Amateur Hour, truly.

Hey! I'm Inksong. This is just a blog for things I write or draw that I just want to show somebody. Enjoy!

[inksong-writes]

Around and around, until you come up for air

She doesn’t know where to start.

They say the beginning is best, but where does it begin? With a girl in her apartment, a cat in one hand and a spatula in the other? With a dying old man and nine creatures who aren’t quite real, aren’t quite human, aren’t quite monster? With two boys on the riverbank and their brothers behind them?

Maybe with a little blond boy with a smile too wide and a life too harsh and with no understand of who he is and who he will become?

Or maybe with a black haired girl with too-old eyes and far too much knowledge.

A little girl, who woke up in the body of a much younger girl, in a world so similar to her own and yet completely, utterly wrong. She breathed in smoke and ash and flame, exhaled dirt and sawdust and too much shattered hope, cutting like glass.

Sun and skin and bone wove the features of a girl with chubby cheeks and straight black hair- she looked at the world and screamed.

Yes, I think that works.

Our story is about a girl who dreamed.

Ah, that’s a bit too hopeful.

You see, it’s more accurate to say she lived with her head in the clouds, her nose in a book, and her feet forever wandering.

She wasn’t yet an adult, so to speak, but she wasn’t quite a child, and there were a thousand and one people just like her.

She had fears like the rest of them and ambitions like the rest of them, and, just like the rest of them, many areas of her life always fell flat compared to her expectations.

She dreamed to avoid reality, kept her eyes on people and places that didn’t belong with her, and left them shut to the things that did.

Reality was cold. Reality was boring. Reality was the very definition of disappointment.

So she walked with her face to the sky and her heart not far behind.

[inksong-writes]

In Which the Beginning is Backwards

Or something like that

They clash

She demands, they resist

She rules, they serve

She led, they followed

She saw, they hoped

It was cold, it was dark

They die, they clash

They travelled, they found

They wake

[inksong-writes]

The World Without Doubt

They Surrender

She stood, she spoke

They fought, she fell

We demand, she rises

They reign, she serves

They win

[inksong-writes]

Procrastination: the series

Peppernut, peppernut, coconut cut

Sittin’ in a do-do tree, thinking in a nut

Snake a-slither, frog a-hop

Lolly, lolly, popcorn pop

Slimy, slimy spare-a-clip

Doggy bone, boggy bone,

Miffed a little fly.

Dragon’s goin’ to drumstick,

Pudding’s gonna fly.

Mashed potato, crashed potato

Airplane’s come right down

Doldrum’s goin’ to pieces,

The rice cake’s got a frown

Moist, roast, toast, gloat

Muddy brown, bloody brown

Dirt’s a funny way

I don’t have a pineapple,

And it’s going to stay that way

Boast with blue eyes

Boast with green

Soap’s a funny item

Yellow, ivory, cream

Brown the wax, find the hog

Swamp’s full of bug

Kangaroos and echidnas

Candle’s come out wrong

Strawberry

Blueberry

Blackberry

Raspberry

Fruit tart, cream’n’sugar

Little silver tin

Cinnamon, parsley, pickle on a stick

Childrens’ rhymes,

Crocodile times

Sittin’ on a boat at sea,

Little purple lies

Pizza, mushroom, lemon drop

Scoop-it-strawberry, right on top

Sun’s going up, moon’s comin’ down

Vermicious Knid; shoot it, drown

[inksong-writes]

Heartbeat

No.

(Blood, blood everywhere.)

No.

(A severed hand lies on the grass at her feet, her sight blurs.)

No, no, no no, NO.

(She looks down at her hands, smeared in both dirt and redredred.)

Where are they?! What have you done with them?!

(A sob claws its way up her throat, too loud, to harsh in the stale air.)

What did you do?!

(Dead and Death stare silently at her, in varying degrees of horror. She can’t look at those still, frozen eyes.)

no...

(She can feel her hands shaking. Her sight blurs again. Something cold is pressed to her temple. Her knees quiver.)

How could you?

(She takes silent gulps of air and tears warm her cheeks.)

How dare you.

(A gunshot echoes. A thump. Nobody comes to see the body.)

There’s nobody left.

