#instead i write

[leclercloveletters]

if i was able to draw id be so annoying and make oc’s of myself in all my fave animes with all my faves. instead i make pinterest boards to make up for my lack of talent 😪

[arckhaic]

i’ve got a headache and fourteen things  i need to cross off the list. a heart like  dulling thunder / i am too dormant for  my own cause.           singularities only make sense when someone is there to  see it. i could capsize every nova burst beneath my skin & be a single moment of never ending —              but no one will see. eighteen things still left undone, food  left in dishes & a laundry basket filled and  dripping. i could be supercomsic / wayside attraction for the boldhearted — come get  a good look at a rot in motion, never before seen.                   and the only thing they’ll  ever think to notice is the fact that i’ve rolled over, hit the snooze button again. twenty-seven things left behind me. fade. 

[fisherrend]

“Hello Father, it has been a while.”

The inkwell you gave me seems eager to escape as it slides ever closer to the edge of the desk I am sitting at. Every bow and rise of the ship brings another escape attempt; there’s ink on the tips of my fingers and this quill will never look quite the same. Howling winds whistle their way into my room below deck. How odd that the sound reminds me of us working the forge together; I was young, barely five winters, yet I remember it clearly. Racing into the workshop from outside, excitedly tossing damp wood from our yard into the fire. It would whistle and spit at me, you’d complain about me ruining the temperature. I would giggle and run back out for more. I imagine I must’ve been a terrible nuisance. All I remember is delight. 

Heavy is the rain outside. The crew has ordered us to stay below deck. I don’t mind; I never was much for water and ships. Fire and metal shapes my conscious mind, as you kept saying. You always did jest about finding me as a bundled up babe within the cold forge, crying for warmth. You spun stories of how I only smiled when the forge was hot, only laughed when you worked metal. I miss those stories, Father. 

Apparently I need to “work through my grief”. It was mentioned that writing might aid me in this. Honestly, I think it all a bit... Silly. Weaving fanciful tales is for poets and bards, not for metal workers and engineers! I invent, I explore, I test my theories through hard work and sweat. I write blueprints, not diaries! 

Nevertheless, I promised I would make an honest attempt. Thus here I am, writing by candlelight in a ship that will not cease its attempts to spill my ink. Writing to a dead man. Telling you my story since you’ve been gone. 

Mr. Hempstock was quick on the draw once you’d passed. Barely had we put you in the ground before he was a’knock. By noon he came, drenched in that awful cologne of his and with a grin that could curdle dairy. Pleased with himself he was, for he’d gone through the trouble of trimming his thick, black beard all nice and buttoning every last glistening button of his crimson velvet coat. I never did like him. I never did like those looks he gave me while wringing you dry of gold. He always did look ever so pleased with himself.

Yet for all the dark glances I’ve given, despite the wide berth I’ve kept, the man has the gall to propose to me! Claiming you were wrong not to marry me off after my fifteenth winter, that it is not “proper” for a young woman like me to be on my own. Telling me how I am adequately attractive and well-spoken for a man of his standing. Father, I’ve never been quite as angry as I was in that moment. Yet I swallowed my rage and declined him. You would’ve been proud, I didn’t let my temper flare. It did however not stop him from kicking me out in spite. Cast out, homeless, because I wouldn’t sell myself. There was no talk of rent, he wouldn’t accept my attempts to bargain. I assume I wounded his pride.

I slept outside the first night. It was cold, the dry fishing nets stacked outside of Peter’s shop by the docks offered little more comfort than the bare ground below them. Every icy breeze blew straight through my clothes and into my bones. Never have I missed the forge as much. I also never thought someone would care for a homeless soul, yet in the morning, there was a man there. A sailor, Father. A bit of a square face, but with friendly eyes. He didn’t seem perturbed by my manner of speaking or darting trails of thought unlike most, instead he offered to buy me breakfast. I didn’t decline.

Things began unraveling from then on. I had stepped but a few feet outside the inn where we’d eaten when I saw a man being assaulted in the shadows, a dagger to his back. Father, you’ve always urged caution, yet I’ve always ignored you. Winter follows fall still, for I marched straight at the two of them, throwing caution to the wind. To my surprise, the sailor rushed past me and got tangled up with the criminal, giving me time to try and pull the victim aside. I heard creaking. Cracking. Snapping of wood. Then we fell. 

When I came to, I could barely see the flicker of light from above. The criminal hung dead, impaled on shards of wood. The rest of us were alright, if a bit banged up and bloodied. Climbing out the same way was impossible, so we trekked through a winding tunnel of compact darkness. An inventor, a sailor and victim of a mugging. 

We made it out and exchanged names. Turns out, my breakfast patron is named Damon, and our mugging victim is a doctor named Clayton. The latter was looking for a space to set up shop in, he’d only just arrived in London. It was only natural for me to persuade him into renting our old home and workshop with me; without telling Mr. Hempstock, of course. It was a struggle to pay our rent, yet we somehow managed. The work I do and items I produce are as high a quality as ever, but the customers are sparse. London has fallen on harsh times. Fires and diseases have plagued our home town for months. We were eventually forced to take on another person to share the rent with; a lady of favors named Isabella. She set up shop upstairs. I didn’t mind, though the occasional stray customer would bother me while I was gathering firewood from the shed in our yard. Nevertheless; it was a functional set up and I was left to my own devices. As I wanted. I never was much for chit-chatting and socializing.

How things have gone awry since then, Father. I am on my way to France, fleeing like a startled rat. We asked the wrong questions to the wrong people. .... No. We asked exactly the right people exactly the right questions. That was our mistake. So many have died Father, we only wished to stop it. I couldn’t stand the thought of succumbing to a plague, especially not one that steals your mind. My mind is all I have left, Father. I had to do something, anything. Perhaps that was my mistake. I acted on emotion. Now there is a price on my head.

Still the ship bows and rises, tall waves crashing against it. A break in the whistling, a breath before another howling wind finds its way into my room, into my prison. The light of my candle flickers. I’ve had to relight it thrice since I began writing. Sometimes I hear muffled shouts of orders from above deck. Occasionally I hear heavy footfalls outside my door rushing past, then back up again. Thunderclaps. Flashes of light. More shouting. Yet I do not worry. Instead, I sigh with relief at the thought of being consumed by the ocean. To descend into darkness. At least then, things would be quiet. 

At least then, I would get to see you again. 

[wait-still-rendering]

I wish I could draw so badly

[wintercapsicle]

I think I can draw

 Every now and then I think that I can draw. In my head I'm like "Yeah, i should be able to draw an artistic rendition of Black Widow" and then I sketch it out and it looks like every other generic girl I've drawn all my life just wearing a leather suit, and even that isn't that good. I can't draw, that's why I became a writer. and it makes me sad every time because I just really want to be able to draw. Instead I have the ability to describe the widow, perched in the bright white hallway, burgundy curls falling around her face and shoulders, her hand resting on the the floor, ready to pounce on the next faceless, nameless security guard they throw at her. Her eyes frozen in the simple determination that she will be the only one that will leave that hallway alive. I tell myself that this is enough to make up for the fact that I can't draw, but it isn't. So every few months I try again.