These Fingers Were Made for Writing

Here I will post the things I write, whether they be drabbles or long continuous stories. I will also write things if you send in a prompt or idea for me! Criticism, as long as it is constructive, is always welcome in my ask box. I cannot grow as a writer if I do not get feed back of any sort!

[hungry-skeleton]

Can't be sincerely dark without being called edgy, can't be sincerely emotional without being called melodramatic, can't be sincerely silly without being called stupid. They're gonna hate every emotion you put in your art no matter what so make it anyway and be as sincere as you can be

[raeofthewrite]

You do not think about me.

Hands of knives to rip

Cut open a seam

From collar bone to belly button

Spread apart my flesh

And investigate

Behind my rib cage

Nestled against my heart

Or is it joined?

This foreign object

Parasite

Covered in the viscera

Of the organ it's eating

You left this part of you behind

And I've been keeping it safe

But I don't even know you anymore.

[raeofthewrite]

There was a time,

at least I think,

in which I would have jumped,

would have moved mountains,

would have taken down the stars,

all of it for you.

I think I would have done this

because you never did ask

in the end.

And I never offered.

Not out loud, anyway.

That's how it is with me,

silent to my own detriment,

begging you to read between the lines,

hear what I don't say.

Is that why you left?

Because I never said

what was important?

There was a time

I would have cared

For an answer.

[raeofthewrite]

O Christmas Tree

If I lay the right way, if I close my eyes and face the right direction, suddenly I am resting on a feather-bed draped across the floor. Suddenly I am surrounded by the smell of home, of love, of grandma’s front room. My head is resting on a pillow and I am wrapped in an old quilt, and from my spot on the floor I am looking reverently up at a Christmas tree. Fake needles wrapped in multicolored lights, standing in front of a bay window, the lights from the street outside casting shadows around the room. But my eyes are trained on the light from this tree, the way the reds and greens and blues and yellows all reflect off the glass ornaments hanging on faux branches. It isn’t really a pretty tree, by any standards, more gaudy and tacky and screaming of ‘old person’ than anything else, but from my position on the floor it looks like the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon. From my memories it stands tall and bright, and even though that night I eventually closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep to the sounds of ticking clocks and buzzing Christmas decorations, I can still clearly see it in all it’s glory for the last time.

[raeofthewrite]

a live wire is trapped

under this thin veneer

no matter how much I dig

I cannot free it.

so I scream

and I scream

and I scream

until metal coats

the back of my throat.

it still hums

and thrums

the beat of every mistake.

[raeofthewrite]

I want revenge for the pain

And the ache inside

I cannot shake the weight

Off my shoulders.

I want revenge for the tears

And the loneliness.

But how do you seek revenge

On your own mind.

[raeofthewrite]

I feel space in my bones today. Send me some sci-fi prompts?

[raeofthewrite]

Still feeling it, and I'm actually working on something larger based on the ask about mutuals in space. So to keep my ideas flowing, still accepting prompts!

[raeofthewrite]

Write about one of your mutuals in space

The glow from the overhead lights flickered once, twice, before cutting off completely. Along with it went the sound of humming machinery and electrical currents. There was a sudden stillness to the air, the interior of the room only lit by the bright shine of a nearby star through the thick protective window encompassing the front of the ship. Objects not nailed down or otherwise restrained began to drift up as the internal gravity processor ceased function, pens and old cups not yet cleared away floating towards the metal ceiling.

A gloves hand gripped hard to the top of the pilots chair, consciousness coming back to the line figure in the space. A black space suit fitting against a lean body, neon blue lines running from life support systems along it, the black helmet reflecting the star light back through the visor. Grunting, the space traveler pulled themselves into the seat and strapped themselves down, hands flying to darkened buttons to see what could be done. The pointed tips of their helmet flashed with blue, something in their suit seeming to start up. There was a gasp as air filled their space, making up for the life support failure of the ship. Drifting amongst the open void around them, the occupant frantically tapped and pulled at things on the dashboard in front of them. Muttered curses in a few different galactic languages were the only sound, until finally, miraculously, the thrum of an engine boosted to life. Lights flickered all over the dash, up the walls, finally coming back overhead. The objects listlessly floating above dropped unceremoniously to the floor with clatters and pings. Relaxing against their seat, the space traveler sighs and leans their head back. The ear like antenna of their helmet flash blue again, a line of mechanical gibberish feeding through a speaker inside of it. They respond to it affirmatively, before sitting back up and grabbing the controls to swerve their shuttle around and away from the star it had been approaching. Debris scattered the air space around but it was expertly avoided, and a streak of bright blue flare was all that remained when the ship zoomed off to become another glowing spec in the void.

[raeofthewrite]

I feel space in my bones today. Send me some sci-fi prompts?

[raeofthewrite]

And I think of you still when my eyes are closed. When my dreams take over. Sometimes it is as if not a single moment has passed. Like the clock never struck a second forward and your hair is just the same as it was the day before. Other times it's as if a memory playing, we are small things with bigger dreams and so many secrets to share.

But usually, when you creep into my mind at times I am feeling weakest...a lot of time has passed. You're as foreign to me as you are familiar. Your eyes are different, because they've seen things I don't know of. I try to act big and strong, because my eyes have seen new things too.

