thewriternextdoor

writer, singer, horse-rider, netballer, hiker, actress, adventurer, songwriter, traveller, climber, swimmer, simp, bookworm, amateur witch, romantic, choatic academic, blue-eyed blonde

[witchybookwormsongs]

Fire is pretty, the sea is not

fire is pretty. dangerous-sure, but only if you get too close. fire is captivating. it's the sun, the opening cerermony, shiny motors and the scream of anger. fire is unparalleled, feared, unpredicable, unrivaled. it's mesmerizing, the flicker of uncertainanty, the glow of home, the inferno of a battlefield. it's beautiful and warm and so, so familiar. you see yourself in the flame, the reds and yellows. yes, fire is pretty.

the sea is cruel. it's not flashy, or bright or filled with passion. no, the sea is filled with coldness. the sea can kill you from a mile away. it is unforgiving, the fatal blow, a doomed fight, the starless sky, the inky wasteland of space. it's powerful, the beaches of hopelessness, the tidal waves of silent fury, the deep blue expanse that screams: you cannot fight me. it's ancient and indefferent and so, so dangerous. you don't see the current as it drags you down to a noiseless, watery hell you can't escape. yes, the sea is cruel. -- and

it

always

wins

-witchybookwormsongs :)

[silvermoonwritings]

“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”

[silvermoonwritings]

“Please stop destroying what is left of your heart by constantly thinking about things that have broken you.”

[silvermoonwritings]

Someone asked me, “Who hurts you the most?”

I replied, “My own expectations.”

[alexwritesfiction]

really is there any moment of the day that i’m not thinking about my wip or turning irl events into “what would this be like if i was wriitng this”

[witchybookwormsongs]

My cat!!! Pip:) He's such a softie....

[witchybookwormsongs]

My extracts! 4

TW: Blades, weapons

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Hello, hope whoever's reading this is okay, here's another one of my extracts, this time from a project called Half Of Us, and it's my version of the hunger games! Obviously, it's not my universe, but I thought I'd give writing my own hgs a try!

The careers will decide who wins the bloodbath, I’m sure. Forty seconds. I’m going to run: the polished silver weapon reflecting the stand’s light is my best chance. I sweep the flat, concrete ground in front of me bathed in moonlight, and for the last thirty seconds, I take in my surroundings. The tributes are set out on a flat concrete slab, fifty metres square and three metres up. Our raised platform is surrounded by a dense, impenetrable-looking forest, and beyond that I catch a glimpse of what looks like a wall. Before I can register everything, the Head Gamemaker’s countdown is over and the gong sounds.

I don’t hesitate as I shoot forwards, my hands landing on the axe and a backpack. The boy from Five reaches them too, but I’m already in position with my hands wrapped around the axe and in one swift motion, he’s gone. I sprint to the edge of the slab, but I tumble into Yvonne and we grapple briefly before the blade finds her chest. I stare at her body, and for a second, time stands still. My eyes flicker to the battle behind me before I turn away from her and leap off the slab. I tuck my shoulder in and roll to absorb the impact, coming up running. I tear into the woods, disappearing under the canopy.

I run full-speed until the pain in my side becomes too much to bear. My body wants to rest, but I settle for a slow, steady jog I can keep for a while. After a while, the dogged tiredness in my body wins out. Coupled with the howls I can hear echoing over the branches, I give in and pick a tall oak that’s nestled in amongst others. The axe hasn’t left my hand since I started running and I use it now to haul myself into a fork.

[witchybookwormsongs]

My extracts! 3

TW: police, arrest.

