#Free Writing

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Freewriting

Freewriting - the practice of writing without a prescribed structure, which means no outlines, cards, notes, or editorial oversight.

In freewriting, the writer follows the impulses of their own mind, allowing thoughts and inspiration to appear to them without premeditation.

Benefits of Freewriting

CREATIVE EXPRESSION

Many writers embrace freewriting as a way to find unexpected inspiration.

Outlines and notes can be wonderful for the purpose of staying on task, but they can sometimes stifle the creativity that comes from free association.

This is where freewriting comes in.

By starting with a rough idea, but without pre-planned details, a writer opens themself up to discovery and new found inspiration.

WRITER'S BLOCK

Writers who feel in a style rut, or who actively experience writer’s block, may benefit from a freewriting exercise as part of their formal writing process.

By forcing themselves to put words on a page, a writer may be able to alleviate their anxiety about writing and allow them to be more creative.

SPEED

Freewriting is typically faster than other forms of draft writing or outlining.

Because you are simply writing without a strict form to follow and without organizing your thoughts.

5 Tips and Techniques for Freewriting

JUST WRITE

Any writing coach or writing teacher will tell you that you must segregate your writing process from your editing process.

When it comes to freewriting, first drafts are repositories for every idea that comes to mind, however vague or tangential.

Don’t worry about word count, don’t worry about market viability, don’t worry about sentence structure, don’t even worry about spelling.

Unleash your creativity, let the ideas flow, and trust that there will be time for editing later.

This rule applies whether you wish to write a novel, a play, a short story, or a poem.

GATHER TOPICS BEFOREHAND

Freewriting doesn’t mean you write without having an idea about your topic/story.

Even the most committed freewriters tend to have some degree of a prewriting technique - they ruminate on their subject matter in a broad, general sense.

You don’t have to pre-plan details before you start writing, but it helps to know in the broadest sense what it is you think you’ll write about.

TIME YOURSELF

If you are experiencing writer’s block, commit to getting words down on the page within the first 60 seconds of writing.

Perhaps those first words will not yield anything, but think of them metaphorically as the first drops you put into the five gallon bucket that is your novel.

There is nothing to be gained by staring at a page or computer screen for any great period of time.

COMBINE FREEWRITING WITH TRADITIONAL OUTLINES OR NOTES

While it can be quite satisfying to say that one wrote an entire novel using freewriting techniques (as Jack Kerouac is said to have done with On the Road) what readers care about most is the quality of your writing.

With this in mind, start a project with a substantive freewriting session.

Depending on what you produce, you may want to use that content as fodder for a formal process that more closely conforms to the traditional rules of writing (outlines, notes, etc.).

Let that outline or set of notes guide the remainder of your writing on the project.

Remember, too, that you can always toggle back to freewriting at any point.

BRING IDEAS TO YOUR SESSIONS

Some writers, particularly poets, begin sessions with no ideas or themes they plan to tackle—they simply begin writing with the first word or phrase that comes to mind, and then they let the process unfold from there.

While you can work toward this point, if you’re new to the medium of writing and are seeking to unleash the writer within, plan your freewriting sessions when you have a strong idea of your story or theme.

The most effective writing has thematic or narrative consistency, and starting with a small germ of an idea may help you achieve that consistency.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[rook-laidir]

Random Banter!

Enjoy some banter I made up for Rook and the rest of the party!

~~~

Lucanis: Your employers, why are they called the Lords of Fortune?

Rook: They’re not exactly my employers anymore. You know now that I think about it, I don’t think they were ever really my employers.

Lucanis: You performed contracts for them.

Rook: Not really. We kinda just worked together. One of us gets a tip on a sunken ruin or an old legend worth looking into, and a bunch of us would investigate.

Lucanis: Were you compensated for this?

Rook: Kinda? If we found something, we could usually keep whatever we could carry.

Lucanis: Mierda. My contract negotiator would like a word with all of you.

~~~

Rook: Gold and glory.

Lucanis: Hm?

Rook: You asked why we’re called the Lords of Fortune. We’re after gold and glory.

Lucanis: Lords don’t always have glory. Gold, usually, but rarely glory.

Rook: I didn’t name the group.

