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[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Parable of the Moon Landing

If you want to go to the moon

And someone tells you,

But the moon doesn't exist!

Do you listen?

If you want to go to the moon

And the first rocket you build

Doesn't even make it off the launch pad

Do you say,

Clearly rockets don't work!

Why are we wasting money on them?

Or do you say, this needs more work,

And build another?

Do you keep going, because you know

That the moon is real

That we can go there, if only we keep getting better at this?

It's a famous joke, the complexity of rocket science.

More complex still are people

And the systems we build around ourselves.

Oh, to live on the moon!

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

"Here's a girl," all my stories seem to start.

"Here's a girl, and here's why she is special. Here's what happened to her. Here's what she did with it. And here's why you should care."

Well.

Here's a girl.

Most people seem to think she's special because she's intelligent, or creative, or maybe even good-looking. And she is all those things, as far as she can tell, but here's a secret: none of those things are what makes her special. Rather, it's the same thing that makes every human being on the planet special. Some might say that if everyone's special, then no one is, but that is utter nonsense. There are a million billion stars in the universe, and every one of them is a goddamn miracle.

Nothing too interesting has happened to her yet, other than the things that happen to everyone. The woes of coming of age, a global pandemic. The events that play out on the pages of books and insides her head are more interesting than her own life, anyway, and the part of her that knows the cost of stories hopes that it stays that way.

As for what she did with it... the first big thing she did was to go into a depressive spiral and drop out of college. Then she put a lot of work into recovering from that, and trying to make sure it wouldn't happen again. I'm still waiting to see what she does next, but I hope it's something good.

I don't have a good reason for why you should care, but she hopes so badly that someone will. That they'll care enough to see all of her, as no one else ever has, and that she'll find it in herself to let them.

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

I don't know why I'm crying, really,

except maybe

because the screaming in my head

is just

so

loud

but I cannot scream

because it is much too early and much too late

because I might wake someone up

because god forbid I ever be an inconvenience

but I can weep against my pillow

muffled sobs taking the place of incoherent shrieks

and so I do

and so I will

until the morning sun once more raises its weary head

and I put aside my tears

to face the day

or until the gentle touch of sleep

claims me at last

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

As moonlight

Through the white wooden slats

Across my window

Strikes my eye

So too does a verse

Strike my mind

Something about a mother

Long gone and yet

Still reaching for her child

With arms she no longer has

Loving them with a heart

That stopped beating long ago

Loving them from afar

Just like the moon with me

And I the moon

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

A seam opened in the rock, silent and perfectly rectangular. The newly created door swung open to reveal a small, pale figure—clad no longer in armor, but only the simple white clothing she’d worn beneath—and shut again behind her, the rock unbroken once more.

“You know why I am here,” she said.

One great eye cracked lazily open.

“And I know how this ends.”

Now both of those molten eyes were wide and fixed upon her, but she closed her own, unable to bear the weight of that fiery gaze in this moment.

“So that’s all settled. But, before we begin… may I ask a favor?”

She could feel the warm ground rumble against her bare feet as the dragon gave his assent.

The favor, though complex in its execution, was simple enough to request, and when she’d finished, for a moment, silence hung heavy in the hot air between them.

It was broken by the dragon’s laugh, deep and jarring like the origin of an earthquake. “I’ll do you one better,” he said, and then he attacked.

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Happy World Building Wednesday! What are some status symbols in your world, ways folks just really show off?

Thank you so much for this ask!! I started to answer it a couple weeks ago when you first sent it to me, but I had to step away for a minute, so I saved it... and tumblr ate my draft :( Since then I just haven't had the time and energy for it, but now I do!! So, without further ado: status symbols and showing off in the world of The Seven Kingdoms

This is something that's going to vary across the different cultures within the world, so I'll be dividing my answer into three sections accordingly.

1. The Byoni Empire

For context, the empire is made up of six kingdoms, of which Byon is the largest and the empire's namesake. This is where the bulk of the series will take place, and it's, well, not exactly a utopia, but it's free of many of the problems that plague us in the real world. As a result, status isn't a huge concern here (at least not the way we think of it), but people might show off their prowess in various magical and mundane disciplines or brag about a personal connection to royalty or gods.

