to celebrate finishing draft 1, people ask silicone-heart questions.
IDs under the cut.
1. “Everything in the cupboard is hers,” he says, and that’s right—your father doesn’t drink tea. The coffee grounds are his, then. He waits, not quite leaning on the countertop but he does lay a land on the quartz. Staring at you, still, you wither under his scrutiny, and finally, he asks, “Why are you like this?”
What does that mean? You swallow and do not answer. At long last, the kettle cries and you pour boiling water into a lidded cup, four characters for the idiom “may you enjoy boundless longevity” sprawled across the top and sides. The water seeps through the tea leaves, though you do not wait for it to finish and instead stand to return to your sister.
2. “Silicone-heart,” the scholar says, your name a curl on her tongue, a warning. Exasperation. “Why are you like this?”
There it is again. Shift backwards into the rigid metal of the chair—you are being cornered. You are not sure where the bane of your existence has gone, but were it here, it would tell you that you are cornering yourself.
3. “Why are you like this? I thought—I thought you’d be different, after I finally got you home. Why are you like this, why are you so—passive, pliable, soulless. Do you not like it here? After—after—What about the scholar? I get it, if you don’t like it here, because you had left, but is it all that bad?” She takes a deep breath and asks, again, “Who were you talking to in there? Are you alright?”
Turn to look at your father. Don’t let me stay, you silently ask of him; Storm-speaker will have to know sometime, of course, but it is not a conversation you wish to have now. If he knows anything of you—if he knows anything at all of Nuisance—then he will let you have this, while wounds are still fresh.
4. Finally, he asks, “Why are you like this?”
But unlike before—or maybe it was never like before—it is not mean-spirited. Apologetic, maybe.
“Where did I go wrong?” he asks. “What could I have done?”
5. She looks at you, then smiles. “Why are you like this?” she asks, gently. It’s not accusatory, you think, not like it had been before. It’s curious. How did you come to be, she is asking.
“I was alone with only one companion for a very long time,” you say, offhandedly. “There are only so many conversations you can have before you simply inhale the words they tell you.”
6. Your father, already awake, follows you into the room with a coffee cup in hand. He watches you for a moment, then asks, “Why are you like this?”
“Because,” you say, finally being ready for this question, having put thought to the answer, “it’s been a long time coming.”
SILICONE-HEART by @qelizhus // Tote Abuelo (2019) dir. María Sojob // The Girl From the Other Side by Nagabe // Howl’s Moving Castle (2004) dir. Miyazaki Hayao
i was not sure how to id the non-text images so i did not. sorry.
silicone-heart tag list (hmu to be added/removed): @isanyonetoknow @commasinsidequotes @4kidsopfan @asoftplxcetoland @dustylovelyrun @inspirited-goddess @livvywrites @chazzawrites @andiwriteunderthemoon @woodhousejay @zonnemaagd
wasn’t gonna make a silicone-heart ch6 post, but then i figured why not. we’re sitting at about 10.6k total, now. aiming for 13 chapters, so will probably be under my goal wc? but i imagine editing may add a lot of words.
image reads as follows:
“Storm-speaker,” she says abruptly, and you turn your focus back onto the scholar. “She told me how she got her name, you know. She was very proud of it; a new addition, I understand, even though it had been around two years since she was named. Called upon the mighty winds, rallied the waters—ah, but you’ve heard the story, haven’t you? What if the winds turn on her? The waters close a cold eye? They can be very mercurial, you know, the fat from their fish slipping out.”
“…I guess we do have fish in the Great Lakes.” As it is, you have never heard the full story of how Storm-speaker was named.
i cant share all of ch5 so far but believe me when i say its a vibe. image reads as follows:
Creep up the stairs and they do not creak. Hard wood and oak, sturdy as a whole. Did they not use to be carpet? But it has been eight years, of course, how fortunate; certainly it is not unthinkable to have performed renovation. Although it would not be your father who is the renovator, simply the renovatee.
Storm-speaker is curled up on one side, facing away from the door and therefore you, when you enter. The line of her side rises and falls as she breathes; and your sister is, of course, alive. She is sick but alive. The blue-and-green patterned cover somehow fits the thick humidity in the room. The keen grey blinds are half-closed.
Walk over and press the back of your hand to her forehead. She groans a half-made mumble, but otherwise her temperature feels normal.
