#creatober 2020

[thecoffeerain]

Day 8 // "All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost."

Had to paint my boy thranduil for this prompt. Anything else would be illegal.

[writingvultures]

Day 1: Disinterest

They were once worshiped widely across the land. Thanked when parents held their long awaited newborn in their arms for the first time. Asked for blessings when they wanted the will to control and harness the energy around them. Prayed too when the shadows grew long as the sun kissed the ocean and when all that remained of a person was ashes.

Slowly over millennia the welcome visits to their Altar began to dwindle. Where thousands would make the journey to pray for a blessing at the main Altar, to tend to the Altar and keep it clean, only hundreds came, then a few handful, then only trickle every few years until they stopped coming all together. They ventured out to see what kind of dam the people had built and what they had stopped visiting, only to see what had become of their Altars.

They lie in shambles and disrepair. Every flourishing villages and towns that housed an Altar was nothing more than smoldered wood and crumbling stone, the streets and pathways lined with their charred remains.

They watched as their worshipers were burned alive, begging, crying out for their captors to set them free, for them to do something. They could do nothing but watch in abject horror.

They could rage against them, like many others have done when they saw their ilk being targeted. Could give them so much power they break and become twisted under its weight or make all of their women unable to give life to the heirs they so desperately crave.  

But they did nothing, could do nothing. And so they lay at their main Altar as the world forgot about them and grew around them, the only words repeatedly playing at their lips

“You are not a god.”

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Don’t know if i followed the prompt word as closely or clearly but hopefully it gets better.

[whatever-i-write]

Creatober day7: Fracture

They wheeled me into the operation room. They hadn’t sedated me, and they weren’t going to. They had only paralyzed me. I would be awake, for all of it.

People weren’t forced to join the military anymore; there was no draft. But they had to get disposable bodies somehow. They called it a “procedure”, they acted like it was going to help. In reality they broke you into little pieces, put your pieces in metal skins and sent you off to wherever they needed you. They told us, “You will only have to give an hour of your time to save the country!” They told us, “No real people will have to get hurt anymore!” They presented it like a miracle. It wasn’t.

I had to be awake for it, mentally at least. Some fancy jargon about brain synapses and conciousness. Not stuff I understand. It was only going to be an hour. Surely I could last an hour? But it didn’t feel like an hour, it felt like days, or weeks, I honestly couldn’t tell. They found pieces of me- in memories and dreams- and took them out, giving them their own life. A six year old me crying about a broken toy: the memory was suddenly gone but I could still hear the crying. Twelve years old, getting my first kiss: gone- but I could still feel the butterflies. One me came from a dream, this one was clad in purple armor, ready to fight sea monsters (it was a weird dream) and then I couldn’t remember it anymore but I could still feel the adrenaline. This went on for a timeless length. Each one getting closer to the me I am now, and the closer to me it got the more painful it became. Until I was in agony, unable to cry out, unable to clench my jaw, unable to shed tears of pain, unable to do anything but lie there.

Then it was over. I wish I could say that was the worst of it but that was just the beginning. After the procedure I thought it was all done with, I gave so much of myself- literally- to protect my country. But then I was deployed. Well, not me, but the other me’s, the-the pieces, or memories, with their metal skins; were deployed. Have you ever been to war? Have you ever known somebody who has? I used to be able to answer no to those questions. But now I don’t only live my life as me, I live as that six year old, that twelve year old, and every other version they took from me. In my dreams I see myself battling and cries from the real people I fight echo in my mind. They carnage and the empty pain that comes with a fallen comrade, all became seared in my real memory. Then it started happening while I was awake, I would suddenly not be at work or school or home anymore; I would be on the battlefield. Although I saw myself moving through my eyes as the other me, the real me would be paralyzed as I was during the procedure. Stuck between two realities, two timelines, two lives but unable to control either one. The longest “episode” , they called them, had lasted an hour. It was terrifying.

Then one of me died. Or was lost. Or stopped working. I don’t know what you want to call it but it wasn’t there anymore. And when it stopped, that version of myself I had been was taken with it. I forgot that part of who I am. And I changed- how can we know who we are or who we want to be unless we know and understand who we used to be? I began to feel lost. Then another one of me stopped and it only got worse. I can’t even remember most of my life now. I don’t know who I was and I don’t know who I am. It’s impossible to live life fractured.

