I got the prompt "don't leave" in a micro fiction askbox thing on tumblr, and I sort of wrote this? It's not terribly micro - definitely more than 10 sentences - and I sort of wanted to see what you guys thought before i posted. It's about a girl who has to leave and the Ruler of the Places-In-Between, who wants her to stay. Spoiler It starts at the convenience store of a gas station, on the fringes of a road that has nothing but corn on both sides for many, many tapes of music. She’s sitting on the trunk of her rusty old car, eating a crappy meal which would be her last there, and watches the midnight stars like she hasn’t ever seen a sight so pretty. The other doesn’t look like they eat and has seen many sights prettier than the old trail of the galaxy, but they approach her anyway, holding a cup of coffee. “Don’t leave, please.” they ask, offering her the coffee. Their voice is multiple, like the murmur of farmer’s market at the end of the day; they keep an even tone, collected and controlled. She cleans greasy fingers on grease-stained dusty old jeans, and she almost accepts it, but it takes a moment that is too long; there is a breeze that is too warm and foreign. She cracks a small smile and shakes her head no, thanks. – The first time they meet after that is at a run-down bus station at three in the morning, where she waits for a delayed ride in its sad little cafeteria. The person at the other side of the counter has sharp elbows and dark, dark, tiny eyes, like a beetle’s. “You could stay another day or two”, they tell her. She hasn’t ordered anything - not in places like this, in situations like these - but she is sitting near them, reading one first of a pile of decades-old newspaper. “You know I can’t, love.” She says, eyes glued to the front page. She sounds tired. “I am not even supposed to be here.” The person at the counter sighs, shifts. Another woman comes, ordering a double-tall skinny latte, and suddenly it’s like the person behind the counter is someone completely different. – The next time takes a considerable amount of effort - the two are in a ferry, in the middle of a river, just after dawn. The sky holds a promise of rain and mist covers the entire surface of the river, making them float on what seems like a vast expanse of nothing except milky light. She feels their presence long before she hears their steps coming closer, like a clock’s little tic-tac. She sighs and crosses her arms, tired and cold. “You still can come with me”, they say, wrapping their coat around her shoulders. “Everywhere and anywhere.” “The Queen promised me a boon”, she says, as if she hadn’t explained so many times before, what feels like a lifetime ago. “I am only free as long as I am on her quest. I cannot waste this.” “But this isn’t your world anymore. It’s been decades.” “Tell me about it” she says, barking a dry, bitter laughter. “Still doesn’t mean I can just disobey the Queen.” “She’s not the Queen of my domains.” They say, gravely. Something shifts in the air: there’s a current of power, there’s the smell of gas stations and roadside dinners and cheap hotel rooms and all the places that exist in-between filling the air, there’s a voice that is unknowable muttering things she could almost understand, but only just. The mist curls around the two when they take her hand, when their shiny beetle eyes lock into hers. “But you could be, if you stayed.”, they say, and in a way it’s almost shy. – After she steps out of that boat they would not meet until much much later, at a dinner near the exit of some town, just after dusk. She has another car now, but it’s still rusty and her jeans are still grease-stained. Her hair is much longer, peppered white; her eyes are much darker. She stares, uncomfortable, at the plate of fries in front of her, fixing her posture whenever one of the waitresses come close to her table. The jukebox is playing an old song they knew she liked and they watched her watching the crowd - waiting for them. But they continue to fry eggs, chewing on their tongue until she leaves.
Spoiler Into the woods the bird soared. Over the trees, it flew. Around the bush it swerved and swept. And rose into the sky, so blue. 'Why do birds fly?', the squirrel asked. 'Why can't I do that too?' 'Shush my darling' his mom said, and off they scampered too. 'Why can't I go onto the ground' The little fishy cried. 'Honey darling, listen please, when your father went, he died.' 'It's so unfair the fish can swim. It's so unfair the birds can fly. It's so unfair the squirrels can climb' 'But we can dig my darling dear, Us moles don't even have to try. We dig our tunnels underground so far that they can't even see so stop your needless jealousy.' 'Momma? Why can't I leave the house, and play among the birds?' 'Dearest child, your place is here, where you can eat your curds' 'Why can't I play with the squirrels?' the child cried again. 'The squirrels climb the high trees, to go up to their den. Your den if here, so here you'll stay, and learn to count to ten. 'Why can't I swim among the fish, or dig among the moles?' 'That is not where you belong, in their deep dark holes at my side is where you'll stay, where we can take our strolls' 'Can we do one now Mama!?"' 'If that is what you want' 'Oh yes mom yes mom yes mom please! oh come on don't taunt!' 'Alright we'll go, but where to start, what desires your little heart?' 'Let's go see the birds and squirrels! The moles, the fish, the sky!' 'One of those's not possible, I'm sure you can see why.' 'Okay but can we see the rest?' 'Of course my darling, that was your request" 'Oh thank you mom, oh thanks a lot!' 'Calm done hon, now off you trot! We'll go see the birds and squirrels, the moles, the fish the sky. We'll go observe the trees, and think of years gone by. And when all is done and said, I'll pick up your sleepy head, cart you off, haul you home, I'll even give your hair a comb. And then, its off to bed.' I wrote random half formed free form poetry i dont know. Someone might enjoy it. I'll probably put it in my english class random writing journal.
