naduna

she/her | 27 | ace writer and artist, more or less. sometimes i write fanfiction, sometimes it's original stuff. . (old) writeblr: @littlewriterling • ao3: fuechsli • insta: kuenschtlerisch

[faithschaffer]

The 2025 Swordtember prompt list is here!

If you're unaware, Swordtember is an online creative challenge I started back in 2020. The challenge is themed around swords and takes place across the month of September. From 3D models to D&D campaigns, and everything in between- it's always a blast to see what people make!

As always, this is intended to be a low stress challenge. There's no need to participate daily (I sometimes sit it out entirely because life gets so busy this time of year!). There's also no pressure to follow my prompt list- I know other people put out some amazing lists (and you can totally just freestyle and do your own thing, of course).

During September I'll be rounding up my favorite entries on Saturdays (Sworderdays?) from challenge participants to share on Bluesky and Instagram. Just post with #swordtember ! I'm so excited to see what people make this year.

Here's the written out prompt list:

shell

moss

automaton

scale

bell

fossil

clock

canine

feline

rodent

reliquary

concealed

bloom

rot

lace

carved

gem

beetle

membrane

vapor

ring

swan

owl

venom

bubble

harpy

spring

summer

autumn

winter

[grabowskibeepboop]

I feel like Wednesday is just queer. No other labelles, just queer

[swiftsaltsweet]

When Season 1 takes place

*throws a book at a wall* Looks like Wednesday IS 2022 like I first thought (the fake unaliving yourself note has the date Nov 9, 2022). 

What was confusing me was the official Nevermore Academy website says she’ll be class of 2027 and???? TT0TT Babe that’s not it. It’s fall 2022 in S1, graduating usually happens in the spring. She’s probs like….a sophomore. So she’d be graduating in like 2 more years, so it’d be class of 2025 (sophomoreyear ends in spring 2023 then add 2). 

So I was like “Does S1 actually take place in Fall 2024???″ And that really messed with me TT0TT So I had to comb the darn show like a few more times lkfdjsjfa; I was legit breaking out freaking moon phases , harvest festival dates, and bear hibernation dates to narrow this darn thing down. TT0TT

So that means Netflix!Friday was born on Friday, Oct 13th, 2006. 

Gonna try to make a legit timeline now. 8U Anyway, yeah making this post in case anyone one else was scratching their heads and missed the date on the damn note. kflsdjkflj;f (let’s just say some of the math they were throwing out was vague and/or inconsistent too so that didn’t help)

[nadunacreates]

Ahhhh! Thank you for noticing that date up there! I've been trying to do the same, figure out that darned timeline and I can officially say: it makes absolutely zero sense.

The fake note you mention is discovered in episode 5. Wednesday's birthday in episode 6. The actual blood moon in 2022 was on November 7-8. And there was a newspaper clipping on Sherrif's murder board from the first episode that said the coroner’s report for that victim was obtained on November 12, sooooo. Either there’s a completely wrong date on that byebye note or the timeline is just fucked. I'm leaning towards the latter because there’s just too many inconsistencies otherwise ^^*

Anyways, sorry for hijacking your post for my rant, I was just really enlightened by that observation.

I will probably still keep trying to build some sort of timeline, too, but I'll have to accept that it won’t be accurate in the least probably. Thanks again! And have a nice day :)

[lloonahugs]

the mistletoe

continuation below ⬇️

[nadunacreates]

new Wednesday headcanon unlocked: she's a total troll and probably has a secret cell phone & twitter account squirreled away somewhere. 

How else would you explain that the same Wednesday who “refuses to be a slave to technology” and “doesn't have a phone” also knows, within hours of meeting, about the bad punctuation and grammar of Enid’s vlog, other than having watched it herself? Also, she says that Enid’s followers are “clearly imbeciles” who respond to Enid’s stories with “insipid little pictures” — which you would only find out about by stalking the comments. 

And how else could Wednesday look at Enid and immediately have “the following emojis come to mind: rope, shovel, hole”? Wednesday has to know that these are options in the emoji-catalog, which even I wouldn't have been able to tell you off the top of my head. 

TLDR: Wednesday's got us all fooled. Prove me wrong :D

Bonus: “if you're going to gossip about me, at least spell my name correctly.” Are these professional gossiping-standards you want to uphold there, Wednesday? Hm?

[setyset]

I just want to see what's going on with Enid's family. And I don't see them as the best parents...

[nadunacreates]

ahhh i have too many wenclair headcanons to fit them all into one single fic, but watch me try anyways.

