A fun and interactive way of writing with a group. Imagine sitting around a campfire with a group of your friends. The leader of the campfire begins a story that is then passed around the group for their input. With up to 25 participants, you never can tell where these are going to lead!

Watching how another author attacks a scene or where they take a story can be enlightening and help you improve your own writing. This will improve your confidence as well.

You've heard the phrase two heads are better than one. This is where you will see it first hand. Writing collabortively can be an eye-opening experience for an author.

Working alongside another writer may require you to make a commitment. It's also a great way to learn to write impressive dialog. Why? Because you're actually talking to another person. Try it. You might be surprised at how much you learn.

The messages started earlier this year. It seemed every time I removed the spray-painted words the vandals knew it. Soon the words would reappear when I had returned from work at the University. Fortunately the lock stymied them from getting inside the meteorological station, my escape.

With the press of right fingers on the entry pad, the door retracted into the wall. I hung the hat and rain slicker on hooks by the door. Water streamed off them, onto the stone floor and through the grill to the drain pipe.

"Hello there, young man. Fancy anything you see?" he said. A hood was covering most of his face. His voice was a sort of scratchy whisper, but with an ominous undertone Pete found unnerving.

He began to look at the objects sticking out of the pockets inside the large jacket. It was all mostly junk- silver spoons here, a pocket calculator there... until his eyes rested upon a pencil that was sticking out of its own pocket. He looked closer and found that a silver ring was looped around it. It wasn't particularly attractive in any way, but there was something special about it and Pete had a hard time looking away.

There are three things everyone knows about Tilly Archer. She kept to herself, had no friends and was very strange. So peculiar in her ways in fact that her own mother, Mrs Audrey Archer, who was a rather primp and proper woman, would remark on more than one occasion to the neighbours “That’s just our Tilly, puzzling girl, but I’m sure she will grow out of it.” However Tilly most certainly would not grow out of it, as sometimes odd behaviour runs in the family.

She walked forward, already extending her arm over her head, as soon as he watched the
yellow shine of a car appear in the corner of the street. Her hands were chubby, and her
fingers short —added to that, she was only a meter and a half tall—, so she had to extend
her whole body into the road in order to be visible among the crowd.

The taxi, blessedly, stopped in front of her. She leaped into it, and rattled the address of
Aunt Zee’s house.

On this sunny day, I also had to deal with rubbish, as per my usual routine. One lousy camper had left some rubbish, and I was forced to clean up after him. That's when I heard footsteps, gentle footsteps, coming from afar. As an immediate natural response, I jumped to hide behind a tree and peeped from the tree with the corner of my eye. I saw a little girl walking down a trail carrying a basket filled with food. I was able to smell the delicious food from a mile away. She looked rather suspicious, her clothing was fully red, with a cloak covering her head as if she was hiding from someone. I revealed myself and stopped her in her way to see who she was, asking her:

Have you ever been on the precipice of death?

I have.

It was an age ago, I was still a teenager.

The man’s heart was frozen solid. However, unlike the frost that clung to the trees, the frost around his heart had not appeared overnight. It had slowly appeared through the days and years that made up his life. Through this time, layer after layer formed around his emotions until, death and despair were both nothing to him. The man let out a depressed sigh as he put the pieces of his project together while reviewing the steps in his head.

Cries of a perfectly,
Imperfect human.
Cries buried deep inside
a glamorously astonishing smile.