my head, but I can’t seem to put it down on paper. Procrastination is my worst enemy.

Anyways, share your stories or make one up for fun, but please don’t go overboard and derail the thread with trolling or rants to attack the person. The stories can be weird, but have them make sense. Lol


I used to write a lot, still do from time to time, but it’s way too naughty to post here lol.


I mean, I kind of can. Just involves a whole lot of dialogue and details though. Nothing special.


Professor and Skipper dig a shallow hole that is intended to be a well. The Skipper uses a bamboo shovel and the Professor uses a bamboo post hole digger-style shovel.
PAN UP to reveal Professor and Skipper dig the well.
Skipper, why don’t we get Gilligan to help us with this well?
Gilligan help? Professor, you’ve been out in the sun too long.
Well, all he’d have to do is dig. He can’t do anything wrong if he’s just digging.
Skipper laughs.
SKIPPER (cont’d)
All right. Let’s find out.
Skipper stops digging.
SKIPPER (cont’d)
Mr. Howell explains to Gilligan the layout of the Howell Hills Estate that Mr. Howell will pay Gilligan to build. Mrs. Howell observes approvingly.
Now, nothing pretentious, Gilligan, you understand me now? A simple, flowing, fifteen-room mansion. Right, Lovey? I mean, we’ll have four baths, you understand? And we’ll have the – the servant quarters will be over there.
Mr. Howell points to the back of the clearing.
Oh, that’s the Skipper. I gotta run.
Gilligan turns to leave, but Mr. Howell stops him.
No, you’ll do nothing of the sort. You see, we’re planning the Howell Hills estate.
And you don’t want to get him in trouble with the Skipper, dear.
Lovey, we are no longer on shipboard.
(to Gilligan)
Uh, you see, now, this is exactly the way I want the little estate built, you see –
I gotta go. Later.
Gilligan turns to leave again, but Mr. Howell stops him again.
Stand your ground, Gilligan.
If I do, I’ll be buried in it.
Let the boy go, dear.
He is no longer a boy, Lovey. He is a man.
I’m a boy.
Gilligan turns to leave again, but Skipper, shovel in hand, walks up to them.
Skipper, you’re interrupting a business conference. And besides, you’re standing in the powder room.
Powder room? Business conference? Gilligan, will you get over there and start digging?
Aye, aye, sir.
Gilligan takes a few steps.
Come back here, Gilligan.
Gilligan steps back.
Get going, Gilligan.
Gilligan takes a few steps again.
Come back here, Gilligan!
Gilligan steps back.
Get going, Gilligan!
Gilligan takes a few steps.
Come back here!
Gilligan steps back.
(to Mr. Howell)
I gave him an order!
(to Skipper)
And I gave him a job!
I wish I were twins.
Maybe we should toss a coin.
I mean a bill.
A bill.
Mr. Howell points to a dollar bill stuck on the end of a short bamboo pole which marks a spot in the Howell Hills Estate plan.
is affixed to the top of a bamboo stake.
I’m having enough trouble running this island without a mutiny!
Well, who told you that you are running this island?
I am the Skipper!
At sea, you’re the Skipper! On land, I am Chairman of the Board!
The other castaways walk onto the future site of the Howell Hills Estate.
Professor, will you tell these people who’s in charge of this island?
Well, actually, no one is.
No one?
No one? Good heavens, this is anarchy!
It is not! I am in command!
No, I am running this island!
Mary Ann, disliking the yelling, covers her ears. Mrs. Howell plugs her ears with her gloved fingers. The Professor tries to calm them down.
Gentlemen, gentlemen.
Ginger moves forward.
I’ve got an idea. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we vote? You know, like an election.
An election?
The castaways begin talking among themselves. Mr. Howell is the most audible.
An election! That’s wonderful! Yes! I’ll spend millions on my campaign.
That’s unfair.
You’re right. It is unfair. Instead, I’ll buy the votes. Let me see.
Mr. Howell begins counting the castaways to determine how much it will cost him.


Im a poet, sadly I only use to write in portuguese
But anyway fb.com/melomendesmatheus


The world had grown dead. The roads are dead, the people have grown to savages, yet throughout there were always some form of human.
?: Day five hundred fourty two. Nobody else has come across me yet. The pistol is running low. Everything appears to be further away than usual. Everything seems to be fading.
The occasional walker comes along, the groans seeming to echo throughout the town.
?: Easy kill.
One motion with the knife, and it falls.
?: One day this will all be over…hopefully.
The road grows longer and longer the more time is spent on foot. More walkers fall. More distant gunshots could be heard.
?: I promise it will be over…


Lol just post it here. We’re all adults.


Lol, I’m sure it would get flagged or I would get banned for posting smut.


Oh wow lol. Yeah, I wouldn’t post that unless you get permission too. :joy:


I love to write sadly don’t seem to get a lot of time to anymore and when I do I’m too tired to :frowning:


We had an excellent non-fiction writer named kayla. Too bad she was always silenced.


Lol. Now I know we can’t post anything too crazy because QueenElla made a hardcore rap, and it got closed. I’m not sure how that went against tos rules though. It never states you can’t post explicit stuff there. :joy:


Well, if you’re referring to Kayla Dawson, yea she even admitted to me that she got a potty mouth. Lol


Its Nanowrimo so go join and that might inspire you :slight_smile: I try and do it every year but always get too busy!


