Sometimes Creative @divwrites - Tumblr Blog

I know for a fact that my stepmother loves me.

I know it for a fact because the vaccine for the sleeping sickness came out when I was ten, and she cried. When she was a kid, parents would have Sleep Overs whenever someone caught it, in the hopes of spread it around - children were statistically more likely to be woken up by "True Love's Kiss" from a parent or family member, after all, whereas if you caught it when you were older, things got more complicated and if you were old, you might be the last one in your family left.

(There’s more to it than that, I know, I've tried reading the papers, but I barely passed biocurse with a C+, and don't even get me started on organic curses. Those two classes were enough to kill any hope I had of becoming a fairy godperson.)

So, when the vaccine against the sleeping sickness came out, my stepmother cried, and my father got me on the list right away; I wasn't high priority, after all; I was young, there wasn't an active outbreak in my school district, and I was otherwise healthy. But they put me on the backup list anyway, so if there was one, just one available, I could get it.

When the fairy godperson's office called, my dad was at work, but my stepmother bundled me up and drove there so fast I thought we were going to be pulled over. (Later, I found out that she'd gotten an automated ticket from one of the red light cameras, a fact that she hid from both me and my dad.) They called my dad, of course, and he left work, but he also gave the okay for my stepmother to be my medical proxy in case he was delayed.

Vaccines don't last forever, and it was decided that I would be given it without him there. At 100 minutes, my stepmother would try kissing my forehead, and if it didn't work, the office would set me up for the 100 hours it would take before my dad could try.

Magic can't be ignored, but it can be tricked.

It didn't matter. At 100 minutes post-vaccine, my stepmother kissed my forehead and I woke up.

So. I know she loves me.

scaehime

Trick the magic by calling her your mom, not your stepmother. Names have power.

loracarol

I got curious as to what the comments said, and I wanted to say - you're right!

NGL, that was actually the ending in the first draft! And I think that that's part of what lead to the lack of studying it as a curse; it didn't happen in 100% of step-families.

In this particular case, part of the problem was that both people affected by the curse hid it, so they didn't have a chance to try other things before the curse got too powerful; it's possible that they would have had a chance to try that if they'd caught it earlier in the process.

And then, how do step families - stepmothers, in this instance, navigate that? Especially if they're trying to be respectful? I think this stepmother was trying to still acknowledge the bio mom, you know? "Don't worry, I'm not here to replace her," kind of thing. It's a tricky tightrope for them to walk.

tl;dr you're right!

loracarol

I am still in awe of all of these notes, thank you!!

I know no one has any money right now, but if you're up for it, I do have a ko-fi set up. :)

I still have the notes enabled, and I want y'all to know that I read all the tags!

Thank you again!!

#other's cws #d's queue

strangelittlestories

After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.

Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.

The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.

Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.

This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.

"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.

"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.

This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.

Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.

"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."

And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.

Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.

Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.

On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.

As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.

Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.

She always had been a wizard with silk.

#other's cws #d's queue

avelera

Pro-writing tip: if your story doesn't need a number, don't put a fucking number in it.

Nothing, I mean nothing, activates reader pedantry like a number.

I have seen it a thousand times in writing workshops. People just can't resist nitpicking a number. For example, "This scifi story takes place 200 years in the future and they have faster than light travel because it's plot convenient," will immediately drag every armchair scientist out of the woodwork to say why there's no way that technology would exist in only 200 years.

Dates, ages, math, spans of time, I don't know what it is but the second a specific number shows up, your reader is thinking, and they're thinking critically but it's about whether that information is correct. They are now doing the math and have gone off drawing conclusions and getting distracted from your story or worse, putting it down entirely because umm, that sword could not have existed in that Medieval year, or this character couldn't be this old because it means they were an infant when this other story event happened that they're supposed to know about, or these two events now overlap in the timeline, or... etc etc etc.

Unless you are 1000% certain that a specific number is adding to your narrative, and you know rock-solid, backwards and forwards that the information attached to that number is correct and consistent throughout the entire story, do yourself a favor, and don't bring that evil down upon your head.

bookishdiplodocus

Editor here. Can confirm.

"Two centuries later" just triggers a mental note to check if timing is consistent throughout the book, because it may mean more time jumps are ahead. "200 years later", or heaven forbid, "201 years later" will have me draw up a time line. The more specific the number, the more critical people become.

Strange phenomenon. Well spotted, OP.

longroadstonowhere

actually i think i might have an explanation for this from linguistics? i think folks get more nitpicky if you have specific numbers because of gricean maxims, specifically the maxims of quality and quantity

basically gricean maxims are a set of guidelines that we all carry in our heads that we expect other people to follow when having a conversation in good faith - i’m copying and pasting definitions from someone else because my attempts at summing up quality and quantity weren’t going so hot

The maxim of quantity, where one tries to be as informative as one possibly can, and gives as much information as is needed, and no more.

The maxim of quality, where one tries to be truthful, and does not give information that is false or that is not supported by evidence.

so basically, when you put a rough number in a text, people think subconsciously ‘oh, the exact number isn’t important, because if it was they would tell me an exact number, so i don’t need to worry about this’, whereas if you put something precise in, people’s brains go ‘wait, they think i need to know this information so i’ll remember it, but now it’s later and they’ve said something that contradicts it, so at least one of those times they were lying and i must figure out which time it was’

dduane

Also: don't specify data storage sizes. Just, you know, don't.

#advice #d's queue

writing-prompt-s

write a story about how you became the world’s most powerfull person… by accident.

caffeinewitchcraft

You learn about the butterfly effect in school. The concept is interesting, but not so interesting that you don’t fall asleep partway through the movie. You hear something distantly about a butterfly beating its wings and hurricanes. You think it will never apply to you.

You know now (not then) that power comes through and from favors.

If you had known that then you would probably not have done so many.

(This is where it starts.)

One.

There is a strange creature crossing the road behind the lecture hall. You stop on your bike and frown at it. It looks a little like a turtle, but it’s limbs are longer than any turtle you’ve ever seen. It’s stretched out on the hot asphalt, long, pale limbs clawing forward towards the small stream that runs on the other side.

You hop off your bike and gently pick the creature up, hands under the belly of the shell like you learned from the internet.

