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prettylittlelyres · 2 years

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2022: My Year in Writing

Happy New Year, friends! I’ve been quiet again, but here’s my yearly round-up. Hopefully I’ll be more active in 2023! Without further ado:

What did I manage?

I wrote just over 168,500 words in 2022. It’s felt like a slow year for my writing, but that’s equivalent to 3 novels… so I’m pleased! I started the year wanting to write 500 words per day, and I managed an average of 462. In the spirit of being kind to myself, and celebrating achievements, I’ll consider that a target hit.

I wanted to read 50 books last year, but ended up reading 45. At first, comparing my 2022 reading record with its 2021 counterpart, I was disappointed, but then I thought about what I’d read in 2022, and realised I could remember more about the stories. Looking at my 2021 list, most of the books on there now come as a surprise. If I reading them at all, I can’t remember what they were about. More of 2022’s list is familiar, which may just be the recency effect, but I think reading more slowly has let me read more deeply. It’s hard to find time to read these days, but I do love it, so I’ve found ten or twenty minutes here and there to enjoy a tasty bite of story.

I’ve taken part in #PitMad several times, and was looking forward to future events, but it was discontinued after December 2021. I had to look for other pitching events. On 23rd June, I tweeted my pitch for “Vogeltje” at #PitchDis (a pitching event for stories by Disabled authors), and got a “like” from an agent. During Twitter pitch events, literary agents use the “like” button to express interest in pitches, as invitations to send them queries. I didn’t get a response to the query I sent, but in the meantime I’ve put querying on hold while I redraft, so that’s probably a good thing. I love the atmosphere of Twitter pitch events, and I’m looking forward to being able to take part in more!

What did I start?

I wanted to write more short-form work in 2022, so I started responding to other people’s writing prompts, and even making a few of my own. That led to five completed short stories (and even more that I planned or started but which never made it past bullet points in my notebook), and seven whole poems! I hardly ever wrote poetry before 2022, and seven isn’t a huge number, but it’s more poems than I wrote in 2023, and writing four in June alone pleased me so much.

Some of the short stories that I wrote last year have made it onto this blog, but I want to redraft others, and have a go at some of the ideas I sketched out in my notebook. I started it in May, and it’s just-over half-full of drafts and spider-diagrams planning responses to various prompts I’ve created and collected over the year. I can’t decide if I’ll start a new notebook for 2023, or if I’ll carry on working in my 2022 notebook until it’s full.

In amongst the short stories and poems that I scribbled into that notebook are bits of plans for other projects: three longer pieces that I’ve been working on this year which are probably going to end up as novels, but which are still far from finished. I’m hoping to finish drafting one of them in January, but I’m not ready to talk about it on here just yet. It’s still very early days!

What did I finish?

I finished redrafting “Vogeltje” on 1st February, at about 3am. I was still doing shift work then, so it wasn’t unusual for me to be awake so late, but now – feeling sluggish and queasy because I stayed up until 1:30am for New Year’s Eve – I wonder how I did it. These days, I can just about manage 2am, but I’m not up to writing anything coherent by then! So, not only did I finish a draft this year, I also finished my youthful years, when I could stay up late and not SufferTM.

There were drafts I didn’t finish. At the time, I felt bad about them – wondering why I couldn’t just motivate myself to complete a story like I apparently used to be able to – but now I can see that I did the right thing in stopping. I’ve learned to recognise when I need to stop, instead of slogging on to finish something I’m enjoying! I understand myself and what I want to write a lot better in January 2023 than I did in January 2022, and that’s because of all the stories I’ve abandoned.

Although it’s unrelated to writing, I’m pleased to say I’ve also completed the challenge I tentatively set myself at the beginning of the year: 300 days of clarinet practice! I’m so proud of how far I’ve come and I’m glad I recorded it all, so I can hear (and see) the improvements I’ve made. Now I feel like a proper musician again, and feel better in general. I think I’m standing up straighter, breathing more deeply, and even typing more quickly. My sight-reading has also improved a lot, and I’m finally, at 24, starting to figure out embouchure (only took me 14 years, but a win is a win).

I also had my graduation ceremony at last. I finished my degree in 2021, but graduation was postponed until 2022 because of COVID-19. It was wonderful crossing the stage with my best friends, and seeing my favourite lecturers again. (And I look absolutely delightful in my graduation photos!)

What did I do?

I put far too much pressure on myself in 2022.

I told myself I needed to write a huge amount, and finish a massive pile of projects, in a year when I was also trying to brush up another hobby, and when I changed from shift work to a 9-5 pattern and suddenly had a much more regimented schedule. Too much.

I wrote over 339,000 in 2021, probably more than I’ve written in any other year of my life, and I wanted to write just as much in 2022. I didn’t think about the fact that I was still at university for the first five months of 2021, and frequently had to write long essays and extensive notes alongside my own writing, which went very well. I work well under pressure, but only if someone else is putting it on! My brain doesn’t pay attention to deadlines I set myself because I can move them; as long as I’m in charge of what I write and when, I don’t write much at all.

2020 and 2019 were also really good years for my writing – I wrote 210,000 words in 2020, and a similar amount in 2019, although I don’t know exactly – and I expected myself to be just as prolific in 2022, but that wasn’t sensible. I was extremely lucky, three years running, to have my brain click and let me write so much, and it’s not a reflection on me that 2022 wasn’t like that. It was just an unlucky year, and I’m starting to realise that now. 2023 might be a lucky year, or it might not. It doesn’t matter how much I write, as long as I enjoy it.

How do I feel?

Honestly, I feel a little silly. I tried to overdo things and while I’m feeling healthier now than I’ve ever felt in my life, I’ve only been doing this well since October. Before that, I was floundering, and I need to remind myself of that any time I’m tempted to look at 2022 as a bit of a rubbish year. Yes, it was… but I had a bit of a rubbish time!

I didn’t finish “2021: My Year in Writing”, but I still have the bit I drafted. I gave up trying to get it all down because there was so much to talk about, and that gave me unrealistic expectations for 2022. “This year, I will write just as much as last year,” I thought to myself, not considering the context in which I wrote so much. I should have re-read the partial draft a few times this year, because, looking back at it now, there’s a few things that really jump out at me, particularly what I wrote in April:

“I rather set myself up for disappointment in April, hoping I would achieve the same amount of work as I had done the month before. There was a weekly translation for French and German, a weekly psycholinguistics reading to note down, and seminars to prepare for “German-Jewish Writing Across the Twentieth Century”. I had nearly all my weekly lectures on a single day, with barely a moment to grab a fresh cup of tea in-between them, and started to struggle with my energy levels. Sometimes, I couldn’t make it to class because I was so tired that I couldn’t sit up for an hour at a time. The rest of the week was spent trying to catch up on work I’d missed without falling behind on prep for the next week. Nevertheless, I managed to add a few scenes to “Violins and Violets”. I ended up with a 19,900-word total for the month. Couldn’t quite make those last 100 words happen… Couldn’t help being a bit disappointed in my achievements, which I knew was an unhealthy attitude, so I tried to be kinder to myself the next month.”

In hindsight, I was working so hard that I was making myself unwell. In hindsight, I knew a long time ago that I needed to be kinder to myself, and to stop setting myself up for disappointment by aiming for goals I just couldn’t achieve.

Somehow, I thought it would be a good idea to spend most of 2022 forgetting all that.

I can’t help but notice similarities between how I apparently felt in April 2021 and how I felt for most of 2022. I feel a lot better now, but I’ve been so tired this year that I’ve… managed to forget how tired I’ve been.

I’m not disappointed in myself. I just want to laugh. And then move on.

What am I looking forward to in 2023?

I’ve decided to set myself soft goals this year:

- write things I enjoy;

- put less pressure on myself;

- pause or quit projects I don’t like.

What happens happens. What I achieve, I achieve. I would quite like to be a professional writer one day, but I have to remember that I am not one at the moment. I don’t need to meet deadlines, I don’t need to write a certain number of words per day, and I don’t need to finish a certain number of books every year.

I just need to like writing.

In 2023, I want to engage more with writeblr and my local writing community (I’m part of my local NaNoWriMo group on Facebook) and participate more in the Discord server I’m in. It’s lovely having friends in other writers, and feeling like part of something. I took a writing course at the beginning of 2022, and I hope I’ll find another one (or a repeat!) this year. I loved the camaraderie of last year’s lessons, and how friendly and encouraging everyone was.

I want to read more slowly, more carefully, and more thoughtfully this year. I think I’ve benefited from reading a little less in 2022. Stephen King said, “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write,” and he was correct. I’ve let myself spend more time on each book I’ve read this year, and I’ve enjoyed everything more as a result. Hopefully in 2023, I’ll read a few more craft books, and improve my writing like I’ve improved my clarinet.

I hope all of you have a lovely new year, and I’m looking forward to reaching out a little (lot) more!

#writeblr #blog #happy new year #my year in writing #2022 year in writing #year in review #writer's life #hilary hale author

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karliahs · 4 years

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fic notes: redux

rescue tiiiiime

this one existed in some form for a long time before i felt okay putting it out there...part of that was because i knew i wanted to write about izuku being further down the road to recovery but still struggling a lot, and i get very...hm, particular, about the messages i’m giving around recovery? it just feels like an important responsibility, even talking about it on the internet - i don’t ever want to make someone feel like they’re destined to be unhappy forever. on the other hand, i don’t want to make things so happy and easy that it stops feeling authentic to ppl’s experiences. so after having left off on such a hopeful note in remedy, i didn’t want redux to spin so negative as to mar things. i think i like where it ended up

bc this existed over such a long time period i’m trying to remember which parts came first...i think the first thing i wrote was the “i always come back here” conversation, tho the beginning of that scene w hiding out from class was one of the last things written. lots of rescue dialogues are the first thing i thought of, but end up getting chopped & changed a lot to fit them into the eventual story

i’ve talked a lot about my hatred of plot, but meet my other enemy: structure. i knew i wanted to do the 1 year anniversary but other than that i was v stuck. the subsequent months structure thing was just me going “okay you have to just pick something and stick to it or this fic will never exist, and it has a lot of rly soft stuff i must put into the world”

speaking of which, god, i’m soft. i love time jumps where i just get to make everything soft. aizawa in this one ruins me. he loves his kid so much

i am usually both very tempted to write people talking to therapists, bc it feels like what the subject matter is leaning towards, but also hesitant bc i often don’t love the way therapy is presented in media, and also bc i do therapy, i have done therapy, writing about that experience can kind of kill that escapism. i feel like a lot of TV show therapists end up being either weirdly omniscient, or like an obvious mouthpiece for the showrunner’s POV. and/or just very bad at their jobs. that said, i like kimura! i’ve had a couple of their sessions in my head for a while and it was good to touch on one finally

also i forgot redux was just me talking about coming to terms with your own anger again. goddammit. i’m here to say the same 4 things over and over and i have a great time doing it

not to get too deep into my own mental health history here, but izuku’s mentioning of a CBT thing (emotional reasoning, one of the like “thinking errors” identified by CBT along with all or nothing thinking, catastrophising, etc) but having it not really help him, followed by kimura suggesting an approach that’s more about how you respond to yourself in moments of pain and whether that’s helpful, treating yourself like a friend/family, using your compassion for others to deepen compassion for yourself...most of that is based on personal experience! a very good therapist i used to see once talked me through a similar example as izuku here with like “what is it you need in those moments? what is it you’re giving yourself in those moments?” and how different the answers to those two questions were. if i have a point here i guess: you aren’t alone if you’ve found CBT frustrating, and also if you like the kinds of things kimura is saying here maybe have a look into compassion-focused therapy and family systems therapy

i rly am out here trying to make people have emotions about izuku’s foot going to sleep in the woods scene, but also i love writing stuff like that! just little moments of trying to express what it’s like to live in a body, and make that feel vivid and real

hhhhhh the scene with aizawa & izuku talking about what it means to save people. i know i wrote it but it makes me cry. in my mind at least this series is very much about the difference between rescue and recovery. the things we can do for people (physically carry them out of bad situations, talk to them, listen, stand guard, try to help them see that it’s not their fault, try to help them see that they don’t deserve to be in pain) and the things we can’t (recover for them. make it so the thing hurting them never happened. make it so they’ll be really, truly safe from now on. give them everything you think they deserve. take the pain away). again, hearing sad medical stories all the time will make you think about this stuff. what we can do for people and what we can’t. my fave fave thing about this series is aizawa & izuku trying to help each other reckon with the limits to how much you can really rescue someone

#fic notes #rescue series #redux #tagging a personal update on here that i'm not rly expecting to write any new fic for a while!#i missed writing my own original stuff and i'm enjoying focusing on that for now #may even put some poetry or short stories up on here at some point #but also every time i say i'm not gonna write something i end up doing it so who knows

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thomcantsleep · 3 years

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How To Start Writing - Exercises and Prompts to Massage Your Imagination

Some would say that it’s the hardest part of the whole affair. How to actually put pen to paper and begin somewhere - to take the first step in a long walk. It is difficult but it doesn’t have to be and something that I’ve learned from my time at university is that ultimately it’s up to you to put your foot on the accelerator.

What can prove useful is taking writing exercises just to get you started. Here are some of my favourites.

1. “I Remember...”

