Sep 15, 2022
happy august
happy sun
happy warmth
happy fun
happy nights
happy you
happy us
september blues.
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Paraguay
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
happy august
happy sun
happy warmth
happy fun
happy nights
happy you
happy us
september blues.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
AHHH!!! this one seems to have really reached out to a lot of mob fans and im cryyyyyinnnnnggggggg
I swear the comments make me want to scream of happiness.
Go give it a read!!!
1.00 AM : LILY!1!1!1! 1.00 AM : LILLLYYYYY 1.00 AM : LILLY Y yyY iM pReGgnANT 1.01 AM : HELP 1.01 AM : !1!! 1.01 AM : !! 1 1.01 AM : AKlhsjKKkma 1.01 AM : jkK
1.20 AM : [voice note] *extremely loud noises, groans, laughs, &barks in the background*
Lily : ok now what sirius has given you. james potter?
//krek
Ekphrastic Fiction Contest Winner (August 2021)
I simultaneously love and hate months like this. The stories were incredible this month! I am now convinced I made the right decision stepping out of the box and using this photo. I love that this piece generated enthusiasm and I was able to read so many creative interpretations. The part I hate is that it’s practically impossible to choose a winner. There are some amazingly talented writers participating in this contest. I hope those of you reading this, will look for my Honorable Mentions post later and reach out to any writer whose story you like. While I am forced to choose a winner, there were some pretty incredible entries for this month’s contest, and I hope everyone will see them.
The winner for this month is... @moonlightchess! Congratulations! This writer previously won this contest in October 2020 and September 2019. You can click on those links to see the previous winning pieces and read this month’s featured story below.
As a reminder, This untitled photograph was taken by RAYCHILL @shes-magic. She has a ton of uniquely captivating photographs posted, so if you like this piece, make sure to visit her page here!
On a Nola Night, Something Begins
It turned out that Nola was a dream. Lisette Marchande had long since Americanized her name to “Lisa’ for the sake of resumes, but booking a flight back down to the swamplands to take inventory of her mama’s old shotgun house on the quarter reminded her that New Orleans was as alluring and mysterious as that third pomegranate seed, tricking Persephone into a lifetime in shadowed places. Suddenly, it had been a week and jambalaya was simmerin’ on the stove and jazz was floating from her phone soft and silky as a hazy bayou night, and she was lost. Sweat trickling down her back and the tickling sweetness of beignet sugah rising hot from the counters of Cafe Du Monde turned the other world, the northern world, into some quickly-fading memory a hundred lifetimes gone.
“Mama’s business ain’t finished proper,” she vaguely remembered telling her boss, a crisply Cape Cod woman named Mary, over that same jazz-soaked air even as Louis Armstrong asked her if she “knew what it means, to miss New Orleans.” Even now, her carefully cultivated yankee airs had dissolved into the heat of a Nawlins summer evening, and she hung up just in time for the longing to hit her deep, some memory she’d long since forgotten until now, and she ventured into her dead mother’s decaying bedroom to root through her old things, an inventory for the guarantor of her estate. He was a beautiful creole man with autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes named Theodore Bissonette - Tay-oh-doure Bee-sew-NAY - and the faded red rug had gone a weak pink, adolescent lavender walls peeling like so much lost youth.
“Baby,” her letter began, when Lisette found the old black and white box adorned with curling filagree print, “if you are reading this, my time here is done. I leave to you all this decrepit nonsense, if you really want to stop there, dieu ne plaise, then take whatever little money I have left in this world and run to spend it on the down payment to some creaky thing, be it a car or a house or a man. But if I have raised you right, if your mind is sharp and curious still, take the black box under my bed to Monsieur Theodore Bissonette. He is the son of your daddy’s dearest friend, and he will guide you.”
The swamp had already had its way. The box, stuffed with strange herbs and stranger sigils scrawled heavy across dense ivory paper, left her enchanted and hungry. Monsieur Bissonette answered his phone on the first ring, as optimistic as she suddenly was. “Bonsoir, cherie.”
“What the hell is this? Mama talking about some magic nonsense? Some ancient prophecy thing out in Bellefontaine? Untold adventure awaits me if I only ask?”
“Oh, bien! Clever girl.” Theodore was delighted, unable to hide it. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’ll come get you at midnight.”
“For what?”