.

also, hello, yes, this has been my obsession the past few weeks and i don't see it changing anytime soon. i finally finished my second watch-through yesterday and it took almost five hours to get through the last episode because i took so many notes, i kid you not. aaaanyway. gotta recharge my laptop and then i'm off writing. see you soon, maybe ✌️

[nadunacreates]

i had planned on writing a college AU fic in which to combine all the @zukkaweek prompts that i hadn’t gotten to yet... i procrastinated instead, so hard that i totally forgot about this. but i think today is actually the last day for late submissions, plus there's a summer thunderstorm outside right now, so have this very rushed snippet from the middle of said AU. it's supposed part of a 5+1 thing featuring people knocking on the wrong door of sokka and zuko’s rooms in the college dorms, and then the one time they get it right… but somehow this snippet isn't about that at all ^^ 

it’s set one night when zuko accidentally locked himself out of his own room, and features bedsharing, some chronic pain and a college AU where everyone has magic in addition to the bending... hope you like it, and please tell me if i should actually write this! <3

The sound of the rain would be so soothing, today, if the rain hadn’t also meant that there was a thunderstorm on the way, rolling across the countryside and steadily coming closer.

The sound of the rain would be so soothing, if his scar didn’t hurt because of it, the tissue stiff and aching dully in a way that boded very ill for the next few hours.

The sound of the rain would be soothing, if it didn’t mean that Sokka sighed and got up and opened the window; looked out at the dark clouds on the horizon and said “I love summer storms,” because of course he did.

Zuko rubbed a finger down his forehead, pressed it to the base of his nose, and sighed, too. “Of course you do,” he said.

That made Sokka whip his head around, glare at him in what was probably supposed to be outraged offense, but fell a little to the wayside of fond. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zuko chuckled weakly, because that fondness was dangerous. His tired brain misread it so easily. “Nothing! Just…” He waved his hand around in the air in front of him, let himself fall back down into the (many) cushions of Sokka’s bed. “I hate them, so I guess it makes sense that you love them.”

Zuko could practically hear Sokka frowning, but he didn’t bother to look up again. He wasn’t quite sure why he just said that, but… well, if he was going to stay here tonight it would probably be good that Sokka knew. Then at least he wouldn’t have to worry about (inevitable) Zuko’s nightmares.

The sound of the rain dampened again as Sokka closed the window.

The bed dipped as he sat down at its foot.

They didn’t say anything, for a while.

Zuko didn’t even startle when Sokka eventually lay a hand on his ankle, splayed his fingers when he noticed the cold skin there.

He tapped his thumb against Zuko’s achilles heel, as if he was subconsciously aware of some deeper meaning, as if he saw the irony in it, protecting the very part he made vulnerable (on a metaphorical level), or maybe it was just his magic kicking in. But when Zuko opened his eyes to check, Sokka looked normal — no glowing eyes or tattoos, and when he spoke his voice didn’t have that hollow quality to it that it usually took when he had a vision. Just a coincidence, then, Zuko thought to himself, and scoffed at the very idea of it, right when Sokka asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” and then he promptly choked on his next breath.

It was with much regret that he removed his ankle from under Sokka’s hand, but breathing was kind of the bigger necessity right now, and to breathe he had to sit up, so— at least he got a few pats on his back, until the coughing fit was finally over.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough, and cleared his throat.

Sokka sat up against the headboard next to him, bumped his shoulder with his own, threw him a smile. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

Yeah, he was absolutely going to ignore the way this made his stomach clench in something like pain. He was going to ignore how he still felt astonished at the concept of having friends; how he still (so very selfishly) wished for more.

“… right,” he said, and ignored how his voice caught all over again.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, day-bright, for the fraction of a second. Zuko flinched, and stayed tense as he counted down the seconds until thunder followed with a roar. Fuck.

When Sokka pulled at him, he just went with him, and let his friend rearrange them on the bed until both their heads were on the pillow, and Sokka was able to cling to him like a koalaotter.

“So,” Sokka said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Zuko took a few moments to think about it. He’d known Sokka for long enough now to know that he was always allowed to think, to take his time, and even to answer in the negative should he wish to do so, and Sokka would not be mad. It was one of the things that had made it so easy to fall for him.

The next flash of lightning made the answer rather easy, surprisingly. The thunder did not take long to follow, and Zuko swallowed hard, then said, “yeah.”

Zuko spoke, and Sokka listened, and when the storm had finally moved on, Zuko was out of words, and Sokka was still right there.

Zuko did not go back to his own dorm room that night.

He did not have any (bad) nightmares either.

And when he woke up the next morning, he found himself wrapped around Sokka in turn.

(And when he let himself drift back to sleep, he felt Sokka stir, felt his fingers ghost over a burn scar on his arm, heard him whisper, “love you, too,” and promptly ignored that so hard, because surely that was already the next dream taking him and pulling him under, making him wish for things that could never be true.)

[nadunacreates]

because i procrastinated actually writing it for so long, have instead these snippets for my atla soulmate au that has yet to see the light of day for day 5 of @zukkaweek. i have so many ideas for this and i WILL write it one day, though i do not know when that day will come ^^ until then, have my pinterest board for this fic

Sokka's soulmate was a firebender.

The first time his eyes turned white, every fire in a two mile radius roared.

