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[dreaming-of-the-end]

Fantasy Guide to Building A Culture

Culture is defined by a collection of morals, ethics, traditions, customs and behaviours shared by a group of people.

Hierarchy and Social Structures

Within every culture, there is a hierarchy. Hierarchies are an important part of any culture, usually do ingrained that one within the culture wouldn't even question it. Hierarchy can be established either by age, gender or wealth and could even determine roles within their society. Sometimes hierarchy can may be oppressive and rigid whilst other times, ranks can intermingle without trouble. You should consider how these different ranks interact with one another and whether there are any special gestures or acts of deference one must pay to those higher than them. For example, the Khasi people of Meghalaya (Northern India), are strictly matriarchal. Women run the households, inheritance runs through the female line, and the men of the culture typically defer to their mothers and wives. Here are a few questions to consider:

How is a leader determined within the culture as a whole and the family unit?

Is the culture matriarchal? Patriarchal? Or does gender even matter?

How would one recognise the different ranks?

How would one act around somebody higher ranking? How would somebody he expected to act around somebody lower ranking?

Can one move socially? If not, why? If so, how?

Traditions and Customs

Traditions are a staple in any culture. These can be gestures or living life a certain way or to the way a certain person should look. Traditions are a personal detail to culture, they are what make it important. Tradition can dictate how one should keep their home, run their family, take care of their appearance, act in public and even determine relationship. Tradition can also be a double edged sword. Traditions can also be restrictive and allow a culture to push away a former member if they do not adhere to them, eg Traditional expectations of chastity led to thousands of Irish women being imprisoned at the Magdelene Laundries. Customs could be anything from how one treats another, to how they greet someone.

How important is tradition?

What are some rituals your culture undertakes?

What are some traditional values in your world? Does it effect daily life?

Are there any traditions that determine one's status?

Values and Opinions

Values and Opinions are the bread and butter of any culture. This is the way your culture sees the world and how they approach different life hurdles. These may differ with other cultures and be considered odd to outsiders, what one culture may value another may not and what opinion another holds, one may not. There will be historical and traditional reasons to why these values and opinions are held. Cultures usually have a paragon to which they hold their members to, a list of characteristics that they expect one to if not adhere to then aspire to. The Yoruba people value honesty, hard work, courage and integrity. Here are some questions to consider?

How important are these ethics and core values? Could somebody be ostracised for not living up to them?

What are some morals that clash with other cultures?

What does your culture precieved to be right? Or wrong?

What are some opinions that are considered to be taboo in your culture? Why?

Dress Code

For many cultures, the way somebody dresses can be important. History and ethics can effect how one is meant to be dressed such as an expectation of chastity, can impose strict modesty. While other cultures, put more importance on details, the different sorts of clothes worn and when or what colour one might wear. The Palestinian people (من النهر إلى البحر ، قد يكونون أحرارا) denoted different family ties, marriage status and wealth by the embroidery and detailing on their thoub.

Are there traditional clothes for your world? Are they something somebody wears on a daily basis or just on occasion?

Are there any rules around what people can wear?

What would be considered formal dress? Casual dress?

What would happen if somebody wore the wrong clothes to an event?

Language

Language can also be ingrained as part of a Culture. It can be a specific way one speaks or a an entirely different language. For example, in the Southern States of America, one can engage in a sort of double talk, saying something that sounds sweet whilst delivering something pointed. Bless their heart. I have a post on creating your own language here.

Arts, Music and Craft

Many cultures are known for different styles of dance, their artwork and crafts. Art is a great part of culture, a way for people to express themselves and their culture in art form. Dance can be an integral part of culture, such as céilí dance in Ireland or the Polka in the Czech Republic. Handicrafts could also be important in culture, such as knitting in Scottish culture and Hebron glass in Palestine. Music is also close to culture, from traditional kinds of singing such as the White Voice in Ukraine and the playing of certain instruments such as the mvet.

Food and Diet

The way a culture prepares or intakes or treats certain foods are important to a culture. In some cultures, there is a diet yo adhere to, certain foods are completely banned. With Jewish culture, pork is prohibited along with fish such as sturgeon, along with shellfish and certain fowl. Meat must also be prepared in a certain way and animal byproducts such as dairy, must never be created or even eaten around this meat. This is known as kosher. The way one consumes food is also important to culture. In some cultures, only certain people may eat together. Some cultures place important on how food is eaten. In Nigerian culture, the oldest guests are served first usually the men before the women. In Japanese culture, one must say 'itadakimasu' (I recieve) before eating. Culture may also include fasting, periods of time one doesn't intake food for a specific reason.

What are some traditional dishes in your world?

What would be a basic diet for the common man?

What's considered a delicacy?

Is there a societal difference in diet? What are the factors that effect diet between classes?

Is there any influence from other cuisines? If not, why not? If so, to what extent?

What would a typical breakfast contain?

What meals are served during the day?

What's considered a comfort food or drink?

Are there any restrictions on who can eat what or when?

Are there any banned foods?

What stance does your world take on alcohol? Is it legal? Can anybody consume it?

Are there any dining customs? Are traditions?

Is there a difference in formal meals or casual meals? If so, what's involved?

Are there any gestures or actions unacceptable at the dinner table?

How are guests treated at meals? If they are given deference, how so?

[dreaming-of-the-end]

“plot armor” is so funny as an idea. I can’t believe the author used this character in a thematically coherent way instead of killing them off randomly in the fourth chapter…

[dreaming-of-the-end]

futures and dreams (and other non-fading scars): Bianuca

A/N: Hi @uni-seahorse-572, I'm your secret santa! Thanks @song-tam for hosting!

Summary: Biana looks at her again, and her eyes are tinted red from exhaustion and pain but still they carry with them the Vacker power. The one she's craved and hated for far too many years.

