#excerpts: htdo

[artbyeloquent]

Y'all I actually wrote something! :D it's short and I'd like to expand on it later (perhaps for Patrons only) but it feels so good to have WRITTEN!! Based on @druidx 's request for Yael and suspicious plants.

I will transcribe this when I get home and have access to a laptop!

[artbyeloquent]

Fastdrafting HtDO: Week 10 Summary

I am attempting to write every day until I reach my goal, just because I want to be done, hehe. Have not necessarily succeeded, but still met my goal.

Sunday 4/24 | 0 / 435

Monday 4/25 | 693 / 435

Tuesday 4/26 | 0 / 435

Wednesday 4/27 | 1728 / 435 (what is it with Wednesdays?)

Thursday 4/28 | 0 / 435

Friday 4/29 | 467 / 435

Saturday 4/30 | 0 / 435

Total word count: 3100 / 3045

WIP grand total, including pre-FD: 43,620 !!

taglist ( ask to be + / - )

@ellierenae @drsnefarious @the-finch-address @bloodandmonsters @afoolandathief @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables @avichaiish @v-ahavta @druidx @ashen-crest @pe-ersona @moononherwings @stories-by-rie @raisapathy @holyatlas @wildswrites

excerpt below the cut (content warnings: death, brief trauma flashback, ghost attempting to distress animals)

Upon waking, the first sensation to sweep over Gereshom was cold. 

Everything was cold. A particular, foreign kind of cold that reminded him not of winter’s first frost but of numbness of the limbs. That spiking white-hot pain interspersed in a feeling of false death. It roared, at first, before settling into a subdued but ever-present ripple of discomfort. The space between his ears felt like a waterfall. Crashing, rushing; a continuous rhythm of overwhelm which took far longer to subside than the physical cold. 

When it did, Gereshom was standing in an open-air market. Gentlemen greeted each other with nods and half-hugs, fingers intertwined in a strong overhand shake. Mothers with babes upon their hips sorted through towering stacks of produce for the ripest and least bruised. They exchanged chatter with vendors about the upcoming harvests, the growth of their children and the studies of their husbands. Unattended youths scrambled across the flagstones, battling with fallen vines or branches they had fashioned into swords and whips.

His breath seized in his throat as one of the children ran through him. His figure scattered into thousands of particles only to surge back into position once the intrusion was gone. The cold feeling likewise flared, infecting even the surface of his teeth. As he stared at the marketplace, images of Gomorrah’s transposed on top of it. He flinched, clutching his head as he was sieged with the panic of that moment, the smell of sulfur and burning flesh. 

Then it was gone, as suddenly as it came. 

It took several laps around the winding streets of shops for Gereshom to fully acclimate to reality. Foreign names, foreign places dripped from the tongues of merchants and laypeople alike. Tradesfolk sold their wares using fancy new terms they bolstered with pride. He wondered, listening to their pitches, how he was able to understand them at all. It was a recitation of syllables he certainly hadn’t encountered before. Yet, as he dragged an incorporeal hand through the wall of a general store, he supposed language barriers were a little pointless after death. He was existing on a plane that, to his limited sense of being, felt layered on top of the physical world, intersecting but never truly the same. He tried, of course. He kicked at passerby’s feet and attempted to rattle signs. He had heard ghost stories in his youth and had no reason not to try. But aside from provoking the bristled ire of some alley cats, nothing worked. Neither the animate nor the inanimate could come in contact with him. The animals that did see him had no means to communicate with their masters what was displeasing them, so they were shooed or baby-talked until they gave up the empty corner which caused them such distress. Disappointing, really.

[artbyeloquent]

For the WIP guessing game: Rose & Cake

Y'all keep calling on some of my favorite lines so far. Chefs kiss.

rose:

As they entered the first floor, a strong draft of myrtle and wild rose embraced them with the force of a cousin they hadn't seen in years. As if they could stay away for that long. Unconsciously, some of the tension they had rolled off their shoulders and down their spine, allowing them to release the poise of their shoulders. Old habits.

cake

[artbyeloquent]

This is a bit of a gamble but for the WIP guessing game: “mamaleh”. 😂

Will you take bubeleh instead? :D

“Oy, bubeleh, you don’t have to act like this...”

“I don’t know, still having a bit of trouble with the whole ‘my dad’s haunting me because he couldn’t be bothered to put his ketubah somewhere safe before passing’ thing!”