“Questions later, cherie. Tonight, only answers.”
Honorable Mentions (August 2021)
The stories below are incredible. Really incredible. If you like short fiction pieces, I hope you’ll take the time to read them. They were all contenders for winning the August contest. Also, if you like someone’s work, please reach out and let them know. I’m sure they would love to hear from you!
I would also like to give one more thank you to RAYCHILL @shes-magic for allowing me to use this untitled photo for the contest. She has a ton of captivating photographs posted, so if you like this piece, make sure to visit her page here!
(These Honorable Mentions are listed in the order they were received and do not reflect a system of ranking.)
Title:“The Room: Crooked”
Written by: @evanthenerd83
“Why’s it crooked?”
H froze, key still in hand. “I-I’m sorry?”
K jabbed her thumb towards the bare mattress, stained with deep black puddles. “Why is that portrait all crooked?”
She stepped back. Her boot avoided the runes. The whole rug was covered in things better left unseen.
H could hear her earpiece crackling. A voice whispered monotonous instructions, neither male or female; it barely registered as human.
They were wasting precious time, the voice relayed.
Their safety wasn’t guaranteed.
H didn’t know what would happen. But taking into account the smell, how meat lingered on her tongue, or the fact that her whole body was going numb… it couldn’t have been good.
“Who gives a crap,” she turned back to the door. “We’re not here for the portrait.”
She locked it again. It had to be locked again.
Always locked. Always closed. Never open.
K approached the portrait, looking at it. Really looking at it. Taking all the minute, half-slashed details.
A man sat in a chair, which was as old as him. He wore a deep black suit with a white tie. His head was bald.
His eyes were colorless. Milky.
He was also frowning.
K reached out, just to straighten it, but a rough hand suddenly grabbed her shoulder. She spun around.
H was staring at her. “Don’t do that! They’ll—“
Another burst of static. Right in H’s ears.
She lowered her hand. She listened to the voice, still as dull as ever. It relayed even more instructions.
She glared at K.
“Time’s up.”
K nearly refused. Her mouth opened, then clamped shut.
Questions weren’t allowed. Not from Caretakers. Not when they had a job to do, a revered duty.
Those who did were arrested. Or they would be admonished, terminated, and blacklisted; most found themselves being barred from meeting women with similar talents.
And those weren’t even the worst possibilities.
K sighed, leaving the portrait as it was. It stung. It hurt.
But she managed to follow H.
H went first, of course. She was the designated leader, so she had a responsibility to go first. K was only her assistant.
Before H closed the ornate door, locking it beyond them, K caught a glimpse of the portrait.
From across the room, the man smiled.
The Cell
Written by: @daalseth
“Damn it dad you can’t just keep me locked up.”
“Now Princess, the risk is too great.”
“But Covid is almost over.”
I’m sorry, but I AM the king and that is my decision.”
She stabbed the Disconnect button on the Zoom call, and furiously paced her cell. It was in a converted military watch tower. They had hastily thrown up some wallpaper, and moved all of the furniture over from her room in the castle, but two years of poor ventilation had ruined everything. She may have had good food, books, video games, anything she needed, through the dumbwaiter but the place was a dump and she was always alone.
“I haven’t even been able to see a damn stylist,” she grumbled.
Her auburn hair would have drug behind her except she kept it braided, coiled, and tied to a belt loop on her jeans.
“Dad won’t even send me a damn pair of scissors.”
She desperately wanted to escape. She had thought of trying to ride the dumbwaiter down, but it was too small. Anyway, even if she could figure out how to get down from the third floor, where would she go? Forest stretched as far as she could see.
On her laptop she could see people going back to school, having parties, getting together. Except in the kingdom where her father still kept it locked down “for safety”.
She laid down on the bed, the springs bit into her side where the mattress padding had worn through.
“How much longer…,” she thought.
Suddenly there was a noise. She got up and walked to the window. At the base of the tower was a man looking at a map on the hood of his pickup truck. He saw her and called up.
“Hey, can you help me? Where the hell am I?”
“The Kingdom of Luxatony.”
“Aw hell, I went completely the wrong way. I’ll have to go back to Geneva and start over. Thanks.” He started to get back into his truck.
“No! Wait!” she shouted.
This was the chance she had been waiting for. She had noticed a coil of rope in the back of the truck and it had given her an idea. She pulled the braid from her belt and tied it to the radiator.