Lucanis: So which are you looking for? Gold or glory?

Rook: Right now, a bath and a warm bed.

~~~

Rook: Hey, Spite! 10 gold says I kill more than you next fight.

Lucanis: Don’t encourage him.

Spite: It. Is. Done.

Lucanis: This is only going to come out of my coin purse.

Rook: Awww you already know I’ll win!

~~~

Harding: There’s no way you won.

Rook: You’re still mad about Wicked Grace?

Harding: You cheated! I know you cheated!

Rook: The cards don’t lie, Harding.

Harding: The cards don’t, but you do.

~~~

Rook: You’re taking requests for dinner, right?

Bellara: Oh, yes! I can’t promise it’ll come out the way you want it to, but I can find some recipes. What were you thinking?

Rook: There was this chocolate cake with some kind of raspberry sauce that I bought from a bakery in Rivain once. Haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Bellara: I can do that! But I don’t think cake really counts as dinner.

Rook: It’s dinner if it’s during dinner time!

~~~

Taash: How come Isabela let you back in?

Rook: I was never “kicked out,” really, I just…was invited to help out Varric for a bit.

Taash: That’s getting kicked out.

Rook: It was politics. And she would’ve done the same thing.

~~~

Taash: Does Isabela know?

Rook: Know what?

Taash: That you have a crush on her?

Rook: What? I don’t-

Taash: I can smell it.

Rook: That’s…It’s not…

Taash: Relax, everyone has a crush on Isabela.

Rook: Had. I *had* a crush on Isabela. I was ten. And yes, she knows. Still hasn’t let me live that one down.

[inksmudgesandcandlelight]

If I were to write a wolfstar and Jeglus au where it's non magical and instead revolves entirely around Sirius and Regulus getting back at their family and Remus realising he's not a monster and instead just mentally ill and with enough love especially self love he can actually feel human.

And Teddy is his younger brother he now has to take care of, and Harry and luna are all there as well as Pandora would anyone be interested 👀👀

[ne0pawlit4n]

I feel a lot of lost hope. For the world and humanity at large, it’s an issue of mine.

It seems like nothing is sacred. But I look at art and I remember it all comes down to people and their desperation to be seen, to be remembered before they’re gone.

Art cannot be destroyed because it is always being made, and even in its own destruction it still remains art in its own way. Perhaps even moreso.

I draw the buildings and streets in my city, the walls that I watch the sun set upon.

Familiar walls of unfamiliar buildings.

I include the decay.

These memories, these spaces, falling apart slowly while we pretend not to notice, silently scream to be remembered in a way beyond photo, beyond memory, beyond me.

Art soothes the crying god of everything

[artmolonara]

Sleepover - A short story

Hey all, big into Lumpy Touch's Where's Waldo series and was inspired by @nami-ramen to write this little story based on their art here

*** Please Enjoy :) ***

Two years. It had been now over two years since Waldo had killed the Detective's wife. And in all that time, the Detective had not seen hide nor hair of him.

But Waldo had seen them. Quite frequently, in fact.

He would check up on them from time to time, always being sure to remain just out of sight. It was risky, but that made the game much more fun. Plus, he wanted to be sure that the Detective's role in the game was still active. If he felt that the interest with the hunt was starting to wane in the Detective, he would perhaps allow himself to be caught in their peripherals, or perhaps leave something out of place, anything that would spark the obsession anew. Oh, what fun it was, this Hide and Seek dynamic, and he couldn't wait for the day when the game would change.

For now, Waldo was content creeping around in the dark outside the Detective's house. It was a lovely home, one that he had only seen the outside of... or no, that wasn't entirely right. He had been inside at one point, but not HIM him. His extensions had come that night to play with the Detective's wife while he had gotten to spend a lovely evening with the precious Detective. Waldo had wished the night could have been longer, but oh, that Detective was smart, and had made him let slip his next move... or had he intentionally tipped them off in the hopes that perhaps they could have saved dear Wenda?

Waldo mused the question even he himself couldn't rightly answer as he peered into the windows of the suburban home. In the shadows of the room beyond the glass, a form could be seen on the bed. There they were, sleeping without a care. If only they knew how close their quarry was. Waldo chuckled to himself with suppressed excitement.

He watched a while, and after a minute of observing the rise and fall of breaths, and the shift of their body, he recognized the telltale signs of distress. He of all people knew those signs well. The dear, sweet Detective must be having a nightmare.

