Intro Post
Name: Aster
Pronouns: They/Them
Stories
The Dancer
What the Past Holds [Writing Prompt]
Βασισμένο στο “Τετράδιο της Πανδώρας Μ.”
Βασισμένο στον “Αερόσακο”
Βασισμένο στο “Για Πάντα και Λίγο Ακόμα”
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@writeraster
Intro Post
Name: Aster
Pronouns: They/Them
Stories
The Dancer
What the Past Holds [Writing Prompt]
Βασισμένο στο “Τετράδιο της Πανδώρας Μ.”
Βασισμένο στον “Αερόσακο”
Βασισμένο στο “Για Πάντα και Λίγο Ακόμα”
Βασισμένο στο "Για Πάντα και Λίγο Ακόμα"
Κάποτε δεν πίστευα στη μοίρα. Ξέρεις, στις νεράιδες και τις κόκκινες κλωστές που ενώνουν τους ανθρώπους. Αυτό το κάτι που εγγυάται πως θα είναι για πάντα μαζί.
Πίστευα πως θα ήμουν καλύτερα κάπου αλλού, μια μοναχική ηλιαχτίδα ανάμεσα στα σύννεφα μιας καταιγίδας ενός ξένου ουρανού. Μα εσύ…εσύ μου έδειξες πως είναι. Πως είναι να αγαπάς και να αγαπιέσαι από τον ήλιο τον ίδιο. Μου έδειξες πως οι μόνιμες καταιγίδες είναι περιττές.
Η αλήθεια είναι πως παίξαμε παιχνίδια. Τα γνωστά παιχνίδια των πληγών —στόχος του ενός τα πληγώσει τον άλλον. Ακόμη και μετά από αυτά όμως, στο τέλος της μέρας, εσύ ήσουν πάντα εκεί όταν τα πάντα φάνταζαν θολά, και ένιωθα πως κανείς δεν με καταλάβαινε. Γιατί εσύ… εσύ ήθελες να με γνωρίσεις πραγματικά. Να μάθεις τα πάντα για μένα από εμένα. Χωρίς τρίτους να μπαίνουν στη μέση.
Και κάπου εκεί διαπιστώνω, όσο κλισέ και αν ακούγεται, πως εσύ είσαι ο άνθρωπος με τον οποίο θέλω να περάσω το "για πάντα" μου. Να του ψιθυρίζω τα "σ'αγαπώ" που έχω κρυμμένα στην άκρη του μανικιού τα κρύα βράδια που όλα δείχνουν σκοτεινά.
Φαντάσου το — μια ζωή μαζί.
Για πάντα και λίγο ακόμα.
Untitled #4
It's tiring.
Being haunted by the memories. Merciless hunter chasing me down going for the kill.
But I wonder what is there to hunt. For there's nothing in there my heart collecting dust. They're hunting a no one nothing but a wounded deer waiting for the final shot to bleed out.
Το writing prompt που σου δίνω είναι να γράψεις για κάτι που σου συναίβει σήμερα, όσο basic και αν ήταν η μέρα
The ticking of the clock echoed, a reminder of the time practically chasing after them. They thinly chopped the potatoes, before dropping them into the boiling water. Just like their mother taught them.
Moments like this, Ash couldn’t help but think of the first time they stepped foot in a professional kitchen. At 17 years young, they had already learnt their first cutting techniques, waiting to be mastered.
Now, at 32, they feel more ready and sure of themselves than they did before. Their movements are swift and calculated; nothing like the inexperienced teenager a few years ago.
After making sure everything was under control, they went over to the pork. A quick glance at their list of spices was enough. Their finger slid through the lines, the pages ever-so knocked up and the handwriting messy. They knew exactly what they needed. The perfect mix of traditional and modern, something that would appeal to almost every taste. The prep cook had already made sure it was slowly cooking. Even in its current state, in the big, steaming pot, the bubbles bursting soundly, it was certain to make one’s mouth water. The cozy feelings its soft smell caused, could take them back to their first job as an intern, merely following instructions from more experienced individuals in the kitchen. This was Ash’s favourite recipe by now; courtesy of their first chef at the seasonal job they worked right after culinary school.
When the potatoes were ready, they took them out to prepare the puree. They followed the basic steps to making it, but added their own little twist; chives. Thinly chopping them up, they dropped them in. They were told that chives added flavour on the mashed potatoes on their second job; they’ve been adding them in since then.
After a while, Ash checked the pork; the kitchen fork could easily pierce it, and the meat was practically falling off the bone. They nodded to themselves; it was ready to be served.They grabbed a couple plates, and virtually covered an entire counter with them. With practiced ease, they added the mashed potatoes on the bottom in the shape they knew so well, followed by a generous piece of pork, covered in that thick, brown sauce that always left them wanting more. Then, they topped it off with some finely cut parsley.
Food was ready to be served.
They're laughing.
Laughs loud They seem like Sharp ice pieces Stabbing my back.
The blood runs hot Across my existence I'm cold.
I don't know how this works. How they work.
Like A Cockroach
It’s unfair how easy it is to be erased.
To become nothing more than remnants of an eraser on paper, something to be discarded and thrown away.
❝I wished to kiss you, but I didn't know about the poison on your lips, slowly killing me day by day.❞
━ 𝑨.𝑲.
❝I keep on looking for your face in the crowd even though you aren't looking for mine.❞
━ 𝑨.𝑲.
❝I'm not your muse anymore, that much I know, yet...you keep on sneaking your way into my pages still.❞
━ 𝑨.𝑲.
Το Κουκλοθέατρο
Έτσι είναι η ζωή. Σαν κουκλοθέατρο. Ο καθένας καλείται να παίξει ένα ρόλο. Οι "καλοί" επιβραβεύονται, οι όχι τόσο τιμωρούνται. Οι κούκλες πετιούνται στο κουτί. Το κουτί των ανεπιθύμητων μακριά, κρυμμένες από το φως του ήλιου.
Hi, it's been a while. How have you been? I hope you've been well. At least, a part of me does. The other...well, the other can't help but hope. Hope you are in the same place as me. That some that some things, places, scents still remind you of me.
Remind you of my face, voice, presence. How my hand used to feel nestled in yours, how tight and nice our hugs were. How my lips felt against yours.
You see, the childish and vengeful part of me hopes you miss me a little bit. Miss the conversations, the shared laughs, everything. That walk downtown, our last walk. Our first kiss in that crowded cafeteria. You let me make the first move that day. My heart was racing at the thought of it.
Untitled #2
It's crazy how much you are like Summer. Burning hot sun yet refreshing gentle afternoon breeze.
Untitled #1
They're laughing.
Laughs loud They seem like Sharp ice pieces Stabbing my back.
The blood runs hot Across my existence I'm cold.
I don't know how This works How they work.
Η Πόρτα
Φοβάμαι. Πως μια μέρα θα λυγίσω. Πως δεν είμαι αρκετά δυνατή. Να μην γυρίσω πίσω στις αγκαλιές, αν μου το ζητούσες.
About Stars
There are so many ways I could write about you. I could compare you to diamonds. To the greatest treasures known to man.
Habits
It’s become a habit.
Nearly Every time I see the sun’s light There’s something going on.
They open me Gently going through My pages With care.