#napowrimo23

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Daydream

i.

…there’s your pet project, Death says.

What, Hob Gadling? Dream feels a flood of affection. It’s such a human thing, affection. Warm. Bright.

Had he ever felt such things before he began meeting with Hob?

He loves you, you know.

The words are soft as the fluttering of his sister’s wings. She doesn’t say anything more, but there’s no need. She’s always known how to wheedle her way inside his head.

ii.

Hob is light, and life. A beacon of hope.

Hob is his friend.

Dream feels another human emotion: shame. He should have come sooner. He shouldn’t have lashed out in the first place. It is unforgivable. Yet here is Hob Gadling, smiling bright as ever.

Still

I am—

Don’t apologize, Hob says. Soft. Kind. You would have come.

Yes. Dream doesn’t take his eyes from Hob’s, getting lost in the deep brown intensity. Yes. I was… detained.

Hob laughs, and something inside Dream loosens. That must be a hell of a story.

Dream flinches— only on the inside, where Hob cannot see, but it is there nonetheless— at the mention of hell, however innocuous.

Yes, he says again. Then, I… would like to tell you.

Astonishment in Hob’s eyes. He grins.

Breaking  all the rules  today, I guess.  First meeting  on the wrong day,  then you doing the talking.  It’s brilliant.  Shall we go for three  and have a drink  together?

Dream considers, thinking of his sister’s advice. Let us break another instead. Walk with me, Hob Gadling? I’ve been reminded today of the importance of connecting with the earth, and I would like to do that with you. He does not add how he would like to see his friend— his friend, still so odd to think it— in the sunlight.

iii.

They begin in silence— comfortable rather than awkward. Their arms occasionally touch as they move, and Dream is surprised that he not only notices every touch, but looks forward to the next one.

I don’t know where to begin, he says, finally.

Then, before Hob can interject— Oh. I am called Dream.

****

NaPoWriMo day 29.1 - dream/hob gadling and sunlight for @wanderingcas

[meaningfall]

———

C. A. Singh • Girl Crush

4-2-23

[awyldepoetry]

grenades in my garden

I’m knocking over glasses of wine again kicking the corner of the bed on my way in to sleep sleeping troubled instead of deep I’m locking myself out again, locked inside my wreck I feel it coming on and I can’t make it feel any less

The temptation is to move, to do, to act but I’m learning not to bury live grenades in my garden not to stir up chaos, not to harden not to run from what is mine not to carry what is not I feel it coming on and I’m just glad I can still feel

-

A. Wylde

April 22nd, 2023 NaPoWriMo 20/30

[asthadwivedi]

[momawrites]

Day 3

Haunted homes become haunted houses eventually

There is a distinct creak on the stairs

Third from the bottom

That makes this comical groan, straight from a horror movie

We would hear that noise at night and know we’d been too loud

Caught

A quick reminder to keep the noise down, and another groan

Do you remember it?

I’ve seemed to become the final girl

Everyone else has been written off or is gone

Doomed by the narrative

Lone survivor

Haunting my throwbacks and this year today’s

You aren’t gone but you’ve disappeared all the same

I remember the wind chimes in your living room

And how they would get brushed on occasion

In the middle of the night

Grandma, you’d say

Now the only ghost is you

[internetofwords]

The Dead's Arbiter

I might be taking my first (proper) year of #NaPoWriMo a bit too seriously...

... we will see :D

Gonna make this one post for ALL the links, so you can read them as a whole. If there's a better way to do this, I'm all ears :D

Day 1, LETS GO.

Day 2: EXPOSITION.

DAY 3... and a bit more...

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Can't Help But Hold On (To You)

Between Shakespeare and Shelley, between Tolkien and Twain, Aziraphale saves memories like flowers— pressed and preserved between pages only he can peruse. There’s a flash of a ridiculous haircut, the taste of crepes and the hint of a smile. A tiny glimpse of golden eyes hidden from the world but gifted, again and again, to the angel.