Imagine your surprise when the shell slides off the creature instead, dropping a tiny woman onto the asphalt.

“Water,” she croaks, tiny eyes screwed shut. Her eyelids are the size of yours which means they’re huge on her. “Please.”

(You will not know until later what exactly please means to the fae.)

You feel yourself move through your shock. You pick her up and take her to the water’s edge. She slips under the surface, pale skin flashing like the scales of a fish, and she’s gone.

You’d wonder if your roommate slipped you something this morning if she wasn’t back a moment later, pushing a small rock into your hands.

“A boon,” she says. Her eyes are large and black, suited for her underwater world. “For a favor.” She smiles, showing teeth jagged and sharp like a piranha.

When you blink, she’s gone.

You stare at the rock in your left hand. It’s smooth and worn from years in water, an interesting swirl of granite and quartz. “I wish I knew,” you tell it.

The rock ices over so fast that you don’t have time to drop it. The frost swirls across your skin, burning you where it touches, and you watch in horror as your skin turns a mottled black and blue.

You fall to your knees from the pain and choke on a scream as the stone sinks into you, touching your bones and sending more ice through your marrow. It climbs up your arm and touches your eye, changing you vision so now that you’re see double, a strange, blue world juxtaposed next to the one you know and love.

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drhughgrection

I come back to this story multiple times a year. It still strikes me the same way it did when I first read it. Chills and excitement. It feels fresh and new every time.

It’s also the first writing prompt I remember reading, or maybe it’s the first truly memorable one I’ve read. It’s the one that got me following your writing for several years now.

I genuinely enjoy your work, literally all of it, and can’t wait to d see what you come up with next!

caffeinewitchcraft

Thank you so much! The fact that this stuck with you is so awesome. I feel like this story is one of my “core” ones. A story that rings true to me and what I love writing about :) So thanks for reading!

#other's cws

writing-prompt-s

“May you have a life of safety and peace”, said the witch, cursing the bloodthirsty warrior.

meg-moira

The words of the slain hold tremendous power.

It’s why any sensible warrior is a master of swift endings. Such as an arrow through the eye or a clean separation of head from shoulders. In a pinch, a slit throat will do. Though it really is best to avoid giving your enemy the chance to make even garbled curses out of their last bloody breaths. For even those without the slightest touch of magic have been known to make a curse stick if it’s uttered on the cold brink of death.

Eindred the Bloody collected curses in the same way that other warriors collected scars. Even in the wild chaos of battle, he was known to take a knee, pressing his ear to a felled enemy’s laboring lips.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

The last was his most recent curse, and Eindred wondered if it meant some great murdered brute was tracing his steps, waiting to catch him while he slept.

Eindred crossed the peninsula with a company of barbaric warriors, gaining a new curse from every enemy he felled. Not all of them would stick, he knew. But some undoubtedly would. And he would deserve every one.

Others in his company treated him with to wary, sidelong glances, because surely it was dangerous to travel with one so cursed as he. But Eindred was a force in battle, relentless and unstoppable as an icy winter gale, and so they swallowed their complaints, and contented themselves with leaving a wide berth on either side of his scarred, patchwork arms.

Eindred was marching at the back of the company when they came upon the village. It was a collection of squat, wooden homes tucked beneath a snow capped mountainside. From thatched rooftops, wisps of smoke from cooking fires rose, painting the blue sky in pale, meandering strokes.

This company tended to leave such settlements alone, and Eindred was glad for it. No warriors would be found in tiny mountainside villages, and though he might live to fight, he had no interest in wholesale slaughter.

This time, however, the company leader - a silent, brutish man, held up a hand.

Their company was running low on food, it turned out, and even from a distance, the warriors could see the village’s sheep - a trail of white spots on the green hillside.

Eindred was disappointed when, ultimately, violence erupted in the quiet village, though he did not lay down his thick handled blade.

The shepherd boy had refused to give up his master’s sheep, and when he shouted, a blacksmith had burst from his home, wielding a great hammer in his hand.

The battle was short.

When all was done, four lay dead. The shepherd, the blacksmith, and two young men who’d foolishly taken up crude wooden spears. The rest of the villagers huddled, terrified in their homes. The warriors expected to slaughter the sheep with no further trouble, but when they turned back to the field, an individual stood blocking their way.

His hair was dark - as the hair in these parts tended to be, and his face was sharp, both nose and cheeks splattered with freckles. Golden eyes beheld the warriors, and he watched them with a steady, measured gaze. Without the slightest hint of fear, he stood before them, his simple robe fluttering in the icy mountain’s breath, and said: “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The other warriors in the company laughed at the young man’s foolishness - for that was what it looked like to them. Eindred did not laugh, however. Though the stranger’s voice was light, the air stirred around him.

It was rare to encounter one who commanded magics. Rare - but not impossible. And so Eindred alone was unsurprised when the young man turned his golden eyes to the heavens and summoned great branches of lightning which cleaved the skies above them. The world erupted and the men around Eindred screamed.

Eindred, who’d expected something like this, had already begun running.

Later, he would think it odd that the witch hadn’t bothered to move. But in the heat of battle, with lightning splitting the field at his back, Eindred’s attention had narrowed to the rough point of his blade - and then, the crimson place where it pierced the witch’s chest.

The skies silenced as Eindred pulled the wet, crimson blade free of its target.

It took just a moment for the witch to fall, but in that single, infinite moment, Eindred was subjected to the full weight of that golden gaze.

Legs folding beneath him, the witch crumpled, collapsing back onto the wild, wet grass. Eindred knelt beside him, grimly eager to hear the curse and be done with it. Surely a curse at the lips of one so powerful as this would finally bring an end to things?

To take one’s own life was an unspeakably shameful end for a warrior such as he. But a curse? Well, one couldn’t help how the wrong curse might speed things along.

The witch’s black hair was damp from the dew in the grass, and when he turned, it stuck to the side of his face and neck. His mouth opened and closed. Holding his breath, Eindred leaned in.

“-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over,” the witch whispered. “In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

Eindred shook his head. He didn’t understand.

Impossibly, the witch smiled. When he lifted a hand, Eindred twitched, expecting to be struck.

The witch’s bloodied finger, however, did nothing more than tap his chest. And then, in a wet, rattling breath, the witch, with his great power finally spoke his curse.

