Parti Writes

Writing Blog . • ☆ . ° 💜 ° . ☆ • . She/her • Queer • Neurospicy Storyteller • Artist • Writer • Actor • Fandom Enthusiast

[partiwrites]

Hello Tumblr :D

Welcome to my writing blog, my little virtual bookshelf where I put some of my writings, poems, thoughts on the writing process, the occasional prompt, things like that!

I hope y’all will like what I share here 💜

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A world where storks do, in fact, deliver babies, but instead of visibly being birds that descend from the sky with a parcel they’re magical beings that take inconspicuous human forms to bring the babies to the right home in the guise of doctors or midwives, be it at the hospital or through house calls, or under the guise of good samaritans offering help for births happening somewhere unexpected where a professional can’t arrive in time. They don’t always succeed, but they always do their best to complete the delivery no matter how exceptional the circumstances.

[triggswastaken]

It was raining the night Rowan got the call. A freight truck had jackknifed on the highway just outside a wooded stretch, blocking both lanes. Paramedics were delayed. The dispatcher’s voice was taut with worry. A woman in a sedan behind the crash had gone into labor. No way to airlift, no way through.

Rowan didn’t need to ask where. He could feel it. The old pull, like a knot tightening behind his sternum, telling him there’s a delivery to make.

He didn’t bother with the car. It wouldn’t get far. Instead, he stepped into the rain, pulled his coat tighter, and began to walk. His feet hit pavement like soft thunder. People who passed him didn’t notice him unless they were already looking. Those who did only remembered a vague impression: a man with kind eyes. Maybe a doctor. Maybe someone else. Hard to say.

Rowan’s body was that way by design. Storks, after all, didn’t come with beaks and wings anymore. Not since the world got suspicious of miracles.

⸻

The crash site was chaos. Flashing lights lit up the trees in blue and red. A fireman waved him off, shouting something about clearance, but Rowan touched his shoulder and whispered, “Let me through.” That was enough.

He found the car a few yards beyond the wreck, tilted in a shallow ditch. The backseat was folded down, and the woman lay stretched across it, sweat glistening on her brow. A man—her husband, maybe—was pacing nearby, fumbling through a CPR brochure he thought might double as a birthing manual.

Rowan knelt.

“Who—? Are you a doctor?”

“Something like that,” he said.

The woman—Emily, her name bloomed quietly in his mind like a crocus pushing through snow—looked up at him through narrowed eyes. “Can you… help?”

“Yes.” Rowan reached into the folds of his coat. Not for tools—he didn’t need those—but for focus. For the old magic, still alive in the marrow of his borrowed bones.

He guided her breathing, helped her push. Coaxed the little one out into the wet night. He wrapped the boy in his own scarf—wool, worn, but warm—and held him close.

The baby blinked up at him with bright, astonished eyes.

“Is he… okay?” the father asked, trembling.

Rowan looked down at the child in his arms. The boy’s soul was still fresh, threads barely knotted. There had almost been a tear in the pattern—too much stress, too little air—but it had mended.

“He’s perfect.”

⸻

Later, while paramedics arrived and chaos began to resolve into protocol, Rowan slipped away. He didn’t need thanks. He never did.

As he walked, his steps grew lighter. The rain eased.

He felt the presence before he saw her. Another stork, leaning against a lamppost in the shape of a teenage girl with a silver eyebrow ring and nurse’s scrubs.

“You made it,” she said. “Just barely.”

“Still counts,” Rowan said, smiling faintly.

“You’ll be back in the sky soon, you know,” she said, looking up. “They only give you the ground jobs when you’ve still got something left to learn.”

Rowan watched the sky.

“I don’t mind walking,” he said. “Some deliveries are worth the steps.”

And with that, he vanished into the night—one more shadow in the city, one more miracle in human form.

Still moving. Still delivering.

Always.

[partiwrites]

Actually giddy right now, this is officially the first full piece of writing spurred by one of my prompts and it’s absolutely beautiful, I love it so much, thank you for sharing this :D

[triggswastaken]

Oh my God, thank you, I just loved the prompt, it’s also 3 AM and I’m very sleep deprived so I needed to get something out before my brain would let me sleep

[partiwrites]

That’s so real lol, gotta love the sleep deprived writer life X3 I’m really glad you liked the prompt! ^w^ Hope you get some good rest 💜

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A world where storks do, in fact, deliver babies, but instead of visibly being birds that descend from the sky with a parcel they’re magical beings that take inconspicuous human forms to bring the babies to the right home in the guise of doctors or midwives, be it at the hospital or through house calls, or under the guise of good samaritans offering help for births happening somewhere unexpected where a professional can’t arrive in time. They don’t always succeed, but they always do their best to complete the delivery no matter how exceptional the circumstances.

[triggswastaken]

It was raining the night Rowan got the call. A freight truck had jackknifed on the highway just outside a wooded stretch, blocking both lanes. Paramedics were delayed. The dispatcher’s voice was taut with worry. A woman in a sedan behind the crash had gone into labor. No way to airlift, no way through.

