Writing Practice

Side blog to improve my writing ~ Send me prompts if you want

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Happy 2023!

Resolution to write more this year!

So hopefully that means more things on here ;p

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Where I come from,

the rain falls silent. Something as simple as the pattering of water droplets on a tin roof is surprising to miss. To hear the slamming of the sky's tears on the concrete and have the world fill with nature's music is taken for granted. Sound is important in memories. In the present. In the future. It is one of the last senses to go as you leave the gentle hold of mother's arms.

It wasn't always silent. I used to sit late in the night watching pellets zip past the streetlamp to patter off the leaves. The whistle of wind gently altered the taps of the drops like a flutist changed her fingers. She used to play in my ear as the sweetest music and my favorite tune. The making of a unique melody with every storm brought me joy of knowing I could never experience this moment again.

My father used to hold me out in the rain and dance in the puddles. I loved the moments where my cries of laughter cut through the roar of the water. When my giggles and love were louder than the splashing of the pools. How I wish I could still hear those moments.

That day changed things. When the rain mixed with the drum crashes and light. I went to dance with the beat of the claps and I saw my father. I felt the happiness of our choreography as I watched him approach. As he grew closer I saw his countenance. It sent tingles up my back.

He shouted to me. I couldn't understand him as the tingles grew stronger, along my arms and neck. The rain pattered on my face and ran down my neck. The droplets tracing my body were like a mother's touch to know I was okay. My eyes opened to his outstretched arms. Still far, but gaining ground. He reached ahead and cried out my name.

I haven't heard my name in a while.

The crash shook the world. There was light everywhere as I felt icy hot water course through my veins. I never knew that it could be so loud and so quiet at the same time. The ringing surrounded me as my father's arms did. I felt slow. I felt tired. I nuzzled into the warmth my father brought as the chill beads were wiped away with my awareness.

I read it was deemed a miracle. I wish I could hear what they say about me and the rain. I wish I could hear the rain.

But, where I come from, the rain falls silent.

Prompt: Start your story with a character saying "Where I come from..."

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

The smell of smoke burned at its nostrils. The hunger drove them to continue. How could it ignore the insatiable desire to consume with its pack?

Attacking a village, Gnori was part of the second wave to grab the surviving townsfolk and bring them back to the camp. After grabbing a mother and her two children, it went back into a stone house. With a lack of perception, it didn’t notice that the house had not been touched by the attack. It went in ready for another easy catch but was greeted by a weighted netting trap and a wounded old wizard. It thrashed about in the net, trying to break free but, with a wave of his hand, the gnoll stilled, eyes watching with fearful rage behind them. The mage came close to its face, cupping its cheek and said something it didn’t understand. 

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

How could it handle this much hurt??

Then the pain subsided.

Something inside it felt weird. A piece was missing but full. The old wizard sat in a chair observing the gnoll, his breathing labored. It slid the net off, standing up tall. It walked over to the wizard and cupped both sides of his face like he did it. The old wizard met its eyes and smiled, saying something it didn’t understand with tears in his eyes. It twisted its hands and with a solid crack, the wizard was gone. There was no blood in this fight, but why was its fur wet? It would come to realize they were tears. 

Walking out to the next house in a daze, it found another child and brought them back to camp. Everything felt different though, a strange fog both lifted and fell. The camp planned out the next attack. The excitement the rest felt was no longer there in it. The bloodlust that passed through generations diminished. It didn’t feel right.

As midday came and most were napping, it moved to the edge of camp. Looking back towards its life, looking out towards the world, it took a step forward and did not turn back.

It came to understand what the old wizard had said.

“Live as you want to.”

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Update!

I'm currently in a masters program for business as well as an assistant director for a show at my school! I really want to get back to writing things and creating personal art. I have a few older things that I never posted that I'll put out.

I'm hoping that I can pop some new posts out while I "pay attention" in my MBA classes :p

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

I don’t understand...

Why is it not possible for us to do everything we want? Why are there not enough hours in the day? Why are there never words that can express how I feel? The way that my nerves bundle into a tangled mess that flows from my brain into my gut, the tensing muscles of my arms that tell be to protect myself from the unknowns of the world, that tell me I should hide. This feeling of desire to screech to the heavens the ever growing list of what I want to say that gets caught in my throat and the tip of my tongue and the back of my teeth and never breaches my parted lips. 

I don’t understand the way of the world that we live in and have formed and why there are taboos and why we cannot agree that we all exist together and that it is okay to just coexist instead of stealing from one another. Why is it that one must feel superior and decide that anyone that is not them must be crushed and subdued? Why do those that see this happen stand idly by, waiting for it to happen to them and accepting it, begging for it to happen? Can we not see how we are our own toxin that screams through our veins, that clog up our brains, that keep our personalities at a drip instead of the rivers that they should be?