A smile curled Waldo's lips, "Dreaming about me, Detective?"

The compulsion to enter the house was now rising, but to do so without waking his sleeping hunter would be difficult. He had stopped by enough times to know that since the night his selves had broken in, security was stronger. Of course, locks were useless at deterring someone like him, but to teleport inside wouldn't be a silent endeavor...

But ever the luck of the fool, and perhaps with a little foresight, an opportunity presented itself when, within the confines of the home, the sound of an old grandfather clock began to toll three past the hour. Synchronizing to the second chime, he vanished and reappeared on the third within the room, the sound covering up his static entrance. As the resonance of the chime slowly faded, Waldo stood still in the dark of the bedroom, observing to be sure his presence wasn't know.

Once he was sure, he approached their bedside to get a better look at them, kneeling down to get closer. It had been a long time since he had been this close to the Detective, nearly a week! They were... quite an interesting person, definitely the most fun detective Waldo had had chasing him. It would be a lie if he said he wasn't getting a bit attached to his playmate. Dare he say... sentimental?

Certainly not, seemed impossible for someone like him, but as he watched them turn again in the faint moonlight, seeing a shine of stressful tears in the corners of their eyes, something strange jostled in his chest, a forgotten emotion, perhaps. He smiled slyly.

Dear, dear Detective, you know how to keep things interesting, don't you?

Perhaps it was that feeling driving him now, or perhaps it was the sick fun of encroaching so close to them without them knowing, who's to say? Whatever the reason, Waldo found himself slipping out of his shoes, placing his hat and glasses on the side table, leaning his trusty cane against one of the posts, and finally, climbing into the vacant side of the bed.

Now, the Detective was pretty much average height, but with Waldo's tall, lanky frame, they were dwarfed in comparison. Long limbs curled around, but didn't touch, the Detective, as Waldo drew himself close, like a predator encircling their prey.

Propped up on the pillow, he watched them a moment more as they struggled against their nightmare, wondering what was the exact nature of the torment plaguing their mind. Oh, to be able to reach inside their head, squish around in the grey matter, and pull out the answer. If he knew, it would be fun to use against the Detective later, to see that look on their face. Oh well, he'll figure something out, something special, just for them.

For now, he pulled up the sheets over the Detective's trembling form, seeing if that would be enough to dissuade the nightmares. It was not. If anything, their expression seemed to darken, and the grip on the pillow seemed to tighten. Whatever, or whoever they were dreaming about was truly causing them untold anxiety.

At this, Waldo felt a sudden, uncharacteristic, pang of jealously. Whatever night terror that was aggravating the Detective, even if it was just a shadow of himself, it wasn't HIM him. HE wanted to be the cause of that strife, HE wanted to see them flounder and suffer because of HIM, not because of any one or any thing else, not even his other selves, HIM. A rush of possessiveness was like a hydraulic, making him tighten his arms around his detective like a steel trap, ensnaring their warm form with his own. Yes, HIS detective... no one else's. He thought this as he burrowed his face in their soft, soft hair.

...

Minutes ticked by. He stayed like that, holding his detective still, feeling the warm pulse of their heartbeat from their proximity, their shuddering breath, allowing his own sweater warmth to overpower their own. Eventually, the pulse slowed, the smell of fear subsided, and for all he could tell, the Detective finally passed into a calm, dreamless, sleep. How wonderful.

Now, it may seem a bit counter-intuitive, as his mission and pleasure was to make the Detective's life a living hell, but Waldo knew that constant terror was not as effective or lasting as periodic fright. There was a time and a place. No need for his little Detective to be so on edge that they lost their mind, that'd be no fun. He needed them sane... well, sane enough, for the next stage in the game.

Oh, he couldn't wait for when the game would REALLY begin. He found himself absentmindedly rubbing their back in circling patterns as his mind looked forward to the future and all it promised. Nuzzling his cheek in their hair, pulling a gentle sigh from them, his thoughts soon turning to wonder if their wife did the same, and the pang of jealously returned for just a moment.

