#vellichor-virgo

[albatris]

time for the rentalcar cover reveal!

artwork is by the extremely talented @antiquedeuce who did a phenomenal job, I couldn't be happier with the results :3

I'm very excited to share this silly little ginormous book with you all soon! in the meantime there's my website and mailing list so you can stay up to date with what's happening re: renting cars <3

tag list under cut!

@transmasc-wizard @saturn-iidae @polyaubergine @tracle0 @goosemixtapes @valence-positive @the-one-who-makes-negative-noise @ambiguousfiction @afoolandathief @silverwarewolf @mecharose @vellichor-virgo @plasticseaslug @jetstargenderfuckery @multi-lefaiye @writeouswriter @junoshusband @writing-is-a-martial-art @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @sleepycaprine @cream-and-tea @gailynovelry @lefttigerobservation @indecentpause @writingsfromspace @carnivalls @violetfoxsketches @approximately20eggs @mohluskiepedard @desastreus @kk7-rbs @cee-grice @northwyrm @xylophonicsynapse @careful-pyromancer @recapitulation @incandescent-creativity @whole-buncha-snakess @mysticalalleycat @thatonecrowguy @va-nila-bean @televisionjester @excessive-vampires @walkman-cat @davycoquette @trenchcrows

[akindofmagictoo]

DRAGONSONG: draft 2/3 update: 15/03

current word count is hovering around 136.9k I believe.

still mostly doing editing, and it's slow. but i'm adding some new material in places, and these two sections are very fun!

snippet 1, chapter 14: (important context, in case it hasn't come up much: 'Coast Folk' is the term for Isi and Sierra's people)

Though she could not make out any words from the group’s conversation, one voice seemed familiar. She looked a little closer. She knew that knight. Tor John was Coast Folk, though he wore no beads or ribbons in his braids. He and his partner had been the ones to help Sierra off the cliff all those years ago. When Isi had decided she wanted to be a knight, he had taken her with him back to the citadel. Over the years as she trained, she had exchanged only a few words with him, but he had complimented her sword work and told her she would make a good knight one day. She had wanted to be a good knight, a knight like him. Now she was hiding from him. Being a good knight would have meant killing Enya, and who knew what else? Could she have been a good knight and a good person? Or would she have been inevitably forced to choose? Worse, would she have come to choose by inaction? What would Tor John think of her now?

snippet 2, chapter 30: (this bit's unfinished)

Her blade locked against another, and a voice said, “Isi?” She blinked. Once, forever ago, she had wondered what Tor John might think of her now. She was about to find out. He pulled his sword back; she matched the motion, shifting her weight so she didn’t fall, and brought her weapon back to ready. Tor John nodded approval, holding his own ready position. Isi watched and waited. Would he attack? Perhaps he had another weapon concealed in his other hand. She should have been thinking of him as one of her own. Instead, all she could see was his white surcoat, spattered red with blood. Finally, Tor John said, “You were once so excited to become a knight.” “Nothing has changed,” said Isi. Her ready stance was beginning to falter, and inside she felt similarly off-kilter. She recognised Tor John, and yet she hardly knew him. “You are killing your own,” he snapped. “What happened to keeping the peace?” Tears welled in her eyes. She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want peace drenched in someone else’s blood.” “And yet, here you are.” Disappointment flickered in his eyes. It felt like a blow to the chest.

yeah uh... he's drunk the Kool-Aid, as it were.

TAGLIST

@isherwoodj @metanoiamorii @lilmissravingwriter @weekofwednesdays @the-unwrittenwriter

@talesofsorrowandofruin @little-boats-on-a-lake @teriwrites @magicalwriting @magic-is-something-we-create

@writingbyjillian @waysofink @perditism @thehellinsideyourhead @calicowrites

@vellichor-virgo @google-plexed @therecouldbecolorsandlove @the-orangeauthor @ellatholmes

@happyorogeny @ladywithalamp @ashen-crest @authortango @strangerays

@moononherwings @nikkywrites @ambersky0319 @ambsthom @talesfromgringolandia

@wickerring @wizardfromthesea @diphthongsfordays @e-lisard @enchanted-lightning-aes

@emscribblings @teardropsandtherain @lowslore @fablewritten @copper-dragon-in-disguise

@reneesbooks @dirtybarkshark

[cream-and-tea]

LAY ME DOWN. chapter eight excerpt. unedited. featuring: the shaky next step in agnes’s journey to understand her powers. mentions of death. mentions of violence. ghosts. the not-great aftereffects of dealing with ghosts.

[transcript under the cut]

since the last major bit of writing from lmd i shared had pallas doing magic i figured it was only fair to show off agnes’s spooky ghost bullshit in this one!

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-). @vellichor-virgo @transmasc-wizard​ @houndmouthed @muddshadow @just-wublrful @corkywantstowrite @shrunkupthejams @andromedaexists @caninemotiff @lungs-and-gills @vampiresdrinkfruitjuice @phantomnations @onomatopiya @deer-in-headlights-stare @redbloodprose @definitelynotclayface @carnivalls @atthenian @dallonwrites

When they were younger and inquired after what it felt like to call a ghost, Fiver had told them to imagine trying to eat something in a dream only to have it start eating you back. Not in a violent way though, he elaborated, as if there was any such thing as magic devoid of violence. Calliope said it was like dunking yourself in fucking ice water, and then proceeded to empty her cup of cold lemonade over their head as a demonstration (they had cracked her tooth for that one, fingers shoved down throat to make him choke). Call it learned bias but they do not trust either of the two to have provided a factual account of the experience.

They’ve watched Agnes attempt this so many times. They know how it will go, best for beat. She will stand there for far too long. Perhaps there will be a faint shimmer in the air before her. Then she will drop her hand and stumble backwards like she’s been shocked and look at them all cringing and apologetic like she’s waiting for them to please help please tell me what I did wrong. And they will (or at least they will try to as best they can because this is not their area of expertise and the Director knew that she had to have known that when she asked this of them), and she will nod and apologize and trust their words and promise to do better next time. And they will both move on to more productive things and pretend the issue is being properly addressed. At this point it’s routine.

