Discover Top Posts Tagged with #original stuff?

One of my friends wants to use your art for an edit they’re making, would that be alright?

I’d love for them to message me in person if thats okay? I normally have no problem with people using my work in edits as long as they credit me and send me a link to the video afterwards, but getting this request as an anon is a little weird for me. Not to mention the like, lack of information in this request haha. Shoot me a DM and i’ll talk it through with you <3

#jay speaks #for real normally im really chill about it but this is such a wierd way to go about asking #i mean like im down to talk #go for it #but what art do you want to use?#original stuff?#id like to know please <3 #Anonymous

I was wondering if any of you would be interested to see some stuff from my original stories?

There is this specific story that I was thinking about making into a web comic in the future ...

I don't know.. What do you think?

#asking you #Oc stuff #original stuff?#random rumbling

Your girl doesn’t know what she’s going to do when IWD is done. Probably cry

#work on a professor AU?#original stuff?

hello my peeps, please let me know what kind of art you'd like to see from me

#trying to focus on expanding my followers/notes #at 98 followers rn #so close #like would you like tøp art?#original stuff?#fandom stuff?#idk loves #please give me some input on what sort of stuff you'd reblog

Librarian! 148

“But the layered petals shatter, falling from her fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of ivory grass below.” – Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

The sound of it spears through her, electric as guilt, sharp as the glass shards that cut her clumsy fingers. Greedy, careless, stupid. It had been beautiful and she had destroyed it; such a masterwork has disappeared from the world, forever, and it is entirely her fault.

Oh, when they find out, they are going to kill her…

Her eyes blur as the shattered glass rose releases its perfume, rose-sweet and rose-strong. In a moment she’ll go and confess, and then there will be shouting, there will be bills and retributions and rebukes. She just has to muster the strength –

“Don’t cry,” a voice says. It chimes oddly against her ears – her voice, but pitched a semitone off, its emphases and rhythms not quite right – and she lifts her head to see herself, shaped of smoke, standing among the shards.

The soft ivory grass grows through the smoke-woman’s translucent feet. “Don’t cry,” she repeats, the sheen of tears in the insubstantial reflection of her face. “Don’t be afraid. I am a queen of the djinn. I have been imprisoned in that bottle for more than a thousand years, and I am grateful beyond words that you set me free.”

The guilty woman shakes her head slightly, incredulously. Such things-

“- do not exist. I understand,” the djinn says gently. “It has been many years since you have believed in fantasy. Time has not passed easily for you, and there is no room in your life for unreality.” She smiles. “I can see it all, in your mind – what you fear, what haunts you, what you dream about and yearn for and desire with every beat of your heart.”

The smoke of her hand brushes over the woman’s cut fingers, leaving whole skin in its wake. The spilled perfume turns slowly to spice and sharp, wild incense with every moment.

“I have already taken care of the bottle. Nobody will remember that it ever existed; no record will name it; you will not get into trouble because it broke. Be calm, and be glad. A queen of the djinn owes you her freedom, and such debts must be repaid. What do you wish?”

The djinn waits as the woman shakes her head again. “Your memories are swift to return!” she laughs, although sadness lingers still in her eyes. “I am not one of those djinn who will twist your wish. If you wish your son alive in your arms, he will not return to you as some foul revenant. I can cure the disease that eats your mother and drags her towards death; I can free your husband from the accusations against him; I can give your brother back his mind; I can aid you to conceive again; I can ensure that you have wealth enough to be secure and safe in these times. I am not mortal like you, but I have a heart. A family. I will not play you false, my saviour. Only ask.”

The woman holds her silence.

“Only ask!” the djinn repeats, her smile fading. “Put aside your doubts of me, your faith in the mundane reality, in the struggles of your life – let me lighten the burden you carry. I am no fever-dream, no liar. I am a queen of the djinn and I speak only truth. Only ask, only let me help, only wish!”

The woman opens her mouth.

“No,” she says. “No. This is not real. These things do not happen. You will not make my life easier by undoing it, by calling it a lie and making the universe agree with you. My son is dead, my mother dying, everything that you plucked from my mind is happening, but we will deal with it. We will cope. We will live and struggle and die in the real world. Wishes don’t come true, and magic doesn’t count. I don’t want it.”

And she turns and goes away. Her footsteps are firm, decisive, stomping away the soft sounds of the weeping djinn. “Please,” the smoke-woman sobs, but the other woman is calling out to her hosts, apologising for breaking a glass perfume-bottle that never existed.

There is nothing left in the room but the ivory grass and a fading scent of smoke and spice.

#writing #meme #what is this?#original stuff?#weird #bagog