For the rest of the night, Waldo remained. He didn't sleep. Instead he watched over the Detective, adjusting positions as the night wore on. At some point, feeling a little bored, he began to root around in the side tables, discovering to his delight that the detective had a little journal.

With the growing morning light, Waldo put on his glasses and began to skim through it, all while the Detective slumbered on against him, hugging his chest like a pillow. It was interesting to read the Detective's wild theories about him. Most were completely off the mark, of course, but it surprised him which were pretty close.

How clever my Detective is.

...

The Detective slept through the early morning, before waking up with a start just before the afternoon. Waldo was gone by then, but not before leaving a little note with some revisions for their theories. Waldo stole one last glance of them through the window, soaking in the visual of their bed head, before sauntering off down the sidewalk, twirling his cane with a giddy spring in his step.

"Until next time, my dear Detective."

~FIN~

___

Hope you all liked it! I like the idea that this Waldo doesn't like the idea of sharing the Detective with his other selves, instead wanting them all to himself. Potentially this is the same Waldo turned Odlaw, but who's to say? :0) Only the clowns know.

If you like my work, and would like to support me, consider checking out my Ko-Fi. I currently have art commissions up on there, but if you think you'd like something written like this, let me know.

Also go check out @nami-ramen's art if you haven't, I love how they draw Waldo!

BUY ME A KO-FI

[wyzechyld]

I am truly amazed by how deep you sank your teeth into my existence—

and whether or not you loved me hardly stands out next to the multifaceted mélange of counterfeit moments

you wove so elegantly to keep my head twisted off my shoulders and full of sirens.

You are an artist, swooning to the sadistic melody of a siren captivated by her own reflection—

masticating the bitter fruits from each tree until there is nothing left but gnashing teeth,

twisted roots, a pound of flesh, and whatever the fuck might be left of a diseased me.

But to you, I could be anybody, so long as I’m weak.

So long as the cracks in my soul portray dim shadow puppets

falling forward as they fall asleep to the persistent thud, thud, thud of your dancing feet.

The insatiable thirst for chemical release you marked as love

viciously dominated each impulse hidden beneath words

spilling from your mouth like pregnant spiders.

Your chest swells with confabulation,

and you wonder why it hurts all the time.

But you know—really, really, you know—

possessed by vampiric intent, and honestly,

I wouldn’t be surprised if you were chalk full of flies.

I don’t wonder anymore, though uncertainty beckons,

repeatedly wandering from downcast eyes

so worried of being cast aside,

crystallized and stoned and—

shattered amidst lies.

A never-ending déjà vu—

or another one of those night terrors—

coming down with broken bones,

just to go paralyzed dreaming of elusive homes,

where no one ever needed me anyway.

Sleazy, queasy garnishes of pragmatic drive-bys—

freezing the frame so I can quickly erase the white chalk outlines while hope dies.

A needle in my arm to slam the truth somewhere the sun won’t shine,

because it doesn’t get any darker than this,

and I’m only getting started.

The night remains full of voices

that never really said anything at all,

and I’m still not wondering why it all happened this way.

[bcwritingjourney]

Chapter 8 of my novel, Sanguinatus, is up on patreon for my members! Below will be a portion of the chapter if you're interested, and the prologue and chapters 1-7 are free to read on my patreon.

This novel is a labor of love, and one of my dreams. I don't need to make money or get famous, just release the world's and stories I've created and get better over time.

Chapter 8 and upcoming chapters will be exclusive to members for a short time, then they will be available to the public. You can support me by joining my Bound by Blood tier, which is only $3! Even if you only decide to support me briefly, during that time you'll get access to chapters of this novel and my other works before the public, private communities, exclusive content and behind the scenes content, polls that will influence smaller things, and more!

Any and all support is appreciated, even just reading or liking this post.

Read on below!

She pulled on the Drossenac blood as she peeked out of the alley again to look at a point a few paces to the right of the group, and was quickly sucked into the other place. She cleared her head, focusing. When she approached the rift that would spit her out, and her form seemed to solidify again, she dug her feet in, squatted to strengthen her stance, and willed herself not to be pulled out of this alien place.

