#writing warm up

[squisheeworld]

Thank you. I’m now gonna do my warmup by writing the most unhinged situations between characters that are so deeply busted and I feel this will help me dive off the edge of the liminal space in which I keep my fever dreams and swim around in the Lisa Frank/Stephen King soup of creativity therein until I can emerge later with a tome that will make its readers say

WHAT

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The teacher clapped his hands. "Ok! We're doing motivations people! Motivations!"

"I want to find my father."

"I want to prove myself to my childhood bullies."

"I want to do nothing."

"..."

"That's not a motivation," the teacher said.

"Sure it is. I'm motivated to not be motivated."

"I-- then why are you going on this quest with this party?"

"Ideally, I'm not."

The teacher opened his mouth. Closed it. Said, "That's not--"

"My motivation is to make that guy do something," the last rookie adventurer proposed.

The apathetic one frowned. "Which I'm not going to do."

"Aren't you?" they asked, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

"No! You don't get it, I'm doing nothing--"

The teacher grinned with too many teeth. "And! Your motivation just went from 'do nothing' to 'do nothing despite that one guy trying to make you do something.'"

"What? No! He can't be part of my motivation!" Did no one understand subversive art anymore?

"Too late, the story marches forward. Next, what's preventing you from self-actualizing?"

The rookies looked at one another. "Can we turn this in at the end of the quest?"

"Fiiiiine. But you get extra points for every character arc you complete, so consider having a revelation mid rising action to keep the audience engaged."

"Yes, sir!"

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

It’s very simple, you wake up and you are entirely free because god died before he could give you any purpose and so there is no string pulling you in any one direction. The stars unfurl in front and behind and above and below (as much as there is an in front and behind, or, for that matter, an above and below, when you do not know where you might be headed) and they’re singing some silly song between them but just as you try to make out the tune a stranger asks you who you might be. You tell them you don’t know, on account of you were born today - or maybe yesterday just around midnight, maybe you were alive for about a minute before yesterday tipped over into now and anyway time is relative and you haven’t been around for long and god died before he could give you any instructions so you don’t really have the hang of anything yet. They ask you if you have a name of any kind and when you say you don’t they ask if you’d want one. You say you haven’t really figured out what wanting feels like yet but you’d give a name a try, just to see how one would fit. They offer you some but they’re all just words - pretty words, Azrael and Uziel and Abaddon, but none of those sound like something that would have a you attached to it, whoever you might end up being. The stranger asks if you are an angel or something else (it might help with the naming, they say, to figure out at least what you are if not who) and you say you don’t know on account god dying right after making you, and you don’t see how this would matter much seeing how whatever you are you are not driven to any grand purpose, not part of a great plan any more than the stars or the dust between them or anything else there might be, you’d just like to listen to the stars sing, wander and look for questions to look for answers to - like what else there might be besides stars and dust - and maybe talk to the stranger if they wouldn’t mind. It occurs to you to ask the stranger if they have a name and they say they’re between names, between many things really. That they had a name but then everyone who knew them by it died so the name seemed obsolete and then there was a name they were given over and over so that it seemed easier to take than refuse even though it didn't really fit and then when they did choose a name they weren't at their best and it's intertwined with too many ghosts to wear it for too long. They are thinking of Sun not because it's how they feel but because how they want to feel, what they want to be like - a name doesn't have to be a statement of fact, it can also be a memory, or a hope. So you can call them Sun but they do like stranger, and they aren't sure they're a they either but stranger is too long to say every time and nothing else fits better and they is appropriately in between of certainties and just outside of knowing. Your first worry reaches you and you ask if god dying right after making you is cause and effect or correlation rather than causation and the stranger says they don't know but either way you cannot bear the blame for other people’s choices, the actions of those that came before you shape the world and yourself but do not decide your fate, let alone your guilt. You say okay, okay. You ask the stranger where they're going and they say wherever they feel like going, and at the moment that's about here. You ask them if they could listen to the stars with you for a bit and they smile and say why not and you're not sure what a sun is but if the stranger is one of those you would really like to see them. 

[mintmatcha]

You're definitely not supposed to be overhearing this conversation.

"Holy shit, dude," Kirishima's voice echoes down the hall, loud with shock. "That's a whole-ass engagement ring."