I am so thankful someone posted The Most Dangerous Writing App. This thing is a marvel and thanks to it, I've gotten down an average of 1700-2000 words a night, including multiple under-five-page stories and two long stories. One I want to continue to adapt and see where I can take it. http://www.themostdangerouswritingapp.com/ Adding this in, just because I don't remember where it was originally posted (but I'm pretty sure it was @Aondeug who originally linked this, in which case thank you) and I wanted to share this around.
i found a thing i wrote almost two years ago and still really like, extremely short and pretentious or not, so here go Spoiler: the flower She'd never been powerful before. Every wisp of her was screaming to stop, and turn, and go. The sun was sinking and the wood was not her place, this one or any other (but oh, especially not this one, why had she ever come). She did not go. Instead, she stepped forward, and forward, through the clearing with its black leaves and white trees and bleeding setting sun, to the one spot of living color where grass grew green and wild. Rising from the center of this like a bell, like a teardrop, like a whispering silver mouth, was the flower. Come, it whispered to her. Be what you were told never to be. She knelt, cupped the bulb in her fingers. It warmed in her hand like a living thing, like rain and water and knowledge and decay. Be a garden of new and greater things, it told her, as its petals and its light filled her eyes until the colorless wood was gone. Be powerful. She'd never been powerful before. She lifted it to her mouth and bit--
i haven't posted in here in forever but i wrote this thing a little bit ago and i still kinda enjoy it so... shrug idk if it even makes sense to most people Spoiler: First Meeting It's always quiet there. Wind really is the only thing that ever consistently makes noise. The faint calls of birds. Even his own bare feet padding along the stone floors often sounded loud. But that's okay, it's what he wanted really. Solitude. He'd made it all the way out here, away from most other people. Eventually he'd head back, he'd gather up all the things he'd found and learned and drag it to civilization. But for now? For now he was content to stay here in these ruins. It was lucky that down in the belly of the ruins there was an actual well. Makes survival so much easier when there's a source of water, and not relying on the fickle seasons and clouds to provide. Although he was always resourceful. One had to be, and so he learned. This world was wrecked, dusty and desolate and unforgiving. This place was practically an oasis. Wandering about, really the only thing that ever seemed to get him down was the silence. Standing in the ruined courtyard, he wondered what it was like when people lived here. Was this a temple? So many unanswered questions. Movement caught his eye, and glancing at the other side of the courtyard he saw something silver and dark. It flashed between the columns and grass for a moment and then was gone. Blinking, he ran a hand through his dust coated hair. "Is someone there?" He asks, feeling as if his voice just cracks. It's been at least a few weeks since he'd last talked to anyone. Curiously he wandered forward, deeper among the knee high grass and dirt and the broken pillars and columns that littered this place. "Hello?" Carefully he pulled his gangly limbs over a felled column, and realized he placed his hand on something wet. It was red, smeared against the side of the column. More droplets of crimson were on the ground, and he frowned. Whatever it was could be dangerous, especially if it was injured. But it's hard to resist the urge to /know/. He had to find out what he'd seen, since now it was proved that something else was in the ruins with him. "Hey, are you okay? Look, I'm not going to hurt you or anything." Ducking into a narrow hallway off the courtyard, he follows the droplets and the now apparent noise of steps that aren't his own. They're light, small. An animal? He could almost swear he heard clicking, much like a dog on stone. Anxiously he does feel for the knife he keeps at his side. If it's dangerous, he's not going down without a fight. No way. What does make him pause though is the smallish paw print in the dirt. Did a dog get injured and wander in here? He didn't think there'd be any dogs this far out. A jackal maybe? He hadn't seen one of those in ages. Certainly not a wolf. Those didn't come so far south. Weren't really good for the desert. Without thinking he whistles, a few short little sharp calls like he'd seen people do when trying to catch the attention of their dogs. The response he got was a very loud high pitched... yip? Bark? It wasn't quite a sound he recognized off the bat. Too high pitched to be a dog. Rounding the corner, he sees the trail goes right under a pile of debris. It causes him to pause, at least. "Hey, look I'm seriously not going to hurt you. I might even be able to help?" He stays wary, not getting to close to where he can tell the thing is hiding. It's not like he's going to go shoving his hand under there to see what it is. That's just sheer stupidity at it's finest. Once again though curiosity pushes him to get closer, and he can hear the shuffling underneath. Whatever it is has fur and paws. Ducking down he can see somewhat under the pile, although down here the light is already low. A flash of what looks to be red eyes, and large ears. It occurs to him what it is. A fox. Blood is oozing from a wound on one of it's back legs, likely a bite from something larger than it. Seems to even have been limping. Or maybe it just ran on that leg till it started limping. Who knows. As soon as it spots him, it growls, white teeth visible in the darkness. The alarm sound it also lets off almost sounds like a cough. He's reminded of how strange these critters are. "Alright, alright. I'll let you alone. Sorry to chase you down here." Without thinking he digs his hand into his pocket and drags out a piece of bread he'd left there. Well, there's at least some more in his stuff, might as well share. Maybe it'll help the fox out a bit. He tosses it carefully towards the hiding spot, and makes sure to quickly leave. That night he's staring up at the sky, the dull glow from the fireplace inside still managing to reach him. That's when he hears it, an awkward limp shuffling with clicking nails. What little light there is from the fire inside reflects off of the silvery coat, and he watches it. They both stare off at each other, neither moving. Now he can see it even more clearly. There's no tail, and that's rather odd. Something nags at him about this, and he tries to remember if he read something about foxes with no tails. But before he can remember, it's limped off. "Aw wait, don't go yet." He frowns, flopping back into the dirt. "I was gonna share some water with you." Over the next few days he sees it several other times, and one time it finally clicks as to what he's really seeing. Of course the tipping point had been when he saw the fox with what looked like a belt, with several small bags attached to it. It wasn't one he recognized as his own either. That's not a fox. That's not actually a fox at all. No tail, that certainly did mean something. Meant it was a felf. The realization made him feel strange, that he was sharing his living space with something that was actually close to human. Certainly they spoke the same language. Why were they running around as a fox then? This time he was going to find them, he was going to confront them about it. It was strange, it also was kind of creepy. He'd