This is a timed one and I recommend giving yourself fifteen minutes but you can go as high as thirty if I you feel you need it. Essentially, you picture a place or a time in your personal life - it could be just a particular season or a year or even your whole childhood - and start every sentence with “I remember” just to see what comes to mind. What is important to remember is that a lot of writing is based on personal experience whether we like it or not and tackling your own upbringing artistically could bring the best out of you.

The important caveat about this writing exercise is to not stop if you can help it. Write on impulse. Whatever comes to mind about say, when you were fourteen years old, get it written down. You never know which direction you could end up going in. You may be telling yourself that your life isn’t that interesting but you’d be surprised what you can recall and the poetry that comes with it. Think about the senses, thoughts and feelings that would be going through your mind at the time.

This exercise is for testing your descriptive ability.

2. Photo/Music/Object Prompts.

Grant Wood - “American Gothic”

This one is pretty free-form. Look at any image - preferably a painting - of landscaped scenery or of abstract art and see what comes to mind. You may think it’s simple, too easy or even limiting but the point about utilizing visual prompts is that you can always fall back on them. The best ideas are always happened upon accidentally. You may find that your mind is exploring a facet of life previously uncharted in your brain.

My favourite kind of prompt - music - can be incredibly provocative. This is especially true if it’s a genre or category of music that you aren’t necessarily familiar with. Whatever your preferred way of streaming music is, look through genre mixes, radios or playlists of stuff that you’re maybe only vaguely familiar with and just let it play. Close your eyes. Picture the music. Picture the story it’s telling. Put yourself in a new world.

You could even take a physical object and study it for a while. Think of a story for it. It might be a weird esoteric knick-knack or a statue that your mother has hung on to for 45 years for no good reason. What do you feel when you look at it? What goes through your mind? Where could it come from? You could even go to a place near you and engage that same creative mindset.

The possibilities are literally endless.

3. One-Word Prompts.

Specifically, limit yourself and see what comes out. For example, you have to start a one-page short story that starts with the sentence “The trees were made of gold”. Have a couple of attempts and see what happens. There are websites, Twitter accounts and probably even Tumblrs that generate prompts and challenges.

You could decide to write a short story with a certain title like a single word. Base the entire story around that word. This, of course, all counts for poetry or even if you’re doing a diary or a journal entry. The primary function is to get your mind thinking unilaterally about writing and how you approach it. Make something out of what is supposedly nothing.

4. Short As Possible (The Shape of Stories by Kurt Vonnegut)

This is more of an editing exercise and a practice in story-structuring. Take a pre-existing story, either one you have written or one by someone else, and make it as short as possible. Cut it down to the absolute basics and by doing this, you excavate the bones. You know what is important and what isn’t. In a way, it’s like planning posthumously.

To help me explain this, I’m going to use a favourite of mine: Kurt Vonnegut’s The Shape of Stories

Image Courtesy of OpenCulture.com

Vonnegut uses a chart system to explain how certain stories are shaped based around the fortunes of the protagonist. Higher on the wavelength equals better fortunes and lower equals worse and he points out that contrary to the proverb, things often get better before they get worse. But other types of stories follow different patterns with different events marked on each peak and trough to underline the great shape that stories all take. When you understand this, you are able to know the important events, why they happen and when they happen.

The point of this is to get a handle on what direction you’re going in your story when you cut everything down to basics. When you know what events are the important ones and what they do for your story, it can do wonders for your long term ability to draft a story.

...If that makes sense.

5. Don’t Write If You Don’t Feel Like It

This one is going to blow your mind.

If you’re sitting there, staring bare-faced at the paper with nothing coming out, banging the keyboard with frustration, I’ll illuminate you. Just stop.

Get up and turn away from the keyboard. Close the lid or shut the notebook. Put your work away and go and do something else with your time. Distract yourself. Watch a new TV show or a film. Go out for a walk. Read a book. Do anything else because one thing that you aren’t going to do in those moments of fierce writer’s block is write. Allow yourself a break and put your mind at rest for a bit because when you come back, you’ll be more ready to tackle your work. It’s an exercise because it’s a psychological difficulty to give yourself a break if you’re a creative individual. Time always hangs heavy on your hands but only if you let it.

“There is no such thing as “Writer’s Block”, only impatience”

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chocolate-parfait · 3 years

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I see the askbox is open 🙂 You don’t know the speed at which I raced here.

But I was really hoping that you could do headcanons for Arthur (vamp), Masamune (Sen), and Mitsuhide (Sen) with a s/o who is an author? Like Tolkien almost, she writes high fantasy and is super well known? (bonus points if she goes back in time with one of her novels on her to show them exactly).

I hope it’s not confusing^^

I adore your writing so I hope to see whatever you publish in the future!

Thank you so much!!

Waa thank you sm for your support!! It really means a lot, thank you ❤ ❤ I hope you enjoy!

Author!MC who writes high fantasy novels - (Arthur, Masamune & Mitsuhide)

Arthur

Arthur is extremely amused and intrigued when he hears about your occupation, and even more so when he discovers that you’re a pretty big shot, too. For once, he completely discards appearances (although he still thinks you’re very pretty) and is genuinely interested in your job, frequently asking details about your writing process, your stories and such.

Your books come from two completely different universes, as we have realism and crime against fantasy and supernatural. Yet, when you offer your book for him to read, he falls absolutely in love with it. Although it may not seem like it, Arthur is quite the superstitious man, and has always had a certain interest in the occult and paranormal. Long story short, he becomes your number one fan.

He asks Comte to bring back your books from the future so that he can read them all (if you find out he’ll admit it with a sheepish smile and a blush on his face), and even then he feels like he doesn’t know enough about the different worlds described in your books and about their writer, you. If the topic pops up during conversations he'll take his chance and curiously ask you more and more questions about your job; if not, he'll pick up hints along the way whenever he can.

Your writing schedule will easily adapt to the domesticity of your relationship. You both write together in the same room (sometimes his, sometimes yours, or even in the dining room) as it can be very motivational, and you’re both ready to comfort the other whenever a lack of inspiration puts a stop to your writing. Furthermore, it’s very practical when it comes to taking breaks! He’ll cuddle with you while asking how everything’s coming along and if you need him to help you get some ideas. (this man will def sneak kisses whenever you're absorbed in your own little world because he adores the pout that magically appears on your lips whenever you're concentrated)

Overall, he’s very supportive of what you do. He understands the struggles of being a writer, but he also adores how much of a professional you are. Would probably be a fanboy even if you two didn’t know each other (he’d buy your books in secret so that Theo doesn’t tease him; the great mystery writer who adores realism, falls in love with high fantasy books. The man would never let him see the end of it)

Masamune

Even before knowing that you actually come from the future, Masamune is extremely curious to see some of your works once he hears that you’re a writer. As someone who writes poetry, knowing that you have the same passion makes him like you even more; although your occupations are as different as they can be, he still enjoys finding a common ground with you. Sometime later, after he has already discovered about your particular situation, he’ll also come to learn about the differences between what he thought you did and what your job really is. Fundamentally the job is always the same, but the whole process and the final products are almost completely different than what he had expected.

He doesn’t know what high fantasy is, but when you do tell him about all the various genres and such, he finds himself not too weirded out by the idea; it’s very similar to popular folklore, after all.

When he asks you to tell him one of your stories, you find the perfect situation to show him a physical copy of one of your best-sellers. He’s amazed by the weird-looking book. It’s experiencedly crafted and perfectly written (that’s printing for you<3), and he curiously fidgets with it as he asks endless questions about it. Unfortunately, he can’t read anything (even if it was written in modern Japanese he’d probably be able to grasp 3 words in a whole page or smth, lol), so you find yourself narrating your stories to him. (you receive great in-depth feedback for each chapter in return!! Masamune will be 100% honest with you and takes it v seriously). It becomes a daily occurrence that neither of you wants to miss. Each night, just before bed, you read out loud part of your book as Masamune quietly listens to your every word, wholly enraptured by the story.

He’s the most supportive partner one could wish for, and he’s always ready to show your works off to everyone he knows. He’ll help you get in touch with local printers and see what he can find amongst all the imported goods to make your job easier. If you ever find yourself stuck, he’ll gladly take you on a stroll to help you get your mind off writing for a bit to come back more refreshed and inspired.

Mitsuhide

Mitsuhide is a man who mostly communicates through lies, vague descriptions or distorted realities just to confuse others. As such, he finds your writing skills and wide imagination to be quite useful and admirable. He can be a capable storyteller if needed, so you often wonder why he doesn’t try writing every once in a while.

This said, he never expected for his kitsune story to strike up a chord in you to the point you’d write a story with a character heavily based on him as the protagonist. He’s quite flattered to say the least. When you hand the finished manuscript to him as a gift, he reads it all in one night. (let's pretend he'd be able to understand ahahah...) He’s amazed by your skill and the world you managed to describe through such vivid wording, but you'll have to read between his teasing words to grasp his real feelings about the gift, although he sincerely thanks you profusely.

The novel is the first work of yours he has ever had the chance to read, so he stores it away very carefully in a corner of his room, but curiosity makes him wonder about your previous works though he doesn't directly ask you anything about them. Sure, he'll probably drop some hints here and there concerning this hidden wish of his, but that's totally up to you to understand. Sooner or later he finds two copies of some of your books in the bag in your room (it was totally accidental, he wouldn't just barge in your room and look through your things like that), and he feels like he's fallen in love all over again. There's this particular level of mastery with which you handle your words that leave him spellbound and amazed. Who would have ever thought that his little clumsy mouse was such an expert writer?

In general, Mitsuhide is the closet fanboy. He won't be as open about his love for your stories as Masamune, but he's not afraid to be direct about his feelings every once in a while, especially if you really need to hear supporting words from him. If anyone ever brings up your skills during a conversation, he'll hum in affirmation with a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips.

#answered #ikemen sengoku #ikemen vampire #ikevamp arthur #ikesen masamune #ikesen mitsuhide #tplosh #date masamune #akechi mitsuhide #my writing #ikevamp imagines #ikesen headcanons #ikesen imagines #ikesen scenarios #ikevamp scenarios #ikevamp headcanons

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breitzbachbea · 2 years

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dk if you’re taking asks for it but. 17 and 18 for the writer’s ask game? 😳

I am always taking asks that give me an opportunity to blabber about my writing process! <3

Weird Questions for Writers

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

You actually caught me WIP-free for the first time in 7 years! 😳 I finished all of my big projects this year. I’m currently working on the outline for the Irish Problems rewrite, but I am still waffling around a lot and there isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid. And if I started to talk about the history of Irish Problems, we’d still be here tomorrow. That’s for another day, perhaps.

However, this is why I waited for the prompts of hwsrarepairweek to drop! I had a lot of fun with it last year, so I’ll hopefully be able to participate in it again this year! I’ll keep the ships to TurGre, SicIre and GreSic again, but here are the ideas I had so far:

Writer & Artist: I may finally be able to deliver a scrap for the Neighbourhood AU for @needcake that I never had the time to write for 👉🏻👈🏻 It’d be about Sadık reading his poetry at the monthly “Everyone can come and read their pieces for 10 minutes to the interested public” event of the local literature club. Little does he know though that Dilan told the twins about him doing this and that after he told Herakles he would have liked to study Literature, Herakles talked about it with the twins, who in turn told him about the event. Either way, it’s shortly before his reading when Herakles either comes in or Sadık spots him, so … little time to panic and wonder what the hell he is doing here. Afterwards, he is also contemplating whether or not he should sneak away and never bring this up again or if he should walk up to Herakles, but Herakles takes the choice off his hands. They talk a little bit about it and Sadık asks him if he liked it. Herakles gives the evasive answer of “Well, I liked it better than that one guy’s crime short story.” Sadık laughs, says that guy (Gilbert) has been trying for so hard for so long, but maybe some things aren’t meant to be. Wanna grab a coffee? So they grab a coffee <3 I suck abysmally at writing poetry … and I would have to research Turkish poetry/poets … but it’d be interesting and I can probably weasel myself out of writing the actual poem.

Historical: Since me re-using the topic of my term paper worked so well last year, I thought why not do it again! It’s a bit trickier than it is with the curse tablets at Bath, but I finally realized I should put my knowledge about the Siege of Syracuse to good use! It’d be SicIre again, set in the Imperial Rome AU, but many years later. Not only did they move to Ostia, but they also moved into Herakles’ domus, while he found his calling working on his villa rustica. Michele contemplates another trip to Syracuse, his home, and Harry wants to tag along this time. They talk a lot about the city and Michele goes on and on about its beauty. To illustrate his point, he gets out his books which talk about it, which would include some texts like Plutarch mentioning both the Siege of Syracuse and Marcellus’ ovation, where he paraded around its spoils. It’d be bittersweet, too, if they talk about family. Michele’s mother may or may not be alive anymore and Harry hasn’t heard from his family ever since he left Hibernia, basically.