TW: mentions of blood/violence/wounds

Tags: @steppingonshatteredglass @sunset-telepath @stardustanddaffodils @turquoise-skyyyy @skylilac @wu-marcy @saintashes @rune-and-rising @lavender-and-rainy-days @confusedamphibian @hellomyfriends @callas-starkflower-stew @a-harmless-poison @professionalwhalewatcher @theogony @gay-otlc @confuzzled-fox @almostfullnerd @athenswrites @synonymroll648 @squishmallow36 @xanadaus @honey-the-dinosaur-ate-our-kid

Biana's lips part as she sleeps, in soft contrast to the rest of her twisted face. Maruca wants to trace a finger down her skin, soothe the wrinkle between her brows, let her eyes rest easy instead of pressed tight.

At least she's finally asleep.

The bandages wrapped across most bare skin make the idea of rest impossible: three hours ago, she was pinned down to keep from writhing, with teeth clenched so hard they ground audibly as Elwin and Livvy plucked shards of glass from her skin, then poured a disinfectant elixir over the jagged wounds. The numbing elixir barely eased the pain for her. Elwin said some of the glass had gone too deep.

Maruca wants to hold her hand, but even if she could do that without causing her pain, she isn't sure what it would mean. Years before, there wouldn't have been any sort of hesitation, only relief, comfort, familiarity.

The thing is, she knows the feeling of her hand so well that seeing those fingers twitch in her sleep is a phantom pain, an absence so familiar that feeling it is easier than it would be to feel the real thing.

Biana's mouth purses and her face screws up on itself for a moment before fading back into worried sleep.

(god, that mouth.)

Livvy had taken her aside, an hour ago, when the bandages had just been wrapped and the color had still been gone from her skin. "Elwin will tell them that the scars might fade. He will give her a possibility, maybe a hope."

"And you?" Maruca asked.

Livvy looked at her. "Maybe in a hundred years, there will be nothing remaining from this day on her skin. But the scars will still be there."

Maruca scrubs at her face with her hands.

She can hear Fitz in the next room talking to his parents, swoops of anger filling the area before he remembers to keep his voice down. Della's sobs punctuate the conversation. Alden's voice is lower than usual, pieces of his crisp accent lost in raspy worry.

Sometimes, it's like it only took a day for their family to fall apart. But then Maruca remembers it really took two, even though she wasn't around for either of them.

One: Alden's mind break. Two: Alvar's betrayal.

She wonders if this day will be the third. She knows it would have been if Fitz and Dex had taken any longer, or if Livvy hadn't been in Atlantis, or if they hadn't found her in time.

Still, all she knows is that there was the last day she was there: when Della was smiling, when Alvar was making his stupid jokes, when Alden could tease his children without worrying about the consequences, when Fitz still had that laugh that didn't turn dark halfway through. When Biana's breaths were even and balanced and calm.

And then there was every day after. When she'd see them in public, or in meetings, or in school, and suddenly the memory of the planting scattered its leaves through every long-lasting look, or there was a missing piece from their unified front.

If they hadn't found her in time.

The thought is more than a prickle or a pang. It's an explosion, a road to a future without her. A future she never imagined, never wanted to imagine.

All the future she'd imagined consisted of kisses in the dark and smiles across a bright room and fingers tracing arms and thumbs scraping across cheekbones and dark hair twisted carelessly around a knuckle and limbs slung over stomachs—

Goodbye does not have to go both ways.

It doesn't even have to go one way. Biana never said goodbye, but neither did she. They never made a promise not to grow apart, but Maruca doesn't think it would have mattered.

In the end, it wasn't a clean break.

It was a drawn-out pull, like a strand of yarn from a threadbare sweater. It unraveled so quickly and so suddenly that all of a sudden Maruca was left with threads the size of hairs and no way to weave them back together. It took several months of wondering when it would happen and then all of a sudden she was gone.

Gone.

"I'm scared of losing you," Biana had told her once upon a time. Back before the first time falling apart. Not the Vackers, but them.

Well, great job, Bee. 'Cause now she's fucking terrified.

Biana stirs. 

Fitz is there immediately, thanks to his sixth sense that tells him whenever a sibling is either dying or betraying him. He leans over the bed, hand hovering an inch above her cheek, her hair, the closest he can be.

Maruca was scared for him, of him when she'd arrived. Eyes bloodshot, voice breaking every other word. He'd let go of her hand and then his nails had almost gone through his skin from clenching his fist too hard. He'd tried to smile at her and she caught a glimpse of a wild animal prowling, barely hidden anymore.

Dex had rested a hand on his shoulder, and it calmed and provoked him, sending him pacing and tearing his hands through his hair and eventually, sitting by her bed with his mouth moving, whispering to her what she'd never be able to hear. Dex sat beside him for hours, even if he's gone now, mixing elixirs for the scars that will never truly fade.

Maruca sits on her other side, staring at the bandages and thinking that maybe she should go into healing if only so she'd have some idea of how to be useful.

"Biana," Fitz whispers. Her eyes crack open.

Maruca almost retreats, but she's never hidden before and she refuses to now. She crosses her arms over her knees and twists her fingers together.

"Did we win?" Biana asks, her voice gravelly from sleep and screaming.

Fitz hesitates.

"They saved the city," Maruca says. Biana's eyes widen, flicker over. Then they drink her in like there's no one else she'd rather see and there it is. The reason she fell for her in the first place. That power, that makes her feel like no one else in the world matters, like no one else could make her complete. Maruca clears her throat and refuses to look away. "Linh did. And Sophie, Keefe. They saved Atlantis. Gisela tried to flood it, but they blocked up the barrier, held back the ocean."

Biana tries to sit up, mouth pressing into a fine line as she feels all the bandages over her neck, cheek, arm, and side. Fitz helps her, eyebrows pressed into a worried line. Still, relief eases the tension in his neck, the stiffness in his shoulders.

"So, did we win?" Biana repeats.

"Some will say yes. The Council will say yes." Maruca shrugs. She sees the gray in Biana's skin and can't imagine how it can fit together with victory. "I don't know."

"Sophie's parents," Fitz says. "They're safe. Everyone is safe."

Something eases in Biana's face. "Some losses. Important wins."

