formetanoia

[formetanoia]

snippet #2: Sors and Frey

small piece of a character dynamic

In the end, Freyer Knox Mendoza was but a mirror of his name. He could be no better nor worse than those before him.  It didn’t matter. It couldn;t matter. Sors could hate him. Throw him underneath a canal and keep him there. He could never understand this position. If he didn’t make this choice, someone else would. Wouldn’t Sors rather it was him? The crown was but a heavy weight. But heavier was the hand holding it above his head. 

Maybe it was selfish of him. That he had expected anything he had said to alter the pre-positioned thoughts in Frey’s mind. But, maybe just this once, he wanted to be selfish. The decision Frey made here would dethether them. Leaving Sors hanging onto the rocks of the mountain they had been climbing together— dangling, feet swinging into an abyss. And he knew that when he fell, there would be no Frey to catch him. 

[formetanoia]

snippet #1

from the first chapter of my long-term project. enjoy.

The envelope burned.

A big red wax seal lay stamped at the top of the criss-cross where the bits of paper conjoined. It was too dark to make out any of the words, but it was obvious what it held. He couldn’t help his hands from shaking as he ran his thumb over the puckered logo of the school.

The paper was quickly shoved underneath his bed pillow as dense foot steps made their way up the staircase. Luckily for Sors the stairs made deep creaks no matter how lightly anyone stepped. Unluckily, the rule applied to him as well, which made sneaking outside to view the stars at night never as easy as it could have been.

He knew the steps were his mother coming up to check on the dwellings of each of him and his siblings. The bundle of pillows crumpled underneath a blanket looked vaguely like the shape of his sibling if you didn’t look for longer than three seconds. Their room was in an archaic state of disarray with books thrown over glasses and hidden cigarettes in their bedside tables. How they managed to get the small room so dirty was a mystery to even its inhabitants.

The footsteps pressed on slowly, and Sors heard the doors creak whenever his mother peeked into the rooms. When her steps got closer to the door, Sors rustled around in bed, digging himself deeper into the sheets. They weren’t as soft as anyone would imagine or hope.

The room door creaked open slowly. Usually, mother would hoist a flashlight up into the room to check for any discrepancies, but luckily she decided to sit it out this night. Her presence was felt for just a moment before she slid away down the next hallway.

Once Sors was hundred percent certain she was gone, he pushed himself out of bed and pressed his face against the window. Sure enough, Lorin was still waiting at the bottom with his hands in raking through his hair.

From this angle he looked far shorter than he actually was. Sors would have teased him for it if they were in a different situation.

On the ground, Lorin looked up, waiting for Sors to give him the signal. His brown hair had begun to stick to his neck in the heat of Shangar’s summer. The rope the pair had dangled out the window and tied to the roof of the orphanage earlier that night swung limply in the dry wind.

Sors threw out a quick thumbs up, and Lorin began climbing up quickly; his well-built arms giving him a leg up in speed.

Once he was at the mouth of the window, Lorin swung himself inside, feet landing silently.

“I’m assuming you’re not going to tell me where you went tonight either?”

“Always the smart one, you are.”

Sors threw a stray comic book at his ‘brother.’ He dodged it effortlessly.

Lorin went over to the bed and hastily removed the pillows and flopped into it. A small sigh of contentment slipped out of his mouth.

“Mom didn’t notice?”

Sors shook his head, “No flashlight tonight apparently.”

“I’m surprised she’s not cracking down after Myriam and Leone ran out.” He picked up one of the pillows and chucked it across the room.

“Maybe that’s why she’s not.”

They sat in silence for a beat. The local insects trilled outside loudly. Sors hated the noise. But, it always did lull him to bed in a strange way.

The envelope burned beneath Sors’s head. He reached his hand back and felt along the seal again. A small lion raised up against his fingers and spun into a cluster of stars over its head. All the stories about how regal Reor’s symbol was were clearly true.

Sors fiddled with his hands underneath the sheets. He cycled through every thing Lorin had ever said about the three academies.

He hated Reor the most because it was well-known for doing deep background check on its prospective students. (Sors assumed he had failed it.) As for Kipine, Lorin simply hated how they taught their students. According to him they regulated every piece of information the students received, which created scholars who were horribly versed in their concentrations. And Kosarath was horrible simply because they specialized in only cognnomacy which allegedly wasn’t enough for a school. (“It’s simply the basics of knowledge”, he would prattle on, “you need more than that.”)

