#scribruary

[plumebeat]

collection of WIPs and sketches from the last two years..

idk what to do with these. they're sitting in my draft folder for a while know and i lost the will to finish them.

happy scribruary

[storytellerofuntoldlegends]

The Starry Night

A/N: This is for the @scribuary event! The first prompt was a bit of a struggle for me, not gonna lie. But I’m really excited for the prompts coming up this month! (Also there’s another author’s note under the read more, explaining some aspects of this little story. Enjoy!)

Prompt 1:  Choose a famous historical photo or work of art and write your own interpretations or fictionalized story based on the picture or painting.

The sky was swirling. The stars and moon blurred, becoming nothing but hazy orbs. A shadow stretched up towards the sky, looming over the small village below. Carina gazed out the window of the little house she shared with her parents and older brother, Calais. The sight of the sky was terrifying and unusual, but yet it was breathtaking at the same time.

“Carina! Get away from there!” her brother cried, tugging her away from the window with one hand and pulling the curtains shut with the other.

“But Cal! It looks so pretty!” Carina pouted.

“I know kid, but it’s also pretty dangerous,” Calais replied, leaning down to ruffle Carina’s dark hair with a smile. She bristled at the treatment, shoving away his hand with a scowl.

“I’m not a kid!”

“Bold words for a twelve-year-old.”

“Shut up!” Calais opened his mouth to say something else, but the door to their small house burst open. A man wearing a hooded cloak stumbled in and quickly shut the door, sagging against it with a shaky sigh. He lowered his hood, revealing dark hair like Carina’s, and olive green eyes shimmering with emotional pain.

“Dad!” Carina cried, practically leaping into her father’s arms. Calais glanced around, suddenly realizing that someone was missing from this heartwarming picture.

“Wait… where’s Papa?” he asked, voice trembling. His father- well, his adoptive one- refused to meet his gaze for a moment. Carina pulled back slightly, worry crossing her features.

“Calais… your Papa… I’m so sorry,” he said after a moment, breaking down into sobs. Calais’s world seemed to come to a standstill. Papa couldn’t be gone…

After a few moments of standing stock-still in silence, Calais’s face twisted into a determined scowl, and he grabbed his traveling cloak from its hook. Fastening the fabric over his shoulders and tugging the hood over his head, he made his way to the door his father was still leaning against. His eyes widened with surprise at his son’s behavior.

“Move,” Calais growled.

“Cal, listen to me-”

“No! Move, now!” he snapped.

“I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing any of us can do, he was taken by the shadows,” the father pleaded.

“Then let’s take him back from the shadows!”

“We can’t, I tried! He sacrificed himself to save me, to save you! Please, it’s not safe to go out there,” he said, reaching out to take Calais’s hand in his.

“B-but… he can’t, Papa can’t be-” Calais broke down into sobs. He fell to his knees, his cloak pooling around him as his shoulders shook and tears streamed down his face. Carina scrambled out of her father’s arms and latched herself onto Calais. He hugged her back tightly, clinging to her like a lifeline. The father knelt down beside his children, pulling the both of them close to his chest.

The little family stayed like that for what seemed like ages, until the world swirled around them like paint strokes. The shadows grew, still twisting and turning, but never quite reaching the village. The family couldn’t move from their places, forever stuck in a state of mourning.

The painter stepped back from his painting, admiring his work with a sigh. The sky and the village were exactly as he remembered it. He wasn’t sure why the sky had swirled the way it did, or why the shadows had scooped him up and dropped him in this other world, a world away from his husband and children. But he hoped that by painting his village, perhaps he had saved them.

A/N: I don’t know if Van Gogh was a queer man, but dangit for fictional purposes he’s going to be. Also in my head, Calais is Van Gogh’s biological child, and Carina is his husband’s biological child. I’m not fully certain what happened to their mothers, but Van Gogh and his husband were raising their children on their own before they met each other, and then they became a family. But yeah, hope you enjoyed!

[miss-gioconda]

The Hand of Mrs. Wilhelm Röntgen

“I have seen my death,” she said when she first glimpsed it.

She saw her naked future                          before her funeral.

It went through stony flesh                           leisurely, like a ghost.

She lost (in an electromagnetic                            river) our nest 

(our human nest built of                            faustian overbookness).

The lab, where photography had won                            millions of lives, 

was dusty, achromatic, hypnotizing, —                            was almost a graveyard?

He got undressed and told                            his bones ‘hello!’

She was the wife of a physicist, her name was                             Anna Röntgen.

[storytellerofuntoldlegends]

Favorite Color

A/N: Prompt two of @scribuary! I wrote a poem this time around, enjoy!

Prompt 2:  Describe your favorite color without saying or showing what it is.

It’s the color someone radiates when they smile at you.

The color of the loyal ones, the kind-hearted.

It’s rays of light that stream through the window in the morning.

The color of the happy ones, the optimistic.

It’s the tropical fruit hanging from the trees, or bursting from the ground.

The color of the energetic ones, the positive.

But it is also the color of danger, a warning to all who approach.

The color of the cowardly, the deceitful.

But as long as there are bees that buzz,

Buttercups and daffodils that bloom,

There is hope.

[miss-gioconda]

Turquoise Blue

till I can drink gallons of draughty blues chansons unless it doomsdays rather I’d not lose the sight of the eclipse quivering en rubato unfolding to the outskirts of the  optimistic Alps and back into my room solemn room egocentric room — into my non-alpine crevice

barely seen bubbly light unravels meno mosso emotions

@scribuary

[storytellerofuntoldlegends]

Storyteller: An Acrostic Poem

A/N: @scribuary prompt 3!

Prompt: Acrostic writing For poetry, the first letter of each line spells out a word. For prose, where the first word of each paragraph spells out a message.

Stories are a part of a writer’s soul

Their ideas spill out onto a page

Our hearts are warmed by them

Reality is of no object

You can escape

Through the wonders writers provide

Everyone can find a story, be it about

Love,

Life, or

Even fantasy...

Readers of any background can find something they enjoy