Acquired Stardust
Claire Keane
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
tannertan36
hello vonnie
No title available
JVL
dirt enthusiast
Game of Thrones Daily
★
No title available
$LAYYYTER
Stranger Things
will byers stan first human second
noise dept.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Misplaced Lens Cap
@theartofmadeline
Xuebing Du
if i look back, i am lost
seen from Switzerland
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from Croatia
seen from Australia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
@jessicachouwrites
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
ᡣ𐭩 Jessica Chou/Jadity
ᡣ𐭩 Action fantasy writer
ᡣ𐭩 she/her
I write wonderfully happy fantasy where no Greek tragedies ever happen and tiny prompts of worlds I hope to one day see on a page.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Find my writing under #jessicachouwrites
My main girl for my novel!
Writers have two modes and they are "i haven't written in three weeks and i am rotting from the inside and everything feels wrong and i don't know who i am anymore" and "i wrote for four hours straight and forgot to eat and it's dark outside and when did that happen and i feel like a god" and there is nothing in between. no chill. no medium setting. just famine or feast and a very confused nervous system.
Some plants cannot be harvested by modern means. To gather the most valuable of these delicate seeds, I travel to the nearest fairy ring and trade my good fortune for enough fairy dust to shrink me down to the size of a thimble for a week. The profits are worth the string of stubbed toes and the hours spent hunting for my car keys.
Thank you to everyone who got me to 500 likes!
The thing about fae is that they care deeply for debts; I can see it in the way their eyes flare when I finish ringing up their order and answer their thanks with a neutral no problem.
I’m always polite, but I like to make it very clear to the Fair Folk that they’re not welcome.
About to emotionally compromise myself on this series again.
Mr. McGun calls me a “good prisoner,” which I find wholly misrepresentative and a fundamental misunderstanding of my function in this situation. I am here for the scoop, you see. Not to write an encyclopedia, but to pen the most brutal takedown of the fae court since mortal inception.
I’ve gotten very good at levitation spells.
Necessity, as they say, being the mother of mastering any number of unpleasant things.
I tell myself this is simply part of the process, and surely all great sorcerers once stood sweating and desperately needing to pee while their cat refused to come out from under the couch long enough for them to set it down.
“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”
The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.
Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.
“You a cop?”
The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”
A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.
Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”
A nod.
“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”
A nod.
“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”
A tiny, miserable nod.
“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’
“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”
Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.
The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.
“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”
The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.
“I can work with that,” said the witch.
The other witches mocked me for studying linguistics and semantic drift, but potion work has always depended on what people mean.
They’re still cursing failed brews of snail shells and puppy-dog tails while I’m attending gender reveals,
where I bottle up the whimsy and expectations poured into the air by hopeful mothers.
The witch cursed you to become a monster so that your outsides would reflect your character. Your home town took this news better than you would've thought. A lot better. You're more popular than ever and got immediately swamped by marriage proposals from just about everyone available in town.
The thing is, it caused a real problem for your research.
The entire misunderstanding (truly, that’s all it was!) stemmed from the teeniest of comments about how witchcraft was a considerably easier endeavor than wizardry. Barely an insult. More of an… uncomfortable truth. Witches made use of sticky flowers and undergrowth slime, then they concentrated briefly on a desired result, and it simply came to pass. Wizards, meanwhile, enacted far more complicated changes in the world, requiring extensive research and a great deal of reading. In hindsight, you may have also implied the witch was illiterate somewhere in that exchange. But no matter.
You’d been rather smug watching the witch’s expression turn livid as you strode through the city square after the transformation. Now, however, you could hardly concentrate on a single line of your latest thesis without some newly besotted fool materializing to ask about dinner plans.
“I’d just admit you were wrong,” the witch observed mildly. Her day of lividity had curdled into an aggravating smugness once she discovered her curse worked regardless of what inner beauty one actually possessed.
“I’m, at best, missing a few facts,” you sniffed.
“And how is that different from being wrong?”
You didn’t bother to answer, cramming your nose deeper into your book. Your more altruistic tendencies may have redirected the spell toward inner beauty, but that stubborn little spark of pride was making a real mess of things.
“I’ll give it a week,” grinned the witch. “Maybe even an hour. You’ll admit whatever I want after you see how many flowers are on your stoop.”
i love making playlists for my book. one day i may even write the book.
anything u think about YOUR life after 10pm is bs to be ignored. anything u think about a character’s life after 10pm should be posted about online and expanded on for paragraphs. :)
it might seem like my whole life revolves around fictional characters but yes it does
not an apologizer but a contextualizer. yes the character did that but please understand the Circumstance. yes they had other options but they had to make this choice in a sea of available bad choices. and also it made the narrative more interesting. won't anybody think about the narrative!!!!!
the worst feeling in the entire world is when the person you hate is actually really talented
like, i can't support you, but that...that was good...you bastard...