"You could say that," Maruca says. Biana looks at her again, and her eyes are tinted red from exhaustion and pain but still they carry with them the Vacker power. The one she's craved and hated for far too many years.

She's absorbed, as everyone ends up some way or another where Biana Vacker is concerned. It's not that she thinks of nothing else, but it is that along with all those other things she's still there, lingering just behind as an echo. Maruca considers a question on her Universe worksheet and finds the stars reflected in teal eyes.

This is the Vacker effect. The pull, the gravity of it enough to harness the moon into orbit. The power leaks from them like tea drips from a teabag once it's turned the boiling water dark. You can sense it when they walk into a room. Any of them, but especially her.

At least, this is what Maruca assumes everyone else sees.

For a moment, the feeling disappears and a weight takes its place in a band around Maruca's throat. The feeling is missing her, and it's not that it abates but that it's overwhelmed by hating her.

In the end, she's the first to look away.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

if you’re white and wanna write a poc character and feel awkward about it i implore you to ignore any twitblr stuff treating it as a massive ethical burden and instead come in more with the same mindset you’d have if you wanted to write about idk firefighters but didn’t know anything about firefighters so you do... research. Like fuck off with the weird kinda creepy calls for spiritual introspection you’re not writing about god damn space aliens you’re writing about humans and if you think you need more perspective of different life experiences just read?

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Using the appropriate vocabulary in your novel

It is very important that the language in your novel reflects the time and place in which the story is set.

For example, my story is set in Italy. My characters would never “ride shotgun”, a term coined in US in the early 1900s referring to riding alongside the driver with a shotgun to gun bandits. 

Do your research! A free tool that I found to be very useful is Ngram Viewer. 

You can type any word and see when it started appearing in books. For example…one of my characters was going to say “gazillion” (I write YA) in 1994. Was “gazillion” used back then?

And the answer is…YES! It started trending in 1988 and was quite popular in 1994.

Enjoy ^_^

[dreaming-of-the-end]

in which god sweeps across a canvas the same way a heartbeat becomes a song

A/N: Happy Kam Week everyone! they are so bestie but do you know what's better? comments and reblogs! Kam Week 2023 Day 6: Artist/Musician

Find it on ao3

Summary: As someone whose parents have kept more of the appearance of liking God rather than truly caring about it, art has become a religion to Keefe. / Tam places his steps in the footprints of music he's listened to a hundred times. The notes are not a religion, but they are a heartbeat.

TW: religious metaphor, flashback to starvation/malnourishment (no eds)

Tags: @steppingonshatteredglass @sunset-telepath @stardustanddaffodils @song-tam @turquoise-skyyyy @skylilac @wu-marcy @saintashes @rune-and-rising @lavender-and-rainy-days @confusedamphibian @hellomyfriends @callas-starkflower-stew @a-harmless-poison @professionalwhalewatcher @theogony @gay-otlc @confuzzled-fox @almostfullnerd @athenswrites @synonymroll648 @squishmallow36 @xanadaus @honey-the-dinosaur-ate-our-kid @kamweek2023

As someone whose parents have kept more of the appearance of liking God rather than truly caring about it, art has become a religion to Keefe.

He's heard that there are those who live to serve, who dedicate each breath and heartbeat to a deity, pouring their soul into the cupped hands of a higher being and fervently studying the delicate precision with which it pools into human-like wrinkles.

It is not as though art is a physical being, or a way to make decisions, but rather when Keefe paints, it is his soul that coats the canvas, his blood tracing hard lines and tears feathering light details. His senses, his sight and hearing and touch, are the highlights, contouring out a hard jawline with joy and flicking freckles across lips with fury and sacrifice pouring bloodred from torn skin.

Blessings come when he looks outside and sees the colors and thinks of which paints to mix to achieve that shade of perfection, studying how light becomes shapes becomes darkness becomes beauty. The lazy confidence of a gray-lavender shadow as it stretches itself to meet the sun, the elegant curl of a emerald-green leaf, the pink-orange of the sky resting its weary eyes as night rises.

Keefe prays to his deity to find inspiration. He shoves his hands into the grass and grips the blades tightly enough that they snap, his nails digging into his palms deeply enough to sting, soft soil making its way into the lines of his palm like a worshipper's soul flooding their God's weary eyes.

In essence: art is religion because he gives everything he has to worship it. Art is religion because it is where he finds himself. Who he is has never been an easy question for him to answer, but he discovers it in the way his fingers grip the charcoal or paintbrush or pencil or oils.

Keefe's dreams splatter across his canvas and he covers them over with white paint to start again. They peek through in oily streaks when he scratches at the canvas. Color flakes away. The paper shreds. The pencil snaps in his fingers. A dark streak smears the cheek of his mother's depiction as a Hera-like statue in an empty temple. He thought it was symbolic. Now it feels like a very slight overbite— uncomfortable, right and wrong, something that fits perfectly but not quite right at the same time.

Who he is becomes clear when it's all out there on paper.

Who is he?

...

Tam believes in the strength of a body. Of flesh and blood. Of muscles and bones and teeth and the way blinking sometimes scrapes a layer of disguise from your eyes so you have to cry no matter how much you don't want to.

His flesh was the shield between Linh and the cold on the worst of those nights, the ones where they couldn't see their faces in the darkness, the black so thick Tam thought he was swimming in it, drowning in it, a soft sort of death that smothered him in velvet. They shook with cold, with tears, with pain, with hunger, with the knowledge that they weren't alone even though often Tam wished he was so that Linh didn't have to go through this with him.

His blood pumped fear through his body, the fear that honed his hungry body and let him steal when it had been two days since fresh food and Linh reached a dangerously weak hand to his cheek. He would bite his cheek and taste it, taste the adrenaline in the blood that flooded his mouth, and know that they could not go on this way.

He could not go on this way.

It was only a few more months from that day until they met Sophie. One more month where the darkness lasted too long, so long that the shadows he loves so much it hurts began to leach strength from his cold, aching body.