Supernatural: Sicily Is A Monstrous Island, Baby!!! I’d love to put my book “Creature Fantastiche di Sicilia” to good use and Michele tell Herakles about some of the ghastly inhabitants of the island. I’d set it some time, like weeks, months or even a year after last year’s GreSic oneshot. Whereas in that one they were in Herakles’ house, now they spend the night in Michele’s mansion. Perhaps Maria, Michele’s mother, has gone off with the twins elsewhere for a few days; perhaps they are simply asleep, in which case Michele would take extra precautions to not wake the twins. He’d also suspect them behind every moving shadow, since they’re two ne’er-do-wells and tricksters. They’re also, like, 13 or 14, so complete little shits. He probably tells Herakles the story when he hired Alessia, an older teenager that recently started to work for him, to scare the twins into believing that there ARE bedtime monsters like the Grecu Livanti, who will get and eat them if they don’t wise up real quick. Nothing about that plan went as it should have been, Michele apologised for it all profusely in the end, Alessia will still never let the twins hear the end of it. However, the house isn’t haunted by Alessia, or the twins or a Grecu Livantu … it is haunted by the memories of Michele and Herakles making out in his childhood room. It’s haunted by the people who built it and whose burden Michele yet chose to carry, not strong enough to do the right thing. It is, if anything, haunted by a Turnatu. A body that just couldn’t stay dead … someone who crossed back over from the other side, only to drain the living he left behind of their energy … If the last drabble was about the comforting shared past of language, this one is about the horrid, personal one of ghosts.

Pirates & Mermaids: IT’S CORSAIR AU TIME BABY!!! I’d have to research so much for this one, but I want to write it soooo badly 😭 I think the mermaids would be metaphorical, though, and would lend themselves as an excellent metaphor for some parts of the story. You see, the idea behind this one is that in the 16th/17th century, Omar and Timothea ran away from home. Not intending to do their poor mother and father any harm, but Omar had fallen in love with one of the crewmates of an Ottoman corsair ship and wanted to be with her. Thea came along for the ride and to help her brother out, of course. Either way, Natasa asked Herakles to go after the twins, so he embarked on the journey to find them … and promptly ends up on an Ottoman Corsair ship, but not on his own volition. Its captain is Sadık, who takes a liking to this stowaway and his pretty face. I actually don’t have a concrete timeline for this AU, or anything resembling a plot, but that are some points that definitely happen in the story. Hijinks ensue, which also include a Sicilian taverna owner, a brief cameo of the Spanish navy and, in a much more central role, their allies, a bunch of Irish Pirates! This story has got it all, baby! Either way, for the Oneshot, I’d set it sometime after these events though, when Herakles sails on the corsair ship for work reasons and … perhaps companionship? They start talking about sirens and joke a bit about how Omar had indeed been lured to sea by Dilan. Ah yes, those Sirens … “But perhaps, it fits the story better if it was he who lured her in? Spotting him from the ship, watching from atop the rocks … there certainly is something very tempting about your kind …” Sadık says and perhaps an arm snakes around Herakles’ waist …

Fantasy: I was thinking about using this SicIre scenario for rarepairweek anyways and this AU is a) literally called the “Myth AU” and b) I don’t know what is going on there anymore. The timeperiods are all a hopeless mess, there’s normal humans but also, Paddy is a giant, Charlie is a changeling, Tahir a sorcerer and the Bontade twins are the sons of Hermes. Whatever the fuck it is, it should be able to qualify for Fantasy. And because I am dying to tell this story to someone else, you’re also getting the rundown of what happened before the actual Oneshot idea but is tied to it. So, here is the rundown: 1. Tahir is currently working on magic portals, however he keeps being interrupted by Charlie’s changeling fuckery and the twins’ semi-divine bullshit, because the Irish and their friends LIVE to frustrate the English 2. Tahir asks Robert if he wants to make him a very happy man, which Robert sure does want to, but he'd also kill Charlie for just the pleasure of it. 3. A plan is hatched, Arthur, their king, is involved and it goes as followed: Robert, as a loyal knight to Arthur, will be sent as a delegation, alongside with some other knights, to the Irish castle. They cannot refuse them on the grounds of hospitality. So they get in and when Charlie one night sneaks around, like the twins, to see what is going on, Robert finds him and … just splashes a potion on him. Charlie is mightily confused that that’s the only thing Robert has done. He doesn’t like the smug expression and the predatory grin on his face when he tells him: “Oh, you’ll just … wait.” 4. Charlie continues to be confused, but starts to feel strange over the next couple of days … more aggressive, more anti-social, less able to control his powers and his strength. Because! What they don’t know! The plan was to craft a potion that would bring out Charlie’s changeling nature in full force. Thusly, if he then rampaged through the court, nobody could fault Robert for taking care of the problem! He was out of control! The beast had to be killed before it hurt anyone, as tragic as that is! 5. However, when the rampage eventually happened, they did not bank on the Irish REFUSING to let Charlie go. They did not bank on a good old “I know you’re still in there” fight! Harry just beats the SHIT out of Charlie, while he also gets the SHIT beaten out of him, invoking their brotherly bond! We grew up together, remember? Side by side! I’ve known you all my life and this isn’t you! I know my friend’s still in there! I KNOW IT! 6. And it works! Probably just when or before Robert has had enough and still tries to bring the plan to fruition as planned. Either way, the English are found out and get back home with their tails between their legs, Robert both incredibly disappointed with himself and also simply frustrated that all this ordeal was for nothing, stifled so shortly before he got the pleasure of finally shutting that annoying little fairy up once and for all. In the meantime, Harry contemplates how to handle the aftermath of the situation in the evening, while Michele already sits in bed and does some reading. It's here we get to the actual Oneshot. So Harry asks Michele for his opinion, Michele says You should ask your men, not me, your politics isn’t my lane now as guest of the court, is it. And Harry says, true, true, but as he slips underneath the sheets, he says that it would be his lane to advice the King as a King’s consort. And in my head, I just have Michele staring into nothing, past Harry, elated but surprised, a blush on his face and Harry already either cuddling him or kissing him, while he says: “Oh? I’m the King’s consort?” And then we’ll either have a bit more serious discussion about Michele’s future and role at the court or just some absolute teeth-rotting SicIre fluff, perhaps with some spicy fading to black <3

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

God, that question. I’ll be honest with you, I forgot most circumstances under which I wrote most of my stories. I think it’s also because good moments often come to me on the go, later get implemented into the work and then polished a bit. Or I’m often working on scenes for at least two days, sometimes longer, because I rewrite them when I come back and didn’t like what I wrote last.

One of the clearest moments I still have in my memory is … tbh also very foggy, but I remember sitting on my bed and being up very late for a schoolday, writing with my daylightlamp right in front of me and probably chugging Soda. And you know what I wrote? Irish Problems, Chapter 4, Scene 2 The one where Paddy has to squeeze himself into the Mito. THAT is the one I still remember.

I still have the “raw draft” document for Italian Affairs, aka the document where I dump all ideas for a scene as they come to me. I actually got lost for a while, rereading bits and pieces I had written for the draft that never made it into the story … I am actually surprised how many ideas I had before I ever reached many scenes! It’s also such a great testament to how fundamentally the tone of the story changed over time; a lot of these snippets are so much goofier, contain so many more asides for the sake of asides. Here is an example – From a scene that was described like this in the outline: “Okay let's figure out how to drive on italian streets. Very very gay moments between Charlie and Marco, also - they took the baaaiiit ~”

"Nice cabrio." "I see, someone finally found each other." "Ach hör mir auf!" [Oh, stop it, you!]

You know which scene this is? Chapter 17, Scene 1. The Chapter called “Running Beneath”, the scene that starts in Charlie’s Porsche, just after they picked up Marco. The dialogue snippet above was about them running into Francesco during the chase sequence, where they would have actually talked with one another. Charlie would have complemented Francesco’s car, while Francesco would have commented on Marco clinging to Charlie. It would have been comedic banter, good-natured.

Here's what the scene looks like in Chapter 17:

They both kept silent. Not for long however, as Charlie looked around. It was a mystery how he, or Marco, hadn’t noticed the car in the lane next to him yet. You didn’t overlook a Ferrari, much less when its white coating blazed in the autumn sun. And yet, only now he stared at Francesco Belfari’s face, barely half a meter away from him. “Fuck,” he said. The other two followed his looks. Marco jumped; Charlie heard his legs shuffle on the backseat and felt the vibrations as his head collided with the headrest. “Ou, fuck,” Marco cursed and asked in the same breath: “Where did that bastard come from?! We’ve been staring behind us all the time, the traffic was so thick that if he’s here, he must have been behind us before! What the fuck?!” Charlie threw a look at the traffic light, but it was still red. When his look went back to Belfari, the other was letting down his window. He looked at him with a smile on his face. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. He wagged his hand down. “What?” Charlie whispered. “What in the hell’s this shit about?!” Marco asked. “Whatever he wants to tell us, I don’t want to hear it,” Harry said. “Let’s get out of here before him!” Charlie’s eyes snapped back to the traffic light in the same moment Marco said: “Go!” This time, he was readily colour blind and ran the yellow light.

Quite the tonal difference, huh? I don’t think I ever realized how much my stories have matured ever since their conception. I’ve came a long way, truly and I think it’s very interesting to see all the components. Yes, my writing skill has improved since I started, but Francesco’s character also has changed as the years went on. My focus regarding what the story is about has shifted. Writing isn’t just the words on the page; it’s every thought behind them. But you can only approach and unpack them if you have words to put on the page, which I think it is very important to keep writing. Yes, maybe you aren’t equipped yet to tackle a certain story. Yes, maybe you will write something you will think about differently in a few months or years. But if you didn’t know what you were focusing the first time around, you cannot shift the focus anywhere else. If your characters only ever existed in your head, they will never get the chance to grow into fully fledged fictional people. You have to let them take baby steps on the page. So keep writing, keep writing messily, keep writing with all the care in the world, but don't stop.

#beareplies #writing #ashley #that is a super long answer but I was so excited about that idea I had for the Myth AU #I don't have enough Charlie and Harry quality content I cannot wait for returning to the main series #also man what a blast to the past that IA document is ...#You never realize how much you really grew until you look back #I am glad I abandoned the goofiness tbh #of course not overall. I will always write funny things. but I am glad it is overall more serious.#I love to write tense moments love love love it I love that there is something deeper and more meaningful to my story universe #and Charlie and Marco argueing about the red light before the snippet I posted is so much funnier than the raw draft #don't derrive comedy from stock interactions between friendly enemies.#derrive comedy from Italian traffic <3 #storie nostre #harry #miche #charlie #robert #tahir #arthur #hera #sadık #thea #omar #dilan #natasa #gil #sicire #gresic #turgre

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keingleichgewicht · 3 years

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WERE YOU KIDDING ABOUT THE ASK GAME if not i dont have any specific lyrics in mind but i always thought the lyrics to the mill were so cool and maybe you could get some thoughts out of them? :0

YEAH GOD OKAY LET’S TALK ABOUT THE MILL. LET’S TALK ABOUT UHHHHHHHHH [THROWS DARTBOARD]

this line. this MIGHT go on for a while so i will............ readmore

so the mill feels kind of notably different to the rest of the pafl songs, which tend to be unusually literal for lyric, either straightforward retellings of events (punch it, punk!) or character piece monologues set to plot visuals (strike 3) or both (all of them, but for instance particularly comfort zone, which is just dmitry’s horrible manifesto until it gets hijacked by a death sentence in the second verse.) the mill is a lot more like what we expect from poetry these days, which is to say it’s heavy on imagery, low on clarity, and fucking confusing!

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold on to your battered hand Rocked to sleep beneath the snow, she is bathed in youthful glow ‘Strong enough to let it go,’ he says, but darling, I don’t know

a lot of the mill is about circles. this is in the name: a mill is something which turns. a waterwheel is a circle, a grindstone is a circle. it’s even in the melody: the chorus is a cyclic, pentatonic four-note riff that keeps going up and down and up its own ladder, chasing its own tail, not really reaching resolution. and then it’s also in, you know, the story:

the meat grinder!!!! everyone’s favorite fucking hellhole!!!! it is only semi-explicitly identified in the song but that’s because it’s a concept from the source material - both tarkovsky’s stalker and roadside picnic feature the meat-grinder, as a location nicknamed thus by stalkers because it is even more fucking deadly than the rest of the zone, all of which is already ridiculously fucking deadly, and if you’ve seen the movie:

it is more or less instantly recognizable in the mill as well. so here we have a circle! here we have a mill (the title has about seventy double meanings but this is certainly one of them,) and as it turns out, this mill at least will absolutely kill you. and horribly too. interestingly though, in roadside picnic (the book) the meat-grinder is not a tunnel, and it’s not round - it’s just a nondescript patch of ground which will wring you out like a dishcloth and kill you extremely dead if you walk into it. on the other hand what we have in the book in terms of circles is the golden ball, which is the equivalent of the movie’s the room, which is, well,

in short both stories ultimately hinge upon the idea that there is a something in the zone which can give you your heart’s desire. anything you want. everything you want. whatever you want. it is infinitely powerful; it is infinitely capable. the catch is that it will only give you what you want. the catch is that giving you what you want is not the same as giving you what you are asking for. the other catch is that in both cases you have to get through the meat-grinder first.

