I Like To Write sometimes

what do I write? Hell if I know, could be a cute gay romance, could be a Lovecraftian tale, could be a two sentence story about a woodpecker and a yak. Prepare yourself for everything

[rejectedconstellation]

I can smell candles burning

I smell candles burning. I can’t see smoke, I can’t  see the soft orange glow of its flame, but I can smell them. It reminds me of him, his soft touch dancing around my arms as he gazed into my pupils, his gentle tone when he chuckled from a joke I hadn’t intended to make. I don’t like it.

The night is noisy, every single cigada comes to my house to cream, oh how they scream. They scream for love, for pain, they scream just because they are alive. Did you know a cicada can spend years underground before it rises to live. Five, seven, ten years they wait for the right time to emerge and scream. I don’t like them.

I think I hear something out there, I can’t be sure, too much screaming. I close my eyes to focus. Screaming… Screaming… A knock. It must have been a person out there, that is now pounding my front door. I don’t want to answer, nothing good comes after burnt candles. I do it anyway.

When I open the door the screams intensify. It’s a woman, she asks if she can come in. Can… I supposed she could, if she wanted, the screams are tamer inside. I invite her in, I think that’s the thing to do. 

She comments on the cicadas, how they sing so loud. Sing… What kind of twisted mind would enjoy their cries enough to call it a song. Her 's, I suppose. 

She carries a case, it is not made of leather, it shines with the light of my candelabra. She’s speaking, for how long? Dear lord, I wasn’t listening. Small prices, good quality, is she selling me the suitcase, no, what’s inside. What is inside?

She smiles, it’s wicked. I don’t like it.

A gem, carved into a perfect oval. It lies peacefully in cushions inside the case. Too expensive, too frivolous, why would I, of all people, want a gem. She seems unfazed. 

Not merely a gem, a soul. Whose soul? Mine. Can I have it back? It’s too expensive, that’s not fair, the soul was mine to begin with. The world’s not fair.

I need to get my savings. She seems understanding, not in a rush. Each room I pass sends alarms to my head. I ignore them. 

I open my safe, it’s all I have, not a single penny. It has to be enough. I take it to her, but she seems unsatisfied. More. I don’t have more. She tells me it’s alright, she can make deals, there’s more to be gained than money. I’m relieved. I shouldn't be.

Memories. I have plenty of those. His memories, I have even more. She seems happy enough and extends her hand. I hesitate, her eyes, they’re orange, like the low light of a candle. I don’t like them. It’s fine, It’ll be over soon.

I shake her hand. It feels warm, her breathing, it feels heavy. I feel his face slip away from my mind. I retract. She seems unfazed. No problem, she’ll just come back later, to take the rest, and when all is paid, I’ll have it back. I’m relieved.

She leaves and those screams come back to my attention. I hate cicadas. I sit back down at my chair and my mind begins to wander. The cicadas sing too loud. Sing what kind of wicked mind would hear their cries and call it a song. Her 's I suppose. Who? The woman… No, wait… She was… There was a case... Oh dear, how my thoughts have been weird lately. It’s fine, I have nothing to worry about. I lay back and take a deep breath.

I smell candles burning. 

[rejectedconstellation]

Does anyone know of any supernatural entities related to dreams?

I am seeing a woman in my dreams every single night, she’s a redhead with a weird vine tattoo on the side of her body. 

I feel like she has ill intent but I have no idea of what she might be. I’m not directly involved with the fey or other entities like that eighter, but I feel like this woman  does not come from my own mind..

[qc-miwang-deactivated20221023]

i cannot believe that this has been sitting in my notes for five months and i’ve never even tried to make a comic of it

[marshmallowmlm]

non-binary people's choice to use or reject binary language is personal, unique & does not have to be all or nothing.

non-binary people are allowed to use binary language to describe themselves, whether or not they are aligned with that binary gender.

non-binary people are allowed to have a complex relationship with self-descriptors & identifying language, and having an unconventional relationship with gendered language does not give anyone permission to misgender or mislabel them.

non-binary people's relationship to language is unique, valid, and deserves respect.

