ɨռȶʀօ: Hello!! My name is Rhiri! I am a teenage girl who loves. I love writing, I love animals, I love books, I love poetry, I love God, I love art, I love humans, I love Earth - and I love you! :]
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ɨռȶɛռȶ: My goal here on tumblr is to share my writing, poems, thoughts, and stories! I originally intended to use it as a sort of shoebox for storing all my writing, and I will still use it like that! Additionally, I wish for my writing to get out there - for people to see and read my work! But that's only my second priority <3
₍ₘₒᵣₑ ᵢₙfₒᵣₘₐₜᵢₒₙ! ↓↓↓₎
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ɨռɖɛӼ: There are a variety of things I post on this blog ₍ₜₕₒᵤgₕ ₙₒₜ ᵢₙ ₑqᵤₐₗ ₐₘₒᵤₙₜₛ₎, and so I figure it's a good idea to have more or less of a guide to what my content is!
#ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ.────
╰┈┈*➤ def: blurbs and nibbles about my story writing projects! These are my current projects:
project.arcana • project.ice
#ɪᴅᴏɴᴛᴋɴᴏᴡᴡʜʏɪᴍᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢᴛʜɪꜱʙᴜᴛᴡʜʏɴᴏᴛ
╰┈┈*➤ def: my personal tag, on every post of mine!
#ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛɪᴍɪɴɢ
╰┈┈*➤ def: writing about a random thought in a random moment of my life, without the intention of a final polished work or particular structure!
#ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴘᴀɢᴇꜱ
╰┈┈*➤ def: journal/diary entries that have resurfaced and wish to be shared!
#ꜱᴛᴀꜱʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ꜱʜᴏᴇʙᴏx ꜱᴛᴏʀᴀɢᴇ
╰┈┈*➤ def: reposts of tips or advice I wish to store away and come back to in time of need! Alternatively, #THE PEN CALLS ME are reblogs that remind me to put down my phone and focus on hobbies!
#ꜱʜᴇ (ᴀꜱ ɪɴ ᴍᴇ) ɪꜱ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ꜱᴍɪᴛᴛᴇɴ
╰┈┈*➤ def: reposts of beautiful things I adore and wish to promote - making my awe known!
#ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ
╰┈┈*➤ def: responses to asks ("words for me")!
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ɨռ ƈʟօֆɨռɢ... This blog floods with words from the heart and soul, in whatever format. I sincerely hope that you, having read all of this, will glimpse over my work and find something that speaks to you. I hope we may connect through our creativity. Really, I love you.
the world wide web and its mutant assosiates
think i might have visual snow. says i've got maladaptive daydreaming disorder. and calcium deficiency. said i was getting lovebombed. and i'm in need of a strawberry facemask. they swore i am set on the path to dementia. and i might have strawberry legs.
Writing project | Short story | Original character
Length ≈ 700 words
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Moving day was approaching.
Archer Smith, by his father's instruction, was in charge of packing up his bedroom and the living room. The first one was easy. Archer didn't own a lot of personal things anyways -- it was like he'd been preparing to move for years. He felt like maybe he had been, somehow, subconsciously. Getting rid of unnecessary things and just longing to leave the city behind him.
It was the living room that posed more of a problem. Not that it was a mess. In fact, there hadn't been much living in that room since it last was deep cleaned. It was only father and him, afterall. At least, it had been for a few months.
It was just, the livingroom carried an... emptiness to it then. Even if they took up its space, the rocking chair in the corner reminded them that something was missing. Someone.
It simply didn't feel much like living when in that room. Too many reminders of death. Which was exactly why father had put him in charge of it -- of going through all the pictures, and shelves, and cabinets. And Archer understood.
Holding folded up boxes under his arm, he walked from the kitchen through the narrow archway into the living room, and kept going until he was in front of the TV. He let the cardboard drop to the floor. Then he followed, sinking down beside the boxes onto the carpet, face-to-face with his own reflection in the glass panes of the TV cabinet.
He paused, noting the way the sun streaming in through the gray curtains seemed to make his hair glow. For a moment, the reflection of him was replaced with the picture of the smiling woman, her face framed in familiar blonde curls that matched his own. Only she had beautiful eyes; deep green. Emerald leaves, unlike his dirt.
Archer's eyes flickered to the corner of the room-- then back in an instant to the cabinet before him. He knew then why father had a hard time looking at him anymore.
Shaking away the thought, he pulled open the cabinet doors to shelves lined with old Blu-Rays and DVDs. A smile pulled slightly on his lips as he crossed his legs and began to go through them, pleasant memories of his younger childhood resurfacing in his mind. He sorted fairly quickly through them all, putting a certain few aside in an unorganized pile and stacking the rest into one of the boxes he'd brought in with him.
Archer then moved to the next cabinet -- this one lined with books instead of DVD cases. Far too many books for only one woman; but that was his mother. She was a lady of few passions, yet each one was a burning blaze. He traced a finger across the spines of the top row. A subtle ache throbbed in the centre of his chest as he felt the material under his fingertip. They were like brand new.
"No use rereading a book," she had once told him. "I've seen the words already. Whether I remember them or not speaks to their impact on me."
That sounded ridiculous to Archer. People forgot things regardless of their impact. People lost recollection of important things all the time. Why let it happen? Why not hold on to memories, relive experiences? His vision grew slightly blurry, and for a moment he thought he might be crying. He blinked and realized his glasses had slipped down his nose.
With a scoff at himself, Archer pushed up the silver frames and began pulling books out from the shelves. He stared down at the covers in silence. Maybe his mother had been right in her notion of leaving the past behind and taking only that which leaves an impact.
It was soon after that he texted his father to let him know that the living room was sorted through, and that two boxes were on the front doorstep to be donated. One marked "CDs," one marked "books." Archer had left that room with only a few DVDs under his arm, barely a half hour after sitting down in front of that TV cabinet.
Only so fast because he hadn't even checked the titles. Hadn't read a single synopsis. His mother's books were left read only once.
