#i just think creative writing is neat

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I know this isn't part of the prompts thing technically, but I was wondering about your opinion on this:

Ordonian Folktales: The Tale of the Stáblad & the Twisted Capaill

It's just a folktale I thought up to try & flesh out the culture of Ordon a bit is all.

I'd really like to see something on Twilight telling the story to the other Links, but again I understand if you don't. Perhaps with Twilight as the blorbo & horseshoes as the item if you're willing to stretch the prompt a bit?

If all I can get is your opinion/critique on it or even just a polite, "sorry, not doing it." Then, I'm more than okay with that.

So, yeah. If you're not feeling up for it, that's fine.

Twilight watched Warriors take an all too eager swig from his flask. He ignored it once, twice, thrice as he scraped some caked in mud out of his Epona's horseshoes. Then he noted, "You know, there's a tale in Ordon about a stable boy who liked to drink too much."

Warriors glanced at him in profile, eyes simultaneously teasing and curious. "Oh? Are you going to impart some country wisdom on me?"

Sky burst out laughing, his cheeks far too flushed. "But you two only got Courage from the Triforce!"

Twilight gingerly reached over and plucked the bottle out of Sky's hands. "That's definitely enough for you."

Time sipped his own flask slowly. "Go on, rancher."

Watching Warriors in particular, Twilight explained, "A stable boy used to steal moonshine from his boss. Never owned up to it, always enjoying getting drunk and having fun. One day he had to hide the stash from his boss, and he panicked, dunking it into the water trough. The boss' prized horse drank it and started to dance."

"Dancing horses is fun!" Wind piped in.

"Yeah, but she fell and broke her legs. They had to put her down to end her suffering." Twilight continued.

Wild's head shot up. "I don't like this story."

Warriors sighed. "Yes, yes, slovenly drunkenness is bad. We all can see the lesson here."

"The stable boy didn't own up to it, though," Twilight continued. "So the horse god punished him by turning him into a horse."

Sky hummed, eyes wide with wonder. "I want to turn into a loftwing."

Twilight laughed, reaching over and pulling the younger hero to him in a side hug. "You're a mess."

"Stuck as a horse forever, huh," Legend yawned, laying on his back and stargazing. "Kind of a nice amount of freedom to that."

"Oh, no, it doesn't end there," Twilight continued. "The next stable boy had the same vice and made the same mistake. When the first boy drank out of the trough, he danced and broke his legs as well. But he confessed his crimes before they could put him down, and for that he was transformed back."

Warriors finished off his drink, leaning against a rock. "Well. For starters. I wouldn't steal alcohol. I can just buy it."

Hyrule barked out a laugh. Twilight rolled his eyes.

[quatregats]

Went back and reread some of Master and Commander again and goddamn is that book rich with detail...truly I did not know how to appreciate it on the first (or second) read-through...

[bluebelliedrolling]

it’s been really fascinating diving into the hermitcraft obsession (again), but more than that diving into the fandom aspect of it — by which I mean the grian watcher lore

It’s incredible that a lot of the lore seems to be fanmade, like, this is usually how I learn about new fandoms, but knowing that a lot of the interpretation is fanon makes it cooler somehow. If I could try to summarise it all from a player’s perspective:

Do you know about the Watchers? No? Oh, surely you’ve heard of them. Maybe not by that name, but you must know a version of them.

Of course there are different versions! Some stories say the Watchers bring gifts to us, some say they’re tricksters, and some people think they’ve stopped interacting with the world entirely.

Name one Watcher? That’s not nearly as hard as you make it sound. Let’s see…

Have you heard of Xelqua? Woah, careful there! I need that glass!

So you do know the Watchers! Xelqua’s story? Well, I heard it’s about a deserter. Xelqua is a Watcher who decided to leave them. Or so I think. I’ve heard others say that the Watchers tossed him out, but based on what Xelqua is known for, I’m inclined to believe the former.

You really don’t know a thing about these stories, do you? Xelqua is the Watcher prayed to by the lost, wanderers and… well, and hermits. You could probably ask Xisuma more about it all, really. I know he favours Xelqua, not sure about the others.

Me? I mean, I’m not sure about the Watchers at all. Xelqua seems alright, to me. I don’t know how I feel about the extra eyes and the divine powers, but if Xisuma thinks Xelqua’s good enough to pray to, that has to count for something.

Don’t you think so, Grian?