[rejectedconstellation]

I read the fist sentences and was very confused on why non-binary people were using 0s and 1s to describe themselves.

[catchymemes]

[wildersage]

non native english speaker culture is constantly switching between british and american spelling and writing words however you prefer without caring about consistency and you dont really always know which is which anyway

[rejectedconstellation]

The gears turned faster than he expected, instead of a nice steady click the clock arm spinned with fury and aggression, eventually snapping off and flying into a forgotten corner of the workshop.

He carefully dismantled the tiny clock to spot the mistake. Was it even worth it? How many times would he have to fail before he gave up? He brushed away the thoughts and concentrated on his craft.

All parts were so small that he needed to wear a magnifying lens on top of his glasses. To make things more difficult his hands weren't the most delicate, he constantly bumped on part where he shouldn't bump and had to start everything from scratch.

Frustration was his companion during the hours of work, the uncomfortable feeling pressing onto his chest, it was not big, it didn't make him angry, it was constant and let the man exhausted after only a few hours of work.

He took a deep breath and stepped away from the table. Looking around the room filled him with a feeling of failure, half finished projects were scattered all around the tables. It had been weeks since he successfully delivered a comission, but what could he do, it wasn't like he wasn't trying. Everyday he was at the workshop trying to finish everything he had started, everyday he tried and tried until his brain couldn't think anymore, and yet, it wasn't enough.

Maybe some tea would help. In the kitchen he heated the kettle and thought about all the deadlines, every single customer expected a functioning product and he was wasting time making tea. Still he waited for the water to boil, he grabbed his dried cinnamon leaves and made a nice tea.

Tea was one of his strengths, he was good at tea, he never let the water get to hot, he never put to many or to little leaves and he never really tried to, it was natural.

He drank the tea hoping that, somehow it would refill his energy, it didn't. When the last sip entered his mouth he felt the agonizing feeling, he did not want to step foot on that workshop again, but he had to, it was necessary, wasn't it.

When did it become that way, he used to like it so much, solve problems, invent new designs. Why was it so terrible now, what changed. He decided to make another cup of tea.

He was tired, oh so tired, his eyelids weighed more than a horse, when was the last time he slept? Well, he already wasted so many time with tea, a nap wouldn't be much worse.

Laying on the sofa his mind drifted away from the projects, away from the deadlines, for the first time in weeks he felt relaxed.

He woke up the next day, at noon. Half a day of work lost, how could he recover all this time. Then, it daunted on him, was this the rest of his life, project after project, calculated work hours with 15 minutes tea breaks? He began to work with clockwork because he loved it, just like tea, it was natural, he held those early days dear in his heart. What changed?

He took the rest of the day off, it was not like any progress would be made. He tried to take his mind off everything, focus on something else, but there was nothing else.

The next day he talked to the clients, he said there were problems with designing the projects and that he would need a couple of extra weeks. He was prepared to lose every single comission, to have a tainted name forever. However, the clients, all of them, only nodded and thanked him for the update.

He didn't go to the workshop for a whole week, a week where he made tea, a lot of tea, a week where he saw his neighbour taking care of the garden, how long it had been since they talked? He loved to talk to her, that week he talked to her, and to his other neighbors, to his old friends.

by the end of the week he still dreaded the workshop, so, he moved his work tools. He putted them in the kitchen, it wasn't ideal, but it wasn't the workshop.

He heated a kettle and picked up the broken clock, it was a problem unsolved, a mystery yet to be untangled. Maybe the problem was with the charged crystals, he would have to adjust the voltage, then new clock arms were necessary, the gears could use some oil too, man, how he loved making tea.

