Zyl's Writings

[zyl-thewritingace]

Welcome to my writing blog!

I will write something for up to five prompts per day, and I will be writing in order of submission. Asks and anons are on, as are submissions. 

I will not write nsfw

Don’t even bother asking

I will not write anything romantic between an adult and a child.

p*dos fuck off

Fanfic is on the table, but I prefer to write original stuff.

If you have an OC you want a story for, send me all the details possible so I don’t get them wrong; I will do my best to keep OCs that I didn’t come up with in character, but I can’t promise that much always (the more you tell me, the more in character I can write them)

If any more stuff comes up, I will add it.

I reserve the right to not write anything I don’t want to

[roachpatrol]

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

[7thedisasterdyke]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Gwen, JB, Gwen (Planeswalker OC), JB (Planeswalker OC) Additional Tags: Strixhaven, MTG, first fanfic, Hope y'all enjoy! Summary:

When Gwen and her alter JB were crushed by a truck on the freeway, they thought they were dead. Turns out, they sparked away at the last second, and are now in a different universe.

[zyl-thewritingace]

Can you make a story using these:

competence

imperial

install

frank

Yes I can, although to be fair, it's basically the whole plot of the bad batch

Terribly sorry for the wait, I haven't checked my writing blog in a while

I won't be writing it tonight, but now that i know it's here, it'll be burning a hole in my brain and should be done over the weekend

[zyl-thewritingace]

A Drabble, introducing Original Character Aran Jur:

Aran Jur stood their ground, determined to not lose ground. Clan Jur was a secret clan, committed to being protectors and defenders of Mandalore. Centuries of training in the Force would go to waste if they didn’t hold off Vader’s elite battalion, led by the Sith Lord himself. Fortunately, their training had been in elite clan techniques. As Vader himself charged, leading the battalion, the lone warrior stayed still, unarmed. As the attackers neared, two lightsabers could be heard igniting. Then two more. As more sabers raised, held aloft by the force, the Jur warrior smiled. This would be fun.

[zyl-thewritingace]

words?? you want words??? okay here’s four-listen pity transaction bubble. what can you make out of those four words?

Gwyneth stopped to listen.

She could hear the screams of the man she had tortured the night before, echoing in her mind.

She could almost feel sorry for him.

It wasn’t like he had known his buyer was smuggling illegal larqepones, but she had had to get the truth out, it was her job, after all.

She had left him a bleeding mess, unable to form coherent speech. She had torn off one of his nipples and more than half of his fingernails in the interrogation. She was good at her job, and proud of it.

Little does she know her entire world is about to change.

The silent alarm trips, an alert going to every security official in the building. No problem, she thinks, I’ve stopped intruders before. Shal, I’ve killed more than a dozen of them with my bare hands.

Running to where she knows the intruder is heading, all she sees in her last split-second of freedom is a card, thrown with pinpoint accuracy. It stops about a meter out, turns around to reveal an image and a title:

Capture Sphere

In the time it takes for her to register the fact that a card from a game can take real-life effect, the bubble has already sealed her in.

The last thing she hears before the spell tightens around her is a single sentence:

This is for the proletariat, bitch.

[7thedisasterdyke]

hey does anyone want to read a contest winning single-sentence spooky story/poem?

[7thedisasterdyke]

Aisle Seven

Aisle seven of the grocery store

Is where more horror stories should begin;

For while the humans sleep, the shelves are emptied,

And who restocks the haunted aisle then,

Besides more ghosts, the spirits of the stockers,

Who float in limbo, cursed to help ghosts shop

And should a living being see them working

Without permission or a cautious thought

The stockers and the shoppers band together

To make their numbers greater, as they ought

And through the exponential growth increasing

The shoppers and the stockers know that soon

They must increase their home, and haunt another

And aisle eight possess upon dark noon.

[zyl-thewritingace]

Modern ‘Horsepunk’ teen drama (please tag artificial-father at the end)

Here’s the trailer for the movie:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voice-over: In a world where horses power everything... Where, in most countries, two horses is a minimum provided by the government... 