“Jus’ a cold,” she says, eyes screwed shut. “Headache.”
didn’t write for about 5 days, so here’s something from the start of chapter 3. i’ve come to the realization that having dinghy sailing be a very important element of my wip despite neither having any experience w sailing nor knowing anyone who sailed is... well, a little difficult! wikipedia’s (mostly) got my back tho <3
image reads as follows:
Her presence flickers, turning a shade grey, before she settles back into normalcy. “Well,” she says, “you said you’d try for me, anyway, didn't you?”
You don’t remember if you did or not, but she sounds honest and earnest, so it’s more likely that you did and just forgot than otherwise. It’s possible the years changed your sister, but Storm-speaker was not a liar. She was keen, bright-eyed, and occasionally cruel in her ignorance, but she was not a liar.
“I did,” you say, and the steadiness of your voice makes it sound more like agreement than a question. With the words being spoken into existence, there is only one thing left to do: gather the vestiges of your energy to hoist yourself into your dinghy’s hull.
it has been literal AGES since i last posted any of my writing on this blog, but i AM writing, i promise. and it’s camp nano and i finally started writing the wip i introduced also ages ago, so i thought i’d share! (seriously. for context: i introduced decadence to tumblr on may 16 2020; i started writing draft 1 two days ago [on july 7 2021].)
re camp nano: i’m currently at ~10k/30k -- originally aimed for 40k, but i got super behind for that, so i dropped my goal lower.
image reads as follows:
“Did Storm-speaker tell you about how she got her name?” your father interjects from the front seat, where he’s driving. You don’t have a license, and while Storm-speaker has her G2, she doesn’t like driving in the dark. Pride is evident in your father’s voice, and you note that to this moment, he has yet to use your name. Your new name, or even a name at all. He knows it, though. Storm-speaker told him, right after pulling away from the hug.
“No, she didn't,” you say, “but I can guess.”
“Alright, bet,” Storm-speaker says. She’s smiling wide; when the roadside lights flash by, you can see each of her teeth. “Guess.”
“Sailing,” you say, because that’s the image on the tip of your tongue. Your father… he took the two of you sailing, when you were kids, you think. You’re not sure why or how—your town isn’t close to open water, it can’t be, but you don’t remember long car drives, either. “Did you… save someone? Or win something?”
vv gift exchange for @fantasy-shadows | storm-speaker
You hear nothing but the wind’s intermittent whistling. It is cool on your bare shoulders, and a shiver runs down your spine. The water underneath your ship’s hull is unmoving. Everything is still.
It is strange. Normally, you can hear the quiet whispers of the magic around you—their gears locking and breaking apart, their arguments, their suggestions. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can see their glow in the air around you. You haven't been able to hear anything today.
You breathe in, once, and slide down to sit on the lacquered wood floor. You gather your legs and hug your knees to your chest. The last time you couldn’t hear them was the day your sister disappeared.
You know more now, though. The silence means one of two options: the magic is elsewhere, fighting against a dire danger; or, they are collecting their wits so they may strike soon.
Alone, the silence is eerily comforting. It feels as though you have all the time in the world; there is nothing to be concerned about.
You tilt your head back and watch the sky. The sun has since set. Now, the only source of light comes from the stars above in the sky, and the light glow from lanterns underneath deck where your crew is dining. Even then, the sky is muted, greyscale. Clouds dot the horizon and the air above you, filtering the celestial lights. They have been edging closer and closer. A storm is building.
You will join your crew soon. For now, you just need this quietude.
The ship is a day’s sail to the nearest port city. The rest of the crew—just as unqualified to be navigating on open waters as you are—have different goals. Six of them are circus performers, a couple are businesspeople fond of travelling, one is a scholar returning home. There are more.
You all share one thing in common: the ability to speak the world’s mother tongue. The language of magic, your father called it. The scholar disagrees, and she tends to be right. Still, she has yet to offer you a better term, so magic it is.
You just want to find your sister. Someone at the last city recognized the sole picture you have of her and gave you minimal but important information. She was to visit the port city, they said. All information is important when you know nothing.
You know she is out there, somewhere. You don’t need to bring her home, or bring her anywhere—you just need to know that she is OK and preferably happy.
Your father told you not to look for her; she is gone, he said. It had been long enough without word. It is easy enough to draw the right conclusions. But still, you held hope—as you do now—for years until you had the agency to leave home and search on your own. You know she is alive because magic is on her side; it always loved her more than it did you, and your title did not come cheap. Magic’s favour runs in your family, but your sister was beloved.