She threw her three daggers in quick succession, and at the same time focused on the distorted image it showed her through the rift. She settled her gaze on a point to the left of the rift, right past the furthest guard. As the daggers flew into the first rift, she was pulled into a newly opened rift, and since she didn’t fight it this time she was deposited to the left of the men.

Luckily that had worked better than intended. Her foes had turned to the first rift, likely at the command of the specialist. They had done so just as she fell from her rift and dropped into a crouch.

As she appeared and landed, the light of her warping or some slight sound caused the specialist to whip around in surprise,and almost simultaneously, the daggers, one after another, flew from their rift. Two hit the guard closest to the rift, both digging into his chest deeply, while the other narrowly missed the specialist, heading towards her.

She leapt, assisted by the Khurdae blood, power coursing through her muscles, and snaked an arm around the neck of the other nearby soldier. He flailed in surprise, but she easily spun them around, into the path of the dagger.

It pierced his side, planting itself into his stomach. He hardly had the chance to scream as Ryanil pulled out her long dagger to thrust into his lower back several times. She let him drop to the floor afterwards, calmly wiping his garish scarlet blood off her dagger before sheathing it.

The last man was silent and still, watching her cautiously. He may have been able to help his comrades, but it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t moved a single step from where he stood. He held his right brown furred hand up as his left pulled a water skin from his belt.

She tried to dive away as she realized what he was doing. Water exploded out of the skin, flowing to swirl around his right hand. In the blink of an eye he had snapped his hand forward as though he held a whip, and a tendril erupted from the water, arcing through the air.

She hit the ground and was about to go into a roll as she felt the tendril of water curl around her right leg with crushing force. She knew what was to come. It was even more ironic to her in her already tired state, as he used Sesinae blood to combat her, with her being a Sesinae who essentially couldn’t manipulate a drop of water worth a damn.

That was all the time she had to muse about the irony of it before she was pulled away from the cool bricks of the street, only to be slapped against the ground a moment later. She groaned and was pulled up again, before being whipped away and let go by the tendril. She sailed through the air gracelessly for a brief moment she flailed, then her back met the trunk of a tree, driving the breath from her.

She slumped to the ground for a moment, dazed. The man, fangs bared and eyes dark, stalked forward slowly, carefully. Ryanil had her eyes closed, one hand touching the tree she leaned against, the hand just out of view of the man. She just hoped he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

Her eyes shot open, and she drew on the well of Osin power within her. Three thick roots burst from the street, sending bricks flying. The man was too fast however, the roots converging on empty space as he leapt away with frightening speed.

Ryanil pushed herself up with a groan, getting even more annoyed when she noticed the roots withering quickly. Drops of water bled from them oddly, streaming towards the Khurdae’s hands. Within moments he had significantly more water than he began with.

Alright, maybe we don’t use Osin powers against this bastard. She thought.

Ryanil didn’t dare take the time to try and drink more blood, so all she had was warping, thick scales and a dagger. Maybe it would be enough? She shook her head to clear it and dashed forward.

Only to immediately be met by multiple tendrils of water, which promptly swept her off her feet and into the air. She pulled on the Drossenac blood and focused on a spot just behind the man. It was a valuable thing, being able to slip out of attacks.

She leapt out of the vortex a heartbeat later and straight into a tackle. He managed to turn towards her, but nothing more as she hit him, the extra weight of her armored scales letting her knock the heavier and larger man off his feet. He quickly got a foot under her, flat against her stomach.

He pushed with surprising force, and she was thrown from him, landing flat on her back a ways away. She was getting awfully sick of getting thrown around by this over confident blood mage. She looked up and cursed, rolling to the side and leaping into a dash as a bolt of fire struck the ground where she had been.

He sent two more bolts of scorching flame towards her after the first, giving her no respite. One grazed her, singeing her cloak and blackening the scales of her right arm. The second, unfortunately, hit her dead on.

