I'm just a writer for fun . . .

[quinncoden-blog]

The comments are a more worthy read than the article itself.

[mkgaud]

Bath time reading

[readcommendations]

January TBR pile… (x) 

[msrandomcreation-deactivated202]

Guess what just showed up!? Kings Cage is here! Unfortunately have a few things to read first but can’t wait to start this beautiful book soon 😊

[hmhteen]

So many books, not enough time…

[readcommendations]

[msrandomcreation-deactivated202]

My UK edition of Caraval showed up finally! I’ve already it but I couldn’t help but get a physical edition! It’s so beautiful!! Anyone read this or currently reading it??

[paperfury-deactivated20260224]

Say HEY if you like rainbows because omg what is not to love about rainbows.

[msrandomcreation-deactivated202]

[jjustinemae]

“Reading is dreaming with open eyes.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

© @yuumei-art

Go visit yuumeiart.com for more 🙂

(PS: this photo is not mine. It catches my attention and so I just reposted it.)

[chickadeeburns]

Spring comes in through my balcony door; her freckled skin peeks out from under a yellow sundress with a sweater tied around her waist, her hair a honey-colored mass of curls. She spins around the room a few times before sitting down beside me. Her hands won’t stay still- she taps out a rhythm on my thigh, pushes her hair back from her face, tugs on the end of her dress, runs her fingertips over the scars on her ankles and knees and wrists.

She shifts to sit on the coffee table in front of me, leaning in almost close enough for me to taste her strawberry flavored lip gloss. “If we got in the car right now, how far do you think we could get before dawn?” she asks, hands on my knees as she leans in even closer. “We could stop at that tattoo place you like in Austin on the way, get matching tattoos. Then just keep driving until the sun comes up or we run out of gas.”

Twining her fingers between mine, she pulls me up from the couch and leads me around the apartment in a dance that is half tango and half manic pacing. “How far do you think we could get?” she asks again, one warm hand sliding up my arm to my jaw and back down my neck again in a caress of sunlight.

I try not to look at the dark circles already under her green eyes, pretend the smile she’s flashing at me is softer than it really is.

I grab the keys and we drive to the nearest lake. I’ve missed the ebb and flow of the tides I grew up near, miss the timeless feel of water. We kick off our shoes and put our feet in the muddy water. I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that I am home again. Spring rests her cheek on my shoulder. It takes me a few breaths to realize she’s crying.

“Why do we always end up here?” she asks, voice low and jagged. I can feel the storm building inside her, the kind that brings new growth afterwards if you can just survive the pouring rain and hail.

“If I knew, I’d stop coming back,” I tell her.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to just be happy somewhere?” the storm gets closer, a hum of thunder sounding in the distance. “To not feel like we have to keep moving, to not wonder if things would be better anywhere else?”

“I don’t think we’d be crying by the side of a lake if I knew that,” I say, pulling my feet out of the water to hug my knees. Clouds roll closer, covering the last traces of the sunset. Spring leans harder against me and the empty feeling in my chest expands further. I close my eyes as the first drops of rain fall.

Spring puts her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry I’m not better for you,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I make you feel more alive and less satisfied. I do try to make you happy, though, you know?”

I lean into her embrace, tuck my head into the curve between her shoulder and neck. “I know,” I reply. “But I don’t think I know how to be happy. Not really.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says over the boom of thunder. “You know how to be happy. I just interfere with that knowledge.”

“No,” I tell her as the storm begins to move on. “You just make me wake up and realize how much more I want.”

“More alive and less satisfied,” she repeats with a sad smile.

I reach out and tangle my fingers in her hair. “It’ll pass,” I assure her. “And sometimes it’s nice- sometimes you’re the wake-up call I need to take a better look at what I’m doing.”

Spring leans in to brush her lips across mine. “Maybe someday you won’t need the wake-up call. Maybe someday I’ll be good to you.”

I pull her in closer. “I hope so.”

-Spring is a Lover Who Doesn’t Treat Me Right, C.D. (chickadeeburns)

[strangelittlestories]

Ink

A #microfiction for lovers of mermaids and art and resistance…

When Ink was little, other mermaids used to tease her for her tentacles. Not the tentacles themselves, but the jets of ink that came with them - that she would still sometimes expel in times of fear or surprise.

