bell notificationshomepageloginedit profileclubsdmBox

Practice and improve writing style. Write like Mark Twain

Improve your writing style by practicing using this free tool

Practice and improve your writing style below

Below, I have some random texts from popular authors. All you have to do is, spend some time daily, and type these lines in the box below. And, eventually, your brain picks the writing style, and your own writing style improves!

Practice writing like:

Type these lines in the boxes below to practice and improve your writing style.

We did not ask if we had brought poor Fischer's luck to any of them. We did not wish to know. We fully believed in Satan's desire to do us kindnesses, but we were losing confidence in his judgment. It was at this time that our growing anxiety to have him look over our life-charts and suggest improvements began to fade out and give place to other interests.

 

The others shook, as with a sort of chill, and muttered those words over—“It has failed.” “God has forsaken us.”

 

Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, “There is no other.”

 

“Father Peter's case is coming on presently. He will be acquitted, through unassailable proofs of his innocence.”

 

“I don't mean sell it. I mean have an income from it. This kind is called the Lucky Cat. Its owner finds four silver groschen in his pocket every morning.”

 

“I’d know it better if you acted more like it.”

 

“We judged it warn’t worth while. Those fellows warn’t likely to come again—they hadn’t any tools left to work with, and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. They’ve just come back.”

 

Huckleberry’s hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:

 

“What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school! Shucks! What’s a licking! That’s just like a girl—they’re so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain’t going to tell old Dobbins on this little fool, because there’s other ways of getting even on her, that ain’t so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody’ll answer. Then he’ll do just the way he always does—ask first one and then t’other, and when he comes to the right girl he’ll know it, without any telling. Girls’ faces always tell on them. They ain’t got any backbone. She’ll get licked. Well, it’s a kind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain’t any way out of it.” Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: “All right, though; she’d like to see me in just such a fix—let her sweat it out!”

 

“You bet I’ll follow him, if it’s dark, Huck. Why, he might ’a’ found out he couldn’t get his revenge, and be going right after that money.”

 

“Please your Majesty, the doctors testified that none die with such symptoms but by poison.”

 

The tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed—but in the wrong direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the throne, and sweeping the other out to sea.  The Lord Protector communed with himself—shook his head—the thought forced itself upon him, “It is perilous to the State and to us all, to entertain so fateful a riddle as this; it could divide the nation and undermine the throne.”  He turned and said—

 

The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty they were as if they had not been.  He neither saw nor heard.  Royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach.  Remorse was eating his heart out.  He said, “Would God I were free of my captivity!”

 

{3}  The lords of Kingsale, descendants of De Courcy, still enjoy this curious privilege.

 

“Then will I utter it.  Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and countenance that I bear.  Fared we forth naked, there is none could say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales.  And, now that I am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier—Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?”

 

Trending!

 

Back to top