#mini prose

[screamingatmyfandom]

In a large, nearly overflowing cardboard box are Stories people have told, Secrets and Dreams and Fears. Some are apple-scented. Some are furry-edged. Some are flickering embers. Each one contains a soul shared at that moment in time. There are too many for me to keep. At least this way they wont just sit there, piling up and collecting dust like metaphysical jenga blocks.

In return, I want more space to put future Stories. I still like to collect them, even if some of them are a bit too big to carry. A soul picks up a lot of weight, existing and growing and changing. Like a sponge.

I wonder what mine will look like in someone else's box?

“In exchange for your soul, I can offer you - ” “No, I don’t want to sell my soul. I want to sell all these.”

[fatimazainab]

in my nothing to say era

[katiefrog217]

AziraCrow | Book Reading

(Scroll down for mini story vvvv) + (Companion Piece)

Aziraphale liked books, especially the old ones. They were the main reason for owning his bookshop, after all.

He loved reading them, too. Sitting quietly in the back of his bookshop with a good book and the occasional accompaniment of an old record made for quite the delightful evening, in his opinion. Despite his being handless (and therefore, fingerless), Aziraphale was perfectly capable of turning pages on his own. Not with his talons of course; Heaven only knew the trouble that would come from attempting to turn the aging and potentially fragile paper with such unreliable instruments. It would be a simple enough fix if a page did happen to tear, but the memory would haunt him forever. Instead, all it took was a flick of his wing and woosh, the pages would turn themselves. Sometimes he just had to ask nicely. However, there were times that he didn't need to expend the effort.

Those times just so happened to coincide with a particularly serpentine visitor.

Crowley's visits were irregular and not always predictable. Most of the time he would pop in to complain about Who-Knows-What and disappear off to Who-Knows-Where. Sometimes he would stay longer, and they would share a glass of wine or some other alcohol, chatting a lot about nothing and reminiscing about times long passed until the shadows grew long. On rare occasions they would sit in comfortable silence, doing nothing more than enjoying each other's company. Aziraphale would then pick a book to read and Crowley would slither over to join him.

Of course, Crowley didn't like reading - or at least claimed he didn't. 'Not worth his time,' he'd say dismissively. Still, he (bored expression and all) would come, make himself comfortable by coiling around both the book stand and Aziraphale, and just watch. Just about anyone on Earth would likely be uncomfortable being stared down by such an intense gaze, but not Aziraphale. Over the many millennia, he has grown used to being observed by those golden eyes. Dare he say, he even found it comforting in a way, but that was besides the point.

He wasn't sure how it started; perhaps Crowley found himself overly bored that day, but he began turning the book pages whenever Aziraphale raised his wing to compel them instead. It had started him at first, and he had looked to Crowley with much confusion, though the demon had nothing to say in return. He merely shrugged (or at least it could be considered the serpentine equivalent of a shrug) and turned away. A few more pages in, and he'd turn them again. This happened over and over until Aziraphale heaved a sigh gave in, allowing the serpent to do as he wanted. At first, it was quite awkward to give verbal cues, and there were times when he became so engrossed in his reading that he forgot entirely, but eventually they settled into a comfortable rhythm. Nowadays he didn't even bother. It had become almost automatic: Aziraphale would finish the page and it would turn, no questions asked.

Aziraphale suspected it would baffle the minds of many to see a demon treat anything so gently, yet Crowley turned the pages in such a way that they were never bent nor crumpled. In fact, it seemed to him that the older the book was, the gentler Crowley'd be. He seemed... 'content' was the wrong word to describe his attitude towards the activity, but he never said a word otherwise. At least, not to Aziraphale.

He never pointed this out, of course. Crowley would stop doing it if he did, and he didn't WANT him to stop. He enjoyed it too much.

Once in a blue moon, Crowley would make a comment about whatever Aziraphale was reading at the time. It was often snide, mocking, not always audible. Hisses of exasperation or an exaggerated eye roll were not uncommon either. Then he would turn away, bored despondence washing over his face, shutting down any attempts to further the conversation. Not that he would respond if Aziraphale did, though that hadn't stopped him from trying. On one occasion Aziraphale had tried to push the topic, only for Crowley to deflect, insisting that he had only glanced the passage at random. He stopped turning the pages then. Aziraphale never tried again and settled with only giving him sidelong glances when he said something particularly egregious.

And so they would read, the silence broken only by the ticking of an old clock and the occasionally rustle of a page.

...

Aziraphale liked his books.

He liked reading them alone in his bookshop.