Rimon pinched the bridge of their nose. Sometimes they wondered if it would be simpler to go after sheydim, even at their age. Sure combat would be a bit harder on their knees, but at least there’d be fewer dybbukim weighing on their last nerves.

“Alright, alright,” they kvetched irritably to the frazzled daughter and her late father, “You called a professional in for a reason, do you want my help or not?”

[artbyeloquent]

Fastdrafting HtDO: Week 6 Summary

So uh, sorry this is late 🥴 last week also sucked for writing and then I left for a couple days.

Sunday 3/27 | 933 / 875 Monday 3/28 | 877 / 875 Wednesday 3/30 | 531 / 875 Saturday 4/2 | 1162 / 875 Total word count: 3503 / 3500 WIP grand total, including pre-FD: 26,390 !!

A tiny paragraph I really liked:

A speaker crackled to life above their heads. The glass shifted opacity once more, this time so subtly Rimon almost missed it. When their gaze returned to Jake, their stomach jolted. Jake was staring back, teeth bared in a poor facsimile of a smile. It shared more in common with an animal’s threat display. Somewhere deep in Rimon’s core, long before it ever dawned upon them consciously, their base instinct came to a conclusion: They weren’t talking to Jake.

taglist (ask to be + / - ):@ellierenae @drsnefarious @the-finch-address @bloodandmonsters @afoolandathief @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables @avichaiish @v-ahavta @druidx @ashen-crest @pe-ersona @moononherwings

[artbyeloquent]

Yael and Ariel are quickly competing for my favorite character.

[artbyeloquent]

Fastdrafting HtDO: Week 1 Summary

Sorry I've been so quiet, but I swear it's for good reason! It's been a FANTASTIC starting week, let me tell y'all. By focusing on "writing ANYTHING" over "writing perfectly," I've partially drafted up to Chapter 4 and completely finished Chapters 5 and 6. I'm going to list my word progress, goals for next week, and then end off with a little excerpt!

Sun 2/20 | 1064 / 950 Mon 2/21 | 1070 / 950 Wed 2/23 | 955 / 950 Thu 2/24 ( not a required writing day! ) | 543/0 Fri 2/25 (not a required writing day! ) | 702/0 Saturday 2/26 | 776/950 Total word count: 5100 / 3800 WIP grand total, including pre-FD: 7375

Next week and weeks after, I can lower my weekly word count to 3600!

I have found I LOVE pre-writing. I just start by commenting a little paragraph of what Vibes I want the chapter to have and roughly what I want to accomplish, and it makes everything after so much easier.

HtDO Taglist ( ask to be + / - ):

@ellierenae @drsnefarious @the-finch-address @bloodandmonsters @afoolandathief @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables @avichaiish @v-ahavta @druidx @ashen-crest

Excerpt below the cut. Content warnings: death, grief, food.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 5: IN WHICH RIMON AVOIDS THEIR GRIEF (AND THE SHIVA) BY DOING DISHES

The hours ticked by, swathes of people pulsing in and out of the arteries of the house. At one point, Rimon wasn’t quite sure which, the hand-washing pitcher at the door was emptied, and, extracting themself from the wet embraces of the Rosenbaums, retrieved it. The kitchen, blissfully, was still, and Rimon navigated the mighty porcelain under the arching neck of the faucet, setting it on the bottom of the sink. They stared into the abyss of the jug’s mouth as it filled. The void rushed with tap water, bubbling on the sides from the force of the spray. As it threatened the rim, Rimon shut off the water, and maneuvered the pitcher with shaky hands. The pitcher trembled in their unsteady grip, a force to behold.

Gaze finally broken from the trance of the water, Rimon glanced back to the sink. It was a double one, and on the righthand side, dishes stacked despairingly, unaddressed for who knows how long. Someone should really do those, Rimon rolled the mental image over in their mind as they returned the pitcher to the foyer. The dishes repeated in their mind like a roll of film, still image after image, but as they turned their heavy frame to return to the sanctuary of the kitchen, a tiny figure swept in front of them.

“Rimon,” croaked a tiny little woman happily, clasping their hands. “My dear! It’s been so long.”

“Ah,” Rimon forced a smile. “Mrs. Feldman, it has... I’m sorry, I—”

But alas, it was too late. “My, have you gotten even taller?” The tiny elf of a woman peered up through lenses as thick as Rimon’s wrist. “How is work in Te’ena going? I was talking to Devorah earlier, and...”