2. The Kingdom of Fellorr

But wait! you might be thinking. You said this was called the *Seven* kingdoms, not six. Where did the seventh one go? Well, Fellorr hasn't gone anywhere physically, but it did secede from the rest of the Empire a couple centuries back, and it's decidedly less utopian. People there might show off in many of the same ways we do (fancy clothes, big houses, etc.), but one really big status symbol is having access to a licensed mage, either as a family member or employee. Magic use is strictly regulated in Fellorr—only mages with a license from the royal academy are allowed to practice, and only a limited number of students are given royal permission to study there—so if you've got a mage in the family, that's a great advantage as well as a mark of royal favor, and if you can afford to keep one on staff, that's a sign that you're incredibly wealthy.

3. The Dragon-Rider Empire

That isn't its final name, of course, but I haven't come up with a better one yet, and, well, it's an empire that's got dragon-riders. Much like with the mages in Fellorr, having a dragon-rider in the family is a prestigious mark of power and royal favor, but hiring them is not so much a thing; they're part of an elite aerial cavalry, so they work exclusively for the imperial military.

The capital city of this empire is build on the sides of a mountain, with the imperial palace at its peak. From there, the city descends in strict, stratified layers to the bottom of the mountain, where the poorest of the poor live and openings in the rock lead down into the prison-mines. As you go up the mountain, the neighborhoods get nicer and more expensive, and only the nobility are allowed to live in the top few tiers, so living higher up the mountain is a huge status symbol.

Thanks again to @raevenlywrites for the ask! It made me think about some things I hadn't considered before, and I had a good (if slightly delayed lol) time with it :)

If you were interested by any of this, feel free to ask me more questions, and go check out my other writing on @amateur-authorial-aspirations

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Word Find Tag

Thank you to the lovely @avrablake for tagging me in this! And sorry it's taken me like two weeks to get around to it lol

The words are: faith, raw, normal, and silence

faith:

The legends tell of a girl who will save the world from darkness, but the last of the light is disappearing fast, and people are beginning to lose their faith in legends.

(from an untitled short story wip)

raw:

"You deserve better, you know," she said.

I barked out a laugh, and it was raw and bitter and angry, full of all the emotions I couldn't quite feel just now. "Of course I know," I said, "but so what? It doesn't matter. They don't care about what I deserve. No one does."

"I do," she said.

Our gazes locked, and I paused for a moment.

"It doesn't matter," I repeated, and dropped my head to my knees. "They don't care, and no one is going to stop them."

"I could."

(from "The Woman in the Water," another short story wip)

normal:

The two girls looked at each other as if sharing a private joke. It wasn't exactly private, though—Lys knew what the others thought of her. Normally it didn't bother her, but right now, as the silence stretched on uncomfortably, she did wish they treated her like anybody else. If only so they'd hurry up and answer her question.

(from "So the Story Goes," another short story, which you can read here!)

silence:

Valeria nodded, her face still the picture of demure affront, and, stepping out of his embrace, turned to go. As she was escorted by the other guards up the steps to the manor, she looked back to where Madelein was receiving a vigorous tongue-lashing and, for a brief moment, allowed her mask to drop as she tossed a jaunty wink over her shoulder.

Madelein could do nothing but stew in silence as she endured the lord's berating, knowing full well that both Valeria and their shared target would be long gone by the time she could get away from this pompous fool. And as she watched her competition waltz right into the estate she'd just spent weeks infiltrating, she, too, swore a vow of revenge.

(aaand another short story! This one is "The Raven and the Hawk," which you can read here)

Tagging @emelkae @writting-in-blood @fiercely-raging-writer and anyone else who wants to! Your words are legend, emotion, stretch, and picture.

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

ancient god eating the sun outside your window? you may be entitled to financial compensation

my instagram

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

was tagged for a last line thing by @fiercely-raging-writer, so here goes! This was actually the first thing I wrote for a short story, but it's going to be the last line in the story, so I think it counts:

This world is not a phoenix, rising brilliant from the ashes of that which came before. It is only a bird, perfectly ordinary, perhaps a sparrow or a pigeon. But it, too, has faced the fire, and though it came away not shining and new but horribly injured and bitter with smoke, it is ever so slowly learning to fly once more.

tagging uhhh @writting-in-blood @emelkae @avrablake and anyone else who wants to!! no pressure tho :)

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Taglist: @mango-pickle @brightening-the-stars

Send me an ask or a dm if you want to be added or removed!