I was the sum of my parts, I feel like we all are, so when you take away all the parts what are we left with?

[nikkywrites]

Day 1: Disinterest

This and the thirty things after is things I did for Creatober -- a prompt a day for a month. I think after I get through the 31 prompts, I might be done transferring things. How exciting! The end is within sight!

No edits except maybe a bit of grammar/rewording.

*****

Amelia is like the sun, in a lot of aspects. Her laughter radiates warmth, as do her hugs, and she brightens the darkest of people. She's alluring in that she's kind and gentle and selfless.

She's prattling about an interest -- honestly she can't remember what exactly it is, but knows it's nothing she has any interest in -- and the passion is a night sky in her eyes.

Most won't make the sun comparison, will dive for the easier earth, nature, the trees. But while she's dark in her skin and hair and eyes, she uses herself to reflect brightness. To make a super powered flashlight from a single flickering candle.

She's bright and warm in all the ways that aren't misleading aesthetics. She can't help how she looks, but she dresses in bright colors that look neon on her. She acts the part and in all the ways she controls her looks, she looks it too.

She is the sun. Simple. Undebatable.

Pearl is not Icarus.

She is not easily drawn in by simple promises and warmth that's so often fleeting. She grew up in cages of ice and she won't melt at the first sign of warmth.

Winter was eternal and summer was temporary.

"'Melia," Pearl says, a near inaudible quiver to her voice. She means to continue after that, to say her request all at once and confidently, but she freezes.

(It's all she's ever done.)

The bright brunette before her is attentive and hears the call of her name in the midst of her rant about inconsistent characters and lackluster plot lines. She halts her passion to hear what her friend has to say. "Yeah?"

Her eyes are glimmering like a moonlit pond and if Pearl swung that way (she doesn't), she'd be in trouble. Big, big trouble. It was effortless to fall into those eyes, to get sucked into the riptide and not care about whether or not you drowned.

Pearl hears the sick amused laugh of her mother ringing in her ears. "Can we talk about something else?" Her heart is pounding, racing, and she's preemptively hearing taunts her mother has thrown out a thousand times before.

Amelia’s eyes flicker, a few of the stars dying in a supernova. “Oh.” Her expression’s shift is slight, but stark. “Yeah, sure.” Her lips lift after, a smile, but this one doesn’t spread any warmth, doesn’t niggle at something in the other girl’s chest, and doesn't light her eyes like usual. “I guess I was rambling, huh?”

She sighs. There’s guilt, now, grappling against her fear. She wasn’t a great listener. She wishes she was, wishes she was the ever-present shoulder and unwavering hand, but her mind has learned to tune out long rambles to avoid the barbs hidden in the words. Amelia isn’t malicious like that, of course, but habit is habit and it’s hard to change.

“I’m sorry,” she says, cradling her cup in her hand, warm like Amelia had been before she got greedy and snuffed it out. “It’s just…” she slides her other hand down her face. “I’m having trouble keeping up, everything has been so,” she waves her hand through the air, “muddled, lately.” Choking. Stifling.

Amelia digests the words, pursing her full lips. “Alright. What would you rather we talk about, then?”

Oh, the kindness. Nothing hurts quite like it. Not when she was undeserving of it -- who was she to stop her spiel? Her mind was a whirlwind, true, but that was her issue to deal with. Not Amelia’s.

“Did you see the newest episode of Project Paranormal?”

“Of course!”

Pearl bites the corner of her lip, masking her smile. “Well, I didn’t catch it. Mind giving me the rundown?”

Dramatically, the other girl gapes. “You missed it? After the cliffhanger from the last episode?”

Pearl recalls said cliffhanger. She remembers watching it in the living room on her couch. She winces. “Yeah. I was… busy.” Grounded from TV, more like. Her mother had come home early and seen what her daughter was watching. She didn’t approve.

No daughter of mine will worship the devil, she’d said, practically hissed. The cross at her neck had felt like hellfire then.

That cross is tucked into her pocket now, still burning. (Always burning.)

