#writing_prompt

[piuland]

Edifica con tu escritura la ciudad donde la justicia y la razón sean tu fortaleza

Recuerdo la primera vez que me sentí utilizada por una amiga. Debía tener unos 13 años y ocurrió en los scouts. S había entrado después que yo y le había cogido mucho cariño, era una chavala simpática, divertida y muy mona. Pero Bea era la reina de la tropa scout Mafeking porque se había desarrollado, su madre le dejaba hacerse mechas y tenía los ojos verdes. Recuerdo lo mucho que odiaba y lo poco que dejaba ver la grima que me daba que se dedicara a hacerse fotos con el macro a los iris de los ojos. Más adelante se abrió a nosotras y nos contó unas intimidades que me hicieron perdonar lo que a mis ojos era altanería desbocada (tampoco eran súper verdes, te tenías que acercar muchísimo para ver las vetas azules). S me abandonó en un campamento y se lo pasó entero con Bea y yo no le he perdonado lo rápido que se olvidó de que había sido yo quien la había acogido al llegar a los scouts sin conocer a casi nadie. Me tuve que pasar muchísimas horas de ese campamento aburrida con una de las chicas más rancias que existen, era hija de un militar, iba a escolapios y le ha ido muy bien pero me hizo echar mucho de menos a S. Es curioso que las dos hayan tirado por la ciencia e ingeniería finalmente.

Poco después, estoy segura de que por la misma época, atravesé una situación de acoso que ahora recuerdo con ternura. Mi meja y yo habíamos marcado el territorio en el cole de monjas. Un chaval muy mono que había estado saliendo con una de las populares el año anterior, se había liado con I ese año, y la noticia no había sentado nada bien. La ex-novia era una chica muy vulnerable y la misma semana en que me había dado la contraseña de su fotolog, se había inventado una canción llamando guarrerías a mi amiga que no tenía las narices de cantarnos a la cara pero nos habían llegado rumores. Un viernes por la tarde, le “hackeamos” el fotolog para que no pudiera volver a utilizarlo. Fuimos un poco crueles pero aquella tarde fue divertidísima. Un día, me acorralaron e increparon y yo negué como una bandida haber movido un dedo. Todavía me sorprende haber sido capaz de poner tremenda cara de póker delante de 10 abusonas, aunque entre ellas se encontraban buenas amigas que intercedieron y dijeron que creían mi versión. Veinte años más tarde sigo sin arrepentirme de nada.

Pensándolo bien, ya había vivido escenas de acoso en primera persona bastante más bestias.

[emailburner]

Getting a call in class and I have to put it on speaker.

A deep booming voice says “Donald Trump was assassinated at 9AM, you are to await further instructions.” - Writing_Prompts (probably)

*cricket noises*

Tumblr notifications were sent via phone call.

[justintheminerr]

People with number based powers. what they do?

From 0 to 9 someone has a power based on one of those numbers

0 can change the value of anything he wants to 0 but it hurts him a lot

1 can also change values to one and it hurts him a lot too but less than 0

2 can multiply things by 2 but the bigger the mass of whatever it is she gets hurt more

3 can change value

4 can multiply

5 divides things

6 subtracts things by 6

7 changes value to

8 divides

and 9 changes value to

The rest also get hurt when they use it but not lethally

They don’t like eachother but they’re heroes so they have to be around eachother

[theicedbeverage]

Hope

I was sleeping with my face lying on the table where I work when the alarm I set rang loudly. I searched for my phone using my right hand to turn it off and as I did that, I slowly open my eyes. The sight of my messy work table welcomes me. I groaned cause I'm too lazy to clean it as soon as I wake up. I, first, went to the bathroom to wash my face before wearing my gray hoodie which was lying on my bed, and my eyeglasses.

I started walking lightly towards my first destination which is the famous cafe near my place. The employee assigned to the cashier welcomed me with a smile and asked for my order.

"One iced americano and one iced mocha," I told her.

She started punching my order and before finalizing it, she asked, "Anything else, sir?"

I was looking at the menu behind her and saw their newest product, blueberry cream cheesecake, so I decided to add it to my order.

I waited for a few minutes before I got my order. "Thank you! Come again." the male employee said in a cheerful tone.

As soon as I got out of the cafe, I started walking. I passed by many people who wear different business outfits and I remembered that around this time, many from this neighborhood are morning people due to their work. I can see some of them are walking while talking to the phone which is trapped on their shoulder and some are fixing their appearance. I sighed then started minding my own business. I felt my phone vibrate so I fished it out from my pocket and look at the recent message I received.

[I'm at the usual place. Where are you?]

I tried to reply while waiting for the stoplight to turn red for the vehicles passing by.