“May you live a life of safety and peace.”

Eindred sat, his thick, scarred knuckles braced in the dirt as the cold mountain wind whistled down the hillside at his back.

“What?” he whispered.

But the young man’s golden eyes were blank and empty, and the other warriors lay dead in the field. Only the relentless wind snapped and whistled in answer.

Eindred left.

Within a month, he’d joined up with another company. And it soon became clear the witch’s death rattle had been a curse of great power indeed. For wherever Eindred traveled, peace inevitably followed. Enemy warriors surrendered and when they didn’t, members within Eindred’s own company had sudden changes of heart. As for Eindred himself, not a single person would raise a blade against him, and Eindred had never been the sort who could raise his own blade against one who had no wish to fight.

And so for another month he wandered, hapless, without even the dark purpose of collecting curses which had driven him for the last several years.

He’d been raised with a sword in his hand, brought up knowing full well that his job in life would be to cut short the existence of any who stood against him. Not even thirty, and his soul was exhausted, worn ragged by such an life. And so, he’d sought a way out if it. Eindred had accumulated a terrifying number of curses - curses which would surely have felled lesser men than he. Before everything had gone wrong in the tiny village, he’d been sure it was only a matter of time before they overcame him.

But now, the witch’s single curse had overpowered them all.

Eindred was safer than he’d ever been in his life. He’d never known such a quiet, terrible peace.

After another month, he returned to the mountainside village. He didn’t have any good reason to return - other than perhaps the distant hope that a villager’s rage might be enough to overcome the curse. As he climbed the grassy hillside, he resigned himself to potential death by club or rake.

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#other's cws #d's queue

rainbow223posts

A dumb idea i had for a while and I finally finished it now

Also I know citron has an amazing voice but please it's just for the laughs

#a3!#harugumi #spring troupe #d's queue

deepwaterfiction

Text: Sometimes in the dead of night on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I see an extra door in the hallway, black and imposing.

dycefic

It’s not a bad boarding house, as these things go.

We’re not allowed up to the fourth floor, for any reason – but I don’t blame the landlady for wanting her privacy.

Nobody but the landlady answers the strange willow-patterned telephone on the third floor landing.

We all lock our windows on full moon nights.

No couples are allowed, ever. Only single women and girls.

And sometimes, if you go down the hall to the kitchen late at night, there’s a strange black door that’s never there by daylight.

For some reason, it’s hard to get new lodgers to stay. I don’t know why. It’s a little strange, maybe, but the meals are good, Mrs Hallow the landlady is kind, and the rent is ridiculously cheap. I’ll take the strange black door and the phone that rings even when there’s no wire going to it over rats in the walls and cigarette ash in the food any day. My last boarding house was like that. I like it here.

I’d been living here for nearly two years when I lost my job working at the telephone exchange. It wasn’t my fault – they cut the night shift back, and one of the girls cut was me. Mrs Hallow told me not to worry – as I was an old lodger, she’d let me work for room and board while I looked for another job. She’s so nice, I don’t know why people say she’s creepy. It’s not her fault she’s so tall and thin, and her bones show through her fragile old skin.

I worked hard, wanting her to be glad she’d kept me. One of the jobs she gave me, since I was used to working nights, was packing lunches after supper. For the Night Gentlemen, she told me, but didn’t say more. Every night, I packed twenty lunches in twenty tin pails and filled twenty thermoses with strong coffee. I made sandwiches, and boiled eggs, sliced pickles and cheese, and packed a paper napkin into each pail. I was to have everything done by eleven, Mrs Hallow told me, for the Night Gentlemen came at midnight to collect their meals, and I should be in bed by then. By morning, the pails were all gone. By evening, they were all stacked neatly in the kitchen again, clean and ready to be filled. I never saw them come, but I supposed it must be while I was sleeping.

Then I started to worry that my lunches were dull. I baked cookies for the lunch pails, and pies and pasties. I put in different kinds of fruit and vegetables each day. The Night Gentlemen worked late hours, if they came for their lunches in the middle of the night. They needed to eat good food. I looked through Mrs Hallow’s old recipe books and tried new dishes, like german apple pancake and potato dumplings. Mrs Hallow was pleased, and said she would pay me a little wage in addition to my room and board, if I didn’t mind continuing. She was getting too old, she said, to make all those meals every night.

I had been working at the boarding house for nearly six months when I really messed up. I’d burned a whole batch of cookies to a crisp, so I had to start all over, and I didn’t have time to decorate them before evening. It was Valentine’s Day, and I felt so bad that I decided to stay up late to finish them. The Night Gentlemen didn’t come until midnight, so I had time… I thought.

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#other's cws #d's queue

knightsickness

absolute funniest thing that capcom ever did was establish an intimidating and antagonistic rival at the top of his field in the first ace attorney and then in the sequel reveal that he’s actually the soft bitch of the family and his extremely powerful little sister is coming to beat the shit out of you

#ace attorney #d's queue

quousque

YOU KNOW WHAT BOTHERS ME

when fantasy books describe the cloth of Quant Farmpeople’s clothing as “homespun” or “rough homespun”

“homespun” as opposed to what??? EVERYTHING WAS SPUN AT HOME

they didn’t have fucking spinning factories, your pseudo-medieval farmwife is lucky if she has a fucking spinning wheel, otherwise she’s spinning every single thread her family wears on a drop spindle NO ONE ELSE WAS DOING THE SPINNING unless you go out of your way to establish a certain baseline of industrialization in your fake medieval fantasy land.

and “rough”??? lol just because it’s farm clothes? bitch cloth was valuable as fuck because of the labor involved ain’t no self-respecting woman gonna waste fiber and ALL THAT FUCKING TIME spinning shitty yarn to weave into shitty cloth she’s gonna make GOOD QUALITY SHIT for her family, and considering that women were doing fiber prep/spinning/weaving for like 80% of their waking time up until very recently in world history, literally every woman has the skills necessary to produce some TERRIFYINGLY GOOD QUALITY THREADS

come to think of it i’ve never read a fantasy novel that talks about textile production at all??? like it’s even worse than the “where are all the farms” problem like where are people getting the cloth if no one’s doing the spinning and weaving??? kmart???

systlin

THANK U

rosslynpaladin

pro tip: what do you say instead? I gotcha.