Now, he sits in a warm home and lets music be his shield. Not instead of flesh, but a part of it, the way the dark would melt into his skin if he sat still enough, like a wild beast that was only looking for a little warmth. Melody sinks into his body and becomes him, becomes Tam, putting pink back into his blue fingers and depth back into his eyes.

Tam places his steps in the footprints of music he's listened to a hundred times. The notes are not a religion, but they are a heartbeat. They are a lifeblood. They are a dream of safety and a recognition of luck, fingers pressed into guitar strings too quickly, too often, summoning red irritation to the surface as a reminder that he doesn't have to be numb anymore.

He's allowed to let out a breath that is not for the purpose of letting Linh inhale. They breathe separately now. Sometimes she sits in the room while he plays and lets the music trickle down her arms like she's fresh back from swim practice,  damp silver tips of her hair sticking to her neck. She's a painting, flesh and blood. 

He gives her form with his guitar, with the grand piano in the living room, with the lyrics he doesn't show her but still scribbles down into whatever notebook Tiergan buys him.

The music lets Tam become himself. It tells him that he is a heartbeat, a held breath. It does not need to be concrete. It's all right there. Who he is.

Who is he?

...

Keefe paints him over and over again.

But it doesn't start that way. It starts as sketches, simple renderings. He rehearses what he'd say if anyone realized who he was looking at: he's a good model. Unique, clear-cut, (and the unmentionable "hot as shit" description that waits at the tip of his tongue) interesting. Silver bangs cut dangerously across the gentle slope of his forehead. Keefe presses the shape of his nose into the paper so hard the tip of his pencil breaks.

It's just sketches, until he breaks out the watercolors at home, and sort of curses his photographic memory for remembering him so well but also knows it was the result of staring at him for too long. He gives the boy a pink flush in his cheeks even though it wasn't there before.

But that was only the first painting. The first day.

The next day, Keefe learns his name.

Tam and Linh Song are new students, the teacher tells them. Treat them with as much respect as you would any other classmate. Sophie twists to glare at him as if to say, That means you, Keefe, don't tease the new kids before they know you're just joking around all the time, and he smirks at her as if to say, What, you want me to change? What happened to loving me for who I am?

And, really, he wasn't planning on teasing them— not even him. He's content with the creepy sneaking-peaks-across-the-classroom-all-period he's got going on, and he isn't a bully.

But Tam is in his next hour, and Sophie isn't there to chide him for anything, so he slides into the desk next to him and says, "Yo, new kid, I hope you know that I'm basically in charge of this school, and there's a penalty for doing anything better than me."

Tam turns to meet his eyes, and Keefe suddenly finds a detail he didn't catch in yesterday's prayer (painting). His eyes are a dangerous sort of gray, nearly black when his eyes narrow and a blue-silver when the light catches them, and he has teeth straight enough to draw a line. "No need to worry about that," he says, his voice rough and unpolished. "I'm sure I couldn't possibly beat your... what? C+ average?"

Keefe's mouth drops open for a moment, and Sophie's words echo in his head as he's forced, for the first time in his class clown history, to wonder whether or not this kid is joking. Then his lips spread into a wide smile as he finds it doesn't matter. "No one in this hellhole of a school ever managed better grades than a C- before I came along, so that's a nice try. But I'm a record-setter here."

Tam regards him in a way that sends his eyebrows twitching up. Keefe wonders what he sees. "Luckily, I'm not a competitive person. Because if I were, I'd point out that there's no way someone hasn't done at least their hair better than you."

Keefe's nostrils flare. He ruffles his hair and says, snippily, "Lucky you aren't competitive, then, because I'd have to point out that bangs haven't been in since my grandmother was born."

His lips press together into a tight line, eyes narrowing. Tam turns back to face the front of the classroom, his back ramrod straight despite the way Keefe's arm is draped over the back of his chair, foot propped up on the desk. "I must have a four-leaf fucking clover, then."

Keefe is kind of obsessed with him. He hopes it doesn't show.

...

Tam was aware that being the new kid would invite a few questions, but he expected more of "Where did you go before?" or "Is it true you're adopted?" instead of an instant pissing contest with a boy who has ink splattered messily on his hands and scribbled all over the thighs of his jeans.

Not that he thinks Keefe is uninteresting. Definitely, certainly full of himself, and absolutely hiding something under that mop of bleached blond hair, but perhaps someone Tam would have liked to know, if only to see what motivated him to strike up a conversation.

Neither of them have spoken in the last few minutes, but Keefe's still moving, still shifting his weight back and forth, running his fingertips across the desk, scuffing his expensive shoes along the ground, and worst of all, messing with his pen. click. click. click.

Tam doesn't bother twisting to look at him as he says, "Could you... stop that? Please?"

He hears a snort. The clicking stops, and then Keefe's breath is on his cheeks as he leans over so far his chair tips to the side. He has the grin of an understimulated panther, and he lounges across Tam's desk like he's method acting as one for the school play.

"What are you trying to pay so much attention to, anyway? Can't be the lesson. No one listens to those."

If Tam were a liar, he'd say that Keefe has an annoying fucking voice. Unfortunately, he is not, and his voice is smooth and soft and has a practiced sort of velvet that makes him think this is a boy who is consistently excused for his mistakes. Maybe he can sing. He seems like he'd either be terrible or completely perfect at it.

"I'm listening to it. It's better than the alternative." Tam cuts his gaze to catch Keefe's reaction, finding the other's mouth falling open. All four chair legs land back on the ground as he retreats to a socially acceptable distance.

"I have never before been called worse than school."

"Must be both of our lucky days, then," Tam snipes. The notes spill out in his head, and he finds himself tapping a beat out onto the desk. "You don't seem all that interesting to me." Maybe he is a liar. New schools are meant for reinventing yourself, right?

"Oh, I've been called a lot of things," Keefe begins.

"Full of yourself? Dangerously overconfident? Terribly irritating?" Tam supplies.

