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bardicbeetle · 11 months

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in the dirt in the dark - nano2k23 - #2

The next time you have a thought worth thinking is when you hear rain.

Not like you’ve ever heard it before though, it sounds so far away, so muffled.

This is what it’s like to hear the rain from six feet under.

Not the scattering of pebbles on a tin roof, not the plunk thunk of drops on car windshields, not the steady plap of water on flesh. This is almost like a roar for how it blends together above you. The closest thing you think you’ve ever heard is the ocean, the tide washing in from a distance.

You take your first breath in a while.

You can taste the dampness of the earth with it.

Smell the waterlogging wood that encloses you.

When the first drop saturates into your shirt, you realize you have to get out.

It’s raining so hard.

You don’t want to sit here in the wet in the dark and drown. This is already one flavor of nightmare, you do not need to add another. How long have you been sleeping? Time is never useful in dreams, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll wake up in bed and realize you’ve only been out for a couple hours, no matter how long it takes.

How do you break out of a coffin?

Your brain conjures an image of a woman in a yellow jumpsuit. You’ve never seen that movie, it isn’t helpful. You think maybe you’ve seen another movie—maybe it was a show?—where someone breaks through a coffin, but the dirt had been dry, and he’d had harder hands than you do.

The splotch of rain-damp cold on your chest is getting wider though.

You don’t want to wait and see what happens when the rain gets harder.

Maybe if you break your hand you’ll wake up?

You feel for the seam in the wood you had felt before, figuring it may be a weak point. When you push, both hands, you feel a little bit of give to the top of the coffin. Maybe this won’t be as hard as you think?

You bring your knees up as sharp and fast as you can.

Crack!

Okay.

Okay, you can work with that.

You line your hand up with the little seam as best you can blind, and you alternate—a strike with your hand, a strike lower with your knees, a strike with your other hand—everything starts to hurt very quickly, you feel the rough finish of the wood on your knees after only a few rounds where it’s torn through your pants. The stagnant air now smells sharp and metallic. Blood. From your hands, from your knees.

Your mouth waters.

You feel a little sick.

You keep going.

Hand. Knees. Hand.

Finally one of the impacts is accompanied with a trickle of dirt.

You stop breathing.

Shut your mouth.

And push, hands, knees, top of your head, trying to force the cracked wood to yield.

It bows and snaps where your hands press upwards, you swallow an outcry when the broken edges carve through your palms. Your hands are already wrecked. What’s one more scar in dreamland.

The dirt pours in, you pull it downwards as you try to shift enough wood to sit upright and pull yourself—what you hope but do not know is—skywards. The soil is saturated unevenly and sticks to you, slimy in places, crumbling in others. You should be worried about tetanus. Except this is a nightmare. And you don’t have a heartbeat anyways.

Wait.

Your hands stop their drag of the dirt, you sit still, covered and breathless and silent hearted and—

—bleeding?

How are you bleeding?

It doesn’t matter, just get out.

Just get out.

Screaming fingers and aching arms are the first to break the surface. The rain no longer a roar, soothing on bloodied flesh. You try your best not to open your mouth too soon, but you are still sputtering out bits of mud when your head crests the hole you have dug yourself out of. The first breath of fresh air feels incredible. Sweet and damp and the rain feels incredible and now that you aren’t in the ground you could swear it’s almost warm.

You lift shaking fingers to your eyelids, finding them already starting to loosen up, edges cracking open as the rain hits them. Had they been…glued? Was that something that happened? Is that the replacement for sewing? Or was it just the closest modern equivalent your brain had conjured?

Even the stormy dark feels almost too bright as your eyes open. Seeing your surroundings for the first time. Seeing the surrounding graves.

Your head snaps backwards towards where yours would be.

You see the hole you dug.

The dirt is still fresh, the stone itself is unmarked and smooth.

Is this your nightmare?

Buried alive and forgotten. Nameless and alone.

The loneliness of that concept creeps into your chest.

Sitting in the rain, in the dark that feels too bright, both legs still dangling in your own grave.

You sob.

You scream your throat raw, you curl shredded fingers around your arms and double over until you’re heaving again like when you’d first woken. Stomach still empty, chest convulsing.

You want to wake up.

Please, you just want to wake up.

This is not a nightmare.

You are already—have always been—awake.

@flyingbananasaur / @vampireposter / @gewhanaa

(want to be on the tag list? click here!)

#lsdente #nanowrimo #nano2k23 #itditd #in the dirt in the dark #writeblr #vampire writeblr #horror writeblr #writers on tumblr #excerpts #my writing

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lavender-laney · 11 months

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choking on sea salt, chapter three

chapter 1, chapter 2 part one, chapter 2 part two, chapter 3

Sadie awakens to the sound of creaking wood and footsteps. Her eyes flick open, and she’s met with the very first rays of sunlight streaming through the broken windows and illuminating the dust that endlessly fills the air of this house.

“You awake?” a gruff voice asks, and Sadie startles, the sun’s light suddenly blocked by the stocky man peering down at her, wisps of hair falling over his bloodshot eyes, coveralls hanging off his starved body. Nikolai, she remembers. He’s a rough-looking man, with a crooked jaw framed by thin white hairs that could, in some ways, be considered a beard. His mouth seems to perpetually hang open a bit, revealing gaps in his yellowed teeth.

Sadie throws the blanket to the side, finding the yarn has become even further unwound during the night, and sits up, gingerly moving away from where the man looms over her form. She stands, brushing the floor’s dust from her clothes.