(so, by the way, what the fuck, right? does pafl’s zone have a wish-granting factory? is it also behind the grinder? where were the original trio going when they got themselves fucked up? and did they get there?)

but the point is: the golden ball, the wish-granting factory, is also a circle. it’s just sort of a sphere. it’s a big round fuckin yellow thing. you know, sorta like:

which is THE ONLY TIME yellow is used in occam’s razor not counting the full-colour shots, and it drives me CRAZY, but it is also me going full conspiracy board so let’s not even worry about it. THE POINT IS.

the circle is the death-machine and the wish-machine. neither of these things are really.... very good. the circle, or at least the arc, is also very closely associated with death:

(розовая дуга предрассветного, ‘rose arc of pre-dawn’. if i’ve fucked up that nominative please feel free to stone me to death!)

in the gdoc notes to message lost ferry briefly refers to the dawn as if it were a good thing, the dawn of hope, which is a usage that sort of agrees with the desolate and deathless hope of strike 3′s ‘everything will pass / a day will come,’ but on the other hand it really is very closely associated with dying. nikolai bites it; nikita bites it; sergei and olga left significant chunks of themselves behind. and the thing about ‘this too shall pass’ is that it’s always true, as is ‘everything ends’, but of course that’s ‘cause the thing that ends might be you. and as we know

dawn is an ending. so that seems concerning!

i think the circle, the arc, the bolt falling back to the ground, is not a good thing. i am getting a little conspiracy board here in general but forgive me, i cannot make you a wholesome answer, my wit’s diseased. i think the circle is an enclosed space. it’s an unbroken cycle. it’s the grindstone. it’s the mill. it’s about what pafl’s always been about: about being trapped, about having no chances, about being bordered upon. the circle’s the geometric figure of equidistance from a given point, and you can walk on it forever, and nothing will ever change; you will never get closer, you will never get further away, you will never get out! the sun rises, the sun sets, and you are no closer to anything you wanted. it’s worth noting that anya’s borderline city, the zone-edge port town she complains is trying to crush all her dreams, her mill

is a circle. (a cog in a machine! a grind-wheel! a cage!)

and yura, whose dreams have already been burned out of him, who starts the series already resigned to never getting out of here, calls it ‘this dire deja-vu’, i am specifically resisting putting the accent marks back onto that, which is to say, it’s a repetition that haunts him. it’s going round and round and getting nowhere.

so if we bring it back around: drawing a line in the sand, as the phrase is generally used, means setting a border, means saying this far and no further. often it’s yourself you’re setting the border for. you hit some divide you can’t abide crossing so you say this stops here, it may be too early or too late, but i say it stops here. so logically: drawing a circle in the sand means you’ve locked yourself in completely.

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold your battered hand

the whole first half of this song, i think, is olga promising to grind herself down in a hundred ways if it means she won’t be left alone. how hard can it be to never let it overflow? she may feel lower than the low, she may wish she could just disappear out here, into the postindustrial rust, but though it gets harder all the time she will keep pretending. she isn’t going to burden sergei, or indeed anyone, with her problems, her fears, her scars. she is hurt, but she’s used to it, she’s gotten used to being haunted long ago. she keeps her bad eye covered. she stays within her circle she has drawn. she keeps going round and round. she will take the smallest sliver of human connection and be happy, she promises she will be happy, she promises she won’t ask for more, she will take just the ‘hello.’

but you knooooow it’s not true. you know it’s grinding her down, that she’ll be milled to nothing pretty soon, and really she knows it too.

i am perhaps seventy percent sure that this line is a reference to the windmills of your mind by michel legrande, which features such lines as

Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

which on one hand seems sort of obscure to be a purposeful reference but on the other hand would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t, wouldn’t it. either way it characterizes circles ambiguously, but definitely unsettlingly. going around in circles is chasing infinity, but what in god’s name would you do with it if you caught it? what are you even hoping to accomplish? and:

the second half of this song is bitterer, sharper - staring down the mouth of the meat-grinder she’s a little more willing to admit to herself that this is going nowhere. she is running out of cages to keep herself in. she is very tired. it’s easy to say why don’t you leave it all behind, it’s easy to say, she’s strong enough to let it go, it’s easy to say, too strong to die. it is a lot harder to actually live.

this is also where the flashbacks admit to us how badly hurt they really were - sergei with his whole side in shreds, she still hides her eye but at least we get to see it’s bleeding. this moral compass is forever misaligned, she says, so there is damage, and it is lasting. and she can’t settle for hello, she can’t live like this, she needs someone by her side. the trouble is whether she can believe she has any hope of getting that

as for who ‘her’ is, or the ‘she’ of ‘she is bathed in youthful glow’, i figure there’s two possibilities: either it’s nadya, who haunts olga too, because nikita’s abandonment of nadya represents exactly what she most fears for herself, or it’s olga’s younger, unbroken, binocular self - both of whom were so young, and so easily hurt, and are now unfindable.

and then there’s this conclusion: ‘the sun will rise, until then / i’ll be waiting for you on the other side.’ which maybe is a sort of hope after all? she’s reached no real conclusions in the zone - she knows there must be hope but she can only barely believe in it - she thinks she is destined to self-destruct. but on the other hand she still has that, a version of sergei’s own ‘a day will come’

you may be hurt, but if you can hold yourself together, you can hope for a dawn someday. an ending. a change. but the trouble’s that there’s more than one kind of ending. and there’s more than one meaning for other side. there are cages, and then there are cages. and you know what else looks like a tunnel, a circle?

staring down the barrel of the gun.

#pafl #parties are for losers #it speaks #ask #in all fairness and in my defence when i made the joke i said i would write not less than one thousand words and by fuck #this has not been less than one thousand words!#jorgyjuice #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ALSO THIS WAS REALLY FUN #and thank you VERY dearly to anyone who takes the time to read all this; you own my soul now; feel free to collect at any time #metatext

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elsewhereuniversity · 4 years

Text

The amateur's society

There is a new society in Elsewhere. It is well-known and well-advertised, even among those of the student body that have not seen, or do not believe in, the Gentry. In fact, it seems to gather the unaware students far more freely than others, for it names itself as The Amateur’s Society, and describes itself as a place for people who want to practice an art without needing any baseline of skill or past practice, and without any judgment for any piece that falls short of the usual standards.

This society meets, rather unusually, in the same place every time. The same corridor in the same building, with the same rooms set aside for different kinds of art, on the same days, twice a week. There are never any rooms that have been booked by someone else in advance. The rooms and various workshops are always fitted adequately for what is required of them. There are never any rooms that fail to exist, any student who wants to get to that floor and that corridor always seems to find themselves there on time, without any half-dimensions or neverending staircases or suddenly appearing forests getting in their way.

These strangely convenient arrangements have drawn no end of suspicion from those that are more aware of the Gentry’s machinations. They whisper that the society must be trying to lure in artists, that it must be a place for hunting Fey to spot their prey, that it advertises to unAware students to make their being Taken that much easier. And indeed, from the outside, it seems that way. Many of the attending student’s are simply freshmen who have come to sing songs and sculpt and practice rhymes in order to relieve the stress that university life naturally applies on them. In amongst these students, there are often people with slightly unnatural edges to them, keeping a keen ear out for anything that may attract their fancy and doom the unwitting artist to a sudden disappearance.

And yet, inside this convenient corridor, things seem to change. Above the entrance is a Treaty. It is written elegantly, and is kept both vague enough not to incite a search for loopholes, whilst also being kept specific enough that it’s nature is clear to anyone who so much as skims it. It is a Peace Treaty. It states that those who enter the society’s borders do not go there to ridicule other artists, or to find someone to Take, or any other malicious intent. It states that anyone is welcome, no matter their background or species. It states that everyone who enters must try their hand at art. And, perhaps most importantly, it states that Anyone can try their hand at art.

Once you have entered, the omnipresent, ever-so-subtle tenseness of Elsewhere University seems to vanish. People give names willingly and happily, although it is unclear if those are their true names. It does not matter if they are, as nobody who truly belongs to the society would ever dare attempt to use them. People sing songs of things they care about with mismatched pitch, and sloppily pour their heart into poetry for all to see, and put their greatest fears into half-finished drawings. They write stories with emotion but no substance, make pottery that is bright and misshapen, and paint undecipherable life studies, all with smiles on their faces and gleams behind their eyes.

Any and all of these creations are applauded, simply for the beauty of having been created. When their creator chooses to have it displayed, they are encouraged for their confidence. When they choose instead to ferry it home without showing it to anyone, they are simply encouraged for pushing themselves into the ever-daunting task of artistry. Try as they might, nobody has ever detected a hint of sarcasm or judgement in the rooms that make up the amateur’s society. The administrator’s, those in charge of managing the society and keeping it's patrons inspired and encouraged, were carefully picked out to be those who understood the difficulties of trying something new, and who were compassionate enough to help others surpass these difficulties.

There are Gentry among these people, of course. Many of them simply sit back and watch with fascination in their eyes, for they may have seen finer art pieces many times before, but never have they seen such enthusiasm and genuine reckless empathy put into the art of creation. There are those Gentry that have been so caught up the society’s attitude towards throwing away your fears and Creating, that they have even attempted their own pieces of art. Strange, janky poetry that speaks of lands beyond imagination in words quite unfamiliar to the listener’s ears. Paintings made entirely out of single sharp lines, that do not portray anything, but give the viewer a deeper understanding of the relationship between being indebted and being owned. Crude iron rings and necklaces, crafted from behind thick gloves and safety glasses, that will never be worn and fill anyone who sees them with a sense of heedless freedom. Any Court would be horrified at the thought of one of these pieces existing, let alone one of their own number creating one. But the Courts do not hold power here, and these pieces go unjudged by all but the kindest of eyes.

There have been Fey that have disregarded the Treaty above the entrance. That have stalked through the rooms of the Society, that have found a mark and followed them out. That have Taken them, and left the society with one less Creator. In such cases, the administrators have been known to start off the next meeting with a direction. With an instruction. They have been known to give the myriad of artists under their care something to envision and replicate in today’s Works: a safe return for the missing artist, and swift judgement for their Taker.

In such cases, the society is always somewhat different. The poems more pointed, the drawings more crude and vicious. The halls are filled with songs of pain and safety and revenge. Dozens upon dozens of minds fix themselves on the pain of one soul and the return of another, and they apply all the belief and creativity and Power they have to bringing this about in their stories and their sculptures and their scripts and their dreams.

It never takes long for the missing artist to return, dropped off by something unrecognisable and shivering. It never takes long for apologies to be sent to every administrator begging for mercy, or for thanks to be written into the form of a slightly-shoddy couplet and scrawled on a university wall. It never takes long for the amateur to come back to the society and for it’s usual function and atmosphere to reclaim it’s halls.

When the administrators are asked about what powers the society, what gives it this ethereal protection and keeps it free from the Courts’ gaze and allows anyone to create free of judgement and keeps it’s rooms in the same place and time every time, they always smile, and they do not lie. They tall tales of belief shaping the world. They say that iron only harms those from under the hill because the whole world has applied enough belief to this fact. They talk of folk stories about salt lines and iron horseshoes and milk left out at night, and how those stories eventually grew into their own form of protection. They talk about how the art of creation has always been a unique power of humanity, about how it has allowed them to shape the mystical world without knowing it, about how even one person, believing in something small, like a lucky charm, can give that belief a certain tangibility.

And they talk about how, if you get enough people together, and you free them from their inhibitions about applying their unique gifts, and you give them some beliefs to follow, like a corridor that is always there when it is needed, those beliefs will naturally form. They will talk about how the amateur’s society was created by one woman who believed very hard that people could truly enjoy trying a new artform and joining a new community. And they will talk about how ultimately, Elsewhere University is shaped by human thought and storytellers more than by any real laws or rules.

And when the administrators, are don talking, they will thank you for the insightful question, they will encourage you to follow your passion, they will remind you that making something just for the sake of making it it is always worth it, and they will ask you if you want to join up.

-To the person behind this blog, and everyone who has created content for it. It’s been amazing seeing you all try your hardest at this, and I hope I will continue to do the same for a very long time. Thank you.-

#clockworkman #the amateur's society #stories #long post #i love this!#'simply for the beauty of being created'#i love that the gentry are included here #especially bc of the bit of folklore that says they steal musicians bc they can't create their own music/poetry #trying anyway!!!#just for the sake of creating!#also thank you for the sweet note it made me smile #submission

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rose-bookblood · 3 years

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Hi, folks! I only joined writeblr a couple months ago, but I still thought I'd do a wrap up of my writing year. Fashionably late as always.

STATISTICS

(I really don't give a shit about the numbers, but my little gremlin brain will scream at me if I don't keep track of those, so here they are.)

Total word count: 70.136

January: 699

February: 897

March: 2172

April: 5332

May: 11.317

June: 7911

July: 8901

August: 6596

September: 4013

October: 6050

November: 12.784

December: 3464

Projects worked on: Blue Below the Surface, Untitled

Short stories: 3

Poems: 47 (?)

PROJECTS

Blue Below the Surface

In 2020 I wrote a draft zero of BBtS, then scrapped it, reoutlined everything and started the rewrite in May 2021.

I wrote 12 chapters out of 18 and plan to finish the draft by the end of March. Though at some point I was frustrated because the progress was going so slow, I'm glad I took the time to figure out my process and I'm proud of the work's quality.

Sharing this project here on writeblr definitely reignited a spark in me. I hadn't lost interest in it, at all, but seeing people get invested in the world and characters warmed my heart.

Untitled

Since I finished the first draft in November of 2020 and then wrote Blue Below the Surface, Untitled kinda got put on the backburner. I could never stay away from it for long, though, so I revised the draft and rewrote the outline. After finishing BBtS, I'll start working on the second draft. Then, hopefully I'll finally post more about it!

Short stories

I started a bazillion short stories, but only finished three. I haven't even read them and those are my first trials in the world of short fiction, so they're probably of dubious quality. Nonetheless, in 2022 I want to take a look at them.

