honeydropwriting

[honeydropwriting]

Blue Robes: Part 2

He leaned forward, draping his torso over the table and sighing as he tapped his fingers against the aged wood. Over and over in a long memorized melody from his childhood.

Shifting in his seat, he turned his against the surface, hiding his face from the burning afternoon sun. Crows feet crinkled as he closed his eyes, sedated oceans of aquamarine and sapphire hues disappearing to the world as he was transported through time by the nostalgic music drumming against years-old oak.

The scent of fresh strawberries dipped in warm chocolate found it's way into his nose, mouthwatering tendrils curling up into his brain and blossoming a sense of comfort and content in his weary mind.

He could imagine her placing them in the refrigerator. Blue gloves setting them gently on the middle rack before she ripped them off to reveal floral patterns of charcoal dancing along the tanned skin of her hands.

A feeling of emptiness crashes over him and a ringing builds up, thundering in his ears as the silence of his loneliness grows ever louder.

His fingers fall to caress the hollow chest resting below violet robes of satin and cotton, the back of his hands itching to be decorated with ceremonial prints of their own.

Sighing, he opened wavering blues, allowing them to wander over to the sash splayed over his own shoulder, peering through the thin crack between himself and the still-vacant table.

Golden thread decorated the surface, the story of a young crane prince embroidered by the meticulous hands of his mother.

He loved that story.

Turning his head, he let free a puff of rancid air, breath sullied by the dryness hanging within his throat. It felt like it had been days, nearly weeks without a single drop of water, not even the drip of morning dew gliding off the silk petals of the lilies in the garden.

Prancing digits returned to the table as he moved his glance to the sliding glass doors, eyes narrowing as he struggled to decipher the blur of colors beyond the window.

Nothing.

His body shifted again, his robes twisting uncomfortably as he turned to observe the rest of the room. A mass of tall chestnut beams and walls painted in the royal tones of his dresses.

He licked his lips, tongue lavishing attention across desert cracks forming in dried skin just as the clinking of ice registered in his ears.

Perfect timing.

He was parched.

[honeydropwriting]

I once heard an author give advice to use the word 'said' more often. You don't need a new word every time someone talks. Sometimes, people just say things. A lot of the time, people just say things. And using too many synonyms for said all over your working can sound silly.

And this is probably my favourite bit of advice to ignore.

[honeydropwriting]

Chosen One

Aged mahogany creaked in sync with the rock of my chair. Back and forth, a grating screech. Piercing the air in tandem with the nine chimes of the old grandfather clock.

But I couldn’t hear them.

My headphones were on, blaring a sickeningly sweet pop song into my ears as my eyes wandered along the ceiling.

Long, thin cracks spidered along the surface, a concerning instability in the roof over my head.

The earth shook and another one appeared.

It shook again, thundering beneath me. I could feel the rumbles of the furniture rattling across the floor, scraping against the hardwood in their dance.

A glass toppled to the floor, shattering violently.

Stray shards swept across my skin, digging gashes into the thin flesh while the scent of sugared coffee seeped into my shirt.

I could feel the blood pooling on my cheek. And the coffee burning the back of my shoulder.

But it was fine.

I took off my headphones, cringing at the sound the met my ears.

Long, desperate wailing. Begging for mercy, even while knowing there was none to be given.

That could have been me.

A few grazes and burns were nothing in comparison to the horrors out there.

A few grazes and burns were things I could handle.

Sighing, I returned to my music and sat up. I figured I should go get some more coffee. Maybe throw in a splash of vanilla and cinnamon this time.

As I passed by the kitchen counter, I caught a stack of papers in the corner of my eye. Piled high and wildly disorganised. I couldn’t even handle that.

They said I was the chosen one.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even pick up the sword. The idea that the malevolent creature would set its sights on me. That I would have to wield a flimsy sheet of metal and defeat a beast 100 times my size.

I couldn’t do it.

A bitter darkness welled up inside me, tossing and turning and fluttering.

I couldn’t do it.

Expectations.

Responsibilities.

What if I failed?

I couldn’t do it.

They said I was the chosen one.

But I chose to stay inside.

[honeydropwriting]

Do you ever just decide really random facts about your characters that never get mentioned or even alluded to in the slightest.

Like, one of my OCs is allergic to apples. That will never come up in the book, but I am very adamant about it. It is 100% canon even though the only way anyone would know about it is if I wrote about it in a silly post like this.

Or on my discord, I guess. There too.

[honeydropwriting]

Thank you for saying this!

Truly, I think they fit different kinds of horror, to be honest. The CREATURE is more of a traditional jumpscare kind of horror, while the latter, seemingly more mundane route is a horror of the psychological and philosophical natures, which I personally have a preference for. I don't want an easy scare that'll let me sleep tonight, I want a deep internal scare that will keep me up for days pondering my existence and the complexities of human nature.

As I'm thinking more about it now, I think Junji Ito could probably pull this off very well in one of his works, though I'll admit, I think the written form would be a better avenue for the premise. The concept really speaks for itself, I think, and if done correctly, honestly doesn't even need to be a whole novel or series. I think you could evoke a profound sense of dread and discomfort in less than 1,000 words.

@falseficus hasn't even written in out in any form of poetic prose, but if you just read the scenarios and questions posed and think about them and let them sit with you for a while, you can get a taste of that feeling. A taste of that discomfort scratching at your brain.