The Vanquisher of Evil

Long ago, the land was beset by a great and terrible Evil. This Evil plagued the land and its people for many, many years, until one day a mighty warrior faced the Evil, and she felled it. Her name is lost to us, or perhaps we never knew it, but in honor of her wonderous feat she is styled the Vanquisher of Evil, and stories of her fabled exploits are told around every fire.

Every so often, upon hearing these tales, a person feels called to seek out this legendary figure. These pilgrims set aside the lives they knew and roam the land in search of the Vanquisher of Evil. Some wish to gain her blessing for failing fields or a beloved child, others to train under her masterful eye, still others to hear her wisdom or simply pay her homage, and many bring money or prized possessions to offer in tribute. They knock on the gates of castles, traverse lofty cliffs and hidden glens, even venture into the bowels of the earth in their quest, and yet, almost without exception, they do not find the one they seek.

The Vanquisher of Evil, you see, lives in a small, unremarkable town on the outskirts of a large, unremarkable forest. She has a house of wood and stone at the end of a long street, and this street is remarkable only in that both of the town's blacksmiths have their workshops along its length; in the time-honored tradition of small towns everywhere, it is quite imaginatively called Two-Smith Street. Both of the blacksmiths do fine work, and the Vanquisher of Evil visits their shops regularly, along with many of the other stalls and stores that the town is proud to host. The people of the town, by and large, rather like the mild-mannered woman that keeps herself to herself, but they do not know who it is that walks among them. Or if they do, well, they know better than to go around airing their neighbor's business for everyone to hear—especially a neighbor who is known to be generous with her coins.

But the pilgrims' failure is not universal, only nearly so, and on one fine autumn day, a man finds his way to the small town and to the end of Two-Smith Street, and he knocks on the front door of the Vanquisher of Evil.

The door swings open, and a woman stands there. She is of an average height and a tan complexion, and she wears clothes of plain linen: a tunic tucked into pants that hang as loose as her chin-length hair. The man, tall and thin and fair-haired, begins to feel a bit self-conscious about his own suit of fine red silk as she peers at him intently.

"May I come in?" he asks. The piercing stare drills into him for a moment longer, and then—a curt nod. He steps inside, and the Vanquisher of Evil closes her door behind him.

She leads him down a corridor hung with strange paintings in a style the man has never seen and seats him at a round wooden table in a room at the back of the house, where the windows face the woods beyond the town, and she asks, "Why have you come?"

"I came to see you," he replies. "I am a historian, you see, and I have always been fascinated by the tales of you and the great gift you gave to the whole of the land. But many of the accounts conflict, and I wish to know the truth of the matter. May I ask of you my questions?"

She considers this. "You may ask."

"The Great Evil—how did you slay it?"

The Vanquisher of Evil looks past him, out the windows, and there, at the edge of the trees, she can see a small girl playing among the fallen leaves, her hair flying in every direction as she twirls and tumbles. And though the Vanquisher of Evil's face has remained passive all this time, now her mouth turns up at the edges, ever so slightly, at the sight of her daughter.

"I didn't."

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

The Vanquisher of Evil

Long ago, the land was beset by a great and terrible Evil. This Evil plagued the land and its people for many, many years, until one day a mighty warrior faced the Evil, and she felled it. Her name is lost to us, or perhaps we never knew it, but in honor of her wonderous feat she is styled the Vanquisher of Evil, and stories of her fabled exploits are told around every fire.

Every so often, upon hearing these tales, a person feels called to seek out this legendary figure. These pilgrims set aside the lives they knew and roam the land in search of the Vanquisher of Evil. Some wish to gain her blessing for failing fields or a beloved child, others to train under her masterful eye, still others to hear her wisdom or simply pay her homage, and many bring money or prized possessions to offer in tribute. They knock on the gates of castles, traverse lofty cliffs and hidden glens, even venture into the bowels of the earth in their quest, and yet, almost without exception, they do not find the one they seek.

