#dreadwvlfscript

[ofinscriptions]

5 august 2019

                                     AUGUST 2019 SHORT STORY CHALLENGE

It was hazy; hot; humid. The kind of heat that makes sandal bottoms melt to the pavement when you walk too slowly. Glitter remnants from the pride celebration throughout the week sparkled sharply in the afternoon sun, but retained their inviting and happy feeling.

Emmy’s green eyes were red and itchy — burnt, likely — and his thick eyebrows were scrunched down in a squint against both the sun and the discomfort. His thick, pin-curled hair was sweat-slicked to his forehead and temples, and the body of it seemed to depress with the weight of the heat. One of his thin hands wiped at his eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, man,” he said, “I ain’t never felt a heat like this.” A hot breath of a sigh wheezed out of him with a smile. “An’ I’m from the fuckin’ desert.”

“It’s the humidity,” James’ signs were slow in the heat. The rainbow bracelet ringing around his thick wrist glinted as his hands spoke.

“I know— I mean, in theory I know, but like? Why,” the question was flat, but Emmy’s tone was bright and jovial. His hands swung out in the question, the gummy bracelets both him and James had gotten from the pride parade earlier that afternoon falling down his this arm. “I can’t even believe what it musta been like for them other trans guys in them’s binders n’ shit.” He pulled his shirt out from his chest, the thin, bright fabric sticking to the damp skin. “I’m so damn glad I got top sooner rather than later, y’know?”

“You’re telling me,” James signed with a laugh, “I remember not being able to wait until I could get onto the waitlist for it.”

Emmy let out a giggle. “Yeah,” he sighed, tapping onto James’ bare chest and smoothing the dark hair sprayed across it. “And th’ team did so damn well — you’re a fuckin’ snack.” He winked. “If I may say so m’self.”

James laughed, deep and hearty. Gently grabbing each side of Emmy’s face, he kissed the other before releasing his hands to sign, “Of course you can. I love you.”

The smile was wide and bright; warm in the fading sun. “I love you too,” Emmy signed back.

friend ping (:

@thel3tterm​ ; @oliverorchestrates​ ; @dreadwvlfscript​

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[thelittlestspider]

For WIP Asks: 4, 5, and 18!

4. What came first, the title or the plot?

i wanna say the plot came first, then the title? the only plot i had at first was just that carter was traumatized from events in his past. like the whole thing was really vague in my head. then it just kind of kept growing from there.

5.Where did you draw inspiration from?

so many things...

a few: practical magic, the haunting of hill house (tv), scooby doo, alice isn’t dead (specifically eps 2 and 4), letterkenny (early seasons), the yellow wallpaper, jane eyre, and the addams family. i may compile more as i go along or just make a bibliography later if ph ever gets done. 

18.Give a brief character description of your main characters.

carter - a super soldier trying to fit in with the locals, who is literally/figuratively running from his demons. 

violet - a super soldier who just wants to live a normal life. 

tiffany - a psychic looking for the ghosts of her parents who died in a car crash.

nina - a girl who never intended to get caught up in all of this, but nevertheless, it’s the best/worst thing that’s ever happened to her. 

[thel3tterm]

Gemini, libra, and aquila!!

Gemini: What inspired you to write this project?Oh jeeze, that’s a long story. To cut some corners on the answer, I’ve always been interested in breaking out of your own story. Or, what if someone realized they were in a piece of fiction instead of what we think of as reality? I wanted to explore that. The other aspects had to do with sci fi concepts and being queer. Libra: Which relationship dynamic do you enjoy writing the most?I think I spend the most time writing the dynamics between the main three. Valence is fun to play off of anyone, but her hot headedness mixes well with Rouge’s anxiety and sarcasm and Tariku’s deadpan logic. Aquila: What do you do when you’re stuck in your writing?I usually wind up taking a break and revisiting the previous chapters later. That, or I take a break and then brute force the chapter giving me trouble. I’m usually pretty stubborn with my projects hahaha. Send me a Constellation

[pen-in-hand]

Aries, pisces, and aquarius!

thank you hon!! x

aries: when have you felt the most confident in your writing? when have you felt the least confident? 

most confident? always after someone has reblogged/commented on something I’ve posted. Least? As soon as I post something.

pisces: how do you visualize scenes? do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow? 