I don’t understand why I don’t like me. Is it the will of society that molded my brain and said if I stop moving and achieving that I will die? Is it the image of impossible perfection that I was told to strive for and am being buried for following? Is it my rearing of family that was less than the normal that is considered the norm and more of the normal that is sadly the truth? What made me this way? I don’t understand. 

But I do know, I can change myself.

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

You call it the way of the world but I’d call it bullshit. The world shouldn’t be just taking the fresh bodies of our societally educated children to dash their blood onto the rocks of capitalism. I shouldn’t need to hold up the sky to qualify ordering a coffee for those that pull on my strings to yank me this way and that, binding my hands and my legs and my mouth. The words caught and tossed aside, shamed into an order that I do not follow. The land we have stolen continues to steal not only our livelihoods but our hope as well. Hope that in the future we might be okay. Hope that we can just be safe in a place where we don’t need to worry about what our next meal will be or if there will be a roof over our head tomorrow. 

How can you say that this is right and what a god intends when we as people are the ones that have twisted and tangled the strings of fate? We pulled and cut and retied it so that power is given to the few and torment is given to the many. The way of the world as we look at it now is bullshit and will continue to be until we can change so that the children down the street don’t have to become grown-ups before they hit double digits as their parents work 2 full time jobs at minimum wage that is not livable just to have a crumb in the pantry.

Donate to save others and you’ve become the hero and while you lavish in the praise those you claimed to aid are still scrounging in their puddles. I am in an okay place but that is not of my own merits. That is on the labor of those before me and the ones that have been broken on the way. I am lucky to pass as the majority and avoid the hatred so many others get for simply being just as human as the next. That disconnect that I am able to feel makes it all the worse when I hear the prayers being called out to stop the violence and end this discrimination. 

The world has issues and the ones standing at the top of the pyramid would rather shoot those that hold up the tower to keep their spot as the piling bodies keep the fragile stability of the .0001% content in their thrones. The lowers cry out that it’s not fair and they know because they made it this way. Playing the game until the rules are from their own pen and the ink dripping down slowly drowns anyone who passes by. There can be no change until the whole tower falls and crumbles and the bodies of those who have already fallen may not be in vain as we can build anew and start again where people are people and can live as if all lives are worth living.

You call it the way of the world but I call it bullshit.

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Prompt: Your inspiration for this quick write is expectations. Your prompt is “my whole life has been building up to this moment…”

The maids around me worked as a frenzied storm to prepare my make up and gown. One curled my hair while adding jeweled pins with another tending to what they called blemishes on my cheeks. It has felt like hours since the whole process started and as I felt I was going to fall asleep again, a full length mirror was rolled in front of me. The reflection of the girl staring back at me was nearly unrecognizable. She seemed poised in her wedding dress with gems dotting her body and hair. Almost like someone who wanted to do this. Someone who isn’t me.

Before I could think much a knock sounded at the door. My father stood in the doorframe looking expectant in his crisp grey suit. He said there was only a few minutes until the ceremony. He took my arm and began to walk me away from the safety of the dressing room to the uncertainty of the the large double doors of the chapel. I could feel my nerves knotting in my stomach and sweat starting to bead on the back of my neck. Father reminded me how this would help the company. How it would help the family. How everything I’ve done my whole life has been building to this moment.

The double doors creaked open as the music started to play. Arm in arm, Father began to lead me down the aisle to my future. I looked to the man standing at the alter as he beamed widely as he watched me shuffled towards him.

Father turned me towards him, nodded a reassurance and ushered me to my spot opposing my husband to be. I stepped up tentatively, bunching the edges of my dress up.

I could barely make out the words the priest spewed as he performed the ceremony. Suddenly I was asked a question. He had already agreed to this commitment but I did I want to submit to this life of servitude for the sake of my father’s whims?

I couldn’t see past my tears as I ran out the doors. The crowd immediately grew raucous as I gave my response and fled the scene.

Mud caked the hem of my gown as I ran down the sodden roads, away from my future, away from my father, away from the expectations and to the life I want. I want to follow my own expectations.

My pace slowed only when I saw the slats of the cabin surrounded by pink blooms. My sanctuary where I could choose what I wanted. Where she waited. Where my future lay. As I walked up the steps and pushed open the door I could hear the sweetest melody singing a gentle inquiry, “Hello?”

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Fuzzy.