So when the space just in front of Agnes begins to warp itself slightly, a waver like one observed on a hot summer day distorting the blackberry bushes beyond it, they do not register it as anything of note. And when a visible shiver runs through her body, rustling the green at her feet and lifting the very ends of her hair and puffed cap sleeves of her blouse, they internally brace for the connection to shatter as it has so many times before.

Instead the emptiness her hand clutches begins to leak, to bleed, to congeal and resolve itself into an unmistakable something. Not so much the form of a human being but the absence of where a human being should be. A palness like fog spreading from the point of contact forming pressed palm and grasping fingers and arm and shoulder spindling into torso and neck until a blank, yawning, hole fills the approximate shape of a man standing in front of a girl in grotesque parody of a handshake, it’s outline futzing tenuously in and out of existence.

“Hello,” Agnes says, and her breath fogs in front of her face, even though the greenhouse is as artificially temperate as ever, even though Pallas’s shirt is currently glued to their back with sweat. What comes after is a sound like nails on a chalkboard, an echoing, rustling, scraping sound that fills the air in a spiral out from the now-visible ghost and washes over Pallas in the first blast of cold air when opening a window in winter that they realize is rendering into a spattering whisper of hello hello hello hello. The dead thing responding to Agnes, or maybe merely echoing her, they do not know enough about the specifics to say, they only know that this is something beyond dragged into the here and now where it should not be, so the way their nails bite into their palms upon hearing it is an entirely reasonable reaction.

Pallas has seen ghosts called by the skilled and unskilled, spoken to them and been spoken to, their experience with their powers equal and opposite has been about as through as it can be, but they’ve still never been able to shake the notion that there is a particular perversion in it. Vita at least deals in the tangible, the real, no matter how much it may warp those things the life they hold in their hands is always at least possible to hold. Perhaps Mortem is just as present to those born with it, just as natural, but Pallas has known enough of the things roaming the Haithwood outside to ever fully set their fear aside. In a world currently occupied by dying the act of brushing so closely with that death should be viewed with the utmost caution and the urge to grab Agnes by her shoulders and drag her back from what she has manifested is a natural byproduct of that caution.

Because they are aware of all of this they are also aware of how what she has done is incorrect, or at least incomplete. There should be features solidifying now, more words audible besides that rasping hello, but Morgan Chase is still as unformed as dough, a shadowless blotch sapping colour from cheeks and air from lungs and green from plant life. Agnes’s hair has fully lifted into a halo of dark, twisting waves around her head, her eyes glazed over almost completely. But still nothing more materialises beyond the unthing emptying itself in front of her.

Just as they’re about to intercede Agnes takes three wobbling, rapid, steps backwards and topples to the ground, the ghost saticing away into invisibility once again, though as Pallas moves they are uncomfortably aware of the fact that invisible is nowhere near gone. All that has happened is that it has been removed once again from their sight and whispered back into that state of being only Gravespeakers can perceive. But the dead man is still here, perhaps watching them right now, and the knowledge of that is a thorn pricking itself into the bottom of their foot.

Pallas forces their lungs to suck in air, then expel it, then they hurry to stand by Agnes. For a second she just lies on her back, limp as a dead animal in a way that will not fit into their mind, before sitting up with a great gasp of air. Pallas can see the grass she was just standing on has browned and withered and gone dead, and that she is shaking uncontrollably. Gooseflesh prickles her skin and her teeth chatter through bloodless lips as she raises her arms up to curl around herself. Pallas’s first thought is she’s going to bite through her tongue if she keeps on like that and their second thought is I can’t believe she actually did it.

[ozimagines]

hello again!, i love what you did with my theatrical hot take, now i really am gonna request something (lets push some creative boundries for the giggles and funsies why not)

Id love the idea that the reader (im female and from the south) is the new fileholder/book keeper for the EM city ward, and who also happens to be an actual witch (think stevie nicks, practical magic) and she keeps a low profile until chucky and miguel catch her doing something witchy (levetating, casting fireballs, etc), and after figuring out how much of an upper hand it would be to have, it becomes a rediculous competition between the latinos and the italians to "schmooze the witch" and have her work for their gangs (probably would be set in the first/second seasons)

as i said, its weird, its out there, but its funny and its fanfiction, we can do whatever we want in this rhealm, thanks if you can make this hilarious oddness come to life

Oh I absolutely love this one! I’m pagan irl and am into Stregheria, or Italian-American magick. It’s an interesting history and one I’d love to get into on here. I’m gonna set it in season 2 but most of the season 1 characters are still alive. That way we get the characters we love mixed in. It’s gonna be very much out there and a little zanier than my regular fics but this could be funnnnnn…

Witch!Reader x Oz Guys

Wonderful Witch of Oz (1/?)

You’d just started as the librarian’s assistant at the Oswald State Correctional Facility.

It felt like a lifetime and two minutes all rolled into one.

The Oz guys seemed to like your presence enough, even if they were lewd about showing how.

One that jumps out at you was Poet, making rhymes about how he’d ‘like to see you moan and grunt and let a brotha paint the inside of your…’ you get the picture.

That wangler kid wasn’t any better, seeming to talk a bigger game than he could offer.

You shook your head. Kid was a Virgo Venus if you’d ever met one.

You didn’t mention that in your interview. That you could basically read people’s star charts just by their actions. You had an idea of what Rising Capricorn Tim McManus would think about that.

You also didn’t mention that you had more spices in your cabinet than actual food, and made yourself elixirs depending on what you needed for the day. Didn’t mention the black mallow tea that started your day.

You didn’t mention that you collect rocks and crystals and shells like a magpie hoarding some imagined wealth. Didn’t mention the aegirine pendant on your neck was to clear uncertainty from your path, nor that the abalone shell in your pocket was for tranquility.

