luciatraskwrites

[luciatraskwrites]

i am officially moving blogs!

you can find me on @poisonedpatchoulis - this current blog was feeling rather cluttered and i’m too lazy to clean it out, so i wanted a fresh start.

tagging some o’ the people i know so you’re all aware: @hildy-dont-be-hasty / @writings-of-a-narwhal / @silverscene / @austrohungarianwriteblr / @nyarlieee / @aslanwrites / @absolute-nonsense-scribblings 

[luciatraskwrites]

i’m not moving blogs for now, but i do have a url saved in case i do.

[luciatraskwrites]

LiaHT chapter 16: Demon Vision Activated

[luciatraskwrites]

ok i’m... really tempted to move blogs or change my url. again. idk why. i just feel really cluttered here for some reason? even though i have a decent system in place. i have NO idea how to explain why i feel that way, but i do.

i need help-

[luciatraskwrites]

I like how Spain Spanish is just completely different from everybody else

[luciatraskwrites]

so, as a part of working on my writing i’ve been noticing the repetition of the “three brothers” trope in lots of folktales from spain, specifically the catalonia region. the two older brothers are more liked by their parents, yet they are selfish and inconsiderate or much more noticeably flawed. the younger brother, however, is an underdog - made fun of by his family for being an outcast, but the one who triumphs in the end, usually through his kind heart and gentle demeanor.

i spoke with my family about this, and my dad said that one very old tradition in europe - especially in the catalonia region of spain - is that everything would go to the firstborn son when the family patriarch died. this eventually changed around the late 18th century/early 19th century in america at least, and my dad believes that this tradition is what contributed to this trope characteristic to so many spanish folktales.

so, i suppose my writing the lunao brothers is a sort of... commentary on it. i’m hesitant to refer to it as a deconstruction, but it examines the scenario and asks, “don’t you think that if these children grew up knowing that their family had designated favorites for whatever arbitrary reason that would leave them with some sense of trauma?” and that underdog character arc applies to anton in the worst way possible - he does end up achieving whatever goal he has (i’m still struggling to outline the story), yet at the end he has to ask himself, “i got here, but at what cost?”

i dunno. the relationship between the royal siblings of asparora is a very complicate one, and i think that exploring this very specific trope in the context of this story is interesting.

[luciatraskwrites]

Quarantine gives me lots of thinking time

[luciatraskwrites]

also today’s salt of the week is: i dislike redemption arcs because those contain implications of a very specific sense of black-and-white morality as in “if you do these (x) things you are beyond redemption and can only improve by doing (y)” when imo i think a much healthier take is “people are not wholly good or evil, it is infinitely more important to find a balance between your own needs and the needs of others.”

[luciatraskwrites]

thinking of changing my url/my blog theme...

[luciatraskwrites]

[luciatraskwrites]

trying to get your story together like:

[luciatraskwrites]

“lucia trask, as i live and breathe, writing something that’s not terribly angsty and sad? what witchcraft is this i witness before me?!” you heard it, folks! at least this part is, there’s no guarantee that the rest o’ this one is gonna be light and fluffy :]

warning(s): ...creepy scenarios but nothing overly graphic, just “that feeling of unease walking around at night when it’s dark out in the woods.” taglist ( ask or dm me to be + / - ): @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

The sun has set, Talia and Adrian walk alone in the dark woods. Pale, silvery moonlight squeezes between the dark gaps of the oppressive, twisting trees that circle around the both of them. The only trace of color that Adrian can see are the flashes of delicate red and bold pink of flowers underfoot. Each crunch of bark and pebble that sounds with every step he takes sounds too loud in his ears — even though he knows for sure the footsteps are his own, there’s that fearful little voice whispering softly in the back of Adrian’s mind that something or someone is following them.

“I’m sure we’ll find the first rosebush soon.” He watches Talia squat close to the ground. It’s hard to make out her features save for a silhouette illuminated by moonlight, but Adrian knows what she looks like: Apple-cheeked face framed by puffy red curls, large brown eyes, small round nose, her favorite lavender dress trimmed with lace most likely smeared with dirt by now that they’ve been trekking through the woods for who knows how long. It’s all because of a rosebush — Adrian likes roses, Talia wanted to try and find flowers to show him now that it’s summer and the first roses are coming out (“Wild roses,” she’d said to him, “Are different-looking than what we’ve seen in the palace gardens, but they’re still very pretty.”)

