That is when she saw, there barely peeking from under her shirt collar the same boils that affected her son’s arm. “You’re infected too?” Valeria gasped more as a statement than a question covering her mouth and taking a step back. The Inn Keeper pulled up her shirt to cover her neck and looked away sullen.
Valeria brought her hand to her chest surprised by the woman’s answer. Her first instinct was to defend her own spurned honor, but feeling her sister’s influence upon her she bit her lip and took a deep breath before raising her voice once more. “I shall ignore your offense against me and ask you this, Ma'am.” she said carefully eyeing the Inn Keeper “Why would you refuse my help? I that have just arrived to this foreign land as I am sure my broken speech has signaled to you. Why refuse my honest help unless there is something happening in this town that I don’t yet know about?"
I feel very proud of myself, I actually did some writing today! Mainly stemming from some frustration because I SWEAR I wrote a specific thing, and I cannot find it anywhere, so I rewote it to fit a scene!
“I never did like this painting,” I say aloud, almost to myself, looking myself in the eyes as I do. Those wide, innocent, brown eyes. “That dress was itchy, I hated the fabric. I had to stand there for a long while until the artist had enough of my details. I remember I couldn’t wait to get out of it.” I finish on a slightly amused chuckle.
“I think it’s a lovely dress, Anjelika,” Karolina compliments. “It suits your eyes.”
“That’s what Mother said. That’s why I had to wear it.”
I plan on posting the whole scene tomorrow, but this is the last of the “new” stuff in the rewritten version!
wow, i haven’t been on here in a while! school started for me last week and i’ve been slammed until - well, now. Anyways, i was tagged by the amazing @words-of-sarcasm - thanks!
this line is from something i’m writing for my creative writing class!
I heard another yelp, and remembering the owner - I wanted to say her name was Mary - I shot to my feet and to the side of the room.
This line popped into my head the other day, so its not technically part of a wip yet, but the general concept is “college roommates but at a university of magic”
’“ ’What’s wrong?’ ” Arden glowered at him from across the room. “What’s wrong is that I’ve got an alchemy assignment due tomorrow and your mac-and-cheese is in my fucking cauldron!”
Thanks for the tag @writeanapocalae! I kept forgetting this sitting in my notifications, but here is (finally!) a snippet from the short story I’m working on now for Camp NaNoWriMo.
Her eyes met the Oracle’s–the black, the black. She felt the intensity of that gaze and held it for a moment. “The Oracle is a lying bitch. Just like all her gods.”
And Prima walked away. She used all the length of stride her not insubstantial height gave her. Footsteps, hasty, followed her.
Finally getting around to this. A belated thank you for the tag @athenswrites.
How to Play: Post the last line (or two…or ten…) of your latest WIP, and then tag some peeps.
From the piece I’m planning to submit to thewhumpyprintingpress’s upcoming collection (info on submitting art and/or writing for that here):
The mind worm strolled to the washer and dryer, setting the tray on the latter. “What would you like first? Food or first aid?”
It thought it was cute, playing the host and asking her questions. Or it just wanted to gloat, basking in her smoldering rage and supposed helplessness. Fine, dandy, peachy-fucking-keen. She’d give it a whole heaping helping of her feelings. Force feed it until it choked.
312 moved to stand up, but was knocked back down by an elbow to the shoulder from one of the other fighting people (the brawl had been circling around the trading hub, following whoever was lucky -or unlucky- enough to get a grip on the plastic canteen).
The other person sighed deeper, muttering under their breath. “Oh, for the love of… Mace, could you help him up?”
312 felt a hand on its arm, and before it could say anything, it was pulled up. The touch wasn’t as rough as the hybrid had expected, the hand firm but gentle, and 312 blinked, momentarily lost in the feeling of non-harmful touch.
Might have gone a little overboard on this but oops. Anyway tagging (only if you want of course Srry of this is annoying): @maracujatangerine@straight-to-the-pain and anyone who wants to!!!
Guess who’s back? Sort of? Me! @talesofsorrowandofruin tagged me today and I’m self-quarantined so! I have Time. Here’s a few lines from the scene I wrote today, set in the forest of Pher, the place where [redacted] killed [redacted] which left behind a perpetual layer of resentment and turned all the living things growing there white (as in, colour-less).
“Oh, it’s gone,” she breathed, with such vivid relief it gave her nausea. “It’s gone.”
The jar was full. They had succeeded.
Naeth coughed and sputtered behind her. “Yeah,” he huffed. “Didn’t I tell you it would work?” His lips had gone pale but he smiled brightly nonetheless.
You didn’t, Ny’ra thought. “You’re bleeding,” was what she told him instead. His mouth, his chin, his neck and his tunic shone wet and crimson, and when he brought his hands up to his nose they came out just as red. “Are you in pain? Is it the curse?”