The second time his eyes turned white, only a single fire roared, but it was sitting in the palm of his hand, and it did not hurt him.

.

Zuko's soulmate was no bender at all.

The first time his eyes turned white and no element called out to him, not even his own, his father's anger was as limitless as his mother's sorrow.

The second time his eyes turned white, he closed them again and waited for the pain.

-

The first time Zuko was almost grateful (almost) when he felt that emptiness fill him, eyes white, was when Zhao found out about his lies about the Avatar; when he implied that Zuko’s crew got interrogated (tortured) just for that information — Zuko didn't know what he would have done, had he been able to light his fists on fire. But standing there, utterly helpless, was not much better.

-

The first time Zuko met a waterbender was not the first time he'd seen someone waterbend.

He watched the water tribe girl, and for a moment, he was distracted when he saw her lift a ball of water into the air, his mind flashing back to a turtleduck pond in the palace gardens, his mother’s voice a whisper, “this is a secret”, and that distraction was enough for them to escape.

[nadunacreates]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The sun disappears in the South Pole for a few weeks every year.

This is a fact, but it is also a metaphor.

.

written for @zukkaweek, day 3: spooning/bedsharing and domesticity 

this is a bit longer than my day 1 fic, so you can go read it on ao3 :) i hope you enjoy!

[nadunacreates]

a spirit so blue

- a ficlet for day one of @zukkaweek, using the prompt Blue Spirit, but probably not as intended ^^ this was just a quick drabble because I’m working on a larger fic for the rest of the week, so it’s not very polished, but I don’t hate it? anyways, please enjoy my first foray into the atla fandom!

_____

Sometimes Zuko still longs for the feeling of the mask on his face, the press of hard, unforgiving wood against his nose and numb scar tissue. 

Sometimes he remembers how good it felt, to disappear and be someone else for a while. Someone good, someone new, an unknown entity that forges its own reputation with gloved hands and dual swords. 

Sometimes he wishes he could go back to it, live the simple life of the renegades, the secret vigilantes, dust and dirt and rooftop tiles under his feet as he runs away, a shadow in the shadows, one amongst many. 

_____

Sometimes Zuko longs and remembers and wishes, but he always knows that there's a reason that the mask hangs next to the mirror in his bedroom, untouched for many years now. 

He doesn't need it anymore, not really. 

Sometimes he still wants to disappear, just for a while, to stop existing quite like that and free himself of the heavy burden of the crown, but. 

But. 

Whenever Zuko longs and remembers and wishes and wants, he only needs to turn to his left and know that he doesn't need to. 

Because there will be a gentle hand, a soft touch with the catch of hard-earned callouses, smoothing a thumb against his brow and the bridge of his nose, forgiving where Zuko didn't believe forgiveness could be. 

Because there will be a voice in his ear, calling him by his name and by many others that all boil down to the same thing: I know you. 

Because there will be a light in these blue blue eyes, as they crinkle in delight or sparkle with laughter or narrow in worry or blink in confusion, and that's so much better than any anonymity Zuko could hope to gain by donning a mask that doesn't fit quite right anymore. 

Because Sokka is there, always, and doesn't tire of reminding him that the world would miss him should he disappear, and that Zuko has so much worth all on his own, flaws and all, without needing to hide behind a chipped blue mask. 

_____

So, sometimes Zuko wishes he could slip back into the role of the Blue Spirit, but always he knows that he's loved just the way he is. 

It was a startling realization, the fact that he actually started believing this, but it was one that made him love Sokka all the more. 

And the sometimes-es become less and less frequent as the years wear on, but Sokka stays steady by his side, and runs across the rooftops with him if the buzzing beneath his skin becomes too much. 

It's kind of romantic.

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest (October 2021)

This art work for this month’s contest was created by @giada-rose​, and is titled, “A Woodland Hideaway.” This artist has a unique style and quite a bit of original art posted, so if you like this piece, make sure to visit this page to see more.

Keep reading

[nadunacreates]

the house that was a home

The house had been misplaced during the last Big Shake.

It didn't really belong here, just like me. And yet we somehow made it work.

I got a ladder, I fixed the roof. I took care of the cracks in the walls and the unsteady floorboards. I worked until my hands were rough and my knees all scraped up.

I cried and sweated and bled for this house.

I never expected anything, other than to be able to forget my own troubles.

But I shouldn't have forgotten.

The Big Shakes don't misplace objects, they only shake up things with a soul.

So when, half a year into my reparation work, a deep voice said, "thank you," I jumped more than I probably should have. I expected to be alone, after all, the house nestled in the crown of a tree, as ir was, in the deepest part of the woods, where humans usually didn't wander.

"Who's there?" I asked, with a shaking voice, like a bad actress in an even worse horror movie.

"It's me," the voice replied, "Jim. Who are you? You never told us your name."

"I'm Esther," I said, because what else was I supposed to do?

