#Is this technically prose?

[creationsabyss]

Anemoia (How Long Will You Reach For The Ghosts Of Distant Stars?)

They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.

This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.

But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.

They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.

Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.

They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.

Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.

But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.

Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.

@n0tamused

[lena-oleanderson]

god - collected writings

from: side wounds | precious wound | stay away | against such things there is no law | shooting star

[devondespresso]

im confident that part of The Stobin Bond™ comes from them having impeccable chemistry which means they would've probably gotten along really well even before the whole Russian torture thing BUT Robin still had a pretty strong grudge against him from highschool so she just really really doesn't want to

so imagine: Steve and Robin working one of their firsts shifts at scoops together. During a small break between customers Steve gets her attention. makes unbroken eye contact. holds up one of their little spoons, and says "poon". then immediately breaking into a goofy ass smile. maybe even a giggle. and robin is trying so so so hard to look unaffected. annoyed, ideally.

then later that night while Steve's on break or maybe went home, shes waiting for the inevitable rush when the latest movie lets out. She wanders up to the register. sees the "poon" again. and laughs

[thisisnotthenerd]

started thinking about lyrics to dawn of justice

like:

watch me rise on this dawn of justice rebel fire for saviors and righteous eyes on me when the fucking bass hits ‘cause you know i’m coming for you bitch

or

fiery sun emerge from the dark clouds scales of law turned hammer of war now find conviction pure from love or doubt best prepare ‘cause i will not bow down

or

clawed the fire from sundown as she fell powers shift as followers compel carved bakur out of athenriel giant devil bursting forth in hell

or

sunlight breaking out of the darkness summer’s peace give way to the conquest crystals red now coming to harvest bringing power to rage incarnate

[writinglittlebeasts]

i like the reputation of the semicolon as some esoteric wizards' tool, like it's difficult and frightening to comprehend

[strawberrycowtime]

miles edgeworth is a LOSER (affectionate)

[anulithots]

My dear, you are so perfectionistic it's eating you up inside.

My dear, your emotions fluctuate and that is okay, they are not to be managed and controlled, analyzed to tiny pieces, cut up with a knife so they may be 'right'. The more difficult, the icky ones which clog and clump over every available area are not to be scraped away so the remaining edges are raw and bloodied. It is okay, it is okay, little one, to let them remain and let them be. Beasts of sorts. That's what they are, behemoths to be observed from afar

My dear, not every word has to be presentable, not every action and every expression and every day of lazy butterflies must be boxed so a bow of loose glitter may be placed atop. You are allowed to exist. You are not a waste of space. For the stars, black holes, galaxies and colorful nothings fill it, yet the space remains regardless of its wonders. You are not what you can give, nor do you give little. This does not justify your existence because your life does not need justification.

My dear, what is this life if not a collection? Why must you gather all the lights and scatter them across the aesthetic pages of a worn sketchbook and call that worthwhile? Why when it brings you nothing but burnt hands and a sky without its stars. Is there not something poetic within this, icky and almost-disgusting as it may be? Does there need to be poetry in this? Ah, I see you write this down but even so does it need to be in fancy words? Is there not something beautiful in it when you step away for a moment to gaze upon what has amassed?

My dear, this body has emotions and those emotions fluctuate and what is it if not a dance of sorts? Breathe and let yourself rest. It is okay.

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Jinn-Bot of Shantiport

set in a cyberpunk Calcutta-inspired city, loosely inspired by Aladdin

chaotic monkey bot who wants to fight in underground mecha/bot tournaments and leave to become a space hero

his human sister, the daughter of failed revolutionaries who has been working her whole life to free their city from oppression and inequality, especially with the recent rumors that their planet is scheduled for destruction

and an old unearthed bot whose function is to observe & record the story of a client who meets the siblings and quickly becomes involved in their lives

and a treasure hunt to find an old and powerful piece of alien tech that has the power to radically change their city

[revelisms]

The doctor has a touch like death: chempowder grit beneath the nails, corpse-cool and smooth as stone, prodding his throat like a butcher peeling through layers of rotted meat.

And perhaps that's what he feels like, laid flat on his table: his clothes soaked with sweat, his vision swimming in pink-black-blue. A buck waiting to be skinned. A fish half-gutted.

The fingerpads are too thin, too feeble. They reek not of tobacco, but parchment and must.

"Breathe, boy."

Silco's no boy—but hardly is he human, either, after the black depths he crawled himself out of: a wet womb of industrial filth, his City one with his veins, its slow decay as promised as his slow-shanked slow-bleeding black-shredded heart.

The damned organ beat stubbornly on: boat thrashing to the waves. It kept only a shell still-moving.

A thumb skirts down his pulse-point, and presses. The bruising twinges, simmers, aches. "Narrowly avoided a fracture," gruffs the vulture over him.

It takes two attempts to swallow. "Shall I count myself lucky?"

The words no longer belong to him. His voice lays repackaged beneath a cannibalistic fervor: the kind lent only to night-creatures that peel the flesh from the living and pick their teeth with the dead.

"Luck is that you can speak, at all." The touch eases. "Avoid it, for now."

Sensationless, half-blind, prickling, the doctor leaves him. In the stillness, his own hand stumbles across his clavicle: itches spindly fingers across the frayed collar of his linens, slops heavy-clammy-cold to the slope of his neck.

