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harleyacoincidence · 8 days ago

Note

*waves* hello! i tried to message you but apparently my messages don't want to work :(

Anyway, I'd love to know what YOU write about?

Hey there! Thanks for the ask! I'm so sorry, but Tumblr seems to have eaten your ask only to spit it out two years later. Since I just found this, I'll answer it now.

I don't really have a specialty genre, but my favourites to write are fantasy, dark comedy, sci-fi, horror, and crime. My WIPs usually include a combination of those genres, some of which you'll be introduced to below. Without further ado, I'll be going over the things I write (and trust me, the list is decently long) below the cut!

Quick warnings: depictions of manipulation, violence, gore, death, mentions of suggestive content and suicide (though nothing explicit for the latter two are shown, just acknowledgements of their existence)

Tales of an Unfortunate Summoner

A three-part WIP series where protagonist Henriette Cellante (a high school student passionate about the creative arts and summoning demons) goes about her life with her trusty emotional support demon sidekick friend, Hadeon

This series has elements of fantasy, dark comedy, and horror (with just a touch of sci-fi, if you know where to look)

This is by far the oldest of the WIPs I'm working on presently, as I started this back in high school (I'm planning to finish the series and then bring it up to my current writing standard, as OH BOY, ARE SOME PARTS EVIDENT OF THE TIME THEY WERE WRITTEN)

This work does contain subjects such as violence, death, and religious imagery (since, well, demons and such)

Here are some snippets (which definitely aren't just dialogue snippets from Hadeon, the character everyone who knows about this WIP has agreed is the best for some reason):

“What, you aren’t scared of me, heck you deny my existence, but you’re scared of a little gun?"

“Elliot. You’ve been here for literal hours, and you’ve spent it lying down on a carpet. You haven’t seen most of the cool things I carefully laid out to torment you with! What the heaven, man? The stuff is literally two steps to your right. That��s it. Get up or I’ll detonate the floor.”

“Hey, hey, kid, don’t worry about it. It’s not like you had anything weird hidden there, like fanfics or something. I’d only be mad if that was the case. Wait, either you don’t read fanfiction or you’ve hidden them from me really well. Where are the fanfics, Henriette?! WHERE ARE THEY?!?”

“I doubt you’ll remember this, but some omnipotent clown came by and removed me from your brain. I can’t get back in. There’s literally an anti-demon wall in your head right now.”

Love Corrupts Fresh Lilies

A WIP novel of mine I'm adapting from poems I wrote years and years ago, featuring protagonist Rafflesia Mallory, who can't seem to get her life together until she literally falls headfirst into another universe and becomes romantically involved with a deity of corruption and evil (don't ask me how, this WIP's novel form is far from complete)

This WIP is comprised of three genres, fantasy, horror, and dark romance (something I'm fairly new to, so this WIP is kind of a test drive for it)

I started this WIP (technically) a few years ago, with the poems dating back to around high school as far as I can tell (at least, the later half), and I've been trying to change it into novel since

I've taken a lot of breaks from this WIP, as it is extremely difficult to go about, especially with the background lore I've dreamed up (literally) for it

This work contains subjects such as violence, death, extreme levels of gore, childhood trauma, manipulation, and suggestive content (it's by far on the darker side of my WIPs, but definitely not the darkest thing I've ever written, that award goes to either the WIP after this or one of my fanfiction projects)

Here are some snippets (warning for gore, violence, and death below):

His blood covered the streets. You could see it for what felt like miles. Everyone knew what had happened to him, even if they hadn’t been in the town square that day. Those who had been there in the moment only had more of the spectacle to deal with. I had been there. I knew. The memory stained my mind as beautifully as his remains did against the stone. I hadn’t thought smoke to be so corporeal, but my darling had shown me his power and proved me wrong once again. He’d been slammed against the cobblestone and pinned there. The more he struggled, the tighter the grip became. When he cried out, he was lifted and smashed back down. Everyone had heard something crack and break. It was not enough. Smoky fingers moved from his throat to his chest and stomach. That was where they remained, until every drop of crimson essence had been wrung from his form. He was thrown against the ground once more, splashing in a puddle of blood and innards that had been grotesquely crushed and pulled apart. He wasn’t moving anymore. No part was lively, not even his eyes, which had been rolled back so far into his head that it was a miracle they hadn’t fallen in.