Keefe glares at him. "I've been called a lot of things. But believe me..." He leans closer, a mischievous spark leaping from his icy eyes. His voice lowers like he's sharing a secret, even though speaking at normal volume hasn't prompted any reaction from the teacher so far. "Uninteresting has never been one of them."

...

Weeks pass, then months.

Keefe learns that Tam and Linh are adopted, that they were homeless for over a year before Tiergan took them in. In return, they learn that his parents don't particularly like him, that he acts out for attention, and the full depth of his hatred for his father. He views it as equal exchange, a secret for a secret.

As they spend more time with the group, they learn about what Fitz and Biana's brother did to their family. They learn about Sophie's adoption, about Dex's years of being bullied, about Marella's mom and Jensi's school struggles and the various other aches and pains that come from being alive. Secrets for secrets, piled up in snowdrifts until it's not an exchange anymore.

He shows all of them the smaller paintings, the landscapes, group portraits. He captures Linh's rosy cheeks after the snowball fight they had at the Dizznee's that winter, pressing a pink tint over her nose. He masters Dex's freckles, then the contrast of Fitz's hand in his, then Biana's grin that wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes and makes her jawline disappear. He draws the curls at the end of Sophie's hair and then adds gold highlights and gives it to her for her birthday.

And he draws him. Over and over again.

Pressing his likeness between the pages of his sketchbook, the faint dimples that form whenever he smiles (more and more often, he's been able to squeeze some amusement out of him), the way the silver in his hair catches light, the thick knuckles working delicately with fingertips to pluck the strings of his guitar. 

It's with reverence that he paints him, sculpting the softness of his jaw like some ancient artists designed their gods. It's not enough.

He wants him to see them, but also, he would rather die.

Keefe asks Tam to model with a nonchalance that could almost be called a lie if you cared about that sort of thing, which Keefe decidedly does not. He says, "I've been looking for a muse." He says, "It must be your dream to have me staring at you for a few hours." He says, "Please?"

Tam looks at him like he's considering an art piece himself. Then he looks at him like he's rolling an insult, a refusal, a mockery around on his tongue. Then he looks away like he started imagining how Keefe's lips would taste on his (or possibly that was just wishful thinking). Then, slowly, carefully, he says: "Okay."

...

Tam stretches out on the couch and thinks, draw me like one of your french girls but doesn't say it because it's far too easy and his humor is supposed to be elevated, the kind of jokes that he can watch Keefe flail and jump at from far below.

Instead he says, "You want me to pose?"

"Only if it's a cute one." Keefe is distracted, setting up his paints, adjusting the curtains so the light falls correctly, twisting the canvas stand back and forth as he tries to get a good angle. Also, he's dropping things more than he usually does.

He snorts and turns onto his stomach, resting the side of his face on his clasped hands as he waits for Keefe to finish. The couch is a worn forest green, parts of it peeling, and he wonders if it will be included in the portrait. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of the room swallow him and thinks about a song made from only Keefe's curses as he drops another paintbrush.

"That's good, actually," Keefe says suddenly, and Tam's eyes pop open to find his face barely a foot away, studying his face. Instinctively, he starts to rise on his hands, but a hand presses onto his head and forces him back down with an oomph— hey! "Sorry. I want you to stay there, though."

"What, like I'm sleeping?"

"Yeah." Keefe has freckles so light that it's impossible to catch unless he's this close. While Tam is noticing this, he also notices that he has the longest eyelashes he's ever seen, and also that pink is blooming across his cheeks as if he's noticing very similar things about him. Keefe lurches back onto his heels, then stands, the pink fading as if it was only in his imagination.

Tam smirks. Then he sets his cheek back down on his laced fingers and lets out a deep breath.

"Perfect," Keefe says. He hovers above him like there's something more to say, even though there really isn't, before saying it anyway: "I mean, for the shot. For the painting. The angle, I mean." Then his face closes into what Tam would call "determined embarrassment" and he retreats to the safety of his canvas and paints.

The process takes hours. 

Tam barely blinks, content to watch the way Keefe lives in his element. In school, there's always a sort of uncomfortable tension in the way he moves, like a caged animal. Here, his eyes go squinty as he checks details, paint splattering on his already stained jeans, scratching his cheek with a paintbrush and smudging his skin with pinks as he tries to rub it off.

It's endearing. Tam is so surprised that it's endearing. He hates it a little bit (he isn't often surprised, but he supposes that rule has never applied to Keefe anyway).

A song weaves around the back of his mind. He hums a few lines, the melody sinking into the ratty couch cushions until they become the forest floor, a peaceful night where it was just the wind and the sky and the two of them, his eyes fluttering between the waking and dreaming world.

It's an in-between. A fresh start, one that's less fear and hunger and more... peace. Breakfast in the mornings and pictures pinned up to the walls until no one can tell where he came from or who he was.

Who he is.

...

Keefe knows that many of the ancient artists were trying to preserve what they perceived as divine in their work.

A call and answer, maybe. When religion and creation are the same thing, he supposes inspiration can be a shout from whatever form of god they worshipped, hoarse and torn with the desire to be immortalized.

Painters would paint their lovers, parents, children, friends, and call it divinity. They'd paint a field of sunflowers, a bowl of fruit, messy bedsheets, castles with countless towers, and summon a piece of their god to live on the canvas. Keefe supposes that's as close to the definition as anyone could ever find.

He finds it here: studying the way light dapples Tam's side, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, the creases of his shirt as it rides up his side.

He finds it here: the way shadows deepen his cheekbones into something sharp and dangerous and alluring, the way his eyes cut over quickly like they're sharing some private joke, the way his lips quirk up when he smiles like he needs to get it over with and return to his usual scowl.

God, he finds his divinity. He finds his religion.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Dear Forkle: the right way to be empty (and wake up nevertheless)

A/N: damn, I finally got around to posting this. Turns out Keefe wrote to Forkle, too. It just didn't make it into the story.

Links: [ao3] [wattpad] [masterpost]

Dear Whatever The Hell Your Name Is,

How's all the necessary information you never share treating you? Are the secrets burning a hole in your pocket, through your tongue, into your brain, setting you on fire? I need to know because I need to know how to put my fire out.