seen them watching him enough that he really wanted an explanation for this. Well beyond the injury. Certainly that wasn't making them act like a creepy stalker and hiding about in what he somewhat felt like was /his/ ruins? Wandering through the hallways and rooms and buildings so far hadn't turned them up though, instead just made him dustier and dirtier than usual. Nothing. Everywhere he checked just ended up with not a single clue as to where this person was. In frustration, he tries the first place he saw them. The courtyard to the weird temple-like place. And just. Of course. There, sitting with their back to him on one of those dang columns, was the felf. They were short, kind of chubby even. Long dark hair. And... also naked. Very naked he was pretty sure. Embarrassingly he tries not to stare at them because fuck. That was unexpected. "Hey!" He yells at them, and immediately they flip around to face him. They're still limping on the one leg, and just narrow their eyes. After a moment or two though, the tension seems to lift as they break out into a grin. "Oh! It's you. The other squatter hanging out around here." Apparently being naked doesn't bother them at all, as they brazenly turn to sit facing him. Also puts their legs into full view, which are certainly not human. Silver furred, ending in fox paws. But of course they do, just like any other felf really. "Did you need something? I was in the middle of trying to do something." "Why aren't you wearing pants..." He mumbles, staring awkwardly down at the ground. "Huh? Pants? Oh right. Yeah I lost my bag around here somewhere and can't find them. I got tired of looking." "... that's really stupid of you." "Yeah, well I didn't ask for your opinion on it." "Too bad I guess." "So did you need anything important or are you gonna stare at me all day? I don't particularly mind the staring thing, but generally I keep that towards the more 'ask nicely and you might get to touch' realm too." The cackle when his face heats up. "That's fucking stupid, seriously though why have you been watching me? It's creepy! You could have just come to me for help with that leg. Or even just said hello." They only shrug in response and flash another sharp fanged grin. "So who the hell are you anyways? Since you're sitting here and I'm here and just. Fuck. I don't know." "Hey, you came to bother me, how about you introduce yourself first!" "I asked first. You." They huff and stick their tongue out. "I got a few different names, my birth one, a nickname, a few others that are less than friendly... Which are you looking for?" "Just a name. I don't really care which." "Furiet." The felf sighs and rolls their shoulders. "You?" "Basil." "Well nice to meet you Basil, what the hell are /you/ doing all the way out here by yourself?" "Been studying this place, digging for things I can sell, hoping to find some books." Basil sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "You didn't attract any wild monsters here did you? Considering your injury and all I'm more than a little worried you've just brought something stupid upon my head." "Me? Nahhhh. I would never do that! Why would I?" "Fuck if I know. Also do you want some pants or something? I'd rather not have to accidentally stare at your dick all day. It's really, really getting awkward." "Hm. Nah. I got better things to do I think." Before he can react, they're already up and moving. Back to being a fox, they just disappear much quicker than he thought they'd have been able to. Maybe their leg was getting better. Either way he's more than a bit flustered and frustrated by the encounter. Hopefully the naked weirdo doesn't just stare at him anymore though. Maybe they'll find that lost bag, wouldn't that be a miracle?
I'll share a fic I wrote based off an RP thread I participated in a while ago, BUT, quick question... does anyone know how popular song-fics are these days? If you don't know what they are, they're just short stories based off songs, so some paragraph/event breaks have a lyric or verse that goes with them. I garner most of my inspiration from music, but I'm worried they're too cliche or just not consumed enough to get any sort of feedback on them were I to post them anywhere.
Spoiler: Attunementverse Deirdre & Ciannait There are 183 days between solstices. Sinnoh worships many gods, and every season and every town has its own. Twinleaf and Sandgem are close to Vesprit's Lake Verity, Lilypad, Daybreak, and Arrowroot cluster to Azelf's Lake Valor, and Uxie's Lake Acuity is worshipped by Snowpoint and Shelter. The lake fairies are awake around the autumnal equinox. They are not beings of balance. They are. When the land is preparing to go to sleep, the fairies remind the living that they are still alive. Or they did so, once upon a time many centuries ago, before the gods went silent, and faded to myths and legends. The faires and dances remain, and Canalave, north through the woods of Lake Verity, bustles with life, locals and tourists alike. Vesprit is Emotion, they would love it. It's said Mt. Coronet was created first of the world, but the temple at the peak lies in ruins, and little remains of the stoy of Genesis. A creator that battled against uncreation, their countenance remembered and rendered in stone in Eterna. Alamos has a different story, of two beings of time and space weaving the world, so life could have an anchor in the chaotic void. Nestled in the mountains, Celestic tells yet another one, of a creator and their three children, and of the third child granting the world the ability to change, and the concept of death. The creator and their two siblings, horrified, jailed them in the spaces in-between, shores and twilights and the gaps between letters, never able to touch the world ever again, forever out of reach. The people of Eterna are a traditional, quiet sort, but they celebrate their vernal equinox, their creation of the world, the point when creation first tipped over to reality, loudly. Houses and streets are cleaned and adorned, gifts are given, friends and family invited for traditional meals. Celestic is, somehow, even more traditional than Eterna, and their preparations start before the equinox, not at it. They tell the stories at the hearth, and tell their resolutions and wishes for the coming year to pebbles they cast into the lake. The vernal equinox is a time for gifts, not for business. Space and time and life were gifts, change was a trade, and its price was death. Alamos' festivities are not as mixed as Canalave's but it's a time for art, for picking up unfinished projects and finishing them on equinox day. It's lucky, to finish something on that day, so you show everyone. Performers at every street corner, and food stands in between. The world congregates in Alamos that time of year, on daytrip from Canalave, which adopted flashy parades from overseas. Waves roll over the shore, and every splash of water carries the night a little closer. Out here, there still are stars glimmering in the night sky, adorning it like scattered gems, white and blue and red. The water gurgles, cold against the bare feet of the woman walking down the shore. The summers are short here and the winters deep, and autumn is coming. At the northwestmost point with the waning moon rising over the city behind her, she sets a boat on the waves, no larger than a bottle. It's been years since she was a girl, but old habits die hard. The year's first red leaves are scattered on the narrow path in the heather. It's sandstone, warm and yellow, soft in midst of the flowering inferno around it. At dusk, yellow and blue and