The clouds draw together, flashing before turning sour. The tranquility is broken. There is a rumble in the distance, on the horizon. The storm is here, and you begin to see the faint outlines of gold in the air. You still hear nothing.
“Get away from them!” someone shouts from your left, but you pay them no mind. Somehow, you stood up and headed towards the clouds.
They are woven into tight spirals, crackling and a dark grey. You taste a vague promise of lightning. Everything feels hazy. You haven’t had enough sleep, nor have you eaten. The world’s small scripture solidifies in deep gold, but your eyes won’t focus, so you can’t read what they say.
The same person as before—the scholar, you realize with a jolt—pulls you back, away from the storm clouds. They are strangely low; if you were only a bit taller, you could hold them in your hands. They would only do such a thing if they wanted you to. These experiences are the wonders of travelling unsupervised on open waters.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, her fingers digging into your shoulder. Her nails are sharp. You hadn’t realized you moved.
You shake your head, but it doesn’t help. It’s your job to push them away, dispel the magic’s anger, but you don’t know where to begin.
Your sister would know what to do.
She’s not here though, you realize with a pang. You haven’t seen her since you were fourteen, but time has only made it worse. She always knew what to do.
The scholar opens her mouth to speak, then cuts herself off. Nothing she could have said would have helped, and she doesn’t know your name. Nobody on this boat does. The twenty of you made the pact for protection; without a licensed captain, this many magic-speakers is volatile danger waiting to burst.
The scholar curses and turns away. “I’ll get the acrobat,” she snarls, and the words take a moment to register. “Do your job, storm-speaker.”
If only you could. She disappears, which leaves you alone on the deck, facing a dozen angry clouds and their erratic golden texts. Your mouth opens, forming the words, but no sound comes out.
Usually, no sound means no communication. You must keep trying, though, because you are the only one on the boat who has spoken to the weather. The clouds know you; they have been following you since you left shore.
If you were any more superstitious, you would believe that their anger is an omen. A warning, perhaps—that your sister isn’t in the city, or that the city is dangerous, or that something else is hunting you.
As it is, though, you do not believe. There is nothing to do but keep mouthing the words, articulating each silenced syllable to the best of your ability.
Your vision wavers for a moment, and in your delirium, you think that your pleas have been heard.
Honeyed words crawl their way through your hearing, each word pronounced with a distinct twang. That voice belongs to the acrobat; you turn and see him and his eyes locked on you. The magic of the weather is impartial to him, but he has a way with people.
The fact that you can hear him speak is telling. He must be restoring your health so that you may once more convince the clouds to calm down. You don’t understand what he is saying, but that is because he speaks a northern magic language. Your father never taught you it, though you’re sure he could.
You turn your eyes away and return to the storm clouds. Keep repeating the same phrases over and over again; once your voice returns to its fullest, then, you will know. Then, you may converse. Then, you may negotiate.
As it is, the clouds are tight-lipped. They wouldn’t tell you anything of importance. No comment on the whereabouts of your sister, nor why they got mad. Maybe they were lonely. It’s hard to say.
Like all magic, they have patience in spades. Even without their problems solved, the clouds unravel and separate. They begin to slink back, away from the ship. Their transparency returns, just enough for you to see the orange-pink beginnings of the sun peeking through its curtain. Sunrise is coming, and with it, the port-city.
The clouds let you pass, of course, though they are still watching. You don’t know when they will stop watching, but that is what happens when you are a speaker.
Your limbs begin to drag. The toll of speaking the language is heavy on your body, acting like weighted anchors pulling your limbs towards the sea. There is always a price, your father had said. For your sister, it is one you are willing to pay.
Staggering backwards, your hands flounder in the air as you grasp for the rail. Another wave of exhaustion hits, and your knees collapse from under the newfound pressure. You drop to the floor. Hands grab at your arms a beat too late. The strain pulls at your armpits, so you shift, looking up. The scholar is at your left, the acrobat on your right. You hadn’t realized the scholar returned to deck.
She is drenched—all three of you are, you realize—and sighs, sounding weary. “Come on. You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Best get inside before a storm tries to fight us again.”
gl on the final and can I hear more about storm speaker, silicone heart, and their respective relationships with their dad? the snippets I’ve seen of their interactions are really intriguing
hi! i just recently (as in, when i started writing this) handed in the final (supposed to be written in 3h but u had 24h to write, i took way over 3h and still couldn't give an answer for every q :sob:) so i can answer this now, ig. thanks for dropping by!!
