I saw this and I just had to do it. The novelty factor was mighty... and in all honesty, despite the long, bumpy decline-trend in the amount of writing I do, there's still a shameless little bastard part of me whom considers theirself a writer. That part made me have to do this.

Quoting from Khaz:

"Alrighty, so, I've seen tons and tons of memes for visual artists, and precious few for any other medium. I've only seen one meme for writers, and it was fun, but I feel like doing something a bit different. So, this is one created in the spirit of the art memes; the aim isn't to answer questions, but to practise your art in response to some instructions. I have never created a meme before, so feedback is definitely solicited: Too long? Too short? Too boring? Please tell me.

Anyhow, without further ado, I give ye:"


=Khaz's Writing Meme=

Write yourself an introduction paragraph however you like.

Starlight slinks quietly into the room, almost unnoticed, the door opened minimally to accept him and ensure the safe passage of his tail. His poise is irregular, but low and smooth, his muzzle hanging downward, not seeking attention. His eyes however, make a clear and definite pass of the room, seeking interest.

Finding a spot close, but not next to those who have his interest, the Fox settles his back against the wall and smirks, his sharp eyes dancing over the details of the room, his keen ears tuning in on all that interests him, his mind freed to wander.


Write a descriptive paragraph about being somewhere you've always wanted to go.

The pressure eased off on his chest, little by little and his beating heart steadied, but slowly, its racket seeming to fill the small chamber. His breath, so heavy so shortly ago, was gradually becoming lighter than ever. Suddenly, the drinks packet that had left his hand flew past his head, impossibly slowly. He released the clasp and with the slightest shift of his body, left the seat. He looked to the porthole and his breath was stolen, he was finally seeing the stars in their true glory.


For the hell of it, write a haiku about one of your favourite species.

I play with the Wolves,
Their poise is noble and dread,
Though truly they are daft.


Write a brief rant about something that's irked you lately, be it a politician or a toaster!

Hmmm, this is strange. I find myself without a rant today. That's normally my reason for any journal or comment on FA. Perhaps that should be my subject. For subject to whimsicality am I; prone to crusading on little issues, passionately and pointlessly. I expend my energies chasing little issues for no reward, for I beleive that idealism is something precious, to be treasured, to be used and conserved as necessary. Though my occasional unwanted rants my garner me unwanted attention, what I truly fear is not censure or chastisement, but apathy. I firmly beleive that cynicism is the mental equivalent of arthritis.


Write the most godawfully tacky, cliche, eye-bleedingly-badly written action scene you can muster.

"No! You're wrong, he WILL come!" she cried, struggling at her bindings as the evilly ethnic man leered uncomfortably, betraying his supposed moral superiority with a clearly lustful gleam in his eyes, a cruelly curved knife in his hands.

Suddenly, the door burst open! Drawing back in shock and forgetting their automatic weapons, the assembled communists fell back in awe as 300 lbs of American muscle flew through the air, an M16 in each outstretched hand, stitching the enemy lines with righteous bullets.

Landing and finding his feet again with a perfect commando roll, GI US smirked as the flood of brass casings scattered past his feet one way and a dozen or more communist arab terrorist foreigners fell the other with a slow, hanging groan that instead of decrying the pain and despair of a person subjected to death, admitted that they had been bested at the last by a morally superior force.

The 285 lb Iraqi-German man, with his Oxford education, bastard accent and evil, evil ideas of peace and sharing, sneered as he squared off against the 300 lbs of heroic white meat.

They looked each other in the eye - resolute free-world vigour meeting snide hypocritical evil - then launched at one another. The fight was brief, but fierce, a few underhanded blows landing impressively against the American hero, causing pain, but his will was strong and soon he was on top, landing one straight-up clean punch after another.

Soon, the fight was decided. The bronze-skinned man lay on the floor, beaten and panting.

The heroic, triangle-torsoed figure above him, turned his back with a gaudy quip and turned his attention to the glassy-eyed damsel.

"Look out!" the cry went up. The hero turned to see a Luger pointed straight at his head.

A shot rang out.

The evil, foreign man lay dead. The hero turned to see his ethnic minority pal standing in the doorway with a wise look in his eyes.

"You never did learn to watch your back, buddy."

Khaz, this was actually painful to write, even if it was fun. Grrr. z: )


Tag people by writing about them writing!

Age sat back, grim and resolute, a powerful shape pouring hate upon the Laptop screen. The words upon the screen betrayed him with their infidelity. He was angry at himself, too. Nothing worked. He grunted.

"Mars?" he asked aloud, without looking around.
"Yes, Age?" came the pleasant reply.
"Could I get some Skittles?" he asked, the mighty man sounding cheekily meek.
"Oh, go on then."

A smile cracked Age's lips. At that moment, a line of great evil came to mind. The old stuff. Words to break nations by. He hammered it out with great care and corrected it thirteen times before he was done. The finished result showed it, but was fun to read not any the less for it.