“It’s fine,” Naeth said dismissively. He tore a strip out of his green shirt and bunched it up to stop the blood flow; then he clicked his tongue, waved a finger and vanished the mess. “It’s just the effort.”
What is Naeth up to? What’s in the jar? It’s a secret.
“I wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself,” Vein says to Umber’s shoulder blades, to his collarbones, to his jaw.
“I wish you knew you belonged with us,” Vein says to Umber’s hands, his ribs, his cheekbones.
“I wish you didn’t keep running away from me,” Vein says to Umber’s bike, his bruises, his scuffed shoes.
Umber never answers, never acknowledges the words. He stares a little harder at whatever task is occupying him and never pauses to catch his breath. The days roll past without differentiation, the nights tick by in many agonies of sleepless dreams. Every minute is a nightmare, and every dawn a disbelief.
“I wish you would come back to me,” Vein says to Umber’s door, his bed, his cigarettes. “I wish you would come back to yourself.”
The moments are nonexistent, the hours drag their feet through the days. There is no discovery, nor relief. There is only an echo, and it is left wanting.
Okay enablers, it’s bad poetry time. Got a last line tag from @zonnemaagd and I’ve been working on this poem thing. I still feel like it needs some tweaks, and I feel pretty self-conscious about it, but also I want feedback so here you go.
I decided to go with prose poems rather than breaking the lines. These are also the new first lines of the book so figured it would be a good idea to sneak some themes in here too.
Moonlight pours around me as shadows hold my limbs and I search. What beyond the darkness waits? Light or night or choices I must make?
Slowly slipping through the shadows, mist and whispers brush my skin. Solid milky white and thick it swirls and dances, blocking sight of night and light alike.
Heavy. Weary. Searching endless. Pain erupts and burns. Lashing, grasping, thrashing, scratching. Hopeless struggle through an endless sea of white and gloom. Pulling, clinging, calling. Slowly sliding, sinking into soft silver-white caresses of endless empty loss and loneliness.
@diphthongsfordays tagged me for a last line. I’m having a week off so I’ve written nothing new, but this is the last line of the chapter from Project Frequency that was sitting open in Dabble…
And he comes in when he hears me move and he stands over me and holds the gilt-edged mirror up to my face again. I’m not beautiful anymore, but cut-throat? Death? I’ll take those and I’ll own them, bought and paid for.
One day, he’ll say no, over and over again. And I won’t listen.
I’m in low-effort mode today because I’ve had very little sleep and been up since 4am,so I’m going to leave this as an OPENTAGfor anyone who wants to grab it.
Here’s the latest for Those Horrid, Horrid Things, under the cut for spoilers and sadness (TWs for mentions of violence and killing, as well as some trauma occurring)
Ages ago (when my feet were still good and nothing hurt and walking didn’t feel like needles going through my feet) @fiercely-raging-writer tagged me on this
sorry for being so late Leo, life got complicated with Camino
Anyway have some angst I wrote a few days ago
No, do you have an idea of how it feels to be me, Aurora?!” I shut up, taken aback by the rawness of his voice. He laughed bitterly at my face. “You have no idea of what I’m talking about, do you?”
Oh, that smartass.
“For almost two months, we’ve been constantly with each other. Days! And nights! Always together. You were always in my field of vision, always within reach from me.” he ranted, “and I’ve been barely tolerating you! So excuse me if I feel like I need a break from-”
I walked over to the group of apprentices I recognised, all of them looking just as battered as I was, in their white tank tops and black bottoms. Riaz was amongst them, angry red welts covering his neck and shoulders. He looked my way, giving me a subtle nod before turning his attention back to the podium. Relieved that he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge, I relaxed as we waited, though it wasn’t long before Lady Amelia arrived, her husband and children close behind. The family took their respective seats as she stood before us. Her dress was a sleeveless, deep maroon, that wrapped snugly around her waist before falling gently down to the ground.
Why are they battered you ask? Because I wanted to see them struggle
Tagged by @diphthongsfordays, thanks! Here’s the last line I’ve written for Those Horrid, Horrid Things (TW for death mention)
The woman knelt on the ground in front of her. Gray hair was unfurling like wisps of smoke from her head, and the deep blue of her eyes was shadowed by purple bruises. Odin stood next to her, his hand gripping her shoulder.
“Haljurunna Lokisdottir,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”
Hel nodded. It was Frigg, Odin’s wife, the one who knew the fate of all.
“You have a very special gift, my dear girl,” she said, and a little smile crept onto her lined face. Hel had never had a grandmother. She wondered if this was who she would be like.
Tears leaked from Frigg’s eyes.
“I lost my son Baldr not too long ago,” she said. “And you — you can bring back the dead. I need you to do that for me.”
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