"Obviously." Bakugo's voice is lower, barely audible over the radio he conspicuously turned on not too long ago. Even with your ear pressed against the bathroom door, you can barely make out what he's saying. "It's nice, right?"

You know once you open the door, both of them will pretend this conversation never happened. The night will continue as if your boyfriend didn't just reveal he's planning on proposing, and Kirishima will keep this little secret between the two of them, so you stay here, eavesdropping in the bathroom with your heart in your throat.

"Yeah, but..." Kirishima chuckles almost awkwardly. "Do you ever think you're moving a little fast?"

"Are you kidding?" Bakugo barks out a laugh, but his voice is warm and distant, like a memory you can't quite hold, "Every day I'm not married to her is a day wasted."

[so-many-ocs]

fifty creative writing warmups

1. search for lists of writing prompts, select one at random, and write from it for 15 minutes. the goal should be to write as much as possible, rather than trying to write something “good.”

2. read or watch a scene from a book/film/show/etc. and then rewrite it from memory.

3. choose one of the five senses (sight, smell, touch, taste, sound) and write a brief scene focusing primarily on that sense.

4. write an interview as if it were occurring between yourself and a character you’re writing about.

5. rewrite something you wrote a long time ago.

6. shuffle your favorite music and write something based on the first song that plays. 

7. choose a scene from your least favorite book and try to rewrite it in a way that you like. pay attention to the changes you make and why, in your opinion, they improve the scene.

8. choose an object in the same room as you and write as much as possible about that object: descriptions, history, personification, etc.

9. choose an author whose style you like and read one of their works for about twenty minutes before sitting down to write.

10. write a short scene with no adverbs (words ending in -ly such as quickly, hastily, quietly, dimly, etc.)

11. reread a scene from a book you like and write down what you think the author did well: characterization, use of literary devices, foreshadowing, dialogue, etc. then write down the characters, goals/motives, and conflicts of the scene.

12. go outside or look out a window and simply write what you see.

13. write a scene with no dialogue.

14. write a scene with only dialogue.

15. choose a scene from your current work in progress and rewrite it from a different character’s point of view.

16. without editing, reread the last couple of scenes you wrote.

17. describe a room where you live.

18. learn a new word and try writing a few different sentences that each use that word.

19. reread something you’ve written out loud. pay attention to things like sentence flow.

20. write an alternate ending for a piece of media you’ve enjoyed recently.

21. write a short story based on a side character in a piece of media you’ve enjoyed recently.

22. rewrite a classic fairytale, but find a way to turn it on its head.

23. go to a random word generator and write a quick scene based on the first word that comes up.

24. describe your day as if it were the first chapter of a book.

25. choose a book from your shelf. find the fifth word on the fifth page and write something based on that.

26. go for a walk. or, if you can’t do that, try to find a way to move your body around.

27. choose an emotion and write a scene where that emotion is the central focus.

28. rewrite a scene you’ve already written, but switch the perspective—so, if your story uses first person present tense (I, me, my, mine), try third person past tense (they, them, their, theirs), or second person present tense (you, your, yours).

29. rewrite an important scene in your work in progress from the point of view of a complete outsider with no stake in the plot.

30. read three pages of a random book, making note of the author’s style, and then try to write a page in that author’s writing style.

31. write a news article about one of your characters. what is the headline? what is the article about?

32. in public, transcribe a conversation happening near you.

33. write a short dialogue exchange, then choose an emotion to highlight and rewrite the dialogue with that emotion in mind.

34. choose an object near you and describe it three times. each time, try to capture a different emotion or vibe.

35. if you’re within earshot of a conversation, write down 2-4 lines of that conversation and then continue it by making up your own dialogue.

36. write brief, 1-2 sentence descriptions of people you see in passing.

37. pick something you love and write about it as if you hate it.

38. pick something you hate and write about it as if you love it.

39. read something you wouldn’t normally read: an author, genre, style, medium, or subject matter you’d usually avoid.

40. write a goodbye scene between two people three times to capture different emotions: somber, cheerful, angry.

41. find a random photograph online of a person or place and write a story about it. what is the history behind the image? how did the picture wind up being taken—why?

42. find a random image online and write 1,000 words describing it.

43. watch a scene in a tv show or movie and try to adapt it into a written format.

44. read a few pages of a book about writing.