“Well, you see…” Amelia hops onto the new train of rambling quite quickly — she’s made to talk in that her words are bait on a hook. She draws others in, for better or worse or worst.

Maybe the Icarus comparison isn’t too far off.

Maybe she was already in too deep, over her head and drowning in honey. Sweetness all around, but too much.

What was Icarus’ mistake, anyways? When the sun calls, Apollo’s pretty words and reaching hand, was he supposed to ignore that? God’s attention, no matter how meager or plenty, is not something for a mortal to pass up. Especially a summons. Especially when the sun had been so scarce for him.

He hadn’t really had a choice, in the end, except in how he’d like to go. A mindless plummet into the freezing, or a soaring arch into the smile of a carefree god?

Pearl was quite like Icarus in a lot of ways. If she had to choose between her blood, who were far less sacrificing then Daedalus had been, or her sun, she’d burn too.

There were far more unpleasant things than dying in a fire one chooses.

“You’re kidding,” Pearl gasps, derailing her inner thoughts for the shocking tidbit she just heard (she’s good at multitasking, on some things). “That’s what happened? No shit?”

“Nope. That was how she died.”

“Never would have guessed that. Shit.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit MIA lately.” This is their first time speaking in a couple of weeks -- by far the longest gap of silence they’ve ever had, though it wasn’t all silent and wasn’t preplanned.

The long list of one-sided texts, gray bubbles with read receipts on and no replies, vouches for that. Let’s have a movie night soon! Hey, wanna go to the fair while it’s here? Are you okay? Did something happen? Text me back! Coffee? I miss you <3 Tell me that you’re ok. Texts that had gone unanswered.

Texts that had sent Pearl’s parents breathing down her neck.

But she hadn’t been busy, like she’d said she had been when she finally got around to replying. Though she actually had been busy. Fielding questions, praying, going to church, fending off her mother’s paranoia about her daughter turning to the devil, ignoring her father’s disapproval. All of her parent’s overbearingness was unneeded. They were just friends, Amelia and Pearl. Nothing more. And Pearl didn’t swing that way, didn’t daydream about the softness of the other girl’s fingers wrapped in her own or of the gloss shining on her lips. No. She wasn’t gay. That was sinful.

“Hey, it’s cool.” Amelia smiles, radiant and honest. Pearl feels the guilt again.

Liars will burn in the lake of fire and sulfur.

She was lying. She actually… kind of really did like Amelia. Like Icarus did Apollo, like Juliet did Romeo.

She sips her drink again, wishes it was still hot enough to scald her tongue. “Go ahead and tell me about the other thing.”

“You sure?”

She nods. She can sit through an hour’s worth of what’s drivel to her but gold to the other. Sacrifice. Small things. She can handle listening to the other girl’s joy if she must. One day, she may even actually follow through on one of the thousand book recommendations she’s received. She’s not a reader, finds it hard to focus on something utterly silent and blocked with words, but maybe she’ll try one day. One day when she’ll be living on her own, out of her parent’s toxicity. One day when she’ll be free to watch whatever she wants. One day when she can…

Well, the future was the future. Not here. Unpredictable. Subject to whims. Bound to change drastically from tiny choices, a butterfly’s wings. But there were some certainties.

Pearl and Amelia would stay friends. Amelia will always ramble on about her books while the other listens with more amusement and fondness than any real interest in the topic. They will drink coffee and stay at each other’s side, together.

As friends, obviously. At least at first.

But until then, there was today. Coffee and friends and a rambling she doesn’t care about (same as the future, except here there are no touches that blatantly linger).

One day things would be different. But today was pretty good.

[vvakarians]

01. Woodland 

[ruvikdraws]

Creatober Day 2: Galaxy with Camelia!

[nikkywrites]

Day 31: Cemetery Scenario

Full Scenario: Meeting up with friends in a cemetery, chatting among the tombstones. But someone is missing. Who is it? They count the heads but come up one number more than they had originally. They count again.

No idea how this got missed, but here it is. No warnings, no changes, no other posts that I missed when transferring, hopefully <.<

*****

This was supposed to be a fun gag. Hey, let’s hang out at the cemetery on Halloween to hang for the lols haha.