Rowan didn’t need to ask where. He could feel it. The old pull, like a knot tightening behind his sternum, telling him there’s a delivery to make.

He didn’t bother with the car. It wouldn’t get far. Instead, he stepped into the rain, pulled his coat tighter, and began to walk. His feet hit pavement like soft thunder. People who passed him didn’t notice him unless they were already looking. Those who did only remembered a vague impression: a man with kind eyes. Maybe a doctor. Maybe someone else. Hard to say.

Rowan’s body was that way by design. Storks, after all, didn’t come with beaks and wings anymore. Not since the world got suspicious of miracles.

⸻

The crash site was chaos. Flashing lights lit up the trees in blue and red. A fireman waved him off, shouting something about clearance, but Rowan touched his shoulder and whispered, “Let me through.” That was enough.

He found the car a few yards beyond the wreck, tilted in a shallow ditch. The backseat was folded down, and the woman lay stretched across it, sweat glistening on her brow. A man—her husband, maybe—was pacing nearby, fumbling through a CPR brochure he thought might double as a birthing manual.

Rowan knelt.

“Who—? Are you a doctor?”

“Something like that,” he said.

The woman—Emily, her name bloomed quietly in his mind like a crocus pushing through snow—looked up at him through narrowed eyes. “Can you… help?”

“Yes.” Rowan reached into the folds of his coat. Not for tools—he didn’t need those—but for focus. For the old magic, still alive in the marrow of his borrowed bones.

He guided her breathing, helped her push. Coaxed the little one out into the wet night. He wrapped the boy in his own scarf—wool, worn, but warm—and held him close.

The baby blinked up at him with bright, astonished eyes.

“Is he… okay?” the father asked, trembling.

Rowan looked down at the child in his arms. The boy’s soul was still fresh, threads barely knotted. There had almost been a tear in the pattern—too much stress, too little air—but it had mended.

“He’s perfect.”

⸻

Later, while paramedics arrived and chaos began to resolve into protocol, Rowan slipped away. He didn’t need thanks. He never did.

As he walked, his steps grew lighter. The rain eased.

He felt the presence before he saw her. Another stork, leaning against a lamppost in the shape of a teenage girl with a silver eyebrow ring and nurse’s scrubs.

“You made it,” she said. “Just barely.”

“Still counts,” Rowan said, smiling faintly.

“You’ll be back in the sky soon, you know,” she said, looking up. “They only give you the ground jobs when you’ve still got something left to learn.”

Rowan watched the sky.

“I don’t mind walking,” he said. “Some deliveries are worth the steps.”

And with that, he vanished into the night—one more shadow in the city, one more miracle in human form.

Still moving. Still delivering.

Always.

[partiwrites]

Actually giddy right now, this is officially the first full piece of writing spurred by one of my prompts and it’s absolutely beautiful, I love it so much, thank you for sharing this :D

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A world where storks do, in fact, deliver babies, but instead of visibly being birds that descend from the sky with a parcel they’re magical beings that take inconspicuous human forms to bring the babies to the right home in the guise of doctors or midwives, be it at the hospital or through house calls, or under the guise of good samaritans offering help for births happening somewhere unexpected where a professional can’t arrive in time. They don’t always succeed, but they always do their best to complete the delivery no matter how exceptional the circumstances.

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: You have been isekai’d into a magical world without phones or electricity, and your phone has been isekai’d with you. Somehow you have reception and it is fully functional, and after the first time its battery ran out you managed to find a basic energy charm at a market that worked in place of a charger to restore its battery.

Throughout this journey your travel companion has become convinced that the phone is a living creature of some kind, perhaps your pet or your familiar, and that you are a practicing Necromancer since you were able to “revive” it after it died once you had the right items at your disposal. After your first attempt at explaining the actual situation failed, you decided to just go with it.

[knitted-heartstrings]

"so... what exactly does it eat? i mean, yeah you can revive it, but surely you don't just let it starve. right?"

"...riiighht. um. it eats... uh... GRAPES!!! yeah. grapes!"

cue you finding your party members trying to stuff grapes into the charging port of your phone

[partiwrites]

LMFAO beautiful

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

Legacy of the Blade

“What is a legacy?”

A question first posed to me in a story of a man fighting to be free.

Far from the first time I’d heard the word, but the first time it stuck with me beyond a surface level. Albeit just for a bit of whimsy.

“Seeds in a garden,” said he. “Ones you never get to see.” It caught me, I admit, in the way a vague tune may catch your ear before it dissipates; beautiful, without making its way to the heart.

And then it was another man, and the grand design he built upon a false sea. He wanted to be remembered, wanted it desperately. He would claw and cheat and kill for this supposed destiny. And his corrupted fervour did arrest me. But, like the first, it didn’t quite test me.

Still, I held onto these nuggets of fool’s gold, for I too chase remembrance. I wish for the world to know of me. I wish to be perceived, for them to share my reveries. I wish to spread my dreams across the land for all to see, and as they gleam that shine will be my ecstasy.

But it was you who taught me what it truly means.

Before you, my pyrite pieces were tales without veracity, songs with no melody.

