Jules | 27 | they/she | Canadian | follow from fortheoneswhowish | Ask & Tag Game Friendly Edit by @revenantlore *I do not give permission or condone the use of generative AI on any of my art or writing
Outlining/Drafting | New Adult Romance | 3rd person dual pov | poc, lgbt+, and ownvoices disability rep | TW for: ableism, toxic family dynamics | Banner by @revenantlore
Skylar Griffin isn’t an adult. Well, she is. Legally. But she’s never felt like one. Born with a neurological disorder called cerebral palsy, normal stopped being a part of her vocabulary long ago. With a life half-lived and helicopter parents breathing down her neck at every turn, Sky is determined to get what she has never been given: her independence.
But when her parents enlist the help of some family friends, Sky’s freedom becomes a whole bargain of its own. If she wants to live on campus for her first year of university, she has to get through the summer as their son’s newest roommate. But how can she when the boy she’s shoved into an unair-conditioned apartment with is the childhood best friend that broke her heart?
And if that’s not enough, a chance encounter between her best friend and his might just be enough to throw Sky into a summer whirlwind that she never expected. Learning how to survive on her own, a reunion that she never wanted, and a matchmaking scheme for the ages?
That might be more than she has one hand to hold.
Main Cast
Skylar Griffin | 22 | more books than there is floor, spilled popcorn across a couch, doing the opposite of what you are told to do, sunsets over a softball field, living in your thoughts, a gap toothed smile, the wildly beating heart of the unknown, finding art in how to live, the belief of a love that only exists in fiction
Avery Reece | 23 | shelves full of sheet music, a mountainous bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, dying your hair so many times you’ve forgotten what the original color is, hiding who you are from the person that matters most, bracelets with secret meaning, blank walls, hugs so tight you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to let go
Haru Jaeon | 22 | a teddy bear beside you as sleep tugs you into its gentle embrace, bubba tea, saying hi to strangers in a street, eating food from your best friend’s plate, a stray cat that won’t leave you alone, braided pigtails, clothes covered in glitter, falling a little in love with everyone you meet, a sunlit soul, children’s laughter, plants on a windowsill
Vespera Cordova Ramirez | 24 | t-shirts of bands you may or may not have listened to, skateboards split in two, forgetting how to speak around a pretty girl, truthful to the point of being rude, ballet slippers so worn there’s a hole you can fit your toe through, swearing in Spanish, failure to mold yourself into what others wish they could see in you
Matias Cordova Ramirez | 26 | flirty smiles and sparkling eyes, teasing as a love language, scarves in the summer, cuddling with your best friend, the slow deterioration of knowing time is running out, kisses on the cheek, walking onstage to the roar of a crowd, losing yourself in what the people you love think about you, thrift store deals, sloshed liquor on a bar top
been contemplating bram’s cane-reliance and how that factors into combat. @reininginthefirewriting and i spent some time brainstorming possibilities and determined that his twin daggers and his cane are the same object.
from mourn the day
It is a split second between calm impatience and absolute chaos.
Fangs emerge from the surrounding woods, hissing and rampant. Many flock toward the barricaded windows and the beckoning blood hidden behind them. Others descend upon the square in a feverish hunger that ends at the swipe of a blade across a throat, a bone impaled through the heart.
Zay has a talon buried in an eye and a desperate mouth clacking toward her wrist to no avail before she disappears from Bram’s vision, his focus drawn ahead at a pair of Fangs lurching across the square toward him. Fast-footed but awkward in their gait, their eyes the empty gray of the desperate and unfed.
Easy kills, weaker and dumbed down by starvation.
Bram's thumb slips beneath one of the burnished steel feathers that flare downward from either side of his cane's rounded pommel.
An imperceptible click follows.
Hidden pins withdraw from deep within the ebony shaft. He draws his hands outwards to make breadth for the expanding cane. It separates at the center, each half revealing a slender blade that snaps into place with a sharp, metallic snick. The upper dagger bears the polished pommel, the lower blade ends in the cane’s steel ferrule, its grip leaner and lighter but no less deadly.
The curtains were blue because everything in the room was carefully colour coordinated, reinforcing the character’s stylish and controlled characterisation. The curtains were blue because everything in the room was a different colour, reinforcing the character’s eclectic and globe-trotting personality. The curtains were blue because the character is elsewhere established to hate the colour blue, subtextually implying that their deceased spouse was responsible for that decoration choice.
The curtains were blue because throughout their filmography the director consistently uses cool tones to mark moments of distance between characters. The curtains were blue to tie the events in that room into the broader oceanic motif of this particular novel. The curtains were blue because the assonance evoked a contrast with the following stanza of the poem.
Even the curtains looked expensive: floor to ceiling velvet drapes, in a flawless royal blue. She tucked the saucer up on the windowsill and tied back faded blue curtains with a loop of string. The narrow blinds were the same navy blue as the pinstripe suit of the man who served eviction notice that sent them to this office.
The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of comfort in that place. The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of grief in that place.