pink, the sky courts the chestnuts and the heather in their colours, and the woman in her blue dress and pink scarves stops singing to her garden for a moment to watch the sunset. She lives remote from the town, but she does not mind, not when all she can hear are the wind and the waves and the Wingull. It's been years since she was a girl, but the witch's house needs its witch. Just beyond the horizon, the weaver of nightmares stirs. Earlier in the year, Floaroma celebrates the first blooming flower of the year. In gratitude for another spring, the return of life, the end of the fasting time, even if modern agriculture and storage and the land slowly healing from the war are slowly making it obsolete. But it was too recent. And, thus, the Floaroma celebrate the end of the war and the beginning of peace, the beginning of spring and the return of life and the end of winter, with food and seeds and song and dance. A ceremony, a child clad and covered in snow white offering the one who found the first flower a circlet adorned with Gracidea, and the so spring-crowned person proceeds to bless the endeavours of those who come to them. If summer solstice falls on a full moon, winter solstice will have a new moon, and the longest night of the year will also be the darkest. It is not a coincidence that the winter solstice is a festival of lights, all across Sinnoh. Legend has it the first light was lit on the peak of Mt Coronet, carried down in solemn procession by the first trainer and their Pokemon companions, and then sent to all corners of the country from there. Eterna tells that it was the last gift of the creator who wove time and space against uncreation, the flame symbolising their life, shining on through the night. Solaceon tells the fire was stolen from a divine banquet, and split to hide it from the gods. Sunnyshore tells the true fire was brought here, and ever since burns in the lighthouse. Snowpoint tells the true light guided them to the ruins in which Regigigas slumbered, and that that was how their city was founded, from within the ruins. Celestic tells the light was a gift from the creator parent. You are not alone, and thus we light the candles in return: We are here. These days, the champion ceremoniously lights the torches that will be carried into the cardinal directions of the country, the torches that will light the way through the night, until the fastest runners have reached the remotest places. Champion Cynthia, herself born and raised in Celestic and an avid folklorist, has roped the Gym Leaders into it during her tenure, working hard to revive and preserve the old customs. The woman who walks down the shore carries the lights further, bare feet on cold sand and icy water, a burning candle on the boat she will place on the waves. The woman who sings to her garden joins her and sends her own boat. Beyond the horizon, they will arrive at the islands of the weavers of nightmares and dreams.
Spoiler: Attunementverse Deirdre and Ciannait, summer solstice The woman who sings to her garden leaves the garden in the care of the woman who walks down the shore. The days might be getting warmer, but the shore is still chilly at night, and will be for many more. The boat is the same she displayed in Alamos this year, finished weeks before but for its final assembly, and like each year before she will set it on the waves until the currents have carried it beyond the horizon. there is something beyond it, she knows, like the woman who walks down the shore knows. the gods may have forgotten them, but the humans still remember the offerings for the weavers living just beyond the horizon. It has been many years since she was a girl and sent her first boat, but that night she had dreamt of a white desert under a pitch sky, of a dance in which every step is a stitch on an infinite tapestry stretching beyond everything she had ever known to be. The boats, too, are steps in the dance, and the only one who can keep up with her is the woman at the shore. For the lower northwest shore of Sinnoh, the greatest celebration is the summer solstice. A night so short that the weavers of dreams and nightmares, or, rather, the weaver of dreams, Cresselia, and the weaver of nightmares, Darkrai, lay down their handiwork for the night is over before they can achieve much with those few who do not stay awake until sunrise. Lights and stalls line the streets and rivers, Illumise and Volbeat dancing in between. The heat does not quite let up during these longest days, even during the night, even in Sinnoh, or maybe it's just the locals being so used to the cold that any warmth is heat to them. The festivities start a week before the solstice and every night two dancers tell the story of how Cresselia and Darkrai, once friends and peers until the first creatures started dreaming, fell apart. It is a somber, tragic story, of two beings equal in power and, on a visceral level belonging together, the full moon and the new moon, two sides of the same coin, who now only have their animosity for each other left. Come Solstice Day, no one works. There is preparation, but not business. This last dance is the ceremonial final clash of the weavers for the year, and its outcome is determined by the phase of the moon on that day: A waxing gibbous moon, and Cresselia wins, gravely wounded. A full moon, and Cresselia triumphs completely. A waning gibbous moon, and Cresselia drives Darkrai to flee. A waning crescent moon, and Darkrai wins, gravely wounded. A new moon, and Darkrai triumphs completely. A waxing crescent moon, and Darkrai drives Cresselia to flee. A half moon and the fight is a stalemate with neither gaining an upper hand, danced without reprieve from sunset to the first rays of the next morning, or until one dancer collapses from exhaustion. For many years now, the woman who sings to her garden has danced the role of Cresselia. She had dreamed, still dreams, of a white desert under a pitch sky, and so she inherited the blue and yellow robes and magenta scarves. The knowledge of the dreams is passed down from dancer to dancer along with the robes, but it has been many years, centuries even, since the last one who saw them died. And for many years now, the woman who walks down the shore has danced the role of Darkrai. She had dreamed of a void like a coat, alien and vast and scared, but also not scary, and protective. The knowledge of the nightmare had been passed down from dancer to dancer along with the black robes and red scarf, but it had been many years, centuries even, sine the last one who saw them lived, and those who had not seen it and thus not understood could not, could not hope to, understand something that was vast and alien, terrifying but not scary - but the woman who walks down the shore, then a girl barely old enough to become a trainer and fight in that war, had not woken from her restless slumber even with the help of the old Luna Feather passed down to Cresselia's dancer. The woman who sings to her garden, then a girl barely old enough to become a trainer and fight in that war, visited and tried to rouse her every day, until the morning after the next full moon when she woke, the other girl sound asleep at her bedside. It was an omen, the old dancer sighed. Along with her dark skin and white hair and blue eyes. She did not wish to pass the dances of the weaver of nightmares to a girl so young, but you don't stand in the way of an omen. If the weaver of nightmares has chosen, after many years, centuries even, then they have chosen. The weaver of nightmares has chosen, after many years, centuries even, and they shall not be denied.