[honey-writes]

Comparing the writing I’ve made in the last few weeks to the things I made a year ago is so crazy cause the difference is so palpable. It’s so fascinating watching my style evolve in real time and it feels so rewarding to look back at old works and think: “I could do that better now.” The stark contrast from the writings I make now in comparison to the writings I made last year is such a great reminder of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve learned, how I’ve evolved into a writer I like so much better now (:

If you compare the things you’ve written recently to the things you’ve written a few months or even a few years ago, you’ll probably see a difference. And that’s cool as hell! We’re changing and learning and growing alongside our art! How wonderful! Be proud of yourself!

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 21 / 31 * BABYSITTER 」

May 8, 2004, Lone Pine Timeline

George groans, slamming the palm of his hand against the edge of the desk so hard it topples over the vidframe containing a picture of him and Lorraine on their anniversary cruise last year.

“Grandpa?” Emmett asks, peeking his head around the doorframe, his voice small. “Are you okay?”

George smiles down at his grandson, most of the irritation immediately easing off his features save for that crease between his brows that, lately, only seems to get deeper and deeper with each passing day. Lorraine had teased him that he’ll make them a permanent addition to the wrinkles he’s already developing with age—oh stop, George, they make you look distinguished and wise—and he would swear he could feel the rest of the colour leaching out of his hair, turning him greyer and greyer by the day.

“Everything’s fine, Em.” Flicking his wrist, George indicates the object of his current frustrations—the half-formed thoughts and line after line of struck-through text that, in his mind, only represented one failure after another. “I’ve hit a wall—this writer’s block has been going on for weeks and I’m right there, I just can’t—”

Emmett shuffles closer, wide-eyed as his Grandpa lets out an exaggerated sigh that reminds him of Ellie when Mom forces her to share with him. “Writer’s block?”

“It’s like—” George pauses, a thoughtful expression working its way onto his face. “When you’re trying to get somewhere and you know how to get there, but someone puts something in your way to stop you. I’ve been trying to write this one scene for my new novel for weeks and the pieces are all there, I just can’t put them together right now.”

And with the publishers constantly asking for updates, barely hiding their frustration when he tells them, again, that he’s working on it and it will be finished when it’s finished, completion feels more and more like an impossible task.

“Oh!” Emmett announces excitedly, visibly pleased with himself for connecting the dots. “Like Daddy when he doesn’t know how to write new songs. I think he called it something else though…a fu—”

“Exactly like that.” George cuts him off before he can finish that thought and Emmett’s smile remains achingly bright and wide, pulling at the corners of his eyes.

“Can I help? Sometimes when Daddy gets stuck, he talks to Mommy about it and it helps.”

Déjà vu hits like a punch to the gut, reminding George of days long gone—when Marty was five, six years old, demanding to sit on his lap and be involved in the creative process, hanging onto every word and thought and grasping for whatever threads he could grab in his small hands. Creativity burst from him at the seams—something he sees echoed here in Emmett, which leaves him wondering if maybe he’ll follow in one of their footsteps, pursue writing or music or art—and Marty was always quick with a comment or criticism, even if he only half-understood what was going on at that particular point in the story.

Marty was his biggest critic and his biggest supporter, never afraid to tell him ‘That’s stupid, Dad,’ or ‘I like it but I think it would be cooler if this Dark guy showed up here to use his powers!’

“A fresh pair of eyes might be exactly what I need. C’mere. I’ll tell you my ideas and you give me your thoughts. Okay?”

“Okay!”

[wreckedhoney]

it might be the hormones talking but i am like in some throes of discouragement

[tankshaw]

unedited sneak peak of the secretly physically affectionate darlin fic im writing

“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” David grumbled. He sounded less upset than he typically did when he was scolding them and more concerned. Darlin shrugged, “It wasn’t really important, ya know. Didn’t wanna make a big deal out of nothing.”

David rolled his eyes, closing the distance between them with purpose. His hand reached up to rest at the back of their neck, drawing their head closer to bump his forehead to theirs. His hand tightened, protecting their ever vulnerable spine. It was something Darlin had always seen the other pack members do, but never allowed themselves to partake in.

Something in their instincts melted and a gentle haze settled in their mind. “Oh,” the said breathlessly.

David scoffed with a fond smile. “Yeah, ‘oh.’ We wanted to respect your boundaries. Or what we thought were your boundaries. But this kind of stuff is important for shifters, more than other humans. You should know that.”

“I guess I just didn’t know how to ask and it’s not like my relationship with the back at the time was the best,” they replied. 

Their own hand carefully drifted up to David’s own neck, waiting for any sign that it was unwanted. The moment their hand covered the weak point, both of the shifters let out a breath. 