Rimon’s mind was blank except for the roaring of the kitchen sink and the image of those dishes. Mrs. Feldman spoke in a trembling tone for several minutes, delicate but unbroken. Minutes that soon felt like hours, a cycle of nods and half-formed excuses to leave the conversation. The topics trudged aimlessly through Te’ena, the sweetness of Jake’s life, and Mrs. Feldman’s grandchildren. Finally, the internal noise, rushing desperately to keep the fragile peace in Rimon’s vacant mind, could bear it no more.

“Mrs. Feldman,” Rimon said, gripping the elderly lady’s paper-thin wrists with urgency and care, “I have to see to the mourners, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh yes, yes of course my dear,” Mrs. Feldman replied, clasping Rimon’s wrists back and making tiny steps toward the next target of her “quick catching up.” “Take care, Rimon, and say hello to your family. Oh, they are doing well, I hope? Is—”

“Yes,” Rimon replied hurriedly, already halfway across the room.

Scrtch, scrtch, scrtch.

Lavender-scented suds enveloped the sponge wand as it traced ritual circles in the deep serving tray. The water was impossibly hot, hot that penetrated down to the bone. Yet Rimon's beige hands proceeded gloveless, unfazed.

Fsshhhhh. The steam curled into the air. Rimon's mechanations continued, scrubbing spirals until the volcanic water washed the dish clean. Then it was set aside on the counter, joining the others in neat rows. A private mortuary of clean china.

Rimon's side hummed with the static electricity of a companion; Dev had joined them. But she said nothing, and so Rimon's focus remained on the assembly line. Biggest platters first, cooking utensils next, traditional dishes, glassware, ending with the cutlery.

Dev swept a methodical dishrag over the sudsy counter lip, brushing Rimon's linen shirt. Though hidden well by the onyx weave, it was now soaked with dish water, hot and clammy. Dev's jaw twitched, and she leaned in, keeping unbroken eye contact with the outline of Rimon's pupil, averted to the sink.

"Have you eaten?"

Rimon halted, trance broken, before shaking their head. As if summoned, the snarl of hunger washed over their stomach. Dev tsked and welcomed herself into the kitchen, opening cupboards in brisk succession until she found the pantry. She disappeared behind Rimon's broad shoulders, out of their line of sight. The thnk, thnk, thnk of metal striking wood filled the quiet air. Heady scents of onion, dill, chives, and garlic engulfed the room. Rimon breathed deeply, ushering the scents in like old friends, and closed their eyes. Oil sizzled in a pan, volume rising sharply as ingredients were tossed in. The fridge door creaked open, snapped shut. Eggshells crinkled under the guidance of Dev's measured hands. The hinge of the toaster locked into place.

And so a different rhythm was established; crackle, thunk, sizzle, creak. From pan to counter to fridge and back again. Rimon opened their eyes and turned to watch. Dev moved less like a chef, more like a surgeon; precise, diligent, unyielding. A spoon in the mixture to taste, the ke-sha, ke-sha of a salt shaker. crackle, thunk, shhhhh, thunk. The dial in charge of the gas flame snapped into the off position. The clink of fork and china on counter, retrieved from the army of clean dishes. The contents of the pan were transferred onto the plate. Dev set it on the island in the center of the kitchen, and with a firm hand on Rimon's back, she compelled them to sit at one of the clustered bar stools.

The white plate lay solitary on the marble. Upon it was rich, golden egg crowned with chives and dill, encircled by wedges of blistered tomato. Scattered into the omelet was crisp, diced garlic and honey-colored onion. Rimon's mouth watered, and they barely registered Dev pushing the fork into their hand before they were practically inhaling the first bites.

"Slower," Dev snapped, and Rimon had no choice but to obey as the first taste burned the lining of their mouth. They breathed through their nose, as if that could possibly help. When it inevitably didn’t, they chewed more rapidly and swallowed, looking sheepishly up at Dev. She rolled her eyes and turned her back, returning from the sink with cold tap water in hand.

The next bite, more than a minute later, was small and calculated. As Rimon relished in the flavors rolling over their palate, they glanced up from their eggs to meet Dev’s gaze. As Dev gazed back, an unspoken exchange of gratitude and understanding settled between them. They wouldn’t have to share, or portion leftovers, or feel as if they were taking from those who truly needed it. A slice of sanctuary, all to themselves, cooked not for the mourners but between friends. A selfish piece of serenity in the midst of ceaseless grief and chaos.