Four youngsters--the first, a boy obsessed with horses his entire life,

-show boy riding horse, then dismounting, smiling-

the second, a boy whose parents died in a tragic accident involving horses, 

-show boy throwing knives, reveal dartboard, which has a picture of a horse with a knife at bulls-eye-

the others, twin brothers with a secret

-show two brothers mulling over blueprints, one points something out, and the other shakes his head and points to a different spot-

--must overcome the odds, and find love with each other.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

end trailer, cue to climax of movie:

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Boy 1, screaming dramatically: “I thought you loved me!!”

Boy 2, deadpan as a Parthian shot: “I did. But you put horses before me, before us”

Twin 1: “We don’t even need horses anymore!”

Twin 2: “Yeah, if we build our” -here looks around furtively, before whispering- “no-need-for-horsepower machine” -stop whisper- “horses will no longer be necessary!”

Boy 1, crying: “You don’t understand! I- I love Granola Bar! She’s always been there for me!”

Boy 2: “So were we, but I guess you value horses more than our love for you. It’s over, Ray. If you can’t love us the way we love you, it’s over.”

-cue the three boys walking away, leaving Ray in obvious misery (rain optional, but encouraged)-

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

scene

------------------------------

@artificial-father i was asked to tag you in this

[zyl-thewritingace]

So u wanna write, huh? Idk. Lesbians in a fun fair.

I’m well aware that I’m the only feminine one in my friend group. It’s never really a problem...

Until you see all these completely buff high schoolers competing to be the best at everything. It was a nightmare when we were at the fair. Nika was testing the limits of her aim against Artie at skeeball (why exactly there was skeeball at the fair is anyone’s guess), ‘Di was flirting with nearly everyone our age there, and I was just... stuck by myself.

Then Di came up to me (pitying my existence as a tag-along, no doubt) and, probably just to be nice, asked me if I wanted to do something with her. Now, you all probably don’t know me too well, but I simply can’t say no to a really fast ride. So I told her I wanted to go on that one ride that spins you around in circles waaaaaay up in the air. She seemed a bit scared, but she waited in line with me for the next group to be loaded in. 

Now a little something about ‘Di. She’s the kind of girl who’ll challenge a QB to an arm-wrestle and win. Serves the sucker right, he’s usually bragging about how “boys are better” and all that garbage. But seriously, she’s got some muscles.

Anyways, we get buckled in, and she nearly chickens out right there. I tell her, “there’s no way you’re ditching me right now” and she backs down. I couldn’t be sure, but I could swear she pouted a bit.

The ride starts. ‘Di looks like she wants to be anywhere in the world that isn’t here. I’m having the time of my life. “Take Me to Church” is playing over the loudspeaker. 

The ride ends, and as we get off and get our stuff, I hear ‘Di mutter under her breath, “The things I do for the sake of flirting...”

what

I wait until we’re in a clearer area, then lay into her.

“That whole thing, you inviting me onto a ride with you, that was flirting???”

“Yeah? Didn’t you know? Are you not aware of how flirting works?”

oh.

She has a point...

“Wait, you were flirting with me!?”

“How oblivious are you?” She asks. “I’ve been doing this for months, where have you been?”

“Apparently in the void.”

Well...

this silence is awkward...

I break it:

“So, was this like, a date, or what?”

“Dude, this is literally your call. I’ve been into since the first time I saw you failing at gym class, which is, in fact, cute.”

“Oh. Well in that case, I suppose this is a date.”

The rest of the date goes perfectly, and ends on the ferris wheel. Never have I had a day like that one, and we’ve been dating for six months now.

...

“Ma’am, this is a McDonald’s drive-thru, not a place to share your life story. Now, did you want fries with that?”

[zyl-thewritingace]

If you still want writing prompts - something along the r/HFY lines, the galaxy is waging war using the best weapon they have: sound. No one thinks the humans will be any good in the war, their weapons are nukes and guns which have been outdone eons ago. But when humans show up to the battle, the aliens realize that they think our weapons are weak because the weapons they know of are the ones we advertise. Our music, on the other hand...

The humans... won?

Impossible.

