蛾がタイプしています

Scarlet snow and the taste of dreams.

[heedra]

one of my very favorite obscure story tropes is when there’s an episode/plotline/tabletop campaign session where the conceit is ‘each member of the gang gets trapped in a specially tailored dream/nightmare/illusory mindscape and has to break out’

[abalonetea]

my favorite addition to this trope is when the gang has to pass through everyone’s specially tailored nightmare scape and it’s just one gut punching trauma after the next that their friends help them through

[gallusrostromegalus]

Some good twists on these:

Nightmares:

- one party member’s nightmare seems like a perfectly normal and even pleasant scenario until the rest of the party realizes that what’s normal and pleasant for them is terrifying for the other member.

-the happy-go-lucky character who told everyone their fear is something benign like “ducks” actually has a massive and crushing trauma nightmare scenario they never told anyone about because they didn’t want to be a burden/still can’t trust.

- villain tries to make a nightmare scenario for someone and it backfires because they didn’t realize that guy is a grade-A Freak and they love it.

“ideal life” illusions

- villain attempts to make what they think will be an ideal dream life only for the protagonist to immediately point out a glaring flaw or get mad because they know damn well life isn’t like this

-a party member struggles to break free from the illusion because it’s just like regular life for them

- party discovers someone in the group has been not entirely honest about who they are when their ideal life doesn’t match thier projected persona at all.

-the illusion is exactly the same as real life save for one glaring but inconsequential difference, like someone having a different hair color.

[eltrolodecadadia]

[writerlia]

002

allowing for writing quality words.

self-embracing, perfectionism melts away.

writing goals are met, stagnancy unrealized.

enjoying the fascinating stage where, being consistent

is enough.

[soracities]

“My grandfather always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn.”

— Louis Adamic (via pattiocleavis)

[soracities]

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”

— Catherine Breillat  (via requiredwonder)

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

Postcolonial Love Poem, ‘Wolf OR-7′ by Natalie Diaz

[ID: I confuse instinct for desire - isn’t bite also touch?]

[korakos]

“Being a good writer is 3% talent and 97% not being distracted by the internet.”

— — the writer reblogs, being distracted by the internet  (via hughsdancys)

[necrofuturism]

ahaha this is such a cute character

I wanna see them

BEAT UP (◡ ‿ ◡ ✿)

BLOODY (o ‿ o ✿)

AND BROKEN (O ‿ O✿)

[brokenpitchpipe]

Problems:

I want this story to be written

I don’t want this story to be written by anyone but me

I don’t want to write this story

[writing-prompt-s]

“I’m sorry, but due to inflation, you only get 2.5 wishes”

[writerlia]

001

Late in the evening, the girl has returned, seeking solace deep in the canopy of my branches. She readies her footing rushed, mounting her bodyweight across my trunk in a strategic endeavor to hoist her way upwards.

Her every motion is familiar, imprinted and engraved like the memory of aging bark.

The morning wind had informed me the other day, that regular and vigorous use of the limbs is a human practice that encourages strength, and mental wellness.

The fallen leaves invoke doubt at this, as they often do in complaint, whenever they are shaken from their budding place adorning me. After all, the life of a leaf on soil is one of abrupt decay and rot, to be trampled on by legged creatures with the same carelessness disposed to the neighboring meadows of grass. 

It is a harrowing descent from glory, that any leaf should touch the ground, past seasons of waving to the sun’s climb, or dancing beneath cerulean and cirrus-streaked skies. With crumbling patience, I urge them into silence, reminding them that it is I who extended my shade, as courtesy to their plights.

By the time the rustles and gripes whither away, the girl had cradled herself between the weave of branches, hugging tight.

Her cheekbones rest against me, and I feel the edge of her mouth curl downwards, perturbed and teeth chattering. Her heart thumps at a sprint, as she mutters, “Savian, oh Savian”.

The ground shudders under the ripple of the footfall of seventy, as locals gather like a ring, near every breadth within ten feet of me. Deep below, my roots shrivel, agitated by the muted heat emanating from several dozen torches.

“Agather,” one of them bellows, “Are you certain she’s come this way?”

“Certain,” the other said, “Nearly had her shackled to the ground, but she’d hassled her way out through the fence.”

Murmurs swell among the gathered locals, carrying a sentiment of disappointment and righteous anger:

“You must make haste if you want to save yourselves and your families!”

“Tsk. Speak of haste! And your solutions are?”

“Foolish it was to appoint Timothy! May his land perish.”

A cluster of voices raise in profuse agreement. It seemed the man who was cursed as he were mentioned, was responsible for the predicament involving their escapee.

“What shall we tell the beast? Dare it pardon to reason?” 

Against my bark, the girl shudders. My limbs draw down to caress her carefully. It is the closest impression of a hug, at least, in the matter of which she had given me. 

The gesture of encouragement turns quickly spoiled.

Leaves shake and rustle alongside my limbs, all but a slight shift. The delicate sound stirred the placid night, drawing all heads of the crowd upwards. 

“Did you hear something?” 

“Probably a squirrel of sorts.”

“Never at such wicked hours. Go on and see.” 

This was the beginning of the story of how I perished, aflame on a late summer night.

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

–Lee Howard

[soracities]

“What is mine stays with me, my heart in the glitter of [her] heart. My dreams have no bones. Love is never saved in layers of rock. So much of me will never be found on this earth.”

— C. L. O'Dell, from “Forsythias,” The Southern Review (Summer 2021)

[soracities]

e.e. cummings, from ‘to stand(alone) in some’ (in 95 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

[Text ID: “ to stand(alone)in some autumnal afternoon: breathing a fatal stillness;”]

[soracities]

Stef Penney, The Tenderness of Wolves

[transman-badass]

So you did that thing, where you wrote a line, and then deleted it? And you don’t feel like you’ve made progress? Well, you are - you’re finding what doesn’t work.

And! You’re still working on it, even if you’re not happy with what you’re putting on the page. You’ve made it farther than a lot of people do.

Keep going! I believe in you!

[soracities]

“The autumn sun fell slantwise into the yard, making the cobbles bluely shine, and in the porch a pot of geraniums flourished aloft their last burning blossoms of the season. Honestly, this world.”

— John Banville, The Sea (via thebluesthour)

[intimatum]

Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That