45. describe your main character’s home.

46. describe a day in your main character’s life.

47. set a timer for five minutes and list as many words as you can think of.

48. write a page of pure stream of consciousness. put down anything that comes to mind.

49. write a page describing the appearance of a side character.

50. choose one of your characters and create a new character based on them. for every trait your character has, this new character will have its total opposite—so, generous → selfish, cowardly → bold, short → tall, etc.

---------------------------

psst check out radio apocalypse

[threadbearsweater]

here to feed the sylus brain worms >:)))) with the word ‘silk’

Sylus spoils you.

It isn't that you weren't able to provide for yourself before. You lived a modest lifestyle and had always afforded yourself the things you needed with a few frivolous purchases peppered throughout to maintain your sanity and sense of whimsy. What's life without a few indulgences, after all?

What are considered indulgences to you, however, are absolute necessities to Sylus. And the first night he spends in your apartment, he's appalled at the fact that you sleep on cotton sheets.

There's not a lot of sleeping that happens that first night anyway. He hardly notices the state of your bed until the passion between the two of you dies away and you're left panting and glistening in the afterglow. You see his face- ruddy and perfect in the sliver of moonlight that cuts through your curtains- and you watch as his peaceful, satiated expression turns into a deep scowl. Sylus rubs his shoulders across the surface of your bed, then turns to prop himself up on one elbow, his other hand slipped across the softness of your belly.

"How do you do it?" he asks disdainfully, shifting his weight as if he can't find a comfortable position.

You think he's being coy- asking how you do it as in how do you make me feel so good? So you smile and cover his hand with yours, squeezing around a couple of his fingers. "I just follow my instincts and let my body do the talking."

His brow furrows and he shakes his head. "You misunderstand me. I mean these sheets." He plucks them between a thumb and forefinger for emphasis, as if he's handling some foreign food he doesn't trust will taste good. "How do you sleep on these every night?"

You scoff and swat at his shoulder, but he's quick to intercept and brings your fingertips to his lips.

"I'm serious, kitten. This bed is an abomination."

He stays the night with you- despite your inadequate sheets, despite the teasing you invoke on him for having such sensitive skin, despite the fact that he'd rather whisk you away to one of his properties and finish the night in luxury. There's something endearing about how he suffers through it all for you, and it's that night you realize just how much he really must love you.

A couple of days later, you find a package at your doorstep, along with a handwritten note.

Life is all about the little luxuries. I want to enjoy them with you. -Sylus

The bastard bought you silk sheets.

You clear out a drawer in your bathroom for him.

[thedeepestwarmestblue]

Please, please let it be me

Billy accidentally lets slip that he’s sweet on someone, that being Steve, in front of Steve. Of course, he won’t let it go. Billy all but begged. Weeks now he’s been hounding Billy, trying to figure him out, his eyes hyper aware, analyzing his every interaction with Hawkins’ female population. Billy’s skin crawls with anticipation. Every name guessed had Billy sweating, the lies stretching, building.

March passes into April, Billy’s birthday with it. Steve hasn’t figured it out yet. Billy’s not sure how much more he can take. When Steve asks for the answer for his birthday present, it’s almost a relief. The panic welling, suffocating when he tried to sleep. Billy found himself staying up later and later, grinding his teeth away on bullets. Exhausted, he snaps back into focus. Steve’s birthday is today. They’re in his backyard, now. He’s alone with Steve, now. The moment he’s been waiting for is happening, now.

You’ve kept me guessing for weeks, who you like? Steve says, a frustrated note coloring him magenta. They’ve had a few drinks now, looser, warmer, closer. Who is this girl? Whoever she is she doesn’t go to our school. I even made a list.

He digs it out of his pocket to show Billy. Two dozen names or more scratched out. Question marks. His doodles around curse words. Billy’s heart clenches.

Billy laughs so he doesn’t choke.

You’ve said one thing or another about every girl I’ve guessed, but it’s none of them. Steve laughs, the sound disbelieving. Not even Heather. So who is it, Billy? Who is it?

Billy is silent, for what could he possibly say? You’re right. Darling, I’ve been lying. He’s been waiting weeks for this moment and now his heart is too big, clogging his throat. Steve shakes his head, looking down at the list, thumbing at the creased edge. It looks soft from wear. His brow creases together.