In Ye Olde Medieval Fantasy Dayes, everybody’s layer against skin (shirt tunic or shift) is gonna be linen. it’s almost never wool except stockings or hose (like pant legs). Say “undyed cloth” if you wanna make them sound simple and peasanty. Comment on how you can tell it wasn’t made for them (the fit is off) and has had probably eight owners before.

Outer clothing is gonna be either wool, or a blend called Linsey-woolsey, and again you could say Undyed, but dyes are not only common they are CHEAP and relatively easy. (innerwear is often left undyed or bleached to white because it gets washed to heck- like beaten by a wooden stick on a stone by the river- and dye would just fade out a lot so why bother. Ths is also why innerwear has ties, rarely buttons, unless you are so rich you have people doing your washing delicately because they’re hired to do only that. Buttons would get broken in the washing)

A poorer person is often seen in “russet”, a kind of rusty orange-brown color. Purple was famously reserved for royalty in many times and places, but its also just hard to do. We see a lot more magentas and fuschias for nobles or common middle class folks than we ever see of Purple- and not many of those. Deep blue was more likely on very rich people, but a light blue was common for even poorer folks. Yellow was popular with everyone, and so was green, and many shades of reds, including the color we now call orange (they did not- this is why redheads are called redheads and not orangeheads). Your vision of everyone in very drab brown and mud colors is from Hollywood- most medieval-ren folks have clothing with colors. Sometimes garish colors, to the modern eye. Traffic cone Orange and acid green was a popular combo in the 13th century.

emblazonet

Every fantasy writer needs to hang out at a local SCA hangout a couple times and ask people about their garb. You’ll never dress your peasants in brown again.

jackironsides

I saw a fic set in roughly Mediæval times where a character complained about the ‘thread count’ of sheets, and I thought No. Knowing the thread count is such a modern thing; such a marketers-post-industrialisation thing. Your characters might complain that they’re roughly woven compared to professional spinners in town, or using poorly spun thread perhaps, but I guaran-fucken-tee you that they Do Not Know what thread count IS. Even if they are weavers themselves, they probably just talk about the density of thread rather than ‘thread count’ – the cloth would be tightly woven vs loosely woven.

Also, if you don’t have an SCA chapter to talk to, you could also try talking to your local spinners and weavers guild about natural dyes. I know someone involved in my city’s guild, and they run all kinds of workshops. Including a natural dye workshop in the past, which my friend took.

(I actually used my knowledge of natural dyes to push back on a textbook author who thought our illustrator had made a stack of Elizabethan cloth too brightly coloured.)

Heck, there’s lots of websites and blogs where you can find info about natural dyes, including pictures of the outcome; it’s what I used to convince the author. Even if you’re making up your own world’s flora, you might get an idea about how you want dyes to work. Different parts of the same plant will often produce different colours. And some plants will give different colours depending on the mordant (colour fixative) used.

Availability of colour and dye can also vary on geography. Indigo was difficult and expensive in Europe for a long time (including the Middle Ages), but ubiquitous in Japan (certainly during the Edo period, which is a little later). This is because plants that produce indigo best are native to Asia – Ancient Greece and Rome imported indigo from India. Mediæval dyers used woad to get the same colour, but apparently it’s less colourfast than true indigo.

And the reason why purple is associated with royalty is because extracting Tyrian purple dye from murex snails is difficult, labour intensive and involved thousands of the creatures. Thus it’s expensive and highly valued. So if you’re writing a fantasy world, you could choose a different colour for royalty.

The other fun thing about textile history is that their cloth was often better than ours. Well-woven pre-industrial cloth could have a density and fineness that our modern industrial cloth doesn’t tend to have. It’s a pain if you’re into historical costuming, because you might go looking for a specific weave of cotton, say, and it just doesn’t exist anymore.

madilayn

Homespun is actually a type of cloth, rather than a description of how it was made. Rough homespun would be homespun cloth thst was not as finely woven or from cloth that had been remade from one garment into another. Or from yarn that was not as finely spun as it could other have been. A common msconception was that every medieval lower class person could spin and weave and baked their own bread and was basically self sufficient. This was not the case. Medieval villages were pretty much communes. They had a baker who tended the village oven . Housewives could bring their bread there to be baked, or could bring the ingredients to the baker to mix and bake, or even just pay the baker. Most women did spin - using a drop spindle or a distaff spindle usually (spinning wheels are a later invention). Of course, not evertybody was good at spinning. Ability varied, so some were spinning very fine yarn/thread and some were chunky and uneven and not great. But because everything was used, all types of yarn was used. Some eople did do their own weaving, but usually there was a village weaver who usually had an apprentice. They woudl weave cloth from thread/yarn bought to them by a person, or from what they spun or bought. Most of life in a medieval village was a barter economy. There were tasks that a village was required to do as a whole as part of their tithe to the Manor. As well as tasks that needed to be completed for their own survivsl. Goods and services were bartered for other goods and services. So a person who is a skilled weaver, would barter their skills for food, or for work in the fields In villages that didn’t have a fuller/dyer then many cloth was plain bleached or unbleached. It was dyed by the individual (if they had time). Black and brown were definitely NOT pesant coliours! They were difficult to dye, and difficult to keep looking good. In larger towns and villages, you could tell how poor somebody was by the colour of their clothing. Dyeing was done in runs - so the first run of fresh dye was used foir the finest cloth, and would be the most expensive fabric. Usually used for the wealthy. The subsequents runs of the dye bath produced paler colours, and the colours may not be colourfast. So they could be unevenly dyed, or be very pals or patchy or even look like the dye has run. Or even (quite commonly) several dye baths of different colours were mixed together at the end of their “life” to get another couple of runs. These produced very muddy colours that would have perpeduated the whole “brown” as a pesant colour of clothing. (actually the truly poor would be wearing unbleached cloth) Yup - I’ve been in the SCA foir over 20 years now (and also work with other historical renactment groups) with a main interest in textiles, and also the role of women in society. My persona is actusally a 15th century cloth merchant (there were surprisingly quite a lot of female cloth merchants - usually wmen who had grown up in the trade, or who had married into it).

#reference #d's queue

Why Now?

previous episode ↭ next episode (coming maybe)

What had you been when you were alive? You can’t remember.