"Hello Esther!" another voice said, much less low and even than the first one. "I'm Clara! It's so nice to meet you!"

"Hello," I said, and finally dared to straighten up from my kneeling position, where I had just fixed some pipes under the kitchen sink. "It's nice to meet you too," I continued, because I wasn't about to be impolite. My heart pounded in my chest when I turned around, because the voices had been coming from behind me, but I wasn't sure who they'd belong to, what kind of creatures were hidden here.

At first, I didn't see anyone, and I was almost convinced I'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe some hallucinogenic gas leftovers in the pipes? And then my eyes focused on the empty space in front of me, and I saw that the space wasn't all that empty. Faint outlines appeared in front of me, silhouettes of two people.

The one with flowing brown hair and a long white dress waved at me. The seams of her dress and the bare skin of her feet were drenched in blood.

I closed my mouth and waved back. My fingers trembled. Clara beamed. Jim grinned.

"Are you haunting this house?" I asked.

"Yep!" Clara popped, and freckles danced on her nose.

"Oh," I said, and there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Yet another place where I was intruding, then. Yet another home I'd have to move on from.

I tried to force a smile on my face, but it felt shaky. I felt shaky. I gripped the wrench tighter, and my knuckles turned white, but at least my hands stopped shaking.

Clara tilted her head to the side, watched me with sharp, intelligent eyes. Jim frowned a little.

"Oh," I said again, because for all I knew, they wouldn't let me leave. It scared me that my first reaction to that was relief, so I asked instead, "are you going to kill me then?"

They both reared back as though I'd slapped them.

"What?" Clara exclaimed. "Never!"

"Did you not just hear us thank you?" Jim asked, in a more reasonable tone, but his eyes were as wide as Clara's.

"I–" I said. "I thought I imagined that. And I don't know what you'd thank me for."

"Oh, so these six months of doing everything you can to fix this house were nothing to speak of?" They were sassing me, I realized. The ghosts living in this house in the tree were sassing me.

"I didn't do that for you," I retorted, before I thought about how it probably wasn't very wise to be sassing back the ghosts.

"But you still did it," Jim said gently.

"And it's not like you're gonna exorcise us now that you know, right?" Clara said confidently, and not all that gently, but now that she said it I realized it was the truth.

"No," I said, "and I don't regret I did it. Everyone deserves a home." I had to close my eyes, take a breath. "I'll leave as soon as the weather lets up."

The looks on their faces had me reconsidering. I wasn't a fan of stumbling through the woods in a thunderstorm, but if it'd let me get away with my life it would probably be worth it. "I'll get my things and leave now, then." I nodded to myself, and carefully placed the wrench on the kitchen counter, stretched my fingers to work against the cramp and didn't look up for another few moments.

"She's not getting it," Jim said. He wasn't talking to me.

"No kidding," Clara said, and she sounded way less happy than before.

I was just about to offer to jump out of the window if the way down the ladder took too long when warm fingers touched the hand I was still rubbing, and took over the task for me.

I looked up to see determination written plain on Clara's face, but she wasn't looking at me, focused on her task instead.

She was even more breathtakingly beautiful up close.

Something un-cramped in my hand, then, and I hissed through my teeth, breathed in sharply again at the smile on Clara's lips, couldn't breathe at all when her eyes met mine. She lifted her hand to cup my cheek, and instead of wondering whether she'd snap my neck I only noticed that her hand wasn't warm at all, and it wasn't cold; it had the same temperature as the room, and the ghosts were as alive as the house.

"Let me spell it out for you, Esther," Clara said, or maybe she whispered it. "You saved our lives. We'll be forever thankful for that. If you want to leave, we'll be sad but we'll let you go. If you want to stay, though, we'll make this the best home you've ever known."

•

She wasn't lying. Almost a hundred years later, and I think I'm going to join them soon. We don't know if you have to be brutally murdered in order to be allowed to stay, or if a peaceful death will be enough, but neither Jim nor Clara nor any of the other homeless souls we've found along the way would let me try the former. As the only living human in the house, I don't have much of a choice but to let them have their way.

•

And then, one day, I close my eyes. And when I open them again I know I'm truly home, because my skin has the temperature of the room and the shingles on the roof and the pipes under the kitchen sink feel like they're another part of me. And Clara cries and kisses me and Jim hold my hand, and then there's another Big Shake and I know we're ready for a new adventure, in this home that we've made our own.

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest (June 2021)

This month’s piece is titled, “Cloud Skipper,” and it was created by @crimson-chains. I am not sure how I accidentally scheduled two pieces with giant fish-like creatures back to back, but I think it’s pretty obvious the mood of this month’s work is completely different from last month’s. I’m sure this will be the catalyst for a completely different style of story.  This artist has created quite a bit of original art and fan art, so if you like the piece below, make sure to visit this artist’s Tumblr page or you can browse their Etsy store .

Keep reading

[nadunacreates]

Rowan did not know what it was about the color blue that fascinated him so.