“Yes, yes,” she stutters, wondering how long he’d stood there before she’d woke up. “I’m awake.”

He stares at her for a moment longer before nodding absently. Turning away, the man begins to make his way towards the door, lumbering footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty floorboards. Still shaking off the last dredges of sleep, Sadie follows, and as they step outside she realizes the sun has only just begun to peek its way over the horizon. The moon still overlooks the rolling fields, and Sadie is reminded of summers spent at her grandparents’ farm, of her grandfather shaking her awake at dawn’s first light, of shoving on her grandmother’s old work boots and mucking her way through the barns in shoes a few sizes too large.

The tense silence between Sadie and Nikolai doesn’t have nearly the same peaceful feelings as mornings spent on her grandparents’ farm, however. Whereas Sadie would expect birdsong or the last dawdling crickets from the previous evening, instead the air is filled only by the whistling of the breeze and the scuff of dirt under the pair’s shoes. The sheep pasture is along the dirt road, within the fence that Sadie recalls seeing as Joseph led her into town the night prior.

Nikolai pulls open the gate, and Sadie gets a closer look at the barn that houses the animals and the fence that surrounds the pasture.

The barn is in similar disrepair as the house Sadie spent the night in, though attempts to patch holes in the roof or reinforce broken fences have clearly been made. As they pass through the outermost fence, iron rods have been used to keep the wood standing where it has been weathered. Sadie peers closer and realizes that the fence has not only been aged by the elements but has also splintered outwards at the height of Sadie’s hip in many places. Her steps slow where she follows Nikolai and she leans closer to the wood. Clumps of wool catch in the damaged posts, shadowed by dark stains that Sadie quickly realizes is blood spattered around the impact points. An unnerved feeling abruptly fills her chest.

“Let’s go,” Nikolai calls, standing at the entrance of the barn, looking back at Sadie with a stern expression and shadowed eyes.

With one last glance at the fence, Sadie rushes over, fighting to avoid the man’s searching gaze. He scoffs, leading her further into the barn. The inside is in worse shape than the exterior, worsened by the smell of unclean wool, feces, and mildew. Sadie is sure the horror must show on her face and feels thankful Nikolai has not turned to look back at her, instead bending down with a pained breath to gather a tin bucket in his frail grip. He turns back to her.

“While I head over to the well, go ‘round letting them outta their pens,” Nikolai says, voice gruff. “Now I need you to listen close to this part,” his tone gains a stern quality, and Sadie feels the nerves in her chest tighten. “Do not give any of these animals an opportunity to get outta that fence out there. They like to … wander, you could say, and then I’ll have to come out and round ‘em back up because you weren’t paying attention. So watch what you’re doin’. These creatures are smarter than you’d think.” He pauses, eyes searching her face. “Do you hear me?’

Sadie nods, eyes wide. “Of course, yes. I understand,” she responds.

Nikolai’s eyes stay trained on hers for a long moment before he huffs, heading back out the barn door, bucket held against his hip. “I’ll be back.”

Sadie nods again, waiting until the man has started to make his way out of the fenced area and down the hill towards town. She grimaces. If he has to walk that far to collect water, no wonder his joints ache, she thinks. She’s certainly not complaining, however, and instead takes the opportunity to survey the barn. As she’d noticed before, it’s clearly an old building, and the closer she looks, the more unstable it appears. She risks a glance at the roof above her, and quickly looks away, choosing not to think about the decaying wood above her head. As she steps further into the barn, the sheep pens become more visible. They’re simple, fenced areas bordered by planks of wood. Each one holds a sheep or two, some with fragile-looking young lambs. Many of them, though, are empty, and Sadie is reminded of Mary’s words the night prior.

“We eat what meat is available to us,” she’d said, all shifty eyes and nerves.

Sadie steps up to the low door of one pen, studying the sheep and lamb that rest together within. They lie together, the lamb leaned against its mother’s stomach, but in perhaps the most … detached manner that Sadie has ever witnessed an animal behave. Although they huddle together for warmth, the animals appear as though they’re hardly aware of one another’s presence. Their gazes are glazed and unfocused, legs sprawled out and ears limp against their skulls. Their bodies, especially the mother’s, are littered in bald patches and wounds. The mother has a large wound across her forehead, her wool stained brown with dried blood. Sadie thinks of the damage to the fence outside, the clumps of wool and crusted blood decorating the wood, and cringes at the implication. With their current disposition, she couldn’t imagine either of these animals ramming their bodies against the fence with enough desperation to harm themselves.

Trepidation worsened by this realization, Sadie lifts the latch to the door and pulls it open, and the creaking wood draws the animals’ attention. The sheep blinks, lifting her head, as if reconnecting to the world around her. She stands, clumsily and without care for her lamb, who is sent tumbling to the ground soundlessly. Sadie can’t help the gasp that escapes her mouth, but the sheep doesn’t seem to notice, simply stepping over her lamb and stumbling out of her pen and past Sadie, making her way out to the pasture. Sadie’s gaze follows her, but the sheep continues on her way without a glance back.

The shuffling of hay brings Sadie’s attention back to the lamb, who is attempting to right itself, weak legs shaking under the weight of its own malnourished body. Caught in a moment of morbid curiosity and a cautious desire to help, Sadie steps forward hands outstretched, but the lamb finally gains its balance, shoving past Sadie’s legs without a care. As it walks past, the matted wool on its backside becomes visible, and Sadie wonders just how long the two had laid there together, unmoving.