[veganmac]

anyone: aww dang it’s so yucky outside i wish it would stop raining :((((

me: rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rain water rai

[rejectedconstellation]

Rain water rain water rain water rain

[writingcuredmyfrown]

An excerpt

…I’m running out of time. I can’t stop, I have to keep running. Can’t let those idiots catch up to me and put me in the stockades. It will be a lifetime sentence this time. I’m a wanted man in these lands. You can hear my name in every pub, all because I stole one of the king’s finest horses. Damn good hit that one was. If I didn’t gamble the coins away, I’d still be living off the reward. Stupid nobles, they’re ready to give you whatever you want just to avoid getting their pretty hands dirty. I’ll take that, thanks. Now I’m stuck here, in this damned forest. Pitch black, can’t see anything. The guards are shouting behind me, they’re far away. They’ve got hounds with them. Damned mutts are gonna rip me to shreds if they catch my scent. I still got shite on my boots. Smart man, that royal. He kept his treasured sword in the pig pens. Nobody would think of looking there, but I’m a different breed of thief. Should’ve known what’s coming, but all nobles are idiots. Can’t keep their stuff safe for shit. 

How many of them are there? I can’t tell, they sound like a lot. The richer they are, the more guards they have. I should’ve done it quietly, gonna keep that in mind for next time. If I even make it out of here. No torch, no light. I’m running blindly. Maybe I should just stop for a moment. Maybe pull out the new shiny sword and kill a bunch of them. Cleaning the blood off would be no problem, so I’d get my pay in full.

I have to stop somewhere soon, can’t feel my legs. I’m gonna die before I becom rich. What a sad story that would be. Can’t ruin my reputation, not now. I still have some life in me, one more good heist, then I’d be set up for life. 

What’s this sword about anyway? I saw it before I bagged it. Covered in colorful jewels at the hilt. Some engravings on the blade itself. I could see why someone would want it, but it’s practically useless in combat. Who would want that? I don’t know, maybe I’m stupid, maybe I’m the fool. Too dumb to understand how the world works and why would someone value a plain old object higher than a man’s life. A thief asking questions about morality and values, get a grip, man. Get a grip. Don’t think too much, don’t ask questions. Do what you’re paid for. That’s the way to survive. And survive I will. Catch me if you can, idiots…

[rejectedconstellation]

She slammed the door behind her as her maid entered the room, the bang echoed to the castle leaving a daunting silence behind.

"princess please, violence is not going to make you feel better" the maid said.

" I think it just might" responded the princess.

" Princess Charlotte, you and I, we are not aliens to the chess game that is courtship, you sure know the strategies, and I do too" advised the maid

" I want someone that is committed with all their heart and soul, that's what I'm thinking, and I know I won't get this from any prince on Duke in any kingdom" Charlotte saod

The princess hesitated.

"Rachel, my loyal maid I don't want to be given of to a man who only wants me for power. I... I just want to be honest with you, about my feelings, I long to make you understand them"

The words resonated with the maid, a feeling suppressed deep inside her surfaced.

" Oh Charlie" said Rachel " I won't let you be given of to any stupid Duke, I won't disappoint you, I will not lose time in find a way out of this, I won't desert you, never."

A single tear formed in the green eyes of the royal.

" We are going to solve this and then, you won't have a need to cry again, I will stay by you side forever, I'll be truthful and you will never be hurt again, never"

Charlotte approached her maid, a wide smile arose in her face.

"we have known eachother for so long, and I know your heart has been aching for all that time, but you are too... Shy to say anything. Inside ourselves I think we both know what has been going on, so if courtship is a chess game, let's play it. If you ask how I'm feeling, don't pretend you are too blind to see it"

The princess got on one knee, she took her tiara off, held her maid's hands and spoke from her heart.

" Rachel, run with me and I am never going to give you up, never going to let you down, I will never run around and desert you"

Rachel felt happiness for the first time in years, the moment she thought to be so impossible was happening right before her eyes.