I could hear music playing in the distance. As I followed it, I found myself in a village square. The tune was upbeat, inviting, almost like it knew I had just arrived. Why would there be music playing now, of all times? A festival? I thought, What kind of festival would be on now specifically? Do they also celebrate a jazz festival? The music doesn’t sound like jazz. I nearly tripped over a tree root while lost in thought. Definitely not my proudest moment, I’m afraid.

“You! You evil, disgusting, potion-brewing, manipulating, unorganized, witchy freak!” “You overly-peppy, cotton-brained, goody-two-shoes pushover!” “They’re in love,” Hemlock whispered to me. “It’s clear as day,” I replied.

The Devoted Musician

This WIP is very dear to my heart, originally taking place as a random story I'd come up with after being inspired by various pieces of horror media including Creepypastas (specifically Lavender Town Syndrome, Godzilla NES, and Hypno's Lullaby)

It takes heavy inspiration from these Creepypastas, but I've tried to put my own spin on them to take small concepts they revolve around and build my own story

Technically, it's an analog horror series, but focuses more on tragedy than horror (I sort it into the genres of horror, dark comedy, and tragedy)

I've been working on this WIP for eight years now, and it's been putting several of my skills to the test (communicating with a team of editors as well as editing videos myself was never my strong suit, but I'm making it work)

This work includes subjects such as suicide, murder, death, loss, cults, manipulation, and overall declines in mental health/stability

Here are some pieces of media/snippets (some of these are concept art/drafts, as I want to keep this one relatively spoiler-free):

I remember the way her hands would glide over the strings…in that moment, they seemed like sinew and the soundbox like bone.

Idealism and Adherence

This WIP is one of the "newer" ones to my collection (one of the newer projects, as I haven't really had an idea for a major project in a long time, as I want to focus on finishing the ones I already have)

This WIP is the one I have the least clear outline for, despite putting a lot of planning into how its world works, but I have a protagonist by the name of Sasha, and she's part of a specific group seeking new members to join its cause

This WIP fits into the genres of dystopian, crime, and satire (the initial idea I had for this work was literally "What if people took fandom way too seriously in real life?")

This work contains themes of religious imagery, manipulation, indoctrination, violence, and suggestive content

Here are some snippets (from my first draft, with Heavy Emphasis on "first draft"):

Sasha recalled what Adrian had said to her before she went out on her mission: “The mayor’s even more impressionable now than he was ten years ago! A little riot with fire, and he leaves us to do whatever we want. He’s gonna senile over the past decade, I swear! Not that you would remember, Sasha,” he had laughed after the two of them had finished watching a news broadcast from their mayor.

High Paradise City had been named years and years ago, and couldn’t be further from its name in the present day. It was safe to say that the original premise no longer applied. From the littered streets and smokestacks to the government which had a minuscule amount of control over the fanatic citizens than ran wild, it was certainly not the place to be.

Undying Service

This WIP, despite technically being older than Idealism and Adherence, has had virtually zero progress since the day it sprang into my brain (the document literally only has the title on the page)

I've aimed to make it surround the death of a religious minister, and how they haunt their burial place

This WIP is aimed to fit into the genres of mystery and comedy

This WIP contains religious themes and mentions of death, grief, and loss

I literally have no snippets to give you (I'm sorry), so please take this map of Italy's land use:

Miscellaneous Works/Fun Facts:

I've written a ton of short stories and drabbles (I'm talking five pages or under this time, not what Tales of an Unfortunate Summoner was supposed to be), with most of them being horror-related

I've posted a few here, but it was a while ago and my writing has improved a little since then, so I won't be putting them here again

I've written a few fanfics, some of them being requests from people I know (I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be writing Transformers or Pokémon fanfiction, but here we are)

The longest fanfiction I've ever written was about 52K words, and it was the aforementioned project in the Love Corrupts Fresh Lilies segment

I had the urge to write whump for Cuphead (a fandom I've been in officially since 2020, and an interest I've had since the game released), and I got a little carried away with what was supposed to be multiple unrelated oneshots

If I ever post it (which I might after I get a few more beta readers and go through to edit it a few more times), you'll know