As the lamb follows its mother, Sadie sighs, attempting to shake away the goosebumps that have spread across her skin. She moves towards the next pen, and the lone sheep it holds. This one, a ram with cracked, blunt horns curled in a wicked shape around its ears, is in a similar state as the first two and makes its way out of the barn in the very same, unnerving manner. She makes her way down the rows, but the last pen draws her to a stop. It holds a young ram, a little too large to be a lamb, but too leggy and awkward to be considered an adult. Its horns are still small, and the tips are dull. It stands in the corner of its pen, facing the wall with a dogged focus. Its legs are racked with shivers, and Sadie wonders how long it has stood there, weakening its muscles to the point of tremors. As she stands there, wondering how to draw its attention to the open door, it leans its weight back on its hind legs, preparing itself, then rears forward with the full force of its body. Its horns meet the wall with a harsh thud as wood splinters,and Sadie flinches, immediately stepping forward to grab at its wool the same way you would hold an unruly kitten’s scruff.

Only after she’s done it does she realize how risky of a move it was, how easily the animal could rear towards her to drive keratin and bone into her stomach or kick out with its hind legs. No matter how frail they may seem, a tired muscle won’t prevent a distinctly hoof-shaped imprint on Sadie’s midsection and worn-down stubs won’t prevent a bruised kidney.

Even as the ram remains still, seemingly unaware of Sadie’s grip on the back of its neck, she envisions what her grandfather would say about a mistake like this one. She remembers the first summer she’d stayed at their house, the first time she’d stepped foot into the barn holding rows of dairy cows --- distinctly in better shape than the one she stands in now, met with the excited calls of hungry cows rather than the eerie silence of ill sheep. Her grandfather had led her to one of the stalls, occupied by the oldest and most tame of his herd. He’d held Sadie’s hand as they stepped towards the animal that towered over Sadie’s young frame. As the cow leaned down to snuffle at Sadie’s hair, her grandfather told her in a steady voice all the ways in which a peaceful creature can be dangerous. How quickly a playful horse can buck its rider, how easily milking a cow can become a hoof to the stomach, how even the sweetest of roosters can dig its spur into soft skin at a too-fast movement.

Sadie releases her hold on the sheep’s skin, nudging its shoulder to turn towards the open door. It follows her touch mindlessly, and the first step it takes out of its hay-filled pen and onto the packed dirt of the barn’s floor seems to bring it to awareness just a bit, just enough to take its own unsteady steps towards the door, following the same path as the others.

Sadie watches for a long, tense moment, and begins to understand the glazed, dissociative look in the animals’ eyes, wondering if perhaps she should’ve stayed in Pruitt’s stuffy classroom listening to the overconfident chatter of Bradbury and his peers. With a thud that splits the heavy silence, the pen door swings closed before her. Sadie snaps back to reality. She shudders, both at what she had just witnessed, and at herself for feeling so affected by it. The seed of frustration that had welcomed itself into her chest last night grows, and she pushes the pen door back open and steps into the pen with a huff, determined to get something out of this strange morning.

The pen looks fairly normal, if a bit barren and dirty, but Sadie moves further in, peering at the wall the sheep had been so focused on. The wood is spattered with blood, dried and fresh, and has started to splinter in places. One such crack has formed a sizeable hole in the wood, about the size of Sadie’s fist, and she kneels down in the hay to peer through it, uncaring for the way its filth dampens her knees. Through the hole, the pasture outside is visible, and Sadie can see the flock of sheep making their way past the barn, towards the farthest fence. Past the farthest fence, the ocean is barely visible, the rolling waves audible if Sadie strains to hear them. Sadie wonders if the sheep simply wanted outside but feels there must be more to it. When she surveys the rest of the barn, she finds nothing more of substance, and resigns herself to the unfulfilled curiosity weighing on her.

“Alright,” she huffs to herself, voice breaking the heavy quiet of the barn. “Alright.”

As Sadie follows the flock’s path, she finds the animals gathered at the farthest fence. Some apathetically dip their heads to gather the yellowing grass of the pasture into their teeth, while the others simply … stare. Just as the last sheep was, they’ve planted their hooves in the dirt and watch the horizon, the ocean, like dogged sentries. Sadie steps up beside them to share the view. The sun has crept its way up past the horizon in the time Sadie spent inside the barn, though the sky is still dark with early morning. The ocean looks calm, waves rolling in and out slowly, meeting the sands of the beach gently. The picturesque sight is marred by the utilitarian iron fence that lines the grass just before the beach’s sands begin. It is tall, tall enough to withstand strong waves and winds. The base of the fence has been rusted by seawater and the sea salt encrusting it is visible even from a distance. Although it would certainly hinder a person from making their way to the water, it doesn’t appear impossible to bypass in any way. Based on Mary’s and Edith’s reactions last night, Sadie wonders if the fence is more symbolic than anything, a reminder of the fear of the ocean already held by the townsfolk.

As Sadie is studying one of the younger lambs, peering at the crooked position of its back leg and the grime encrusting its wool, she hears the outermost fence creak open and turns to see Nikolai carrying the bucket of water. At the same moment Sadie turns at the sound of the door, numerous sheep wheel around quickly, desperately, and force their way towards Nikolai, heavy step by stumbling step. One makes it quite close, too, as Sadie has already moved forward with a hand outstretched, prepared to grab it before it can bolt. Nikolai kicks out with a shout, nearly dropping the water bucket, and slams the gate closed. The sheep is unbothered by his reaction, and rushes forward anyway, slamming into the closed gate with the full weight of its body. It crumples into a heap, dazed by the impact, but its legs continue to kick, pushing at the dirt beneath it, mouth opening and closing without sound.

