Scribbles

Nelle | love stories | A collection of things I've written

[writing-prompt-s]

Your party tells you to fess up cause you have strange abilities other necromancers don’t have. You tell them it’s cause you treat the dead like Family instead of servants. Turns out necromancy grants more powers if you truly honor the dead

[nitewrighter]

“The prince just fell in love with Cinderella because of her looks!”

Wrong. Okay, picture this–

So there’s the prince, okay? He’s like, smack dab in the center of the ballroom, and he is like, horrifically aware that this whole ball thing is a result of his dad falling into a panic about the royal lineage or whatever and he’s stuck listening to highborn girl after highborn girl, all lined up, introducing themselves like, “Oh yeah my family’s been a longtime supporter of the crown, and I think you’re cute, *cough* I’ve been told I have child-bearing hips *cough* Who said that? Anyway–” and Princey boy is just smiling through it, he has been the center of attention for entirely too long, he misses his emotional support horse, and is just internally like “Someone please kill me now.” And then… he sees her–This isn’t a love at first sight thing, this is a ‘what the hell is going on over there’ thing, because this girl has not gotten into the Debutante line for a solid 45 minutes. 

She’s just at the hors d’oeuvres table going HAM on the prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and like, she’s polite about it, she’s happy to move aside for other people grabbing punch and canapes (and she’s really so sweet with the wait staff, it’s kind of cute because they’re like… definitely not used to being acknowledged) but it’s like, “Damn girl, did you not eat today?” and then the prince is kind of stuck with the uncomfortable thought of ‘how many girls starved themselves to fit into a corset for this.’ And then the Prince realizes he’s missed the past 4 Debutante introductions because he’s watching Mystery girl hork down crab rangoons. So he’s like, “Excuse me” and manages to break free from the never-ending parade of girls who will hop on his dick for status.

 And as he’s approaching Mystery Girl, it’s kind of hitting him that something’s not quite natural about her. Not fake, but not quite real. But at the same time this whole evening’s been just a whole circus of people acting fake as hell, so like, someone seeming a little off doesn’t seem bad, necessarily. And he sidles up to her like, “Hi,” and she’s like, “Oh–hey, have you tried the tapenade?” and she points to one of the plates, and at this point, he could hit her with the “You don’t know who I am, do you?” deal or the “Very funny, I see your play” deal, but at this point it occurs to him that, no, he hasn’t had anything to eat throughout this whole damn ball, partially because of being stuck in the debutante parade, partially because of nerves, and there’s something so disarming about the question that he grabs a crostini and she still seems so food-focused that it doesn’t seem possible that this is a play. So they both grab little plates and ditch the party.

She pretty much clears her plate in under two minutes and then has half of his plate, he’s cool with it, mostly he’s just absolutely fascinated listening to her.

See here’s the thing about Cinderella:

1. She doesn’t know he’s the prince. Like yeah, he’s been at the center of the room, but she’s kind of spent half the party eagerly looking around everywhere she’s allowed to go (”Have you seen rose garden? Have you seen the solarium??” further confirmation that she doesn’t know who she’s talking to) and the other half stuffing her face with food. 

2. She assumes she’s never going to see anyone here tonight again, and no one recognizes her, so she has no filter.

So she’s just talking about whatever with this guy. He seems cool. She talks about her friends, who are rats. She makes little outfits for them. Sometimes they bring her little gifts. She is already the coolest person the prince has ever met because of this. She pretty much offhandedly talks about whatever is fucked up about the kingdom that would take his advisors two hours of hemming and hawing and watering down to address. She just says it like it’s nothing, just funky little things she’s observed, and again, she’s not aware that he’s the prince, but it’s still pretty damn bold to bring up at a literal royal ball.

She… seems to have the majority of graces that lots of girls from Respectable Families™ have, but there’s something strange about it, something simultaneously broken and hardened, like the way you can see where ice has thawed and re-frozen. Also the way she talks about her family, and the way she avoids talking about her family– is raising several red flags, not in the “Oh this is another person trying to take advantage of me” sense, but in the “Oh fuck, something’s gone really wrong and you need help” sense and also lowkey a ‘damn is she even getting fed?’ sense. But he can’t say, ‘Hey, that’s not fucking normal for people to say that to you or treat you that way. We need to get you out of there,’ without sounding crazy himself, so for now, he’s just going to chill, make sure she’s comfortable, and keep enjoying the evening. She’s somehow befriended like 4 of the waitstaff so they’re willing to cover for them while they disappear for a little bit, and they get plenty of time to talk, but eventually it hits her that she hasn’t danced yet and she’s like “Come on! I bet we can make the prince jealous!” and he just bursts out laughing at that like “hell yeah, let’s make the prince jealous. He’s a real asshole.” Like clearly she’s having a good time, so who is he to make it weird? So they head back to the ballroom and they dance. And our girl, Mystery Girl, Cinderella, while they’re dancing, becomes acutely aware that everyone is staring. That doesn’t seem quite right. Like, yeah she’s hot, she knows she’s hot, but at least a good third of the party should still be focused on the prince, right? Where is that guy, anyway?