You didn’t mention the tarot cards in your jacket that you checked before you entered that was immediately flipped to the Hierophant. Didn’t mention the black and white feather you found on the way in signifying change. Didn’t mention the angel number you’d seen before you entered, 444, the protector.

Okay so there was a lot you didn’t mention in your interview.

What you did say was the truth; you were happy to be there, and to be of any help you could be.

You were hired as the librarian, which you were happy enough to get, the vellichor alone being enough to satiate you.

You had some immediate regulars, like a quiet and pensive Bob Rebadow, or a blunt Augustus Hill.

You’re nice enough to any of them, not acknowledging any of the trinkets in your pockets meant to guide you through these strange halls of Oz.

Wizard of Oz, it made you laugh a little.

The most you had alluded to it came with Adebisi, who had come strutting through the door like he owned the place, smiling and making suggestive gestures at you. Saying something in Yoruba;

“Mo dupe lowo Egungun-Oya fun o loni, bẹẹni?” (I better thank Egungun-Oya for you today, yeah?)

Egungun-Oya is a Yoruba Goddess of Fate

You reply back, without thinking;

“O yoo ṣe daradara lati dupẹ lọwọ rẹ lojoojumọ.” (You would do well to thank her every day.)

His eyes go big and he stares at you like he’s seen some sort of ghost, walking away from you with wary expressions.

It made you go red. You weren’t supposed to understand Yoruba or the Orishas. You kept your head down for the rest of the morning.

You’d seen Peter Schibetta and Chucky Pancamo talking to the side in rapid Sicilian.

“Chi diavulu è stu novu bibbliotecariu?” (Who the hell is this new librarian?)

“Sugnu Y/N. Piaciri di canuscìriti.” (I’m Y/N, pleasure to meet you.)

Again, you weren’t meant to understand, but the Italians reacted a little better.

“Eyyy, you’re a paisan?”

“Not exactly, no.” You give them a couple of book recommendations, handing Peter a copy of Omertà by Mario Puzo, leaving them both confused.

You meet Cyril, a sweet soul with a glowing aura. He compliments your ‘rock necklace’ and you smile and thank him, pulling a piece of citrine out of your pocket and handing it to him.

“Oh… thank you.” He turns the stone over and over in his hand, smiling at it like a little secret you shared.

“It’s to bring light and joy into your life, Cyril. Remember to thank Demeter when you carry it.”

“Ok…” he looks up at the sky. “Thank you Demeter.”

It makes you giggle.

Miguel Alvarez and Chico Guerra also came in, to “Mira qué bombón” (check out the hottie)

You smirk and decide to freak them out as you had everyone else;

“Gracias cariños…” (thanks sweethearts…)

Miguel immediately got suspicious whereas Chico makes some goofy grin and comes up to you, gesturing at his crotch. The CO shuts it down before it can get too interesting.

When the end of the day came, you started to put things back where they belonged. The CO usually standing guard had long left, most of the prisoners being locked in their cells at this point. You relax a little, taking off your jacket and sifting through the pockets, reaching for your hag stone. You don’t expect to see much from the library, maybe a few auras or spooks, but as you look through, you see a man standing before you. A tall black man. You look without the stone and see nothing. You put it back up to your eye and see the man still.

“Hello. Who might you be?” You ask, eye still to the stone.

“You can see me?” The man asked, touching his body like he had not been of this world in some time.

“With my hag stone, sure. It shows me the spirit world. You used to live here, right?”

“My name’s Jefferson Keane. I was executed here last year.”

“Oh goodness, Jefferson Keane, it is you. I saw you on the news. I’m sorry they put you to death.” You comfort, still peering through the hole in your hag stone. “I don’t know if this is too personal, but do you know what kind of a spirit you are?”

“I’m a personification of Azrael.”

“An Angel of Death, huh? Fascinating. You don’t mind my asking some questions, do you? I’ve only ever happened upon Shinigami and Anubis personifications before. You were Muslim, yes?” You try not to come off too excited given the circumstances of his being there but you couldn’t help the wonder in your eyes.

“When I was reborn, yes. In the before life, no.” He spoke like some old poetry book you’d read in school. “Now, I do have some questions for you.”

“Ok, shoot.”

“Can you take a message to Kareem Said for me?”

“I could but I’m afraid they’d come off as insane ramblings. What kind of message did you have in mind?” You ask, being very patient. You’d learned not to rush the Angels of Death. They could get a little moody.

“Allah says to remember Ihsan, and when the ways torrential, use it for cover.”

“Ihsan… that means ‘to do good’ right? ‘Live by excellence’? I remember because its secondary meaning is ‘to create beauty’. I think that’s lovely; that doing good and creating beauty are in the same word.” You put your hand out to take his, and he shakes it, tenderly.

“I’ll be seeing you again?” You ask the air around you, and he smiles.

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you for all you do. Guiding souls. It can’t be easy, but we appreciate you.”

“Thank you. Truly.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Keane!” You take the stone down, and turn back into your work, knowing the Angel of Death would be watching over you as you did so.

Unbeknownst to you, there was a presence in the doorway, watching you. It was Peter, watching with a quiet gasp at the realization of what you were doing.

His mother in law had been La Strega; the witch of the neighborhood. He knew about those that cavorted with the spirits beyond.

You could just he crazy, he repeated to himself. But then how had you known to talk to Jefferson Keane? It puzzled him, and his father had taught him better than to show all his cards before he knew what to do with the hand. He slunk away on the back wall, trying not to alert you that he was there.

You showed up the next day, ready for the hours to come. You still had to figure out how to give Kareem Said the message without seeming like a crazy person. Fuck, if Glynn knew half of the things you did or believed then you’d be locked up right alongside these men for insanity.

Cyril came bounding up to you the next day. Ryan wasn’t far behind, eying you with a little suspicion.

“Thank you for the pretty rock.”

“Of course, Cyril.

“Yeah, thanks for giving that to my brother. I got a question though.”

“Okay?”

“Why the fuck did you give that to my brother?”

“It’s a talisman-“

“A what?”