Their best weapons were some of the most useless in the known universe. However, we neglected one thing: what humans call “frozen multiplication”. They all try to outdo each other in this, ergo, they are more deadly, counter to every strategy book, when in competition with each other.

The first wave fell almost immediately to our sonic blasts. We were confident in our success. Unfortunately, that success only lasted a few minutes. They clearly had strategists near the front line to determine the best course of action. Their failure to follow nearly every martial standard clearly led to their success.

Their second wave was just a giant box. We attempted to destroy it with our weapons, but they all failed. Then, the box spoke:

“Greetings and salutations, partners. We noticed that little sonic trick of yours and decided to return the favor.”

The box then emitted the highest frequency we had ever heard. We were all caught off guard by the tone, especially because all of our weapons had no such capability. Our best weapons were low frequency, designed for maximum physical damage. They had, instead, changed the game. I only survived due to my age, being the oldest of the army by 20 cycles. I couldn’t hear it very well, but I saw the effects.

All of my comrades with the ability to hear were rolling on the ground, clutching the organ of sound detection for their species. All of us with no hearing (having instead the ability to see vibrations) had to close our eyes or face losing them to the shock of so much color.

The effect was devastating, nearly the whole army was wiped out in one blast. Then, a slow tune began to play:

“I’ve paid my dues

Time after time.

I done my sentence

But committed no crime.”

Us lucky few who survived unscathed were wary of the sounds. The sounds, the poetry, continued:

“I’ve had my share of sand kicked in my face, and I ain’t gonna lose!”

At the word “share”, there was an immense blast that sent the rest of us flying off the battlefield, and the humans exited their ships, celebrating.

So kids, I guess what my story means is, never underestimate the power the humans are capable of.

[zyl-thewritingace]

A horror scene with no discernable villain. The main character is just paranoid.

Note: I have no clue how to write horror

What am I doing here?

Every time I enter this room I forget what I came here for, there’s gotta be something here.

tik

ohshitwhatwasthat

tik

Goo monster?

tik

Those exist right?

tik

Maybe that weird Doctor Who villain that possesses people via water?

Ok, turn around slowly... no sudden movements

tik

Oh.

Just the sink

or is it? I can’t be certain. 

tik

Like that! I didn’t see any drop falling from the faucet.

I’m just gonna leave...

What am I doing here?

[zyl-thewritingace]

A romance(probably a little melancholic) scene in between an ancient immortal and a time traveler. They haven't realized this is the same person they loved in Troy.

The woman had shown up entirely out of the blue, wandering into the city, unable to understand the language. 

Ionian Greek would do that to you, Theano thought. It was nearly a different language altogether than the Greek of Mycenae. While nobody refused her food or a place to sleep, Theano had been the only one to take her in. After only a few weeks, the stranger (Cassandra, the understanding was) was nearly fluent in the language. 

Then Paris came back. He brought with him war. Cassandra started spouting nonsense predictions about death and destruction (nobody believed her, of course). 

Ten years and a lot of prophecies later, Theano and Cass, then having been married in all but name for seven of them, were thrilled at the prospect of the war being over. Achilles hadn’t been seen on the field in weeks, and the Trojans and allies were pushing them back. Cass begged Thea to escape while there was still time, but Theano insisted they would win.

Achilles had fallen. A stalemate had been reached, and finally the Greeks withdrew, leaving behind them an enormous wooden horse. Laocoon perished. The Greeks came back with a vengeance. Theano escaped on a prayer.

Cassandra wasn’t so lucky. She was brought back to Mycenae and killed by Clytemnestra. 

Three thousand years later, the prayer of Theano was still answered. She still mourned her lost lover, but had nearly forgotten her. Then, one day, at a cafe in New York City, she saw a familiar face.

Three years later, her lover disappeared into the night while working on a strange contraption. 

The circle continued, as it was supposed to.

Cassie and Thea will forever be lovers, throughout the eons.

[7thedisasterdyke]

Daimon

Disclaimer: the concept is not my idea

—-

So I’m a demon, ok? Have been for, oh, I dunno, couple millennia? I get maybe three summons per month, get paid pretty well (about a thousand per summon, plus commission if I’m good enough, and I get to keep any souls I grab in the process). 