The Vanquisher of Evil, you see, lives in a small, unremarkable town on the outskirts of a large, unremarkable forest. She has a house of wood and stone at the end of a long street, and this street is remarkable only in that both of the town's blacksmiths have their workshops along its length; in the time-honored tradition of small towns everywhere, it is quite imaginatively called Two-Smith Street. Both of the blacksmiths do fine work, and the Vanquisher of Evil visits their shops regularly, along with many of the other stalls and stores that the town is proud to host. The people of the town, by and large, rather like the mild-mannered woman that keeps herself to herself, but they do not know who it is that walks among them. Or if they do, well, they know better than to go around airing their neighbor's business for everyone to hear—especially a neighbor who is known to be generous with her coins.

But the pilgrims' failure is not universal, only nearly so, and on one fine autumn day, a man finds his way to the small town and to the end of Two-Smith Street, and he knocks on the front door of the Vanquisher of Evil.

The door swings open, and a woman stands there. She is of an average height and a tan complexion, and she wears clothes of plain linen: a tunic tucked into pants that hang as loose as her chin-length hair. The man, tall and thin and fair-haired, begins to feel a bit self-conscious about his own suit of fine red silk as she peers at him intently.

"May I come in?" he asks. The piercing stare drills into him for a moment longer, and then—a curt nod. He steps inside, and the Vanquisher of Evil closes her door behind him.

She leads him down a corridor hung with strange paintings in a style the man has never seen and seats him at a round wooden table in a room at the back of the house, where the windows face the woods beyond the town, and she asks, "Why have you come?"

"I came to see you," he replies. "I am a historian, you see, and I have always been fascinated by the tales of you and the great gift you gave to the whole of the land. But many of the accounts conflict, and I wish to know the truth of the matter. May I ask of you my questions?"

She considers this. "You may ask."

"The Great Evil—how did you slay it?"

The Vanquisher of Evil looks past him, out the windows, and there, at the edge of the trees, she can see a small girl playing among the fallen leaves, her hair flying in every direction as she twirls and tumbles. And though the Vanquisher of Evil's face has remained passive all this time, now her mouth turns up at the edges, ever so slightly, at the sight of her daughter.

"I didn't."

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

So the Story Goes

"Are you coming tonight?"

Lys looked up to see Thea's round, smiling face poking in through her tent's flap. "No, I think I'll just stay here. Have a quiet night in, you know."

The smile disappeared. "What? I mean, I know I asked, but I was kidding! I didn't think you really wouldn't go."

Lys gave her dearest friend a quizzical look. "Why are you so surprised? I've been talking about this for ages."

"Well, yes, but it's one thing to talk, and another, much huger thing to just not go to the ritual we've been preparing for our whole lives! And besides, you know I don't understand all that stuff about changing the narrative or whatever it is you think you’re doing."

"Give yourself some credit, Thea. You understand more than anybody else here."

"Well, maybe that's just because I'm around you all the time."

"Nope. Nuh-uh. You don't get to put yourself down like that. You're a lot smarter than you think."

Thea huffed in frustration. "But that's the thing, Lys! I'm not. I'm not smart like you, or powerful like the Dominae. This is all I'm good for, but I am good at it. Really good, actually. And even if you don't want to get chosen, even if you think you're better than the rest of us, I thought you'd at least come to support me, but I guess I was wrong." Lys just stared at her, dumbstruck. "And it's not like they would choose you anyway!"

With that, Thea spun around and stormed out of the tent. Lys was left staring after her, fumbling helplessly for words that would not come long after the tent flap had fallen shut. Finally, she just sighed, curled up on her cot, and pulled the threadbare blanket over her head. She didn't bother trying to cover her ears, though; she knew from experience that the unearthly sounds of the summoning ritual could not be blocked out.

After about an hour, the whooshing and bellowing died down at last. For a few minutes, all was silent, and then came the footsteps and hushed voices of the younger girls as they trickled out of the woods and made their way to their tents, no doubt terribly bitter at being cast out before the most exciting part, when the older girls went down into the caves to prepare the lucky girl who had been selected.