You take a deep breath.

“A good luck charm. You’re Irish, you get it.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” He threw his hands up and shook his head. “But Cyril doesn’t get too many presents in here, y’know so I just gotta be cautious.”

“Understandable. Would you like me to help Cyril find a book?”

He tells you sure and you go off with Cyril, catching two pairs of eyes as you went. One was Peter Schibetta’s, and you honestly couldn’t have known what he knew about you. The second was Miguel Alvarez, talking judiciously to Chico in the corner, both with books open pretending to read.

“Look, something’s up with this librarian.”

“Sure it’s not ‘something’s up with Miguel about the librarian’,” Chico snorted, before clarifying; “like a boner, man.”

Miguel rubbed his temples.

“Look, just keep an eye on ‘em today, would ya?”

Chico nodded, and Miguel went back to eying you suspiciously. He watched as you got something out of the inner pocket of your jacket. Something fell out. It was a card. At first he thought it was a playing card but only upon further inspection did he see that the card had a tower on it with flames coming off. A single, ominous name headlined it; “The Tower”. It fell so it was reversed to you, and you pick it up quickly and put it back with its family.

A sudden thud of a chair leg against the floor alerted you to Miguel’s wandering eyes. You smile innocently enough, but he doesn’t buy it for a second. You go over to him.

“Jesus, Miguel, you’re looking at me like I’m La ciguapa or something.”

(Dominican folk story about a woman with backwards feet who lure men into the woods.)

“That’s another thing, how the fuck do you know la ciguapa?”

You’re taken a little off guard.

“I like reading, that’s all.”

“And that’s how you learned Spanish?”

“Yea-“

“And Italian and whatever the fuck Adebisi speaks.”

“…Yoruba.”

“I don’t give a shit!” Miguel raised his voice a little and lowered it when it looked like a CO was coming over. “It’s fuckin’ weird.”

“Sorry,” you answer a little dejectedly, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t mean to come off some type of way. I just… I do a lot of cultural reading. Cheaper than a vacation, I guess.”

Miguel suddenly feels like a dick for snapping at you and settles down, his hackles still somewhat raised.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my intelligence. What’re the odds you just happen to know fuckin’ Yoruba of all things? That you carry around crystals and those weird cards in your pocket-“

“You saw that? Which way was it facing towards you?” You ask quickly, realizing your deck may not have been trying to tell you something, but rather, tell him something.

“What do you mean, it was right side up to me-“

You pull Miguel by his arm and guide him more off to the side.

“You’re sure of that? Did anyone else see the card that you know of or just you?”

“I think I was the only one looking, what the fuck-“

“Miguel, please, I’ll explain everything to you later today. Not here but someplace more secluded. In the meantime,” you reached into your other deep pocket and pulled out a small jar, about as big as two thimbles. It had a small black feather, a small piece of obsidian and amethyst, black salt, and cinnamon in it. You hand it to him. “Please keep this on you. It should do the trick.”

“You can’t be-“

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you keep this on you until I can explain.” You look over your shoulder to see if anyone is staring at you. So far, it’s still just Peter Schibetta, eyeing the transaction carefully.

“You serious?”

“As the plague, Miguel. I’ll explain everything to you when we can get a little privacy, but in the meantime just keep this jar on you.”

He assures you that he will and walks away with an uneasy stomach, wondering what on earth you were talking about.

You turn your back to him and go back to your books when you run straight into Peter Schibetta, his cold brown eyes raking you over.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you, Peter-“

Your heart freezes in your chest when you see his hand. With both the pinky and the index finger straightened, he made a fist with the other three, pointing his fingers at the ground. That’s the Italian Mano cornuto, or horned hand, to protect against the malocchio, or the evil eye.

“Peter… what…?”

“Just a little protection.” He’d finally figured out what to do with his cards.

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Tu sì na strega, veru?” (You’re a witch, aren’t you?)

“…why don’t we talk in private today after hours. You can request to see me and I’ll get Glynn to approve it.”

“Oh, he’ll approve it, I’ve got him by the balls.” He leaned into you, making sure not to raise his voice. “You were talking to Keane last night, right? The guy they executed?”

You don’t say anything, not wanting to give him any more ammunition than he already had. He nodded, having gotten what he needed anyway.

“Make the time to see each other later. I’m not gonna rat on you. I just wanna talk. Maybe reach an understanding between us. Capisce?”

“Capisciu.” (I understand.)

Holly hell were things spiraling out of control quickly.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and begin to walk towards it, the flip flopping of your shoes matching the speeding race of your heart. You see a familiar face, but only distantly, as you know you’ve seen him on TV.

“Minister Said!” You exclaim, and he nods at you. You give him a small, panicked smile. “Remind me, I have something to tell you later.”

“Why not right now?” He smiles at you and waits for you to speak. Fuck. You hadn’t quite figured out how to say it yet.

“I was going through the Qur’an and saw a word highlighted in our library’s copy. I was meaning to ask you what it meant, in terms of spiritual meaning, of course.”

He gestured broadly to say, go ahead.

“Ihsan?”

His brows furrow and his face pales. You repeat yourself.

“It meant to do good, but a secondary meaning is to create beauty. Funny. I hadn’t thought about that in some time now.”

“I wonder what the implications of doing good and creating beauty being equated could mean?” You were trying to lead him down the path Jefferson Keane had asked of you. He paused, a slight quiver to his lip, and a profound silence filling the space between you.

“Perhaps you give me a day to reflect on that.”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that.”

You bob your head at him and turn to go to the bathroom.

Ah well. 1/3 ain’t bad.

[dontjudgemeimawriter]

Make me Write tag game

Tagged by @indy-gray

Rules of the game: create a poll of wips you'd like to work on and for every vote, write a sentence on the winning wip.

