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Share your cool (fictional) speeches, or make one! (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
Have you ever thought of an amazing speech? The speaker stood in the middle of the ring of crowds, or on a podium, or on a hill, or telepathically, talking to all sentient beings of the whole universe, or their spouse, their friends, enemies, or just themselves. The words they used were just...correct. It complemented the situation. It conveyed an idea so moving it would change the flow of history of the entire planet. It expressed the overflowing emotions of the speaker in such a way that everyone who heard it felt the cold shivers (sometimes that included you, the readers behind the fourth wall).

A great speech must take into account not just the flow and choice of words, but also relevancy to the ongoing state of affairs and settings. If you're like me, these fictional speeches often just came out of the blue, and sometimes it even drove you to write a story around it!

Because you're in control of the settings, the characters, and the events, amazing quotes and speeches are easier to achieve in fiction. Share some of your character's quotes here, with or without context.

"We are men on the back of the stage, son. When the theater roared in applause and the wooden floor shook in awe, it isn't usually towards us the praises are directed upon. Why, some of those enthusiastic audiences might even cast a disgusted glance at your dirty shoes and cheap watches when they passed you on the walkways the day after. You, the very man who made the performances they so adored yesterday possible! But we continued our craft not because we sought adoration, son. We backstages because the stages needed backing. The masses won't notice us when we are doing the best of our jobs. Their silence is the greatest form of praise men of our trade could ever hope for."
-- The Director, giving orientations the new Initiate.


Staff member
Media Manager
Never was one for oratory, so what I present here is no speech but a review by the art critic Evilla McPrettybitch, following a play called I Am The Devil, by P. Mongwong Hammerstyle, and printed in the Garden Edit.

The playwright, having opened his mind to the realm of ideas, sees his thoughts start to flow thick and fast, but manageably so, at first, and he is gratified. Later, that flow increases but rather than being able to create works of greater – or even consistent – majesty in keeping with his vision, the physical limitations of his human vessel render these imaginings increasingly turgid and generic pap. This gives the impression of the creator running dry of original material. He becomes formulaic, repetitive. He consults books and “how-to's” and legions of advisors. We critics call this “sequelitis”. Let it be known, dear reader, in the interests of full disclosure that your reviewer is happy to be considered paplike right from the start. This way, she can keep her cute button nose above the still waters of moderate expectation, for it is when the level of expectation paired with the torrent of ideas – flowing inwards toward the artist – far outstrips his ability to intelligently sift through the deluge and produce commensurate output that one is, figuratively speaking, plunged off a waterfall. The writer is cleaned out, unable to communicate any sort of worthwhile or fresh thought. So, we say, come on, Artist – you’ve had your fill and now you’re stuck, is that it? Our artist grasps at the lowest-hanging fruit, the slowest-moving flotsam, remaining bereft of even rudimentary awareness about this terrible condition. He still believes himself to be flawless, without error. He thinks one need only look at the incoming material to confirm his majesty, but what he fails to realise is that this is a property of the realm of ideas, not of the writer himself. His responsibility is to take those ideas and put them together in a dramatic and interesting form. The marked contrast between input – which a writer should have a direct view of – and output, which he himself must create but rarely sees as others do, explains why he is both unaware of his predicament and why he becomes so irksomely prolific after reaching this point, going on and on until the wittering end until you just want him to shut up and stop humiliating himself.

The play was not continued beyond its opening night...