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Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

(creator note: I recommend 3-10 sentences but go for a longer piece if you really feel it! Replace pronouns as needed for the character / point of view)

don’t leave 

this was a mistake

[I] trusted [you]

one chance

help

illusion

silent fury

sunbathing

falling

righteous

drastic

candles

too loud

overgrown

trembling hands

in dreams

empty

flinders

sea change

alone, finally

collapse

nap

sated

tender

senseless

how dare [you]

hide

something about [them]

sweat

harsh whisper

breeze

dust motes

saccharine

bauble

filthy

total control

defy

soak

accursed

pet

comfort food

savior

undone

cheap

svelte

shimmer

crave

rampage

nightfall

accost

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fawn holmwood, by june jenssen! 

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                                                          SAINT VILOIS FORTUNA                                             ‘ I am His righteous wrath made manifest;                      bear this in mind should you choose to get in the way of my ascension. ’

                                                          Patron Saint of Shepherds                                                       Psychopomp of the Afterguard                                       High Exorcist of the Covenant of the Ascendant Sun

A blessed soldier trained in the ways of divine retribution, Vilois Fortuna is a woman whose humble beginnings serve as a testament to how far she’s come, and her successes a portent reminder of how far she’ll go. With inexorable determination and unwavering loyalty only to herself, to her goals, and to the people who have helped her along the way, there’s no telling what the half-elf will do. But if the esteemed stations she lords over are any indication, then it’s perspicuous that there’s one thing the woman will never do — stop moving forward.

I can’t put to words how grateful I am that @eornhart captured Vilois so perfectly; everything about this piece resonates deeply with the image that initially came to mind the moment I created her. Thank you a thousand and one times over for this opportunity! I look forward to commissioning you in the future.

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apparently everyone seems to agree that a blight is the perfect time to start killing each other. marvelous, really.

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Peaky Blinders Episode 5.02: Black Cats

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curly haired bishop is pretty cool tbh. i've been jealous of her jumpsuit mog ever since i saw it for the first time. plus holy crap, the art!

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Concept: Do you remember the last time you died?

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I’m offering you a fortune, you’re asking for a piggy bank, pourquoi? Fargo - S03E09

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Why are you doing this?

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Natalie Diaz, “Isn’t the Air Also a Body, Moving?”

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viii. [x] art

                                                            the night drags on in a horrible nightmare. 

       water licks at her fingers. it’s a foreign feeling: last she knew, she’d fallen asleep atop a hard cot, tucked away in the depths of boralus’ underbelly--a haphazardly put together abode underneath the storefront of an acquaintance, who may or may not have been aware of her presence.

      now, she was elsewhere. the stray cat wouldn’t be a worry for the fisherman she preyed off of, having instead been seemingly put right at the source of her fare.

      strangely enough, her diet consisted of things with no nutritional value:

cryptic riddles from a drowned man,

wails from the dead whose names she did not know,

and the tragedy that came with each.

      it takes her a moment to properly gather her bearings. waking up from a deep-rooted slumber to the sway of passing waves and the hardback feeling of wood underneath her was never an ideal wake up call, and for a moment, she finds herself in a drunken stupor--except she was not drunk. sea sickness was a thing forbidden for any kul tiran to have: ‘the sea is your blood,’ her father would say. but fuck, the spiraling pit in her stomach surely felt like being seasick.

      her eyelids part to welcome in the sight of grey. clouds stretch over the sky in a singular miasma, blocking whatever lay in the sky and coloring the world in a bleak hue. it’s about to rain, she thinks.

      bringing pruney fingers out of the waters, a swipe over the wood she rests upon is her umpteenth mistake. splinters embed into the flesh of her palm, piercing deep and just enough to be an uncomfortable reminder of being awake. somehow, she manages to sit up--upon a broken board of ruined ship. jagged edges form an unsightly shape of oaken wood, once blessed by the tidesages of kul tiras--but she always had a hunch their blessings were a ruse. after all, she wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.

      the haze of slumber abates in an instant. she spies it then: a grand fire on the horizon. had it been any other time, the rogue wouldn’t have paid heed; yet, the vision of it burns at her memory. 

      a blaze consumes boralus. 

                                                            “ … reduced …”

      the voice cuts at her cheek. slices it with a sharp, cold breeze that compels her to believe someone was behind her. with a turn of her head, she confirms her solitude.

                                                            “reduced to damp and dreary confines ...”

      in the distance midway between the burning city and her makeshift raft looms a figure, encapsulated in an atramentous silhouette. the being is entirely corporeal; when it crosses before the burning city, it temporarily conceals the harrowing sight. 

                                                             “imprisoned to the sea with the eldritch ...”

      she recognizes the voice as rhys--no other apparition possessed a voice so cutting to her. the sound of his words echo over the surface of the ocean, carried by the current and seemingly everywhere at once. 

                                                            “the fish tell a tale of tragedy. a man                                                                        drowns, but the creatures of the sea do                                                                  not feast on his flesh. his corpse sinks to                                                             the bottom of the ocean.”

      the silhouette nears her then, close enough for her bleary sight to perceive its features. but instead, she finds the being has none whatsoever--when her gaze pins to it, she only sees endless void. 

      however, she cannot look away, even as it overwhelms her vision.

                                                            “what finds him, dear doe?”

      this time, fawn awakens in a bed of luxury. plush pillows replace the stiff wood beneath her and instead of being entrapped by the cold grasp of the sea, she is surrounded by warmth. the sun creeps in from windows sprawled out on the wall before where she lay, overlooking undulating waters. the gentle sway of sailing ship is a lullaby on its own, and just when she feels herself relax enough to resort back to slumber, something stirs beside her. an arm creeps over her abdomen as the dark-haired figure turns. 

      again, it is rhys. he is living, like in many of her dreams. his complexion holds color; there is no stench of the sea and - from what she could tell - no moths fluttering about. fawn is frozen--she dares not even close her eyes, for fear of waking in another place once more. rhys’ eyes, however, are shut. his lips part to speak in a voice that does not cut at her cheek.

      “dawn’s sun rises its golden light to ward away the unruly night.” a  kul tiran accent rests heavily in each syllable  passing from him. “the mornin’ brings us the peace of a new day.”

      breaking through silent tranquility, a droplet of water pitters against the ground. she counts; four seconds later, she hears it again.

      “there are many places the sun cannot reach. as dawn recedes, the shadows of night slowly crawl to announce their return.” he raises his head. water continues to drip somewhere in the room.

      rather than the hazel in life or the dark of death, all fawn sees when rhys opens his eyes is a conflagration of orange—fire. slowly, rivulets of dark ink seep from blazing sockets: they stain the skin of his face in atramentous black.

                                                            “in some of us, night never strays.”

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This morning, the sun endures past dawn. I realise that it is August: the summer's last stand.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking

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“Because we fucking can, and if we can, we do.”

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Breanna Ashworth’s office in the Royal Conservatory

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i am reduced i am reduced i am reduced to this damp to this dark to this driven rag

Kamau Brathwaite, from ‘Kingston in the kingdom of the world’, Hinterland: Caribbean Poetry from the West Indies & Britain (ed. E. A. Markham)

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A little madness in the spring is wholesome,

Emily Dickinson, from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson; “A Little Madness,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Ph. Aleksandra Instagram: tanzdreamer