Something coos in the distance — the crooning of an owl, perhaps. Adrian draws close to Talia, putting a hand on her arm. She jerks her head up from where she’s kneeling. Though he cannot see the brown of her eyes in the dark, light still gleams in the form of faint pinpricks against her pupils.

“Are you scared?”

Yes, I am. “No, I’m not.”

His voice shakes. He and Talia are only ten years old, and while her curse may not harm her, he doesn’t know what else could. He doesn’t know what else could hurt him, either. He just wanted to see the first flowers of summer.

“You sound scared.” Her words aren’t snippy or indignant. “Are you?”

“I just said I’m not.”

“But are you really?”

“…Yes.”

“How scared?”

“Very. I keep wondering if something’s following us around here. A panther. A bear, maybe. Or… something worse. Like the fairy who’d cursed you at birth.”

“She won’t be here. She hasn’t been seen for years. Besides, Mama always said she’d only intended for the curse to fall on my sixteenth birthday — and that’s okay, because they’re making sure to keep me safe from anything like spinning wheels.”

She stands up and pulls Adrian close, arms squeezing around him. And in the darkness of the woods, he feels safe.

“But if you’re scared, that’s okay. We can leave now and come back tomorrow. And if anything happens to us, I’ll keep you safe. I have my dagger! Do you want to go back now?”

“Yes. I don’t feel safe.”

Quiet, save for the tittering of crickets from farther down. Then:

“I’m sorry, Adrian. I shouldn’t have made us stay this late. If we get in trouble, I’ll tell Mama and Father that it was my fault.”

[luciatraskwrites]

also i’m getting back into my weeb music, so prepare yourselves.

[luciatraskwrites]

i’ve seen so many others talk about the brothers’ grimm’s much more twisted takes on old fairy tales and here i am wondering “okay what if i pulled an andersen and made this tale ten times more sad?”

[luciatraskwrites]

otp: tag the ocs that started out as friends

[luciatraskwrites]

[luciatraskwrites]

...broke away from the “titling pieces after ghost songs” to name this one after a nicole dollanganger song :] anyways: meet mariona! i... want her to be the main character for this storyline, but with all the other over-developed characters i have i’m not sure how likely that is. i do love her, though, here’s a piece about her. she’s in a relationship with anton!

warning(s): some veeery mild gore? taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

I was elated to have my portait painted. This was, if you’ll remember, after I’d made my introduction into high society. They all wanted to paint me — lovely, demure Mariona Coria-Saldo with her sculpted cheekbones, heavy silk-like dark hair, soft and long-lashed blue-green eyes. It was a lovely portrait that I still have — I was very particular about what I wanted. But it was too lovely.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

My face is my fortune. I know that much and am content with it. This way and that I am told I am beautiful, that I speak words with a sweet touch of wit — yet when I ask what words I am greeted only by stammers. I do not wish I was ugly, but I can hardly get drunk or rich off of being told that I am lovely. I am not seen, at least not really. All people see is a face, and that is all they talk about. What might happen if I fell and cracked my head open upon the ground, bone shattering like porcelain as mucus-coated brains ooze their way out of my now hollow skull? What then?

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

For every book I read, every little bit of art I create, I feel a stomach-turning fear. What if no one sees these works? I am not myself. I am not flesh and blood. I am the portrait that hangs in the corridor, not made of hands but of liquid paint that smudges a dab of white and the palest pink for the corners of my eyes and haints painted softly in oil. And I should not feel the way I do, for I’ve got a mother and father who pass love down to me through their fingertips and a sun-bright future ahead of me.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

The Flower of Lirola is said to be able to cure any illness. One sprinkle of the dewdrops that coat its petals can cause blindness to drain away, for the afflicted to be able to breath with lungs not smothered by mucus. I will find that flower, prove that the beauty of the flower of Lirola is far more beautiful than me, that I am far more than the canvas of my face and I am made of life. I will travel the distance it takes, Anton at my side. I think Anton loves me as more than a portrait, but I can’t be too sure.

I don’t want to be drowned by paint. I want to live. I want to be me. I am an individual, and I want nothing more than to be seen as one.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy. But I don’t want that to be the case for me anymore.