reborn from the cold ashes' of cohost, it's back! all your lil' gals in a big underlord -- with spies, thieves, assassins, bounty hunters, smugglers, rebels, warlords (new!), pirates, mob bosses, fixers and fences!
check out this blog & follow for a year's supply of 200 re-runs and 165 new prompts in a decently shuffled order. cohost house style means they're snappy, meant to help you be specific not be specific for you. hope you like 'em tumblr.
write a story to a prompt and i'll give it a lil' reblog. send in ideas via asks and i'll post 'em. (subject to my discretion ofc.)
welcome back to friends of eggbug, hello to new ones. and lastly hi! your underworld mastermind is @meli-writes.
hey so back from what?
in case you're curious, this blog was originally on cohost! cohost was a social media website made by anti-social software club, a small worker co-op, and was designed to be a site w/o all the bad incentives of regular social media sites.
so, no metrics, no quote-tweet style reblogging, no algorithms, discoverability through tags, etc etc
sadly this is also what makes those sites profitable (ehhh maybe) and it still had its problems but one thing it did have was the cohost writing scene.
see that design also resulted in a really unique scene. short, snappy prompts and the accounts that made them rehosting stories written in response become the perfect way to discover each other. and there was lots like:
magical girls. monsters. demons. jesters. princesses. mech pilots. villains. heroes. normal guys & gals. and more!
really special too was that it was a majority lesbian & trans scene. not really for any reason other than just luck, but it was really special and a lot of us still stay in touch now.
as for this, it feels like a nice way to make sure these are still out in the world and it's something different to the usual tumblr house style.
Up the mizzen, down to mast step. The tapping sound—soft and small and steady and, after weeks, singled out from the norm of ship upon water with force of wind—was from the whole of it. A shroud climb to crosstrees, her ear pressed against wood spar, Yasmin heard it. Crouched on keelson in the deepest dark, her ear pressed against wood spar, Yasmin heard it.
In light of day, in air salt and chill biting breeze, she eyes the whole of the spar above deck. Takes her time. Makes audience for meals, lingers not when moving to action but in mind. Yasmin thinks of nothing but the tapping of the mizzenmast spar.
She takes an axe to it some dozen more days in. Cuts a long vertical crack in the tall vertical body. Pulls out a body with fingertip raw. Pale without light or pale from the deep, starved, asphyxiated.
Yasmin watches with axe at side as torso expands beyond recent confines, jaw works open, closed, ceaseless pulse of finger slows to stop. Then turns away, stows axe, straightens shirt seams, returns to what is more ship than one ought manage on one’s own, now borne two.
