Storybrowsing.

Storybrowsing is my word for when I scribe story ideas, drabbles, half-sketched frames, and possible works. Like brainstorming, but sometimes things develop and sometimes things complete, and sometimes things are languages and sometimes things are monosyllables. I explore a world of words, and I handpick the universes to adapt. In other words, welcome to my writing blog - here, I try to practice writing exercises, flesh out drabbles, and progress my stories. In repeated words: Here, I storybrowse. If you visit me in storybrowsing, I hope you enjoy your stay.

[storybrowsing]

Navigating My Storybrowsing

This blog has no name, and is but two days old...

Literally. Well, okay, the blog has a name, but my point is that it's very new! So I don't have much content posted yet, but that'll change rapidly. Anyway...

Snippets

My drabbles, prompted work, and other writings which, whether they meet the wordcount of a short story or fall below, don't fit into a given work just yet - incomplete on their own.

Shorts

My writings which, whether they meet the wordcount of a short story or fall below, are self-contained and complete.

Stories

Any writing longer than a short story, whether in wordcount or parts. (I will update this page the least frequently, since I am possessive of how my ideas get out there into the world, and I rarely finish a story in any timely manner.)

Practice

Consider this a productivity log! Writing exercises, reflection on writing tools, grammar revision - whatever I deem useful to my technical progress.

[storybrowsing]

A little rough excerpt from a potential fic about Nero's mother

“Hatred,” she whispers, head bowed into his neck, “isn’t worth it, Vergil.” Her tan fingers curl into the navy fabric at his breast. “And I’m so tired of pretending.”

His eyes are so wide and vulnerable, his breath so slow and careful, and his touch so light and gentle where his snowy hands lift to overlay her own, like the first fragile frost that adorns the earth in autumn. Warmth furls inside her chest, endeared despite herself.

His hands have slain hundreds, if not thousands, yet his skin is unstained.

His hands could shatter hers, if not shatter her, yet his hold is soft.

A blackened past drags after him, like a revenant that claws at his back so he may tumble into the sightless grave dug by his sins – a soundless screaming spectre that shadows his eyes, heard by all who gaze into them.

Yet it is not the dark slayer who gazes back at her. Instead, the wavering ice of his steel blue irises reflect innocence – the resurfacing of a boy who dared not strive for a life freed of the curse impressed upon his lineage.

In a humble gesture of his lips, Vergil smiles, and she beholds the ashes of hope light with faint embers.

[storybrowsing]

He blinks, ivory curtains over windows of azure glass framed in flowers of willow. Sepia-dyed memories of sienna waves and a smile of rose, faded at their edges, flutter through his thoughts and over his heart.