"I'm never going to make you cry, I won't dream in saying good bye and I will never tell a lie, and hurt you"

Charlotte stood up, her face mere millimeters from Rachel's, she held the maid's face, a face that the kingdom badly hurt, they kissed, not a scandalous case between a princess and her maid, but a true bond, between Charlotte Rickson and Rachel Astley.

[rejectedconstellation]

They loved to walk in the beach, feel the sand in their feet, hear the soft crash of the waves, see the crabs building their holes. It wasn't memorable, but it was nice.

They had done the same path so many times that sometimes, he thought to have stepped in the exact same spot as last time.

He looked at his partner, he loved his partner's face, his nose, his eyes, not only that, he managed to make everything have a beautiful glow, even his name sounded like poetry.

"What do you think they do in that little hole" he asked.

" the crabs? Probably arts and crafts, maybe a sand castle" his partner responded.

A smile cracked through his rough face, unlike his partner everything that was his was hard and clunky, hands too big, nose to square, eyes too deep, even his name sounded like a tongue twister.

" If I were a crab, I would enter your hole everyday, so we could be together" he said

"... That's dirty" his partner replied.

" noooo!, I mean in a cute way, in a crabs husband way"

His partner laughed.

" It's fun to make you flustered, you're so adorable."

" I wish, I'm just a pile of squares in the shape of a person"

"yes, you are very squared, very big, and very adorable"

His words weren't kind, they weren't to make him feel better, they were true, they came not from a place of kindness or flattery, they came from a place of love.

He stopped, reached for his hand and kissed him, in a way he had done so many times and would do so many times again.

In that moment, that single point in spacetime they fell in love, true love that would be carried through a life time.

When they continued their footprints stayed in the sand, facing eachother as an evidence of that moment.

As the waves came the foot shaped dents in the sand were erased, leaving no trace of their existence. Then the evidence of that moment was in their memories, this moment that would be treasured in their lives for so many years to come. The thing is, the human mind is fragile, it keeps nothing forever, and eventually, the moment would cease to exist on their minds too, leaving to sign that it was ever there.

The last place where a clue that pointed to the existence of that moment is here, and now it is in you, until your mind fail you. I could say that because of that the moment will live forever, maybe one day another person will write it down and pass to so many more minds, however, I can't lie to you, I won't lie to you, sooner or later this story will be lost to time and all the minds who read it will have forgotten it.

I could say that is sad, that it's depressing how such a beautiful moment could be lost to the tide of time, however, I can't lie to you, I won't lie to you, that point in space time will always contain that moment, it has little matter weather some conscience has the knowledge of its existence, because no matter what comes after it, no matter how many trillions of years pass, that moment will always have happened.

[kuma-kami]

Visit Original Link

[snowdaysforever]

DELETE THIS POST

[theoldspaceevibes-deactivated20]

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME

[froborr]

*clicks play in morbid curiosity*

*hammers reblog button*

[chongoblog]

I think I find this post every April Fools Day and I am so happy that I do

[kingjoohooney]

WHAT THE FUCK

[hastopreleasedtheiralbumyet]

i missed it last year so i’ve had this scheduled for an entire damn year

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

Great, now I need to clean snorted water out of my keyboard.

[flufflesthewolf]

What the hell?

[rejectedconstellation]

Fuck yeah, this is a banger

[thebibliosphere]

When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

[rejectedconstellation]

The photographer entered the woods to get a majestic photo, he was tired of models and sunsets, they were insignificance compared to the vastness of nature.

Sun rays slithered through the tree tops to give the scene a moody lighting. The shallow forest was quite beautiful, colorful fungi adorned the cluttered trees, birds and insects singed a noisy melody of love and squirrels were caught by stealthy cats that pounced from the trees. Through the floor the dead leaves and hollow barks gave back to the soil, emanating the characteristics smell of nature. An alive ecosystem that cared about each one of its components, it was fascinating, complex, but it wasn't big enough.