Crowley tucks Aziraphale into his pockets. With bits of white feather or a tartan handkerchief he holds on— to Aziraphale’s bad coin tricks, his warm smile, the way he laughs, his never-changing wardrobe. But as time passes the memories fade, old photographs left out in the sun, and Crowley again yearns— for the friendship he does not understand, for the touch he cannot have.

****

NaPoWriMo Day 3 - aziraphale/crowley and memories in our pockets for @vexbatch

[meaningfall]

———

C. A. Singh • Psych Ward Girls, Big Eyes, & Baby Shampoo

4-1-23

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Lambert's Lament

He doesn’t mean to be an ass.

Or rather, he does mean to be an ass— it’s much less complicated than being nice all the time— but he never wants to actually hurt anyone. (Except for the occasional alderman. Or noble. Or mage. Or…well. There are exceptions to anything.)

But the whole hedgehog persona is making things with Aiden… difficult.

Not that Aiden seems to mind his prickles. He grins cheerfully at Lambert, claps him on the shoulder, offers him a hand up, wipes monster viscera off his face. (Lambert fervently wishes they could do this without ending sprawled in the dirt or with monster guts on his face. But wishes are not horses, so he’ll have to make do.) But when Lambert tries to say something nice, or even softens his tone, Aiden asks if something is wrong.

And trying to flirt had been a fucking disaster.

Still...

Lambert knows he isn’t imagining things: Aiden likes him, too. He once brought Lambert a new shirt (it’s not the right color for me, Lamb, but it’s perfect with your hair) and he’d special-made Lambert a batch of potions (you said you like the taste of mine better). If he can just figure out how to say something…

Then again, maybe talking isn’t the answer.

Maybe he should say it with a kiss.

****

NaPoWriMo day 15 - Aiden/Lambert and kiss for @pherryt (happy birthday!!! 💜)

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Sweeter than Honey

He can’t remember how to breathe.

A small (possibly angelic) voice whispers in the back of Crowley’s mind that he doesn’t actually need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He’s always breathed anyway, going back to his very first temptation, and right now he can’t remember how to make his lungs expand to bring in oxygen— even if he doesn’t need it.

Crowley?

He can’t answer, doesn’t have any air to form the words.

Agitated now. Crowley, we don’t have to do anything. Of course we don’t have to do anything. I’d never want to make you uncomfortable. I just thought you should know. Why don’t we just go for tea ins—mmm!

Halfway through Aziraphale’s little speech Crowley inhales a panicked breath, nearly chokes on the flood of oxygen, then kisses the angel before he can suggest they should “just be friends.”

Nothing has ever tasted so sweet as Aziraphale’s mouth. Just to be certain, he spends a long time tasting.

Oh my, Aziraphale says. He sounds out of breath. Oh. Oh my.

We can go for tea now, Angel. If you’d like. If he sounds a little smug... well, he is a demon.

Aziraphale climbs onto Crowley’s lap.

****

NaPoWriMo Day 17.2 - crowley/aziraphale and sitting in the dark/trying to breathe (lifted from Destroyer by Saint Motel) for @vexbatch

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Foreplay

Aiden went on alert at the approaching hoofbeats but relaxed when the breeze sent the scent of familiar comfort lover his way.

Missed you, he said to the darkness outside his warm circle of fire glow.

Lambert’s answering snort was all he needed. The Wolf cared for his horse then draped himself over Aiden, nuzzling his neck, breathing him in.

You’re more like a Cat every time I see you.

Lambert growled but Aiden laughed, scratched at Lambert’s scalp. His Wolf went boneless, began to purr.

Cat, Aiden teased.

Too tired to fight, Lambert mumbled. But I’ll kick your ass in the morning.

I look forward to it.

And he did. Sparring with Lambert was always good foreplay.

****

NaPoWriMo day 10: Aiden/Lambert and purring for @pherryt

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Our Own Side (It's Better This Way)

Aziraphale thinks it should be quiet, the day after— the world holding its breath, waiting for trouble to begin anew.

