#writebler

[evenlis]

I could say that we were blind to the end, like all young lovers are... but that was never the case. I think we always knew, despite hope filled promises of forever. That's probably why your line is silent. Is this your version of a dignified ending?

- Evenlis. A Thousand Letters I Didn't Send You

[oceansubconscious]

A rhyming story about Vergil and a fortune teller. 721 words, gen.

Vergil, sixteen years old.

I went to the fortune teller to have my future told. Thought maybe if I knew what's in store, I wouldn't feel like a brewing storm. She told me she wouldn't tell me my future before I made peace with my past. And I wanted to curse her ancestors to ten generations back.

I left her tent in a huff with a tornado spinning in my lungs. "What a beguiling witch," I cursed under my breath, and wrath was the only way I could catch my breath.

But I did sit in the street and think. I imagined a future that reflected the past: families lost, my mistakes permanent. The loneliness was a living, beating thing and it sat on my chest. Even my shadow had left.

I went to the fortune teller the next day. I asked her the same thing, even if I hated repeating myself.

She said, "I won't tell you your future before you make peace with your past." And she said it with an air of someone that knew I would keep coming back—but never going back.

I seethed so I could breathe. "Listen, lady. Don't you want to be paid? Take my money and read my palm, damn it."

She told me to get out.

I left her tent in a huff with a tornado spinning in my lungs. I hated repeating myself, but I did sit in the street and think. I replayed the past in my head, but only the moments I couldn't stomach, a film reel of tailored horrors. I said to myself this is the price of naïve living. Dead parents and childhoods ashen.

And I had to learn and I had to know what the future holds, so I wouldn't live a naïve living.

I went to the fortune teller the next day, but she was gone. She had traveled on. I sat in the empty earth where her tent used to sit, and I thought. How come she could travel on, and I had to stay in the past?

I stared at my calloused palms. At the fissures and creases carved with a sword's hilt. I tried to read them, but only remembered when they were softer, shallower, unable to grip a sword. I clenched my hands into fists.

I left.

A storm came. Angry, so angry with me. It bellowed. It burned. It was me, ripping apart my soul. A monster in my home—real and terrible. I crawled away from it, naked like an animal.

V, one day old.

I went to the fortune teller a different man. It was chance I found her. And I only went in for old time's sake. When I opened the tassels of her tent, she was sitting with two cups of tea–mint green, it hit my nose. My favorite kind. Maybe she was rubbing off on me, but I knew before she spoke that she would say, "Welcome. Sit."

And so I did sit. And I didn't think. I stopped doing that around the time I tore my soul.

"Are you prepared to have your future told?" She said.

The storm had blown over. I was an upheaved scarecrow. Mangled and laying in a world rich with crops and warm earth, and I was hungry and cold like a dead hearth.

"No," I said. I was not prepared, I was in pieces from finding peace.

"One often isn't ready when the future becomes our present."

And then she foretold my future in riddles. I was quite good with riddles, but I didn't try to decipher them. I sipped tea and barely listened. Air was whooshing inside my ears—I didn't know if it was the spring breeze or another brewing storm. One way or another, I would find out, wouldn't I?

When she was finished, she asked me to pay for the tea and not for the riddles. I didn't have any money.

She told me to get out.

I left her tent the same man who entered. That man was a different man than his past suggested. He was a dead storm, a dead monster, and a newborn.

He was memories and nostalgia, walking on two legs and a cane. The good memories were proof better times could exist, and the bad ones were proof the storms couldn't kill him.

It didn't hurt to remember anymore.

the end.

[daisychainz33]

i’m so happy to get even 1 note on any of my posts. i’m not famous, i’m not anything special, i’m not even a good writer if i’m being honest. but notes mean what i wrote reached someone, and that’s so special to me. someone saw what i wrote, and understood.

[hopelessromanticwithawhaletattoo]

Day 49

100 days of poems

If I stare long enough at this screen

Will a poem find its way out of me?