I guess the real question is how do you handle being alone, being without your other half, knowing that you'll be empty for the rest of your life because of the decisions you made? How do you wake up in the morning?

I need to know because I'm empty now. And alone.

I don't have another half. I'm made of thousands of tiny pieces, and they've been pried out of me with tweezers one by one until I'm echoing with unusable space. How do you keep fighting when there's nothing left inside to fight with? When your heart isn't strong enough to keep pumping blood and oxygen through your body anymore?

You've always called yourself a mentor, a teacher, a guide. Guide me. Guide me even though I will never get the answers to my questions because you won't be getting this letter.

It's okay if you hate me. I'm a distraction to Sophie, after all. Not because she likes me (she doesn't. I'm the empath.) but because she's always worried about me.

Not to worry! I'm taking the you approach, and I'm not telling anyone anything ever again. Easier for me than it is for you, I suppose, since I'll never see anyone that will understand my secrets again.

No one knows yours, either. Not even the people you're supposed to trust. I guess it's hard to give away the remaining bits of your soul when there's already less than half of it gone. I'm trying to untangle my thoughts to arrange into words but they keep getting mixed up.

You're better at blocking your emotions than most people. That's true. But I'm a better empath than most people. So I know you're proud of me for being brave. For still fighting.

I bet you're disappointed now. I'm done fighting. In Sophie's letter I told her running away wasn't the same as giving up.

I was lying.

From,

Keefe

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Writing Masterpost

Character Help

MBTI Personality Test

MBTI Personality Descriptions

123 Character Flaws

Character Trait Cheat Sheet

List of Personality Traits

Character Virtues And Vices

Underused Personalities

7 Rules For Picking Names

Character Names

Character Name Resources

Surnames Masterpost

Types of Voice

Showing Character Emotion

Writing Characters Of Colour

More On Writing Characters Of Colour

All Characters Talk The Same

Character Description

100 Character Development Questions

Character Development Questionnaire

30 Day Character Development Meme

Character Development Check List

Character Development Through Hobbies

List Of Character Secrets - Part 1 - Part 2

Mysterious Characters

Flat Characters

European Characters

Creating Believable Characters

Writing A Drunk Character

Writing Manipulative Characters

Writing Witty Characters

Writing Natural Born Leaders

Writing Rebellious Characters

Writing Indifferent Distance Characters

Writing Bitchy Characters

Writing Popular Characters

Writing Child Characters

Writing Villains

Villain Archetypes

Avoiding LGBTQ Stereotypes

Writing Homosexuals as a Heterosexual

Writing Males as a Female

Writing Convincing Male Characters

Writing Characters Of The Opposite Sex

Revealing A Characters Gender

The Roles Of Characters

Creating Fictional Characters From Scratch

Creating A Strong, Weak Character

Writing Characters Using Conflict And Backstory

Switching Up A ‘Too-Perfect’ Character

Help I Have A Mary-Sue!

Dialogue

Dialogue Tips

Realistic Dialogue

Flirty Dialogue

On Dialogue

General Help

Alternatives To Said

Avoiding Unfortunate Implications

Begin A Novel

Finishing Your Novel

Creating Conflict

Show Not Tell

Words For Emotions Based On Severity

Getting Out Of The Comfort Zone

A Guide To Writing Sci-Fi

Naming The Story

The Right Point Of View

Essential Story Ingredients

Writing Fantasy Masterpost

Five Rules For Thrillers

Pacing Action Scenes

Writing Races

Using Gender Neutral Pronouns

Dos and Don’t of Writing

General Writing Tips

Plotting

Outlining Your Novel

Creating A Compelling Plot

The Snowflake Method

Beginning and End, But No Middle!

Prompts and Ideas

Prompt Generator Lists

Creative Writing Prompts

Story Starting Sentences

Story Spinner

Story Kitchen

Writing Prompt Generator

Quick Story Generator

Dramatic Scenes

Plot Bank

Masterpost of Writing Execrises

Research

Survival Skills Masterpost

Mental Illness

Limits Of The Human Body

Stages of Decomposition

Body Language Cheat Sheet

Importance Of Body Language

Non Verbal Communication

Depression

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Anxiety

Schizophrenia

Borderline Personality Disorder

Degrees of Emotion

List Of Phobias - Part 1 (A - L) - Part 2 (M -  Z)

Psychology In Writing

Psychology Of Colour

Mob Mentality

How Street Gangs Work

Street Gang Dynamics

How To Pick A Lock

Death Scenes

Realistic Death Scenes

Fighting and Self Defence

Fighting Scenes

Problems With Fighting Scenes

Every Type of Fight Scene

Fantasy Battle Scenes

Body Language Of Flirting

Flirting 101

Kissing

Sex Scenes

Ballet Terms

Torture Guide (Trigger Warning)

Sibling Abuse (Trigger Warning)

Dream Sequences

Kleptomania

Psychiatric Hospital

Understanding issues, -isms and privilege

Revision

Cliché Finder

Reading What You’ve Wrote So Far

Synonyms For Common Words

Urban Legends On Grammar

Common Grammar Mistakes

Revising A Novel 

Setting

Average Weather Settings

Apocalypses

World Building 101

Bringing Settings To Life

Creating A Believable World

Mapping A Fictional World

Mapping Your World

Religion in Setting

Sounds to listen to whilst writing

Coffitivity

August Ambience

Rainy Mood

Forest Mood

SimplyNoise

SoundDrown

iSerenity

Nature Sound Player

myNoise

Tools

Tip Of Your Tounge

Write Or Die

Online Brainstorm

Family Tree Maker

Stay Focused

This took me a good few hours and a lot of effort to make and even though it was mainly for myself anyone can feel free to use it, for the note it is still under construction and I am undergoing fixes. So If anyone actually does use this other than myself and notices a broken link or something not quite right, could you please inform me about it? Thank you.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

While I'm talking about writing I do want to rec two INCREDIBLE writing apps that have helped me immensely as a writer with ADHD

Stimuwrite is a little program that you can customize with all sorts of really rewarding instant tactile feedback, for example sound effects every time you hit a key, emoji notifications and balloons when you hit your custom goal (which can be as low as you want for low energy days), and neat animated backgrounds.