[Pedestrian. I'll be there at around 10 minutes.]

I put my phone back and as soon as the stoplight changes its color to red, I started crossing the street with some people who were going the same way as I am. I passed by the beach and saw many people gather there. I was curious so I asked the man nearest to the place where I am standing.

"Excuse me. Is there an event here?" I asked.

"None but many people visit this place to witness the sunrise," the man answered back.  

"I see," I muttered.

I started observing the surroundings and soon, silence ruled the place because of the sunrise happening in front of their eyes right now. Seeing them like this, they all have the same expression plastered on their faces.

"The sunrise gives people something to look forward to," the man beside me said. "For some, maybe just for social media bragging? It can't hurt to share a good picture of this."

"Is that so?" I wondered.

"They also gather here to watch the sunset," he informed me as well.

After the sunrise, the people gathered started to disperse until no one was left.

I arrive at my friend's studio and gave him the coffee I bought. We ate the slice of cake I bought too and I never regretted my decision. It tastes so good. After cleaning up, we both went to our places and started painting.

My friend and I are painters. He allowed me to share the same studio as him after he learned my passion for painting. We also bought our supplies together and give each other opinions on both of our works.

I just stared at the blank canvas in front of me because I have no idea what to paint. Several ideas came but the motivation to draw them isn't coming to me so I sighed.

"What's the matter?" my friend, Austin, asked me. "Can't draw?"

I shook my head as an answer, "I have many ideas but none of them made me draw."

"That's a problem, man," Austin muttered. "Why don't go and walk around? Maybe you can see something that can make you draw."

"Sure, man. Thanks."

I started walking to who-knows-where place. The place's entrance was a forest but after walking for a few steps, a breathtaking view. The skyline-silver lake was like an ocean that spreads all over the right places. The atmosphere can be compared to when you enter an empty chapel. Peaceful. I closed my eyes and a gush of wind blew past me and it enhances the sap sweet smell hung in the air. I slowly open my eyes and surveyed the place slowly. When I saw a large tree with a rock beneath it, I trudged towards it and sat down. I took a picture of the view because I left my sketchpad at the studio and as it wasn't enough, I observe how the group of birds rose into the air and flew far away to the mountain that can be seen from where I am.

"I want this view to be shared," I muttered to myself.

I look up to the sky and smiled seeing that it was clearer than earlier. Maybe the guy I talked to earlier was right. The sunrise gave people something to look forward to especially those who struggle every day to make a living.

Before the day ends, I decided to watch the sunset at the beach where I witness the people watching the sunrise earlier. The number of people who came to watch the sunset is greater than the ones who watch the sunrise. All of us silently watch the sun slowly hide behind the clouds. For us, who watch this, this marked our day ended. I stayed for a few minutes before heading back to my place to eat dinner.

Weeks after that day, the art exhibition I took part in became famous because of the piece I released. I gave the piece with the title of "Hope". The piece showed the view I witness after wandering around the place where Austin's studio can be located. Many people offered a large amount of money to buy it but I decided to keep it as a memory of that day.

The day where I witness people watching the sunrise while stepping forward despite the difficulty of their situation in life. The day where I decided to be like them. Stepping forward working while hoping that every effort I exert will bear fruit.

[jungle-writing-prompts]

You are born with a literal wish in your pocket. Everyone gets another wish in their pocket unique way. When you grow older, you watch your mother die. You get a wish in your pocket.

[tate114]

Writing prompt

Lamia (people who are snakes from the waist down) have the rumor that they eat people whole with no regard. But it's actually a cover. They do swallow people whole but to save them from abusive relationships by taking them to their village shared with the others they rescued.

[daphnethewriter]

Writing Prompt

“This doesn’t hurt so bad.”

“Give it a minute.”

[providentially-demonic]

She is the oldest of the old things, born of a time before man, before even the first living thing slinked from the primordial ooze. She fell to this place in the heart of a star, a balefire that ignited the first sparks of life on this world of seething waters and unquiet earth; tempests of wind and fiery magma that reshaped the land behind every step she took.

She has seen the waters surge to swallow the land and swum in the tempestuous ocean until her hooves scraped land once more. The ice came and swallowed most of the infant world in a grasp of winter, and still she roamed the barren scapes of ice and snow.

She fought in wars, wars against disease and death, but could not hold back their march against all she had come to love. She took wounds, those of flesh and blood and those of heart and mind. Where her blood spilled, new life, pale imitations of herself, sprang forth, to continue the battles she had begun. Delicate shadows of her strength were they, white as the foam on the seas. But she loved them, and they loved everything she had watched grow.

New life grew from the world itself, changing and evolving, and she and her pale children nurtured it and took delight in new creatures, new lives.