Oh.

Oh wait.

Oh shit.

And Princey Boy actually picks up on her realization and they whisper argue for like 3 minutes. “Why didn’t you tell me?! Now I feel like a goddamn idiot!” “I dunno it was nice being treated like a normal person” “Well me treating you like a normal person makes me a goddamn felon or something did you consider that?!” “Hey–Hey–it’s cool–you’re cool–I think you’re amazing, and if anyone says shit about you, I can shut it down.” “Well I don’t like that! That’s fucked up!” “I agree. It is fucked up, but I believe in you, and I think you should have a chance, and I’m here to back you up. I know power is fucked up right now. I know. But are you cool with working with me to change that?” And our girl Cindy pauses on that for a couple seconds, because.. she’s just spent hours with this guy and like.. she knows he’s a good guy, she knows he means well, so she’s like, “I don’t know how long I can actually work with you.” and the prince is like “Look, I know your home situation is complicated right now, but I really think we can–”

And then the bell starts ringing.

It’s midnight.

And then she takes off in a panic, and our prince just met the coolest person ever, and like, he’s pretty sure whatever situation they’re headed back to is fucked up, and all he’s got going to find her is a shoe. A shoe. 

[mugglebornprincess]

the only way this works for me is if he also has prosopagnosia, aka facial blindness. in any version of this story, it’s just ludicrous to think that he can’t even string together a physical description of her. but this was total gold. i want to see a cinderella who horks down crab rangoons and has no filter lol

[nitewrighter]

Ah yeah prosopagnosia, a reasonable explanation, however that lends to the other plot hole that there were countless others at the ball who could have recognized our girl Cinderella, including her Stepmother and Stepsisters. If the evil Stepfam recognized her, it would be all over. 

Thankfully the Fairy Godmother thought of something for that.

So picture Cindy, she’s in the garden under the hazel tree where her mother was buried, she’s just gotten the kickass dress, she’s doing the skirt twirlies, she’s checking herself out in the reflection of the garden fountain, and all of a sudden this horrible realization falls on her and she whirls over to look at her Fairy Godmother like, “WAIT. If my stepmother recognizes me, I’m dead. I’m so dead.” 

And Fairy Godmother is just like, “Oh pffft kiddo don’t sweat it. There’s a memory charm stitched into the dress.”

“Memory charm?”

“Oh yeah. Fae standard. There’s already illusion spells on the dress so no one’s gonna recognize you, and like… once the dress and the carriage and everything disappear at midnight, pretty much the only space you’ll occupy in people’s brains is like… they’ll basically remember you as a cloud of white noise. A talking cloud of white noise–they’ll remember what you say, but not the sound of your voice.”

“I don’t know what white noise is.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Wait–” Cindy perks up, “Everything’s going to disappear at midnight?”

“Yep. Everything,” The fairy godmother is smacking her wand against her palm, trying to figure out how much juice is still in it.

And then this ripple passes over Cinderella’s face. “Even the slippers?”

“The slippers?” The fairy godmother glances up.

“I just…” Cinderella fidgets with her dress a little, “I really like them. They’re so pretty and there’s… I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. I wouldn’t sell them or anything, and I know It would be much harder to hide the dress so I figured I couldn’t keep it… but… I just hoped I might have something so I’d know this night wasn’t a dream. Just something to take out from time to time and look at…” She seems to catch herself and straighten up a little. “But I understand. You’ve already done so much, I should be thankful for–”

And Fairy Godmother is massaging her temples like “Urrrghhhh oh god you’re making the face–Okay. OKAY. I’m bending like 15 rules for this but…” she snaps her fingers and the slippers on Cinderella’s feel just a little heavier, “There you go. The shoes are physical and permanent. But hey–HEY–keep track of them. This means the memory and illusion charms don’t work on them. These are going to be the only recognizable things about you from this night. You got it?”

And Cindy nods.

“I mean it! After this it’s going to be months before I can muster up enough magic to turn into a starling murmuration and peck your stepfamily’s eyes out. So I can’t protect you before then.”

“…w-what about pecking out eyes–?”