The sky and the sea, the sparkle of a gem, the glint of her eyes.

He knew that beings like him weren't made for the softer pleasures in life.

He knew that he wasn't supposed to lie in a field of flowers, look up at the sky and get lost in the shape of rolling clouds and distant dreams. He wasn't supposed to close his eyes and take a breath and just be — he wasn't supposed to enjoy this existence.

And still.

It's just: he doesn't understand, even after twenty years. He can't even remember it, after all, the previous life that made him deserve this punishment, the one that made him deserve to die and get reborn with white hair and black antlers on his head and black fingers on his hands. The one that made him deserve to be so marked as an outcast, a servant, as something lesser, something to be feared or hated.

He thinks he must have done something truly horrible, something so very unforgivable, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't remember, and no one will tell him anything.

He's sure there must be people who know — but they're not supposed to tell him, so they don't.

Maybe this is it.

The sneaking off, the hiding away. The doing things he isn't supposed to, the color blue.

Maybe this is it, he thinks, even as he climbs the last few feet, digs his (black) fingers into the soft green earth and pulls himself up. Maybe it's because he's enjoying the life he's been given, because he dares to dance with the gods, and they laugh with him.

If it is, he thinks, as he crouches at the edge of the cliff and watches the blue blue waves crash against the bottom of it, then he knows he doesn't regret it.

He doesn't have to wait long, up here, until the shimmer of a rainbow appears in the spraying mist, until he can just about make out the glimmer of scales, red and blue and black and green, down below.

And then the gods jump and he lets himself fall.

He doesn't know what it is about the color blue, but it's always felt like coming home.

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest (September 2020)

The artistic piece for this month’s contest is a digital art piece titled,  “Right off the Pages" created by Greta @pinatadoodles​ . This artist has some incredible original work and fanart posted, so if you like this piece make sure to check out this artist’s page!

Basic Directions: Create an original fictitious piece based on the artwork above.

Length:  Your entry does not have to be long! It can be as short as one sentence  or one paragraph. Entries must be shorter than 500 words.

Deadline: All entries must be received before September 25th. The winner will be announced September 30th.

How to submit your entry:  Once you have written your Ekphrastic Fiction piece, you can enter this contest either of these ways:

1. Fill out this form to enter the contest.

2. Reblog this post with your story attached.

You can do either one of these to enter the contest. You do not need to do both.  

Contest Prize:  I will feature the winning piece on my blog and link directly to the  writer’s page in order to promote his/her/their work. The winning piece  will also have a permanent spot on my contest page. This gives writers a  chance to have their work shared and seen by others. Sorry, but at this  time I am broke, so no cash prizes will be given.

WTF is Ekphrastic Fiction?  Ekphrastic Fiction stories are short fictitious pieces inspired by a  work of art. To see some of my Ekphrastic Fiction pieces, click here.

Will there be any future contests?  Yes! As long as there is enough interest, there will be a new contest,  and a new piece of art work, posted every month. Check out my page on  the 1st of each month to see the new contest.

I am an artist. How can I have my work used for this contest? If you have art work that you would like used for this contest, you can read my post for artists here, and fill out this form.

I can’t wait to read your submissions!

@actualpieceofwhitebread-2  @alexfireon​ @alinakerrin​ @aliquid-de-magis​ @anartblogfornerds​ @a-river-of-roses @artistic-octopus @atonguetiedwriter​ @axisadjudicator​ @badnarrators-blog​  @baerli​ @blatantly-pseudonymous @barsom-fearce-art​  @blurred-cat @bookbreak​  @books-and-left-behind-journals @brynprocrastinates​  @burningemberjade​  @cawolters​   @coloringroses​ @cosmos-curiosity @create-and-procrastinate @crrushedpetals​ @curiosityinblue​  @dantedwards​ @demighosty​ @dhill2000  @drawingpuddle​ @dreamsofbooksandmonsters​ @drippingmoon​  @electricarmchair​ @elliebrie​  @emilyelizabethfowl​ @emilyrosalopez​  @evanthenerd83 @federsteinmask​ @fool-ofatook​ @halfbloodlycan​ @hauntedluminarybbq​ @hbglaze​ @hellhound-stays-dead​ @imagine-fight-write  @inkjackets​ @insert-cleverurl​ @jarmishjen​   @jonathan-lockheart​  @journalisticroman​ @kandrakelsier​ @kibberswrites​ @lady-redshield-waits​   @l-exists  @lilyevenspotter @littlescarletstar​ @loafofbook​  @lycorsa​  @marigoldwrites​ @mbovettwrites​ @miistical​  @moonlightchess​ @mushwrites​  @nadunacreates​ @ninjacat1515 @not-your-mothers-cooking @palxeye​ @perfectlyscarredandbruised​ @pinkprogram​ @piratesangel​ @psychoinsanitear​ @queenlyquotes​ @raiswanson​ @ridinwonderland​ @saxoniowrites    @scribble-dee-vee​  @seducemewithcherrycandies​ @selinenuli​ @semicoolgal​ @shameen-kashif​ @shydragonrider​ @skyward-heartbeat @sparradile​ @stand-inthe-rain​ @stickynotedoodler​ @stripeyghost​  @that-dumb-space-kid  @thecatwhispurrer​  @thiddyswife​ @thinksandthings​ @themidnxghtwriter​ @tjgardnah​ @tlbodine​  @to-kill-a-procrastinator @twoplumsandapeach​  @unendingballofstress​ @vanarobot​ @vanwolffen​ @veteratorianvillainy​  @wemitodd​  @whitandwy​ @wildler​ @winterrose42 @writerlyclaire​ @writingrampant​ @zum1udontno