She was thrown sideways and to the ground again. This wasn’t working. She hissed as the pain set in, the scales of her entire chest blackened by the flame. While the thicker scales had protected her in a sense, she could still feel the flesh underneath blistering and cracking.

She struggled to get up, each movement sending waves of pain across her chest, and she watched as he raised his flame engulfed hands towards her. She slammed a palm down to the bricks, sending green energy into the earth.

Hundreds of tiny plants and blades of grass shot up through the cracks of the street, growing quickly. They twisted and knotted themselves around the man’s legs, though otherwise they were harmless. He looked down in annoyance before sending out sweeping waves of fire, the plants turning to ash against the onslaught.

[justporo]

Hi, I wanna share a tip for writing that I've always found very helpful when you're too afraid to start or just can't get into the right mindset...

It's probably widely known but free writing as a start or warmup has helped me with any kind of writing because I feel like it gets your body and mind just in the right place. Here's how it goes:

Set yourself a timer for like one or two minutes. On paper just write down stream of consciousness, really really whatever comes to mind, if you're struggling with writing something down just write the same letter all over or do scriggles, important thing is to not stop moving your hand that's writing. Don't care about grammar or spelling, just keep going.

On a computer, possibly change your text colour to white so you don't see what you're writing and the same thing goes: timer for 1-2 minutes and just go, type out your stream of thoughts, if you can't just type out "lalala" or something, just don't stop until the timer ends, your hands have to keep moving.

For me this usually helps to get the engine going and move past this feeling at the beginning of not knowing how or where to start.

[aruuu1352]

“My words have power— They can hurt or heal. So I’ll take deep breaths before I speak, Because every wrong word leaves a mark.” - Aru

You can do it. Stay consistent and be true to yourself. You will never know what result it will give, but you will be happy with the progress you made

Don't give up so easily just because of some mistakes you've made. We learn from the fall

[herheartdisplayed]

They said that I was never any trouble, that I was an easy kid.

I was so easy that when I found empty bottles, my mind considered them to be decorations.

I was so easy that when I failed, I found comfort in knowing my problems would always be smaller, and less significant.

I was so easy that I didn’t go to parties or go on dates. When you’re easy you prioritize important things like survival over fun.

I was so easy that I never snuck out, only around, and eventually away.

I was so easy that I hardly talked. It was not anxiety, or depression or CPTSD. No that was all in my head. What I really am is easy!

I was so easy that moving on was the expectation. But it’s okay! Easy people can thrive alone.

I was so easy that I never acted childish. Why did everyone else run around screaming and laughing? That’s difficult. I’m easy.

I was so easy that I never let any hiccups get in the way. She said sorry for what was said when the bottle took over. So it’s okay, brutal arguments are hardly worse than neutral when you’re as easy as I am.

Maybe I don’t want to be easy anymore.

Maybe I want to be difficult instead.

But I would never admit to wanting to be anything but what I am, which is easy.

[rook-laidir]

Random Rook Banter 3: Chipwrecked

I made more, you’re welcome!

Part 1 | Part 2

~

Taash: So…wanna talk about your mom?

Rook: No. Wanna talk about yours?

Taash: Nope.

Rook: Good talk.

~

Taash: So how did your mom take all the…gender stuff?

Rook: She died before I figured that stuff out, so there wasn’t much to take.

Taash: Oh. Sorry.

Rook: For what? You didn’t kill her.

Taash: Fair enough.

~

Rook: I don’t know how she’d feel about it.

Taash: Huh?

Rook: My mother. And the gender stuff.

Taash: Oh.

Rook: My name, my old one, it’s one of the last connections that she had to Dalish culture. Not using that…It feels like kind of an insult.

Taash: That’s vashedan.

Rook: I know. I know that in theory. It’s just…I just hope she’d like “Rook” as much as she liked “Osha.”

Taash: Well, I like Rook.

Rook: Thanks, Taash.

~

Bellara: Have you ever found any elvhen artifacts with the Lords of Fortune?

Rook: Not too often. I was mostly sent to ancient tombs and crypts. We mostly found gold and some treasures that rich, ancient nobles didn’t want to part with.

Bellara: Oh, but that’s still so fascinating. Getting to see what sorts of things people valued all those ages ago. You could learn so much about their lives and their families!

Rook: It’s not so different from now. It’s usually more gold than they knew what to do with.