Some of my friends have said that they deperately want to read the rest of it, so I guess I'm putting it here to get a bit solider feedback on it. Feedback specifically on the tone, ideas, characters, that sort of thing would be cool, but not grammer or spelling stuff. Working on the content right now, not the technical stuff. Also if someone finds this really interesting but doesnt mind being spoiled, I'd love someone to bounce ideas off of tw: medical probably, operation, captivity, body horror?, tributes, farming of people, surgery Spoiler: A new story im writing, not all the writing I have as of now, but a fair bit of it. I wonder when they’re coming. It should be soon. I don’t want them to come. I’m not myself anymore. These hands aren’t mine. My arms, my legs, my eyes! I used to have such pretty eyes, but now they don’t even match. What’s happened to me, where am I? Where are my pieces? Every so often, the come to operate, take something out, replace it. If you change all the pieces of the car at least once, is it still the same car? Am I still me? A few months ago I had scarred forearms. My legs don’t even fit together now. My shins are thicker than my thighs, my feet are tiny. I used to be a girl wearing a dress, running through fields, with daisies in my hair. I want to go back to her. But I am not her anymore. No part of me is her anymore. I have a tiny chip in my brain that remembers her, running through the fields. But none of me is still her, except that memory. Every part of me was someone else, where are my parts? My arms, my legs. Where are they getting these from?! To keep me here, they must murder countless innoc- No! I can’t let them do this! I- “Hello there, time for your surgery!” “Oh come on, don’t fight, you do this every three months!” *** What happened to me? M-my voice! I… I sound so awful...\ “New vocal cords today. See you again later!” Ah! He was still there, one of the surgeons. He took out my voice, and replaced it with this scratchy awful voice. It’s so low, I can barely talk! *** “Did you do as I requested?” “Yes. It’s vocal cords have been changed out. What are we doing next time?” “Hmm… I was wondering if my wonderful surgeons could do something special.” He looked wearily at his superior. “What might that be?” “Take out it’s emotion part of the brain. It’s unnecessary, and maybe that combined with the new vocal cords will be enough to stop it’s irritating singing.” The surgeon shifted uneasily on his feet. “The emotion part is a very important part, are you s-” “Remove it. And if any surgeon objects, send them to the deposit box. They can become useful there.” The surgeon gulped, nodded, and walked away *** Today was the day. By the end of today, someone would be gone. Not just anyone though. One of us 24 year olds. Me, or Justin. Justin was nearing 25, so it was likely to be him, but no one wanted him gone. Deposit box #3 did not have a lot of fit people right now, and we needed to survive. The cold metal doors staining our faked village landscape were a constant reminder of our imprisonment. Well, for us it was imprisonment. Everyone had an origin story, but almost all started the same. Some great-grandparent heard about the science going on here, and heard they needed volunteers. They eagerly signed up. To be imprisoned, in a deposit box, where every three months, someone would be taken. No one over the age of 24 lives here. Poor Timmy, 7 years of age, has seen countless friends dragged out of the metal jaws on our wall, crying silently. CLANK SHRIEK CLANK Oh no. I rushed to the center of town, directly facing the metal doors, and as they started to open more, some of the children started crying. “Well well. Who are we taking today?” I shuddered. Every now and then, the boss of the operations here would come personally. This must be an important one. “You can take me!” Justin said in his gruff, growly voice. They smiled. “You’ll do fine.” They motioned for the bodyguards, who promptly dragged Justin out, their superviser following behind them. *** I can’t do this! Not anymore! They can’t keep murdering people, just to deform me! *** After, I gathered everyone up. Iris was inconsolable, Sandy was bawling, but what worried me most was Timmy. He was blank. I spent most of my time trying to help him. A few weeks later, he was beginning to emote again. The next day, I woke up to the shrieking of the door opening. What? They never take another person before three months. I ran to the town center, and stared at the slowly opening door, as the rest of the village peeked around buildings behind me. “Um, hello?” What.
Inspired by what was probably just an editing mistake, consider the following: A world with a magic system in which True Names have some power. And there's this one character whose name, when said by any other character, is spelled slightly differently than it is spelled in the narration. The power of True Names would have to not be terribly immense, or else the readers will catch on too quickly. Also the character's name can't be said too often, for the same reason. But it might be interesting for readers to suddenly realize that the spelling difference was intentional and not simply an editing fault.