What a load of bull. For one, Hunter is pretty sure that this cemetery is actually haunted and for two— he’s pretty sure it’s messing with him. That or it’s his friends screwing with him.

Either is possible.

But he hadn’t been able to count the same number of people all night.

He tries again, eyes skipping over everyone’s head. Justin, one, messy brown hair. Ken, two, sides shaved blond. Lucy, three, braided black. Bailey, four, red waves. Rory, five, brown hair dyed a now-faded blue and tied high in a swinging ponytail. Him, Hunter, six, unstyled black.

Six.

Hunter’s pretty sure they started with seven. Didn’t they?

He counts again.

Lucy, one, braided black. Bailey, two, red waves. Justin, three, slicked brown. Lanny, four, buzzed brown. Rory, five, fresh dyed purple. Ken, six, blond. Him, seven, black.

Seven.

Wait. Didn’t he just count six?

He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. Focus, he tells himself. This is an easy task. Just count heads.

One, Rory, braided purple. Two, Lucy, ponytailed black. Three, Dan, shaggy blond. Four, Bailey, curled red. Five, Justin, buzzed brown. Six, Lanny, short brown. Seven, him, black.

Something didn’t add up right.

Seven. The right number. But did he add someone that wasn’t there? Is he losing his mind? He feels like he counted too many people.

There were seven of them. Him, Lanny, Rory, Lucy, Bailey, Ken, Justin. They all went here together. They were the only ones here.

Then why did he feel like he saw a stranger? Said the name of someone he didn’t know with the same ease of those he did?

He was going insane.

“Hey guys,” his voice comes out shaky. “I’m gonna dip.”

“What?” Rory stares at him with her blue eyes, her low ponytail pulled over her right shoulder. “Why are you going? We’ve barely been here.”

He gulps. His mind is running down their names. Lanny, Rory, Lucy, Bailey, Ken, Justin. Lanny, Rory, Lucy, Bailey, Ken, Justin. Lanny, Rory, Lucy, Bailey, Ken, Justin. Lanny, Rory, Lucy, Bailey, Dan, Justin.

Him and his friends. Him and his friends.

No one else.

“I know,” he half-chokes out, trying to laugh so they call him out on his pounding heart. He needs to sleep. He’s deprived, exhausted. That’s all. “But I’m exhausted, guys, and my mom is dragging me to my uncles tomorrow.” True, but not something he cared about before.

Sympathy softens the accusations that started to bloom on their faces.

“Get out of here, then,” Justin says. “It’s late anyways.”

They all wave or shout a goodbye. Some of them make his face heat up. He walks away but stops at the gate. Something cold runs down his back.

He didn’t know anyone named Dan, did he?

[writingvultures]

Day 22:

She’s sitting at the base of the tree when they appear again; mindful of the flowers, they seem to be the most responsive. They slink down until they are standing next to her. She doesn’t acknowledge them, eyes forward at her two Minors and the blindfolded man that sits between them.

“Do you want to know what happened to them?” Her voice is soft. They look down at her but she isn’t looking back.

They look back to the three in front of them “To those three?”

“No, to your… to Ninir’s worshipers.” They lean back into the tree, thin vines wrapping around their shoulders in comfort. For a long while neither of them speak and so she continues. “Ninir, the God of Birth, Dusk, and Magic.  Every child, sun down, and warlock were seen as gifts bestowed upon the people. She pauses for a moment, clawed fingers trailing the edge of a flower next to her.

“There was a cult. Called themselves The Children Of Ninir. And they twisted Ninir’s rule in vile ways. They believed through a sacrifice of one of the three they could gain more power in another. They wanted magic and so they killed babes when the shadows grew long.”

Behind them the bark of the tree splits allowing them to sink into, to get away from such cruel words, but curiously they stay there. “They wanted more power and so more and more innocent lives were lost to their hands. By the time they were found out the prescription of Ninir was so twisted, that was all the people could see and so anyone who worshiped Ninir was killed.”

She brings up her hand to touch the tuft of feather on her chest. “I was one of the many erased before I was granted this form.”

Beside her, they fully sink into the tree, their voice becoming omnipresent “Thank you for sharing. But I request to be alone for a time.”