Or will I grow more weary

Under the weight of my own expectations

[windlass-abbey]

The cold nips at my ears and lips

Summertime is dead and gone The autumn breeze has finally ceased And the winter wind keeps howling on

The sun sinks swiftly from the sky As I wander down the road Street lamps flicker and the crumpled leaves fly The seasons turn and darkness grows

Mistletoe hangs off the trees,  Little berries glowing white as snow Fairy lights dance amongst the leaves Holly gleams bright in the thick hedgerow 

Frost laces itself around the leaves Starlight twinkles through the clouds Rain trickles down the windowpane Moonlight glistens on the ice all ’round

The winter wind continues to moan Its whispers make me feel less alone Days grow short and nights grow long And the passage of time marches on and on.

[scholarlycoffee]

She imagines her sister swallowing sea foam, stomach lined with pearls, lungs all full of beeswax kelp. Thorny, wind-washed myrtle blown out to sea, collapsing onto the rippling ocean surface and covering her drowned, water-softened eyes like coins. She imagines lampreys’ hungry mouths against her freckled shoulders, her barnacle-crested kneecaps, and eel cave chest cavity.

An AU novella of Mosswood.

Genre: Adult contemporary fantasy, horror novella

Setting: The fictional coastal town of Ponderosa Bay, Oregon, 2005

Summary: 11-year-old Analía Monroe drowns in the tidepools on Ponderosa Bay's shores. This time, when her body is pulled from the water, she is already dead. Four years later, Rajel Cohen-Monroe is older than her sister ever got to be. When she begins seeing Analía's ghost guiding her to a series of letters detailing events that occurred several years after her death, Rajel finds herself drawn to the town's mysteries and a teenage outcast named June Bardot.

Status: Complete / 36k

[starlightshadowsworld]

Your mystery question is here! :)

Shooting Star: What would your character wish for if they saw a shooting star?

If Aamirah saw a shooting star she would wish for a good grade. Girl is probably at her desk, flicking through a textbook and scribbling notes when she sees it shoot on by.

She’s wouldn’t wish to simply pass because she needs to do way more than just that.

So wish for a good grade, a great one even like her life depends on it.

Because it just might.

Thanks for this :)

[sunshinehunter]

“Oh for the love of the Light,” Shin rubbed his eyes. Across the table from him Wolf giggled. “Yeah you would be excited about getting more guns you hoarder,” he said with enough snark to make her laugh again quietly. “I dismantle them though,” Wolf complained. “Tell that to the fucking pile of purple engrams in your ship. I flew here in it, I saw them,” he hadn’t seen them but they were always there. He didn't need to see them to know they were there. Ghost had a limited inventory space for the density of data engrams contained so they had to go somewhere. “Well they’re only there because Wolf only wants me to hold onto yellow ones,” Ghost said and Shin nearly fell off his chair in surprise when Ghost deposited six golden-yellow engrams onto the ground next to the table in a jumbled stack. “WOLF!” he cried and that just made her wheeze with laughter. “Go talk to Rahool or something holy shit.”

Used to the Darkness ch 7 preview

We've all been there. I have 4 exotic engrams rotting in my inventory bc idk what to roll them into. In universe 6 is like... an UNREASONABLE amount of exotic engrams to have bc they're so SSR. Normal Guardians see a yellow engram like a few times a year if they work a lot (most exotics are one offs, or can just be bought from a foundry for $$$$$$)

[voidwritesstuff]

Hello fellow writers! Heres a reminder.

Its okay to take breaks on your stories and move to other things.

Its okay to focus in fics and fanart

Your stories are yours, your ocs understand that you need breaks in order to not feel burnt out or to refresh your mind.

Your stories Will be there waiting with all the patience in the world for when youre ready. Good things take time. They'll Wait for hours,days,weeks,months, Years for you,and when you come back they'll greet you with Open arms.

Wether its one story or multiple...

Your story is worth telling

Your stories are worth sharing,no matter the medium.

Youre still a writer even if you took a long break,its still your story even if you took distance from it.

Take your time,youre loved. Take care.

[akiwitch]

character voice tag game

Rules: Rewrite the line of dialogue from the person who tagged you into the voice of your OC’s! (You can include a short beat of action to help establish character if you want.) Pass on the tag with a new line of dialogue.

Thank you for the tag, @sentfromwolves this is so fun! I am going to use some of the Ghost Punch cast. My prompt is "you betrayed me". I'm taking this very seriously.