~

Bellara: Hey, Rook? Do you mind helping me with part of my serial? I could use it for this one character I’m struggling with.

Rook: Will it give me a powerful, yet properly contained tingle?

Bellara: No! It’s not that, I just need some help with the heist scene. I’m getting stuck on some of the details. What’s the most interesting thing you’ve stolen?

Rook: Hey, I don’t steal!

Bellara: Rook, I watched you steal that jewelry box from that mansion in Treviso last week.

Rook: It was Ivenci’s mansion, it’s not stealing if it’s from the government.

~

Davrin: That looks expensive.

Rook: Here’s hoping. I took it off of a Venatori I killed last week.

Davrin: Well if you’re gonna steal from anyone, it might as well be a dead cultist.

Rook: It’s not stealing if it’s Venatori.

~

Taash: Where’s you get your armband from?

Rook: Starkhaven. They weren’t using it.

Taash: D’you buy it or steal it?

Rook: It’s not stealing if it’s Starkhaven.

Taash: Fair enough.

~

Emmrich: I noticed you don’t speak of your father often.

Rook: I never met him, there’s not much to say.

Emmrich: Ah. Well, I’m sure he’d be proud of all you accomplished. He has every reason to be.

Rook: Not so sure about that, but…thanks, Emmrich.

[inksmudgesandcandlelight]

following the end of chapter one of Black Star Publishing, two overworked employees and a toddler

[notimefornames]

I might have shoulders I can go to, but I choose to cry on my own. I deal with my pain alone, and when I lose myself, I find myself alone because some paths I’m meant to walk on my own.

— Adrn Lopz: My Heart & Mind

@adrnlopz

[artmolonara]

Late Night Showing - Quick Lux DW fic

The movie turned out to be not all it was cracked up to be. Guess the over-hyping had done it a disservice. Still, you were glad you got to see it on the big screen at all. It was the last day it was in theaters and you were probably going to regret catching it this late with a busy day tomorrow, but compulsion had won.

Credits rolled, the last one of the meager crowd left. You stayed, waiting to see if there was an after credits.

Lines of white gave way to black, but still the houselights didn't come back on. A moment passes, still dark... maybe they were just closing up. You made to stand...

And stumbled back into the plush seat by the sudden swell of an orchestra as a cartoon face illuminated the screen, followed by a title in an old fashion style.

You settle back down to watch, but after a few seconds, confusion set in. This wasn't at all tied to the film you had just seen, nor did it seem to be a promo for a future installment. You pulled out your phone to search what this was, just to be sure it was worth your time.

"Hey now, no phones while the film is rolling!"

You jerked your head up, catching eyes momentarily with the toon on screen before he continued with his venture.

Oh. You got it.

This must be one of those elaborate "silence your cell phone" bits that they put up before the movie starts. There must be something after this... but didn't the theater close soon? ... ah well, maybe it was running automatic or a glitch, either way, time to go home.

You got up, making your way down the steps toward the exit turn.

"And where do you think you're going? You'll miss the best part... Please don't go!"

The crack in the voice snapped your eyes up to the screen as you descended, your steps slowing as you became aware that the character was staring right at you, following you, even as you moved.

The hair on the back of your neck stood up, and you quickly made your way towards the exit.

You hit the door with some force from the momentum, pushing instinctively.

But it wouldn't budge, no matter what you tried.

Something moved behind, you felt the ground tremble, the air moved as if from a mighty breath.

No choice, you looked back.

Dark, the narrow passage to the screen was shadowed by a massive form looming above, silhouetted in shadow and backlit faintly by the screen, still.

All you could make out on the form were the eyes before it grabbed you.

(I need to illustrate this visual, it's so creepy in my head, kinda along the lines of this animation)

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[wyzechyld]

Carving marks

Tag hearts

Irrevocably

Like footprints

in sand

Stark fades

Away

like a seranade

I dance

to

Tunes of you

moved

Unquestionably

Jacaranda dreams

whisper things

Wishy washy hope

cracked back and taken

intraveneously

I could really salute

Your ass

Endlessly

For ever and ever so

Easily

Last minute

Additions

Bring fruitions

Commentary

Missions

Explaining

Renditions

Of fate

Am I really too late?

Like really really?

But my bleeding heart

Weeps like a sage

My inner child

Screams with rage

My outer one too

Is just another

Scared

or sacred

or sacrilegious

Fool

Dreaming of meaning

more

to you...