Here, post the beginnings of stories that you knew had good potential (or didn't) but that you never got around to finishing. If you want to continue someone's story, then be sure to ask their permission before you do. (Does anyone know if I should label this w/ a special licence then?) If not, hopefully others' works will give you ideas to help stop that writers' block! PS- don't worry about how long your beginning is as long as it's longer than a sentence and less than a whole book. :)
PPS- It also doesn't have to be the beginning of a story. It can really be any part of a story that you have given up on, or just an idea for a chapter that popped into your head. And don't be afraid to post something because you wrote it a while ago and think it's bad; this is just to spread around ideas!
The silver-helmed warrior whizzed around to counter David’s blow, swinging his sword with such might that the prince’s sword flew from his now maimed hand. Yelling in pain and rage, David drew a long dagger and countered the warrior’s next slash, disarming his opponent in the process. The warrior was not fazed, though, and he kicked the prince in the center of the chest, knocking him to the ground. In the same motion, the warrior spun around, grabbed a gleaming metal rod from the blazing brazier next to him, and held its tip centimeters away from David’s chest. The rain steamed into a gray blanket of choking fog as it fell atop the white-hot, gleaming, fiery end of the heated staff.
The silver-helmed warrior laughed in a resonating, echoing voice inside his helmet, which he removed to showcase a familiar face that filled the prince with rage and confusion, but most of all of regret and guilt. The face that he saw was as cold and stony as the great tower he stood upon and the sooty clouds thrashing against each other, locked in a battle of lightning and thunder, even as they sobbed down with their rain on the earth below.
“Any last words?” the warrior yelled, weapon poised to burn into the prince’s chest with a flick of his arm.
David suddenly stopped trembling in the rain. Amid the raindrops streaming down his face, a single teardrop escaped from his eye, crawling down his cheek to his trembling chin.
“Do what you will,” he said bitterly. “It is I who am at fault. I couldn’t stop you from reaching your power, your influence, and it has corrupted you. I neglected you as a brother, and now I shall pay. You shall always be my brother. But know this…”
David brought forth from his robes the carving of a city, now crumbled and in ruin, but with a single building remaining. It was a tiny cottage, a shack really. Barely one room it was, and yet it survived on the carving while everything else on the stone had crumbled.
“If not for you, Dorotia would still stand... and our father would still live. Pass the blame all you want, but no one can escape the truth. Not even in the Tower.”