[nadunacreates]

Bunny was old, and he was tired. His fur had long since lost its shine, his ears were frayed and his paws almost chewed-through, by dogs and children alike.

Bunny was old and tired and he'd lost his tail so long ago he didn't even remember what it felt like, but—

But still, he sat up a little straighter, despite the missing tail, perked up his frayed ears and listened closely, whenever Momma turned on the Special Lamp to make Stars appear all over the bedroom walls, when she took out the Book and patted the spot on the bed beside her in invitation, when she lowered her voice and started to whisper.

"Once upon a time," she would say, and Bunny didn't feel old or tired, because there was something alive brimming in his stuffing, something that made him yearn for a time so long ago, a place so far away, an Adventure he could barely remember. "Once upon a time," she would say, and Bunny closed his eyes and listened to the tales spun by Momma's voice.

Bunny wasn't always old, wasn't always tired. There'd been a time when he flew with dragons and rescued princesses from towers, a time when he helped defeat the evil witch and was crowned the king in thanks. When he danced on fancy balls and saved kittens from trees, stopped the war and drank with Snow White's dwarves. When he fell in love and died and came alive again by True Love's kiss, when magic was only the flick of a finger away.

These nights with their Stars and Momma's Stories helped him remember that, so that he didn't feel as old and forgotten as he did during the day, when he sat on a shelf and looked on as the children played, sat and looked on and didn't get to rescue princesses or ride dragons anymore.

Story Nights meant he'd be remembered, grabbed by his fraying ears and crushed against a warm chest, clutched tighter whenever the hero almost failed. And then, when the story was over, the Happy Ending earned, he'd get to watch over the child as they slept — and they were no princess in a tower, but they were meant to be kept safe anyway, no matter what.

Momma tucked the book away and whispered "good night," but she never turned off the Special Lamp, because she knew how much he liked to watch the stars.

She'd been the one, after all, once upon a time, who poked her chubby little fingers at each one and told him their names, and that they'd watch over the both of them, because she knew he was afraid of the dark, but it was okay, she was, too.

But Bunny was never really afraid, not of anything, because he was with her.

He's old, now, and tired, but that's okay, because she is, too.

She has two dogs and two children, a third one on the way, a wife who she adores and who adores her in turn, and still she takes the time, every night, to remember little old Bunny.

And his fur may be worn out, patches of grey amid the blue, his ears may be frayed and hanging on by a thread — but it's a good life, because he knows that Momma will pick out a colorful patch to stitch the hole, will wrestle with dog or child to get the ear back and sewed onto him, made whole once more.

So yes, Bunny is old and tired, but, most of all, he's happy.

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest Winner (March 2020)

This winner for this month’s contest is: @nadunacreates​! Congratulations!!! Naduna was also the contest winner in October 2019. You can see her previous winning entry here and click here to check out her Tumblr page!

There were several interesting takes on this piece, so make sure you also check out my Honorable Mentions post later today!

As a reminder, this month’s feature is a digital animation titled, “But maybe, One day. You might be able to move on. Just maybe,” and it was created by @4threset​​​. If you have been following this contest for awhile, you may notice that 4th Reset was also featured in March 2018. This artist has a ton of original work on Tumblr and has also created a couple webcomics. If you like this animation, make sure to check out this page!

You’re caught in the mirror and you can’t get out.

Our eyes meet and our fingers don’t touch, palms pressed flat against glass. Unyieldingly cold, indifferent; a barrier between here and there, now and then. It locks you in, keeps me out, and I can’t warn you. Can’t tell you not to get too close, not to care too much. Can’t whisper about how you never should have trusted him, never should have loved. Can’t rage and shout about the unfairness of it all, about how you’re a fool and you should have known better than this.

But you don’t know better, just as I didn’t.

You can’t help it, just as I couldn’t.

We’re the same, after all, but you can still breathe – for now, you can still breathe. It will change; sooner, probably, rather than later. You’ll have a cough, first, and he will give you tea, sit you down with a blanket and a good book.