But you are a glimmering crown, a shining bell, a ringing truth and an eternal promise. Then you were gone, and so many fell, gilded wings with the sun too far from us.

We faced impossibility; how did we lose what could never die?

And yet we kept turning, even in this molten wake of a sun swallowed by the horizon. Melted tears and broken pieces. Clinging to whatever light could guide us through the fog and remind us of your gold-red sky.

You made me understand. For years have passed, and your legend is twofold, and your glow will only brighten as more years go by.

I heard your voice again this morning, through glass panes and carried on rays of sun. I stood in the kitchen, watching alone through a one-way window, as tea leaves soaked into hot water cupped in a withered-black skull; I listened with tears blurring my eyes as your voice rang clear as day, even years after it went silent. Because it never truly did go silent, in the end.

It was then, heart full and broken all at once, chest warm with grief and hope, that I whispered with the certainty one can only feel at the very core of their soul:

“This is a legacy.”

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

The Keeper

I am the dust beneath your feet

I am the ink on crumbled scrolls

I am the whispers of languages lost

I am the tales told and retold

I am the stones that survive kingdoms’ fall

I am the river that cuts through the land

I am the watcher of all that has been

I am the cavern walls painted by hand

I am the warmth that exists in your core

I am the chill that lulls you to sleep

I am the one who remembers it all

I am the bearer of stories you seek

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

Forgotten God

To be loved is to live

It is an indescribable light

That fills your entire being

Turns your heart to gold

And your soul to ethereal eternity

To be loved is to live

It is countless voices

Holding you close

Warm arms embracing you

And you know you never shall fall

To be loved is to live

And I have died

As I sit in a cold and empty immortality

No voice speaks my name

No hands deliver me prayers

And I am nothing

For I am forgotten

And to be loved is to live.

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

Immortal

Let me speak to you of loneliness

When I swim in a lonesome sky

Once-silver clouds shall fade to grey

And every breath of wind shall die.

Let me speak to you of sorrow

When I tread on grieving ground

Only my set of footprints remain

The final sign of life I’ve found.

Let me speak to you of time

When I have been here since clock’s end

A day and eternity one and the same

The dust of the past as my only friend.

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

The Garden

In the garden of the in-between, I rest in a time that never was and always will be

Suspended in a darkness so complete, a liminal world, a frozen moment

And in this limbo I lift my hands, pale fingers darting as a moth in the moonlight,

Making sharp contact and striking the void, hearing it echo, creating a rhythm, resonating against the absence of everything

Tapping morse code into the emptiness, S.O.S, because they are the only letters I know

And feeling it tremble, the echo of something tapping back

A chord is tied around my heart and leading me forward step by step

My feet drift, and I let the threads that tether me guide the way, changing course, pulling me backwards along a tightrope

I am brought to the darkest watercolour ballroom, dancing chest to chest with my love, masqued in crimson and mauve

And the warmth that envelops me is a pitch black comfort unlike anything the waking world can know

In this garden, I am stone

With a living pulse beating inside

A thin layer cracks and crumbles away from my fingers with every twitch of the marionette strings circling my wrists

Until they snap in a chord of lucidity

And I fly from the garden like a statue touched by the antithesis of Midas

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

The Glade

Deep in the heart of the wild wood

On nights when the sky ripples like a dark velvet sheet

And the stars sing of forgotten souls, their voices glittering in the sky and dissipating across the land before their light can grace a mortal ear

And the moon casts each leaf and branch in a soft silver veil…

These are the nights of the Glade.

In the very centre of the great kingdom of trees, a clearing opens to cup the light of ethereal night, and upon a carpet of moss,

The elven queen slips through the beams of the moon, and drinks in their glow, secrets of the night that only she may know

The fair folk flit ‘tween trunk and bramble,

And attend her as she traverses the Glade softer than a pale shadow

The starlight catching in her hair, otherworldly jewels,

Until she takes her leave

And only the faintest of footsteps remain.

[partiwrites]

Parti’s Poems

Roses

We stand in a field of roses,

And bright as the yellows may burn,

I hope when I give you a red one,

You’ll give me a red in return.

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A story that takes place on earth, exactly as it is irl, with one difference: whenever someone goes “pspspspspsps” a summoning circle will appear in front of them and a cat will rise up out of it.

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: Aliens come to Earth to abduct and study humans but accidentally abduct an Earth cryptid like Bigfoot or Mothman or something and mistakenly think that all humans are like that.

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A story that’s written with a clear main character, they’re the only one with plot armour, they’re the big hero, they save the day, but the POV is never theirs at any point throughout the story, it’s always the POV of a side character, and anything that could happen to any side character can happen to those POVs. They could die or just give directions and never be seen again or try to scam the main character and fail or whatever else, and the POV of each chapter changes to whichever side character is interacting with the main character enough to give the reader a clear view of the plot. So the main character’s story and journey makes sense and can be followed through the people who encounter them but the story is never told through the main character’s eyes.

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: A sticky note that reads “i o u 1 skeleton”

[partiwrites]

Writing Prompt: “You cannot trust a word I say, despite the fact that I will never, ever tell a lie.”