I’m a writer in my free time on occasion. Typically my genre is satire. That is, when I’m not gloating about how great I am.


Two hrs ago I just started typing away :^). I like where my story going. It might not be as good, but it’s a start. I’m also trying the challenge.


I just write whatever is inside my head, and it seems to somewhat work most of the time.


Its scopely, c’mon now, lol


When I joined the forum I was fanboying real hard for The Wanderer. I’ve got an obsession with masked, hooded characters. I’m too edgy for my own good lol. So “The Survivor” was a homage to that. I’m not into RP but I did always kind of have a story in the back of my mind for the namesake. So I’ll give this a shot. And I know I’ve said it before - “The Survivor” isn’t me, it’s my username.

With the Saviors defeated, things became comfortable for the people of the allied communities. The Hilltop had a proper leader. The Kingdom more prosperous than ever. Alexandria was at the forefront of a new beginning and the Sanctuary was under new management. Together they would rebuild society to the way it was before. A government, an economy and grand dreams would pave the way for a new generation to exist in this ravaged world.

But settlement did not come without sacrifices. For what the communities gained in luxury they lost in the ability to survive in the unforgiving lands outside. The recent victory over tyranny and the comfort of walls began to make them soft. Many put down their arms and vowed to build rather than fight ever again.

Outside the large communities small groups still raided camps that couldn’t protect themselves. These savages continued to conduct their assaults on the innocents while the communities armed forces remained in retirement. They continued unhinged, unpunished. Until one day a mysterious champion emerged.

A group of raiders charged into a small camp some miles from Alexandria just outside the edge of the thriving community’s reach. These raiders, taking too much satisfaction in their wicked assaults, had pillaged camps for months. Rather than building something for themselves and maintaining their own land in civility they sought to take from others. One hero had begun ghosting this notorious band of miscreants and armed himself to put an end to their vile acts. Having followed them for days waiting for an opportunity he knew that it was time to strike.

As the villainous men began to sack the camp for supplies the mysterious man emerged from the shadows. Rushing toward his opponents with a makeshift baton he immediately knocked out the only two equipped with firearms. A quick flurry of forceful hits aimed at the base of their skulls and they dropped to the ground. The remaining three halted in awe at the sight of the figure that stood before them. A hooded, masked man adorned in armor holding a bloodied baton. One of them spoke.

“And what are you supposed to be? Some kind of post apocalyptic super hero?”

The hooded hero was silent.

“What are you waiting for, boys? Kill this asshole!”

Two of the raiders lunged toward the man. Without hesitation he pulled a hidden pistol out from underneath the hoodie and fired a barrage of bullets. One of the lunging men managed to get shot in the head and his corpse collapsed to the ground. The other was hit in the gut and retreated. The lead raider was furious.

“You’ll pay for that!”

He threw his weapon, a tire iron, at the masked man’s armed hand. The pistol fell to the ground. Taking a moment to recover from the pain of the impact, the hero left himself open. The leader leapt toward him and tackled him to the ground. He attempted to strangle him. The hero, overpowered by the man, having little chance to win this encounter with his bare hands reached for his baton on the ground nearby. The raider, believing that he had hold of man’s life began to gloat.

“I’m not afraid of your little stick, boy.”

The masked man, finally grabbing hold of his weapon, displayed it in the air. Revealing that a sharpened blade was attached to the other side. The raider’s eyes widened and them slowly traveled backward into lifelessness as the hero plunged the cold steel through the side of his head. The leader now dead, the hero approach the remaining raider who laid injured.

”I didn’t like it. But we did what we had to survive,” He pleaded for his life. “Okay, okay! Make it quick. Just do it.”

The hero did not respond with words. He sheathed his weapon and pointed at the survivors who had taken refuge when the raiders attacked that started approaching them.

“No! Don’t leave me with them! Kill me yourself coward!”

The mob took care of the rest. And like that the mysterious hero was gone as quickly as he appeared.

The stories changed. As word spread from one person to the next, the tale of the mysterious hero’s debut evolved from a valiant brawl to that of a superhero saving the day from destruction. Shifting from a rugged fighter to a skilled survivor who possessed the strength of ten men. The theories of his muteness growing more fantastical with each story. But the particular details that always remained the same was his appearance. His tattered hoodie with it’s fading red color underneath an outer layer of repurposed motorcycle body armor. The frayed black and white shemagh that obscured his face. The dirtied bandages that covered his hands and forearms. And of course his weapon of choice, a homemade baton constructed from PVC. One end blunt, the other, a blade attached. Mercy and death fashioned into one weapon. The physical representation of every survivor’s necessary skill: the ability to save a life and take one.

As the hero traveled across regions, helping those in need, his esteem began to spread. And with his reputation grew a name. From corner to corner of what remained of Virginia people all around spoke of the one known as “The Survivor”. A figure who protected the innocent. A fighter who would not back down no matter the odds. A legend with no identity because it did not need one. The Survivor was a person like you and me. With the strength and determination to endure this cruel world of the living and the undead. His feats were not impossible. He could be anyone. He IS anyone.


Excellent :blush: