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curl-6 on 21 April 2013
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JoeTheBro said:
curl-6 said:
c03n3nj0 said:
curl-6 said:
I got a short story published in an anthology at age 11, did extra classes at year 9-10 level when I was in year 5-6, got the highest grade in my state for the national fiction writing competition at age 14, won the national mental health poetry prize age 15, and wrote a 235,000 word novel from age 12 to 18, stopping for a few years in the middle to prioritise school work.


Woah. I wouldn't mind reading one! 

I still have them lurking around somewhere, here's the one from when I was a 11: (I know, it's not shakespeare, I was a child)

 

Midnight

Infinite darkness reigns over the silent forest. Stars pierce the dark veil of the sky to cast their ghostly illumination upon the sleeping world below, and the moon's pearly radiance cuts a swathe through the thickness of black, majestic in its ethereal beauty.

 

Guided only by that unearthly light, a creature of the night glides through the trees below with flawless silence and precision.

Leathery wings ride the gentle currents of air, and huge round eyes contemplate the incandescent sky above as the creature navigates the trees, their branches reach outward as if to ensnare the delicate flier.

Sensitive ears detect the slightest noise, as its sonar extend into the night, its eerie echoes to mapping its surroundings.

Abruptly the sonar echoes change, becoming more distant and detached, as their source inadvertently enters a much more dangerous environment. No longer surrounded by trees, its sonar now finds no objects off which to reflect; it has entered an open area, though its primitive brain fails to interpret the potential threat posed by this discovery.

 

Suddenly a harsh, sulfurous glare burns its sensitive eyes, and a thunderous roar assaults its ears formerly attuned to silence.

The light intensifies as its source approaches at a speed that considering its gargantuan size seems impossible.

 

The terrified creature thrashes its leathery membranes in desperation, unsure as to the correct reaction it should take. Its instincts, while a perfect guide to natural survival contain no information on how to deal with this relentless monster.

 

The blinding lights grow rapidly brighter until even through tightly closed eyelids they sear the flier's sensitive eyes.

The stench of exhaust floods the creature's nostrils, and a sudden blast of raw heat and displaced air sends it reeling out of control, its naked wings beating helplessly as the truck thunders passed.

By a twist of fortune, the fragile creature avoids an unquestionably fatal impact, and falls downward, all sense of direction and gravity lost. Disorientated and dazed, it tumbles toward the hard, cruel asphalt below.

 

Suddenly the moon, like a drop of molten silver swims crazily across its spinning vision. Focusing its attention on that single, silver light amidst the churning darkness, the confused flier fixes its gaze on the moon above.

 

While nothing more than a luminous sphere of ghostly radiance, the moon provides the creature with a point of orientation, allowing it to regain control of its precarious flight, skim the road, and rise upward to safety.

Still dazed by its brush with death, the young fruit bat spreads its wings and vanishes like a shadow into the night.

 

As a kid that's really good! It seems someone found a dictionary lol.

I tried my hand at writing poetry in high school. Everyone really started worrying about my mental health after reading my work so I stopped writing. My philosophy was "if there isn't rape and murder, it ain't a poem."

Thanks man. :)

Yeah, it's BS how people assume you're disturbed because you write heavy stuff; venting is healthy, and its normal for teens to be fascinated in the taboo.