It had to be some sentient life form. After all, you still remember being alive.

What a weird thing memory is. You remember being something before what you are now but you do not remember what you once were.

You look to the First Guardian.

“Is there a Guardian for Memory?”

The First Guardian glanced at you. How you know they glanced at you, you are unsure but glance they did.

“I don’t make Guardians but as far as I know, one does not exist. You are not the first of Bravery to ask nor will you be the last. Or maybe you will.”

It is in this moment you remember that the universe is fast and there is much unknown. You hold a tidbit of information close to you.

Maybe they meant for you to know, or maybe they did not but what you just learned from the First Guardian was that there had been a Bravery before you and there might be a Bravery after you.

How fascinating.

“Why do you think there might be a Bravery after me?”

The First Guardian paused in their movement but not really. The universe is always moving and yet it felt still in that moment.

“Bravery dies. It is a fact of this universe. That and the fact that sentient life can only exist for so long before it can no longer survive.”

You feel yourself frown.

“Just how tied are the Guardian to life and why am I Bravery now?”

“Those are questions you must answer for yourself. I certainly won’t for you.”

#the guardian #div writes

writing-prompt-s

Long before you were born, your father promised his firstborn to otherworldly beings in exchange for power. In a twist of fate, your mother also promised her firstborn to dark gods.

screamingatanemptyroom

It was definitely the worst eighteenth birthday ever.

“You sold me to who?!” I shouted at my father, who stared back at me calmly over his morning coffee, as if we were discussing breakfast rather then him making a dark deal with supernatural beings.

“You know I hate repeating myself, Donald. “ He answered irritably, “Before you were born I promised the dark spirits of Opes my firstborn child on their eighteenth birthday. I honestly thought we weren’t planning on having children at that time, in my defense.”

I stared at him open mouthed, even the misty dark creatures hovering over the kitchen chair across from me seemed slightly surprised at his nonchalant tone. “So you guys own me now?” I asked them, my voice squeaking slightly at the last word, a bad habit I’ve had since my adolescence began.

They didn’t have eyes, but were facing my general direction, their voices low and rough, like gravel being poured onto a fresh grave. “Technically, just your soul. You should be fine, really. Plenty of people are soulless.”

“What did you even get for my soul?” I pointed a finger at my father.

He sighed, “There was this really great Porsche I wanted, but couldn’t afford.” Shrugging he added “It seemed like a good deal at the time.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You traded that car when I was five! You traded the car you sold my soul for!”

“Honestly, Donald, stop making such a big deal about this. It’s just your soul.”

I turned to my mother, who was reading the gossip/society section of the paper through this whole conversation. “Don’t you have anything to add?”

“Listen to your father, dear.” Was her helpful addition. She didn’t even glance up from her reading.

Thanks, Mom. I turned to the tall fiery beings silently standing in the corner.

“Are you guys part of the ‘dark spirits Opes’ too?”

The tallest one shook his head, his voice was high pitched liked the scream of an infant.

“No, we are the dark gods of Venustas. We are here to collect your soul as well.”

I threw up my hands “Dad! You sold me to TWO dark beings? Isn’t one enough?”

For the first time my father looked upset. “That wasn’t me! I only sold you once.”

Again my mother chimed in without looking up. “That was me, I’m afraid. Sold off my firstborn many years ago for youth and beauty.” She checked her makeup briefly in a compact and then met everyone’s disbelieving stares. “What? You think looking this good is NATURAL? I wasn’t planning on having children. If I hadn’t forgotten about that deal and Mary Jane down the street hadn’t been flaunting her nursery designs everywhere, I wouldn’t have agreed to have one.”

There was so much wrong with that. I really didn’t know where to start. The two supernatural groups were staring at each other hostilely. I braced myself for the upcoming fight.

That was when the Devil appeared in a burst of flame. He was a bit too big to fit into our kitchen, his horns broke a small crystal in the chandelier above and his two hooves were scratching the hardwood floor. My mom was going to have a field day. Although, she did technically sell my soul away so my sympathy for her was pretty low.

“I am here to claim your soul, mortal!” He cried, holding up his fist in a threatening manner. He then seemed to notice the general chilly atmosphere of the room, as well as the multiple groups of dark beings. “What I’d miss?”

My father sighed. “Wasn’t me.”

My mother shook out her paper, returning to her reading. “Wasn’t me either.”

Everyone stared at eachother in astonishment, and after an awkward amount of silence I slowly raised my hand.

“Actually, that one was me.”

The dark spirits laughed. “YOU sold your soul to the Devil?”

I crossed my arms defensively. “You think getting an all-expense paid scholarship to Harvard is EASY? Besides, it’s not like I KNEW that my parents had already sold my soul twice.”

My father chuckled. “Like father, like son, I guess.”

I glared at him. “Shut up! I’m still mad at you.”

The Devil, the dark spirits and the fiery gods all faced off in the corner of our kitchen.

“It seems we are at an impasse.” The Devil growled, his spiked tail snapping in irritation.

The fire surrounding the dark gods grew brighter. “So it would seem.” They screeched in reply.

“We submit that we settle this in the Ancient Tradition.” The dark spirits spoke in unison.

The Devil laughed in response. “An old fashioned approach, huh? I like it!”

The tension in the air grew thick as silence settled among the three. I stared worriedly into the group, wondering if I should try to move out of the way of whatever supernatural fight they were starting.

The three groups of beings crouched in unison on the kitchen floor, facing each other. They each raised a fist.

“ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS, GO!”

writing-prompt-s

Omg

#other's cws

kayespivey

I cannot emphasize enough how much you need to read thoroughly through the terms of any publication before you send your writing to them. It is mandatory that you know and understand what rights you’re giving away when you’re trying to get published.

Just the other day I was emailed by a relatively new indie journal looking for writers. They made it very clear that they did not pay writers for their work, so I figured I’d probably be passing, but I took a look at their Copyright policy out of curiosity and it was a nightmare. They wanted “non-exclusive, irrevocable, royalty-free, perpetual, worldwide license and right to use, display, reproduce, distribute, and publish the Work on the internet and on or in any medium” (that’s copy and pasted btw) and that was the first of 10 sections on their Copyright agreement page. Yikes. That’s exactly the type of publishing nightmare you don’t want to be trapped in.