Tagging everyone the first 50 ppl whose blogs showed up on my tag game list to get most people. No obligation whatsoever to make a poll, only if you want to:

@stuffaboutwriting @sleepy-night-child @puzzleddragon02 @dontcrywrite @deciphered-narrator @ambiguouspuzuma @silvertalonwritblr @dripping-moon @enchanted-lightning-aes @oh-no-another-idea @justsome-di @thats-my-type-writer @vellichor-virgo @diphthongsfordays @afoolandathief @teardropsandtherain @ryorine @athenswrites @papercutsunset @pertinax--loculos @story-of-the-infinite @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @writingbyricochet @wildjuniperjones @emelkae @dxrlingdaydreams @verkja @alannaofroses @eli-writes-sometimes @nopoodles @akindofmagictoo @splashinkling @blind-the-winds @pluttskutt @autumnalwalker @theramwrites @saltysupercomputer @aether-wasteland-s @lexiklecksi @unclevladscorner @mrbexwrites @sleepyowlwrites @harps-for-days @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @dogmomwrites @avrablake @charlesjosephwrites @squarebracket-trick @lightningfiction

[oh-no-another-idea]

Find the word

Thank you for these words, @indecentpause!

Age:

“What’s your mother like?” she said instead. Paris didn’t tug his hand away. “Old,” he said, and his eyes shone. “Always moving. I don’t know how she does it, it exhausts me just to watch her. She’s a seamstress, and her eyesight’s going bad after all those years, and she won’t listen to a thing I say about a doctor. Says as long as she can see the difference between corn flour and wheat, she’ll be just fine.” Velia tried to imagine her—Paris’ edges and angles worn down by experience and time, the way his eyes would crinkle and line with age. A smile that arrived more often.

Dry:

“You think I don’t know what my father would say?” Antonio challenged. “I know, Velia. I know what the whole world would say.” Velia went over to the basin and plugged it up. She poured watcher from a pitcher into it. Trying to keep most of the shirt dry, she dumped the stain into the water. “Well, you never struck me as a person who cared what the world would say.” “Nothing ever felt this big before.”

Love:

Antonio’s shoulders loosened. “Aha, there he is. Welcome back, sunshine.” “Don’t call me that or I’ll dump your body over the side where your stupid tie will get caught in the coupling and drag your corpse till that face of yours is rubbed right off.” Velia sighed and stared heavenward. “You love this face, Lewis.” Lewis opened the door and let Antonio go through first, and then kicked him in the ankles. Velia followed them through to the sound of Antonio’s surprised curse.

Twist:

Velia gave him a wry look. “Our old friend the murderer, Antonio? Yes, you’ll find I remember [them] quite well.” “Mr. Grey knows,” he said quickly. “As soon as we can get him the proof, he’ll have [them] in cuffs.” “What proof?” Velia asked, an apprehensive twist in her stomach. Antonio grinned, wide and reckless. “Why, [them] trying to kill me. Come on!”

No pressure tags for @sarandipitywrites @lyssentome @kaiusvnoir @aohendo @reneesbooks @eccaiia @blind-the-winds @tc-doherty @chauceryfairytales @liv-is @sleepyowlwrites @vellichor-virgo and anyone else who'd like to look for the words vanish, eyebrow, gossip, bruise, and bent <3

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

WIP Anagram Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @primroseprime2019! :D

My word: MAYOR. These are from Houses Full of Deceit:

M: "Most people took it as a joke in very poor taste, probably to promote the amusement park."

A: "A divorce or bigamy case brings the customers in their hundreds."

Y: "Yo-han tried not to think about it, but his mind conjured up the image anyway: headlines screaming DETECTIVE COVERS UP FOR ASSASSIN!"

O: "One rather large problem that geography had seen fit to place in their path, known as the United States of America."

R: "Red stained the opposite window and the seats."

Tagging @ahbyssmal, @vellichor-virgo, @radiowrites, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D New word: EPISODE.

[sleepyowlwrites]

FTWT CCCLXXXIV-VI

yeah that's right. a three in one. that's 'cause this ornamental sword came with an ornamental shield and a ceremonial dagger and I can't break up the set. anyway the tags say they're from @zmwrites @diphthongsfordays and @on-noon

play (swamp, soup, pond, 2018)

My brain is a pond It always has been With lily pads for little frogs To play their games on and in And sometimes things go smoothly And sometimes they fall apart Sometimes my frogs have maybe A little too much fun with my heart The pond is often messy And frogs throw my stuff around But in the end it's still my brain And I prefer it this way: Unbound.

step (don't run with scissors, 2011)

But just as I was coming through the door I tripped There's a step there that I missed And those scissors They jabbed me Skipped my fingers and went for my knee Left an ugly slice in my jeans That's what you get for running with scissors

miss (one breath, 2015)

We said, one day We'd be stars in the sky Holding hands, in space We'd illuminate the night Now that day, it's gone And you left without me I'm lonely, I'm torn I miss having you beside me

scramble (hurried, 2014)

All the cars are useless, all the airplanes walk All the pigeons scramble before they are crushed All the people worry and laugh and sigh All the people know is how to die

dirt (jasper and juniper, 2022)

At the elbow crook of the valley there's a spring with calcite at the base, pink and yellow glittering up through the water to dance in our eyes. We dip our pots in and pull them back covered in ice. When we put down dirt with our long-stride boots as we hike back up to the houses, the ice melts and soaks into our skin.

soul (I feel purple inside, 2012)

I feel like my soul is purple And it would rhyme with orange Then suddenly it was silver Because everything was turning over And over, And over, Again

ocean (stars of the indigo sky, 2013)

You never know just how deep the sky is until you stare and stare and then realize that you can never see through to the end. And midnight isn't blue, but it's not black either. It's indigo, with a depth that sinks down into your eyeballs until the whole world is tinted rich purple-blue. On and in that indigo sea float the stars. The tiny spatters of light spread across the whole of the ocean sky and far up into it, glowing from generations away. Still, they always hear me when I need to talk, offering an empathetic shine.

busy (little laptops, 2011)