But he liked them best when Crowley was there to turn the pages for him.

[sherrylephotography]

Google photos made an animation for me 😸

Mini smacked him right in the nose. Some youngsters need to learn to respect their elders.

Please try to be civil to one and another this holiday.

[fullofreveries]

this has been my favorite word. reverie, as beautiful as it is. a reminder of what could be, so we can rise and turn it into what is.

[peachesatthegraveyard]

It still rains under the umbrella

I wish I could believe in love Like everyone else does I wish I could feel it The way they do

There weren't any butterflies in my stomach just dread

I kept pushing on Hoping eventually some kind of spark would appear

It didn’t work And I left someone caught in my crossfire

I wish I could just be normal I don’t know why I had to be so different

And the worst part Is that I like being this way It enhances my love for everything else in this beautiful world But I know in my heart That no one will ever get it And that’s the thing that actually makes me lonely

Not the absence of romance, The absence of understanding

[bymeraki]

I’m vegan, but I don’t care what other people eat. What really gets under my skin, though, are the people who act like they’re morally superior because they’re vegan. You know, the ones who say things like, “How can you eat that egg? It’s a bird fetus!” And I’m just sitting there like, Wait, no. That’s not it.

If you’re gonna point out how gross eggs are, at least get it right. Unfertilized eggs aren’t bird fetuses—they’re not some baby chicken just chilling inside there waiting to hatch. No, eggs are… well, they’re bird ovulation.

Bird. Ovulation.

I mean, you’re cracking open an ovulation and scrambling it up like it’s no big deal? I don’t know about you, but I can’t look at an egg the same way after that.

So yeah, I’ll stick with my tofu scramble, thanks. You can keep your bird ovulations.

Side note: to anyone looking for a vegan egg subsitute, I recommend JUST Egg. It works well for scrambling, quiches, baking, etc. Works, looks, and tastes (in my opinion, I haven’t had a real egg since I was like 13) like actual eggs.

[aza-trash-can]

I got hit with a bittersweet headcanon or two about Satoru (and Suguru, just let me set the stage for them)

Firstly, I imagine Satoru would be insanely smart when it comes to math and physics. It comes with the territory of his technique being to manipulate space and the concept of infinity. So, I like imagining this translates to having some interest in the universe as a whole and outer space, since he can think about concepts I can only have even a fleeting understanding of when it comes to the nature of the universe

So we have Satoru rambling on and on about these stupidly complex physics concepts to Suguru, who doesn't understand half of the words coming out of his mouth, but he's happy to listen to Satoru ramble about something that manages to actually capture his interest. Something that makes him think. Suguru gets lost in the way Satoru's eyes light up not through the activation of his cursed technique, but through fascination and wonder and excitement over what he's talking about

At some point during one of these rambles, Satoru brings up how everything is made of stardust, or if not stardust, then at least the same stuff that can make a star. Off the cuff says that "that kinda makes everything connected, y'know? Well, everything is kinda connected anyways, but that's a way that more people can actually understand and conceptualise." And, being Satoru, he just rambles on and on after that little tidbit. But Suguru clings to it, holds on to the little facts that he can understand because he loves it when Satoru shares these things, and he loves even more when he can bring it up later and watch Satoru's eyes shimmer like a lake reflecting the sun because he bothered to remember something Satoru likes to talk and think about

And one day, later on, when Satoru goes unusually quiet and his gaze is not quite there, when it's just the two of them and he dares to let Suguru peek past the facade of 'the strongest' (one of two, it's still the two of them that make up that whole), when he says "I don't think I'm human," Suguru says

"You're still made of stardust too." And when Satoru doesn't respond right away, he continues. "Even if you think you're not human, you're made of stardust, like everyone, everything, else. You're still connected to everyone."

Nothing more is said when Satoru fights back tears, hidden as they are behind his glasses. No comment is made when he leans against Suguru slowly. They sit in silence as Satoru falls apart and pulls himself back together without so much as a whisper

Afterwards, maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, maybe in an entirely new conversation, Suguru floats the idea that they were made from the same star. The iron in their veins still holding the energy of the same supernova, two souls from one bright, shining light, forever connected more intimately to each other than to anything else in the universe. Satoru can't think of a more perfect theory

[x-en-jpeg]

little drawing, little words; done by me.

[fatimazainab]

might start responding to stress by hissing like a feral cat.

[dragoliathgrey]

Brain dumb. Deal with it.

Message I wrote, sent, deleted.