“Well now you do and now you know that we’ll answer when you call,” David said gently. “We’re your pack. Anything you need or want, you can ask us for. Now come here.”

And with that, he drew them into a tight, warm hug.

[cloudyswritings]

Do you think crabs dream? I’ve come to the conclusion that they do. Their dreams are a window to the future as seen through crystal and roiling waves, and they fortell one form that eclipses all others. The future is not the domain of man, or those whose forms we’ve twisted to our own ends. No, instead of the soft peal of chorale music, the energetic yips and yaps of dogs, or the soft churning rumble of cats, the future belongs to the sharp staccato of crab claws. You see, crabs dream, and they dream of domination.

[delivish]

‎

[fnafawoundleftbleedingau]

Gonna be a while before I think I'll be drawing much beyond some planned doodles I said I'd do to a couple close friends, but... I'm curious, what FNaF AU drawings types from me sound more interesting..?

A random poll yes, but I'm curious, and ngl, I think I'm approaching one of those not so great "Spells" where I'm losing confidence in the things I'm well, supposed to be doing for fun. ^^;

[gaydryad]

accidentally getting a little too into my pedagogy class and starting to wonder if I should pivot and go into education (academic field)

[sithbelle]

Ok my fellow writers, who's also an analytics nerd? One of the things that kept me motivated while writing my book was seeing all the little numbers continually going up. It also helps me to see where I was mentally during the time I was writing each chapter (not shown are the little explanations for the larger gaps in time off to the right of this screen). I also have 5 different spreadsheets with a billion tabs each tracking all the different worldbuilding aspects of the story. Does anyone else do this? If so, what kind of tools do you use? If you just rawdog the story without notes, you are an absolute superhuman in my eyes!

[bookwyrminspiration]

The apartment across the hall. Bright orange walls and bright yellow basket lights. Closed shutters on the windows. The smell of ginger and tangerine and wet dirt. Little mats on the pebbled floor to sit on instead of furniture. A fireplace that provides both heat and a place to cook. A bathroom that has just a single pot. A bedroom that has a single hammock and some clothes folded to the side. A dog with just one ear and three legs, curled up in the corner. Who lives here, Quil?

That depends on who you ask, but since you've asked me, I think this apartment is occupied by an old spirit from times long past, one who stumbled his way out of the wet earth on accident, perhaps drawn by the feel of the building, the ethereal aura it emanates for reasons no one speaks aloud.

He loves vibrancy, the way they remind him of life, even if the life he knew is gone and ancient. Bright orange and burning lights, roaring fires and a heat he can almost feel. The fire's there year round, even in the summer, though he'll let it die down when guests come around. Especially that one professor who always knows so much more than he lets on, who always seems to like it cold. But he keeps it going for food, though he doesn't eat it himself. He doesn't understand the mystery of the heating thing in the kitchen, prefers the familiarity of cast iron pot.

It was a gift from the lovely woman upstairs, who taught him a few new recipes, gave him cards with all the measurements written by hand, squiggles of doodles in a language he didn't understand on the margins. She fretted over him when he moved in, worried about how he had no furniture, nothing to curl up upon.

He gave some excuse about not needed it, preferring it this way. You see, when you're dead, you're just as comfortable on a mat as you are on a couch. A hammock as comfortable as a bed and more familiar from all the time he's spent in the woods, in the wet earth. Maybe one day he'll invest in something for his guest, but he doesn't get out of the house much. Something draws him, instead, to the other apartments and friendly faces.

The dog was unintentional, but one night he and the neighbor upstairs who moved with a rhythm no one else knew had been outside, and there they'd found the poor thing shivering and cold. He didn't have any body heat to offer, but he had a home. And even though his neighbor was better with animals than he, they saw how much he wanted the company those long nights he couldn't sleep through. So he'd taken it with him, let it share his space, let it know him as no one else did. Let it see how his hand passed through everything unless he concentrated, how he never slept, never got cold, never truly touched the ground.

I think a lovely, lonely ghost looking for company lives in that apartment, keeping his secret as everyone around him keeps theirs :)

[makosinnergy]

A ONE-SIDED CONVERSATION ABOUT THE PIT IN OUR LIVES

If you go down the alley, past the goat, you’ll find it. That thing you’re looking for.

…What? You didn’t ask me anything? Don’t play dumb. There’s only one reason anyone comes around here. Nowadays, I mean.

Did you think we wanted that thing here? Maybe someone did, but we sure didn’t. Just like you, we didn’t ask for anything. It just came to us.

“For us”? Fuck off. You think anyone wants this place? The only people who give a damn about us are the taxman and idiots like you.