Little laptops in the skyscrapers Little laptops on the sidewalks Set on desks or inside bags Of the busy little people They went to the university To make something of their life But now they type on laptops And they all look just the same

hoping (to know your enemy, to know serenity, 2021)

present your weapon, meet me outside if you were hoping for something then put all your dreams aside

fit (you, a spectator, and I, a spectacle, 2020)

somebody painted the house today and I don’t like it. it feels clean and covered up, like it wasn’t fit to be seen before. but I saw it, I saw all of it (all of it, all of it): every crack and every blemish, every detail left behind by someone afraid to let go.

home (the dearest thing, 2016)

Something like arms is holding me close It's warm and it's comfortable, I love it the most The sweater that smell so exactly like you You're my home and my heart, and I love you

caught (my winter song to you, 2011)

I'd like to hear a song from my own mouth I'd like to hear some beautiful sounds I'd like to know that my own words Caught a person on the street who heard

compare (the book of lost lyrics, 2020)

Fend off the cold with angel’s warm glow The twinkle of stars floating like a halo “Stop comparing me to space dust” But you are so beautiful

lose, lesson, light, late. BONUS: lever, likely. a handful of petals of pressure tags for @etjwrites @sleepy-night-child @drippingmoon @vellichor-virgo @monstrouswrites @author-a-holmes OR ANYBODY

[sleepyowlsleeps]

Sleepy sings "Mexico" by The Staves

For @jacquessayshello @vellichor-virgo @antihell @ellatholmes @oh-no-another-idea

[rose-bookblood]

GUYS

I know I've been MIA, but I needed to hop here to show you something. I commissioned a sketch of Andrew and Lily to an amazing artist and. Look. At. Them.

I'M CRYING

THEY'RE SO BEAUTIFUL

The artist is Martina Ponente and you can find her on Instagram at @meridyan_art.

Tagging my BBtS taglist:

@tommie-hildebrandt @stormharbors @chaotic-queer-disaster @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @vellichor-virgo @lividdreamz

[albatris]

hewwo

I deleted the opening of rentalcar from tumblr months ago when all the ai nonsense happened but now it's back again because I'm me. it's fresh and edited! and shorter

here's the new chapter one for your viewing pleasure. enjoy! or don't. don't let me tell you how to live your life I'm not your mum

hi taglist hello - some of you have already read this! I hope you're having a nice day though 😎

@transmasc-wizard @saturn-iidae @polyaubergine @tracle0 @goosemixtapes @valence-positive @the-one-who-makes-negative-noise @ambiguousfiction @afoolandathief @silverwarewolf @mecharose @vellichor-virgo @plasticseaslug @jetstargenderfuckery @multi-lefaiye @writeouswriter @junoshusband @writing-is-a-martial-art @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @sleepycaprine @cream-and-tea @gailynovelry @lefttigerobservation @indecentpause @writingsfromspace @carnivalls @violetfoxsketches @approximately20eggs @mohluskiepedard @desastreus @kk7-rbs @cee-grice @northwyrm @xylophonicsynapse @careful-pyromancer @recapitulation @incandescent-creativity @whole-buncha-snakess @mysticalalleycat @thatonecrowguy @va-nila-bean @televisionjester @excessive-vampires @walkman-cat @davycoquette @xenascribbles

tw for paranoia, anxiety, hallucinations, swearing, general feelings of unease

Nat Finch blinked awake.

He was slumped forward in the driver’s seat of his rental car, his forehead pressed to the steering wheel, his body aching like he hadn’t moved in centuries. His feet were bare. His throat burned. His head throbbed. Curled over his shoulders was the familiar softness of the blanket from his back seat, the one he’d been meaning to give to the Larsons for two weeks now. A deep night breeze leaked through the slightly-open window to his right, the cold gnawing at the dampness that clung to his clothes, to his face and hair. He felt filthy, filmy, disgusting—more so than usual.

A muddle of memories and flickers and voices fought for space in his brain, bumping up against each other and overlapping, threads escaping every time he thought he’d grasped one. He was overcome, for a single surreal moment, by the sense he had just awoken from an exceedingly peculiar dream.

Nat Finch sat up, groaning.

Disturbed by the motion, plastic crinkled in his lap. A collection of granola bars was scattered over him, a few of them having tumbled down onto the seat next to him and the floor below. Like someone had dumped them unceremoniously over his head and just… left him like that.

He recognised the brand, vaguely—something hoity-toity and ridiculous he’d seen at the supermarket, fifteen dollars a goddamn box—but they weren’t something that had any business being anywhere near him. His bank balance barely scraped double digits at the moment.

“Who the fuck…” Nat paused, not sure what question he was even supposed to be asking. “Why the fuck…”

His attention edged upwards, to a scrap of cardboard folded neatly in two and perched atop his dashboard.

DO YOUR BEST! it read in a childlike handwritten scrawl.

Nat squinted harder. “What the fuck.”

He tried to think. His brain, sluggish and laden with fog and aching, refused to provide any context for the mystery shower of nutrition. Or the note.

Or… anything else, for that matter. He didn’t remember falling asleep; he didn’t remember stopping his car. He remembered leaving work, but it had barely been dusk when he’d left work and the trip from Stop ‘N’ Go to his apartment was fifteen minutes, tops.

It was not dusk anymore. The black outside was the pure solitude of the witching hour and the world beyond his window was silent, save for the buzz and pop of a single faulty streetlight a few metres ahead and the chittering gossip of crickets. No people. No cars. No movement.

Nat’s dread climbed. He craned his neck and strained to decipher his whereabouts. The lonely light offered only flimsy, spluttering illumination—some of it splashing into his car, some of it into dry grass and mesh fence lining the side of the road, most of it merely into the rumble of gravel directly beneath it. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea why he was where he was.

The disco ball hanging from his rear-view mirror glittered at him, blinking urgently.