(You stop resisting, and it’s already too late, now, and you know it.) (You just don’t care.) (And I don’t find it in me to tell you that you shouldn’t. It may be worth it, maybe, one day. I don’t know, I’m not there yet. But you—)

You’ll feel like throwing up, next. Like something is eating you alive, a vine reaching up your throat and thorns snagging at your lungs, making your ribs into a cage where there’s no escape from. It’s a vivid image, and one entirely out of place, you’ll tell yourself, and you’ll tell him that you think you’ve eaten something bad, you’ll be right back.

(You won’t be right back.)

The flowers are a bitch to get down the drain, and the blood is hard to hide when you’re wearing a white shirt. You’ll make up an excuse, and I can’t even tell you which one it will be, because you’ll panic too much to remember it later.

He’ll be at your door the morning after, and the morning after, and the morning after. You’ll have to leave the house, then, and you’ll run into him again. It’s hard to hide that your skin is pale and your lips are dry and your voice is fucked to hell. He’s the kind of guy who notices these things and cares.

He won’t give up. He’ll think you’re dying, and he’ll probably be right.

(Because here’s what fiction doesn’t tell you about Hanahaki disease: it’s not stupid. Your lungs won’t grow flowers just because you think you know your crush doesn’t like you back when in reality they really do. Unrequited romantic love, it’s as horrible and as simple as that.) (But just because something isn’t, yet, doesn’t mean it will never be.)

You’ll have to decide: fight or die.

It comes down to this.

Fight to prove yourself worthy of his love, or accept that you will never be enough, and that you’ll take your feelings to the grave with you. And maybe, when it’s you in front of this mirror, reaching out, you’ll come to the same decision that I do.

We fight. We fight, because we love. We love life, and we love him, and we have no idea when these two concepts ever came to have such a similar meaning. Fight for the twinkle in his eyes when you stumble down the stairs, for the dimple in his smile when you tell a bad joke, the veins in the back of his hands and the freckles on his cheeks, the crook of his nose. Fight for the twist in your belly and the feeling like you’re flying when he falls asleep with his head in your lap and a book in his hands, fight for the tenderness in your heart and fingers when you brush a lock of hair out of his face. Fight for home. And maybe, just maybe, when we’re both lucky, one day we’ll hear him say “I love you, too”. (For what is a lock without its key?)

[nadunacreates]

aaahh, thank you so much! <3

it's not like i have a thousand other wips that i should also work on – but this art piece was so amazing and inspiring that i couldn't help myself, i HAD to write something.

apropos inspiring: so so many kudos to you for always doing this! i know it can't be easy and i feel like you get hardly any recognition – but it's been so so valuable to me. i've written a little something for every month's contest, even if i didn't always end up submitting it, and it always helps with finding new inspiration and trying out a new kind of writing style, or even just as a warm up before i work on one of my wips (which happens much too rarely, sadly).

so. i just wanted to say thank you, i guess ^^ for everything, but of course also for being chosen as the winner. it's an honor!

[kibberswrites]

okay im just going to say it…i like purple prose. it’s my favorite writing style. i like pretty sentences. i like fun turns of phrase. language is there to do with as you wish and the people making words into stunning sentences have my admiration.

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest (March 2020)

This month’s feature is a digital animation titled, “But maybe, One day. You might be able to move on. Just maybe,” and it was created by @4threset​​. If you have been following this contest for awhile, you may notice that 4th Reset was also featured in March 2018. This artist has a ton of original work on Tumblr and has also created a couple webcomics. If you like this animation, make sure to check out this page!

Basic Directions: Create an original fictitious piece based on the artwork above.

Length: Your entry does not have to be long! It can be as short as one sentence or one paragraph. Entries must be shorter than 500 words.

Deadline: All entries must be received before March 25th. The winner will be announced March 31st.

How to submit your entry:  Once you have written your Ekphrastic Fiction piece, you can enter this contest either of these ways:

1. Fill out this form to enter the contest.

 2. Reblog this post with your story attached.

You can do either one of these to enter the contest. You do not need to do both.  

Contest Prize: I will feature the winning piece on my blog and link directly to the writer’s page in order to promote his/her/their work. The winning piece will also have a permanent spot on my contest page. This gives writers a chance to have their work shared and seen by others. Sorry, but at this time I am broke, so no cash prizes will be given.

WTF is Ekphrastic Fiction? Ekphrastic Fiction stories are short fictitious pieces inspired by a work of art. To see some of my Ekphrastic Fiction pieces, click here.

Will there be any future contests? Yes! As long as there is enough interest, there will be a new contest, and a new piece of art work, posted every month. Check out my page on the 1st of each month to see the new contest.

I am an artist. How can I have my work used for this contest? If you have art work that you would like used for this contest, you can read my post for artists here, and fill out this form.

I can’t wait to read your submissions!