Sadie can only watch in horror, clenched hands still outstretched, even as the other sheep lose interest, rejoining their position against the far fence. Nikolai scoffs, stepping past the writhing animal to make his way toward the barn. Sadie looks between the man and the sheep, overwhelmed with a desire to move closer to the animal. Not to help, though, but to peer closer at its face, at the way its pupils roam, unseeing, and its mouth begins to foam with its desperation. She wishes she could pull out the notepad that sits in her pocket and record its behavior to study later.

“Are you comin’, or are you just gonna gawk at the damned thing?” Nikolai’s voice calls, and he sounds winded.

Sadie watches the sheep for a moment longer as it begins to lose energy, diminished to a twitching, heaving body. She commits the horrid image to memory, and follows Nikolai back into the barn, finding the man tipping the bucket of water into the troughs within each pen.

“Well,” he begins, heaving a deep breath as he sets the bucket on the ground. “Were there any dead?”

Sadie watches as he picks the bucket back up and carries it to the next stall, turning a calculating eye on her as he walks past.

“No,” she says, wondering what she would have done if she’d opened one of the pens to find a dead, decaying sheep. She wonders what the lamb would have done if its mother had died in the night, if maggots and flies had taken to her body with a frenzied hunger. Would the lamb have continued to lay against her cooling, festering corpse without even noticing her demise? Or, and this thought brings a nauseated feeling to her stomach, would it have joined the scavenging insects in their feast?

Nikolai grunts in response, continuing his task.

“What’s … wrong with them?” Sadie dares to ask, watching Nikolai closely for his reaction.

He pauses in his movements to look back at her. His chest is heaving in exhaustion, and his wrists tremble where he holds the weight of the nearly empty bucket. The looseness of his jaw somehow appears worse than it had just an hour prior, and the shadows beneath the redness of his eyes create a distinctly sickly appearance. Sadie can’t help but be reminded of the fragile, unnerving state of the sheep.

“They’re sick,” Nikolai spits, the most emotion she’s seen from the man. “The animals’re sick, the people’re sick, the land is sick. It’s all goddamned sick, and you’d do yourself an’ the rest of us a favor to get yourself the hell away from this place.”

The silence of the barn is suffocating following the man’s tirade. With the remaining energy from his proclamation, he heaves the water bucket up and dumps the rest of it in the next trough. That seems to be the extent of his capabilities, though, and he drops the bucket with a startling clang. It rolls, stopped by the edge of Sadie’s boot, and the man follows it, sliding down the side of the stall wall, coming to rest in the mud. His chest rises and falls rabbit-quick, and his eyes roll in their sockets.

“Oh god---!” Sadie begins, stumbling forward, kicking the bucket away. She kneels beside him, arms held out but wary to touch. “Are you, are you okay?”

Nikolai turns to meet her panicked gaze, seeming to regain a bit of clarity amid the frenzy. “Don’t you touch me,” he says, spittle flying from between the gaps in his teeth. “It’s your fault, you know? It’s always your damned fault. If you would just learn your lesson, just learn your place,” he leans forward suddenly, gripping at her shirt the same way Sadie had held the sheep’s scruff. “If she had just known her place, we wouldn’t be in this damned mess.”

Despite the pounding of her heart, the nerves wracking her limbs, Sadie’s curiosity, her damned curiosity, latches onto the man’s words.

“If who had known her place?” she asks, voice even, peering into his eyes. “Who, Nikolai?”

His demeanor has changed, though. His eyes have refocused, and they’ve lost their frantic quality. His grip on Sadie’s shirt loosens, and he instead uses his hand to push himself up from the ground, legs wavering beneath his weight. Sadie steps back, disappointment curling in her chest, as he fights to right himself. Once he’s found his feet, he huffs, and turns away from Sadie, bending to retrieve the bucket. Without a word, he carries it back to the corner it was originally retrieved from, leaving it to rest against the wall. Still avoiding Sadie’s gaze, he leaves the barn, making his way towards the pasture fence. The sheep that had tried so desperately to escape must have collected itself in the time it took to refill the troughs and has rejoined the rest of the flock down by the furthest fence.

“You’re gonna come back this evening to gather the animals back into their stalls,” Nikolai says, and Sadie rushes to catch up to where he has opened the gate. The sheep only have time to lift their heads, eyes widening, before the pair have slipped through the gate and closed it behind them. As Sadie pulls the latch closed, the sheep swing their heads back around to return to gazing down at the ocean.

“By myself?” Sadie asks Nikolai, now walking beside him. She wonders if he remembers how he’d acted in the barn, what he’d said, if he’s just choosing to ignore it. Sadie certainly won’t forget the way his crazed eyes met her own, nor the gnashing of his crooked jaw as he spit out the nonsensical words. Not for a long time, she’s sure.

Nikolai doesn’t look back at her when he says, “Can you not handle that?”

His tone is questioning, and Sadie feels like she’s being tested.

“Of course I can handle it,” she responds evenly.

Nikolai nods. “Alright then,” he says simply.

They walk to town in a tense silence, occupied only by the questions filling Sadie’s mind, and the echo of the heaving, desperate breaths of a man and a sheep.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

We're finally starting to get into the interesting parts...