He shoved the granola bars off himself, suddenly feeling contaminated. A strident, pulsating pain forked through every inch of his body at the movement—he gritted his teeth, letting out a hiss and a wince. The blanket went next, ripped from his shoulders and hurled at the opposing window in a multicoloured flurry. It crumpled to the passenger seat and Nat stared at it, prickling all over with the suspicion someone else had placed it on him. Someone else had been here. Watching. Leaning. Looming. Touching. His hand flew to the window winder and wound it, sealing the opening. Sealing himself in and the outside out.

And then he sat still, mind reeling, chest tight. Panic twisting in his stomach. He waited for his brain to kick over, for his memory to rush back, for the moment he shook free the dregs of post-sleep disorientation and went, Oh, that’s right! That’s why I’m here! That’s what’s going on! How could I have forgotten?

A minute passed.

And another.

Frozen.

Rigid.

Nat swallowed, hard. Nothing clicked into place. Nothing clicked and nothing clicked and nothing clicked. Why not? He’d left work and turned left down Rake Street like he always did. He’d done nothing out of the ordinary.

The night outside was alive. With every flicker-out of the streetlight, the dark whined at his window, still trying to reach him. A tapping, a whistling, a whispering in its own made-up language. Nat. Nat. Nat. Something’s wrong. Nathaniel. Something’s wrong. The dark that should not have been there. The dark that should have been dusk.

He'd lost hours. Hours. What the hell had happened to him? The note on his dashboard sat there, smirking. It knew things he didn’t.

Nat fought to breathe in.

Nat fought to breathe out.

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

Five things he could see were that gaudy leopard-print steering wheel cover, the smeared windscreen from too-old wipers, the radio, the hazard switch, his own hands, crusted in cracked, dried mud.

Four things he could feel were the press of the seat under him, the press of his work uniform over him, the sting of the cold on his feet, pain, pain, pain.

Three things he could hear were crickets and streetlights and dark.

Two things he could smell were the dull citrus hum of the vent-clip air freshener and the fact it was doing nothing to hide the fact he hadn’t showered in a while.

One thing he could taste was—

Okay, okay, alright. Okay. That would do it. Nat breathed in. Nat breathed out. Calm. Calm. Calm.

He reached gingerly for the ignition, exhaling in relief when he grasped the key still inside. He had that, at least. He hesitated, perched on an agonising threshold between hopeful anticipation and whatever reality was about to find him.

He turned the key.

Nothing.

He turned again.

Nothing. The car stuttered and clicked uselessly, refusing to start. Relief left him as quickly as it had arrived. Flat battery.

Nat breathed, “Ah, fuck.”

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

He twisted towards the back seat, feeling along the faux leather for his work backpack. He hauled it to himself and rammed an arm inside to seek his phone, shoving through a jumble of familiar shapes—notebook, hoodie, empty soft drink can for recycling, empty soft drink can for recycling, gum, nametag—ah, there it was.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Nat whined, his finger colliding with the power button. “Please, please, please—”

Nothing. Flat battery.

Nat breathed in.

Nat plonked his forehead back down on the steering wheel and released a long, agonised wail.

Simmering anxiety climbed into roiling terror. Terror branched sideways into paranoia. Paranoia bloomed up through his chest and into his throat, where it squeezed tight and threatened to choke him. He’d lost hours. Anything could have happened to him. Anything could have been done to him.

The dark outside mocked and laughed. The disco ball blinked its rhythmic little warnings. He could feel it all, even when he wasn’t looking.

Nathaniel. Something’s wrong. Nathaniel.

“No shit,” he muttered back.

What next?

He lifted his head and flipped the sun visor down to look at himself in the mirror. With no phone screen and no overhead light to guide him, it was hard to get a full picture. He tilted his head, twisted his neck, attempted to catch himself on some jittering streetlight. He snagged a few glimpses—a dribble of blood from a presumably cracked lip here, a smudge of dirt on a cheekbone there. The collar of his shirt looked bloody, too. His hair wasn’t sitting right, tangled black all caked together and hanging in thick clumps. Two trembling hands lifted, the quiver partially from weakness and partially from fear, and Nat gripped at his face. Tugging along those familiar edges and curves and juts, finding them not so familiar. Finding them wrong. Hollow. Caved in. His fingertips wandered down towards his jaw—

—and along the thick, uneven mumbling of stubble that hadn’t been there when he’d left the apartment that morning.

Nat’s heartbeat tripped up. He hadn’t lost hours.

He’d lost days.

Nat breathed in. And in. And in. Not enough. Too fast. His chest heaved. His lungs refused to fill.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t have lost days. He couldn’t have lost days. Jesus Christ, Nat had never been the shining poster child of mental health, but he’d never lost days. He’d been God knew where for God knew how long. He’d been—his feet were bare, his hands and face were streaked with mud, someone had clearly been messing around in his car—he’d been taken. Drugged. Kidnapped. That scribbled note? Do your best? He was being toyed with, probably by some deranged serial killer. And what was with the granola bars? Some kind of clue? A message?

He had to go. Run. Get help. Something close to a whimper climbed up his throat and fell from his lips. His hand crept to the door handle and stopped.

He’d seen horror movies. Not many, but enough. The chase, the hunt, the twisted mind games before the inevitable kill… these were part of the fun. There was probably someone watching him right now, folded into the shadows and out of sight, waiting for him to panic. Waiting for him to make his first mistake and step outside.

Waiting for him to start the game.

He couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t stay.

Could he stay? Could he just wait it out? Someone would find him. Someone would look for him. Someone would look for him, right?

No, no one would look for him. No one would care enough that he was gone.

No, there was no way they’d let him wait this out, whoever they were. They would find some way to lure him out, drive him out, force him into the waiting hands of the night air. Unprotected. Alone. All at once Nat felt a million eyes boring into him, leering from beyond the black, drinking in his every move. He shoved himself lower in his seat, clutching his dead phone to his chest.

Nat fought to breathe in.

Nat fought to breathe out.

He tried a final time to reason with himself.

