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End of story I will never write -

“Do it now!” the adventuring party yelled.

They stood before the nearly-defeated villain, urging their bard to use the magical weapon to end the enemy and send them all home. But, the bard hesitated. Hands gripped the magical weapon tight. The blade never wavered, but neither did the Bard move.

They asked, “What are you waiting for?”

The villain laughed. He smiled and asked, “What are you waiting for? I won’t repent for what I’ve done.”

“I know,” agreed the Bard.

“You,” said the villain, looking the Bard in the eyes, “did always know me the best. So, you can tell when I am lying. Hear me, Bard. They want to go home and leave you here.”

“No,” shouted the party. “He is lying to you!”

The villain continued to stare the Bard in the eye.

“What are you waiting for? An invitation?! Kill him!” shouted the party.

The Bard smiled at the Villain and said, “I know. I know I will be left here.”

The party ceased their baying and looked at the Bard with questions in their eyes.

“And, I know there is nothing waiting for me back home,” continued the Bard. “Even if there was, I would gladly make this sacrifice.”

And with that statement, the Bard moved. The Bard was quicker than the party which tried to stop them and finally understood the Bard's sacrifice. The villain was struck down. The party was sent back to the realm they came from. The Bard watched them disappear in a shimmering light and smiled at how much they cared for them. As the Villain, breathed his last, he looked at the Bard.

“Yes,” said the Bard, “I promise will not leave you. You won’t ever be alone.”

The Villain smiled and died.

It is said the Bard buried him under the split tree they and their companions arrived under. The bard continues to live in this world in a small cottage by the forest’s edge. They continue to keep their promise and remain in this world until the end.

#my writing #short story #fiction #writing practice #end of story I won't finish #Not really necessary honestly #its hopefully all there

Tropes

I think I realized why I love reading with the tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, soulmates, angst with a happy ending.

I love the stories where one person has decided to love the other whatever happens. Regardless of anything, the other is their person. It borders on possessive, on problematic. Why do I like it? A kink? A fantasy?

Likely the latter. It is a fantasy to think someone could love me even when I can't. It is comforting to rely on their sense and understanding instead of my own; to be able to fall apart and let someone else steer the ship. A dream to rely on someone's love like a rock.

Thank fandom for tropes; its nice to dream once in a while.

#my writing #personal vent #tropes #ao3 #writers on tumblr

Reminder

I loved myself first. And I lost myself first. Its hard coming back from betrayal when it was your first love. When you never left. When you still loved yourself amongst the hate. Humans are fickle creatures, cursed to suffer self and awareness and time. But, as a reminder, you loved yourself first.

#my writing #venting via poetry #late night #tired #self love

Don’t borrow from tomorrow; it’s a mean lender. The anxiety-interest will kill you sooner.

Don’t steal moments from the past; it’s a cruel enemy and will take your present.

Today is all we have, forever. A blessing and a curse.

#poetry #my writing #venting via poetry #writing #late night #tired of this shit #mentally tired #aggressive positivity

I fail to understand the utter lack of weight for everyday actions. Hold a coffee cup in your hand. Feel the warmth deep in. That shit is what make life worth loving. Soak it up!

#coffee #self care #love life #put some weight into your daily actions #feel the effort it took to even get there #cherish the warmth

Rounds of applause for all! Giving support like blinking: near constant except for the truly atrocious. Gotta stare those mf’s in the eye. Roll for intimidation!

#nonbinary #my writing #venting via poetry #writing #dnd #roll for initiative

#my writing #nonbinary #queer pride #calligraphy #queer calligraphy #fountain pen

There is a cat on my lap. There is a cat on my lap that has been there for twenty minutes. The cat is asleep.

Am I the chosen one? Am I blessed amongst humankind? The cat purrs.

Or am I like a sickly victorian child where this kitten bears witness to my end of days? Is this like a hospital cat? The cat purrs.

Well, I think to myself, at least I am warm.

The cat continues to purr.

#my writing #writing #poets corner #poetry #cats #purring #one of life's greatest mysteries

I am a creative person! I’ve created worlds in my head.

I am imaginative too! I’ve imagine countless stories in those infinite worlds.

Why then can I not create a future where I am not battling my demons? Why can I not imagine myself finally being at peace?

Am I that used to it?

- Battle for Mental Health

#poetry #venting via poetry #mental health #late night

Boys will be Boys

It is the third time that day. A sly smile is shared across their faces. "He likes you," they say.

You will nod and know: Love feel like scraped knees and bruised legs that, two days later, will still show.

You will nod and know: if you cry, it means he gave you attention, so you pretend you are a willow.

You will nod and know: if you love him enough, he'll stop. Your chant becomes "maybe tomorrow".

You will nod and know: Nothing- This is not love! Love leaves an afterglow.

It is the third time that day. You pull yourself together and grit your teeth Because you were lead astray.

#my writing #poetry #childhood #boys will be boys #lies #poets corner #hurt to learn #growing up

Do the dead cry for the living? Or has the years dried their tears with their bones?

While the earth dies a slow death, we who remain refuse to feed her. We are starving our mother.

When my friend says ‘Revelation is a reunion with God’, I wonder if she speaks of a return to earth, a union with the life-giver.

Like weddings, funerals are often black tie with the person wearing white.

- A query for the void

#poetry #my writing #writing #questions #mother earth #fungi #questions to the void

If I could go back in time, I’d give myself the hard truths of life in bite-sized pieces. I’d hold myself tight when she’d try to fall apart. We’d pick up the pieces of ourself together. But I can’t go back in time. So here and now, I pick up the pieces of myself long forgotten and selfishly wish I wasn’t so alone.