“Okay! Ball time! Go kiddo, go! Go! Go! Get in the carriage! Go!” 

[dragon-of-chaos]

Hi, i’m a film student, and I will be adapting this… so I hope you’re OK with that 👀

PLEASE BE OK WITH THIS 😭

It’s such a beautiful story😭😭😭😭

[nitewrighter]

I mean you might want the full length of it, then.

[writing-prompt-s]

You started a scam religion for a quick buck. You begin to panic when your fake god was actually a real forgotten one awakened from new worshippers, declared you it's high priest, and granted you the power of healing.

[penofnelle]

Dear -

I miss you.

I haven't heard from you in almost three years, I think. The last time we spoke was through text around December of '21. You said you sent your letter, and I responded with excitement and a link to a song I thought you might like.

After that, only a few days later my next text of another link just said delivered.

I never did receive that letter.

At first, I didn't worry. It wasn't the first time we went radio silent. After all, we had spoken mostly through letters in the first place ever since you moved. And the last time you had gone silent, you had been going through some stuff. I understand.

But as it became the new year and now my text messages didn't even say delivered and no other letter did appear I grew worried. That last text mentioned you were sick. I hoped you were okay.

I still sent links to new songs and a picture of a bracelet you mailed to me a few years ago.

I wished you a happy birthday and hope you were keeping warm when the weather got cold where you lived.

I told you that I made a friend when I had been nervous and things were going well in school.

Thanksgiving and Christmas came-a year since I last heard from you. The clock struck 12 and it was the new year. I thought I should send you a letter.

I wrote a lot in that letter, since it had been so long and a lot happened. I experienced loss and grief that made me feel hollow inside for months. I hoped it would reach you like all the others.

But the text was still unread, and I never got a letter in return. I started to look up obituaries in your city, and it killed me. I didn't actually know your parents' full names or their phone numbers. All these years and I didn't know something as simple as that, but we were young. We saw each other in school for years every day. You had only been to my house one time before you moved. I never actually went to your house when you lived so close, but once I went to dinner with your family. You sat next to me at the table.

If you had died, would your parents have let me know? You had my number, my email, my address. They were sure to have seen the letters we exchanged over the years, each decorated and sent with love. If you had died, they could have easily called to let me know. Sent a letter. But I never got any of that.

I know it's a big leap to assume someone was dead, but you were never a person to just ghost someone. When we talked it was always genuine. We never fought. Too much alike and nonconfrontational. But we were always upfront towards each other.

I wrote to you about a dream where I kissed a girl and then about when I actually had my first kiss with a boy. You wrote to me about a crush you had and how my previous letter made you flustered with how I wrote it. I didn't hide things from you. You know things my family doesn't.

I never hesitated to share with you what I wrote down in ink and my attempt at cursive. I didn't see it either in your words in blue ink that you sent back on folded small sheets of paper.

I texted a common friend we had to see when they last heard from you. It had been the September I last heard from you. I asked them to send you a message, but I dont ever think they did. Maybe you told them not to share if you responded, I don't know.

Did you not want to write to me anymore? Did I do something wrong? Did you grow tired of me? Forget?

Why wouldn't you tell me?

It made me sick to think about it. Either one of my closest friends died or decided to cut me off from their life.

The worst part is I don't know.

I've actually had dreams where I saw you again. Where I ran into you and finally got to know you were okay or we just talked like old times. Where I've gotten to hug you again. Where I've actually been able to ask you the question of 'what happened?'. I wake up, and it hurts to remember that it was just a dream and not a memory.

Not knowing is killing me. I've actually called you and gotten a voice-mail. It was an automated message, so I don't even know if you have that same number. I can't even hear your voice. I've left a few messages. Even saying that if this was someone else to just text me and let me know.

Please just let me know.

Love, -

[penofnelle]

[penofnelle]

[writing-prompt-s]

“I should’ve been a hero instead of following my family’s legacy” a villain sighed to himself while rescuing civillians trapped under the rubbles of destroyed buildings caused by the reckless and arrogant hero who’s still telling the fakest story to his Twitch fans while striking poses

[penofnelle]

Man in the booth

Have you ever wondered how some memories are kept so nicely? How you can still imagine the smell of the dish you had one evening years ago? The sound of laughter at a good joke you told. The warmth of the last hug you got from a friend. 

Some people say they have a very good memory. They should thank the man in the booth. 

He looks like many men. Your grandfather. Your neighbor. Your brother. An old friend. The mailman. A random stranger. An odd but perfect cultivation that, when you look at him, you find yourself feeling nostalgic.