When he’d worked twelve hour shifts four days straight, he’d started being dogged by the idea that someone had snuck a microscopic tracking device into his takeaway pizza, which he had subsequently consumed. When he’d been behind on rent for the third fortnight in a row, he’d become fixated on the idea that other customers in the supermarket were reading his thoughts and laughing at him. Look at this fucking loser. Grimy hair and track pants. Can’t even afford instant ramen.

Panic and stress tended to climb on top of him bit by bit. Panic and stress tended to twist all kinds of everyday events into all kinds of unnatural, terrifying shapes. It was normal. Even the tiny, audible hints of speech pushing through the dark, giving voice to his anxiety, those were normal under the right circumstances. It was all… no, not normal. It was a pattern. Tomorrow, he’d be fine. Tomorrow, he’d understand he’d never been in any danger.

So even though he was here now, helpless and stranded in the empty night, barefoot and filthy, abandoned by his memories and surrounded by leering scrawled words and fucking rich-people granola bars—he had to take this moment of clarity and hold it tight.

Tomorrow, this would all make sense.

DO YOUR BEST! the dark around him sang.

“Go to hell,” Nat spat.

And with that, he wrenched the door open.

[akindofmagictoo]

DRAGONSONG: draft 2 update: 29/12

previous word count: 127,195

current word count: 128,834 (1639 added)

notes: THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I FINISHED THE DRAFT. I AM AT THE END. !!!!!!!

I started this on the 6th of January, and in accordance with the goal I set myself, it is done within the year!

snippet:

Isi had not become a knight to be a soldier. She had wanted to be the knights who had helped her and Sierra up off the cliffside. She had also wanted to change the world. And she had done that; she and her friends had freed the dragons and unseated the king. Now, it would be enough to return to the small, because it was no less important. Her choice to spare Enya had cost her at the time. It had been just a small bit of good; it had not even seemed that important in the grand scheme of things, but she had clung to it. And it had led her here, to a chance to help a lot of people. At the time, she had questioned if it was even worthwhile, if it would not have been better to silence her conscience and keep the stability of her comfortable life. It had been worth it, because it had led her here. It had not meant nothing. It had sparked change she had not even believed possible. But it would have been worth it anyway, because it had been good. Any small bit of good was worth doing.

So... what's next? Eek. I've gotta do some editing (I have made extensive use of the comment function). And then sometime in the new year, I'll put out a post asking for some beta readers, so stay tuned for that!!

Thanks for reading along 💙

TAGLIST

@isherwoodj @metanoiamorii @lilmissravingwriter @weekofwednesdays @the-unwrittenwriter

@talesofsorrowandofruin @little-boats-on-a-lake @teriwrites @magicalwriting @magic-is-something-we-create

@writingbyjillian @waysofink @perditism @thehellinsideyourhead @calicowrites

@vellichor-virgo @google-plexed @therecouldbecolorsandlove @the-orangeauthor @ellatholmes

@happyorogeny @ladywithalamp @ashen-crest @authortango @strangerays

@moononherwings @nikkywrites @ambersky0319 @ambsthom @talesfromgringolandia

@wickerring @wizardfromthesea @diphthongsfordays @e-lisard @enchanted-lightning-aes

@emscribblings @teardropsandtherain @lowslore @fablewritten @copper-dragon-in-disguise

@reneesbooks @dirtybarkshark

[akindofmagictoo]

@zmwrites @sleepyowlwrites @ashen-crest @isherwoodj @ellatholmes @copper-dragon-in-disguise @diphthongsfordays @vellichor-virgo

A dragon who decides to hoard mint and various types of mint plants (and not knowing that mint has the mushroom’s blessing of inevitability were ever its planted) can go one of two ways.

1: The dragon is absolutely horrified as the mint engulfs and takes over its den. Its gold? Mint. Its gems and goblets? Mint. Its stores of wine? Mint. No matter what they do they can’t get rid of it.

2: The dragon is delightfully ecstatic as the mint engulfs and takes over its den. It’s a self growing hoard. No matter what any adventurers or knights do, they can’t get rid of it.

[dontjudgemeimawriter]

10 Sentences Tag Game

Tagged by @betweenthetimeandsound

Rules: write a sentence with the number of words specified, so for 1-10 you write 10 sentences in total with an increasing word count each time.

These are all from one scene that I wrote recently... and it does kinda? Tell the story of the scene? A little?

“Shopping.”

2. Jasmine yelped.

3. "Are you running?"

4. Which I’d never done.

5. “Are you actually planning this?"

6. But I needed her to stop.

7. I wished she wasn’t such a barrier.

8. I hadn’t meant to let go of her.

9. "Why not just tell Alex he’s a traitor, though?"

10. “I’m offering help here, don’t know why that’s so unwelcome.”

Tagging @story-of-the-infinite @pertinax--loculos @papercutsunset @athenswrites @afoolandathief @diphthongsfordays @vellichor-virgo @oh-no-another-idea @enchanted-lightning-aes @drippingmoon

[oh-no-another-idea]

sentences upon sentences 🎶

Last line tag from June brought to me by the wonderful @reneesbooks -- thanks, friend! <3

Jack laughs, loud and happy. “Guess we’re goin’ to the hardware store, then. Okay, hotshot, grab your keys.”

I'll tag anyone who'd like to share, and also @winterandwords @zmwrites @aziz-reads @eccaiia @serenanymph @ghost-town-story @dogmomwrites and @vellichor-virgo <3

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

"What Hubble Saw on Your OCs' Birthdays" Tag

Thanks for the idea, @primroseprime2019! :D

Rules: use this website to find out what the Hubble Telescope saw on your OCs' birthdays. I'll do this for The Case-files of Seo Yo-han:

Yo-han (born 10 Feb. 1885):

Phil (born 27 May 1893):

Leo (born 8 Dec. 1892):

Vi (born 11 Aug. 1895):

Máté (born 9 Mar. 1889):

Alec (born 19 Sept. 1894):

Davit (born 3 Dec. 1897):

Ji-hun (born 23 Aug. 1882):

Tagging @randomstupidchaos, @theimperiumchronicles, @vellichor-virgo, @garthcelyn, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D