But she could not hold back the war forever and it came in a blaze of skyfire and smoke to smite the new creatures she and her children had loved and nurtured. Again she fought, but she was tired, and sore wounded. Where the fires had seared her, the ashes took life, this time real shadows, dark with her despair. They shunned the light her pale children basked in, and found homes in the slumbering minds of what creatures had survived this latest war. She could not hate them, for they were still her children, and the fear and despair that fed them kept the evolving creatures sharp and wary, stronger for it.

But she was tired, heartsore and grieving, and left the world in the hooves of those born from her blood and ash for a time, retreating into slumber.

She woke to a world changed out of all recognition. She did not know what had become of the creatures she nurtured, for they too were gone, changed or replaced by this new life that began to change the world in its image. What had become of her pale children she did not know until one of her dark ones (Nightmares, whispered her ashy child. Nightmares were the names these new ones had given them.) brought her to where one of her pale ones (Unicorns, wailed her nightmare child, were the name gifted them.) had fallen, victim of these new creatures. Pale coat washed red with blood and pieces stolen by those who had murdered it.

Her grief was enormous, for pale imitations of her they might be, but they were her children. And these... these were not the lives she had fought and bled for, not the innocents she and her young had nurtured.

Hate was not a part of her being, but sorrow she knew well. And it lent itself so easily to despair and anger.

She found the last of her pale children, cut down to barely a fraction of their numbers, and chivied them away, to take their magic and their love and nurturing far away from those who would take their lives for a magic they could never possess. She gave some of her own magic to them as their safety, teaching them how to sidestep time and death, something she had never managed with any but these, her poor ravaged children.

The rest of her children, her nightmares, she gathered close. They were immune to the weapons that had murdered their siblings, beings of ash and shadow they were. Rage a smoldering coal in her tired heart, she bade them to go out among these killers and give free rein to the despair and terror that fed them.

And she slipped away once more, drawing a cloak of the earth and plants around her, to be alone with her sorrow and her anger. She still wanders, hidden as a part of the world she once nurtured.

So if you go wandering and see her, the unicorn older than time and hidden beneath a cloak of living earth, do not go near. Do not draw her attention. Ever.

For humans are the ones who taught her hate, and she will give it back freely to those who taught it to her.

Image Prompt

[piuland]

So, a lot of people say "What does it mean to start teaching children critical thinking, how to use of certain forms of knowledge when I focus on children to the exclusion?" But I think it's really important from us to recognize that to decolonize your mind when you're 20-some years old, for those of us who have the imprint and the mark of abuse in our lives... it's much harder to dewrite that script than to be a person who never entered that script or who entered with greater awareness."

Según bell hooks, que cogió su nombre de su abuela y lo hizo diminutivo porque "las mayúsculas son para las ideas", el amor se hace. El amor es un verbo, no un estado, implica imbatiblemente una acción, de una voluntad, de ganas. Sin esas ganas, no tiene sentido ansiarlo o echarlo de menos.

¿Qué haces cuando no te quiere alguien a quien deseas con tu cuerpo y alma, que te ha permitido querer durante un tiempo limitado? Además de fumar, ¿habrá algo que hacer para volcar todo el amor que tienes dentro? Creo que escribir puede ser una solución bastante sana. Dice mi amiga Tania que escriba un libro. A mí me da miedo que escribir demasiado me termine dando ganas de meterme en política. Pero necesito sacar de mí estas ideas que me rondan la cabeza y no tengo a quién contar, así que allá vamos.

Creo que F es incapaz de amar más de lo que me ha amado estos meses. Porque me ha seguido amando incluso cuando me ha dejado, con ese pretexto infantil de "estoy roto por dentro y no te quiero hacer más daño." Estoy de acuerdo con él en que en septiembre estábamos en un punto en la relación en que resultaba viable aspirar a una amistad sana que a día de hoy no hemos logrado alcanzar. Yo le echo de menos cada noche, y cada día que pasa me siento más sola y desamparada. No es sana la manera en que dejo que sus problemas me afecten, pero no sé cómo podría no compadecer a alguien en su situación. Alguien que necesita tantísima validación de su entorno cercano para sentirse alguien en la sociedad, alguien que ha confiado en mí de manera intuitiva tanto como para contarme lo que no le había contado a casi nadie hasta ahora.

En realidad me da miedo. Tiene unas inseguridades que yo no he tenido jamás. El haber crecido abrazada y acompañada me ha hecho sentir que el mundo era un poco mío. Él ha recibido muchos más golpes que yo, eso no lo dudo ni un segundo. Se ha convertido en el hombre valiente (casi temerario) que es a base de ganas y esfuerzo. Le admiro tanto. Me gustaría ser como él en tantísimos aspectos que no sé cómo llevarlos. Es tan independiente, sabe tantos datos irrelevantes e interesantes que me podría pasar horas hablando con él. Quiero que me dé otra oportunidad para demostrarle todas las cosas buenas que puedo hacer por él. Todo el cariño que se merece que alguien le dé, bueno, tal vez no todo pero una cantidad significativa.