Excited to hear what you guys think!

Tag list (lmk if anyone would like to be added or removed!)

@megarywrites @at-thezenith @repressed-and-depressed @plasma-studios @wrenofthewords @pb-dot @communist-mariner @phantomnations @thelittlestspider @inkingfireplace @silverslipstream @atreegrowss @i-rove-rock-n-roll @your-absent-father @borisyvain @ashfordlabs @digital-chance @boundedsea @kaze-writes @thebearthatreads @innocentlymacabre

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digital-chance · 9 months

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Hello! Just a reminder you're awesome and feel free to talk about something in a wip that captivates your attention at the moment

thank you for the ask!! sorry for the delay, and lovely to see you!!

i can't think of much, i need to do more worldbuilding, so here's an excerpt of Scars of Duty I did for this year's NaNoWriMo! enjoy!

The villain slinks up to Lucian. “Are you afraid Hero?" They purr, staring at him underneath their dark eyelashes. Lucian swallows compulsively, eyes fluttering around the villain as they approach. Lucian knows, he knows, that he should be fighting. But he feels frozen on the spot, compelled to watch the villain slink up to him, fire and power flickering in their eyes as they look Lucian over. They smirk as they reach Lucian, grasping his chin gently with their thumb and index finger. They lean in until Lucian and the villain are sharing breaths. “Perhaps darling, you shouldn’t be so trusting with your personal space,” The villain murmurs, wickedness flickering in their eyes. Their lips curl into a smile and Lucian, feeling the magnetism, clenches his jaw. The villain brushes their thumb against Lucian’s lower lip but then steps back. Lucian shivers from the touch, feeling dazed, as the villain declares, “And now I have you surrounded.” They gesture with both arms. Lucian whirls around, seeing armed individuals on all sides. There’s too many for just Lucian to take them all on. He feels his arm creep to the HQ panic button, but the villain catches him and tisks. “You had all this opportunity to press that button, and now, seeing that you’re outnumbered, you choose to press it?” The villain stalks away with a hard look on their face. “I had higher hopes for you, darling,” they say bitterly, face twisted in disgust. Lucian searches for the right words, the feeling of inadequacy rising. His mouth opens and closes, words dying on the tip of his tongue. He has no defense. He has no idea what to do. He's afraid. The villain watches this with angry dark eyes. “No, I don't want your excuses. Not this time, my darling hero,” they say, spitting the pet name out like a curse. They sharply turn towards the crowd, cape fluttering in the wind.

< scars of duty tag list (comment to be added : @scumpleforeskin , @ruinmegently , @aziz-reads , @aspiringfictionwriter , @kae-luna >

#writing #fic excerpt #writing excerpt #wip: sod #wip: scars of duty #nanowrimo 2023

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jiubilant · 10 months

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first line of something new! thanks @wispstalk for the wip wednesday tag :)

@ghoulsbeard @morihaus @ervona @everybodyknows-everybodydies you're it (no pressure!)

#i am 1/50th of the way into nanowrimo #wip excerpts

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notwritinganyflufftoday · 10 months

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Took a break from writing yesterday because it was my birthday and Coral Island released.

So far I have around 30.5k written for nanowrimo, and have written down the three scenes that I had been hoping to write.

Here's a little snippet:

What are they supposed to do if Billy never returns? How do they deal with two missing kids in class? It'd be a nightmare so Billy has to come back, there's no other option.

"Maybe you can dangle your staff over the side of the cliff, to provide a little light if Billy struggles to find his way back," Younes suggests and honestly it's not a bad idea at all. "Kinda like a reverse anglerfish."

"Explain?"

"Since we're not gonna eat him."

"I'm still debating whether to wring his neck or not," Beau replies, not entirely joking. He moves closer to the edge and lets his staff loosely hang over the abyss, slowly swinging it from side to side.

Younes raises a dubious eyebrow, "What are you doing?"

"Isn't this what anglerfish do? Luring in the bait."

A hearty chuckle escapes Younes's throat, the sound calming Beau's frayed nerves too somehow. Maybe the other 50 percent of his nails can potentially survive this night, but Billy will have to hurry up.

Magical boys wip taglist: @dustylovelyrun, @sarandipitywrites, @wildswrites

#magical boys wip #nanowrimo #writing excerpt #oc beau #oc younes

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chargoeson · 11 months

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Project Amygdala Excerpt 1-- Maren Hara

Now that I am in the groove of writing in her voice Maren is with me everywhere I go. It feels terrifying to get into the habit of sharing pieces of my fiction since it has always been more concealed in me, but I am very proud of how it's coming along and litfic is just so special to me. For the full effect listen to "Coffee Stain," by Sarah Harmer or something equally devastating. Enjoy a peek into baby Maren!