If he showed him the acceptance letter what would Lorin think? Would he help him get out?

Lorin’s voice floated through the dark, cushioned like velvet, “You can tell me, you know?”

A groan floated out from the other side of the room. “I thought you were swearing off of cognnomacy.”

“I don’t have to read your thoughts to know you want to tell me something,” Lorin held his hands up and flexed them, “you’re a terrible fiddler.”

Defeated, Sors pulled the envelope into the moonlight seeping out the window. The stars on the seal lit up.

“You applied? Since when did you start keeping secrets?” Lorin took the envelope into his hands softly, “This is really, really good Sors. You think you’ll be able to swing preliminaries?”

Sors had nearly forgotten about the pre entrance exams the academies conducted before their students were actually admitted. The exams were cut throat, with students having to sign waivers to acknowledge they could die during the exams. Those waivers usually only got passed to the physical strategy students, but the rest of the four studies had to sign on certain occasions.

“I’m gonna pledge Logimancy. Reor admits three Toh every year. I can get in without using bivium… I’ll just have to not use it ever.”

Sors heard Lorin snort, and felt embarrassment shoot through his limbs.

“But you’re not Toh, you were gifted just like the rest of us. The fire chose you, in Vaion’s name. You think the council that admitted you doesn’t know that?”

“Since I applied under Logimancy they automatically assume I can’t wield bivium and then wait until preliminaries to take their pick of the litter.” Sors began to pull at the skin of his fingers.

The moonlight continued to spill into their room, and Sors caught how Lorin gazed out the window, his green eyes illuminated by the blaze of the moon. They had shared this room for years, he couldn’t imagine not seeing Lorin every time he woke up. Couldn’t imagine not hearing his scolding voice over the packs of cigarettes Sors would smuggle in every other week. (And then smoke them right after scolding him.)

“You could pull it off. Get through the ‘zero semester’ as they call it, and then its smooth sailing, right? All you have to do is never use bivium around them.”

Sors felt his hand pulse. The letter wasn’t in his palm anymore, but heat still swirled around it. He wrenched his fingers closed. If he wanted to survive, they would have to stay like that.

[formetanoia]

gods folly.

Kisses burn through skin like the small box matches hidden in between oven grates.

You feel clammy, because the motions are wrong, 

Feet swing, eyes dance, limbs contort in odd shapes and colors.

You are hidden under a mattress, your arms are suffocating,

Turning purple and blue, 

Yet giggles spit through like acid, and I want to stop them.

It is a first until it is not. 

Until you wash my clothes in your dryer and pat my thighs.

Sighing. Tumbling. A mix of it all.

Sighing turned to hateful rebukes spindled into a new world.

Colliding like ice picks,

Splintering against skin, digging backwards into backs. 

Human hatred coupled into the noise of lips clashing against teeth.

Grating. 

Behind and between oven grates, 

I will kiss you and it will taste like sin. 

[formetanoia]

You remember when you used to write stories for your fifth grade creative writing unit in ELA? And mid story planning you realize that everything you set up is utterly useless so you decide to pull out the grand master card to undo all rudimentary writing fuck ups: "And then they woke up" ? Yea. That's Caraval.

[formetanoia]

SHITPOSTS ..

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i fucking hate Caraval.

[formetanoia]

ARTICLES/ESSAYS

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[formetanoia]

POETRY ? ..

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you were more than a sin.

[formetanoia]

BIVIUM ..

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snippet #1

snippet #2: character dynamics

[formetanoia]

REVIEWS

fym I can't review my shit here?

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[formetanoia]

MASTERLIST (S) ..

bivium ... typing

poetry? .... typing

articles/essays ... typing

shitposts ... typing

[formetanoia]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR .

🀦 nice to meet you. fern's the name. black + they/he. remus lupin reincarnate

🀦 head always stuck in a book or a film. talk to me about languages. ravenclaw and infj. probably editing my manuscript and making my friends read my writing.

🀦 thick books, brown and green, my family's laughter, the sound a keyboard makes, that moment when an idea consumes you whole and takes hold, and women.

🀦 editing, when my laptop dies, fucking bees i fucking hate bees, anyone who refuses to open their mind to possibility.

[formetanoia]

come in ..

༘⋆ fern. they/he. eighteen. black.

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