Pero ahora mismo no me merezco esa oportunidad. Necesito reflexionar sobre muchísimas cosas para pedírsela. Sobre lo injusto que es el mundo con quien menos debería y sobre cómo nos afecta el entorno en que crecemos. Sobre las maldades que nuestras familias nos inculcan y que es labor nuestra elegir o desechar.

Porque yo no lo he pensado lo suficiente. Es fácil querer a una familia que te cubre las necesidades básicas, se alegra por tus logros y te mantiene hasta los 28. Incluso a pesar de no sentirla ya tu familia, el vínculo es demasiado fuerte como para romperlo de un plumazo. Al menos, tengo la tranquilidad de haber tomado el desvío correcto y estar en la senda que me conduzca a la ansiada independencia. Quiero llegar al claro en que los juicios de valor de mis padres sean las estrellas del cielo, que las pueda admirar desde la distancia sin que su presencia me afecte en absoluto. Que las vea y piense "qué bonitas, jo, míralas ahí" y seguir para adelante. Seguir hacia adelante siempre, con la compañía que yo elija y no la que 1993 decidiera poner a mi lado. Porque la nostalgia solo es eso, nostalgia y costumbrismo, y el futuro tiene cosas mucho más bonitas aunque ahora mismo me sea difícil verlas.

16/12/2021

[jchance4d4]

Some other things that (to me) feel like “fannish original fiction”:

Fiction with significant parts set within real or fictional fandoms.

Stories done “in the style of” a particular work or author, or even a whole genre that is not typically done in prose writing or in the author’s country (with a certain hard-to-define “fannish exuberance” rather than professional pastiche).

Stories that are, or are in the style of, blogfic in styles that emerged before it was commonly taken seriously and commercialised (thinking a lot of writing_prompts responses here on tumblr).

Really anything with that “fannish exuberance”.

What’s the difference between fannish and non-fannish original content?

--

Intention, primarily.

The kinds of original things people have often seen as fannish are like the original half of the Boys in Chains archive.

"Original slash" and "original yaoi" fandoms (as opposed to people attempting to write "queer lit" or m/m for publication or whatever) are a good example.

Some of these do later get pulled to publish, but their original posting and framing is as fandom-y original content.

[fans-on-the-run]

End of year asks: 9, 10, 25, please?

9. Huh. One problem with being out of work is that time means less. But November was great since I traveled to Tampa to meet up with @magdalyna to bum around, and see Fall Out Boy.

10. SKAM. There’s a lot of sobby moments in that show. I’d like to say I cried over my dad’s death in 2017, but honestly it was more like a numb pain in the background. (Dad died early 2016.)

25. I created a few rather disposable ones for the writing_prompts blog. I have some that I’ve used for years that hop from story to story. I have one named Aiden, who is a 15 year old boy from Manchester who has tan skin, dark hair with a blond streak in it, and who was just trying to get through his life and survive his abusive surroundings. And then worse things happen.

[hiraeththsworld]

Writing prompts from songs #1

"He said he'll be standing here to take me, but he's not home."

Away from home,

Home.

#writing_prompts

[daphnethewriter]

Writing Prompt:

“You use people. It’s what you do.”

“I’ve never used you.”

“Is that what you think?”

[tinycodingkitty]

It looks like, from what they’ve said, they’re interested in making it so that you can buy stuff from tumblr blogs. If it’s how I think it will be (tumblrs put the products up, Auttomatic take their cut), it sounds like it could be pretty useful for artists and people who sell blog merch (I’m thinking like the hoodies that writing_prompts have sometimes). And I know it’s pretty unlikely (they probably mean memberships to tumblr, which would access extra features), but the way they worded it made it sound like a Patreon-esque support of blogs where you could buy membership to particularly popular blogs (while taking their cut), which could help people who currently use Patreon on their blogs.

So it looks like they want to make it so tumblr’s less the place you find things and support them elsewhere, and more the place where you can find AND support those blogs right there. Which could be quite interesting if it works. IF it works.

Interview and transcript of a conversation with the new owner of tumblr

[mustafa-el-fats]

"Thesaurus.com | Writing Tool" https://www.thesaurus.com/writingtool?writing_prompt=Jot%20down%20an%20outline%20of%20a%20novel%20idea%20you%20don%E2%80%99t%20think%20is%20good.

This was practice