Most journals will ask for “First North American Rights” or a variation on “First Rights” which operate under the assumption that all right revert back to you and they only have the right to be the first publishers of the work. That is what you need to be looking for because you do want to retain all the rights to your work.

You want all rights to revert back to you upon publication in case you, say, want to publish it again in the future or use it for a bookmark or post it on your blog, or anything else you might want to do with the writing you worked hard on. Any time a publisher wants more than that, be very suspicious. Anyone who wants to own your work forever and be able to do whatever they want with it without your permission is not to be trusted. Anyone who wants all that and wants you to sign away your right to ever be paid for your work is running a scam.

Protect your writing. It’s not just your intellectual property, it’s also your baby. You worked hard on it. You need to do the extra research to protect yourself so that a scammer (or even a well meaning start up) doesn’t steal you work right from under you nose and make money off of it.

the960writers

Exclusive publishing rights have to have a set time frame! Do not agree to anything that doesn’t clearly state “up to five years from signature” or something like that.

What if the publisher goes defunct? What if they get bought by another publisher who doesn’t care to promote or publish your work? You still can’t to anything with it, you don’t own it anymore!

For a thorough overview of what you should be aware of regarding your intellectual property and publishing rights, please read through this collection of post [https://kriswrites.com/business-musings/contracts-and-dealbreakers/] by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

Protect your IP. Do not give away your stories.

ellidfics

Every writer needs to read this before signing that contract:

Writer Beware!

#publishing

sandydragon1

Tips for Writing Healthy Romantic Relationships

Don’t base them exclusively on physical and/or sexual attraction. While these kinds of attraction can certainly strengthen relationships, they can’t create anything but a weak foundation for a relationship on their own.

Know how your characters like to show and be shown affection. Not everyone shows their interest in others the same way. Some people like to give gifts. Others like to cuddle. Still others like giving compliments. Different people like to receive different kinds of affection as well.

Remember that love at first sight is a myth. You can have lust at first sight and romantic interest at first sight, but true love takes time to develop.

Show the characters interacting and getting to know each other. This should be obvious, but it is all to common for a character to be given a love interest at the last minute or to be paired off with someone the reader hasn’t seen them interact with much. Remember, the reader doesn’t have to see every little thing they do together, but the relationship will feel forced to the reader if they don’t see the characters interacting and establishing that they genuinely care about each other in a significant way. If the reader views your character’s significant other as little more than a stranger, then you’re doing something wrong.

Have both characters do things for each other and contribute to the relationship in meaningful ways. Relationships are two way streets. While you don’t need to keep score of exactly who does what for who (Relationships are not a competitive sport!), the relationship should seem fairly balanced or, if it’s not, then the characters should be working to change that.

Don’t give your characters completely incompatible traits. While it’s healthy for people to differ from each other, there are some differences that even people that are otherwise perfect for each other probably can’t overcome. For example, a environmental activist would have a hard time having a healthy relationship with someone who wants to chop dow a forest. Basically, know your characters’ deal breakers so that you won’t try to match up characters who are simply incompatible with each other.

Have them share interests. This is a great way to add substance to relationships outside of physical attraction and compatible personalities. Maybe they both like fishing. Maybe they share a passion for baking. Whatever you decide to have them like, don’t be afraid to use your characters’ shared interests as opportunities for them to bond. Also, if your characters don’t share a lot of interests/hobbies, consider having one character introduce the other to their hobby or have one character take initiative to try something the other likes. This is a great way to show how much your characters care about each other because it demonstrates your characters’ genuine interest in what makes their partner happy.

Let the relationship experience at least a few bumps in the road. No relationships are perfect. Let your characters disagree, argue, and maybe even have a full on fight. Relationships that withstand obstacles seem stronger to readers, especially if the characters grow as people because of these hardships.

#writing advice

writing-prompt-s

The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.

mildswearingat4am

Suggestion: The dragon’s definition of “steal” is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change hands–but on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.

They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.

“Here’s your change, ma'am. One gold piece.” The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.

“That’s a dragon,” you say dumbly. “One piece… and a dragon.”

“Yes.”

You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.

“Ma'am–no, ma'am, you have to take the dragon, too.”

“Sorry?”

The seller notes your dubious expression. “Not from around here, are ya?” They shrug. “Them’s the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.”

They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.

The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.

“Have a nice day, ma'am,” the merchant says. “Spend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.”

From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.

bdubs8807

Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.

#other's cws #d's queue

thewritershandbook

123 Ideas for Character Flaws

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another.

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear. (List specific complex.)

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned.

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable

Disorder - An ailment that affects the function of mind or body. (List the disorders name if they have one.) See the Mental Disorder List.

Disturbed - Showing some or a few signs or symptoms of mental or emotional illness. Confused, disordered, neurotic, troubled.

Dubious - Fraught with uncertainty or doubt. Undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Dyslexic - Affected by dyslexia, a learning disorder marked by impairment of the ability to recognize and comprehend written words.

Egotistical - Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Envious - Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic - Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behaviour. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Fanatical - Fanatic outlook or behaviour especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject.

Fickle – Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce - Marked by extreme intensity of emotions or convictions; inclined to react violently; fervid.

Finicky - Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated - In psychoanalytic theory, a strong attachment to a person or thing, especially such an attachment formed in childhood or infancy and manifested in immature or neurotic behaviour that persists throughout life. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirt -To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; behaviour intended to arouse sexual interest. Minx. Tease.

Gluttonous - Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Gruff - Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly.

Gullible - Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped.

Hard - A person who is difficult to deal with, manage, control, overcome, or understand. Hard emotions, hard hearted.

Hedonistic - Pursuit of or devotion to pleasure, especially to the pleasures of the senses.

Hoity-toity- Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Humourless - The inability to find humour in things, and most certainly in themselves.

Hypocritical - One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist - One whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. One who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic - Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant - Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Illiterate - Unable to read and write.

Immature - Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Impatient - Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish - Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent - Unable to execute tasks, no matter how the size or difficulty.

Indecisive - Characterized by lack of decision and firmness, especially under pressure.

Indifferent - The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamy - Having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Intolerant - Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgemental - Inclined to make and form judgements, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/practices/groups/religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz - Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy - Resistant to work or exertion; disposed to idleness.