I also happen to have a writing request blog now, which you can find at @coincidentallyarequestblog (I'm a bit nervous, honestly, as I'm not all that confident in my writing skills, but I was convinced by some friends of mine to make that blog, and they know I can't bring myself to delete it that easily)

Unrelated fact: I do speak some French, and it's a goal of mine to one day write something that's entirely in French (it's a daunting goal, but I'm determined to do it one day)

#answered ask #praying i formatted everything here right because i did it wrong the first time I drafted my answer to this #deleted the whole thing #that was not fun #if i get one of the titles of my wips wrong again i'm going to cry #lcfl #tales of an unfortunate summoner #the devoted musician #undying service #idealism and adherence

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a-scary-lack-of-common-sense · 5 months ago

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Part 2/2

By the time Stanley had realized he wasn't as alone as he believed himself to be entrapped in this ravenous abyss; he had honestly begun to suspect that he was finally starting to properly lose his mind.

In all the ceaseless miles that Stanley had journeyed during his apparent permanent residence within the dark devouring void, not once had he encountered another conscious, walking, talking being similar to himself. Every other formerly living creature that he had crossed paths with had been so... silent. Empty. Dead, in every sense of the word. It was as though the very essence of life itself had been sucked out of their bodies with a straw, their forms slowly falling apart piece by piece under the vicious gluttony of the darkness that surrounded them. They looked like they actually were supposed to be there, unmoving and comatose, unlike him.

So, when Stanley first began to encounter the twins, all of a sudden, he wasn't the only one in the dark.

When meeting the first pair of them, he found himself standing in a lake.

He hadn't even noticed the changes at first. It felt as though he had been walking for weeks on end, his body moving purely on autopilot and his aching legs leading him towards a destination only it knew. A thick fog of forgetfulness and flickering memories had descended upon his brain like a heavy blanket of numbing static as he had traveled. In this absentminded state, he hadn't even realized that the ever-present undulating, buzzing darkness surrounding him had begun to gradually shift and morph to form a horizon line; stretching into tall looming cliffsides that almost seemed to close in on him. Once the nonexistent floor beneath his soles abruptly began to ripple and warp, like the disturbed surface of a shallow puddle; only then did he finally notice his transformed environment.

The transition was seamless, almost dream-like. One moment, he was still surrounded by that filthy, overwhelming abyss; and the next, his boots were suddenly plunged deep into the cold, dark lake water.

The silence didn't leave, however. It still choked and stuffed its way into Stanley's ears to clog up his mind with thick cotton; the eerie quiet not quite matching the calm, almost serene scenery the void seemed to have abruptly transformed itself into. Like a movie with its sound cut off; leaving only the unsettling hum of the projector to fill the empty air.

It was odd. The lake was surely incredibly deep. He could obviously tell from how thin and pathetically small the shores appeared all the way from where he now unceremoniously stood in the middle of the lake. Stan could look down and see the darkness below his feet swallow what meager light that managed to break through the murky waters. The overwhelming black almost seemed to beckon him, gaping and haunting; a bottomless underwater pit of pitch black that never seemed to end.

And yet, he didn't sink. Stanley remained perfectly level, the almost ink like waters stopping just at ankle level, as though he were held up just above the surface by some invisible force. Even the writhing waves seemed small and low, as though the waters were shy to climb up his legs further than that. It was odd, so very odd.

However, it wasn't nowhere near as odd as the sight that greeted him when he finally lifted his eyes from the waters.

Stanley had crossed paths with truly unbelievable sights in this strange somewhere; from bursting, collapsing stars; to the imploding heat death of entire universes, but none of them seemed to hold the candle to what he saw then when he lifted his eyes:

Children.

Two, to be exact. Two, nearly identical looking children stood motionless before him; completely soaked through to the bone as though they had taken a plunge into the frigid water that pooled around their ankles. It was a girl and a boy, both adorned with twin expressions utterly devoid of emotion, their wide eyed stare seeming to burn holes into his thin jacket. Their drenched clothes sagged off of their scrawny frames; thin rivulets of water dirpping off of them and disturbing the glassy surface of the water at their feet. The little girl's hair had messily stuck to her face in thin sodden strands, her cheeks still full and round with youth just like the boy's. They looked young. Too young to be in a place such as this.