The curtains were blue as an allusion to the contemporary joke about literary criticism, an extension of the author’s autocritical approach that will be further discussed in section seven.
he would not fucking say that, but with disability.. he would not fucking be able bodied. sick n tired of characters walking away from multiple life changing injuries without a scratch. let’s get some natural consequences in here.
give that knife/sword fight survivor nerve damage. give the character who was shot in the gut a stoma. give that fire survivor lung damage and an oxygen cannula. give that leg injury survivor a cane. give that starvation survivor gastroparesis. give that spinal injury survivor a manual chair or powerchair.
while we’re at it, give your characters congenital disabilities too, just because. give them intellectual and development disabilities. give them acquired and postviral illnesses. dare to make somebody bedbound. for me.
You know what I want more of? Non-sexual intimacy. In close moments between friends. The “I can’t do this alone”. The “I need help”. The wounds that need bandaged. The “I can’t change my clothes on my own”. The need for help with simple tasks for different reasons. Maybe a recent injury or disability means they don’t know how to shower yet and they need help.
I want that. Write me that. You say that they are as close as family so show me they are as close as family.
As a quick disclaimer: This is not me pointing fingers. This is not me discouraging anyone from participating in tag games. This is not me saying not to reblog other people’s posts. I just wanted to create a little post about writeblr etiquette when it comes to responding to tag games.
What is a Tag Game?
A tag game is a post, of any topic, but in writeblr most often is targeted towards a writer’s past or current works-in-progress, where people are invited to answer questions, share snippets of writing, goof around with OCs in random scenarios, etc. This is a great opportunity for writers to get know each other, learn about one another’s projects, and provides an easy excuse to share your writing.
Do I Need to Tag Other People?
Well, that’s kind of the point. If you don’t know anyone to tag, you can always go into a writer’s blog and see if it says anywhere that they are ‘Tag Game Friendly’. Some of us will put it in the description under the title of our blog, while others will state it in their WIP/Writeblr intro. If you are still unsure, sometimes there are posts that circulate about who would like to be tagged, and you are always more than welcome to create your own. I’ve personally created a list on my phone to refer to when I can’t think of anyone to tag.
Tag Game Etiquette
It is common practice in Writeblr that if you are tagged in a tag game, you create your own individual post. Sometimes, a tag game will be created to invite ‘chain reblogs’, which are continuous reblogs all participating in the original tag game. While some tag games welcome them, not all of them do. And whether it is unintentional or not, it can be considered rude to jump onto a post that someone else has worked hard on, only for whatever they wanted to share to suddenly be lost in a bunch of reblogs. If you are ever unsure if you should put your addition to a tag game in the reblog, the easiest answer is to go ahead and create your own post while tagging the person who tagged you originally. And if you’d like to credit them, that’s cool! But it is more than sufficient to just include a link to their original post, or interact with their post before responding with your own. We all want to have fun, and that’s perfectly okay and, in fact, encouraged in this community. However let’s please also be considerate of the person who has tagged you.
A single touch is enough to drown Zac in another person's memories, forcing him to relive moments of joy, grief, violence, and shame as though they were his own. Years of unwanted visions have left his own past fractured and indistinct.
While the others rest off a night of hunting, Zacarias spends restless hours cataloguing the mysterious runes found throughout the town, convinced they conceal answers hidden beneath generations of neglect and superstition.
And each afternoon he returns to his small room above the town brothel, where laughter, moans, and affection drift through the floorboards below, serving as a constant reminder of the one thing he can never have.
keeps an assortment of notebooks filled with copied runes, translated symbols, and observations
has a couple of notebooks dedicated to trying to maintain his memories but they get so tangled up in other people’s experiences that he gave up trying
sleeps poorly due to lingering fragments of other people's memories bleeding into his dreams
has a box of objects he is certain belong to his past, though he can no longer remember why or what they are
avoids crowded markets and meetings whenever possible
cannot recall the face of either parent, nor if he had any siblings
sometimes invents stories about his childhood because it is harder to admit that he doesn't know
Haunted by the memories of a murder he didn’t mean to commit, Athios recedes into a life of isolation to avoid facing the truth behind the event. There are no consequences for the crime, no evidence that it ever happened—not when his victim rose from his grave at the touch of Athios’ own hand—except for the ceaseless guilt.
In the accompaniment of Ambrose, a dog whom is neither here nor there, Athios tends to the graveyards of Ashmourne, both with the intent to maintain a pristine appearance and to experiment with his ability to raise the dead.
That does, however, does come with an assortment of deadly consequences.
twin to Crowe, separated when Crowe was adopted from Galloway’s and Athios was left behind
grew out of the foster system, forever an orphan
has a horse named Rowan, dedicates much of his free time to her
bonds with Pennant over foraging for flowers, herbs, and fruit
eyes are fully white, vision impairment similar to visual snow syndrome, a constant ghostly grain across his vision
^ light sensitivity, details blur on a sunny day
like two paintings occupying the same canvas, Athios sees the world in layers : the living world, and a faint imprint of the dead overlapping it. Ghosts but … less
Painting helps Pennant hold on to hope, distracts him from the grim truth of his existence in the weary village of Ashmourne. When painting fails, there’s the withering garden in the forests beyond Dead End to keep him occupied. He’s determined to bring some life to it—a budding flower or a shock of green amongst the wilting leaves.