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Hello! Hope whoever's reading this is okay, here is another extract/paragragh, this one is from a short novella-type story I wrote called The Chemical Murder:)

Four miles away from Carlisle’s house, Antonne Jakes sits in his company car, still and quiet. Simon Wolfe rests next to him, emerald-green eyes locked on the apartment block. Kinley Adams steps outside the hallway door, accompanied by a young man. The night’s silence explodes. The two men leap out of the car. Sirens blare, footsteps echo off the pavement and shouts fill the street. After minutes of struggle, Kinley and the man are stowed in the back of the car, recoiling and protesting. Reluctantly, the man names himself as Liam Village. Antonne skims through the usual arrest speech. The girl is sullen and silent, refusing to say anything as rain begins to fall. The drive back to the station is tedious, the two passengers morose and petulant with the weather growing ireful and dark.

It's darker still in Issy’s cell. She sits in the shadow, trying to part the night from inside her window. She’s drained, and shaky, and she can’t sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she pads over to the door. There’s a narrow slit, but nothing lies beyond it. The silence is alive and deafening, blocking her from the world. It’s as if time is standing still, holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. But Issy can feel it passing, slipping through her fingers as she stands in the dark. Three days ago, she was happy in her lab, and already the memories of happiness are fading. She can feel the time passing again when sunlight stabs through the gloom.

When Jakes and Wolfe pull up into the car park of Oakfall police station, the rain is still tearing against the car. The sky lifts a shade as the sun prepares to make an appearance through the rainy haze. Kinley baulks as she’s led down a narrow corridor lit by an electric glow, and Liam trudges along beside her. As soon as they’re settled into separate cells, Simon and Antonne go upstairs to the main office. They hobble over to their respective desks, but the night shift supervisor sees their tired, bleary-eyed state after a six-hour stake out before an hour’s drive back in the storm, and sends them home. Maybe it’s because they’re so drained, or so weary from the day’s work that they miss the shadowy figure standing, drenched and solemn, by the edge of the car park. Watching them.

[witchybookwormsongs]

My extracts! 2

TW: gunshots, nightmares, death

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Hello! Hope whoever's reading this is okay, this is my second extract/paragraph, another one from my unfinished book, Fields:

The gunshot echoes in my head. All I can hear is the gun. The gun, that has followed me here. The gun, that creeps into the edges of my vision. The gun, that has been waiting, just out of sight has finally caught up with me. Clicking, firing, taunting me. More shots ring, burying themselves in the dirt next to me. A faceless man, his frame always shifting. My heart is beating wildly in my chest. I scream through the forest, another gunshot. My breathing is rapid, gasping. They’re here. Bullets hit my skull and I yell. My ear is bleeding, gushing ruby blood. The blood runs, chasing me.

I sit bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat and panting. The lamp I had left on for fear of the dark sends shadows after me, hunting me like everything else. My heartrate is scarily high, and my duvet is on the floor, like I’ve flung it off in the night. I tuck my legs up to my chin, but suddenly I’m back in that ditch, and I jump up. Panic is familiar to me now, but I don’t know how to deal with the constant reminders, waiting for me in everything I do. In every loud noise, every new person, every turn of a corridor, every action sends me hurtling back to a memory I’d rather forget. Silently, I swing my legs over the bed’s side and stare at the wall. I still, feeling like a statue made of glass. If I move, I will surely break, and shatter into so many pieces, I would die before I managed to put them back together. Die. I watched Cameron Rivers die. I heard him die. It wasn’t a gunshot I heard. It was the sickening crack of his neck as he dropped to the floor. He didn’t die instantly. He lay there, defenceless, young and dying. And there was nothing I could do to help him. I couldn’t bury him; I couldn’t even say goodbye. I heard him crying, and when I tried to go to him, that’s when they saw me, that’s when I started running.

[witchybookwormsongs]

My extracts!

Hello! So imma be posting some paragraphs from my stories and feel free to give feedback and enjoy! The first one is from a story called Fields:

The only thing I can hear is my heartbeat. Legs folded up to my chest, crouched in a ditch by the side of the path, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears away. The last three hours are a blur of shouting and chaos. I barely made it out alive. My stomach whines, and I try not to throw up, pressing my mouth against the top of my knee. I draw a few, shaky breaths. I have no plan, no money, and no idea where I am. I only know that I can’t go back, back to Salinas and the shooting. Somewhere, someone is looking for me. Someone who knows that I was there, knows that I saw who killed Cameron. They’ll be searching for me. The thought invades my mind, chasing away what little control I had managed to recover. Steadying myself, my head lifts from my knees and I look up into the canopy of trees that arch overhead. Although the sun splays over the ground, dappled in the shadows, autumn has passed, leaving the trees almost bare.