You can expect nothing. There’s nothing here. Like I tell each one of you, the Pit isn’t an answer to anything. Drop all the dolls you want down there, they’ll never hit the bottom. She ain’t coming back.

…Like I said. I’m not an idiot.

You look tired, mate. Why not rest here a while? Go see it tomorrow. It isn’t going anywhere, but this beer is – to my stomach, hah.

Good head you’ve got there. Here, lemme get you a glass.

Alright. Now tell me – how’d it happen?

Yeah, that sounds about right. You get a lot of stories like that ‘round here.

…I was there when it opened, y’know. The Pit.

It was just another day. I was cooking when I heard it, actually. Or—felt it, more like. This sudden sense of wrong, like I wasn’t in my home anymore. Like—the paint was the same, the floor was the same, but it wasn’t. As if someone had moved my entire house a centimetre to the left.

And then I—I heard it. This awful wail, a high-pitched thing, like a fucking kettle. That’s what I thought – “did I turn the kettle on?” Fucking idiot.

It was the neighbour’s kid. Richard Jr., Little Dick. Hey, don’t laugh, it’s a perfectly respectable name. Why, Old Molly has been eating Senior Dick’s products for generations!

…Ahhh… yeah, Richard Sr. was a funny bloke. He was always actin’ serious, but he never meant it. Most important man in the room, he was, just ‘cause he acted like it. Y’know the type—stone-faced motherfuckers who act like they’re in, I dunno—

Yeah, investment banking, shit like that. Like he’s got some pedigree. But he’s just workin’ the counter at a chain bookstore.

It’s not oddly specific, it’s where he worked! What, you think franchise chains don’t wanna risk comin’ down here? You kiddin’? Places like this are where their money’s at. Snap up an old property, make it up like new ‘nd all minimalist ‘nd shit, hire some sixteen-year-old to man the counter and an immigrant to man the shelves, sell shit for cheap and pay ‘em cheaper. Coles killed your mum-and-pop, customer satisfaction guaranteed.

Oi, I’m not a communist, I’m a realist. Besides, what’s someone your age doing throwin’ terms like that around? Did your grandpa get Facebook or somethin’?

…Yeah, all right, fine. I guarantee, though, you’re gonna wish we were talkin’ ‘bout politics by the time we’re through. Fuck, I need another drink. Want a refill?

Hooookay, so, Richie Jr. is howlin’ outside, I’m staring into a pot of Bolognese sauce. Then I heard somethin’ like thunder coming from the ground, this awful clap-bang, like… fuck, like nothing I’d heard before.

So then I realise something is wrong, but I don’t panic. I don’t know why. Everyone else was the same, though – like our bodies knew there was nothing to worry about. I didn’t know that then, though, ‘cause I was alone in the house. So I was stumbling to the front door, taking big steps, trying to panic. Like if I was panicking, it’d make everything…

Yeah. That’s it. I wanted to be validated. I wanted—I wanted there to be no danger, but I knew there was, even if my body didn’t. If I were scared, it meant… it meant I wanted to survive this. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t scared.

Mm. So I go to the front door and open it—we never locked it back then, ‘cause we trusted everyone. We treated thy neighbour like fuckin’ family.

…So I go outside, and it’s dark. I can’t see shit. Which was weird, ‘cause it was lunchtime. I walked onto the street and felt the dirt become gravel become road beneath my feet. The air was wet, but it was a cold wet, like it was storming. That chill cut right through to your fucking bones.

Then I realise I can’t hear the screaming anymore—the wailing was in my ears, ringing out from behind me. Like my shadow was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand what it was saying.

And the moment I realised that, I opened my eyes. That’s right – I’d had ‘em closed the whole time. ‘Cause I wasn’t scared, but I still didn’t wanna look. Just stared at the back of my eyelids like a kid hiding from a monster.

That right? Well, I’ve never been the squeamish type, but I can understand that. I don’t think anybody likes looking at people’s guts – doctors are the exception, it’s why they get paid so fuckin’ much. They get their hands dirty so we can close our eyes and pretend we don’t see monsters.

Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I get political when I get tipsy.

So, yeah, I’m out there, on the street, ears ringing, feelin’ the vibrations of this Thing through my feet. Like the foundation of my whole world was shifting, and I had no say in it.

Yeah, sure, call it a fuckin’ earthquake. My story, my descriptions, smartass. Besides, nothin’ was actually moving. It’s why all those scientists were confused – nothing had happened, but everything changed anyway.

