Sylvia F. Anne

A writer who wants to share her works with the world. I enjoy writing and reading fanfic in my free time, and i love reading fantasy, mystery, or horror books. I also like anime and manga.

[sylviafernandezanne]

Today's Word...

VOICE

(pronunced /vcis/)

The sounds that are made when people speak or sing

The sound of a voice can be comforting at the start of midnight. It begins the way every day ends: with the radio playing, the host using all his charisma to captivate and hold people to the sound waves that his company’s antenna keeps alive with the audience’s money.

The deep night truly begins for her when insomnia strikes without mercy, when the car she sleeps in creaks as she slides the driver’s seat back. She turns on the radio and allows herself to forget reality for a second. When the host asks for calls, she is the first, lethargically, to pick up the phone she charged at the gas station convenience store and dial.

“Hello, hello, hello. Who’s speaking?”

Hearing his voice is a balm, the best blanket and the most effective sedative and sleep aid. Her lips lift and split her face into a soft smile; in this bleak world with a painful silence, his voice is the most precious sound.

“It’s me, Nate.”

It is comforting when he lets out a warm laugh and murmurs into the microphone in his studio. He recognizes her as well by her words as she recognizes him by their conversations on the radio station, there is an invisible thread connecting the transmitter and the receiver, binding the two of them.

“Welcome back, Angelique. What’s your request tonight?”

“I’d like to… ‘Talking to the Moon'. ”

“The best choice for my most romantic listener.”

Then the song begins to play, and she feels at peace, almost sensing that the possibility of sleep, and a better life, is within reach.

By Sylvia Fernandez Anne

[sylviafernandezanne]

Today's Word...

SNOW

(prounonced /snou/)

The small, soft, white pieces of ice that sometimes fall from the sky when it is cold, or the white layer on the ground and other surfaces that it forms.

Snowflakes fall upon this place, the unknown land, the temple dedicated to broken and shattered warriors. The aurora borealis dyes the vastness of the sky in thousands of different shades of green, making anyone feel small — even a lonely angel — contemplating the heavens with pure melancholy. Sadness cannot be put into words; it keeps him bound to the ground, to this world, like a chain and iron ball — he sinks his knees into the snow and feels as if he is drowning beneath water — he breathes, yet he does not feel alive. He does not feel capable of flying with the storm, cloud, colored wings upon his back. There was a time when gray was once white. He brings his hand to his shoulders and farther, until he feels the feathers, and breathes out with the sensation: they are the same, and yet profoundly unfamiliar. His mind drifts with memories of an endless war, where blood soaked the soil and giants clashed. Countless lives, seen like ants beneath his feet, gave their best to make a difference in the war of immortals.

When was it that he changed? When did the signs become too many for him to ignore?

Longing cuts like a dagger — kneeling in the snow, his heart is lost within the vast night sky, in the sight of the green waves that seemed to point toward a path he has already lost. His wings, uncontrollably, as if following an inner plea, stretch outward in a silent request to fly. To follow the road dictated by the sky and attempt to return to white.

The single feather that falls to the icy ground, without making a sound, however, is gray.

The anguishing memories do not fade. The pain does not subside. Lost in the eternity of a tormented existence born from trauma and unresolved wounds, the fallen angel closes his eyes. And his lips part in a sigh — a breath of warm air in a cold world — and on the tip of his tongue rests a prayer he has not spoken in thousands of years. His mouth remains open, yet nothing comes out. Sacred words he no longer believes in were not the answer he needed. He gasps and closes his lips again, groaning in frustration, hands covering his eyes to cast the world into darkness. What path was he meant to follow? He could not return to what he once was, and what lay ahead was far too unknown. What is a weapon to do when it no longer wishes to kill or fight? His longing for a home, an arsenal, is strong. His regret — his exhaustion — is greater. There is no home, no war, and as punishment, no more meaning or purpose to his existence. And he has no idea where to begin searching.

By Sylvia Fernandez Anne

@redlirojune Thats for you.

[redlirojune]

Man I love this, I love all your writings, you catch some emotions that I don't know how to do the same. I will make a drawing of that, I don't know when, but I will!!!!! wait for me!

[sylviafernandezanne]

Wow, well, thank you i think. Its really great to read this when i forgot to post everthing in tumblr. I just suck to much in social media that im ghost here. 👻

[sylviafernandezanne]

Today's Word...

SNOW

(prounonced /snou/)

The small, soft, white pieces of ice that sometimes fall from the sky when it is cold, or the white layer on the ground and other surfaces that it forms.

Snowflakes fall upon this place, the unknown land, the temple dedicated to broken and shattered warriors. The aurora borealis dyes the vastness of the sky in thousands of different shades of green, making anyone feel small — even a lonely angel — contemplating the heavens with pure melancholy. Sadness cannot be put into words; it keeps him bound to the ground, to this world, like a chain and iron ball — he sinks his knees into the snow and feels as if he is drowning beneath water — he breathes, yet he does not feel alive. He does not feel capable of flying with the storm, cloud, colored wings upon his back. There was a time when gray was once white. He brings his hand to his shoulders and farther, until he feels the feathers, and breathes out with the sensation: they are the same, and yet profoundly unfamiliar. His mind drifts with memories of an endless war, where blood soaked the soil and giants clashed. Countless lives, seen like ants beneath his feet, gave their best to make a difference in the war of immortals.