4thewords turns writing into an RPG and you can kill monsters via word count in order to complete quests and progress through what I personally find to be an interesting and fun storyline. It comes with all the RPG trappings like loot, gear, even custom housing (win more stuff for your house by writing).

I cannot stress ENOUGH how amazing both of these have been in terms of my writing productivity as someone with pretty severe executive dysfunction issues. Usually I use Stimuwrite for the instant feedback and then copy and paste those over into 4thewords for the gamification.

Both are small indie projects, Stimuwrite is pay-what-you-can-afford and 4thewords is $4/month but they are very good about helping people who genuinely can't afford it.

and AS THE CHERRY ON TOP, Stimuwrite's programmer is a trans woman, and while I'm not sure about the 4thewords team in specific, the game is FILLED with really great rep, they are literally having a lesbian wedding global event going on right now as I type this. So like. I like giving money to them more than giving money to a lot of other projects lol.

Anyway no neither of these projects have told me to write about them or anything I just want to spread the love. Go check them out!!

Stimuwrite

4thwords

[dreaming-of-the-end]

SHOUT OUT TO MY WRITER HOMIES WITH MUSLIM OCS/CHARACTERS;

1. WEARING A SHAWL TO BATTLE IS THE EQUIVALENT OF HAVING GIRLS FIGHT IN STILLETTOS. 

Just so you know, this is what I’m talking about;

-Is it bad-ass? Abso-fucking-lutely. Is it Practical? Not a chance in hell. Especially not if it’s silk. If it’s cotton, you are skating on thin fucking ice. That bitch will NOT stay on. It barely stays on with me just walking down the street to Walmart. Wielding axes and rifles and swords and daggers? I PROMISE you it will not do the job it’s expected to-WHICH IS TO COVER THE HAIR. (Some muslim girls dont wear them-and that’s fine. But those who DO do it to completely cover the hair in public. Is it ~Aesthetic~ to see the flyaway hairs in battle? Sure, but those aren’t usually practical either. )Consider instead; 

sport shawls 

-For one thing, it’s actually DESIGNED to be worn to atheletic activities. Archers tuck hems into the collar of their shirts so they don’t get in the way, and track runners pins (ill get to this bit later) them down into the shirts to prevent flyaway bits and to stop them from getting slapped in the face. It’s breathable, stretchy, presentable without being attention seeking. 

Bawals 

In a pinch, bawals work just as well-as long as you specify that they are COTTON. Unlike the shawl, which are rectangular, bawals are SQUARE, and thus easier to manipulate, fold and pin down. If you wear it right, they carry an equal aesthetic value to shawls, and come in plenty of pretty patterns as well. 

2. I’m not sure about the USA, but the girls I know wear this underneath the headscarf;

Does it kinda look like a beanie? It sort of works like a beanie too. Hair is slippery. It tucks in any extra hair you might miss just by wearing the headscarf, its harder to pull down and on the event the shawl DOES fall down, your hair is still not exposed. It protects the ears-which is important even on a daily basis, because pins, headphones and any other headgear that might pinch them. It comes in plenty of designs, including ones that has open backs to allow long hair and ponytails. 

3.SPEAKING OF PINS; I’M TALKING ABOUT THESE BAD BOYS;

BROOCHES 

though , i suppose most of y’all are most familiar with safety pins, right?

what’s the difference? Well, if your oc/character is an athlete, it’s actually LEAST likely they’ll be wearing SAFETY PINS. They’re cheap and super easy to buy in bulk, true, but they also SUPER easy to wear out even with the smallest amount of strenuous activity. Between the three of ‘em, I’d put the brooches as the best option to wear in battle because 1) it has a large surface area, thus hurts less when pressed on with heavy items, which includes bag straps and weapons, (pins are sharp and can poke you painfully);  and 2) more secure-the latch is covered by the gaudy jewellery above, and theyre usually smaller and tighter. Stays on the stubbornnest, even when headscarf is pulled. very roughly. I’m saying that even the cheapest brooches will allow the shawl to be ripped apart before even letting it go. 

3. They probably ponytail their hair. Because Come On, guys.

Anyway it’s been bothering me and I just thought if yall could bother knowing the difference between skin tones for POC you could bother with muslim practicalities too. Or something 

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Good Traits Gone Bad

Exploring good traits gone bad in a novel can add depth and complexity to your characters. Here are a few examples of good traits that can take a negative turn:

1. Empathy turning into manipulation: A character with a strong sense of empathy may use it to manipulate others' emotions and gain an advantage.

2. Confidence becoming arrogance: Excessive confidence can lead to arrogance, where a character belittles others and dismisses their opinions.

3. Ambition turning into obsession: A character's ambition can transform into an unhealthy obsession, causing them to prioritize success at any cost, including sacrificing relationships and moral values.

4. Loyalty becoming blind devotion: Initially loyal, a character may become blindly devoted to a cause or person, disregarding their own well-being and critical thinking.

5. Courage turning into recklessness: A character's courage can morph into reckless behavior, endangering themselves and others due to an overestimation of their abilities.

6. Determination becoming stubbornness: Excessive determination can lead to stubbornness, where a character refuses to consider alternative perspectives or change their course of action, even when it's detrimental.

7. Optimism becoming naivety: Unwavering optimism can transform into naivety, causing a character to overlook dangers or be easily deceived.

8. Protectiveness turning into possessiveness: A character's protective nature can evolve into possessiveness, where they become overly controlling and jealous in relationships.

9. Altruism becoming self-neglect: A character's selflessness may lead to neglecting their own needs and well-being, to the point of self-sacrifice and burnout.

10. Honesty becoming brutal bluntness: A character's commitment to honesty can turn into brutal bluntness, hurting others with harsh and tactless remarks.