@actualpieceofwhitebread-2  @alexfireon​ @alinakerrin​ @aliquid-de-magis​ @anartblogfornerds​ @artistic-octopus @atonguetiedwriter​ @axisadjudicator​ @badnarrators-blog​  @baerli​ @blatantly-pseudonymous @bookbreak​  @books-and-left-behind-journals @brynprocrastinates​ @bunn1k1ng @burningemberjade​  @cawolters​  @chaotic-bi-fangirl​  @coloringroses​ @cosmos-curiosity @create-and-procrastinate @crrushedpetals​ @curiosityinblue​  @dantedwards​ @demighosty​ @dhill2000 @dikris-g​ @drawingpuddle​ @dreamsofbooksandmonsters​ @drippingmoon​  @electricarmchair​ @elliebrie​  @emilyelizabethfowl​  @enby–bloth–hoondr @evanthenerd83 @federsteinmask​ @halfbloodlycan​ @hauntedluminarybbq​ @hbglaze​ @hellhound-stays-dead​ @inkjackets​ @insert-cleverurl​ @joeys-piano  @jonathan-lockheart​  @journalisticroman​ @kandrakelsier​ @kibberswrites​ @lady-redshield-waits​ @laurelemoeba-art  @l-exists @littlescarletstar​ @loafofbook​  @lost-in-the-silver-raindrops  @marigoldwrites​ @mbovettwrites​ @miistical​  @moonlightchess​ @nadunacreates​ @ninjacat1515 @palxeye​ @perfectlyscarredandbruised​ @pinkprogram​ @piratesangel​ @psychoinsanitear​ @queenlyquotes​ @raiswanson​ @ridinwonderland​ @saxoniowrites​  @scribble-dee-vee​  @seducemewithcherrycandies​ @semicoolgal​ @shameen-kashif​ @sparradile​ @stickynotedoodler​ @stripeyghost​   @thecatwhispurrer​ @the-ellipses-in-this-reply @tjgardnah​ @tlbodine​  @to-kill-a-procrastinator @twoplumsandapeach​  @unendingballofstress​ @vanarobot​ @vanwolffen​ @voby33 @wemitodd​  @whitandwy​ @wildler​ @writerlyclaire​ @writingrampant​ @zum1udontno

[nadunacreates]

You’re caught in the mirror and you can't get out. Our eyes meet and our fingers don't touch, palms pressed flat against glass. Unyieldingly cold, indifferent; a barrier between here and there, now and then. It locks you in, keeps me out, and I can't warn you. Can't tell you not to get too close, not to care too much. Can't whisper about how you never should have trusted him, never should have loved. Can't rage and shout about the unfairness of it all, about how you're a fool and you should have known better than this.

But you don't know better, just as I didn't.

You can't help it, just as I couldn't.

We're the same, after all, but you can still breathe – for now, you can still breathe. It will change; sooner, probably, rather than later. You'll have a cough, first, and he will give you tea, sit you down with a blanket and a good book.

(You stop resisting, and it's already too late, now, and you know it.) (You just don't care.) (And I don't find it in me to tell you that you shouldn't. It may be worth it, maybe, one day. I don't know, I'm not there yet. But you—)

You'll feel like throwing up, next. Like something is eating you alive, a vine reaching up your throat and thorns snagging at your lungs, making your ribs into a cage where there's no escape from. It's a vivid image, and one entirely out of place, you'll tell yourself, and you'll tell him that you think you've eaten something bad, you'll be right back.

(You won't be right back.)

The flowers are a bitch to get down the drain, and the blood is hard to hide when you're wearing a white shirt. You'll make up an excuse, and I can't even tell you which one it will be, because you'll panic too much to remember it later.

He'll be at your door the morning after, and the morning after, and the morning after. You'll have to leave the house, then, and you'll run into him again. It's hard to hide that your skin is pale and your lips are dry and your voice is fucked to hell. He's the kind of guy who notices these things and cares.

He won't give up. He'll think you're dying, and he'll probably be right.

(Because here's what fiction doesn't tell you about Hanahaki disease: it's not stupid. Your lungs won't grow flowers just because you think you know your crush doesn't like you back when in reality they really do. Unrequited romantic love, it's as horrible and as simple as that.) (But just because something isn't, yet, doesn't mean it will never be.)

You'll have to decide: fight or die.

It comes down to this.

Fight to prove yourself worthy of his love, or accept that you will never be enough, and that you'll take your feelings to the grave with you. And maybe, when it's you in front of this mirror, reaching out, you'll come to the same decision that I do.

We fight. We fight, because we love. We love life, and we love him, and we have no idea when these two concepts ever came to have such a similar meaning. Fight for the twinkle in his eyes when you stumble down the stairs, for the dimple in his smile when you tell a bad joke, the veins in the back of his hands and the freckles on his cheeks, the crook of his nose. Fight for the twist in your belly and the feeling like you're flying when he falls asleep with his head in your lap and a book in his hands, fight for the tenderness in your heart and fingers when you brush a lock of hair out of his face. Fight for home. And maybe, just maybe, when we're both lucky, one day we'll hear him say "I love you, too". (For what is a lock without its key?)