When was it that he changed? When did the signs become too many for him to ignore?

Longing cuts like a dagger — kneeling in the snow, his heart is lost within the vast night sky, in the sight of the green waves that seemed to point toward a path he has already lost. His wings, uncontrollably, as if following an inner plea, stretch outward in a silent request to fly. To follow the road dictated by the sky and attempt to return to white.

The single feather that falls to the icy ground, without making a sound, however, is gray.

The anguishing memories do not fade. The pain does not subside. Lost in the eternity of a tormented existence born from trauma and unresolved wounds, the fallen angel closes his eyes. And his lips part in a sigh — a breath of warm air in a cold world — and on the tip of his tongue rests a prayer he has not spoken in thousands of years. His mouth remains open, yet nothing comes out. Sacred words he no longer believes in were not the answer he needed. He gasps and closes his lips again, groaning in frustration, hands covering his eyes to cast the world into darkness. What path was he meant to follow? He could not return to what he once was, and what lay ahead was far too unknown. What is a weapon to do when it no longer wishes to kill or fight? His longing for a home, an arsenal, is strong. His regret — his exhaustion — is greater. There is no home, no war, and as punishment, no more meaning or purpose to his existence. And he has no idea where to begin searching.

By Sylvia Fernandez Anne

@redlirojune Thats for you.

[assortedcriminality]

prompt #16

Villain glanced down at Hero’s blanketed, half-asleep form, head resting on their nemesis’ shoulder. The criminal’s expression was fond despite themself, almost longing. They reached up a hand, running their fingers through Hero’s hair. 

“I like you like this,” they said softly. “Quiet, for once.”

“Shut up,” the crimefighter muttered without malice. 

Villain smiled, tucking a stray piece of hair behind their lover’s ear. “Whatever you say.”

[autocrats-in-love]

Prompt (555)

"How long was I out?" The hero asked groggily, rubbing their head.

"About a day," the villain said. "I changed your clothes and washed you and stuff. You were covered in ash from the explosion. You would have been burned to a crisp without your powers."

The hero sat up and looked down at their hands. They were pristine. Also. . .their nails were painted. The hero sent a questioning look the villain's way, holding up their hand.

"You were asleep for 30 hours! I got bored!" The villain said defensively.

[autocrats-in-love]

Prompt (652)

“I miss you,” the villain said, solemnly.

“I miss you too,” the hero said. “You realize you didn’t have to kidnap me to tell me this, though, right?”

“Well you’re so busy now, when else would you have time?”

[anime-villian-irl]

"id let the world burn for you"

"I'd kill for you"

"id die for you"

"I'd sacrifice the world for you"

BORING!

Yawn snore snore. Honk shoo honk shoo.

I got twelve other guys ready to that for me. You already do that. You already destroy the world I would just happen to be there while you did.

The real question is.

Would you save the world for me?

Would you put aside your hatred for humanity and put my love for it Infront? Would you save the world because I love the world? Would you stop killing because I hate killing? Would you find a way to live because I want you alive?

Death and destruction are easy as hell. Do you know how fucking easy it is to kill someone? To blow up a building? Shure security is in the way but if it wasn't there it would be easy as hell.

You'd do the basics shure. But would you do the hard thing and save the world because I asked you to?

Would you push aside your hatred of everyone but me because I asked you to nicely?

Would you?

[sylviafernandezanne]

Today's word...

WARM

(pronounced /worm/)

1. Of or at a fairly or comfortably high temperature.

2. Having, showing, or expressive of enthusiasm, affection, or kindness.

With the end of the war came the return home. Home, to a family that feels like it hasn’t been seen in years, to spring announced by the festivals – celebrations that declare joy at the end of conflict. Outside the truck carrying the soldiers back, a crowd was shouting. For the arrival of spring, of peace.

Holding the pendant with his photo in my hand, I wonder if that face, frozen in time and in grayscale, would smile and shout with joy at the arrival of spring like everyone else around me. If the warmth he always seemed to carry with his presence could melt the pain of winter still lingering inside me.

One by one, everyone leaves the truck, until it's my turn. As I step down, the Russia I return to seems different and yet the same. I glance beside me and remember his absence. I imagine his presence here, defying the emptiness in the air, his ghostly figure smiling at me. Saying sweet and inspiring words. We make it home.

Shouldn’t happiness be guaranteed at this moment? Looking up at the snowless sky, the sun shines brightly. I take a deep breath and release the tension in my shoulders. I hear my name in the distance. I see my family running toward me.