Poetry

As above, I started a shitton of poems, but this time around I actually finished a good number of them! I participated in Escapril and even wrote about 17 on my own. Let's be real, though, the actually decent ones are like 5 lol.

Big thanks to everyone who followed me in my writeblr journey, who reblogged, commented and chatted with me. You really remind me how fun writing is, and I love talking about your and my projects.

See you this year!

-- Rose

#writing year in review #year in review #2021 in review #writeblr #writing #writing community #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr

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moonsugar-and-spice · 3 years

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Hello yes a local Storms lover and fellow writer here! (I'm actually the first 'time??? Wh???' anon if you were wondering)

I just wanted to ask, how did you craft such a long yet cohesive narrative? I strive for such beauty, but alas, I always seem to fall short...

However, the fic idea I just had begs to be a long fic, despite my struggles with them ;w;

Storms is a beautifully composed fic and if I can learn just slightly from it and you I'd be over the moon

Ah, my "What is Time" anon, hello again! 😄 Thank you for the sweet words, and I’m so glad that you've enjoyed it. It’s exciting to hear that you may be embarking on your own Long Fic journey — it can certainly be both fun and daunting! I am far from an expert, but happy to share some of the things I’ve learned that have helped me along the way.

Being a life-long avid consumer of literature, I would say I’ve probably learned the most through reading. And honestly, if there was one piece of advice I were to give a newer writer, or one wanting to branch out into longer fiction, it would be that. To become a good writer, first and foremost you have to read. A lot. And not only novels, but short stories and even poetry, too, and really pay attention to the story structure and how different authors utilize word choice, plot devices, and other elements to weave their stories together. Try to read it as a writer (which isn't always easy when you get sucked in) and take note of all the elements that make it work. Poems are often shorter and more abstract, and obviously differ from other forms of narrative, but the structure of a poem can provide a layer of meaning to the piece and be a great resource for studying subtext.

There are also a lot of writing blogs out there with a wealth of great articles. One of my personal favorites is Writers Helping Writers, the blog of Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi, who are not only masters of their craft but genuinely awesome people. I used to read a lot of writing blogs when I was first starting out, and often still do. You can never stop learning and improving.

But, simply put, writing is hard. There are some amazing published authors I follow that make it look easy and effortless, but every one of them will tell you that it is hard work, hair-pulling at times, even if there is simultaneously immense joy in it. There are so many elements to keep in balance — I’ve likened it to feeling a lot like juggling plates. You get a few going well, adding a plate here, removing one there, and trying to keep them all in the air, but suddenly you're overwhelmed and hadn’t realized you’d be juggling this many plates when you started out. And maybe you’re not sure you’re good enough, experienced enough to keep them from crashing down before you can set the table in some organized fashion. But, eventually, you begin to see where your weak spots are as a writer. You may have to get out the broom and dustpan, much as it pains you, sweep up the broken pieces, and start again, but the more you practice, the more you strengthen those muscles. Unfortunately, there’s no Easy Button, really, or other way to improve than just lots of practice, and lots of reading.

But another thing I’ve found immensely helpful in keeping things cohesive is knowing how I want the story to end. It is the one thing I must know before starting out, but I also make sure to outline the important turning points along the way, both for plot and character arcs. I find that having a destination to aim for, as well as those smaller-scale, short-term goals for plot and characters, helps keep the story (and my sanity, heh) together. Everyone’s process will look different, of course; some people like the free-spiritedness of straight-up Pantsing, others are strict Plotters, and what works for one might not work for another. I personally fall somewhere in the middle as a Plantser — I like to keep an open mind and allow room for fun creative exploration and "happy accidents" that might make the story even better, but have a blueprint of sorts to guide me.

Also, you might think about what you want to say through this story (why is it begging to be written?), the overarching theme/s you want to explore and weave into the narrative. Find ways to show them through these turning points and character arcs. In Storms, I wanted to explore Ozai’s character and what might have made him into the man he became. No one is just born a monster. Naturally, readers will come to your stories with their own lens and life experiences, so everyone will take away different things, but if I were to describe Storms to someone in a nutshell thematically, I might say I’m writing about trauma and its cycle. About abuse and self-loathing and the armor we wear to cope. Holding onto hate and anger, and sipping its poison. But also about forgiveness and second chances, about learning your walls are also trapping yourself, and the courage it takes to let go.

I hope at least some of this layman advice has been helpful to you. The most important thing always, I say, is just to have fun with it and try not to let fear or self-doubt cramp your style (something I’m still working on). Just start writing and see where it takes you. You can often salvage those broken plates, but you can't edit an empty page. Best of luck to you on your writing adventures!

#thanks for the ask!#thank you anon #on writing #fanfiction #long fics #writing tips #fanfic writers #writing is hard #anyone who says otherwise is selling something #atla fanfiction #storms of ice and fire

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writeblrcafe · 2 years

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Digital interview with @randonauticrap

Madame L. sits down at a table in Writeblr Café and orders a chai latte. We start talking about her writing. She writes poetry, fan fiction, short stories and a book! Her writing includes many genres, including from fantasy, romance, thriller, crime, mystery, paranormal and realitic fiction.

What got you into writing?

When I was in 6th grade, one of my teachers created an assignment where we would have to choose a poem to memorize. She had a box full of poetry books and allowed us to sift through them. I chose a book of poems by Edgar A. Poe, and was immediately captivated by his use of metaphor and imagery. His words transported me directly into the heart of his emotions, and I couldn't tear myself away. I learned and memorized all 3 1/2 pages of The Raven for the assignment, and I realized in the process of doing so that writing was calling to me in a form it never had before. I answered the call and I have been writing ever since, never forgetting the author who started it all. I try to pay little tributes to him throughout a lot of my horror/thriller pieces.

What inspires you to write?

The simplest answer is the truest in this case: my emotions. I can't properly put words to paper (or screen, in most instances these days) without some kind of emotional investment in what I am penning. What I am feeling at the time decides which genre I take hold of, and it often decides which character I decide to focus more deeply on for the time being. It also can help decide what part of a story I write; for example, if I am feeling down and I know that my character is going to feel the same way at some point in the story, I use that state of being to encompass that character's pain in a more raw and evocative way. Even if I haven't reached that part of the story yet in my continuity writing, I may skip ahead to write that scene and then put it to the side until I am ready to insert it into the full context of the plot.

Which are recurring themes in your writing?

Loneliness is a big one, as well as a desire to be understood. I feel these emotions very strongly in my life, so they often appear in my characters in one way or another. Strength of self is another very important characteristic that tends to show up in my stories, as well as the not-so-graceful intensity that comes with such a strong energy.

How would you describe your writing style?

I feel as though my writing style leans towards narrative pretty often. I go into detail about the descriptors of a person and place and situation more than anything else. You'll usually find little dialogue, but a lot of metaphor and chroniclization.

Have you already published your writing?

Sadly, I have not. However, I am currently working on a novella that I hope to publish upon completion!

Tell us more interesting stuff about you!

Interesting stuff? Wow, you're really making me think now. The most basic knowledge about me is my ridiculously intense love of Halloween, fall, and anything cosy. I am a bona fide coffee addict (there is a crazy story behind this well-earned title, but I believe it's a bit too long to tell here), I am single (against my will), and I have two cats. I am pretty much the little eccentric cat lady down the street that makes hot chocolate for everyone when it's cold out. I am more sarcastic than is good for me -- if you had not already discerned that much from... Well, everything above, and I am a redhead, which I feel like pretty much just explains my whole personality in a better way than I could with descriptors. Thank you for creating this survey and opening it up to all writers! I genuinely enjoyed going through these questions and talking about what I feel makes me a writer, and I'm sure others will feel the same!

Get interviewed by Writeblr Café!

Any writer can participate. Just fill in this form. Maybe we will host interviews in an audio format if you are more interested in listening to an interview than reading it.

#wc.interview #digital interview #writers get interviewed #writing community #spilled ink #writers network #writers on tumblr

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karlyfr13s · 3 years

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Helping Destiny Along

A fluffy CS one-shot for the lovely @teamhook

Thank you @veryverynotgoodwrites for being one heck of a beta, and @the-darkdragonfly for your brainstorming powers!

Summary: Henry Mills has a theory: for each Captain Hook, there must be an Emma Swan. Well, he found Princess Emma Nolan at long last and is determined to bring her together with Killian Jones now that he's back in the Wishverse version of the Enchanted Forest.

Read it on AO3

At nineteen, Princess Emma Nolan believed in True Love. After all, her parents had found each other, and everyone knew theirs was a legendary love worthy of poetry and song. She watched for a prince from the high windows of her tower bedroom, waiting for someone tall, dark, and handsome to sweep her off her feet. He would be bold, romantic, dashing, and kind-hearted—she just knew it.

At twenty-two, she concluded that such a love was rare and that her parents may be the only two people with a Capital-T, Capital-L True Love, so she started looking for the more run-of-the-mill variety. Instead of waiting for someone to ride up to the castle gate and court her, she took a more active approach and sought her love by traveling and meeting new people. When that didn’t work either, Princess Emma tried for mutual attraction, which was fun at twenty-four, but grew stale by twenty-five. So she resigned herself to loving her kingdom and her people.

At twenty-eight, a man knocked on the door and utterly transformed her life. To be clear, she did not love that particular man. Henry came from a faraway land and told her fantastic tales that seemed beyond the reach of even her magic, and while she did not love him, he told her somewhere out there in a world beyond her grasp there was an Emma Swan who was his mother, and who loved him ferociously. For days, she and her parents welcomed Henry to stay in their home and share meals at their table, and for days he regaled them with stories of his world and of other versions of each member of the Nolan family. They were spellbound by his narratives. He was a gifted storyteller, and as if he’d known this was too fantastic to be believed, he came with something called photographs that showed a still window into his world. She saw a version of her mother, Queen Snow, but much younger and with close-cropped dark hair instead of the silvery tresses she was accustomed to. Her father was another surprise--he looked barely older than Emma herself, sandy hair where now there was gray, and while she knew her father was still a strong and capable swordsman, this version of King David seemed able to challenge even the mightiest ogre.

Princess Emma Nolan even saw herself, but not herself. They looked identical, she and Henry’s mother, and while her style was different from this unknown twin’s, she couldn’t help but notice some similarities. Emma Swan was often pictured in a short red leather coat, while Princess Emma Nolan’s favorite doublet was a rich blue leather. When she commented, Henry told her they both wore them like armor, gesturing to the bruise on his shoulder from their earlier sparring session in the yard. Emma Swan liked to pull her hair back, wearing it high on her head much like Princess Emma Nolan when she wasn’t expected at court or in her regal finest. Henry even had a picture of his mother with a sword--is she trained as well? She’d asked, and Henry grinned at the question, answering with another tale of his mother besting a pirate in single combat!

��I’m pretty sure that fight was rigged though,” he admitted as they walked the castle gardens one afternoon. “And that’s part of why I’m here.” He stopped and faced her, saying he hoped she could believe one more outlandish story before he had to return to his world.

“You seem to come well-armed with evidence, Henry. I don’t see why I should doubt you at this point.”

“My mother, Emma Swan, is an incredible woman. It took her a long time, but she found her True Love, and I think you can find yours. When I learned there was a version of her--of you--here, I had to find out if you were with him too, and when you weren’t…” Henry trailed off, frowning at the ground. He was quiet for a long while, and Emma ran through his words over and over. Henry thought he knew who her True Love was? How? How could he know that his mother and whoever she was with were one another’s True Love?

“I know he’s here now--I’ve met him before, and back in my world--”

“What? Then how can he be my True Love if he’s from your world?” None of this was making sense, and for the first time she doubted Henry. It seemed he could see the uncertainty within her, and he steered them to a bench to sit and talk as he clarified this man was not from his world, but had been brought there by a curse. The same curse that separated Henry from his own family.

“I know you understand curses and magic,” he began and she nodded at his words. “So when I tell you he was swept up in a curse and brought back in time to my world, that should make sense, right?” She nodded again, wondering who could have cursed two men from different worlds at the same time. Someone powerful and dangerous. Henry sighed and continued. “His name is Killian Jones, and he’s the best man I know. He’s my father in every sense of the word, and while there’s a version of him who is my mother’s True Love, I know there is one who is also yours. He has to be.”

Henry told her a lengthy story about a witch who ensnared a group of people from this kingdom, trapping them in a place called Hyperion Heights. He spoke of a coven leader who cursed Killian Jones so he could never be in contact with his daughter—a child she had abandoned him with after tricking him into spending a night with her. “But you see, Emma, you can break that curse. Your love--yours and Killian’s will break that curse. You will have each other and Alice--hell, and Robin! I haven’t even told you about Robin,” he was lost in thought again after that. Emma waited and tried to make sense of all she had learned.

Is it possible? In some way, his tale made sense. If what he said about the curse was true, it would explain The Gap. Emma had never mentioned The Gap to Henry, though he may have learnt of it through other means. It was rarely spoken of, but everyone in the Enchanted Forest shared one simple truth: there was a block of time no one could account for. Whenever Emma or her parents tried to focus on that space, thinking back to her twenty-sixth birthday, there was a strange void where there should be at least some memory of the year. She could remember the celebratory ball and the night of her birthday, but every time she tried to focus on what came next it only earned her a persistent headache.