"...letting my hands play a tune across the iron bars as I walked. I imagined them as the ridges on a whale’s chin. I’d never seen a whale in the flesh, only a reconstructed skeleton hanging from the museum Dad took me to a handful of times before deciding it played too much into my, “sentimentality.” I had to look that word up in my dictionary after the trip. The whale was suspended from the ceiling, bones wired into place to give the illusion of turning in the water. I was enchanted. She was a blue whale, Balaenoptera musculus, and I stood under her length for what felt like hours, imagining the nervous system and muscles and blubber and skin that would have filled the room even further. Her chin was what hypnotized me furthest. Deep cracks running the entire length of her jaw, holding the baleen plates that I pictured brushing against my arms. Would they have sung against my fingertips too? I wanted to try it, to float to the ceiling of the room to be with her. Dad moved on, looking for something to do with his own interests in Pathology, and I stayed there until he found me to go home. He asked me from the drivers seat, cocking his head to the side without turning as he did until I was old enough to ride shotgun. “What was your favorite part?” he asked. “The blue whale,” I whispered, the reverence still within me. “Tell me why.” Once I had found my words again he gave many prompting requests like this. I never worked out if he actually wanted to know. “I think she’s sacred,” I said softer still, embarrassed even then for him to hear my child’s piety. He was silent, looking ahead and flexing his hands on the wheel the way he did when he wasn’t sure how to handle me. He didn’t start deconstructing these moments of mine until a couple years later, when he realized it was not simply childlike wonder and absurdity, but that I actually felt spiritual ties to anything at all."

taglist (y'all are so cool): @annlillyjose @coffeeandcalligraphy @subtlefires @belovedviolence

#nanowrimo #author #novel writing #writeblr #creative writing #lit fic #writing excerpt

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lexiklecksi · 11 months

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Share a writing snippet (tag game)

Thanks for tagging me @squarebracket-trick to share a writing snippet. These are of my NaNoWriMo wip, my fantasy novel "Drachenbrut". For my dear English readers I've roughly translated my German writing below the cut, but please note it is NOT reflective of my writing style and if something sounds weird I got lost in translation. To the few people who actually read it, I am very grateful. This is a snippet of a scene told from Varuna Kailani's pov, mother of the siren sisters and the exiled Meara Kailani. (Click for the oc intros and here for my master post.)

Ein röchelndes Husten neben mir schreckt mich auf. Ich summe meinem Mann leise seine Lieblingsmeldodie ins Ohr und sein Husten versiegt sogleich. Wie lange werde ich ihn noch am Leben halten können? Er ist immerhin zwanzig Jahre älter als ich und seine Haut wird immer fahler, ist beinahe so grau wie meines Hammerhais Ilukas. Die kurze Ablenkung hat Nerida gereicht, sie ist mit Nalu in der Nebenhöhle verschwunden. Ich fasse es nicht, dass sie vor Kurzem noch an unser Gewissen appelliert haben, Meara wieder nach Hause zu holen und sich dann völlig daneben benehmen. Die letzten Perlen werden abgezählt, ich muss alle schleunigst wieder versammeln, bevor mein Mann seine abtrünnigen Töchter bemerkt. Mit einem Wink deute ich Kairi an, ihre Schwestern zu holen. Sie nickt ergeben und krault fort, während ich mein liebstes Lächeln aufsetze. „Ich danke euch, dass ihr den weiten Weg auf euch genommen habt, um mit uns zu handeln“, säusle ich. Keano nickt zustimmend und Malio blickt für einen Moment weniger finster drein. „In Gezeiten wie diesen ist es wichtiger denn je, die Beziehung zwischen unseren Familien zu stärken“, fahre ich laut fort. „Uns wurde auch schon zugetragen, dass die Thalaneh sich mit den Nerisura verbündet haben“, spricht Malio abschätzend. Mein Mann verzieht gequält das Gesicht, es kränkt ihn zutiefst. „Wir danken für den frischen Fisch“, erwidere ich diplomatisch und bemerke erleichtert, dass Nerida und Nalu im Torbogen aufgetaucht sind. „Das Meer verabschiedet euch“, wünscht mein Mann auf Wiedersehen. „Wir schwimmen mit euch“, antwortet Keano und treibt zum Ausgang.

I'm tagging @vintagecivet @lavender-laney @charlies-storybook @holdenmarrswritings @betweenthetimeandsound

Rough English translation:

A rattling cough next to me startles me. I hum his favourite melody quietly in my husband's ear and his coughing stops immediately. How much longer will I be able to keep him alive? After all, he's twenty years older than me and his skin is getting paler and paler, almost as grey as Iluka's, my beloved hammerhead shark. The brief distraction gave Nerida a chance to slip away into the neighbouring cave with Nalu. I can't believe they recently pleaded to our remorse to bring Meara back home and then completely misbehave on such an important day. The last pearls are counted, I hurl everyone back together as quickly as possible before my husband notices his renegade daughters. With a wave, I gesture to Kairi to fetch her sisters. She nods devotedly and swims away while I put on my favourite smile. “Thank you for travelling all this way to trade with us,” I purr. Keano nods in agreement, and Malio scowls for a moment. “In times like these, it's more critical than ever to strengthen the relationship between our families,” I continue aloud. “We've also been told that the Thalaneh have allied themselves with the Nerisura,” Malio spits dismissively. My husband pulls a pained face, looking deeply offended. “Thank you for the fresh fish,” I reply diplomatically, and realise with a gulp of relief that Nerida and Nalu have appeared in the archway. “The sea bids you farewell,” my husband says. “We'll swim with you,” Keano replies and drifts towards the exit.

WIP only tag list (comment + if you want to be added or - to be removed): @matcha-chai @callmepippin @zettelkaestchen @silversynthesis @ladywithoringes @stargazingandpoetry @scaevolawrites @lyra-brie @constellationapex @eos109 @azriel-alexander-holm @cirianne @charlies-storybook @betweenthetimeandsound @captain-kraken @thesorcererspen @poetinprose

#writing snippet #nanowrimo #wip: drachenbrut #sc: Varuna Kailani #sirens #siren lore #writing community #writing fantasy #writing a novel #writeblr #excerpt of a book I'm writing

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nanowrimo · 1 year

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Read the YWP Novel Excerpt Contest Grand Prize Winner (13 and Under Age Group)!