...i should maybe name the father, huh.
anyway. so most of the details are still not yet set in stone, so some of this might change. but as it is -- i'd like to start by saying the father isn't a bad person or even necessarily a bad father. he definitely has his... poor moments, all things considered, and could be a better father, but. anyway.
more under the cut bc i got really long-winded :”) oh, also, spoilers, because i can never tell when something is a spoiler and should be omitted and when it’s fine lol.
the father is very "gifted", one could say. he's got the ability to interact with every strand in the world (previously known as strands of magic... i think i changed it to strands of the world in the wip tho) and came from a family with history of speaking to strands. this means (a) it is expected that his children be able to speak to at least a strand, and (b) he has grown up with a lot of emphasis on that ability, which he carries over and values quite a bit.
so for silicone-heart, the eldest child who for the first 14-or-so years could not speak to any strand... it was a bit of a disappointment.
and then when silicone-heart told the father about nuisance, a strand of the world -- he did not believe that that existed. he thought silicone-heart was lying, actually, because he knew (a) people are typically born with the ability to interact with a strand of the world or not; silicone-heart was well past the age people typically discover their abilities, and (b) he knows that he was probably not the most... subtle about the importance he placed on these strands, so he realized that it was possible that silicone-heart felt bad about that, and (c) storm-speaker recently discovered that she had the ability to speak to the local waters, which was actually the father's first discovery when he was a child, so he was very excited, and maybe that’s why silicone-heart brought it up now, and (d) he could not see or hear or otherwise know of nuisance's existence, and he's the man who has been able to speak to all strands.
all things considered, from the father's pov -- it made sense that silicone-heart was lying! and he was very kind about not believing. he did not yell or make accusations or anything of the like -- he just didn't believe it, and silicone-heart wasn't dumb enough to not notice.
but nuisance was very much real.
because of that isolation, nuisance was able to coerce silicone-heart into agreeing to a bunch of things, which led to silicone-heart disappearing for eight or so years.
and yeah, it’s awkward and difficult now that silicone-heart is back! the father doesn’t quite understand what was going on or what is up with his child’s new name or where it came from (aside from the obvious, that it was from nuisance); and he now can see nuisance so he feels really bad; and also he feels really bad about silicone-heart disappearing in the first place because it was storm-speaker who persisted and got silicone-heart back, not him, he just gave up hope; and also he lost his name because of silicone-heart’s disappearance, and he’s not sure what silicone-heart thinks of him or knows what silicone-heart meant to him, and he wants to express his love, but he’s just really not sure how.
this is to say -- they love each other! very much. they had great times together -- and silicone-heart’s memories of sailing are tainted with something more melancholy after storm-speaker’s successes, yes, but it’s not as if those days weren’t fun -- and the father is very proud of silicone-heart -- who is alive!
that leads into storm-speaker’s idolization of silicone-heart nicely, i think.
so storm-speaker really looked up to silicone-heart as a child -- in general, i should say -- so it was very difficult post-disappearance. and it did not help that the father kinda.. broke down afterwards, too. lost his name. lost some part of his joy. etc.
like, he still did fatherly things and took care of storm-speaker and they had good times. but i think at that point it really hit home to storm-speaker that her father wasn’t some infallible, perfect being; he had flaws and weaknesses and stuff. i don’t want to say that she was envious or felt jealousy that he was so down after her sibling’s disappearance, because she was feeling the loss too, but there was an... added sense of responsibility, or something, and she couldn’t accept that silicone-heart was actually, permanently gone.
and i think that was really their only point of disagreement (aside from like, her never folding the laundry unless asked) -- storm-speaker could not accept that silicone-heart was gone, but her father could not believe otherwise. by the time silicone-heart returned, they’ve both gotten a sort of idea that “silicone-heart returning would fix everything (what is everything?)”, which doesn’t help because silicone-heart isn’t the same person as eight years ago; people grow up.
the only other thing i can think of abt storm-speaker & the father is her sense of responsibility and guilt and whatnot wrt observing silicone-heart & the father’s relationship as a child and observing the father’s reaction to storm-speaker speaking to strands when silicone-heart couldn’t. but i’m tired and don’t wanna type forever, so.
tldr they all love each other very much but sometimes love doesn’t resolve everything but also sometimes it does.
