sparrowgrace

[sparrowgrace]

most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone

[sparrowgrace]

Meet Princess Eadahmisa

Eadahmisa had pitied hares, once.

Perhaps she had unthinkingly put herself in the hare’s position; imagined running, running, endless terrified running, before finally the wolves cornered her, and she became crunching bones and gushing blood and rare, rare sustenance. She had, perhaps, never imagined herself as the hungry wolf.

She no longer thought of the hare. A few days ago, her quarry had realized she was hunting him and picked up his pace, not stopping to sleep or eat. But she knew, as they both knew, that he could not keep that up for long.

The desert around her glittered gold. The whole world glittered gold, sunlight slanting into crystalline sand, shimmering in the relentless heat. She kept a steady pace, following the tracks still scrawled in the sand, seeing the patterns of her prey’s journey in the marks he’d left behind. Here, he’d stopped and turned his mount to examine his wake, no doubt hoping to gauge whether she’d closed any distance between them, or perhaps had she given up. Here, and she couldn’t say exactly why, he had broken into a gallop for several paces before slowing once more. Here, he paused to rest or think a moment, before veering slightly east.

She swung to follow, soon reaching his destination.

A wall of green, startling after the monotonous orange plainness, circled the dark oasis, the silence of the desert replaced with a buzzing chorus of insects and birds and frogs, camels fenced into an area by the water and lowing in the heat. Between the fruit and palm trees, the village had spread across the water, away from the openness of the desert, on wooden paths and trading caravans suspended on stilts.

Eadah guided her horse to the water and dismounted, absently running her hand over the heat of its neck, as she squinted at the village.

Villagers traversed the lake on small reed boats or across rickety step-bridges. They ate under the shade of awnings and curtains, sat on piers with their feet in the water, haggled with stall-owners squat over food or supplies or shining trinkets. A group of youngsters splashed naked in the water, their laughter echoing over the disgruntled grumbling of the nearby flamingos.

No one looked towards Eadah where she stood.

She’d seen small pieces of civilization like this on her hunt, though she’d never approached them, limiting her interactions to the lone nomads she passed, when she was forced to trade. She had assumed these people would share traits with the desert they inhabited: harsh, unforgiving, dangerous. She’d been told they would.

She eventually bade herself to ignore their easy, good-natured freedom. Her prey waited, undoubtedly, within the temple in the centre of the lake, its reflection on the water making it a hovering, symmetrical entity, gold and squared.

She left her horse and carefully manoeuvred the creaking, swaying village until she reached the temple path, level enough to the water that each wave lapped over the golden smoothness, splashing lightly under the tap of her boots. She moved from harsh sunlight into the soft gold of reflections, sunlight off the water lapping gently on the walls of the small entryway.

She unhooked her staff from her shoulder and left it with the rest of the assorted weapons, before moving through the archway deeper into the temple.

It was dimmer inside, braziers and torches flickering against the walls. The space seemed, somehow, bigger than logic should allow. She descended the steps, soft gold arching high overhead, carpets decorating the floor and children decorating the carpets. They huddled in clusters, voices thrumming gently.

Priests roved the area between them, unspeaking but singing softly, wordlessly. Tapestries and murals of rough, broken tile decorated the walls in expanse, coloured stone set into the softness of the gold. On the steps nearby, a crowd of children gathered in a circle around a singular nomad, perched on the top step and leaning low to tell stories to the gathered listeners.

As she moved away, she heard a small voice; “Why didn’t he fight her?”

And the answer of the storyteller: “Just as each of us are jagged pieces broken off God, so too is the Wolf.” Eadah stalled. “God gave us anger so that we may learn forgiveness, and hatred so that we may learn love, and God granted us the Blessed Wolf so that she may be cut open to reveal the Saint within. As we love God, we must love the Wolf, and when she bids us die we must bare our necks and know that our Saint will be freed.”

“Wasn’t he afraid?”

“Fear is how we love, little thing.”

Her prey waited in the centre of the temple, a circular room open to the sky above, sunlight spilling down and landing upon him in a spray of gold.

“You can’t harm me here,” he called. “Laws older than you or I or either of our tribes dictate that you cannot raise a weapon to me here. So tell me why you have been hunting me.”

Eadah considered him and finally approached. As she entered the circle of light, she pulled her scarf away from her hair and eyes. His face opened in recognition.

