All cultures on this planet crafted drums because the first beat we learned to dance to was our mother's heart.

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if i look back, i am lost
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@angrydumpling7
All cultures on this planet crafted drums because the first beat we learned to dance to was our mother's heart.
In Another Life
The branch cracks before she can put her full weight on it, but luckily, she grabs a sturdier one before she can plummet to the ground. Nora winces, knowing her pursuers are now alert to her hiding place.
“Has anyone ever told you how horrible you are at deception?” Evander calls.
At his side, Camille looks up to see the woman they’ve been chasing crouched against the trunk of a massive oak. She pulls an arrow from her quiver.
“Your highness?” Camille inquires. Evander motions for her to wait.
“I’d prefer you didn’t shoot me, Camille,” Nora calls out. “I don’t mean you any harm.”
Camille blinks. Darius shoots her a troubled look. Evander stalks closer to the tree. At his approach, Nora climbs higher. The prince stills.
“How do you know my name?” Camille yells.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Nora counters. These people aren’t her friends. This world is not her home. But they look the same. They sound the same. “How’s Edmund?”
The large man in question pauses in the act of bandaging his arm. With the same look of confusion to the others, Edmund shrugs.
“He’ll live. Have we met?” Camille says.
“I think I’d remember if we did,” Nora tries. She curses her own sentimentality once again. Since falling into this realm, she’s longed for any semblance of home. That’s what led to her sneaking into the palace in the first place. It’s why she went looking for the one person who mattered most. He might look like the same man, but his glower on finding her snooping in his private quarters turned her blood to ice. Her sense of self-preservation finally caught up to her, she ran, and now here she is, stuck in a tree, as the doppelgangers of her friends lurk below.
Writing prompt
Not electric
We're geometric
Shapes fit together
Writing prompt
They've got that Novocaine soul...
Can't feel a thing.
Writing prompt
Deviant men have blood on their hands.
Deviant women have blood on their teeth.
I came into this world as liquid metal
Bright and malleable
But your hammer always hit its mark
And you were surprised
When I grew sharp and cold
Saint George
Charles picked the boy up by his collar and pulled him away from the crew. He couldn’t be more than sixteen and looked as though he hadn’t had a decent meal in his entire life. Bruises and cuts in different stages of healing littered his skin. That in itself was a common sight for sailors, but it was the purple bruise shaped like a large hand on the boy’s throat that turned Charles’ stomach.
The boy didn’t give the slightest resistance at Charles’ manhandling. He kept his eyes and head downcast the whole walk.
On the Iron Dragon, George surveyed as his men transferred the goods to their ship. His brow quirked as Charles dropped onto the ship's deck holding a cabin boy by the collar of his shirt.
“An odd quarry, Charles,” George said. “Do you intend to store it with the other crates?”
“I have a request, Captain,” Charles said.
George looked over the boy once more. Glancing around the ship, he noted others had taken notice of their exchange, though they pretended to be absorbed in the task at hand.
“I think we had better speak of this privately,” George said before leading the way to his quarters.
Drifting in the void with his worst enemy. Fantastic.
Sian glared at the woman in question.
“Stare at me all you like,” Kiera said. She glanced all over the walls of the pod, not even bothering to look at him. “Even if you could manage to kill me, you’ll still be lost out here.”
“Don’t act like you don’t hate me as much as I do you,” he snarled.
“Oh, I do,” she bit back, “but we’re stuck here with no way out, so we might as well work together, don’t you think?”
Kiera pulled a panel from the wall, exposing the wires underneath. She studied them for a moment before moving to the opposite wall.
“Then we can go back to happily killing each other,” she flashed a gruesome smile as she wrenched a second panel off the wall.
“What are you doing?” he asked, swallowing his anger temporarily.
The Draw
He felt the sun beating down on his bare head, its light burning through his closed eyelids and stinging his retinas. His eyes fluttered open to take in his surroundings. A vast, sandy wasteland lay before him, windswept and barren.
Where?
There was nothing on the horizon no matter which way he turned his head. Heat caused the ground to dance in waves in the distance, but there was no true movement and no living creature in sight.
Slowly, he became aware of the objects in his hands. They had a solid weight, both alien and familiar at the same time. He looked down. His left hand had a firm grip on the warm handle of a silver revolver. The sun reflected wickedly off of the long barrel as he studied the weapon. Turning his head, he saw in his right hand a second gun, a near copy of the first except for its darker color.
What?
Bringing his hands up to his face, he studied the weapons. The gun in his right hand was made of black steel which seemed dull and ordinary when compared to its polished counterpart. His reflection stared back at him from the barrel of the gun in his left hand.
Who?
He gasped. There was nothing there. No memories. No name. Panic seized him as he racked his brain for any scrap of information. He was alone, but uninjured. His clothes were dirty and well-worn but sturdy—leather boots, pants, a shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a vest.
The guns. He studied them again. Both were oiled and kept in working order. The chambers were full, so it was safe to assume they hadn’t been fired recently. They were the same model and caliber. A flood of information sprung to his mind when inspecting them, but how did he know all this?
His fingers felt comfortable on the grip.
...
“We’ve fought each other many times,” he said, “and not once was I able to defeat you. You are the strongest dragon I have ever faced, perhaps the strongest of your kind. It’s why you survived when all the others did not.”
Even locked in a dark prison cell she carried herself with animalistic grace. Her hair formed a shroud over half of her face, but her eyes shined through to pierce him with an unnerving gaze.
“Much like humans, not every dragon is created equal,” she said. “I am a superlative among my kind, yes. But I am not the last.”
Me: (explains to doctor that I have a ton of symptoms of POTS but I haven't bothered to even try to get a diagnosis because ain't nobody got time for that)
Him: Well, to get diagnosed with POTS we'd have to rule out everything else by doing orthostatic blood pressure and an echo and an MRI and blood work etc. It usually takes 6-12 months.
Me: I FRICKING KNOW THAT'S WHY I'M NOT DIAGNOSED WHY ARE DOCTORS THE DUMBEST SMART PEOPLE OH MY GOD
Occasionally I think of that time in third grade when our assignment was to write down our favorite things and I didn't know how to spell "medieval" (talking about stories I like to read) and the teaching assistant, rather than help me learn to spell an unfamiliar word or just plain admit she didn't know how to spell it either, told me to replace it with "written a long time ago" and honestly if anything would be my villain origin story that would be it
Bless this man 😅
I hate the question, "what do you do for fun?" Because I always give an honest answer. "I read." And EVERY TIME the person scoffs or rolls their eyes or looks at me like I've grown a third head.
No more.
So I'm coming up with a new answer. A few options :
"I've dedicated my life to the hunt for the Sasquatch."
"I breed and raise hamsters for their meat."
"I don't have time for fun. I'm too busy preparing a bunker for the inevitable rise of Skynet."