Anyways, that all changed about three weeks ago. I was doing a “haunted tea party” torture on a soul I had pretty much just gotten, nothing too evil (I don’t like actively hurting them, just giving ‘em a good scare, y’know?), when I get this nagging feeling in my head, the kind that tells me I’m being summoned.

I go topside, thinking it was going to be a cut-and-dry, normal cult summoning. Nope. It was this pre-teen, doodling in a notebook. Now, I may be a demon, but I have standards. I don’t respond to accidental summons from kids. So I go back to my place and continue what I was doing. 

About five minutes later, I get the feeling again. Not wanting to get up, I locate it. It’s the damn kid again. Typical. They find a pattern they like, and keep doing it, not even bothering to do their research on arcane symbols and demon summoning. I have a life, you know! So I ignore it. 

Now the thing about the nagging feeling in a demon’s head during a summon: it hurts after a while. There’s a reason summoning spells and circles are so hard to find, it’s because we don’t like constant headaches. 

But this fucking kid. They keep doing it. Every. Damn. Minute. Another headache. This has been going on for about thirty minutes, and the summoning migraine is killing me. I go topside to put a stop to this.

This kid. Has almost forty summoning sigils. In their notebook. I sigh, and stop time for everyone except the summoner (handy trick, really). I possess the person seated next to them, and yell.

“What the absolute fuck do you want!?”

They scream. Good. They deserve a scare for all the headaches they’ve been giving me. I flash my true eyes.

“You’ve been giving me a headache all afternoon, couldja maybe turn down the summoning?”

“What, the doodles? Those are summoning you?” The incredulity in their voice is genuine, and I start to feel bad for scaring them.

“Yeah, please don’t use that symbol unless you need it.”

“Oh. You could’ve popped in after a couple, I didn’t mean to annoy anyone.” They seem… hurt? Shit, I didn’t mean to do that.

“I suppose,” is the only reply I can manage.

“Would you mind if I summoned you to help me with the jackasses that bully me at lunch every day?”

“I don’t see why not, it’s the least I can do after scaring you.” It really is. 

“Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch.”

“See you around, kid.” I say as I exit my host and restart time.

—

The next day, the kid is all but forgotten. I just finish my lunch when my head starts to hurt. Nice. More money. I head on up. It’s the school. Oh yeah, I forgot about that.

Remembering what they wanted, I head to their location. Silently observing, I saw a level of torture I would never stoop to: demeaning the target’s existence. The bullies were relentless, and the summoning sigil is covered in tears. I move in, stopping time for the poor kid. I grab a random kid from nearby as my meatsuit.

“When you said bullies, I didn’t expect them to be this bad.”

“Please,” came their response through muffled sobs, “Just possess me and get rid of them. Or me. I don’t care as long as you make it stop.”

“I’m not gonna get rid of you, you don’t deserve this torment.”

“Possess me, please.”

With a sigh (it’s not often I possess the summoner, it leaves a lifetime bond), I switch bodies, then restart time.

The bullying resumes.

The bullies notice the body stopped making noises, and move in to try a more physical approach. I stand.

“The owner of this body is done. Leave. Them. Alone.” I growl.

I turn, and show only the tormentors my true head. Tentacles, teeth, eyes, the whole shebang.

The leader turns pale and shrieks, and I stop time again, for the bullies. 

“This person is under my protection. Leave them alone or face my wrath.”

The three of them pass out from fear, and I restart time.

Nobody is gonna hurt Daimon, not under my watch. The lifetime bond often leaves us demons with friends in the afterlife, but also provides the human with an extended life. We will protect those like Daimon, my newest friend. They’re genuinely one of the best humans I’ve ever met.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Hope you enjoyed

again, not my prompt.

[7thedisasterdyke]

The Broken

An original work by me, no reposting without permission

Part 1 of 3 (and an epilogue)

Part 1-Part 2-Part 3-Epilogue

(let me know if you want to be part of a taglist)

——————————————————————————

Keep reading

[zyl-thewritingace]

all parts are linked!