I know you haven't got your phone anymore. Which is kinda the reason I'm writing this. I like the idea of this arriving technically but never getting to you. I guess. But I just wanted to say that this is ruining me. It's messing everything up and I hate it. Well I don't of course. I love it, you. Or what ever. I still do. Us. You, you you fucker. I love you. And I want you back in a very primal way and there were countless moments today where I just wanted to kiss you and hug you and touch you and feel you for I need to feel you. It's stupid so stupid. And you're kinda happy and no one can fix you but that's not true it's just that I can't. I can't fucking fix you make you better but I want to because you deserve it and because I want you. Kiss you. Fuck you or you fuck me or what ever hell I'll blow you if you want. I'll join you both and it'll be the three of us if only I get to kiss you again. I cry when I realize you're not mine anymore. I cry when I realize I messed it all up and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck take me back. Why can't you take me back. Because you love her and you two are perfect together but fuck it we once were too. God please. Fucking hell I'll make everything right I'll do everything in my power to do it right this time just one more chance once more. It'll be good I'll be good. There is promises somewhere but I don't dare talk about them. Just kiss me once more. Hold me laugh at me in that special way I'm an egomaniac but I revel in your attention so give it all to me so I can drown fucking hell fuck you.

[rustbeltjessie]

Reckless Chants #28.09: some summers. July’s mini-zine is now done, and as of today all the copies for my subscribers are packaged up and ready to be sent out. This one’s a prose poem/vignette about some different types of summers I’ve experienced. Of course, in reality, some of these summers overlapped, because I’m not a hundred years old. Yet they all felt so distinct that I had to write about them separately; it’s like every summer of my life has contained several smaller summers inside of it.

[gchatus]

Bruse Tarl

Bruse Tarl was a rancher. He'd cut his teeth in Zendikar but now lived in Thunder Junction, as he had for some time.

Time worked different in Thunder. From the moment you arrived the time you'd been there flowed backward and forward. Being there a day felt like two days -- the day you arrived, and the day before it. After a month you could remember the month you'd been there, and you still knew to the day (if you kept track) when you'd arrived, but you also remembered being there a month earlier (or a month longer, depending), even as also you remembered where you'd been before.

This meant that you could build yourself a new ranch and in a year it would look two years old. Point of fact, it might look older. Time was funny that way. The portion of time that stretched behind you in Thunder Junction somehow seemed to reach longer than the time you were living, like shadows at dusk. A ranch you'd built a year ago might look two years old, or five years, or ten years, and the oldness it might look could change with the weather and the light.

And that was if you kept good track of things. Which Bruse Tarl didn't bother with. He'd arrived in Thunder Junction and noticed the funny things with time there after just a few days, said "huh" and went back to building his ranch from the ground up. Once it was built he began to populate it with oxen he found in the hills. He was a rancher and that's how it worked.

[bymeraki]

I want a boyfriend or girlfriend in the way a small child wants a puppy. But, like that child, I’m also not ready for the responsibility. Leaving my house is an extreme sport for me—I don’t have the mental bandwidth to take someone on a date. I can’t even keep a conversation going, let alone start and maintain an entire relationship.

[brittanyjewelmiller]

“I think I’m getting more confident in my writing. Which is incredible! I’m very pleased to announce it!”

“Normally, I struggle a lot with putting actions into words when I write stories. I had to do a lot with actions in the last mini-tale I wrote.”

“But, I just kept trying my best and in the end it turned out better than I expected. I’m still not as skilled as Jeanette, but I am getting there!”

“I like that my writing has a unique “voice” of sorts. It’s fun to go back and read it. When I have time, obviously. I’m a busy girl.”

[alostcreative]

I told my mother, just before the year started,

"I think I'll keep a journal, I'll write something everyday"

"That's great, but beta, everything you write is so sad. Try writing something positive too." She replied

And it hit me then - one, that she'd read my old diary. But more importantly, that maybe I've been sad for too long.

I couldn't tell her then, that the melancholy of my writing is a reflection of a part of me that I cannot show. The words that do not leave me as unshed tears clog my throat. The screams that do not make it out as I choke on the petals of my rage, fallen from the flowers of anger whose seeds were sown in me as a mere child.

I couldn't tell her then, mumma, if only you'd all understand the misery I carry, I wouldn't have to write it down. I wouldn't have to hide it within these pages. Maybe, just maybe, if I could tell you how these thorns have torn me apart from the inside, it would hurt lesser. Maybe it would heal faster.

But I smiled, an imitation of the one that I used to have when I was younger, and told her -

"Haan, we'll see"