You know … it’s funny, he says quietly.

Billy straightens, feeling dizzy, Steve’s summer scent thick in his nose.

What is?

I was talking to Robin about this the other day and she said something that — I can’t stop thinking about.

What did she say?

She said I’m missing a name.

Oh yeah?

Steve is looking at his mouth, his head tilting down. Billy wets his lips. Forces himself to move, to ask, although he knows the answer.

Whose?

Steve looks at him, dark eyes on fire, taking the leap of faith.

Mine.

[the-hopefull-pessimist]

Hawke-

We picked up the trail and know where Solas plans to do his ritual.

Rook is...well, she reminds me a lot of you, actually. It's why I brought her on. She finds her way through some of the weirdest shit...on a level only equal to you and the Inquisitor.

I wrote to the Inquisitor... Lavellan. She'd want to know where he is...

Damn it, Hawke, how am I supposed to do this? I'm getting too old for this shit, and...

I can't help but feel like all of this started with me and Bertrand. If we'd never found that red lyrium and brought it to the surface....

But that did lead me to you, and I can't help but be grateful for that.

It's been a long 10 years, Hawke. Are you still... is there a chance...

If I can't talk him down...well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you.

Yours always.

Love,

Varric

[melpomai]

exes to lovers! isagi yoichi concept please... let me know if this is something you want to keep reading

fem reader works as an aged care nurse, isagi is a professional athlete

this is the first scene of the fic, got no clue how long it'll eventually turn out to be but i do have a loose outline for it

Breakups are never easy - you know it all too well. You’re still recovering four months on after your own. It’s hard to wake in a bed that once held two, and now it's just you. In those early moments, where you’re drifting between the realms of unconsciousness and lucidity, he lingers like a mirage. You feel his fingers warmly brush against your cheek again. The gentle sound of his voice, asking how his pretty baby is doing flutters towards you. You reach for him, joy in your heart as your broken voice reveals all your secrets you’ve locked away.

“God, I missed you so fucking much. I love you, Yoichi.”

But he slips from your grasp like dust. 

When you wake, you shake your head at your own yearning, a frown pinching your face. 

What right do you have, you think, to crave him like this, when you were the one to end it? 

So you wash away the traces of your weakness, and go about your day.

This is the routine you’ve been settled in since. Some days, you manage to convince yourself you’re over being emotional, like when you’re pushing the evening medication trolley through the halls of your work, and one of the elderly has their television playing the latest match and you see him again. Flashes of him in action, racing across the field with the determination of a tidal wave in motion. Or, if you're unlucky (lucky) an after-match interview that centres the camera completely on him. His satisfied, no, euphoric grin, the way his sweat sticks his fringe to his forehead and when he attempts to wipe it away, it causes said fringe to stand straight up. The flush of blood rising to his cheeks. It captures his every reaction, every miniscule change while he answers the same mind-numbing questions posed by the reporter about the game he'd just won.

You watch him for a moment, (your heart bleeds in your chest—) you shrug it off with a smile and tap the plastic portioning cup to draw attention to yourself. “It’s time for your meds.”

Behind the screen, he’s easy to pull away from. He can’t bring you into his arms, fit your frame against his and keep you there, like this.

You don’t reflect on the other days. The ones where you have to call in sick because the very thought of venturing out into the world, alone again, makes you feel nauseous. You resist the urge to check what he’s doing on social media then, afraid of what you might see. You wonder, if it's this bad for you, what must he be experiencing?

You’re an awful person. 

But deep down, you know it still was the right choice to make. Even if your heart disagrees.

[hunnicakez]

Ctommy having a nightmare about exile and ctubbo comforting him but also feeling awful cause he was the one who had made the decision to exile Ctommy

When Tommy woke up, he wasn't expecting to be covered in sand. Where was he?

It took him a moment to realize exactly where he was. Oh.

He felt incredibly confused, why was he here? Wasn't he at home earlier?

—You've been sleeping for a good while, what a pity that all of that was just a dream, right?—

That voice... Tommy turned around immediately.

—Dream...what are you..—

��Have you forgotten? I'm your best friend, of course I'm going to be here—

Dream's mocking tone was sending the boy into hyperventilation. No way. He couldn't be back here. No.

No no no no no no.