“I hope to hell this holds,” she thought as she climbed through the window.
In a minute she had rappelled to the ground.
“Well, miss that’ seems like…”
“Gimme’ a knife,” she barked.
Startled, he pulled a knife out of a small holster and handed it to her. She quickly hacked off the braid leaving a short bob in the back.
“All right let’s go, and don’t stop until we reach Geneva.”
“Well, ok miss, I can give you a ride, but at least tell me your name.”
A fierce green fire burned in her eyes, “I used to be Princess Rapunzel,” she snapped, “but from now on just call me Red.”
Title: Memories
Written by: Kaidon Hobbs @gingerly-peach-bi-ologist
August 3rd, 1972 was the last day my patient lived in their childhood home. They would describe every detail to me during our sessions. From the ornate patterned carpeting to the sea green wall in their mother’s bedroom. The hanging paintings their mother made for them by from fond memories together. The dresser where their mother had kept all her perfume and makeup.
The last thing they remember about that house was sitting on the bed while their mother read the daily newspaper. A calm, fall morning with the windows open letting in the sunshine.
It was at that moment their world changed. With a flash of bright light and an angry yell, they were forced to flee, and never look back.
Today, I tracked the address for them and saw what remained of their old house. This was the picture I brought back to show them. Crying happily, they shook my hand firmly and smiled. They told me their memories were safe now with me and they were eternally grateful.
They did not come in for their appointment today. They were found this morning, passed away in their sleep, still clutching this photo to their chest.
Title: Rainy Day Ambience
Written by: @winterrose42
I always like riding trains on rainy days.
Your forehead presses against a cooling window rather than burning on glass. Rivlets of water blur the picture outside so you don’t get a headache trying to concentrate on things that fly by too fast to comprehend. It’s quiet too, the calming pat-patter soothing tempers of children and adults alike. It blurs everything to a base of grey that’s much easier on the senses than the world’s usual brightness..
Today I pay attention to none of that, preferring instead to lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, headphones blasting a song a friend downloaded once that I never remembered the name of. Thinking about it, I don’t remember theirs either. Fiddling with the wire absently I feel the train start to slow just as the song fades, pausing the next in a practiced motion and stuffing everything into my pockets so nothing gets wet. There’s nothing like putting a wet earphone in- like getting a wet willy on purpose. I always hated when mother did that.
The train stops at a lonely station on the outskirts of the city and unsurprisingly I’m one of the only ones that steps off and am the only one that wanders to the left rather than the right. At least to the right is somewhat residential, to the right is reason to visit. To the left is…well…it isn’t the pretty cul-de-sac it was, no doubt bustling with children and gardeners and cute cars. Now the driveways were choked with weeds and doors sat crooked on their hinges. It was pretty in its own way, it had character as father would say.
There’s one house in particular I go to, with one room I sit down in every week. Peeled purple wall paper crinkles softly with the breeze coming through the broken window. You can tell it’s an older house that was remodeled by the crooked dresser pressing up against a walled fireplace. It seemed to be a child’s bedroom so I wasn’t surprised they weren’t trusted with fire. Old, faded paintings hung on the walls and on the mantle, from a family member or made from the child’s talented hand I could never decide, either was a good story to imagine for them. Smiling, I dig in my pocket for the ball I always brought with me, rolling it away from me and watching it disappear under the dusty bed, past the bit of blanket dragging on the floor that prevents me from peeking. I never want to anyway.
I trace lines against the ragged, decorative carpet while I wait, feeling the fluffier sections dip to flat ones marking where feet must have walked. The ball bumps against my knuckles and my eyes flick up while I nudge it back. The ball rolls under the bed again and bops me lightly on the nose. Smiling, I reach forward and roll it back.
I always like house visits on rainy days.
Untitled
Written by: @mareebrittenford
“What do you think?” Darren asks. “I know it’s rough around the edges.”
Lizbeth steps inside. The smell of cat urine smacks her in the face, and the narrow stairwell that leads straight up from the tiny entry is shrouded in shadows.
“What was this place?” she asks, as she fumbles her way up the stairs and then opens the first door she comes to. She steps into a studio apartment, the space dominated by a blocked off fireplace and assorted pieces of dilapidated furniture.
The wallpaper is peeling off in strips and the carpet seems to hold a complete ecosystem of mold and insect life.