“Please don’t hate me, Emma,” Henry put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “I told him to meet me here three days after I arrived. That’s tonight. He’ll be here, and he knows what I believe about you two because he also knows my mother and her Killian. He’s, uh...not entirely convinced. He’s been through a lot, but…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile.

“It’s his story to tell, so I won’t go into detail, just...go easy on the guy. He might be a little gun shy—uh, guarded,” he quickly clarified when he saw her blink in confusion. “I don’t think he’s seen anyone since that witch who duped him, led the coven, and tried to destroy Hyperion Heights. Think that might do a number on a guy.” He looked so sincere, so much like he did when telling all his other tales that Emma chose to believe. Henry hadn’t lied to her before, so what would the motivation be to do so now?

She chewed at her lip, fretting over what to do and how to greet someone who might be a part of her very soul--someone who had been through tricks and curses, and had suffered real loss. She couldn’t simply turn him out in the night, that was unthinkable, but what do you say to the other half of your heart? If that is what he is. This had to have been simpler for her mother. At least she’d simply caught her father in a net after robbing him. That seemed easier than calmly welcoming fate to dinner and introducing the man to your parents on day one.

“Well,” she got up and dusted off her breeches, “I suppose we’d best let my parents know we’re expecting another guest. And I may need to change as well. I think I’d rather not smell worse than the stables when I meet him.” Emma faltered on the last word, not knowing how to address Killian Jones. Henry smiled and followed her lead.

-----

One thorough and contemplative bath later, Emma emerged in a blush pink gown that shimmered softly in the waning sunlight. It had taken her three other dresses before she settled on this one. It was simpler than what she wore to galas and State events: tea length and embroidered in sheer flowers. She knew it would glow softly under the lights of the candles and torches at dinner, and Princess Emma Nolan found herself hoping he would like it.

When he arrived, it was Henry who greeted Killian Jones first, clasping the man’s hand and giving Emma a moment to simply observe. His smile was warm, a bright white flash of teeth and Emma noticed the slight creases at his eyes as well. An authentic smile, she noted, enjoying the genuine moment between the two men. He was dashing there was no other word for it--dressed in black and rich crimson, rings and charms gleaming in the firelight, their glimmer echoed in the silver strands that threaded here and there through his otherwise coal-black hair. Where his left hand ought to be, Emma found instead a polished silver hook and she remembered whispered gossip of a pirate captain referred to only by the moniker Hook. Once a fearsome leader of a brutal band of thieves, he had all but vanished into lore years ago. She realized too late that she’d been staring, and cleared her throat softly before curtseying to cover the awkwardness. Henry took the moment to introduce them, “Captain Killian Jones, may I present Emma Nolan, Princess of Misthaven.”

She offered her hand and Killian took it up, placing a chaste kiss across her knuckles. His eyes met hers, their brilliant lapis blue making her breath catch in her throat. Regardless of the formality of their meeting and the fact Henry, her parents, and several serving staff looked on, she felt the pull immediately. From the moment her hand was in his, it felt right. She wanted to keep hold of him more than she’d wanted anything in her life, wanted to memorize the rough calluses formed by his years at sea, but she forced herself to maintain propriety and brought her hand back to her side. Emma reminded herself they did not know one another, to not get swept up in Henry’s notions without evaluating the truth of the situation. Though she saw in his gaze a strange flicker of recognition, a brief knitting of his brow that asked a silent question she could not interpret, she let the moment pass and returned to her expected duties.

Emma introduced him to her parents, watching her father’s scrutinizing gaze contrast with her mother’s brilliant smile. No doubt her father was riddling out Henry’s purpose in inviting this man to dinner, though she couldn’t fathom him guessing the truth. All through dinner, Emma could barely take her eyes off Killian. He shared a few stories from his days at sea, talking of far-off kingdoms and uninhabited islands, and Emma felt a longing take hold of her as he spun a tale of a snow-covered northern kingdom where they carved elaborate ice sculptures, held firelight festivals, and celebrated the beauty of winter rather than fearing its chill. His voice was low, its velvet warmth wrapping around her and pulling her from all sense of time. The evening passed quickly, and long before she was ready, Emma’s parents stood to signal the end of the affair.

“It’s far too late for you to make a return journey, Captain Jones,” Queen Snow spoke. “We welcome you to stay as a guest in our home. We will have a room made up for you at once and hope you will accompany us for breakfast in the morning.” At his thanks, the Queen turned to Emma, “Oh, and Emma, darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

Emma approached and her mother drew her in for a close hug, whispering softly, “See to it that Captain Jones can find his way. Most of the staff have already retired and I’d hate for him to get lost in search of rest.” With that, the Queen turned and gently tugged her husband toward their own chambers, leaving Emma to escort their two guests.

She could hear her father grumbling about leaving Emma unchaperoned, but Snow’s voice echoed back, “David, she’s twenty-eight, not sixteen, she’ll be fine. Our daughter is perfectly capable--” Their voices were lost as they rounded a corner, and Emma suppressed a smile. It didn’t matter that she was a full grown woman, her father would always be protective of her.

When she turned around, Emma realized Henry had vanished. Someone seems to think himself a matchmaker, she mused and as her eyes fell upon the man who waited by the fireplace she could understand why Henry had made himself scarce. Deep breath, Emma. He’s simply a man like any other. If she tried very hard, she just might convince herself of that. Well, unless she stopped to listen to the way her heart raced when the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

“Did you want--that is,” she faltered and tripped over her tongue, coming to stand near him where he leaned against the back of a chair by the hearth. “I don’t know how long a trip you made today, and so…” Why was this so hard?

“I’m quite alright, Princess. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to ask you to keep me company and perhaps share a drink?” She smiled in response, slipping a large book from a shelf over the mantle after pointing out where her father kept a set of glasses on a shelf nearby.

“He thinks I don’t know about this,” she opened the volume to reveal a bottle. “Rum he had imported from the south--is that acceptable, Captain?”

“Aye, that will do nicely. Bit of a pirate in you isn’t there, Princess? Pinching a man’s rum while he’s fast asleep.” They shared a conspiratorial grin as she poured and each took up a chair near the fire. “To what shall we toast, love?”

She hummed in thought, considering the man before her. The pull was still there like some invisible thread entwining the two of them and she hoped it wasn’t only she who felt it. “To new beginnings,” she offered, holding her glass aloft. He echoed the sentiment and crystal clinked as their eyes met over the rims of their glasses before both looked away shyly and took a sip. The warmth and spice slid down her throat, settling in her stomach and making her shiver. They were quiet for a time, simply sharing the space while they glanced at one another, eyes never quite meeting, nor acknowledging they were both performing the same dance.

“I take it dear Henry shared his theory with you?” Killian broke the silence, addressing the weight that had settled in the room. She confirmed he had shared that along with several other stories, asking if it were true he’d been swept away to a land without magic. “Aye, and for some time I had no memory of myself or this place. When the truth finally came back to me it was...difficult to deal with. Did he...mention Alice?” He swirled the rum in his glass, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Yes, he also mentioned a curse is keeping you apart,” she reached across the small distance that separated them, hand resting on the brace that held his hook. “Killian—if I may call you Killian,” she felt herself flush at the informality and he nodded encouragingly. She said it once more, feeling the musical quality of it as she continued. “What kind of monster keeps a father from his daughter like that?”

His shoulders sagged as he said the story of Gothel was one for another day, that it was a story filled with dark shadows he dare not conjure without the sunlight to dispel them. “I only mention Alice because...well, given what Henry has told both of us I have been...” his brow furrowed as he searched for a word, and she leaned forward, absently running her hand over his sleeve and feeling where the firm leather of his brace ended and the warmth of his arm began. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested and she looked up, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Concerned,” he finished at last. “That is, I’d thought perhaps because I have a child with someone else, and because I am obviously older than you are, that you might feel...or not feel a certain…not that I think Henry is necessarily right…”

His words tapered off and she became very aware they were both leaning in now, the distance between them nearly closed. She could see the silver in his hair glinting in the firelight, the strands at his temples more greyed than the rest. Greedily, she took in all she could in this moment. The heat that radiated from where her hand still rested atop his arm, the scents of leather and petrichor that clung to him were so close she could nearly roll them on her tongue. When she searched his eyes she saw a lingering hurt, but behind that was what appeared to be cautious hope. Setting her glass aside, Emma brought her hand up, allowing herself to do what she’d been wanting to all evening and running her fingers through his hair. He held her gaze, eyes wide and uncertain and she realized his past hurts ran deep enough that he wouldn’t act on that hopeful glint she’d seen moments ago. She would have to be brave for both of them.

With a whisper of his name she closed what little distance remained between them. She’d intended a light brush of her lips, had simply wanted to know what may lie between them, but the moment their lips met Emma knew she would never be satisfied with so little. She poured herself into the moment, moving to grip the front of his shirt and pull him tightly to her. He followed her lead, their kiss deepening as he tilted his head, the two of them moving as though they had done this a hundred times before. She heard her pulse pounding away in her head, felt his breath ghosting over her lips as they breathed into one another for a moment before he captured her lips again. Something shifted then, like the single beat of a massive heart, a shockwave rippled outward, though neither could be bothered to break this moment. Finally, the two pulled back, eyes searching one another.

“Was that?” Emma asked, not knowing how to complete the thought. Her parents had told her their story several times: the kiss that broke the curse. The kiss that radiated out from them in a burst of force and light. The kiss that sounded an awful lot like what she had just shared with Captain Killian Jones.

Killian rested his forehead against hers, breathing out slowly before replying in a soft voice, “Aye love, I think it may have been.” She asked how that was possible, neither naming it yet and both quaffing their rum before leaning back in their chairs. “Years ago,” he began, “I ran into a fortune teller on the docks. He told me I would find my happiness though it was presently locked away in a tall tower. So, when the time came and I found myself facing a witch and finding a woman locked away in a tower I had thought my moment had come. Instead, I found Gothel and her tricks. I brought a daughter into this world only to have her freedom snatched away by the cold-hearted woman who bore her.”

Emma watched him closely, he seemed far away and lost in another time. “Tonight,” he continued after several beats, “when I saw the westward tower of this castle I had to stifle my hope that perhaps after so long--what is that tower to you?” He leaned toward her suddenly, his sapphire eyes searching hers as though he could read the truth within them.

“My bedroom,” she admitted. “My parents thought it would keep me safe. With only one known entrance and exit, it was easy to post guards and easy to know who sought my attention. Of course, there is another exit, but no one other than me knows of it. I devised it when I was sixteen and desperately wanted a way out without the entourage of guards.”

He fell silent, his forehead creased in thought as he tapped a finger against the bow of his lips. The mantle clock’s rhythmic ticking was nearly deafening as Emma waited through each drawn out second. Mesmerized by the path he now traced along his bottom lip, her mind drifted back to the soft press of his mouth against hers and she wished fervently to undo whatever had him so lost in his own thoughts. Come back to me, Killian, she sighed aloud and he snapped to attention. “My apologies, love. I believe I may be in need of rest.” His explanation rang hollow and she leveled a gaze at him, knowing this wasn’t the full truth.

“I swear to you, Princess, I will make my theories known. I do not intend to hide anything from you.” He stood then, stretching languidly before offering his arm and waiting for her to rise. She acquiesced if only for the chance to feel the warmth of him once more before she retired for the night. She tried to stifle her yawn behind her hand and heard him chuckle low in response. “It seems I may not be the only one in need of sleep. Lead the way, love.”

She led him to one of the guest rooms not far from Henry’s. As she bid him goodnight, Killian leaned down to brush a featherlight kiss across her lips, wishing her sweet dreams. Emma felt as though she floated on air the whole way up to her room, content to leave him to his musings tonight and trusting he would speak his mind soon enough.

----- The morning saw Emma waking earlier than usual, calling a chipper “Good morning” to her sleep-rumpled lady’s maid before dismissing her and attending to her own routine. Still abed at this hour? It seems dear Tink has been keeping late hours herself. She let herself ponder whose affections might be persuading the spunky blonde to be less than punctual, smiling at her reflection as she brushed out her golden tresses.

Once ready, Emma hummed to herself, making her way down the innumerable stairs in search of breakfast, her parents, and Killian--the thought made her grin. His sudden shift into contemplativeness notwithstanding, he had been the perfect gentleman last night. Thoughtful in their discussion at dinner, genuine and curious without overstepping, and then there was the kiss. She flushed, pausing before the dining room doors to gather her thoughts and put on what she hoped was a soft smile rather than the doe-eyed look she’d undoubtedly been wearing since she woke.

Her parents, Henry, and Killian were already seated when she entered--the latter both rising and inclining their heads in deference. “Good morning, Princess,” they intoned in unison. She laughed, insisting they sit and continue the conversation she had interrupted, taking her place at her father’s right hand and quietly thanking the servingman who filled her cup with coffee and cream.

“Killian, you were asking about the tower, yes?” Queen Snow offered an encouraging half-smile before sipping demurely at her tea. At this, Emma heard her father mutter under his breath about the Captain inquiring about his daughter’s bedroom.

“Yes. You see, Your Majesty, I can’t help but notice it is nearly identical--from the outside,” he clarified at her father’s rapidly reddening face, “to one I encountered years ago. That particular structure was the residence of a rather powerful witch.”

“Gothel,” her father spat, and all eyes shifted to him. Emma saw Killian’s jaw clench at the name and he gave a single, curt nod in affirmation.