—No, I was-... I was with Tubbo, at home, I spent so long away from this place.—

—Oh so you really think that you could escape?—

His eyes were dwelling up with tears. Had all his freedom really only been a dream? No, it couldn't be.

—Don't cry, Tom, you'll always have me, even if Tubbo blatantly betrayed you and stabbed you in the back, I'm your best friend! You are never alone, Tommy—

Tommy was horrified, so much so that his chest started to hurt and felt sick to his stomach.

Abruptly, he woke up. A scream coming out of his own throat breaking the calm silence in the room. He had barely a couple of seconds to turn to the side before he was already throwing up on the floor.

It was a nightmare. Right? It had all just been a cruel nightmare... Can't Dream just leave him alone once and for all?

His chest still hurt, and he felt dizzy all over. He couldn't help but break down sobbing.

Suddenly, the lights in his room turned on, Tubbo walking in, worried.

—Tommy-? Tommy! What happened? I heard a scream and- did you throw up? Oh my god, wait, I'll go clean that.—

The blond didn't even register anything of what Tubbo said. He simply kept crying and shaking on his bed. A couple of minutes later, the vomit poodle was gone, cleaned off by Tubbo, who was sitting on Tommy's bed, trying his best at comforting him.

—Shh... Shh... Everything is going to be alright... What happened?—

Tubbo asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, softly caressing Tommy's head.

Tommy had clung to Tubbo, hugging him tightly as little by little his sobbing faded out.

—I... It was a nightmare—

Tommy's shaky voice made the brunet hug him tighter, wanting to comfort his best friend with all his might.

—I was back in Logstedshire, exile... Dream was there...—

It's all the explanation the younger could muster. Those words hit Tubbo like a bucket of ice cold water falling down on him.

Exile was all his fault. Completely his fault. He had basically stabbed Tommy in the back.

Tubbo felt like throwing up. To this day he could not forgive himself for such a thing, probably never will.

He felt horrible, hiding his face on Tommy's shoulder.

—It's okay... You're okay... Your exile ended long ago... You're with me now—

Whispered Tubbo reassuringly, maybe for the both of them.

Not too long after, both of them fell back asleep, still clinging tighter onto each other.

[megacharicific]

there's wyll, astarion, and a cat

(fluff, unedited, postgame, established relationship)

There's "being diplomatic because it's a bad idea to offend your next-door neighbor," and there's whatever Wyll is doing. (That bastard did not deserve any of their tomatoes. Granted, they had too many than they knew what to do with, but Astarion would rather feed the hard-working ants in their backyard than let them make it to her mouth.)

"Snowball does not bite," Astarion shouts, from upstairs. He hopes Araj hears it as she leaves. "Unless you're a b-"

"Astarion," Wyll says.

"Mrow," their cat says.

Astarion heads down the stairs. Snowball's tail whips around in the air, further proof Araj must've unnerved her somehow. Wyll carries her to the sofa, and Astarion pets the soft fur under her chin until she is purring again.

"Do you know what your dad did? He gave our tomatoes to someone you clearly hate."

Wyll actually looks a little sad that Astarion is tattling on him to the cat.

"Just because you relate doesn't mean biting people is always justified, you know."

"I know. Like the garden spider that bit me. When I was tending to our tomatoes. That wasn't justified, for instance."

Wyll huffs. "I can't tell anymore if you're annoyed at our misjudgement in handing our cat to Araj, or if you've grown protective of the tomatoes, too."

"I can defend the honour of our cat and our tomatoes in the same court, love."

"I'm glad," Wyll says, leaning in. Astarion watches him place a hand on his chest. He's about to say something saccharine again. "That you have room in here to care for so many of us."

Astarion's heart doesn't- shouldn't- beat, but something like a cupid's arrow shoots through it.

"You're a storybook prince," he grumbles, and cannot stop himself from kissing Wyll.

"Mrow," Snowball says, annoyed that they've stopped petting her.

[meguwumibear]

There is a tower in Waterdeep home to a mirage of ancient texts and dangerous tinctures. The structure is tall and imposing, its long, dark shadow reaches across the horizon like an outstretched hand. Once a space full of wonder and laughter, now a harbinger of all the sinister things yet to come.