“You know my face?” Her voice startled her, rough and crackled with disuse, and unfamiliar after her weeks of silence.

In response, he dropped to his knees. He bowed his head, and she saw his jaw work for a moment, before he said carefully, “Have mercy.”

“Do you want to live?”

He nodded.

“Then I cannot have mercy.”

His name was Ivi, she remembered. Ivi, Ivi, Ivi. She reached out and took his chin, tilting his head back, and was disconcerted by how unfamiliar she’d become with the feeling of warm skin against hers. His eyes rose to her, and then to the sky beyond. Still holding his chin, she pulled the vial from her pocket. His mouth started shaping a rapid prayer.

She flicked the lid of the small glass vial, the liquid inside catching the sunlight. In her hand, Ivi uttered a harsh curse, but he didn’t fight her, even as she leaned over him and carefully tilted the vial, a drop of the liquid splashing into one eye and then the other. He blinked, reeling away and dropping with a wordless cry, and then the screaming began.

After a moment, she gave him her waterskin and let him pour it over his face, blinking quickly. When he quietened, she asked, “Do you know why I did this?”

He nodded, holding the waterskin to his chest.

“All laws began younger than you or I,” she said. “I answer only to the Council.” She bid no farewell when she left, and this time she was noticed. This time, in the wake of Ivi’s echoing scream, silence spread through the temple and watched her as she passed. She ignored them. She was, finally, going home.

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Read my horror short story!!

if you’re interested in cannibalism and post-apocalypse commentaries on consumerism and capitalism, inspired by A Modest Proposal, by Jonathan Swift. Warning for child death :/

[sparrowgrace]

Victorian Patriarchy

To be born in a woman’s body was almost incarceration, as she would then be trapped within the roles expected of her, of her body specifically — this can be seen by the marital bed being nailed to the floor in the narrator’s room, a clear demonstration of what is prioritised by men in her life. To be born a woman was to spend one’s life being oppressed, abused, infantilised, just as the narrator of the Yellow Wallpaper is trapped within the old, queer house with barred windows and an immovable marital bed.

I wrote an article over on Medium, if anyone's interested. :3

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Adding the wordcount of your manuscript to your post looking for beta readers might be a good idea! It'll give people an idea of how much time they have to dedicate to it.

If you haven't gotten any volunteers in the next two weeks, hmu. I'd love to help. First I just have to finish the already published book I'm currently picking apart for my own entertainment.

oh youre so right, thank you! i've edited the post, but it's 100,000 words.

and thank you so much, that means alot. Enjoy! <33

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Hi y'all,

Would anyone be interested in beta reading my manuscript, Haunted City? It's fully complete (100,000 words) but I've had no luck publishing, so I'm hoping to get some reader opinions. I unfortunately cannot afford to pay, but I'll send you a published copy once it's published, and I'd be happy to read & review anything in exchange, fanfiction or original work. Let me know if anyone's interested!

If anyone's curious, i can send a chapter or except before you decide. Haunted City is a character-drive fantasy/sci-fi, with some similarities to the Witcher, Name of the Wind, and The Locked Tomb by Tasmyn Muir.

edit: guys, thank you so much for all your offers, you mean the world to me. i think i have enough now, and i don't want it to get too hectic, so i'm going to stop sending it out now. thank you all again, i love you!!!

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Read my novel excerpt on CommuterLit, here!

https://commuterlit.com/2024/01/tuesday-beast-and-beauty/

enjoy :)

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I read you Ask in Neil's profile. Best of luck with your novel! I'd like to give it a try when it's published and available :)

oh thank you so much, that means alot !!

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Live Deliciously Just a friendly goat. I was visiting friends recently who infected me with their goat obsession. :) Prints: https://artofmaquenda.etsy.com/listing/1617795901/live-deliciously-lustre-goat-ram-black

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Inktober Day 15: Dagger

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if this doesnt make yall wanna read my book, i dont know what will

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"we never stop inserting ourselves into the folds of nature" - Gilles Deleuze

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which one of my ocs are you?

i made a uquiz, just for you, to find out!

take it here <3

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Inktober Day 03: Path

[sparrowgrace]

which one of my ocs are you?

i made a uquiz, just for you, to find out!

take it here <3

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Cosmic Dandelion Arrangement

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Hi everyone

I'm Sparrow, I'm a writer. Have I yet written anything? Remains to be seen. Hope you enjoy.