So, I wanted to give an attempt at poetry. Because the most recent 'hurrdurr technology is scary thomas edison is a witch' post on Buzzfeed included a reference to how Disney Princesses would suck if they focused more on their technology instead of the world around them and I might have attempted to write a counter argument? Spoiler: What I have so far Snow White adds dwarven recipes to her pin board reams of relinked blogspots with simple names Giggly and Shy and Teary and Maid teaching her how to knead beer bread for men called Dopey and Bashful Sneezy and Doc with calloused maid hands the hands that lead her to the forest the apple was pictured before she bit down a caption sent out “what a kind old woman!” but she did not see the reblogs talking about curses and grim smiles gleaming in the camera flash Cinderella on her tumblr went by Good Witch Ella with the kitchen magic she was forced into a dried stick of cinnamon for refreshing and vinegar for scrubbing she does not have much to her name in those walls mice and brooms and mutterings under her breath of frustration over women who would rather yowl down the halls than move a plate a foot to the doorway they give her comments with every post approval over her tea-staining and how lovely the brown is compared to the laundered blues but 'Toxic Parents' the dress never was photographed but the surviving shoe became her icon “Dear readers I have followed your advice” dreams carry her through as well as the clothesline carries through tea-stained old linens that would become her bedding and now Good Queen Ella has a bed and a prince and a warm home and soft fingers that are hers to reblog Aurora's instagram is pink and blue and green flashes of color everywhere growing trees and morning skies and springtime blooms and the bursts of magic it is aesthetics and it is home even in the dull times there's not wane brown but colorful vibrant loud and shouting and loud brown and gold are forbidden in her stream a request for a trigger warning on spindles “oh they just give me terrible nightmares” it's easy enough to ignore the cajoling easier than ignoring the gold and grey of the castle but Phillip fills the house with tapestry red like pink indigo like blue and bright emeralds draping and concealing where the Damned Spinning Wheel once lay it is a reclamation when she makes a color board under the name of Princess_Rose Ariel does not retweet Mermaid Hair or Mermaid Crown or Mermaid Magic or Mermaid Princess she has legs and knick-knacks and what-nots a constant tide when she posts of a world she has only skimmed and interpreted “I'm still banned from r/whatisthisthing over the dinglehopper” but it is not Twitter staff that takes her away the first time Triton destroys and deletes and statues and music boxes and mangled dinglehopper all gone when she starts again on land this time (she could not use her voice and it was for the voice of her fingers as well) pictograph carried her over for the words she didn't have emoji smile emoji kiss emoji please understand Eric there are no words only pictures and motions and images of a world she still loves with her two legs and feet and shoes and forks it is after the wedding when she writes “Happily Ever After” (but she is like her father) (and deletes and destroys a well-loved account about Mermaid Makeup Tricks) Belle's goodreads continue no matter what the posts are barren for two months in that adaptation period virtual and free and stolen away in a closet she appreciates her company but this is different it is hard to read when you're a guest and a prisoner and a last great hope for salvation Maurice receives texts every day no mirror is needed when he doesn't respond back because Gaston's men took him away but in that adaptation time there is family still two talking in paragraphs in the winter over six saxton men who give their life for their King and Phillidel who cannot three talking in spring over Guinevere who could never smile again (Beast could not read could not see the point of the plastic tablet but he had mercy and loneliness and he had love growing in roses and hope in halls) she starts The Prince the day after churchbells hunters and enchantresses lurked these halls and the Beast is still a royal so she gives for him as he had gave for her “This is not the most enchanting book, but it is informative” Jasmine's verified account promotes Agrabah thanks to ghostwriters who confer with the Sultan every two days a near Twitter catalog of trade and beautification promotion occasional hints of how close her birthday is and how nice it'd be to have a prince Jasmine's true account promotes Agrabah with pixelated photos taken from a burner phone camera and stories flooding r/todayilearned and r/askreddit and r/maliciouscompliance specially reserved for a particular set of guards and a very particular Vizier Aladdin springs up in her posts thrice r/tifu by giving away an apple and getting a good man killed a good man never a Streetrat and Beggar Ali springs up in her twitter too taking her hand and she despises this tragedy until she can take blurry pixelated photos of the clouds and pyramids it is her subterfuge that helps her carry over Jafar's newest betrayal and Aladdin's newest death “twochromosomes I am afraid and more importantly I am angry” taking her crown is not okay and dolling her up is not okay and taking her consent is not okay as little as a red gallabiya and “master” is this is not okay but the resurrection and the genie and the understandable little lies akin to her own little lies those are okay Aladdin is not her Prince or her Boyfriend he is Aladdin and her reddit account is her own and these pixelated photograhs are enough Pocahontas has hundreds of snaps in her snapchat story and back and forth snaps between her and Nekoma little in the way of filters beyond the natural light and occasionally scrunching Meeko's face in unnatural bends her mother's necklace received special attention in 67 snaps taken between John Smith's arrival and the break she did not photograph the beads or Kokoum's bleeding corpse by her feet as much as elders considered these apps truly savage her near sacrifice was not photographed to be oggled by masses hair pooled around head bowed ready to die if it meant John Smith would die if it meant these words and fighting would die in the end she got a pug for her troubles (Percy looks good in flower crown filters and with sound on so his indignant snorts carry over) and she had John Smith's friend request (it lasted two years and one year too long) (with James Rolfe replacing the space in her friends list and the space in Jamestown) Mulan's facebook feed talks about war and honor and photos of good and humble daughters photoshopping brighter reds and smaller waists she does not respond in that entire half-year she is gone Fa Ping does not have an account either for 'I'm just all about war and manly things!' but in her tent she reads about posts asking for a lost daughter to come home no mention of the sword or shame as there should be but tears for Mulan who has run away to a lost place brushing over a Fa Ping in the army and Fa Zhou still at home never straying according to Map features the news arrives first of a honorable woman who defeated the Hun army giving up her worth for her country and her family (even if that gave her worth) (brought honor to them all) but she arrives sword in hand at the door Li Shang by the gate and she cannot post about the war about little dolls and soldiers helms about having to learn how to bind on the road hacking coughs in the tent every night until Yao asks when (he) quit smoking and shame and fear and fire and blood the first post she makes is about Little Brother paddling by the foot of her bed I wanted to make it with both good points and bad, and am not sure if the format works well yet? I also wanted to use the 'main line' princesses (so next I have Tiana, Rapunzel and Merida), but I can expand to include Alice, Megara, Esmerelda, Elsa and Anna, if that works out? I want to give a good variety of posting setups and account types though, so I might need to branch out more. What can I do to improve this?