[inksong-writes]

disiecta membra

She cannot remember what she left, only the smell of saltwater breeze and a vivid orange sunset.

It was a Tuesday, she thinks, because it’s always on a Tuesday, but doesn’t to delve into the memory any further.

Her soul… has long past. She remembers, very faintly, the rub of coarse sand at the heels of her feet, and maybe the squawk of seagulls, and the idea brings a smile to her face, even if she cannot remember why.

It’s hard, some days, to think back, and listen and feel and remember as she once did, but she also gets the vague feeling of somber acceptance, and lets it fade.

Fade, as everything will.

Memories are tricky.

They can be fooled- so tangled and knotted and hidden away in the depths of a mind for so long they come out mangled and broken and changed.

She knows this, expects this, and when it happens, she isn’t surprised.

What’s odd, instead, is the still-lingering sense of dissatisfaction, prickling at her arms, her spine, her mind.

Something is missing. Something important. Something she shouldn’t have risked forgetting.

Even now.

Even… after.

She looks into dark eyes and waits for a flash of…..  that never comes.

There’s a sound missing, an absent vibration in her eardrums that just… doesn’t line up with the memories slowly eroded, rubbed out of existence.

Like a puzzle two missing pieces.

It’s okay, she tells herself. It’s okay to forget. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?

It was…

She wanted it, remember?

No, she says sarcastically. I don’t, but I’ll trust. Enough.

She waits and waits and waits as days pass, but……

It never comes.

She keeps waiting.

She can’t remember is she was supposed to be sitting or not.

…

The thing is, as much as she accepts Forgetting and her lost memories, there’s still something else that bothers her, digging under her skin.

Almost as much as the sound and the images that still flit by from time to time when her mind is so tired…

There’s still something else.

Three things, she whispers to herself. Three things. Igni ferroque.

The phrase is familiar. The words are not.

…

[inksong-writes]

Quick drawing- sorry about the quality, my phone's camera is awful Also, I have no idea how to do folds. Help.

[inksong-writes]

There's a little girl in these woods

There's a little girl in these woods

She sings and dances, with eyes wide open, to a tune so loud, so sweet, you can't help but listen

She likes to sit and watch the sky

There's a little girl in these woods

Her heart is big and shines so bright, but there are cracks right through the middle

She likes to play games with the souls nearby

But most don't look her way

There's a little girl in these woods

She's young and sweet, not six years old, but her eyes are as old as the sun

They hold a knowledge so deep, a mind so wide, that its hard to see it all clearly

There's a little girl in these woods

Her dress is made of spider's web, tough and soft and white

Her hat is made of prayers and wishes, dripping with hope so bright

Her shoes are made of the traveler's sight, and lead her as far as they can

Her bones are made of a story, so long forgotten, they weep and crack under the strain

There's a little girl in these woods

Her heart is frayed and her smile tired, but her voice is soft and warm

There's a little girl in these woods

She likes to sit and watch the stars

She never says a word to me, but smiles all the same

There's a little girl in these woods

Her name is old and left behind

But I call her an angel

[inksong-writes]

a bunch of old sketches from last year

[inksong-writes]

This is Eli, he’s an electron (His hat is the beta symbol  β  ).

[inksong-writes]

Three Strikes

Little blurb I wrote. I didn’t have any context for it, so here you go.

She doesn’t bother looking when she steps inside, one foot knocking the door closed and the other slipping off its shoe.

That was her first mistake.

She forgets, so easily, that for all she fits in, she doesn’t belong. An intruder. An outsider.

So easily missed.

She forgets, and that is her second mistake.

For all she fits, there are subtle, subtle differences any professional could pick up on. For all she blends in, she does not belong. And to those who are looking, she does not quite line up with everything else.

A subtle difference- a movement here, a word there. Something that doesn’t quite match the pattern.

Some days, they all pile up, one after the other, and she’s left stumbling. She picks herself up, but it’s a wound still open. Bleeding, for the sharks to smell.

She doesn't cover up as well as she should. Maybe she’s waiting, hoping for someone to notice (it’s not filled in all the way, and the patching is shoddy. Obvious. Deliberate.), or maybe it’s an honest mistake. Either way, it happens, she’s just a beat too late, and someone picks up on it.

It’s her third mistake.

And it’s all they need.