I would love to see someone write this. Please! I might give it a shot myself, but I'm not much of a horror writer, so much as I'm an enjoyer. But, we'll see~

everybody’s always on writing prompts like “what if there was a world where everyone had a timer ticking down to their death… but you met someone whose timer said infinity!” or “what if everyone had their cause of death tattooed across their forehead… but you met someone whose forehead said THE CREATURE!” Enough -

enough. stop with the shock value. there is no need to insert THE CREATURE; the benign concept of such a world is horrifying enough. not even in urgency, but just in banal, everyday interaction. imagine you meet someone and their timer says two years. not tomorrow, not urgently soon, but two years. enough to do quite a lot. they could fall in love in that time - could they get engaged? have a baby? you might otherwise get to know them, befriend them, but perhaps you opt not to, make a conscious choice not to invest in your own grief. what balancing act would every individual person have to participate in - I have ten years, is that long enough to be a good mother to children? is that long enough to secure a caretaker for my own mother? my wife will die a few months before me. my newborn’s timer reads nineteen years.

and cause of death. you interview for a job and emblazoned across the healthy, smiling face of the HR lady is MALNUTRITION. your country is prospering, safe, but every person you meet on the street from the babies to the old women read BOMB. BOMB. what kind of havoc would fate wreak on the world? what about the loss of privacy? how would that shape our notions of hope? idk man I think a lot of those ancient poems were right, and the fates are monsters. I’m interested by the framing of these ideas as trite horror tales when the premises themselves are so much more disturbing if simply taken to their logical ends

[honeydropwriting]

This is only the vibe if I read it back, like, 3 whole months later. If I read it back too soon, it's even worse than I initially thought.

[writing]: god this is the worst. this is garbage. this is awful. it needs to be burned before anyone else can see it and my reputation is ruined forever

[reading back my writing]: oh this isn't so bad actually

[honeydropwriting]

Okay, this a little bit off from my usual stuff, but you guys, I'm so proud of myself! As absolutely none of you would know, I quite like learning languages. It's a hobby of mine. And, for the longest while, I could have great conversations in Korean. Some back and forth and whatnot.

However, I have finally attempted to bring two of my interests together, and I decided to write a poem. This might not seem like any sort of particularly difficult task, especially to people who don’t understand any bit of Korean or how it works, but it felt monumental. Primarily because of the way grammar can work in less formal settings than regular conversation. I was literally just making the grammar up as I went, and the poem turned out pretty decent. Yay!

I'm not going to post it here, both because I don't want anyone who has read it to recognise it (I like to keep this account a secret from my real world associations), and also because it doesn't quite fit the stuff I usually do here.

But, maybe, if someone's interested, I'll post the next one I come up with. Who knows.

[honeydropwriting]

Red Silk: Part 1

Red silk covered the room from top to bottom, spilling from somewhere up in the rafters and pooling over the cherry oak floors. The afternoon sun was barely visible, passing through silk curtains in dim rays.

In the center of the room, splayed out amidst the red waves, a slender body panted in anticipation, heated chest rising and falling with rapid momentum. She didn't know if she could wait much longer. The air was warm and coated with the stench of her perfume. Gentle lilies and burning cedarwood dripped from every pore of her glistening skin.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair that she was being left like this.

Deep inside, her heart was pounding viciously against her ribcage, being desperately to be granted the attention it all desired. She curled her fingers in the sheets beneath her, darkened to a deep blood red asks her seat seeped through the fabric, soaking the delicate threads that cushioned her backside.

She left out a gutteral groan, letting it rumble from deep within her throat as she yanks at her restraints.

They were tight around her wrists and ankles, perpetually biting so far into pale flesh, she had scars hidden just under the steel bracelets.

Pulling again, she lets out another groan, the entirety of her diaphragm shaking with its strength.

They were only for show.

Her goddess had called them a gift. A show of her ownership. So long as she wore the skin-tight cuffs, everyone would know her worth. A slave to the Goddess, Elisse.

The reminder sent a shiver running down her spine.

Primal groans of desperation and need turned to breathy moans of bliss and content.

The turn of a key in the lock had vibrations thrumming violently under her skin.

As the door opened, she couldn’t help but press her thighs together, tensing awkwardly in embarrassment of her current state.

Pale fingers reached out with an air of unjustified elegance only to curl tightly in wiry strands of her sweat-slicked hair, yanking her head back to get a good look into the eyes of her pet.

She smiled ever so gently, admiring the length her darling would go to please her.

Placing a light kiss just at her hairline, she took a moment to inhale the delicious aroma wafting towards her.

“My precious darling.”

If she survived the night, her goddess would be sure to reward her.

[honeydropwriting]

Does anyone else randomly alternate between American and U.K./Australian English?

It took me embarrassingly long to realise I do this. That's why so many words are underlined with red when I'm typing.

[After thorough study of my writing, the American spelling is the lesser used one, and I'm going to blame that entirely on my heavily European heritage from my mother's side, despite the fact that shouldn't actually have much affect on my spelling.]

[honeydropwriting]

"What I like most of all in London is the fog."

— Claude Monet

I'm sure this was meant in a very kind way, but I can't imagine liking anything more than the fog in London. I can't imagine liking anything else besides the fog in London.

[honeydropwriting]

I had a story idea a long while back that seems like far too much effort to commit to.

However, it seems my brain is unwilling to part with it. So, maybe I'll post little bits of the story here and there as my brain thinks about it and writes little bits and pieces.

[honeydropwriting]

status: losing my mind