#ocwritersnet

[neuroweird]

Anyone have any Pinterest boards for stories or oc's? I want to follow more boards.

[neuroweird]

I’ve been using Pinterest a lot lately for inspo, please follow me if you have stories or oc’s and use pinterest also!

[magnusifient]

↪ original character moodboards (1/?) : alexandre hunnam (model: sen mitsuji. all other pictures are mine)

[charminalocket]

There was an island in the middle of The Sumners Lake. Given its size and abundance of rocks no bush should be able to grow there, not to mention a tree. And yet, it's been as robust as a well fertilised garden. ______________________________________________________________Vivian Lambert accused of murder of seven people pleads "not guilty by reason of insanity". Given her testimony it's not that hard to believe. Now she's meeting with a psychiatrist who is to ascertain if Vivian is just avoiding a death penalty or is telling the truth.

I don’t like horror stuff... it’s disgusting and scary... I say that and yet my brain is able to come up with a scenario like this. What the hell, brain?! 

It’s not much and I don’t think it’ll be long, but feel free to give it a read and let me know what you think n_n 

[magnusifient]

there's so much glitter on my face (they/them)

[magnusifient]

There is a constant hum in the air. Hum and humidity. But here, in her room, it doesn’t feel suffocating like it did, running down on those bright yellow streets. She’s here now, right where she wants to be, and the sound of her girlfriend breathing, the slow inhale after each deep exhale is so calming. The city never sleeps, but seeing someone sleep so peacefully makes her wish for it to fall asleep just once, even for a brief moment. Only if there was a way to block out the hum. Hum and humidity. She needs to be somewhere quieter, softer and cooler. Somewhere by the sea. If she tries really hard, she can hear the whooshing of the waves and the wind by the shore instead of the honking cars and rattling railways. And she doesn’t even need to try before she can see the two of them living there, by the sea, away from the hum and the humidity.

“The city, hum and humidity” by Siv Lee Keith 

[alexandrawimberley]

Do you ever get stingy with your writing? I do. Probably the number one reason you don’t see many updates from me on this blog is because I want to submit my writing to literary magazines - and there are so many that won’t accept previously published work, even if only published on a writer’s blog. I’ve been thinking that I should set out to write certain poems and short stories specifically for this blog. That way, I can post them here without feeling guilty or anxious and wind up thinking, “But what if I want to submit this to a lit mag?” Do any other writers out there have a method for dealing with this kind of dilemma?

[magnusifient]

The floor was lava. You were twelve and I was six. We used to jump around the kitchen and laugh, I can still hear it. The floor, it really was lava, you told me. Our safety relied on the pillows scattered around. I always outlasted you.  Now the floor is just cold. And I don't know where you are. I still keep losing my mittens. You used to give me yours, and carry me home on your shoulders if I got tired. You were so proud of me. Now I'm tired, and my hands are cold. Where are you. It's not the same floor. So why would it be lava? Sometimes I imagine it is, though. Jumping around my kitchen floor. You feel closer, somehow. The floor, it isn't burning hot and deathly, but I wish it was. And don't worry, I haven't lost the mittens you made me. The ones with the clips, like babies have (you jerk). I haven't used them either, my hands are too big now. You should make me new ones. I should throw the old ones out anyway, they're all worn out. But they remind me of you. Remember when we played outside? Your friends thought it was weird, having a little one with you. But you were so proud of me. I don't think anyone's been so proud of me ever since. I wonder if you'd still carry me if I got tired. I guess I'm too big for that now. When I say I don't miss you, I'm lying.  The floor was lava. You are now twenty-five and I'm nineteen. We used to be closer than this. Remember? My safety actually relied on you, not the pillows on the floor. You'd take me away from danger. At least you did, when the lava was the biggest danger I had to face. I'm tired, and I have no mittens. Where are you?

“Dear brother” by Siv