He headed deeper into the forest, the trees became taller, the birds bigger and the dozens of small rodents were substituted by the lone moose that fled when he tried to shot it.

These parts of the forest were quieter, animals were a bit less common to see just walking around, and the scenes felt more impactful. He took a couple pictures of the old oaks, of the fleeing moose, but the feeling of insignificance lingered on his chest.

Another three hours of walk led him to a peculiar part of the forest. Natural light couldn't get passed the tall forest ceiling, making it look like evening at 3pm. The trees, were far apart, creating a open space of emptiness and if there were creatures, they were nowhere to be seen.

With only the light of his small flashlight he headed into the unknown.

Dark, quiet, empty, that was the forest depts, nothing but a black void, the deeper he went the emptier it got. He stopped being able to find trees, he stopped seeing any light that didn't came from his lantern, he began feeling the vastness of nature.

After what felt like hours he saw a green light began to flicker in the distance, many other followed it, blinking in regular intervals.

When the man approached it he saw a carcass of what seemed to be a species related to rabbits and hares, it had the long ears, the short snout and the big feet, the only difference was that it was the size of a bear.

The lights were fireflies, they seemed to fly around the dead animal, signaling for something.

The man photographed the animal thoroughly, it wasn't majestic of grand, but it was new and interesting.

He continued waking, not knowing which direction to go, everything around him was plain brown dirt.

Sometimes he could hear the faint flaps of something flying above him, and then silence would consume the forest again, he thought it to be unnearving, long minutes without a single sound, he regretted everything when the silence was broken.

A long, deep, guttural call sent shivers to his spine, the sound was loud and close. However it was not fear that consumed the man, it was excitement, the call could only had been made for something majestic.

Its steps could be heard loud and clear, each one produced a thud on the soft dirt.

The man followed the call, what creature could be so colossal to make such sound, maybe he could get a glimpse, even with the nearly non existent light, maybe he could finally find something significant.

The steps became louder and the calls deafening, each time he thought he was close to the creature it became louder and grander.

After almost fainting from the loud low call he saw it, not a creature, but a hoof, a single hoof the size of the thickest tree, covered by a deep brown fur. He glanced up, desperate to illuminate this creature, it raised it's leg, the man quickly raises his camera and took one single photo, it captured the old giant with all it's glory, it was majestic, it was grand and beautiful, he realized his own insignificance, his own puny existence was nothing to this giant.

The creature continued walking through the deep forest, unaware of the corpse it left behind, smashed into the empty ground.

The forest became silent again, the space became dark again, the photographers existence was erased, for the woods were so vast that no creature would take that path again.

In the old woods, silence is your best friend, for the first sound you hear will be your last

In the deep woods, the darkness is your dearest companion, for the only light there, is an omen of death

In the territory of giants, you are your only partner, for the woods don't care for insignificance, they don't care for nothing.

[gimichoko-deactivated20200405]

i think all of you look like your profile pictures

[rejectedconstellation]

Good.

[rejectedconstellation]

Like, I know that sleep deprivation is unhealthy and can kill your braincells, but I'm on 4 days sleepless and I've never felt so fucked up, it is amazing, it's like drugs but without the consequences.

I kept seeing something with my periferal vision and thought it was just a hallucination or something, turns out there was a fucking cat running around my house. I've named him shadow demon but he hasn't comeback yet.

[kaylewiswrites]

What’s the point of a first draft if it’s not self indulgent? Why do all that work if you’re not having the most fun with it possible? 

Whenever I get stuck on a first draft, I realize it’s because I stopped thinking about what the most fun thing to write would be, I was thinking of the most fun thing to read. That’s a great thing to think about during revision. 

First drafts aren’t for readers. They’re for you. Write a book that you love, not that you want other people to love, and no matter how much editing comes later, that joy will come through. Trust your instincts. Have fun.