When I open my eyes, I see my street. Quaint place, got some trees, lots of weeds, road lines all chipped and faded, you’ve seen a fuckin’ town before. Except across the street from me, there was nothing. Just a big black void of Empty.

And I see Little Dick also standing on the road, closer to it than me. And we both look at each other, but his eyes were closed. All scrunched up, even as he bawled his eyes out.

And I want to open my mouth and say something, tell him to open his eyes, that I’m here, that doesn’t have to be scared. He was just a kid, barely thirteen. I should have said something. But I didn’t. It was like my tongue was a gag, and all I could do was choke on it.

So we both walk closer to the hole, him a couple steps in front of me. I should be looking at this Thing, this anomaly in my boring-ass life, but all I can do is look at Richie. He was so unlike his father, y’know, ‘cause had his heart on his sleeve and hated fuckin’ jokes. Where Senior liked playing with words, lettin’ you know was human by havin’ a good laugh, Junior wasn’t like that. He was a fun kid, sure, but he wanted things done straight. He cried all the time and never stayed at the house—probably why he was there that day. He’d play in my yard and I’d give him Band-Aids when he skinned his knees.

I suspected. But I never knew for sure. Abuse isn’t exactly a light thing, y’know? Didn’t wanna make too much of a fuss.

When we crossed that street together, me at his back, all I wanted to do was kick up a fuss. But I still didn’t. I’ll regret it until I rot, and then some.

‘Cause, y’see, the Pit started big and got bigger. It’s been eating away at this community for years. But that day, when it started, it wasn’t—it was Empty, but not in a dark way. Like a fucking pit. Instead, it was like… What’s the thing? All those colours and shapes, and they’re all swirly?

Kaleidoscope, yeah, that’s it. It was like if you gave a kaleidoscope LSD and then erased it from existence. It was so dark, it burned to look at, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t hear my own heartbeat over the growling down below. Its presence—it vibrated through you. Until you forgot what it was like to be you, to have a world before the Pit. That’s the kind of thing it was like.

And Junior reaches the edge, the barrier between our reality and its dominion, and he screams something, but I can’t hear it over my own wailing shadow, useless warnin’ that it was. “Something is wrong!” Yeah, so shit. I was watching the Heavens fall from the sky and burn their way to Hell. Nothing was okay.

…He’s there, on the edge, when I hear something. Turn around and there, ‘cross the street, there’s Richard Sr. He’s squinting like he’s in the middle of a storm, but the sky was clear. The fucking firmament cracked open and sent the part of the Universe that never got made down to us, dripping through our homes like—fuck, I don’t know. I still don’t.

But Richard Sr. yells his son’s name, tells him to come back, that he’s not safe where he is. And I don’t know how I heard him crying, but not the kid, but I did. And suddenly, I realised that everything was wrong, and I was terrified and I could hear the world crashing down around me—

‘Cause I’d taken my eyes off the kid. So I look back, I look for him, and—maybe the shouting startled. Maybe he didn’t wanna see his dad. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he meant to.

But turned around and watched him jump. I was so close to him – even if I barely knew the kid – but I couldn’t do anything.

The Pit swallows him up, leaving nothing but his drying teardrops on the cracked earth. And then it took those, too, ‘cause it grew right before my eyes, leaving a gaping hole where his memory was. And I was scared.

Senior grabbed my arm and pulled me away, back to the safety of my house. We just sat there and listened to the silence it left behind. Richie couldn’t laugh anymore, couldn’t cry anymore, couldn’t hurt anymore, couldn’t help anymore. He was gone, and as we looked at that Pit through my window, I watched its colours fade and die. Like the burning sun had washed ‘em all away.

Oh, Richard cared, o’ course. But he didn’t say anything. When the ground finally settled, and we were left in this Junior-less world, he just—left. Didn’t say anything to me. There was just me, my burned pasta, and a Pit where the kids played.

It’s been years since then. And I know what people say—that if you throw your memories down there, they’ll come back. The dead.

But it’s all horseshit. You just throw their memory away, let it be eaten by a thing that doesn’t give a damn about what you’ve had to lose.

If it worked, then all the people who’ve thrown themselves in would’ve—I don’t fuckin’ know, found nirvana.

But instead, we’re getting more and more Pits all over the world. And they’re all getting’ bigger and bigger. Eating more and more lives.

Maybe it’ll be safe to look into ‘em, when they finally put the rails in. But as for me? Well, I just think—

I lost to Richie to that Pit that day. But I’d never found the words I’d been missing. Don’t make me lose you, too.

…It’s on the house. Get home safe, y’hear?