It’s a fitting thing, when you see his booth. It's old and sturdy. There are stories in the shelves themselves if you know where to look. The grooves and wood stain. The dings and scratch marks. The feel of the woodgrain when you brush your fingertips across it. 

But there's more than just the shelves. 

The bits and bobs that decorate them. Chipped plates and old photographs of places you've never seen. Remnants of people you've never seen, might never meet. An old pair of earrings. A stained tie. A chewed up pen. Homemade gloves. 

Small things made their home on the shelves but that was not all. 

There were bigger things. 

A body length mirror with fingerprints on the glass. A baby's cradle with tiny teeth marks on one corner. A bicycle with a flat wheel and missing bell. 

There was even a kitchen sink that leaked. 

But no matter the size or what it was, it looked normal. No need to change it. Everything was in its rightful place. All put together in just the right way. 

Among it all is the man. He sits or stands behind his little counter decorated with more things. His fingers at home tapping on the wood or turning the pages of a book. 

He waits. 

He waits for you to come by. To go perusing the shelves and pick an item, a memory. For you to leave one behind.

He'll keep it safe and sound. It'll be perfectly fine in his booth, don't you worry. 

Then when you're feeling nostalgic and wish to remember the gentle touch of your mother's hand or the taste of the first meal you cooked on your own, come to the man's booth. He'll give you back the bits and bobbles you left behind. 

Then he'll go back behind the counter of his odd yet perfect little booth, where stories were in and on the shelves, waiting for another visitor. 

~

Kofi

[thestuffedalligator]

I’ve seen a lot of posts about Valhalla in the context of “Only those who die in battle get to enter Valhalla and this guy died battling cancer and Odin decided that counts” and it’s a very sweet thought but also like

I feel like we’ve forgotten that Valhalla isn’t really a paradise kind of afterlife. Those who die in battle enter Valhalla so they can stay blackout drunk until they have to fight giants in Ragnarok. I think that’s an important thing to remember here

[thestuffedalligator]

That being said, I’d love a story where someone dies battling cancer and enters a Valhalla that keeps with this interpretation of Valhalla

Thor the Terrible, Aesir-lord, god of thunder: “Sister Katherine! Fellow warrior! Welcome to Valhalla! At dawn we ride out against the forces of Muspelheim and Surtr!”

Five-foot-nothing Katherine who was terrified of calling people for work and had to take breaks while watching episodes of her favourite show because her overactive empathy made her anxious: *screaming internally*

[tiny-yet-thoughtful]

I imagine over time 'Sister Katherine' becomes more skilled in battle and later on when the next person who died comes and is freaking out, she comes up to them and pats their shoulder.

"I know you're freaking out, but don't worry the others like to watch out for your back and will absolutely love to show you their fighting moves if you wanna learn. I can show you some stuff before we start fighting [well known strong-ass person]," - she takes out one of the battle axes that swung at her hip and presented it to the newcomer- "Alright now with this, try doing..."

[tiny-yet-thoughtful]

There soon is a group of these people who died fighting battles very much different to these great past warriors in Valhalla, but still, are welcomed.

Whenever a new one arrives they are often hefted up onto shoulders of those who have powers from legends of old and are met with bosterous laughter. And while they have a knuckle white grip on the person's armor they are told this.

"Welcome to Valhalla fellow warrior! Another of you small ones joins the ranks of Sister Katerine and the others. And soon you shall become as fierce as them despite their size."

Then they are set on the ground in front of a group of people who look as out of place as them (although the weapons they have aren't anything they were used to seeing in the hospital). But the huge warrior that set them down pats their arm with a bit too much force that makes them stumble just a bit, only to be steadied the same hand. They look up at this warrior who has century old scars on their face.

"I await the day that we too, may have the chance of a battle of our own" - the warrior laughs once again - "If you are are anything like the others, it is sure a battle worthy of Valhalla."

Then the warrior walks away, leaving a stunned person with the group of mortals that have learned the skills to win any battle that may come their way with a smile that would have been fitting of a warrior who fought in Valhalla.

[writing-prompt-s]

You are the ‘Grandmother’, a witch that lives alone deep in a dangerous forest. One day you find a child in a red cloak at your door carrying a basket of tribute. You are surprised to hear that they are one of a number of children sent to find you and the only one to survive the journey.

[tiny-yet-thoughtful]

The old woman had been the Grandmother for longer than most. She was there when a sapling had been planted and still there to see that tree tower above her home in the woods. She had been there when there was still a village at the edge of the forest and long after the village had been forgotten.

Anyone who had known her were no more. There was little chance to run across anyone in the forest that moved and listened to whatever whispers you let out. However, it seemed that she had been wrong when there was a knock at her door.

Keep reading