The same way some surface people wore their embarrassment flushed on their skin, so too did Ink find her emotions coloured the world around her.

It was a not uncommon mutation in tentacled merfolk. Nor was it even a mutation, she would sometimes explain, it was those with vestigial inksacs that were the mutants - those who evolution had decided no longer needed such a crude defence mechanism.

But ink *can* still be used for defence. And Ink learned how to make an old instinct into something new. With careful coaxing from her tentacles, the ink could be shaped. Somewhere between sculpting and drawing, she taught herself to make art out of herself.

It was still hard. To fight the pound of blood and panic. To drag deep draughts of oxygen from the cool water through her lamellae. To take the sudden hit of adrenaline and turn that energy into something other than fight or flight. But it worked; the art helped her focus, which helped her to calm, which helped her to make better art. Trembling sketch-sculptures that hung three-dimensional in the water.

In this way, she made a shield that she could hold up between herself and those who would tease her.

She made more traditional art too. Painted directly onto the walls, if there was a handy surface. Or she would save her ink in little pots - giving a small laugh and apology as covered her embarrassment with busyness - and use it to paint pictures on shells and algae-paper.

She became quite well known, in time. Sea-dwellers from all over would come to see her art or would invite her to make live inky statues at highbrow functions - where she learned not to mind the stares. And even, now and again, realised being the centre of attention could be enjoyed.

Then came the scandal.

No-one knows quite how she came to be an enemy of the King. Rumours abound - from a rejected marriage proposal to long-held revolutionary sentiments - but one thing is clear…

Ink *can* be used for attack, as well as defence.

For while much of her art was destroyed, still more is hoarded Some by those who sympathise with the resistance. Some by fierce lovers of art. Not just old pieces, too. New ones began to appear on the market - pieces with more of an edge of anger to them.

Graffiti, too, began to appear on the coral walls of the Capital. Scathing, sharp cartoons that kill the regime with a thousand cuts. Bold, beautiful imaginings of better days that make you feel like your chest is buoying you up with air.

They would go on to catch her, of course.

But there are those who believe the damage had already been done. That Ink had already killed the King - she was just waiting for the deathblow to catch up to him.

As, of course, it did.

No-one knows what happened to her in the chaos of the revolution. But some like to believe she simply moved on.

Leaving behind a cloud of treasured Ink.

[thegigwriters-blog]

The Emporium Men: Arachni-do, Arachni-don't

“Hal?" 

"Yes, Erry?”

“Do you see that?”

“By the gods, Erry! It’s pitch black in here. What, pray tell, should I be seeing?”

Cropft opened his mouth to put an answer out into the darkness when a sudden, rather bright, beam of light illuminated what the two men had perceived to be a cramped space. It was a cavern. And perception is a funny thing. Er, well, it would have been if not for the seemingly infinite sea of giant arachnids that throbbed with unsettling motion in the direction of their persons.

It was that exact moment that Halbert regretted having clicked on his trusty pocket torch. A pin drop could have been heard in the silence they shared for a moment before clapping their hands over each other’s mouths to mute the would-be deafening screams they were unable to withhold.  

[princessofharte]

So I wrote and updated a Pokemon fanfiction and now I’m having an argument with a “reviewer” on why they should be kind when giving out reviews. Their response was “People are not obligated to like your story. If that upsets you, you don’t have to post your work on a website with public comments and you don’t have to reply to the comments you do get.”

My response: “You are not obligated to review my story. If that upsets you, you don’t have to post your reviews on a website with public reviews and you don’t have to respond to my helpful advice.”

I’m glad I’m 20 and not 14, or this would have discouraged me greatly from writing. The question now is how many other writers have they discouraged? How many other people were hurt?

They don’t even seem to realize they’re doing it.

[theyuniversity]

[soulless-schuyler-sister-blog]

march 4, 2018

national grammar day

[minsuqas]

me in my fics: perfect grammar, correct punctuation, no typos 

me on social media: OAGHS MSYYD GOD I LOVE HOSEOK SOFS MCUH SOAOAJAJAJ!23@$$2