A pulse drums beneath his palm. His own body. Yes, Kindreds, his own wretched body.

Still alive.

His nails sink in.

Still alive.

Ease.

Still alive.

(And so is he. So is he. So is he.)

"Breathe, boy."

Air shudders from his throat. Shivers against the weight of his palm; his blood beating, beating, beating.

"How long?" he gristles out.

A rattle of metal at the wheeled tray. The doctor's stare skims over him, like a lick of heat from a pyre. "Yours is...a unique case. Some have lasted years. Most succumb, within months." But. But. "At the rate the infection is spreading—"

Beating, beating, beating.

"How long?"

As long as Vander is still living. As long as his knife still sits squeezed between his blood-tipped nails, scratched leather and steel, bone-handled ache. As long as there are still bones to pick his teeth with, hunger to fill, a vision he does not need two damned eyes to see: a glory, a rain of hellfire, a retribution, a need—

Their city's starvation in his veins. Their city's future, blazing in bilge-fire.

"Twice a day," the doctor mutters, a glass vial tacked to the table's edge. "Log your symptoms, every morning. Stay off the smoke."

Silco's thumb stutters beneath his jaw.

He's used to a life without answers. In the noxious wastes of the Sump, he made his peace with it.

This wraith doubts it.

"I won't die, doctor." A beast sears to life beneath his hand, dragon-fang, daggers in the words: grits off the walls, like a spirit's clawscratch. "I can't." Three octaves grappling for purchase: silk and stone and fire at his cheek.

But he will, one day. By Janna's blessing alone, he will.

(And so will he. So will he. So will he.)

silco and singed / low doses

[universalsatan]

okay like. i haven’t read a lot. crippling undiagnosed adhd and probably memory issues have kept me from consuming books since like elementary school. i probably finished one assigned novel in high school and i finally finished a whole novel for fun last year. i’m churning through moby dick slowly atm, but as a decent editor and writer and hence someone associated with the writing community and seeing those booktok recs or whatever…

girl tell me why the first book i open. starts with a fucking. spotify playlist. like, i was Aware that these books were wattpad-level. but i didnt think it was THAT wattpad holy shit

[yuukimiyas]

nov. 13th 2023

₊˚ෆ 350 words / not beta read! / in no way, shape or form formatted correctly! / many punctuation mistakes! / i swear ik how to format normally!!

ᕱ ⑅ ᕱ a/n: hello all!! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა this came to me while i was talkin to my psychiatrist the other wk & it just wouldn't leave my mind!! ໒꒰ྀི ∩ ⸝⸝ ∩ ꒱ྀིა this is v self indulgent & v personal & i was originally gonna keep it to myself but i thought that maybe someone out there could resonate, even if it's a lil bit <33 so here's a lil poetry/prose moment :3

i am kind to the world because the world has not always been kind to me.

for i have begged for places at tables only to learn i never had solace there to begin with — assuming that my worth was equivalent to the scraps that litter the floor. i have foolishly taken the hand of societies predisposed values — blindly agreeing that being rigid is the only means of protection. i have been preached about taking my time then chastised for not keeping up — choking on the fabricated realization that the only place i’ll ever meet the requirements for is the last one. i have been told to appreciate the wonders of the world we live in — then swiftly reminded to only admire the beauty from afar for it’s fleeting and i’ve yet to prove my worth

i have been conditioned to believe i am a lot of things. but, i am not the masses.

i am so much more.

i am so sickeningly sweet that i give cavities a run for their money, i am so brilliantly luminous that even the sun itself seeps envy, i am so abundant with love and adoration that my body can’t help but burst at the seams to share it all.

and with that,

i will always leave an open seat at my table — a warm meal and good conversation at the ready for all who need to rest. i will always extend my hand with only the purest of intent — displaying proudly that soft and strong do not have to be autonomous to live in harmony with one another. i will always take time while it’s still ripe for the taking — it’s monetary value far outweighing that of a solid gold medal. i will continue to gaze at the world with fondness — the blinding beauty of it all synonymous with the delicate flame that burns deep within and glows outward.

but most important of all, out of everything i am, i was, and will eventually blossom to be.

i am kind to the world because the world has not always been kind

to me.

- c

๋࣭ ⭑ yuukimiyas © '23 / please do not copy/repost/translate anywhere! / all dividers by @benkeibear

[vermillioncrown]

tpac ch 10: #JustGothamThings

back for another ride in tim's pov. and you think the answer to the poll is obvious...but is it?

[windowsloth]

realized I might as well post this here too—inspired by the lengthy tangent on the last recent episode of Shelved by Genre, when cmrn calls for art of Father Inire’s St. Bernard style humanimals

[loki-was-framed]

[jupitersflytrap]

i just read the curious incident of the dog in the night-time and hopped on here to see what the general consensus was about it and oh dear i was not expecting to see so many people hating it

[summersofsalt]

Now when Nona waited for Camilla’s eyes to clear, and she lifted up Camilla’s hand to press her mouth to it, all Camilla said was, “Thanks.” And she almost didn’t flinch. 

(from Nona the Ninth, by Tamsyn Muir)