“It was a senior care facility that was forced to close due to legal action.”
“No kidding,” Lizbeth says as she inspects the iron bedstead with it’s rotting mattress. She can’t imagine that anyone living here was well cared for. “That was a while back though, right?”
“Four years. It’s been empty ever since.”
Lizbeth shakes her head. “The sellers must be… motivated.”
Darren grins. “You have no idea.”Lizbeth grins back. “It’s perfect. This is going to be our best flip yet.”
She rests her hand on what looks to be a genuine Queen Anne end table. “Just make sure the furnishings are included in the contract.”
Title: The Room
Written by: @daydreamingfox
The room was suffocating. The air was thick and heavy. He was covered in cold sweat, and despite the 39 degrees, he was shivering. The silence was oppressive, and suddenly the simple act of standing was unbearable anymore. The room was spinning.
He tried lying down on that stranger bed. A bed so painfully not his own. He looked at the old ceiling above his head, a weight on his chest growing heavier with every minute passing, impeding the air to reach the lungs. Panic started to surge, and he almost cried for help before remembering he was all alone, and nobody understood his language anyway, in that foreigner land. There was no use for crying for help.
How had he ended there? All alone in that derelict motel room, where nobody could understand him, and nobody cared. And the people who cared, the people who he had left behind didn’t even know were he was or that he needed help. Nobody was going to help him. And nobody was going to find him if he died there. Not for days. He was completely alone.
He checked his phone: 00.40 am and no signal. The heart started to race even faster. But something was wrong. It was not just fast, it was erratic. He could feel it skip some beats. He could hear it in his throat and in his skull, between the ears. He started to panic, he needed to find help. Someone. Anyone! He stood up but the room started spinning wildly and he had to lay down again. He put his legs high on the wall to help normalizing pressure.
He wanted to go away. He wanted to go home. The airport. He needed to reach the airport. There someone could help him. There people would understand him. He checked his leaflets for all bus and trains but there were none until 4.00 am.
3 hours are a whole eternity when you are dying alone.
Untitled
Written by: Riv @a-river-of-roses
You should know that I’ve never been any good at this storytelling stuff, especially when the story is about myself. I do not know how to tell you how everything came to be. Where should I even start? Everyone says one should start from the beginning when telling a story… But what even is the beginning? Is it the very first moment I entered this world as a chubby, crying baby? The day I finally started university, away from my family? Or when I first rented this room?
I don’t know when everything started to go so, so wrong. I can’t help but wonder if it was all my fault. If I had done things differently, rented the room across the street instead of this one, or found another job, maybe none of it would’ve happened.
Does it even matter now?
Now, you look at this old dusty room, wondering what happened. Making theories about the person who lived here. And I want to tell you, truly. But… I must ask:
Can you even hear me?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
......
Miraculors, this is for all of you 💖
I just finished publishing day 2 of the Adrien AUGreste 2020 challenge, so go read them please :))))
ALL THE SHIPS WILL BE INCLUDED!!!
AND TIMELINES ARE DIFFERENT TOO. (meaning some fics will be during shawdowmoth’s time being bad (idk) and some will be pre-shadowmoth (hawkmoth)
im kidding you don't have to but it would be cool if you did👉👈
August Writing Stats
Okay. I hit 500 words every single day of August. “Worst” day was the 31st - 512 words. Best day was the 8th - 3,004 words. I wrote a total of, according to my GoogleDoc - 33,205 words. (That’s the complete length of Born Bob Dylan and then some.) I worked on 4 pieces. I finished and published 3 of those: - Born Bob Dylan - This Is Getting Good Now - You Should’ve Raised a Baby Girl (The last one is some unnamed thing that I’m messing around in. It needs a metric ton of work so I’m probably not going to be doing much with that anytime soon.) I love what I do, but doing it on my laptop does not help me get through my notebook collection XD
August 31st - 512 words written today. Not a good evening, word count wise. I had a few other things to do, but I managed the 500 at least. Worked on two different things. Unrelated to each other, and unrelated to anything I’ve posted. New things, shall we say. Though one of them I’m really not happy with - it needs a hell of a lot of work. Favourite Line:
“I mean, if you keep talking to me like that,” she practically purred in his ear. “I’m gonna drag you back to bed and we’re gonna make another one.”