There is a tower in Waterdeep once home to a famed wizard who drew the attention of Mystra herself. The wizard was her chosen and lover until hubris consumed him. Gale's Folly, the locals whisper when they think no one can hear, but the Gods are all-hearing, all-knowing, so the words spread across the Outer Planes all the same.

There is a tower in Waterdeep and you cannot escape it. The doors will not open. The windows will not break. Ao will not interfere because Ao does not interfere, so you sit and you pace while the walls around you dilapidate.

There is a tower in Waterdeep and it is your prison. It is your coffin and it is your tomb. Isolated, but not abandoned. Lonely, but not alone. An unearned consolation prize for a wizard you once knew.

[phanta-soba]

3/17/25 WARMUP

So, I read a thing that said to do warmups before working on an ongoing story, and since I've been writing more, I decided to do one!

(I've been writing my self insert fic, and will probs post the first chapter soon)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keiharu groaned as they stretched with Konan. “Warmups are stupid.” they grumbled, ignoring the way she chuckled at their suffering. “You seriously do this every day?”

“Every day.” Konan confirmed, wearing a coy smile. “You’ve really never done yoga before? You seem like the type.” 

“Wha-? I seem like the type to enjoy this torture?” Keiharu asked exasperatedly, clumsily mirroring Konan’s pose as she transitioned into the next form. 

“You meditate during your morning routine, yes?” she asked, glancing at Keiharu as she effortlessly stretched her leg over her head. Keiharu was not so successful in this maneuver, falling on their ass with a yelp.

“Meditation is very different from this!” they complained, letting their body go limp on the floor, surrendering to gravity. Konan laughed.

“Most people do them together.” she explained, changing poses again, her movements fluid. “I’m sorry I assumed.”

Keiharu waved off her apology, their other arm over their eyes. “‘S fine, Ko. I usually stretch before I work out and stuff.. Just not like this.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time to write: >10 min

Words: 174

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Ask stupid questions about the stupid prizes. Embark on a stupid quest based on the stupid answers you got to your stupid questions about the stupid prizes. Face stupid challenges on your stupid quest, get stupid tomes at the stupid secret arcane library, summon stupid spirits, ask more stupid questions, discover the stupid way to where the ultimate stupid prize is. Find someone to walk shoulder to stupid shoulder across this stupid world with - the stupid journey takes too long to spend all that stupid time alone. Encounter the sphinx, which will ask stupid questions that will coincidentally be the exact same questions you asked about the stupid prizes you won for the stupid game you played all those years ago, so you know the stupid answers to them already. Obtain the ultimate stupid prize, which doesn't actually do anything except create an infinite array of stupid games to play across every universe for the continuity of time. Play stupid games. Live a little. 

[wheretheyrot]

I'm sorry they replaced your desk Ryan D. of 1990/91.

Did you also learn history in this room? Did you like it? I didn't like it very much, the teacher didn't like me and he had some ignorant world views.

The window had a nice view, though. Did you sit by the window? I did. Kinda anyways, I used to stare at the huge building across the street. It didn't exist back when you were here, but I like to think you would find it cool.

Who was your favourite teacher? Mine is probably how old you are now. Were you in my grade, or older? Or maybe younger? Before they replaced your desk, I used to trace your name with my pencil. It made me wonder about you.

Ryan D. I wonder what D stands for? I could try looking for you in the class pictures in the hall, but I think my eyesight would be too bad to see you. What did you use to carve your name? It was deep, and dark, was it a knife?

You must've gotten in huge trouble. Did you care? Or were you unbothered? I wonder if you hated this school as much as me. I wonder if you made that mark to stay remembered forever in this school. I wonder if your name is in other places around campus.

I'm sorry to say they trashed your desk, replacing it with sleek, laminated wood. They don't even wobble in that satisfying way, the nerve. But for the few months I sat on it, I retraced your name, I wondered about you, and now I'm immortalizing you in my silly tumblr blog. I wonder if you know what tumblr is, probably. Or maybe you weren't into internet shit, who knows.

You might be forgotten there, but I'll try and remember you as much as I can to make sure there's never a broken connection.

Ryan D. 1990/91, written like 90/91, I'm sorry they replaced your desk.

[storied]

writing prompt: take your most listened to songs this week and write from the perspective of a subject, person, or object in the song. continue down the list and you’ll turn your playlist into a set of stories