The TV blared fuzzy static as the vcr player popped out its tape. Fingers brushed idly against a fuzzy blanket moving the material ever so slightly. Eyes stared out at fuzzy surroundings as glasses lay open and smudged with fingerprints on the table. Head filled with fuzzy thoughts that overwhelmed any coherent paths.

The world held its breath for a lingering moment as the liminal space demanded its fuzzy presence.

Clarity.

Light filtered in through the blinds hitting the hardwood floor and other surfaces in golden slits. Stretching after a long night and feeling the muscles wake up as they strain. Lenses wiped with cloths till crystalline, allowing the eyes to filter in the world the sharpest it can.

The world made its point to emphasize everything and everything was clear. Except, for those fuzzy memories from the dead of the night.

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

Ban stood out on the flower covered hill and looked over the fields at the world around him. Smoke danced on the wind and in his nose as ashes started to fall like snow onto his outstretched palms.

Ban closed his eyes and sighed. There was nothing he could have done to save that town. He was only one person and the bandits flooded the houses quickly, overwhelming any and all people that tried to resist. He saw everyone that showed him hospitality get cut down. The tang of iron filling the air before it was overtaken by the searing heat and char that grew as flames rose across the roofs.

Was it his fault? Ban saw it. How the bandits did not loot. How they aimed to destroy instead of steal. How they bore a familiar crest behind their masks.

Was he destined to be a harbringer of doom? Followed by those that ousted him for not being enough. Being shown that he did not belong. That he was only good for what he named himself after. He just abandons everything that he cares about and nothing can chang-

Come child.

The soft voice carried a commanding air yet he felt its reassurance. It made him feel safe, wanted. He opened his eyes as the rolling timbre pulled him from the spiraling thoughts.

You have a long road ahead. You must be prepared for what comes next.

There was never time to rest. Ban was okay with that though. He started his way down the hill and only paused for a second when he heard the voice whisper.

Let’s get you your sword.

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

A chill gust of wind blows through the clear dark night. The moon hides in a shadow and calls herself new. The stars shimmer gently in shapes that whisper sweet nothings in the minds of seers.

The ripples of a puddle tumble out as a boot smashes through the once glassy surface. A child runs down a muddy path with the sounds of hooves pounding in the dirt approaching. It’s clothes hang tattered and long, dragging along the ground and around it’s feet as it scampers down the trail, avoiding gnarled roots and jutting stones.

A soft thunk is barely noticed as it drops a scroll into the sodden peat from the armfuls it carries. It slides to a halt, frantically searching the lightless ground for the missing parchment.

The cacophony of hooves reaches its peak as the child wraps its hands around the scroll and yanks it open. The soldiers upon the beasts holler to one another to capture the child before silence washes over them with a forceful breeze.

Harsh blue light blinds the crowd as an enchanter’s circle blazes upon the open scroll. The child holds it away from its face, scrunched from the proximity to light, and taps the center, plunging the small area around it to quiver and glow. It’s clothes float and quiver in the winds whipping from the activation of the spell.

The blue light overtakes the child and the scrolls, vanishing as a shockwave radiates across the soldiers. The horses whinny and buck as they startle from the strange event as the trail is plunged into the blackness of night again.

[theworldwillneverbewrite]

A creaking door opens slowly...

...as a timid hand pushes against the wood. There are no other sounds as the squeaking hinges reverberate through the dusty room. The evening light filters in through the grimy windows, beams of the setting sun casting rays that spot the floor and a desk in the center of the room.

A person walks forward through the doorframe and the floorboards cry in protest as they take on weight for the first time in years. As the person tiptoes towards the desk, they look around at the bookshelves lining the walls. The cracked shelves and books covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs surround the person making the deserted study feel like a library closing in.

Looking to the desk, the light rays fall to the middle of the desk where a scroll sits unwraveled, empty, and waiting. A full bottle of ink accompanies it with an elegant hawk feather quill resting beside the scroll. The blank canvas calls out to the person looking down at it. The person pulls out the velvet cushioned chair and the legs pull streaks through the grime.

Sitting down on the cushion sends particles flying through the air and the person waves their fingers through the deminishing rays of light to watch the dust as it dances around their fingers.

As the light rays fade away the aging desk lamp flickers on with a pull of the ball chain sounding a gentle tinkle of metal on glass as it swings in the new light. The person uncorks the small bottle with a pop and dips the feather into the dark liquid.

The blackness swirls at the end of the quill with the promise of a thousand words and glitters with the promises of a thousand more. Pulling the tip across the parchment leaves a trailing void that begins to form the letters of innovation and the person writes.