It kinda depends. Sometime’s there’s a movie in my head, and during those times I struggle most with words because I can see it but I have trouble describing it. Other times the words just flow in a disjointed mess so you really can’t win.

aquarius: what is the most unique thing about your current wip? 

uhhh, I don’t know, to be honest… There’s nothing I can think off of the top of my head that’s completely unique? Rare sure but unique? if someone wants to come out and correct me feel free because idfk

[dontwritethatone]

Tower and temperance!

temperance: can you describe a strange dream you’ve had?

Oh! I LOVE this! I have so many weird dreams, and I write them down because they’re great story ideas. :)

So! In the dream, a woman, her daughter, and her son are driving along a very foggy road, and somehow, they crash off the road into a grassy area near some woods. Due to dream logic, the three of them are just lying on the ground disoriented. The mother and daughter are close to one another, but the brother is further away closer to the woods.

All of a sudden, the mother and daughter look over to see the brother being lifted up by the head by a tall skinny man covered in bloody sores and taken deep into the woods. The mother begins to scream and cry while the daughter is too dazed to process everything.

the tower: favorite colors to wear?

Earth tones ^_^

Tarot Questions

[ofinscriptions]

6 august 2019

                                     AUGUST 2019 SHORT STORY CHALLENGE

“Her eyes are black,” the crackling voice playing back on the 8-track said, “they’re all black. No distinction from the whites of her eyes to the coloured part of ‘em.”

The handful of teenagers — four in total — huddled around the tape player, listening to the voice that sounded as youthful as they looked. Three girls and a boy, all around seventeen or eighteen and all from the same graduating class that’d happened that past June. A heavy silence sat on each of their shoulders.

One of the girls, with teased blonde hair circling her head and coke bottle glasses making her brown eyes look too large for her face, watched the reels turn on the tape. She opened her wide mouth to say something — anything — but couldn’t make her voice cooperate. Her throat bobbed with the effort, but nothing more than a wheeze of air came out.

Another of them, with coiled black hair sitting in the same style as the blonde’s was teased into, glanced between the other two girls — curiously skipping over the boy. “Dana,” she said, her delicate voice a feeble whisper, “that’s Isaiah isn’t it?”

The boy’s usually warm, gold-toned skin looked cold — like the blood had been drained from him. His large, hooded green eyes were wide — almost bugging out of his thin face. Thin lips were parted and showed the tips of his teeth.

“Yeah it’s—”

“Shh,” the third girl hushed. The neon headbands slipped from her straight black hair when she tugged on the bauble connected to one of them. “Dana. Holly. We gotta listen.”

“I haven’t seen nothin’ like this before,” Isaiah’s voice continued on the recording, “she’s, like, completely still. It’s weird.” A rustle of the recorder being scraped over a wooden table sounded loud and screeching to the teens in the dark lean-to. “What’re yah here for anyway?”

“No, Isaiah don’t ask that,” Dana’s oaky voice sounded brittle, “please don’t ask that.”

There was a pause on the recording, then Isaiah’s voice continued. “C’mon I know y’can talk I heard yah makin’ all sorts of noise like ten minutes ago when I was findin’ my tapes.” A pop of joints sounded tinny and loud through the recording. “Well. If you’re gonna be all creepy n’ shit I’ll just keep narrating,” Isaiah’s voice came through with a nervous laugh.

The boy’s eyes were slick with tears. “No,” the word wheezed out wet and quiet.

“You’re fuckin’ creepy y’know? Doin’ this whole ass demon shit y’know?” Isaiah’s voice continued, it warbling a bit. A laugh, loud and barking and insecure; him trying his best to put on a brave face. “Anyways, the girl’s got her head at a weird angle — that’s what that crack was earlier. It looks like she broke her neck or somethin’, I dunno. I don’t know medical shit, but it don’t look natural at all.”

Static started low in the recording, raising when there was any sort of noise.

“Elias, we don’t gotta listen to this anymore,” Dana sounded nauseous — her voice warbling and unsure.

Elias’ mouth hung open. Opening and closing a few times before finally forcing out the words, “I want t’know what happens.” Sweat was cold and clammy on his skin, and the tears were barely held back.

“What?” Isaiah said the word with a venom the other teens had all been subjected to before — they’d forgotten to pause the recording while talking. “You really think I’m gonna be scared of some shit like you? Y you’re like fuckin’ Jason Voorhees or somethin’. Creepy ’n shit. Dead too, I guess.”