Lewd - Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar - Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Lustful - Driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Masochist - The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Meddlesome - Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering.

Meek - Evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac - A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Naïve - Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement.

Nervous - Easily agitated or distressed; high-strung or jumpy.

Non-violent - Abstaining from the use of violence.

Nosey - Given to prying into the affairs of others; snoopy. Offensively curious or inquisitive.

Obsessive - An unhealthy and compulsive preoccupation with something or someone.

Oppressor - A person of authority who subjects others to undue pressures, to keep down by severe and unjust use of force or authority.

Overambitious - Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident - Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional - Excessively or abnormally emotional. Sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective - To protect too much; coddle.

Overzealous - Marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifist - Opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes. (Can double as a merit in certain cases)

Paranoid - Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others.

Peevish - Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist - A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards.

Pessimist - A tendency to stress the negative or unfavourable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest - One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Phobic – They have a severe form of fear when it comes to this one thing. Examples: Dark, Spiders, Cats

Practical - Level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. No-nonsense.

Predictable - Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Proud - Filled with or showing excessive self-esteem and will often shirk help from others for the sake of pride.

Rebellious - Defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel.

Reckless - Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Remorseless - Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Rigorous - Rigidly accurate; allowing no deviation from a standard; demanding strict attention to rules and procedures.

Sadist - The deriving of sexual gratification or the tendency to derive sexual gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochist - Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic - A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Sceptic - One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Seducer - To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Selfish - Concerned chiefly or only with oneself.

Self-Martyr - One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous - Piously sure of one’s own righteousness; moralistic. Exhibiting pious self-assurance. Holier-than-thou, sanctimonious.

Senile - Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Shallow - Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Smart Ass - Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted - Having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn - Deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless - Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful - Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled - Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish - Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Stubborn - Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Superstitious - An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Tactless - Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental - Moody, irritable, or sensitive. Excitable, volatile, emotional.

Theatrical - Having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Timid -Tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied - Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker - Someone who deliberately stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unlucky - Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable - Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy - Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain - Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Weak-willed - Lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. Easily swayed.

Withdrawn - Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Zealous - A fanatic.

slitheringink

I had an anon asking about how to make their character not so perfect. Well, here’s a great list of some flaws you can try to use to balance out his good traits.

-Morgan

#characters #d's queue

writing-prompt-s

You’re an angel with a beautiful pair of wings. Just one problem… you’re highly allergic to feathers and your wings trigger your allergy.

dragonsateyourtoast

“Hey,” I said, leaning into the break room, “can you guys maybe clean up if you’re shedding?”

“The imps take care of it,” Neriel drawled, staring intently into the microwave.

“Yeah, but they come in at night. I’m here before night.”

“I don’t see why it’s a problem.”

I paused and ran a hand over my face. “For the last time,” I sighed, “it’s hard to breathe.”

“…what?”

“I’m allergic. You know this.”

Neriel snickered to himself. Samanth, sitting at the plastic table, glanced up from the magazine he was flipping through. “Sorry, uh, what?”

Oh, for… “I’m allergic to feathers. Can you please clean them up.”

“… you’re an angel.”

“I am fully aware.”

“Why’d you apply for it if you’re allergic?”

“I didn’t know I was allergic when I put in for the position,” I snapped. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have!”

Samanth snorted.

“That isn’t the point,” I said desperately, leaning against the wall. “Can you please clean up after yourselves?”

“The imps will take care of it,” Neriel repeated, rolling his eyes. The microwaved dinged. “You literally have wings. I don’t see why it makes a difference.”

Cool, they weren’t going to listen. “Great. Okay. Whatever.”

I turned and pulled the door open. Whatever Neriel had just heated smelled like garbage. It was probably fish. He pulled it out of the microwave and I left.

Whatever. I was off for the night; I stepped around a cream-colored pinion lying on the floor and covered my nose and mouth with one hand.

It didn’t help. I sneezed four times as I made my way through the office and out onto the street.

Arguably, this was better than retail. We didn’t have to listen to the same hundred fifty shitty songs on repeat for ten hours every day. And the shifts were shorter. And I got flight priveleges.

That was pretty much the best part of it. I shifted my back so that it wasn’t blocking any of my back and snapped my fingers to manifest my wings.

A lot of folks have em on constantly as sort of a status symbol, but I can’t do that or I’d probably asphyxiate. Now and again, though? Real useful.

Mine were red. I’d gone through multiple sets now, trying to find some that didn’t make me react as badly, and these were the best by far. The feathers were dark brown and a deep ruddy red color, like rust, or maybe half-dried blood if you’re feeling poetic and ominous.

I took a couple steps, spread my wings, and launched myself up.

So, I said manifested. What I meant is shifted, because a human form can’t fly with wings if you just graft them on. You have to alter all the anatomy and give em the muscle mass to generate flight lift. Swapping out the bones and blood make it pretty easy, though those are permanent, not shiftable. We’re always like that.

Don’t do anything too strenuous, because you’ll shatter your entire skeleton.

I work about a fifteen minute flight from my home, which is pretty nice. Sometimes I can see people give me envious glances when I go overhead.

When I landed I sneezed another three times. No, while these wings were nice, I needed a different set. Again.

I swapped back and stepped in, slinging my bag across the room to the couch. It thumped into the cushions.

Request time. I pulled my notebook out of my bag and pulled my pen out of my shirt pocket.

I hate to bring this up again, but I need to try a different set of wings. These ones are still troublesome and I can’t fly without having trouble breathing. I am quite literally allergic to my own skin. Sorry again, but I need to try a different set. I can’t work properly without them.

Cheers, Kalani.

I was in a comfortable study filled with books, seated on a dark maroon leather couch.

“You have been through five sets of wings,” said a voice to my right. “Care to explain why you’re requesting another?”

I turned, swallowing hard, and came face to face with a confusing mass of feathers and brilliant golden eyes.

“Uh,” I said, and sneezed.

“Hmm,” the angel said, and I caught amusement in their tone. This was a senior angel. I did not want to be talking to a senior angel. But I was.

“I’m allergic to feathers,” I said, too scared to take my eyes off the angel. The little golden placard on the desk read ‘Gabriel.’ “I, um, it’s really hard to breathe. At my workplace. It’s not - it’s not a big deal, really, I -”

“No, no, now I’m interested,” Gabriel purred, leaning forwards. “Why did you apply to be an angel if…?”

