<sup>So as many of you may recall, I ran the HP Writer's Guild for number of months, but due to declining interest, I pulled the pin on it. I am still, however, very much in love with the idea of having a place where the many wonderful writers of HP can congregate and share their works.
So, I've decided to dedicate this thread as a place for writers to share their creative pieces, be it fiction, poetry, prose, personal essays - anything!

Only two rules:
1. The work MUST be HP appropriate.
2. All pieces posted MUST be original works that belong to YOU. No plagiarism. This also means that you are not allowed to steal/share/copy another player's work.
Failure to meet these two rules will result in my releasing of killer croc-kangaroo hybrids upon your person, and also other super bad punishments, so just like... don't. Be an ethical reader - it's not hard.</sup>

Looking forward to reading what people create!

<sup>Me too Jaya! Let me start it off, I guess! 

A little backstory: I play REDM (Red Dead Redemption 2 based roleplay on big private servers with loads of custom scripts etc). My REDM server has a Discord with a dedicated "Storylines" channel where players can share backstories/lore/journal entries etc regarding their characters and events that have transpired etc, kinda like an ongoing novel surrounding the character - very cool. It's offered me a chance to play around with writing in between geography minors throughout my degree, so a few of mine will be in relation to that. My law character Banksia has a husband, Chance, who is played by my best friend, and so all her storylines are subtely trolling him in one way or another.</sup>

I sat alone in the stifled heat of the cabin, the ticking clock my only friend. My thoughts consumed me, my heart broken at the pain my beloved Chance was enduring.
Things hadn’t been the same since Valentine. He’d become withdrawn, brooding. His decline had pulled me down with it, guilt and regret settling over me in a permanent haze of grey. He rode with his shoulders slouched, his head low. I could see the pain in his eyes, in the way his jaw was set. We had matching scars now, a testament to the trauma we had suffered at the hands of Mr Bookham, a barbed-wire tie that now bound us. Chance walked with the weight of the world on his shoulders, no longer beside me, but rather a few paces behind, each step a tender reminder. I wanted to take his pain away, wanted so desperately to make him not feel it anymore.
I couldn’t help him, I didn’t know how.
I reached for a charcoal pencil and a sliver of scratch paper. There was one, I remembered, who could help him. One that could take his pain away.
“Apologies for the telegram Doctor Faye, but I reckon Chance has hemorrhoids again and we’ve run out of salve…”

Banksia Cash
2^nd October 1899