*angry Pratchett and Sanderson fan hissing* Well okay sounds like they meant a different definition of technology but. Good words.
I am frustratingly good/interested in creating ocs and settings. I am less good at coming up with actual stories. I did not actually start writing original fic/engage in world building until my teens. Most of my stories up until then were complex world building fantasies that I never actually wrote down. A few original fic settings: The World That Is Too Much Like A Jack L. Chalker Setting Even Though I Despise Chalker's writing: Just your average world where bits and pieces of other alternate universes get dumped. Particularly annoying because the setting was actually vaguely based off of a setting by Brian Daley. Early teens. Narani/Marrha verse: Early teens soapbox angst world. Evil magic using race with a caste system with Narani/Marrha being the only semi-good example of it. Wing!fic when I had actually no actual contact with wing!fics. Evil magic using race with a caste system gradually became magic using race with a complex social structure because a) telepathic mind bonds b) "caste" system actually sub-species with different powers. In my late twenties, Marrha became "Narani" and her terrible mean family became nicer if still not really understanding how best to help her. (Narani nullifies the magic of others. She's also a shapeshifter and is extremely neuro atypical. Add in that she can't form telepathic mind links and you have a whole passle of things for her family to flutter about.) Note: In my teens and early twenties my original characters or rp characters had terrible abusive background backstories. (Mostly because I was working through Issues.) In my late twenties to the present, my ocs tend to have much more supportive families. I also tend to write more mentor-ocs. Orc verse: Somewhere between an alignment flip and a moral ambiguity is go setting. Orcs and dark elves pitted against the forces of "good" except the forces of good are actually kind of terrible. Add in a Magical Apocalypse and the surviving good guys/bad guys have to struggle through Fimbulwinter together. Early twenties. Still horribly soapboxy. The Setting That is Largely So I Can Rescue the Baby in "That Only a Mother...": And pretty much all the creepy genius kids and creepy monster kids and creepy telepathic kids from their stories. An organization that is a little like CPS except they are also essentially rescuing the parents and ordinary bystanders from the creepy kids and whisking said creepy kids off to a school/home setting that can take care of them. Pre-teens to current, actually, largely influenced by the very strong feel that the kids in these stories are getting the shitty end of the stick. (If the "bad guy" in the story is a kid, I am basically never going to feel sorry for any of the adults, even if the narrative says I'm supposed to.) Various Apocalyptic Settings: I blame being an eighties kid, apocalyptic survivalist novels, and a whole slew of Cold War Era sf short stories/novels. Pre-teen to current. I mostly write fan fic, and when I write fan fic, it tends to be aus of the canon setting. I am super fond of making references to books I've read, or including ideas/concepts that I think might work in the altered setting.
I am a bad table top player and The Worst GM, actually. Difficulty planning, orchestrating, and even remembering the combat rules. Couldn't get the players invested in the setting or the story and didn't know how. Couldn't figure out how to get the players to go in the direction of the story without pushing them. Very frustrating experience for everyone involved! Fan fic is better, the characters I write very seldom rules lawyer or back talk me.
ayo, so i wanted to share some of my fanfictions on here because im a big trash baby and if anyone was interested id love to have feedback from y'all (fair bit of warning, they're all star wars and very shippy so yeah) Spoiler: links and shit because im lazy Take Me Away From Myself Outcast Heart Each has their respective tags/tiggers/and specific ships and ratings on them since it is up on my AO3.
