Handwriting Poetry Novels & Stories

He was only gone for a few minutes and when he returned, he was holding what looked like a journal. “This is where I record my poems,” he explained, handing me the book. I stared at the dark brown, average-looking journal, hesitant to take it from him. But he held it out to me with certainty in his eyes. “Are you sure?” I found myself asking. “I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t sure.” I took the book from him and flipped open a few pages. He had incredible handwriting that looked like it belonged to the 1800s. I was surprised that his handwriting didn’t upgrade as the centuries went on.

My eyes scanned the handwriting. <<<

Confused, I rolled my eyes and placed my phone on the dresser as I started to decide what to wear; pulling on one of Emrys’ tee shirts, that were long enough to kiss my mid thigh, I decided to waltz downstairs and helped myself to a bowl of bubble gum ice cream. Time flew by as I found myself getting lost in a collection of poetry by Sylvia Plath, her words of sorrow, shame, death, and self guidance clouding my own thoughts, making my mind dance with new ideas of what to write, and with sudden inspiration, I jumped up from the couch and sprinted into one of Emrs’ downstairs library. Passing rows and rows of books, I made myself comfortable at one of his desks and began to write. ~Touch my ha

“Your question is a little silly. You may ask the people in the entire world of America. How many of them can’t write?” Alex said, “Writing words is not a big deal, but it’s a great talent for being to write poetry.” Eastern Emperor Mooncrate asked, “Can you write as well?” Alex was helpless. “Fine! I’ll write a few words and show you!” He did not use a pen, but he wrote words in the air with his finger. He wrote the strokes elegantly as his finger moved. “Most of the righteous ones are ordinary people engaged in lowly occupations, and those who act against their consciences are mostly intellectual ones!”

I'll be posting prompts for story openings based on our ongoing contests, successful outlines and designs, and if you are up for it, take it and write it out~ Come back to me with your own story and I have contracts to offer~ (well, if you already have a senior editor with GN, go to them :P Code for outline: User ID + Writing Sample ------- They aren't mates. She knew that even before she turned 18 because how could the moon goddess match two people who are the exact opposite? She's lively when he's gloomy; she's all about fun when all he talks about is responsibility.

He also received International Peace Prize in 1950. He wrote a variety of styles including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography, and erotically charged love poems. 'Trenty love poems and a song of despair is such a kind of his poetry collection. The significant thing about him was that he used green ink when he wrote. It is hoped that it was his personal symbol for desire and hope.

Not a congratulatory note. But… a poem. Handwritten. Bold black ink on crisp white linen paper. The lines felt like echoes from a nearly forgotten time—like her own voice. > “When rain taps on glass, I hear the whispers left unfinished. It wasn’t love that died, But faith beaten down by time.” Evelyn stiffened. This... was a poem she had written years ago—a poem she had never posted, never shared publicly. She had written it in her leather-bound journal, pages only ever shown to one person—William.

I pick up the small piece of paper, flipping it over to find something scribbled onto it. “For my beam of moonlight.” It reads and I flip the paper all over again but there was nothing else written on it— not even an indication of who wrote it— nothing but the five word note written with black ink at the center of the plain white paper. My curiosity turns into confusion because this was written in Raegan’s handwriting. Was it from him then? It was poetic, something Raegan would do because he was the only one I know that loved to read and write poems or poetics stuff. It was a trait he’d gotten from mother.

Further in. Sandra’s handwriting. He’d been looking at it for three weeks on the first page and now he turned past it and found her properly. The handwriting of someone who wrote for herself rather than for an audience, quick, slightly slanted, words running together where she was moving faster than the pen. Quotes she’d liked. “You don’t have to have it all figured out to take the next step.” “The bravest thing is to keep going when you don’t know what you’re going toward.”

With my left hand, I struck the heavy, jagged cursive of the southern wild: “I raised my eyes to follow the white moon,” Simultaneously, my right hand carved the sharp, biting lines of the northern ridge laws: “Yet the silver light only exposes the filth of the gutter.” The quills didn't scratch; they flowed across the parchment with the weight of an Alpha’s daughter. The lines were thick, steady, and flawless. The silence that followed was absolute. The senior masters stepped forward, their eyes wide as they stared at the dual scripts, each written in a completely different tribal dialect with perfect pressure.