A pause, and the near constant static made it nearly impossible to pick out Isaiah’s voice. The group collectively swallowed.

The screams were easy enough to distinguish.

friend ping (:

@dreadwvlfscript​ ; @thel3tterm​ ;

@short-story-slam

[ofinscriptions]

2 august 2019

                                     AUGUST 2019 SHORT STORY CHALLENGE

content warning for general horror imagery

The lights were yellow and jaundiced — too bright, too clear, too much. A sharp smile split the face of the staff milling about when your wide eyes looked to them, questions obvious in your expression. Your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the tightness of it making your eyes bug out and catch your voice in it like you were being choked.

“Help me,” a tinny, small voice drifted from one of the many rooms lining the seemingly endless hallway. It seemed to come from a room on your right.

“I want to,” you manage to say, and jiggle the handle of the door closest to your right. Locked.

“Help me,” it says again, but it doesn’t sound like it’s behind that door. It’s coming from the ceiling. The sharp, putrid smell stabbed into your senses — making your eyes water and your stomach churn.

Was it this voice hiding in the ceiling who was the source of the smell? You fear the worst. What had happened to them? What if they’re hurt? What if you can’t help them?

The thin pyjamas did little to cover you from the sudden, freezing cold. The plastic covering your feet crinkled with a chilled fragility when you forced yourself to walk further down the hallway. “Where are you?” Your voice sounds thick and foreign to your own ears — like you’re listening to a damaged recording. But you can feel it buzzing in your throat.

You wonder if this is how a broken toy feels.

“Why won’t you help me?” The voice was growing thinner, turning needle thin. “You’re always so selfish.” It was coming from the air in front of you.

The lights seemed to flicker. The sickly yellows turned to wounded reds.

Sweat trickled down your back. It made your hair stick to your temples. Your eyes stung.

“Hello?” You say, not feeling your voice is your own. “Who’s there?” Where had the staff gone? You wonder why they had disappeared.

The screeching of twisting metal signalled his arrival seconds before his shadow appeared at the end of the hallway — seeming half the length it was before the man arrived.

Your mouth goes dry. You can’t breathe. “You’re not real,” you say, “I know you’re not real.”

The man doesn’t acknowledge your accusations. His wide, glazed over eyes sat barely threaded into his rotting face and you can feel them staring at you. You can feel them weighing your sins.

“Why are you here?”

His mouth splits open from one side of his jaw to the other — thick, black, coagulated blood slopping out of the wound as rows upon rows of needle-like teeth showed themselves. The man screamed.

You didn’t want to blink; didn’t want to take your eyes off of the man for even a split second. But they burned in the freezing air, and it was merely a game of waiting for when — not if — you blinked.

The man didn’t move, but his teeth grew in number as his mouth seemed to open wider and wider.

The taste of metal and blood sat thick in the air and stung your eyes.

You blinked.

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@short-story-slam ; @dreadwvlfscript​ ;

[ofinscriptions]

prompt; “driving for many hours through mountains”

happy birthday @dreadwvlfscript!!!!!

“Do you think we’ll find him?” The voice of the girl sitting at the back of the bus was low — forced to a whisper to not disturb the others sleeping surrounding her. Her dark honey hair was chopped to a harsh bob, but it complimented her sharp brown eyes and high cheekbones. She raised her chin up from the being buried in the cream scarf she’d bundled herself in, to peer at the only other person awake on the bus.

The boy sitting beside her — looking no older than twenty-three; only looking a couple years older than his seatmate — scratched at the back of his head, disturbing the soil-dark curls that were cowlicking in every which way. “I dunno,” he said, voice high and breathy as he whispered, “I hope so.”

The bus leaned into one of the many gentle curves in the mountain road. A light and powdery snow had dusted the banks of the road; it started to float down from the clouds again. The song playing on the radio for the driver floated to the back with the same gentleness as the snow starting to fall.

“That’s just because you love him.” The girl let out a little giggle, it popping out more harshly than she probably intended.

“Yeah? What about it?” His tone was light — almost starstruck. “I do love him.”

A small smile worked its way onto the girl’s face, looking lopsided and genuine. “I just hope he’s everything you imagine.”

“He will be.”

The softness of the song on the radio turned to a screeching static. The lights on the bus flickered. The engine shuddered. There was a thump of something heavy landing on the roof.

A bright, excited smile lit up the boy’s soft features — large eyes sparkling. “Oh,” he breathed out, “he will be.”