In February, we challenged you to submit a 400-word excerpt from your NaNoWriMo novels. From over 650 fantastic entries, we chose two Grand Prize Winners and four Runners-Ups. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did! (For more excerpts, check out this forum thread.)

A Kingdom of Embers and Ash by Hannah G.

I slip there unnoticed, and sure enough, Willow slumps against the fence. Her arm is through the hole, beads of blood glinting on the metal where it bit into her skin. She clutches at the twisted metal as though it is a portal to a better place.

And maybe... maybe it is.

But maybe it isn’t. And that’s what’s kept us from running for all these years.

"Hey, Wil," I whisper, sliding to the ground beside my sister, my anger forgotten, the pain in my cheek and my heart pushed into a place where I can’t feel it. My sister… she's more important than any of that, than anything. "What's going on?"

Willow turns to me suddenly, her face red and blotchy, streaked with tears. Her eyes are like that of a wild animal: cornered and desperate and terrified. It scares me.

"Sage, I can't!” she wails. “I can't stop it! I can't do it! I can't not do it!" Her voice is pitched with distress, a hysterical edge to it that scares me.

I look at her with concern creasing my brow, coating my voice. "Willow?"

But suddenly, it isn't Willow I'm looking at. It’s a fox, white as the first snow of winter, with oddly human, intelligent, pleading eyes.

Willow's eyes.

I freeze in shock, staring at the fox that is Willow.

At Willow, who is a fox.

At my whole life, my whole world, being upended before my eyes.

And then — my sister is back.

I can't stop the stories we've been told about the creatures outside the fence, magical and evil, from flashing through my mind. The stories that have always been applied to us. And even as I look at Willow, my Willow, who I have known and loved all my life, a small part of me can't help but wonder if they’re true, if we are what they say we are.

Witches. Demons. Monsters.

But then, with a twist of revulsion aimed at myself, at the thing that just went through my mind, at Oke Darm and everyone living in it for conditioning me to think that way, I banish the unfaithful thought from my head. Because this is Willow, my Willow–no matter what form she takes.

But I know I'm the only one who will see it that way.

"Wil," I whisper. "Willow... We have to run. Now."

Guest author judge Sarah Suk had this to say about A Kingdom of Embers and Ash:

"In just this short passage, I was able to get a sense of the world, the stakes, and the bond between the characters in a way that made me instantly root for them (protect them at all costs!). Impressively told with a voice that shines."

Hannah Gumpert is in 8th grade, and admittedly spends way too much time absorbed in a book. When she isn’t reading, you can usually find her with her family, at a coffee shop with her friends, or writing and/or imagining her latest story, completely deaf to the world because she's living in another. Hannah wants to be a writer when she grows up — but she's not going to wait around until then.

#nanowrimo #writing #young writers program #ywp #novel excerpt #writing contest

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daughter-of-inklings · 10 months

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Your soulmate meets your crush and they hate each other (NaNo excerpt):

She paused for a moment, “… is the dragon okay?” “Saying the word ‘dragon’ over and over again will not make the reality of the situation go away,” Gabrielle snarled under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked more.. agitated than usual. Her ears were pinned back, and her pupils like pin needles, her tail occasionally thudding against the wall behind her as it flicked about. Though Rosely couldn’t tell if it was the improvised crash, that she’d been seen in this world by someone other than Rosely and the thought of being perceived made her nervous, or if she simply didn’t like Sieve. At the thought, she raised her head and scowled at Rosely. “Right— sorry, Miss… ?” “Princess Gabrielle Deornu, of the [name] kingdom. Almighty and Ferocious Beast, as my father before me; descendant of the original Royal Faerytales.” Sieve blinked slowly, looking to Rosely for confirmation. The latter nodded, and Sieve bowed somewhat awkwardly in Gabrielle’s direction. “Apologies, Your… Royal Beastiness. I’m sure you’d have rather… crashed your dragon—” “Biscuit’s technically my dragon here, I think.” “I’m sure you’d have rather crashed Biscuit—” Sieve reared her head around, snapping to look directly at Rosely. “Rosely, that sounds INSANE.” Gabrielle glared down her nose at Sieve, continuing her patrol of the room by circling closer around them. Keeping a close eye on Rosely and the scrapes along her face and arms. Though she’d tried to grab and shield her with her own body, it seemed she’d still neared the brunt of the hit. “Do you realize how insane you sound right now? There’s a dragon outside, and he’s your dog? Your therapy dog? And this— thing is here too, glaring at me in my own store? It’s got hooves—” “She.” “She’s got hooves, Rosely! And fangs, and a tail, and horns, a-and teeth that could rip me to shreds!” “She wouldn’t rip you to shreds.” “She would.” ** I would.