It never really works. It never worked back then either. You had this way of making me feel so insignificant when we stood together. And like a poison you come back, to no fault of your own, to haunt me when I am already haunted.

You're just a vague image in a dream to me now, but in my heart you're forever a burning brand of failure.

[raeofthewrite]

And if with me,

upon this frontline,

standing by my side

you choose to stay,

Inevitable our Fall.

And if against me,

across the field,

a dozen side by side

face me in your cross,

Inevitable our Fall.

[raeofthewrite]

How about a song whisper to me dear hold me in your arms prepare an end so near grasping for a string of fate good byes they reek of sorrow so hold your breath inside forever comes tomorrow

[raeofthewrite]

7, 8, 13, 16 go!

Thank you! 7)Who is the OC that is most like you? Oh this is hard to answer! Most of my OCs all carry some sort of trait that relates to me. Or like, an idealized version of me. I'm sitting here, staring at the screen and thinking. I want to say....Naomi perhaps? She's a bit laid back in ambitions, not really aspiring for much, she enjoys video games and is extremely loyal to her friends. Has some trauma. But I certainly do not share in her disdain for books. 8) Which OC is nothing like you? Like I said above, there is a little bit of me in almost all my OCs. It's kind of inevitable when you "write what you know". Perhaps I could say Rue? She is loud, outgoing, confident, and extremely extroverted. None of those traits are me. She, I suppose, fits the slots I am missing. Which makes sense, since she technically stems from my childhood imaginary best friend.

13) What feedback did you receive for your writing that stuck with you? Okay, feedback is pretty neutral a term so I am not sure which type this question wants. Though I suppose any sort of constructive feedback would be good to talk about. I do not drag things out. In essays or stories I do not put in a lot of explanation or reasoning, making my paragraphs and such very short. There is a line somewhere between too much information and too little, a line which I have yet to discover no matter how far into one direction I stray. 16) Where do you find inspiration to write? Well, lately, no where! Or maybe I am confusing motivation with inspiration. The world inspires me, really. Music, art, nature. I'll listen to songs while driving and start creating plots in my head with my characters. I watch a honey bee drifting across a flower bed and lines of poetry spring to mind. I observe a piece of art that ignites a new story. Photography, history, hell I have even been inspired by architecture. The world around me is so full of things I could take and mold into my own words, it is just acting upon these musings I struggle with. Thank you again for the ask, I really love answering stuff like this and interacting!

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Writer's Ask Game

When did you start writing?

What was the first story you've ever written?

What genres have you written for so far?

What is your favourite genre to write for?

What is your favourite trope to write for?

What topic would you love to explore in your writing?

Who is the OC that is most like you?

Which OC is nothing like you?

Have you ever brought an OC back from the dead?

In which of your stories would you like to live?

Have you ever written fanfiction about your own work?

Do you have a word/phrase that you overuse in your writing?

What feedback did you receive for your writing that stuck with you?

What is something that you feel weird/uncomfortable writing about?

What is your current writing habit?

Where do you find inspiration to write?

Tell us a fun fact about your current WIP.

Show us a piece of dialogue you really like.

Show us the line you want readers to remember from your story.

Do you have one piece of advice for your fellow writers?

[raeofthewrite]

Send prompts?

[raeofthewrite]

a songfic? in this day and age? its more likely than you think. "You're like a black cat, with a black backpack, full of fireworks and you're gonna burn the city down"

The ash covered everything. Like a blanket of snow except black and grey, staining everything it touched. Her hands were black. Her face was too. Except for where the tears had washed dripping lines of it away on her cheeks. Every step stirred up grey dust that clung to her tennis shoes and her pants and her lungs, breathing was so hard. It hurt so bad. But she had to carry on, trudging her way through the darkened and silent streets. The ground was impossible to discern from the sky, both choked by the ever present smoky ash, but unlike the weeks leading up to this there was no orange licking at the edges of the horizon.

At least not right now. She adjusted the strap over her shoulder and shuffled onwards, load heavy on her back but burden heavier on her soul. This was for them, she reminded herself as coughs expelled the dust from inside and her lungs burned for clean air. It was like a fire inside now, she had swallowed it, and shoved it in her bookbag, and buried it with her family, she was the fire now and she was going to burn until those responsible burned too. She almost didn't make it, collapsing at the stairs of her destination, these clean shiny stairs that her dust hastened to stain as well. Good. Let them stain, let them always remember her. Someone was shouting, trying to grab at her. Afraid to touch because she looked so strange in her cloak of ash. Fortunate, since this gave her space and time. She shook as she dropped her cargo, shook as she lit a match. She stopped shaking when the fire inside transfered through that match to the fire she brought with her.

Screams. The screams of her family, of her people, sounded awful. But the screams of her revenge were a lullaby, and as her eyes shut she smiled. And the lost ones of the forest smiled too, where they watched from another world.

[raeofthewrite]

"i can put together a better plot with fortune cookie templates alone" this is @ Rae specifically i see u with ur turning memes into angst A S S

Oh my. You flatter me Chippy. Though now I sort of want to try writing things based of useless fortunes.