With her mother’s hand resting on his shoulder, her father began the story she’d heard many times over the course of her life. The story of how Gothel heard the regents were expecting and deduced there would be a child born of the most powerful magic in all realms: True Love. That she knew as well that child would have light magic, and that even if it never manifested there would be power in their blood. It was the story of why Emma’s parent’s fortified their home so heavily once word of Gothel’s covetous wish reached them, and why they insisted she train with sword and bow.

“It’s why my little girl was taught to ride like a soldier and not a courtier. Hell, it’s why I gave into her frankly dangerous wishes and allowed her to learn to sail--in case she needed to escape quickly.”

“Does it help to know Gothel can’t harm anyone anymore?” Henry offered helpfully, trying to lighten the weight that had settled on the group. There was general agreement at the table that, yes, it did help. Quite a lot, in fact, and it felt as though the sun broke out from beneath the clouds as they returned to their breakfast.

“Is that what you were concerned about, Captain?” Emma caught herself in time and used his title, not yet ready to have that discussion with her parents.

“The thought had crossed my mind, Princess, but it seems your own construction must have inspired hers for some reason.” He dismissed the thought, though she could practically hear the gears of his mind grinding away. The conversation returned to banal pleasantries about the weather and what game was in season. Her father consulted Killian on the conditions at sea, and in general the rest of the meal was like any other. Like any other meal you share with your family, a new friend, and the man you just shared True Love’s Kiss with less than eight hours after meeting him. Perfectly normal. Emma put on her court smile and commented politely, waiting for her moment to pounce.

“Join me for a walk in the gardens, Captain?” The moment arrived after a lengthy debate about the benefits of traveling by horse in comparison to ship. Thank the gods for the momentary lull as her father’s cup was refilled yet again - Emma didn’t think there was enough coffee in the whole of Misthaven to keep her alert on this topic.

“Of course, Princess.” He smiled bashfully, running his hand through his hair and standing as she rose. “May I?” He offered his arm and she accepted, the two making a long overdue exit.

The grass was still damp as they walked the grounds, the morning sun hinting at a warm day to come despite the slight chill that had Emma leaning in close, basking in the warm line of contact with Killian. “So, what was it you held back up there?” She broke the silence and watched the arch of his brow as he glanced at her. “I’ve always known when people are dishonest, or not fully honest in this case,” she explained. “It’s a feeling, sort of like a rock settling into my stomach. I don’t know if it’s part of my magic or something else,” she shrugged at this and watched his expression shift from curiosity to contemplation. No doubt he was thinking up a way to explain whatever was plaguing his mind.

He remained in that state as they passed her mother’s bed of crimson roses and all the way through the lilies that always made her nose twitch, their heady scent overpowering. Spotting the bench she and Henry had sat on—was that only yesterday?—she took the lead, turning to face him as they sat.

“There are some strange coincidences,” he began. Their knees brushed and she leaned into the contact, hoping her touch might ground him in the present. His past included darkness, and here in the bright morning sun amongst the flowers she hoped to keep those grim memories at bay.

“The tower is the first of them, and I’ve no idea which came first. Given Gothel’s numerous deceits, I’m not inclined to believe any of her tales nor any of Belfry’s—the woman who claimed to be the missing princess, Rapunzel,” he clarified when he saw her puzzled look. “Did you know the witch?”

She shook her head, “Only what my parents told me: that she was interested in my magic and had a reputation for taking what she desired by force.” He expressed clear agreement, and when his focus became distant Emma took hold of both hand and hook. “Whatever it is, that doesn’t change who we are to one another, Killian.”

That must have heartened him, for it earned her a gentle smile. “Aye, love, I suppose you’re right. You see, the other strangeness was Gothel’s impersonation. I’ve never given it much thought, but why should she play at being a princess? I’d no notion who the woman was, yet she changed her appearance, her voice, her name. Why?” He hypothesized then that either Gothel bribed the fortune-teller, planting the man in Killian’s path with a bogus story about happiness in a tower, or that she somehow knew Emma would be important and hedged her bets by occupying her own tower and putting herself in Killian’s path.

“You see, I’ve considered the strangeness of these overlaps and in part I wonder if one of the gifts she or a fellow witch of her coven acquired was prophecy. She seemed to know far more than anyone ought to, and perhaps thought to entrap me and use me to get to you.

“If she knew we were, uh,” he gulped, and flushed a charming shade of pink all the way to his ears. “Destined for one another, then it would be well within her character to exploit that. To make me think she could lead me to my happiness, then snatch you away for her own nefarious purposes. As well, I’m starting to suspect the unaccounted year the townsfolk allude to may well have been a longer span of time than any of you realize.”

It made sense in a way, and while they couldn’t be certain of Gothel’s intentions, Emma was definitely grateful the woman was gone and could do them no further harm. As far as The Gap was concerned, she supposed there was no real way of knowing how much time had passed, only that it seemed like a year. Had she slept as Aurora once had? Every answer seemed to lead to more questions, but Emma resolved herself to focusing on what mattered most first: reuniting Killian with his Alice.

“Despite her purposes, Killian, whatever they may have been,” she reached up and cupped his cheek. His eyes were blue as the sea and she let herself fall into their depths as she brought him back to the present. “Last night, Killian, True Love’s Kiss is potent magic and I think—I’m almost certain, actually—that we broke your curse. We can find Alice, and you can finally hold your daughter in your arms again.”

“We?” He grinned at her, nuzzling against her hand before turning to kiss her palm. “Then you’ll accompany me, love?”

“Of course! I know we’ve only just met, but I think it’s more than obvious how I feel about you given the fact we broke a witch’s curse with our first kiss.” They shared a laugh, shifting so she could rest her head against his shoulder as he draped his arm around her.

“She’s a bit different, my Alice,” he cautioned.

“And we aren’t?” she challenged. “Tonight at dinner, let me handle my parents. We’ll tell them what happened and make plans to seek out Alice. Henry said she’s with someone called Robin—does that name mean anything to you?”

“Aye, that’s Alice’s love. I know where to find them.”

“Then that’s our next course. Reuniting you with your daughter is the first step toward, well, I guess…” she paused, pulling back to meet his gaze again. “I guess toward becoming a family, right? I mean, my parents will have questions and all things considered, I guess we have other planning we’ll need to do in the future, but—“ he cut off her monologue with a kiss. It was sweet and slow, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her lips on his. His tongue flirted with her bottom lip and she twined her fingers in his hair.

Pulling back to meet her eyes, Killian smiled. “I love you, Princess Emma Nolan,” he whispered.

She felt warm all the way to her toes, grinning as she replied, “I love you, Captain Killian Jones.” The two shared a lingering kiss, the spell suddenly broken by a loud whoop of excitement.

“I told you both!” Henry hollered, emerging from his hiding place behind a large oak tree and performing some bizarre dance Emma had never seen. The three laughed, Henry congratulating them on their newly blossoming relationship while Emma and Killian thanked him for the unlooked-for but welcome help.

“What can I say except: you’re welcome.” His smile was bright at the sun and he slung an arm over both their shoulders, walking between them as the three returned to the house and, for Emma and Killian, toward the start of a new life together.

Tagging the usual suspects: @kmomof4, @teamhook, @veryverynotgood, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @laschatzi, @donteattheappleshook, @lonelyspectator12, @the-darkdragonfly, @zaharadessert, @winterbaby89, @jrob64, @wefoundloveunderthelight, @ultraluckycatnd, @stahlop, @alexa-fangirl-forever, @superchocovian, @monosalvatore16, @snowbellewells, @batana54

#love4teamhook #cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fan fic #cs fluff #emma swan #killian jones #henry mills

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rataltouille · 4 years

Text

BONFIRE, BONFIRE!: A COLLECTION OF FLASH FICTION + POETRY

so i’ve decided to compile all twenty [these will be split into two so that the post isn’t super long] of the writing pieces i’ve done for my random celebration into one post so that it’s easier to read / access share!! you can also find it here, all put into one work, on wattpad, because i feel nostalgic about that website and decided to just post it!!

NOTE: i know that this shouldn't need to be said, but these 20 pieces belong to me so please don’t copy/repurpose it for your writing!! i plan on using these somewhere in my own writing and either way they’re stuff i’ve written so don’t use them!!

1. cooking + destructive + purple from @andiwriteunderthemoon [also i kind of cheated with this prompt and asked my sis @dreamscanbenightmarestoo for ideas and so the base idea’s from her!!]

I didn’t mean to set my house on fire, alright?

Let me set the scene: I’m sitting in my room, watching the infomercials that blur together, and suddenly there’s a bright purple flash on the glitching screen: /grapes/. They’re shiny, plump, and oh? A recipe for fine wine? Don’t mind if I do. So I pop into my kitchen and cut the grapes, dice them up, finally using the knife after years of not cooking— /mother, are you proud of me now?/— and stick the soft, luminescent fluid into a glass bottle. Following each step of the recipe.

The recipe didn’t mention an explosion.

Destruction rained around my house like a meteor shower. The bubbles from the fluid, frisking up at contact with metal, swam across my shoes and into the living room. It touched the TV, which still flashed the recipe, which I was still cursing at. And then, you know, it burnt up. The couch scorched first, I think. So that was fun. I later realised that I’d used my reserve of petroleum, which I’d put in my kitchen cabinet, instead of vinegar. I think I’ve got to move back in with my mother again.

2. running + quiet + sky blue from @kryskakikomi [i have no idea what this is i drafted this in a fever dream state]

Summer crawled up his skin like a worm. He was seated at his dining table, crosswording his way through the sticky morning, when it struck him that the humidity was new. He’d been caught in summer before, of course, but this year was different. His parents had whisked away to their hometown, and he still didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go. He loved their home— he could have been running on beach sand and waves could have cruised over his feet, and his face would reflect sky blue under palm trees. Instead he sat doodling and scratching at cement walls in a quiet that nagged at his ears, grappling his flesh like a fishing hook, reeling him in. Boredom, him sister told him, before she also left for someone’s home. What would you know? he whispered once the door latched from the outside. Maybe /she’d/ like to sit on the same wooden chair, all the pink paint worn out, and scratch out squares of empty text until the pen poked through the other hand. He scoffed. At least he knew the number of scars on the wood; he could hold that over her when his parents returned.

3. hallucinate + hazy + violet from @chloeswords [i wanted to write something dreamy and ethereal but everytime i look at your url i’m reminded of church mud and indirectly my religious trauma so here we are 🤡]

We hold the book in our arms and chant for God. We don’t know what he looks like. They say that he’s sharp, never pixelating or blurring or showing through, like a hazy image would. No, children, our family says, he will come clothed in gold and velvet— the colour a deep and rich crimson, or chartreuse. And of course, he weaves a violet into his hair. Because he is just that humble. Just that gentle. Loving.

We’ve almost understood now. Pray, clasp our palms together into a transient equinox, and pray. Maybe he will shine down on us. Maybe we will speak so loud and chant so long that our lips will chap. Maybe we’ll simply hallucinate him to salve our bones. Our family says, he will bless you. And so he will.

4. halcyon + pluviophile + beige from anon [i was yearning for cats i am a cat person i love cats]

I remember my life before I moved to London,

Those halcyon days that I spent scooping up cat litter and brushing warm fur,

Being a mother to beige and white and black little felines.

They keep better company than humans.

Now I’m a self-proclaimed businesswoman, artist, influencer, pluviophile,

Even when I’ve barely stepped foot outside during the rain,

[But it needs to be said that when it rains in London, it pours].

I think I’d like to open a cat cafe;

I’m rich enough to pull it off.

5. sing + vulnerable + olive green from @occiidens [this was actually super fun to write because it’s a break from the typically unhinged stories i gravitate towards]

You watch from the highest hill of your town, hand wrapped around the serrated wood of a red oak tree. The bark pokes into your flesh, drawing blood that shouldn’t have been taken from you. You scowl. Just another thing that lives to cause you pain.

Three storeys down is a young man, short and smiling and lovely. He has dark skin and darker hair, walking with the stride of a deer, and he’s smiling; the joy reflects onto your face, even though you can’t hear him. He wears a cotton shirt, the olive green stark against the fire-blue sky. You call out, sing his name, three times in a row.

When he finally looks up, squinting as you silhouette under the sun, the smile widens. A wave. You’re suddenly overcome with embarrassment. Your palm digs into the bark until the wound is freshly dug again, the skin supple and vulnerable. You want to wave, but your hands would look so awkward, and the blood wouldn't help. So you turn on your heel and run— why are you so awkward?— and the grass around you is brighter. This is now a tomorrow issue, you conclude. You’re still smiling.

6. dislocate + ostentatious + blood red from @oasis-of-you [this got really unhinged really fast. TW: body horror]

If you take a turn at Finn Avenue,

Rogue your way down a blood red river,

[It’s not actual blood, do not worry. The colour’s a pigment and it’s saturated enough to give you the texture, the touch, the taste of blood, but I repeat, it isn’t true blood. You might think that it’s ostentatious of us to make you cross a river like that, but you’ll understand why.]

And if can stick your fingers inside the fluid,

You’ll find a bone.

Don’t pull it out fully! Only observe.

[This is a real bone, most likely animal. We may be ominous, but we don’t hurt humans. Not yet.]

So what do you do now? You want passage into a better world.