Oh, but their eyes; their eyes.

They burned with such anger; such injustice, brighter than any dying star or galaxies he had ever seen. Anger towards the world, to fate, to whatever cruel deity that had deemed them fit to be sent to this wretched place so prematurely. They were too young to be here; to be entrapped like he was amongst this hungry darkness. And yet, here they were, sheer denial against their own untimely deaths being the only thing keeping them awake and conscious amongst the dead and rotting. A show of juvenile defiance to nature itself so vehement even the all-consumign darkness seemed hesitant to devour them whole just yet.

It saddened him. It saddened him to know that they belonged there, that they were supposed to be there. He could see it, he could feel it; they were dead. No amount of determination could deny that universal fact.

When they spoke, Stanley could hear anger:

Stan chuckled in a futile attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere that threatened to crush him whole. "A lake monster? You kids and your imagination," he teased, hoping to somehow rid the poor kids of the haunted look that seemed to whirl in their glares. No child should have been burdened with such a knowing look; such eyes that looked like they had seen everything there was to see about the world, the horrid and the good.

Clearly, it had been the wrong thing to say, and Stanley's faux pas was rewarded with a scowl from the little boy. A world's worth of sour contempt etched into every contorted groove that his grimace seemed to dig into his much too young face. Stan suddenly felt guilt squeeze at his weary bones for having caused that.

"That's what they all said," the boy spat out, eyes shining with a sheen of wetness Stan wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

Stan left that first interaction with the twins with the feeling of guilt and sorrow still clining to him.

He couldn't have known, at the time. He couldn't have known that this wouldn't be anywhere near the last time that he would meet the pair. He hadn't realised just how many of them there were. After that first pair, his endless journeying within the Abyss was hardly be spent alone anymore. Countless more times, he came face to face with the exact same two young and impossibly worn faces; forced to meet one pair of beaten and bruised kids after another.

Not one pair had died the same death as another. Some had gotten lost, prey to whatever threat that had snatched them up out in the open; some had fallen from high up; some had been crushed under an incredible weight; some had burned; some eaten alive; some zombified. Some didn't even seem physically harmed at all, body perfectly intact, and yet that same faraway, distrubed look in their eyes remained.

He thought the worst ones were the ones he found alone. A little girl or a little boy, left all lonesome without their other half there. Twins, he remembered a pair of them telling him once.

Once, he had come across a town full of silent, stone statues. It was a rustic, shabby, almost nostalgic looking town- odd and strangely familiar. The sight of it had tugged at an aged memory that had long since wasted away in the back of his mind. It was serene, almost deceptively so. The sun shone; the air smelled crisp and fresh; numerous waterfalls continued to crash down from the tall cliffsides; and a soft nonexistent breeze whistled through the thicket of pine trees that blanketed the outskirts of the town. None of it seemed to match the gruesome scene of the hundred wailing statues that littered every inch of the town.

He had found the boy's statue on the other side of town, deep within the green forest and toppled over the gnarled roots of a towering tree. Like the rest of the townsfolk, he too, was frozen mid-shriek; his stone face twisted and contorted into a mock impression of a silent scream as his body lay paused in a writhing struggle. He made sure to be gentle when he carried the boy's statue over to place it beside the girl's, whose statue stood far deeper into the forest, sporting the same rictus grimace of terror as her brother's. It somehow felt wrong for them to have been so far apart from one another, even in death.

He had come to dread meeting of the twins. He hated every second he had to confront yet another pair of dead children that did not belong here, but fate had decided they did. He despised having to listen to their tales of woe as they wept about the injustice of the world, of having died young; he despised himself for being unable to do more than weep with them.

"We don't belong here, Grunkle Stan," he would listen to the little girl weep, calling him a title he didn't recognize. He never remembered if they had ever told him their name, but they all seem to know his, without a fail. "If we're dead, then what about you? What about Grunkle Ford? Mom? Dad? What about them? We can't be dead, we can't be," they would say, confusion and frustration written all over their faces. They didn't understand. They didn't understand why they had come to the darkness so early, so unfairly.

He never knew what to say, he'd never been good with words.

All he could do was kneel down to their levels and engulf them in his arms, hoping he could somehow squeeze the pain straight out of their bodies in his embrace. He hugged them, because what else could he do?