Heaving herself out of bed, Lys sighed heavily. She'd been like that, too, once. Wishing desperately that she were old enough to stay and help, then to be chosen herself. But when that day had finally come, and she and Thea had lovingly braided that older girl's long, dark hair and whispered reassuring words in her ear before sending her out to her fate, Lys had wanted to know more, and no one would tell her. So, a couple of weeks later, she’d snuck out of camp and into a nearby town, where the marketplace was abuzz with the news of a heroic rescue that had taken place in a neighboring kingdom. The tales she’d heard that day, of a maiden left chained to a tree, guarded by an awful, serpentine creature that belonged in the depths of the underworld, with only her thick, flowing hair to shield her from the elements, waiting without food or water or anything for days and days… they still gave her nightmares sometimes. The ending—when some warrior brute came along to slay the beast and cart the girl off to some distant town, where she’d spend the rest of her days washing his clothes and bearing his children—was hardly much better. And there were other stories, too, older ones, of girls kidnapped by dragons, or locked in towers, or sacrificed to wrathful sea monsters. Lys shivered just thinking about it all.

Right now, however, there were more important things to occupy her thoughts. Namely, how she was going to apologize to Thea. Sticking her head outside, she spotted a pair of girls emerging from the trees nearby. She didn't know their names, but they looked to be eleven or twelve. One was short and slim, with long, wavy brown hair, the other taller and slightly stocky, her hair just as long but black and smooth as the space between the stars.

"Hey," Lys called, flagging them down. "Do you know who got picked?" Thea would likely stay longer if it was one of her friends, so hopefully the magic had chosen someone she didn’t know.

The two girls looked at each other as if sharing a private joke. It wasn't exactly private, though—Lys knew what the others thought of her. Normally it didn't bother her, but right now, as the silence stretched on uncomfortably, she did wish they treated her like anybody else. If only so they'd hurry up and answer her question.

Finally, the shorter one piped up. "It's that girl with the beautiful hair that's always with you for some reason. Thelia or something."

Lys froze. Surely she'd misheard. "Thea?" she asked. "They chose Thea?"

Both girls nodded. One of them said something else, but Lys wasn't listening anymore.

Thea. Oh, gods. What were they doing to Thea?

No. No. She could still put a stop to this.

And suddenly she was running, her feet pounding over dirt and grass and leaves, a one-word refrain echoing in her head. No. No. No.

Not Thea. They couldn't have Thea. She wouldn't let them.

Lys flew through the trees, dodging trunks and branches as best she could, but it was dark, and the moon was almost gone, and—BAM. Her shin slammed into a fallen log, and she tumbled headfirst to the ground.

Cursing loudly and foully, she struggled to her feet. This wasn't working. She needed light.

Now fully upright, she traced a symbol in the air and uttered the words she'd practiced for so long in secret. At first she thought it hadn't worked, but then—

A ball of light the size of an apple blossomed in her hand, and she could see.

But there was no time to celebrate this hard-won victory, not now, even if it was the payoff to years of covert study and practice. Almost immediately she was running again, sprinting headlong for the caves, for Thea. They were probably braiding her hair right now, just like the two of them had done for—

No. She couldn't think about that right now, or she'd fall apart. And she couldn't fall apart until Thea was safe.

Breaking through the last of the trees, she emerged in the clearing where the summoning had taken place and skidded to a halt, shoving her hand and the light it held behind her back.

The clearing itself was nothing impressive, just a circle of dirt with a few levels of broad steps descending downward towards the center, the soil held in place by wooden supports. It couldn't hold a candle to a proper amphitheatre, much less the massive stone ones she'd heard were built in the great cities.

At its center, though, was something those great cities, for all their might, could never hope to match. Three women in light, flowing robes, their faces obscured by the shadows of twilight, held hands in that innermost circle. These were the Dominae, the powerful sorceresses who had taken in Lys and Thea and all the other girls and raised them since infancy. And above them, tendrils of pure light in every color imaginable leapt and writhed and billowed, tangling in a cloud that was slowly picked apart by six deft hands and woven into something that hurt to look at.

Lys had been to the summoning every year—except this one—for as long as she could remember, and she'd always thought its shining lights and otherworldly noises to be the most impressive display of magic she'd ever seen, but this? This was something else entirely. There were no sigils, no chanting, no signs of the magic she'd come to know and struggled so hard to master, and when she looked at that, that thing being woven in the center…

Her head swam, and images flashed before her eyes, too fast to make out but leaving a sense of terror in their wake.

Luckily, they didn't seem to have seen her. Lys backed slowly towards the trees, hoping she could use the cover of the forest to make her way to the other side of the clearing, where another dirt path led down to the beach and the entrance of the cave system. Reaching the edge of the underbrush, she turned to run, only to spin back around at the sound of a low, dark laugh echoing from behind her.