Covered by a layer of mud and grime, the hands on my watch tell me I’ve been curled up here for over an hour. I need to move. My body protests as I rise, shifting my weight onto the balls of my feet. I straighten my back. Distracted and sore, I realise my mistake only as footsteps shatter the quiet behind me. I freeze, head and shoulders exposed. They’re not close, but they will be soon if I don’t move. Blood rushes to my ears as I swing my legs up onto the ground and run. My body, stiff after so long hunched up, cramps as my legs pound underneath me. Instincts take over and I tear along the path. I don’t notice the man shouting. I only feel fear, and my feet colliding with the compact dirt. Colours blur from the speed, and from the tears drawn into my eyes. The adrenaline fights the pain, but my side still splits open, the muscles constricting and hardening. I run through hard laboured breaths. The man shouts again

[witchybookwormsongs]

seven word stories

-it was midnight. she was too late

-thick black darkness wrapped around her body

-he looked at her like the moon

-the sky filled with ash and smoke

-they loved her a little too much

-there was fire running in her veins

-she was made of gold and glass

-Oh, it was never going to work

-ok, what now? besides blowing things up

[witchybookwormsongs]

Places i wanna visit for inspiration

-Top of the Eiffel tower

-The Paris Catacombes

-A Parisian cafe -basically anywhere in Paris

-New York at Xmas

-North Pole

-Miami Beach

-London Dungeons

-Venice in summer

-Rio

-Large Hadron Collider

[witchybookwormsongs]

Book titles I think would sound cool

I wish it was us

Another year in paradise

Oh dear

I messed up

I didn't kill ...name.....

How to be a screw-up

The horrible misadventures of ...name....

365

First kill

A love to die for

Why you should never trust ....name...

The last weekend of June

[witchybookwormsongs]

Favourite battle-romance tropes :)

-the classic 'who did this to you'

-Sparring

-A cleaning B's loody knife wound

-B going through a whole army to get to A

-A helping B stagger away from a fight with B's arm wrapped around A's shoulder

-sacrifices (although they huuurt to read)

-B yelling at A for going in single handedly because 'you could have DIED!' -and the follow up of 'well i didn't'

-Comforting eachother when a fight didn't go well

-Comforing eachother when a comrade or friend falls

-Comparing and having compitions who has the most/worst scars

-Having matching armour and/or weapons

[witchybookwormsongs]

Boy, you have no idea what she’d do for you. She’d hold fire in her bare hands if it meant you wouldn’t be hurt. She’d drown twice if it meant you’d live 

[witchybookwormsongs]

You really don't see it do you? You don't see it when she looks at you and smiles, or when she blushes as soon as your name is mentioned. You don't see it when she talks about you to her friends, or when she describes your eyes or your laugh or your smile. You don't see it when her eyes light up talking to you, or even really when she goes and says that she likes you. You don't see it when she's getting shoved in the hallway for defending you, or when every one, even her friends are mocking her for being the only one that cares about the boy who eats his lunch alone. But if you watched her, if you actually LOOKED you'd see that she's crazy about you, and that she does care, so much about you. You are blind to her, and that's hurting her more than your words ever did.

witchybookwormsongs

[witchybookwormsongs]

Sometimes I think it’s for the best I’ve never told you how much I really care about you, but then sometimes I look in your eyes and I want to tell you all the little things I see or hear that make me think of you. But for now I’ll keep quiet and you’ll keep not knowing exactly how much I think about you. And god it’s a lot.

credit: witchybookwormsongs