Ashmourne is a dark and dismal place, desperate for a spot of brightness, a spark of hope, and so is Pennant.
Not even death will stop him from making it happen.
somewhere in-between alive and dead
his death was an accident at the hands of a friend
haunts the attic of Dead End
hands are prone to aching from the cold imprisoned in his bones
hair was golden blonde prior to his death, after which it became a pale, frosty blue
friend to critters big and small, but rabbits are his absolute favorite
perhaps the only person in Ashmourne with any semblance of an inner child left
much like how Bram is often splattered in blood, Pen is never not stained with paint
likes to collect unique rocks and other small items to gift to his friends and strangers alike—sometimes it is a case of ‘I saw this and thought of you!’ while others it is as simple as ‘I saw you were frowning, here, this should help!’
After out-aging the dirty halls of Galloway’s Home for Unfortunate Children, Halifax and his younger brother, Pennant, were left to fend for themselves in search of a new roof over their heads.
Poor, helpless, and more than a little hopeless, their journey was wrought with bad decisions and met with a quick end.
When Pennant was taken in by Ether Laboratories as an experimental subject in exchange for a small sum, Halifax bargains for Pen’s freedom and sacrifices his own, unaware of the consequences that await him.
Fax hasn’t spoken to Pennant since.
And Ether did not stick to their word.
resides in The Rotway with the rest of Ashmourne’s addicts and rejects, serving a debt to the faceless Gwin
living space is provided by Gwin, though it is a scarce upgrade to his childhood at Galloway’s
hopes to someday, somehow, rekindle his relationship with Pennant
collects knives in varying design and size
occasionally dips into his own supply but doesn’t care for the side effects
vision is warped, worse in the daytime than night—things appear in a dark green tint, as though peering through night vision goggles
has a raven companion named Mortem. She brings him trinkets, accompanies him on hunts and deliveries, and if she could talk she would be snarky and the banter would be golden
it was time I reintroduce the cast of Mourn the Day, beginning with my belovéd brambly boy.
With no regards to his health or safety, Bram delves straight into harm’s way with the hope of a miracle: an end to his eternal suffering.
His past is marred with as many scars as his body, haunting reminders of what he is, who he used to be, and what he can never be again. No more than a laboratory rat, an experiment, a mistake … something far from human.
Unfortunate for him that he cannot die.
Since the gruesome death of his parents at the mouths and hands of hungering Fangs, Bram has collected crystals and jarred specimens—a bee found drowning on the cobblestones, butterfly wings lost to the marsh’s surrounding field, a frog gifted to him by a blue-haired boy he might have called friend in a past life. Counting them helps to ease the obsessive thoughts rattling through his skull. Not a night goes by where he doesn’t tally off each and every one, often to the familiar tune of insomnia.
A fear of intimacy and loss has left him bitter and alone for much of his life, but he dreams of one day finding a love alike that of the fairy tales that accompany him on these sleepless nights.
on the night his parents were slaughtered, Bram was rescued by a horrible piece of shit scientist named Balthazar, who later went on to experiment on him for years and ultimately ended his mortal life at the eternal age of twenty-four
relies on drinking blood to live and loathes everything about it. Balthazar won’t tell him the source and Bram is better off not having an answer
limited use of his legs after they were trampled on by horses as a boy, relies on a cane for stability
prefers up-close combat with the aid of his twin daggers, this often leads to him becoming a literal bloody mess by dawn
has a pet black rat named Seven who likes to sleep under the lapel of his vests
suffers from severe obsessive compulsive disorder
spends his free time at the archives, a library of fiction and local history, and finds comfort in the presence of the tomes and the kindness of its elderly owner
Dark stories, like horror, are at their best when there is a small amount of lightness and hope to counteract (and therefore enhance) the tension. The reverse is also true
You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
Every character should just have a WEIRD fact about them. Multiple, even. Because people are weird.
My friend goes on entire rants about the reasons she DESPISES cheese. All cheese. In all forms. She waxes poetic about it, to the point I have a dedicated notes page for her cheese quotes.
The fact she talks so much about hating cheese is weird.
The fact I transcribe her speeches like a court stenographer is weird.
Classic writing advice will tell you to give your characters quirks, or routines, or little superstitions, and that's all well and good, but a lot of times, those things are fairly normal. I probably wouldn't bat an eye if someone taps a pen three times whenever they have to sign their name. If their signature was an old Myspace username instead of their legal name, though....now that would stand out.
Don't just give them fun fact. Give em something weird.
It’s like seeing a ghost @reininginthefirewriting - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