"Oh, Lys," said three voices at once, creating a strange, harmonic sound that she knew all too well. "Did you really think we wouldn't notice you? As if we could miss the crashing footsteps, the heavy breathing. That pathetic speck of light you call a spell."

As the last word fell from the lips of the Dominae, Lys's light blinked out, and the darkness seemed to tighten around her, as if something outside her own fear now kept her rooted in place.

"How– how did you do that?" Lys gasped. "How are you doing any of this?"

Another laugh, this one lighter, mocking. "And to think we once cherished such high hopes for you. You were always such a talented girl, more even than Thea. Perhaps more than any of our students. You could have been our greatest success, but instead you spit in our faces. Betray our years of kindness, of generosity, of love, and for what? A pretty face that will never be yours?"

For a moment, the light formed itself into Thea's face, and Lys cried out.

"Foolish girl. Our power is far greater than the paltry, mortal magic we allow you to see, and even we cannot alter the patterns of fate, merely summon them forth. For you, for her, there has only ever been and will only ever be one story. You know it well by now—the maiden, the beast, the shining hero."

Summoning every scrap of defiance that remained in her, Lys shouted back, "Yeah? Because I am done playing any part you write for me, and there is nothing, nothing, that you can do to make me into one of your precious, perfect damsels."

This time, the Dominae's chuckle was quiet, and it sent a shock of cold through Lys's bones. "Oh, we doubt that, child. But you misunderstand. You have strayed too far from the path, and missed your chance. Look at you now! You hunch, you scowl. Your clothes are ragged, your body filthy, your face pinched and ugly."

While they spoke, their hands were moving, and a spear of light shot from the web above them.

"You look like a monster."

The light struck Lys, and she screamed. It was as if she were aflame, but it was nothing like the time when she was seven and burned her hand. This felt deeper, somehow, as if not just her flesh but her soul was burning, burning, burning, being drawn into the net that the Dominae had so skillfully woven, being forged into something new. She felt more than heard her cries cut off as her throat closed up, felt her skin split open, her bones shatter and reform.

As the light began to fade, the Dominae spoke again. "In a way, this is what you wanted. A chance to save Thea from those who would take her, use her, and lock her away. It is too bad, really, that you will fail in the end."