These examples demonstrate how even admirable traits can have negative consequences when taken to extremes or used improperly. By exploring the complexities of these traits, you can create compelling and multi-dimensional characters in your novel.

Happy writing!

[dreaming-of-the-end]

calling all authors!!

i have just stumbled upon the most beautiful public document i have ever laid eyes on. this also goes for anyone whose pastimes include any sort of character creation. may i present, the HOLY GRAIL:

https://www.fbiic.gov/public/2008/nov/Naming_practice_guide_UK_2006.pdf

this wonderful 88-page piece has step by step breakdowns of how names work in different cultures! i needed to know how to name a Muslim character it has already helped me SO MUCH and i’ve known about it for all of 15 minutes!! i am thoroughly amazed and i just needed to share with you guys 

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Extremely nitpicky but I hate white wedding gowns in fantasy, especially when they make absolutely no sense in the setting. No, that culture in the far north that prioritizes function over form and mostly wears heavy furs would not have the means, ability, or desire to make a sleeveless ivory silk gown with a semi-sweetheart neckline. Please be sensible about this and use your creativity instead of just slapping a Kleinfeld wedding gown into a medieval fantasy setting.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Ways to show a home in a show or movie belongs to a Jewish character that isn't just lazily having a menorah in the shot for 0.02 seconds:

-Mezuzah on the doorpost/s

-Hamsas hanging on the wall

-Shabbat candles on a shelf somewhere

-Basket or drawer full of endless monogrammed and logo-ed Kippot from past weddings, B' Mitzvahs, and holiday parties.

-A calendar with both Hebrew and Gregorian dates on the wall

-A collection of Jewish books

-Various Jewish ritual items scattered around

[dreaming-of-the-end]

What they don’t tell you about storytelling is that it becomes an instinct over time. You learn how to kind of … intuitively chain events together over time. That doesn’t mean it’s a cakewalk, or that you never get stuck on plotbeats, but you have a better time walking yourself out of corners that you as a less experienced writer would have been tempted to abandon your story over. Because you’ve been stuck in similar corners before; you know how you get out now.

I know its frustrating to keep hitting dead ends, but you got this. You’ll learn a little from every roadblock you hit.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Pro-writing tip: if your story doesn't need a number, don't put a fucking number in it.

Nothing, I mean nothing, activates reader pedantry like a number.

I have seen it a thousand times in writing workshops. People just can't resist nitpicking a number. For example, "This scifi story takes place 200 years in the future and they have faster than light travel because it's plot convenient," will immediately drag every armchair scientist out of the woodwork to say why there's no way that technology would exist in only 200 years.

Dates, ages, math, spans of time, I don't know what it is but the second a specific number shows up, your reader is thinking, and they're thinking critically but it's about whether that information is correct. They are now doing the math and have gone off drawing conclusions and getting distracted from your story or worse, putting it down entirely because umm, that sword could not have existed in that Medieval year, or this character couldn't be this old because it means they were an infant when this other story event happened that they're supposed to know about, or these two events now overlap in the timeline, or... etc etc etc.

Unless you are 1000% certain that a specific number is adding to your narrative, and you know rock-solid, backwards and forwards that the information attached to that number is correct and consistent throughout the entire story, do yourself a favor, and don't bring that evil down upon your head.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

Symbolism Associated With Flowers For Writers

Acacia: Since ancient times, acacia has been associated with purity and innocence. It is also a symbol of resurrection and new beginnings.

Amaryllis: Amaryllis is a symbol of passion and desire. It is also associated with strength and courage.

Anemone: Anemone is a symbol of grief and sorrow. It is also associated with hope and new beginnings.

Azalea: Azalea is a symbol of love, passion, and desire. It is also associated with beauty and elegance.

Carnation: Carnation is a symbol of love, affection, and appreciation. It is also associated with motherhood and childbirth.

Chrysanthemum: Chrysanthemum is a symbol of longevity, happiness, and good luck. It is also associated with death and mourning.

Daisy: Daisy is a symbol of innocence, purity, and simplicity. It is also associated with childhood and new beginnings.

Delphinium: Delphinium is a symbol of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. It is also associated with royalty and nobility

Frangipani: Frangipani is a symbol of love, passion, and desire. It is also associated with beauty and elegance.

Gardenia: Gardenia is a symbol of purity, innocence, and grace. It is also associated with love and admiration.

Gerbera Daisy: Gerbera daisy is a symbol of new beginnings, happiness, and joy. It is also associated with optimism and hope.

Hyacinth: Hyacinth is a symbol of love, passion, and desire. It is also associated with grief and sorrow.

Iris: Iris is a symbol of faith, hope, and wisdom. It is also associated with royalty and nobility.

Lily: Lily is a symbol of purity, innocence, and chastity. It is also associated with resurrection and new beginnings.

Lily of the Valley: Lily of the valley is a symbol of purity, innocence, and sweetness. It is also associated with new beginnings and springtime.

Magnolia: Magnolia is a symbol of love, beauty, and elegance. It is also associated with femininity and motherhood.

Orchid: Orchid is a symbol of love, passion, and desire. It is also associated with beauty, rarity, and luxury.

Rose: Rose is the most popular flower in the world and has a wide range of symbolism. It can symbolize love, passion, desire, beauty, romance, friendship, gratitude, and respect.

Tulip: Tulip is a symbol of love, passion, and desire. It is also associated with springtime and new beginnings.

Why Symbolism With Flowers Is Important For Writers

Flowers can be used to foreshadow events or themes in a story. For example, a writer might use a white rose to foreshadow a character's death, or a red rose to foreshadow a romantic encounter.

Flowers can be used to represent characters' emotions or motivations. For example, a character who is feeling sad might be described as holding a wilted flower, or a character who is feeling passionate might be described as surrounded by roses.

Flowers can be used to create symbolism that is specific to a particular culture or region. For example, in some cultures, the lotus flower is a symbol of purity and enlightenment, while in other cultures, it is a symbol of death and rebirth.