Shay

"Wow. Just wow. I...I thought we were friends," Shay said, voice shaking slightly. "I thought I was someone special to you. That I could trust you. But in the end, you betrayed me. You stabbed me right in the back." Max sighed, heavily. "I'm sorry I ate the last piece of pizza."

Max

"You could say our friendship levels are...to the max." Shay gave them finger guns. Max didn't even look at her, sipping their coffee. "Not after that betrayal."

Duncan

"I can't believe you've done this." Duncan pressed a hand to his chest. "I thought we were siblings. More than that, I thought we were friends. I cannot believe you betrayed me." "Get good, loser." Shay started the next round of Mario Kart.

Finnias

Finnias made a soft noise, like an injured animal, bringing a hand up to his chest, right over the place where his heart used to be. "You did this. You betrayed me."

heyyyy are we all having fun now?

I'll tag: @faeriecinna @veneritia @saphoblin @mauvelilywilliams @koala2all aaaand anyone else who wants to do it!

Your prompt is: please don't go

[meerawrites]

Merry Nanowrimo!

Fun Fact About me: amateur historian and archivist!

WIP Title: liaisons x vampires.

Genre: historical gothic horror, bisexual, romance if you squint hard enough.

Audience: adult (Anne Rice fans).

Type: Stand alone.

Status: drafting ~ wip.

Pitch: Les Liaisons dangereuses (English: Dangerous connections or dangerous liaisons) meets Anne Rice, everyone’s bi and varying degrees of unreliable. A send up of capitalism, absolute power, patriarchy, abuse & more. See more.

Nano Goal: aspiring: 1,160. Generally: higher than my source material.

Playlist.

Music for writing.

[sweetlovingfictionals]

Just out of curiosity, and I just need some opinions but if you were to make a fanfiction that you love the characters but don’t know the fandom or its canon, would you still write it anyway? Because I have like 3-4 WIP’s right now sitting in my drafts but I have like zero idea of their canon or their lore so I’m just stuck on writers block as far as what I should start it with.

[daisychainz33]

at a funeral, you let the family sit up front,

even though they want to be seen the least.

(enough attention is on them already.)

at the funeral, the men carry the casket,

even though they’re already carrying a weight.

(their emotions kept inside.)

at a funeral, you see your little cousin cry and it’s normal,

even though he’s just the happiest kid.

(you give him a hug and say nothing.)

at a funeral, you make small talk in the same room as a dead body

even though it’s the worst day of your life.

(“how’s school going?”)

at a funeral, people wear all black and it feels so wrong,

even though it’s tradition.

(you had no idea these people even owned black clothes.)

at a funeral, there are so many hugs

even though you can’t stand being touched.

(not today.)

at a funeral, you wear the same shirt you wore when you saw her last and you feel horrified,

even though it was an accident.

(is her dna still on it?)

at a funeral, you try to believe in god.

even though people can’t live forever, why would he do this?

(you close your eyes and pray anyway.)

at a funeral, there’s hope,

even though she’s gone.

(she’s really gone.)

[anotherghostcity]

Hey! Nothing new here, but I quickly mentioned some moth/butterfly motif somewhere and i made me look unto older works. Turns out theres two that fits. Obviously it was not only a bit older but it was me trying out translation of my poems. So it was pretty clumsy. I still thought that motif was interesting so I tried to modify the old poems unto a newer version. Its still not exactly how I would write right now but I guess it's an exercise. You can check the older version of WINGLESS and CUTTING WINGS if you're curious I guess.

So, see you next time, Nana.

[bookishwallflowerr]

Hii! I’m divi! I’m a female, I have a few interests which includes reading and writing. I’m here to document my writing, reading and just my life.

I LOVE tpobawf, the loud house, harry potter, heartstopper, books, movies and music!!

Please feel free to say hello and dm me, I’d love to make friends/moots!! and please ask me questions!!

[the-stray-storyteller]

Me shaking my WIP by the neck: CAN'T YOU WRITE YOURSELF? ARE YOU REALLY THAT FUCKING USELESS? JUST WRITE YOURSELF ALREADY! WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME DO ALL THIS SHIT!

*Starts sobbing in the corner of the room*