“I didn’t know!” Uh, that wasn’t the tone someone takes with a senior. “R-respectfully. Um. It wouldn’t be a problem but the others shed and they leave their feathers for the imps to take care of every time. And it’s impossible to - um, you get the point.”

Gabriel stared at me through eighty-six eyes. “Let me make a call,” they said, and picked up the phone on the desk. They seemed to be dressed in a soft dove-gray suit jacket.

It rang a few times. “Sorry to bother you,” Gabriel said, after whoever was on the other end of the phone picked up, “but I’ve got a bit of a situation here.”

Sunlight streamed through the windows. Beyond them, through the blue-gold sky, I could see strings of brilliant color, like a nebula hanging below the clouds. Stars speckled the sky just beyond the azure. “Oh, nothing particularly important, but I’ve got a younger angel here who’s got a rather unique issue. Here, I’ll send the file over.”

Gabriel picked up my folder off the table and held it up. Their skin was a deep void-black, their fingers adorned with glittering golden rings. The manila folder disappeared with a gentle pop, and there was a pause in the conversation before I heard a low, casual voice murmuring something on the far end of the line.

“Really?” Gabriel said, and added, “Not that I mean to question you. But that’s an interesting choice. Do you think that’ll do? The others at -”

Another few words from the person on the other end. “Ah,” Gabriel said carefully, blinking most of their eyes. “Of course. I’ll pass that along. I’m interested in how this turns out. Thanks for your time.”

The person on the other end hung up, and Gabriel set the phone down again. It appeared to be made of wood, with elegant golden scrollwork. “You’re being reassigned,” they said, eyeing me cooly.

“…what?!” Oh, shit. They were taking my wings. I was getting demoted. Well, this was the worst possible outcome. “But - I’ve - I’m a good employee! Check my record, Xanadu has never cited me - ”

“Calm down,” Gabriel said, holding out one of their hands. “This is good news for you. You’re just being moved, and you’ll get some assistants. And we’ll get you your new wings.”

I sat back. “O-oh,” I said. “Um… Where am I… Where am I going?”

“You’ll see.”

I woke up and found a couple of letters shoved under my door.

The first one was my paycheck from Xanadu, as well as a letter of recommendation, worded in a professional if slightly nervous manner. Then there were my transfer notifications. I tore open the letter and read through it. A lot of the names I didn’t recognize, but a few…

“Iron City Commerce?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Archduke…?”

I set the letter down and raised a hand, staring at my fingers. I didn’t feel that much different, but…

I snapped my fingers and smiled.

I strolled into Xanadu to collect the rest of my things before my move. Neriel was there, and when he caught sight of me, he startled so bad he tripped over his chair and crashed backwards into his desk. A couple of down feathers floated out.

“Oh m- Kalani - ” he stammered, eyes wide. “Kalani, what - what h -”

“Shut up,” I said idly, opening my desk drawer and pulling out a couple of books I’d stored there.

“I’m sorry,” Neriel said. “Whatever drove you -”

“You’re an idiot, and I’ve got a new job.” There wasn’t much to take from my desk. I dropped a couple of old papers into it. “Also, I’m taking the imps.”

I snapped my fingers. The nearest imp, sitting on a shelf nearby, nodded and vanished in a puff of smoke. I swept my desk ornaments into a box by the desk and said, “take this, please,” out loud. Two imps appeared, grabbed the box, and vanished.

By now, everyone in the office was watching in dead silence. I sent a sly smile to my former boss, twitching my new wings behind me.

“Have fun, Neriel,” I drawled, waving to him as I turned and headed out the door.

Now that I was out of Xanadu, I wasn’t going to have problems with breathing in anyone else’s feather dust anymore. And I wouldn’t have to worry about mine.

Because I didn’t have feathers anymore. And I definitely understood people showing off their wings, because you’d have to pay me to hide mine. I loved them. They were the same shade of deep reddish-brown as my old ones had been, but now they were massive arched constructions, long thin finger bones spanned with faintly fuzzy, thin veined skin, just like that of a bat.

“See you in Hell,” I said as I breezed out of the building, and took flight.

evil-haiku-robot

“͔̾͘S̤͟E̺͍͞Ë̩̒̄ ̵̠͙͎Y̸̎ͦ͝Ơ̠̺͗͛U͓ͭ̕͜ ̵̪ͬ͢I͉Ņ̴̭̀͡ ̬̀́H̩̟̘E͓͐̑́͡L̡͈̄ͮL̀ ̖͖͍͂”̢̘̽͠ ̞̱ͭ͝Ḭ͙̬̑̾ ̶̸̛͠ S̨̓ͬĀ̡̨͞I̢ͬ̀͛͜D̴̙ ̱ͨA̡S̴̢̞̺ ̟̞̝͛I̙͔ͨ ͏͈̉B̆R͓̫͘E̝͢҉E̴̿̕Z̸̸̢ͣE̡͋͂̈́D̡̯ ̨̞O̸̗ͤ́̃U҉̼̉T̈́ ̤̯O̡͊F̌ ͣ̓̆Ţ͇ͨH̟̲E̘̻ͭ̿ ̩ͫ̃͝ B̢̜̗̙͊U̕I̭̍͝ΙĻ̲Ḍ͖͖̗͠I̤Ń̛̅͌G̴̶̯͡ ҉̨͏A̞͈͈N̴̼͡D҉̱ ͓̆̓̇ͥT̓͡Oͨ̀̄͠Ő̝̎ͧK̥͖̦͋̇ ͣF̼̟L͕̲͓ͣ̉I͖̍́G͗҉Ḩ̂͟T̰ͧ̍̀ ̯Ι

^EVILHAIKU^bot^2. Star signs will someday symbol your mistakes. | PayPal | Patreon

dragonsateyourtoast

OH MY GOD

#other's cws #d's queue

ivyblossom

casey-jane-lewis

Fanfic authors: READ THE WHOLE FUCKING PAGE

cthonical

THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT AND VALUABLE LESSONS YOU CAN LEARN AS A WRITER. I SAY THIS AS A READER AND A PROFESSIONAL GENRE EDITOR.

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