placeholder because the snapchat epilogue made me want to write spitefic again Spoiler: the original plot bunny. Homestuck fix-it black Johnkarezi? Spoiler: a scene. mostly unedited and might have continuity errors. You really should not be here right now. Sure, you convinced yourself she needed a spotter. This is probably true. But almost anyone on this piss-awful meteor would have been a better choice. Lalonde's insufferable smugness would be a small price to pay for another Seer's eyes on this. Or that prick with the useless sunglasses: you hate to admit it, but a Hero of Time might be a decent counter to the gamebreaking nonsense you're dealing with. Even Kanaya's got more firepower than you do since Bulgesore Scarftraitor gave her a postmortem upgrade. But you want to know. That's one thing you still have in common with Terezi. You want to grab John Egbert by his soft human throat and squeeze until those shiny blue eyes fill with garish red blood or you get some answers, whichever comes first. What's his agenda? How many timelines is he operating in? Why in the name of the Handmaid's razorscale nookworms did he hit you in the face with a bucket? Some leader you are. Terezi's nothing but shadows in the faint lablight. Twin reflections burn in her glasses like green stars. They don't move: they'd be just another console if you didn't know. She's gotten better at waiting. She's faster, too. You flinch at a breeze before realizing it's just a fan kicking on. In the time it takes you to exhale, her sword clears its sheath and flashes toward a spot in the air, an instant before John Egbert materializes -- behind her, dripping the iridescence of resurrection, to catch her wrist. If Terezi's surprised, she doesn't show it. She goes for his instep and abdomen in the same movement, like that was what she'd planned all along. Her elbow and heel connect with nothing. Little dust devils dance across the lab floor as she finds her balance and sniffs the air. The Wind coalesces on top of an empty tank. His fucking glasses aren't even fucking crooked. "Dying still hurts, asshole!" Wow, his voice is deeper than you remember. "You know, I kind of expected you all to be happier to see me." "If you would cooperate, Bluebell, I would not have to take punitive measures!" There's an edge in Terezi's voice, but it's not the furious despair that leaves you helpless. She sounds more like she did when a FLARP clouder turned out to be capable of a decent challenge. "The Rose human and I have to chart our course through the Furthest Ring. All available information is required by the war effort!" "See, the way I remember it, that was Rose's job." John lifts off from the tank and drifts through the air unsupported, kicking his feet. "You said you were pretty useless up until you kicked the Faygo habit. And by then it was too late, I guess." "The events of a doomed timeline are scarcely reliable predictors of how the alpha timeline progresses," Terezi says. She's doing the inscrutable-Seer voice now, the one that used to set your teeth on edge. "Unless they are mapped out for those with the Vision to understand them, and to interpret their role in the structure of paradox space." "That's already happened! You saw what went wrong and sent me back to fix it. I mean, you will send me. Would have sent me, except you changed it." He pinwheels above her like a Skaian cloud. "Man, time travel is hard. This is more Dave's area." "There is a flaw in your story, John." Terezi keeps pace underneath him. You sneak through the doorway to follow and end up behind a heap of discarded computers. "We are already past the point of divergence. You are having a fine rainbow rumpus party with your new time powers, but you are a wounded stiltbeast in a swamp full of meranhas. One misstep could bring toothsome destruction on your entire flock! Which, in this figure of speech, means dooming us all again." "Really? I thought I explained this. We all died in the alpha timeline, but I got outside it! You're playing a game against yourself. I'm just the guy with his boots on the ground." John's boots are nearer the ceiling. What a stupid metaphor. "Like Bruce Willis. He wouldn't have been able to save the Earth without NASA giving him the bomb and telling him where to put it." "John, I do not care about your Earth human culture." You know that's so much musclebeast leavings: when Strider showed her Phoenix Wright you thought she'd need a sordid receptacle right then and there. "If you insist on being condescending, at least use small words for babies." "Nobody has to die this time, if I do it right. But that means not telling you everything all at once. Things would go wrong if you knew what was on my list. This you, anyway." His voice softens. "It seemed like things really sucked on the meteor the first time through. I didn't get to know you very well. Well, except Rose and Dave, but I was between universes for three years, sort of, and they changed too. I guess... I'm glad to see you again. You deserve a better ending than that." You almost duck behind the bulkhead on pure instinct. He was relatively safe as long as he stuck to insults. Nothing infuriates a Pyrope like pity.
Sighing @ my inspiration because no, we can't work on the longfics that have gone >6 months without updates, we have to work on the vocaloid inspired AU ideas that have been bouncing around for years. Tales of the Abyss, cookies to anyone who can identify the Vocaloid song the AU is based off. And yes I'm too lazy to switch it out of html coding. Deal w/ it. Spoiler: first scene because fuck you inspo Footsteps on a cold stone floor - familiar, smooth, the home of blisters. That was how the dreams always started; bare feet, the right weighted with anklets, on stone smoother and colder than the bathroom tiles in Baticul's mild winters. Those feet were callused now, the ankles strong, but in the early dreams they were soft and weak and constantly a source of pain. The sound is next, the jangle of jewelry on both wrists and the ankle, as gold hoops and charms of various sorts bounce against each other. The flow of light fabric, the weight of long hair controlled by more gold ornaments... And then, the dance. It's a full-body exertion, muscles moving with practiced ease through a ritual pattern of steps and twirls. This is where the dream seems to go on forever, where time means nothing at all, just the dance and the music that can only be <i>felt</i>, not heard. If it wasn't for the constant clatter of jewelry and the slaps of bare feet on the stone, the dancer could have been deaf without anyone ever knowing. The dance is graceful, flowing, soothing. The dance is quick, passionate, ferocious. The dance is joyous and hopeful, and yet it burns with loss, with anger, with a pain far deeper than feet that have gone through their steps until they bled and still danced on. For seven years, Luke has dreamed of dancing. In all that time, never once has anyone else graced that cold stone floor. At the end of the dream, always, the dancer finally sinks to his knees, seated in the posture of ritual prayer, but with only the light fabric of his garments to kneel on, instead of a rug. And rather than bowing his head, the dancer's posture is almost defiant, eyes up, daring the empty room to challenge him. The crystal hanging by chains in the center of the cavern is stunning, every time, surrounded and filled by fragments of gold light that twist back on themselves in patterns nearly impossible to follow with the eye. The dancer's voice rises, through seven different hymns, a thousand prayers ringing off the walls before going silent again. Most of them, Luke has never heard anywhere else; they are not the hymns heard in the services his family so rarely forces (<i>allows</i>) him to attend. Dance and hymns, the same every dream without fail, though Luke does not dream the dream every night, and many times does not remember the whole thing. But it was a pattern, familiar as unchanging as the seasons - Until one day (one night), after the hymns fell silent, a worn voice asked of the empty cavern, "Luke? Can you hear me?"