A rare smile blooms like a flower on my face, and I move forward to reach the ones I love. In my imagination, you give me a gentle push toward them.

Outside the world my mind creates, in a place unreachable to the living, your lonely figure watches your sister from afar, waiting for someone who will never come, and smiles sadly. It is spring after the war, and even if no one sees it, everyone returns to the warmth of their homeland.

By Sylvia Fernandez Anne

[falangesdovento]

[sylviafernandezanne]

Deep feelings...

[giiiane-deactivated20260512]

A beleza da mulher e sua fragilidade

A mulher, em sua sutileza, carrega uma beleza que não precisa se explicar.

Ela é presença que ecoa — mesmo em silêncio.

Cada marca é uma história calada,

cada cicatriz, um traço de pincel no corpo do tempo.

Ela é pintura em carne viva.

Mulher, com sua fragilidade, transforma a dor em arte.

É artista do invisível —

escreve com lágrimas, canta com medo, dança mesmo ferida.

Essa é sua força:

converter o trauma em beleza,

o cansaço em poesia.

Do toque dela nascem canções que embalam o mundo,

versos que salvam,

quadros que gritam,

leis que tentam conter o horror que ela conhece desde o berço.

Porque ser mulher é ser esquecida e lembrada ao mesmo tempo:

no poema e no processo.

Na arte e no artigo de lei.

Ela inspira sonatas, romances, manifestos e esculturas.

Mas também precisa do Código Penal pra não morrer.

Porque o mundo a venera em tela —

mas a fere na rua.

Ser mulher é dor:

a gente nasce dela, e muitas vezes morre com ela por dentro.

Cada mulher carrega uma ferida ancestral,

e se for mãe, carrega outras que não são suas —

dores herdadas, dores futuras.

Em dias como hoje, quando a solidão me aperta o peito

e o mundo parece grande demais para o que sou,

ser mulher pesa.

Pesa como tinta úmida numa tela imensa,

como palavra engasgada num poema inacabado.

E ser mulher jovem dói ainda mais,

porque é viver sob o peso do não saber:

o medo de falhar,

de não bastar,

de não se bastar sozinha.

Hoje sinto medo.

E saudade.

E uma vontade funda de me esconder dentro de uma canção,

ou de um quadro antigo onde tudo ainda era inteiro.

Mas sigo.

Como verso que não rima,

como lei que ainda não protege,

como arte que não precisa ser compreendida pra ser sentida.

[equipebrasil]

Textos e poesias autorais da @giiiane.

[sylviafernandezanne]

Brazilian literature is beautiful

[mournfulroses]

Ada Limón, , from a poem titled "Dream Of Destruction," featured in The Carrying: Poems

[goldwerewolf]

I envy writers.

As an artist I can give you a snapshot into a world.

But a writer.

A writer can take you there.

They can weave together words and create a portal to anywhere. You can visit those places instead of looking out a window and wishing to be a part of it.

I envy writers.

[bluez2776-deactivated20170302]

I envy artists.

A writer can give you a story.

But an artist.

An artist can show you the exact emotions behind everything.

They can paint a picture worth a thousand words without ever writing one. They can show you every single emotion, every single thought in a second. They can show emotion like a writer never could.

I envy artists.

[sylviafernandezanne]

@redlirojune, with your amazing arts. Hehehe. A friend artist on Tumblr.

[sylviafernandezanne]

Today's word...

COLD

(Pronounced /kould/)

1. Of or at a low or relatively low temperature, especially when compared with the human body.

2. Lacking affection or warmth of feeling; unemotional.

In the land of winter, there is no mercy. On the snowy horizon, only war remained, scarlet painting the white like the lips of a lover, soldiers in uniform lay like lost dolls, the smell of gunpowder was everywhere. The explosions never stopped. The merciless snow covered everything with its storm, everyone was retreating, but I did not hear the orders of my commander.

I had eyes only for you, lying on the ground.

Both loyal soldiers and conscripted criminals are among the corpses that war claimed in the name of victory. At the height of winter, the insatiable beast took away a light of hope and love. The only warmth I ever had in the cold.

The storm froze everything around it. It buried corpses, covered blood, blanketed the war tanks used for slaughter. The enemies fled in the face of such a force of nature. I felt nothing, my body was numb to the temperature around me – Nothing was colder than the last kiss I gave your corpse.

By Sylvia Fernandez Anne

[sylviafernandezanne]

So here we are...

July 8, 2025

Nice to meet you, dear stranger.

Call me Sylvia or Anne. It´s a nice day to begin a new chapter of our lives.

Let me say that i´m gonna take you to another world. With my words i tell stories, with the pen i create. Talk to me, read my writing - I´m here to show you my creations. Who i am.

Warmly,

Sylvia Fernandez Anne

[mournfulroses]

Mary Oliver, from a poem titled "The Return," featured in What Do We Know: Poems & Prose Poems

[dreiasenho]

Priorize-se ✨

[equipebrasil]

Para começar a semana com motivação, @dreiasenho!