#ink's scribbles #writeblr #fantasy writeblr #fantasy writing #writing #writers on tumblr #fantasy novel #fantasy book #novel excerpt #novel wip #writing wip #fairytale wip #fairy tale retelling #fairytales #gasalea: the book keeper #nanowrimo 2023 #nanowrimo #playin with the idea of how to convey different people's thoughts and so gabrielle's are marked by **

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indecentpause · 11 months

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woke up at 1:00 am for no reason and zoned out watching teenage mutant ninja turtles, couldn't get back to sleep, instead did 1k-ish words on the Puzzle rewrite, and will get more in if I can't get a nap :')

Josselin spends the next few day holed up in his room. He barely speaks to you, and when it does, it’s in short, clipped, nervous phrases. You try to tell yourself he’s just working on the case, but he seemed to really value your opinion at the station, and you’d hoped it meant a connection of some kind. Someone who likes you. Someone who respects and values your opinions. Someone who values you. Someone who cares. But now he only comes out for water and the bathroom. You haven’t seen him eat and he barely showers. The cats are in the room with him, and he keeps his doors closed except for when they’re eating. They must have another litter box in there. So you don’t even have little Familiar’s energetic company. He doesn’t ask you to look at anything and he doesn’t ask your opinion. You don’t know the ins and outs of drug dealing, and you kind of don’t want to, but you do know what addiction and overdose look like. You know what signs to look for. He doesn’t even ask you about that. And you feel like shit for worrying about it, when a twenty year old woman is dead and nobody knows why. You think you have problems? Shut up, Meara.

General taglist: @ohsugarfoot @abalonetea @only-book-lovers-left-alive @poore-choice-of-words @leadhelmetcosmonaut @jasperygrace @drippingmoon @athenswrites @kaiusvnoir @magic-is-something-we-create @idreamonpaper

Puzzle taglist: @winterandwords

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2k23 #calmnowrimo #my writing #excerpt #wip #the most beautiful puzzle #sheraton academy au #meara ryanne

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prettylittlelyres · 10 months

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Ladies Don't Write Music - 15th November 2023 - update

I'm on track for NaNoWriMo because I hit 25,000 words for the month today! I'm so pleased. Attempting NaNoWriMo at all this year was a huge gamble because I haven't written over 25,000 words since February 2023, and even then I only managed just over 37k... but I've written 25k in the last two weeks and a day!

I also finished writing Chapter Twelve today, and brought it in at 5,000 words exactly. That's both immensely satisfying, and a point of pride; it's the fastest I've finished a chapter on this manuscript since I started drafting it at the end of July. The full manuscript is now just over 60,000 words long, and I want to do some more writing before I go to bed.

Below the cut: a celebratory excerpt, my NaNoWriMo 25k badge, and the cover I designed at the start of November, because I'm proud of that, too.

I clapped the right tempo, and counted Fräulein Schneider in.

She began, halting here and there, but, in general, playing very well.

“I’m not sure if you need a teacher,” I said, as she came to the end of the first page, “You sight-read just fine, and your sense of rhythm is strong.”

Fräulein Schneider beamed at me. “Thank you!” she said, “But it’s… it’s the pitch that I struggle with. Did I really…” She looked down at her hands. “Did I really play that correctly? I keep thinking I was pressing the wrong keys, but I don’t like to look at my hands when I’m sight-reading, or I lose my place in the music.”

I shook my head. “There was nothing wrong with the notes you played,” I said, “Considering it was your first time with the piece, actually, it was excellent.”

Louisa raised her eyebrows, and looked from me to the sheet music, and then back again. “That’s… That’s a surprise,” she said, “I’ve always thought I was, well… quite bad at the harpsichord. I practise, but the music never makes any more sense than it does when I start learning a piece. My last two teachers gave up on me, but I keep playing anyway because Papa and Mama said it would be a good way to entertain my husband one day.”

“Doesn’t it sound good to you, at least?” I asked, “I mean, do you like the way it sounds, even if it’s a little confusing?”

She smiled. “Yes, very much… but I worry that it doesn’t sound so good to other people. Full of wrong notes… Who would enjoy hearing a piece they recognise mangled out of shape?”

I tapped the page she had just played. “You certainly didn’t mangle this,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “That’s a relief!” Then her eyes widened as she dropped her hands to her lap. “Goodness me, how embarrassing it would have been if I’d played it badly in front of its composer.”

“Badly, not at all,” I assured her, sitting down next to her at the bench, “A little slowly, perhaps, but…” I played the first few bars as they should have been played. “That’s what it’s meant to sound like. And what you played was close enough. Honestly, Louisa, if you practise for even half an hour every day, I think you’ll have the first page fluent in less than a week. Your hands will learn it, even if your ears don’t.”

I decided a while ago that Johann Schneider's character would be tone-deaf, and would enjoy watching music performed for the movement. He has a younger sister and I thought it would be interesting to explore her having the same difficulties. Johann isn't a musician (yet), but Louisa plays the harpsichord and has a lot of trouble feeling confident in what she's playing because she's never sure she's got the right pitch. Luckily, her proprioception is excellent (as is Johann's, which is why he can dance so well), so she can put her fingers on the right keys without needing to see them. This is what Katharina's trying to help her see here, in this ad-hoc music lesson; she doesn't need to hear what she's playing to be able to play it well.

I'm quite enjoying playing around with parallels between Johann & Louisa Schneider and Katharina & Hans Schmidt. In both pairs of siblings, you have the older, more serious one having trouble meeting people's expectations, in contrast with the younger, more humourous one having very little trouble at all. The pairs also mirror each other in their strengths and weaknesses: Katharina and Hans have audiovisual projective synaesthesia and perfect pitch, so can hear and see the music they're making; Johann and Louisa are literally tone-deaf (Johann completely, Louisa almost completely) and music for them is a much more visual thing than it is for most people. Then there's Katharina, whose coordination is so bad it causes problems, being the opposite of Johann, whose coordination makes him an excellent dancer who then has problems because he finds constant poorly-veiled requests to dance at parties very tiring.

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