But for everyone else it’s an ordinary day, the scuttling humans blissfully unaware of the apocalypse that wasn’t.

Can we do it again? If needs must?

Easy as anything, Crowley crows. Easy as water off a… He flaps a hand. Oh you know what I mean.

Had to give back the sword… Aziraphale worries his bottom lip. Come off it now, it was never the sword! It was you! You and me, us against them, Angel.

Aziraphale fills with fire.

****

NaPoWriMo Day 5: aziraphale/crowley and our own side for @vexbatch

[awyldepoetry]

Excited to announce that I was so taken with the poems I wrote for National Poetry Writing Month this April, that I decided to turn them into a chapbook! Despite having written poems since the age of 9, this is the FIRST chapbook I have ever released.

This limited run of physical copies will include only 50 chapbooks, each one printed and folded with love by me, and each chapbook is numbered and signed.

www.awylde.com/store to purchase www.awylde.com/free-downloads to download & print free

Cover art by the incomparable Ashe Walker <3

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

The Grace in Your Eyes

“Stand and face me, my love, and scatter the grace in your eyes.” ― Sappho

i.

Oh! Aziraphale looks about, suspicious.

I’m not here on a temptation, Angel, Crowley says, scoffing. It’s my night off.

Oh! Aziraphale says again, a bit flustered. Mine too.

They both look at an empty bit of grass, then awkwardly away.

Aziraphale, too bright. Shall we then? He spreads the cloth that wasn’t in his hands a moment before, gesturing for Crowley to sit.

Hrk, Crowley says.

Even in the darkening twilight Aziraphale can see the blush on Crowley’s cheeks.

ii.

I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing, Aziraphale says after they’re settled. There’s space between them, but he can still feel Crowley’s coolness. He imagines he can feel the brush of fallen wings and though the night is warm, he shivers.

Just because I don’t squirrel away  every bit of the written word I find  doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate poetry,  Angel.

Aziraphale wants to argue, but the music starts.

iii.

These Greeks, they know how to entertain, Crowley says after a time.

Her words, Crowley. Her words! Aziraphale has stars in his eyes. No wonder they call her The Tenth Muse! Oh, I could stay here all night.

Me too, Crowley says softly. He’s no longer watching the poet. He’s only got eyes for his angel.

****

NaPoWriMo day 29.2 - aziraphale/crowley and listening to sappho on a starry summer night for @onthedriftinthetardis

[awyldepoetry]

A good kid always sits still

A good kid always takes it laying down, or on the chin thick skin A good kid always knows when to be silent A good kid always sits still, perfectly still through the violence

A good kid never speaks ill of anyone, or asks for help or lets on A good kid never spills the secrets they keep A good kid never makes a problem, stokes the beast never makes a peep

A good kid grows up into a fractured husk, a nervous wreck, or worse; finds that anger gives them power nothing else could and teaches one so soft, small and innocent, that they better be good

-

A. Wylde

April 29th, 2023 NaPoWriMo 28/30

[awyldepoetry]

tomorrows

It’s one of those morbid days where just the wind blowing is too much and I’d have my palms pressed to my ears, clutching for something softer The first set of ear plugs I ever got were a gift one of those moments you realize you never knew what it was like to be seen and I was so confused No idea what I needed until I was told that when something hurts, it is okay to repose

I know about relief now, and days when the wind disturbs me, I press gauze into my ears and cocoon myself in a soft blanket and I graze only on what my body cries for and I raise only for the things for which I thirst and  I don’t answer the phone merciless, wearisome obligations be gone I don’t event think about answering the phone

My little tool belt has broadened and while the rain ricochets off the too-tin gutters and the winds rustles all the too-dry leaves, and my too-cold hands are too-tired to write I simply lump up under my covers and I cease to exist (like I always dreamed) and I put my phone on silent and I release the contempt I have long held for my limitations and I suspend, adjourn, intermit and I let the rest live in tomorrows

-

A. Wylde

April 19th, 2023 NaPoWriMo 17/30