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

The Gateway

part one (here) / part two (in progress, will add a link once it's posted)

~~~~~~~~~~

One doorway is tall, nearly twice my height. Its towering archway is built from rough-hewn blocks of dull grey rock, except for the keystone, whose jet-black facets gleam in the dim light. In the opening, there is nothing but swirling fog. Or maybe it is smoke.

The other doorway is smaller, though my fingertips still wouldn't graze the underside of its crossbeam, even if I stood beneath it and leapt. This one is made of dark, shining wood, with wrought iron reinforcements at the upper corners, but the same churning emptiness fills its confines.

Above the doorways and between them, I can see only darkness—though, like clouds that cover stars, it sheds just enough light to see by—but between them lies a short stretch of smooth, glassy floor. Though it appears to be clear, it neither reflects the light nor reveals what lies below, and though it stops at each doorway, in the other two directions it stretches as far as the eye can see. Perhaps, somewhere in the distance, there are more doorways, or something else entirely, but I will never know.

At the very center, I sit, my ankles shackled and the chains bolted down. There is length enough for me to take a few steps, but nothing more, and now matter how I lunge or stretch or pull, I cannot reach the doorways. I know not where they lead, nor even where I am, exactly, only that this place is a gateway of some kind, a chink in a wall that separates worlds. I have no memory of being brought here, but I imagine that I was left as a warning of some kind, to intrepid explorers or invading armies or whoever else might use this gate. But no matter the intended recipient, the warning was useless—I have been here for more years than I can count, and in all that time, I have yet to see so much as a pebble come through either doorway, much less another living being.

With a heavy sigh, I lay back, close my eyes, and try to sleep, but it is of no use. I sleep as much as my body will allow, although I never dream—even dreams, apparently, are more of an escape than this place will permit. Now, however, I must wait, unwillingly wakeful, until I tire once more. Instead, for now, I stare up into the dark and, for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, imagine what might lie on the other side of the doorways.

This time, I picture a world covered by water. It is dark, like my own murky environs, but in its depths float creatures of every form and feature—tiny silver fish coalesce in giant, glittering swarms that can stretch for miles; dark, hulking beasts with snarling faces and fangs as long as my forearm glide silently through the deep, propelled ever forward by heavily muscled fins; a human head atop a mass of writhing tentacles lurks between the long, waving fronds of an inviting patch of seaweed, baring needle-like teeth as it waits patiently for its next meal. In a rare few caverns at the world's farthest corners, small, glowing creatures gather in luminous clouds, a sight so beautiful that these caves are considered sacred.

On past occasions, I have imagined worlds of mist, worlds of lofty cliffs and perilous canyons, worlds of deserts and jungles, worlds on fire. My favorite, I think, is one I invented many years ago, and have revisited often. It is a beautiful, airy world, full of lovely little forests and gently rolling hills and long grasses that ripple in the wind, and every day the sky is a different color, but there are never any clouds, and darkness never falls.

I suppose that I must have lived somewhere else before I was left here, to know that such things are possible, but I do not remember any such life, only the endless years and the endless dark. Time, or some power beyond my knowledge, took those memories from me long ago.

Tiring of my fantasies, I tuck my legs up against my chest, then roll to my feet. Exercise is tedious, especially with my options so limited by the chains, but it numbs the mind and brings me closer to sleep, and so I exercise quite a lot.

I stand up to my full height, arch my back, and lean backward until I fall, landing nimbly on my hands, and my long, pale braid slaps against the floor. Then I lift one foot from the ground and raise it until I am straining against the chain. I hold this position for a few moments—breath in, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4—and let my foot sink back down to the cool surface of the floor.

By the time I have done this two hundred and fifty-four times with each leg, my arms are beginning to shake, so I lower myself onto the ground, cross my arms over my chest, and start doing sit-ups. I cycle through twelve more exercises before my body is ready to give out, but sleep is still distant.

Limbs weary, I drop back to the floor like a wilting flower. I lie there in silence for what feels like eons, until boredom, that familiar, eternal plague, is once again nibbling at my edges and making me want to scream. So I do—no one to hear it, after all. Then, ever so softly, I begin to sing.

"In the sky up above,

Awash in the blue,

Flies a white-winged dove

With a message for you:

'Hush now, my little star,

Never fear the night.

There's a fire in your heart

Brighter than any light.

So when dark voices claim

That you've lost your way,

Simply follow that heart-flame

Back to the day.'"

Though I of course cannot recall where I learned the words and lilting melody, they carry with them a sense of warmth, of tenderness, and I imagine that in the time before I can remember, I must have heard this song in my mother's voice as she sang me to sleep.

I sing other songs, too, mostly of my own invention. Those, however, come and go over time as I create them and eventually forget them. Only the lullaby has stayed with me all this time.

As I reach the end of a silly ditty about a sailor who fell in love with a sea lion, my eyes start to drop, and so I return once more to the lullaby, that I might drift off to sleep wrapped up in the phantom embrace of its long-ago singer.

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

im an intelligent and beautiful girl, charming too, unfortunately also cursed

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Okay so I was going through a stack of old certificates and I found one that was for when a poem I wrote got put in this county literary magazine... and it's called "Tears of Starlight" so I thought, lmao that's going to be hilariously cheesy let's go find it and laugh at 8th grade me, but then I read it and not only is it not cheesy it's actually kinda good?? Like there's definitely some choices I wouldn't make now but it's not half bad, good for little me

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Waking Moment in a Storm

I wake,

My glasses off.

The world around is blurry, soft,

And lightning through the clouds

Illuminates the windowpanes.

The rain drums down,

A gentle snare upon the ground,

Rum-pumming on the roof

Above the couch on which I lie

Beneath a sheet.

For hours more the storm will seethe,

But here and now inside

I'm safe and warm, and so once more

I sleep.

[amateur-authorial-aspirations]

Question in an Echo

In every moment, every action

Every word

We are saying, shouting, screaming

Loud as we ever can

Hoping they might understand

From the volume of our voices

What our words cannot express

In the echo

There's a question

A whisper, faint

Enough to miss

If you do not listen closely:

I LOVE YOU

do you love me?