- I have to hold myself together

#poetry #venting via poetry #late night #my writing #writing #grow up #i’m still processing #growth #self love #learning to love me #wishing for a hug

Tonight, my soul sits in a shell that’s vibrating as though my own molecules’ atomic frequency is pronounced on my skin. Up and down; wave after wave; sensation after sensation. Body shaking with a want, a need, a desire of something so basic I can hear my DNA howl like the ancestors of old - threatening to unwind itself and return to primordial soup.

My soul curls in on itself in a facsimile of a hug. It is hiding under my ribs, in the flutter of my breath. The tighter it squeezes the harder it is to breath and greater the pressure builds. It rubs circles into its own shoulders and pretends like a child does that the world is alright. My soul takes shelter from my eyes like windows for fear of shattering either myself or the illusion, I do not know which.

While I, I sit entirely motionless and wish I could relieve this pressure building in my chest or to actually see myself vibrating apart so I have proof that my body is screaming in an uncomfortable desire for comfort - as though a hug will ground me enough to remind me how gravity works and my atoms will realign. Then, I hug a pillow with hope that gravity will work. It doesn’t so I pray for tears to water my skin and relieve this pressure in my chest. But tears come from eyes and I taught my soul well: when your world shakes, stay away from the windows.

- how I wish I could cry

#poetry #late night #venting via poetry #writing #my writing #venting #skin hunger #touch starved #my soul #my body #coming to terms with the space I inhabit #this mortal coil

The world is silent.

My brain is loud.

There are no thoughts,

Only pressure.

There is no peace,

Only anxiety.

I am ready for a fight; I am not ready for bed.

I am tired and wish to sleep; I am fighting myself.

It is 1 AM, the world is quiet, asleep, peaceful

God, how I envy the world!

-1AM

#poetry #my writing #insomia #can’t sleep #anxitey #late night #1 am things #poets corner #venting via poetry

The Kitchen

The safest place in a home is the kitchen. It’s here life happens and food is made. Where stories are told and created alongside sweets. Messes created and cleaned. It’s my inheritance.

My mother loves to bake. Great big batches of cookies, cakes, and bars are enough to feed a small army. She uses recipe cards handed down from women everywhere. Women across spacetime travel to our kitchen and tell their stories in edible chemistry and in the margins of notecards. My mother channels them into a sense of serenity for herself. She is always much calmer after baking. I am too. It’s my inheritance.

My grandmother isn’t big baker or a chef, but she likes to putts, as she calls it. She moves about the kitchen like she’s exploring. She’ll grab things and pause and then grab other things and look at the card again and on it goes. What she makes may not look great but it tastes delicious. And grandma’s pride when you ask for more is a small tempered fire. You’ll feel it in her side hugs when she hands the plate back to you. Grandma is only calm after the dishes are done and she can rest on the porch, watching the satisfied smiles of family as we ease into satiated naps. This too is my inheritance.

I cook in large batches- a state of calm and unsure tempered with the knowledge that only I need to taste it. My baking is good but my cooking needs work. I prefer things to be an exact science- nothing left to too much chance- where the variables have some leeway but only just. I suppose this comes from the stories told about the kitchen in the kitchen. Of women past. Like my grandmother who was so fierce that even grandpa would not dare to enter her domain. Nana was so kind that she would bake for hours. She would make the best lefsa so grandma could eat it with lard and sugar if they had some. Nana would always be talked about in the kitchen. She would even send the children out if they were underfoot, and with 7 they usually were. Regardless of chaos, the kitchen meant safety and comfort. All of the bad things happen outside of the kitchen with those we should trust. So we bake instead and share what warmth we gather from the oven on trays and pie tins for everyone who leaves the kitchen, hoping that it passes along a prayer of protection with it. This too is my inheritance.

#kitchen #attempt at writing #dementia #family #mother #grandmother #thank you for the kitchen #writing #my writing

The End Times

I hold my breath a when the text comes.

It is an update:

A list of what is there

And what is not.

Time is chipping away at the stone of your mind,

And it is getting faster- your greatest fear.

Fate has twisted her knife

As I remember, but you cannot.

Your body is a temple that will soon be empty.

My father and his siblings walk the halls

Praying for divine inspiration.

I watch them weep for your loss while you hold their hand.

You are a ghost that haunts her own life.

Shaking the walls of this family’s house

And wailing at everything.

You are afraid, so very afraid.

How can you fear a loss of life

When the life has already been lost

When you don’t even know who you are.

Innocence has never had so many wrinkles as you do.

I cannot stand these texts any longer.

I am holding my breath

Until you no longer breath again.

And for that,

the guilt I feel is heavier than

The stone they’ll place above your grave.

I will pray to your temple and your ghost

That you will find peace in this Ragnarok.

#poetry #grief #dementia #venting #sadness

My grandmother has this great black purse.

In it is her important items:

A phone

A wallet

A checkbook

Pages of copied documents, just in case.

My Uncle has the real ones.

Grandma is so concerned about her finances,

Even though Uncle is in charge,

Because she cannot remember.

She cannot remember because

The biological functions of her brain

Cannot sweep away the detritus of her mind

Dulling her once sharp whit.

I wish they invented purses to hold memories

Each one small enough to fit in a pocket

So you could pull them out

And clean up your brain.

Little scrubbing pads to polish

And remember little details-

Like what year it is

Or who I am.

But until that moment happens,

Like my uncle with her papers,

My family holds her memories for her

Since she can no longer hold them herself.

-Memory Purse

#poetry #dementia #venting via poetry #love you grandma #feedback welcome #sad

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