You came here because you saw the brochure, the flyer,

Radiant Idyll, home for love, but you also saw the jutting anatomy that leads to the city. The pictures were rather clear.

Why do you look so surprised? We’ve put this on the brochure— don’t you ever read the fine print?— to avoid this exact situation. That you would cross a body, a skeleton, pooled over in a fluid that we don’t name, but it’s probably alive.

It’s watching you right now.

So what do you do now?

Hurry up, unhinge your arm, dislocate the elbow, drop it into the blood, forgive me, false blood, and pay for your passage.

Oh! Excellent; that’s record time. We do hope you enjoy your stay!

1. @noteaboy [i’ve interpreted your url as ”note, a boy”]

There’s an orange tree. It’s spring, and there’s an orange tree, and it brims with fruit and citrus perfume. Point your lens flare downwards, and note, a boy. A young man, perhaps, because he combs his hair, uptight and firm, and he wears a tie. A long suit. He doesn’t look up, because his hand holds a book. /He/ holds the book, not the hands— tenderness doesn’t translate through anatomy, I’ve taught you this before. He’s waiting for someone. There’s only the rustle of leaves. He drops the book onto the lap of the tree, crushing the apple that had fallen down. Orange, not apple. Take note better. You only have one chance to get this right.

2. @eatingjupiter [your url is so beautiful omg]

The goddess had said this before she died: you need to watch over him. He needs your sentry to survive. The goddess’ words weren’t heeded. Little baby Jupiter tottered on lava as him parents small-talked with their kingdom. Well, it must have been small talk, because nothing seemed to happen afterwards other than his mother’s face collapsing in agony, anger, annoyance. He knew not to touch them then. He’d fly off into the sun one day, but if his hands were but and charred, he wouldn’t survive even a third of the journey.

The prophecy was simple: the firstborn to the kingdom will metamorph into a celestial, purify themselves so that only stardust remains. Live in the sky forever. The astrologers were baffled; you don’t just become a star. They should have heeded the goddess.

Jupiter was sixteen when he expanded and collapsed all at once. He still lives, they say, and the astrologers /were/ right, in a way: people just don’t become stars. They become almost empty space. Nobody knows if his hands were burnt when they left earth’s orbit forever.

3. @laughtracksonata [your name gave me slight horror vibes idk why!!]

Hahaha. The Horror Movie (don’t ask me for a name, I’m not good with those), with its cymbal crashing and plastic sounds, it’s so loud and scary that it hurts, father. Please turn it off.

Father doesn't listen. I shiver on the couch. The screen flickers like radio static and reflects off our wide eyes. What kind of a home is this anyway? I don’t want to fucking listen to a laugh track or a horror VHS tape or watch the bass crescendo as the serial killer jumpscares the watcher. I don’t think that having hour pupils glued to the same blood-splattered movie, with the same recording looping in his eardrums will help him. He laughs along, sometimes. It’s scary. Father needs a new hobby.

PART TWO COMING SOON!!

anyway this got REALLY long so i’m posting the third prompt group, the one based on songs, as a second part in some time. i hope you enjoy this, and PLEASE do boost!! i spent a lot of time writing these pieces and am pretty proud of them :’)

general taglist: @lovingyou-is @guulabjamuns @andiwriteunderthemoon @coffeeandcalligraphy @melonmilk @silentlylostwriter @charles-joseph-writes @eklavvya @eowynandfaramir @bitterwitchwrites @laughtracksonata @whatwordsdidnttouch @indeliblewrites @thenataliawrites @summersguilt @illimani-gibberish @sarahkelsiwrites @writing-in-delirium @shaelinwrites @sienna-writes @chewingthescenery @jennawritesstories @chloeswords @aelenko @keira-is-writing @cherylinanika @infinitely-empty-pages @jmtwrites @august-iswriting @freedelusionbanana @beetleblue88 @mistercaleb @iwannawritepls @hanwatchingmovies @mortallynuttyqueen @idratherliveinnarnia @maisulli @thegreyboywrites @ahowlinwolf @ravens-and-rivers @oasis-of-you @yanittawrites @chazza-writes-sometimes @skyfirewrites @lovebenders @treybriggsthewriter @themidnxghtwriter @ash-karter @queen-devasena @a-procrastination-addict @gaymityblight @beyondthebracken @madmaxst26 @adielwrites @moonpixxel @hollow-knight-dnd @keep-looking-here @overlap @ashleygarciawrites @ryns-ramblings @wordsbynathan @novaemlynlewis @sophiewritingstuff @howdy-writes @occiidens @nsanelyawkward @viawrites-andacts

#writeblr #am writing #flash fiction #poetry #wtwcommunity #ofcolourtracking #crabappletracking #anyway part two probably in a couple days #i still have to start writing them 🤡✌️#bonfire bonfire

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goatpaste · 4 years

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What do the first element holders look like in your au?

aH took me a hot minute to get around to this but i did it >:3

the first element wielders of equestria (technically before the founding of equestria) they were known as the elements of harmony, they first elements of harmony. but also some refer to the as ‘The First gifts’

i changed a little bit of some of their lore story

Princess Bluebelle, one of The First’s alicorn creations. Bluebelle is a kind being who had great patience and cared for all who patroned her house. She learned not just Unicorn magic but excelled in learning the biology of pegasus and earth pony magic and how to harness and further their growth as a society from helping the weather and nature and plant growth.

Bluebelle was close with The First, often receiving visits from her.

She also was the closest thing to a friend Equnity had (as Equnity didn’t like to make friends).

Bluebelle was gifted Philomena by The First, the phoenix stayed by her side until the end and now lives on as Celestia’s companion. the bird that has lived since the beginning of time.

After The First no longer was around Bluebelle led the elements and took on being pseudo leader of the alicorns, often training and helping them figure out what to do with their powers and how to help out disputes within their house’s.

Bluebelle became teachers for many ponies over the centuries. She personally trained Starswirl the bearded and Gusty the great.

She also helped guide and train Celestia and Luna alongside Starswirl. Starswirl was their main teacher but Bluebelle would step in to help from another alicorns perspective. The sisters adored Bluebelle.

Her Elemental artifact is her wand, the first gift that was given to her by patreons that wasn’t money or food.

Butterscotch, the element of kindness.

A pegasus who grew up in the clouds of a typical pegasus tribe who acted much to that of a military. Everyone was ready to fight and looked down on the land dwellers. Buttercotch was sweet to the bone and hated fighting and openly despised the way they let their society had become.

Butterscotch was banished from the clouds, the other Pegasus claiming her to be too weak and that her soft spot for the land ponies would be her downfall.

Joining the other ponies on the ground she met Minty, a pegasus born on the ground. The two traveled together from then on.

Butterscotch and her companion would appear in neutral towns and spreed their word of friendship and ideals that the three races could and should work together for the better of the future. Butterscotch would make treats for the foals, play music and be the general life of the party.

Later on Butterscotch would return to the pegasus tribes, or meet with pegasus leaders on neutral ground and try many time to push for pegasus to integrate with ground pony society and vice versa. that staying in the clouds only held them back.

to simply put it, this was always met with a solid ‘not going to happen’. this put Butterscotch and Commander Hurricane at odds with one another a lot, causing many fights between the two.

however private Pansy who worked under Hurricane couldn’t agree more with what Butterscotch said, her words growing Pansy’s animosity toward Hurricane. Pansy gave Butterscoth her scarf as a token of appreciation, for all the inspiration she brought her. That scarf became Butterscotch’s famous elemental artifact.

Minty, one of very few pegasus born on the ground. Nearly all pegasus at this point in time had solely stuck to the sky, only coming down to diplomatic meetings, scouting territory, and fighting.

One of Minty’s parents was a pegasus who left the tribe of pegasus, unhappy with how their society had become. fell in love with an earth pony and the two had their only daughter Minty.

At a young age she met Clover the Clever, at the time was just Clover the unicorn that Minty met. Clover, a unicorn daughter of an important unicorn diplomat, traveling with her parent for important meetings in a town far away. Minty had simply wandered too far off collecting clovers and looking for a four leafed one.

the two met and became friends for the short time they would know each other, gifting Minty her artifact of a pressed clover. It isnt long until their parents find them and get into a fight. the event left them both children traumatized as they had to face the reality of the world they lived in and the danger minty face when she stepped outside of her village.

minty grew into a scholarly teen, she still goofed off but she adored reading and writing and learning. she formed a knack for making speeches. She often would sneak off to taverns and inn that were marked as neutral zones to give long speeches or read her poetry, often time ruffling others feathers with the things she said. this came with the stress of her parents worried that bold words might have a pony turn to violence and harm her.

none the less she braves on, leaving home when she is old enough, setting up wherever she can on her soap box and talking her heart out until she is run out. Later meeting Butterscotch and working together, then meeting The First who is touched by their want to connect and bring ponies together.

Minty is named the element of laughter, and was able to reunite with Clover the Clever who now trained under starswirl the bearded.

Blossom, a mute earth pony who came from a large family who owned many acres of land full of lush greenery. fields of plants, trees of fruit and ect. Blossom lost one of her parents when she was a small baby and the other when she was older.

She tends to all the lands by herself everyday. only making it because of her generosity. she allowed any pony to come to her land, they could eat what they needed, stay and rest as long as they wanted, all for free so long as they didn’t start fights. this led to many ponies showing up and staying in the safety of her lands and to help pay her back many ponies would saddle up and tend to the fields along side her.

Blossom felt she was never without family as she almost always had ponies by her side, eating dinner with her and helping her out. She was happy and everyone adored her, often referring to her as ‘aunt blossom’ or even nicknames calling her mom.

Not to mention that she didn’t put up with anyone shit, if anyone started fights on her land she sure as hell was the one to finish them and they would know not to come back on her land. and ponies lovED it, they loved knowing this older mare was able to totally kick ass.

Blossom met Cotton Candy when the filly was a young child, loving and chipper as any child could possibly be. Blossom adored her and acted as like a big sister/aunt/mother to cotton candy.

Blossom became the element of Generosity, the locket her parents left her as her artifact.

Cotton Candy, itty bitty pony. sweet and cute as can be.

not much is known of her unlike the other. she is the youngest element wielder in the history of the elements. She was orphaned under unknown reasons (some speculate she may have been born an earth pony while having non earth pony parents, something very rare but possible)

She met The First very young, like a 7 year old wandering around on a trail down the country road. The First took the young pony with her, knowing just what to do with her. Bringing her to Blossom’s orchard, a safe haven for ponies with land to run through, food to eat and a roof over her head.

Blossom and Cotton Candy took to each other immediately, like to to their sides Cotton Candy stayed with Blossom for years and despite her side beginning expresses being grateful that it brought her to Blossom.

Cotton Candy has some eating problems and the only time you will find her not within a 10 foot radius of Blossom is if she found some nice flowers to snack on.

Cotton Candy became the element of Loyalty and was the first pony to officially write down information about the elements of harmony, even watched the first transfer of its power from them the original wielders to a new generation. all of this done at the end of her life.

Snuzzle, a GIANt beautiful pony.

Sweet, kind, and polite. everyone she grew up around loved her. she had a very typical up bringing as an earth pony, helping out how she could as she was born blind. she worked to develop the first form of braille in equestria as a way for her to make and have notes for her within her own community.

She didn’t consider herself someone who disliked the pegasus and unicorns but didn’t quite seem to grow up with an opinion on their separation of the fighting that happened. she was the type to say ‘its just how the world is’. Not changing or understanding the impact of the things happening in the land around her, until The First arrived. She traveled with two pegasus, Minty and Butterscotch who showed great kindness to the earth ponies who only acted boorish and impolite to the pegasi. listening to what they had to say and seeing how her own family and friend treated them was a wake up call.

Snuzzle chose to leave her village behind and travel with The First, she wanted to learn all she could by the wise Alicorns side.

She spent years at her side learning so many, traveling far and wide and meeting so many ponies. she became a better person and loved the friends she made through her long years.

Snuzzel was there when Equnity corrupted and became darkness, she was one of the few who noticed something was wrong with the foal. Poking around and finding out that Equnity was unhappy and messing in dark messy magic. Snuzzel was at the site when Equnity changed, and she was there when The First made the decision to make herself the elements, trusting that she could bring the ponies together and make a better world.

Snuzzle misses The First and struggled to find her place in the world once again.

she made her home the now abandoned house of seasons. she built her home and family here which would later be the mark of where ponyville layed.

snuzzel would be visited by her friends and fellow element wielders and even by the young sisters of celestia and luna who would later make their first castle here.

#long post #mlp #mlp headcanons #mlp g1 #bluebelle #blue belle #butterscotch #minty #blossom #cotton candy #snuzzle #idk how many spelling errors are in here rn #this is so long and i need sucha big nap #i meant to pass out hours ago #Anonymous

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breitzbachbea · 3 years

Note

#11 and #41 for turgre!

Thank you for sending the prompt in!

Fanfic Trope Mash Up

#11 Neighbour AU + #41 Big Damn Kiss =

Herakles & Sadık are both recent university graduates from Athens & İstanbul, but find themselves lacking opportunities to work in their homecountries. So they go abroad to try their luck elsewhere.

Both end up in Germany. Herakles' is living with the Simonides old family friends who've either migrated decades ago or are living as expats in Germany. Natasa and Ibrahim welcome Herakles with open arms. He immediately makes friends with their twins, only a few years younger than him. Omar and Timothea, as they're called, are still living with their parents while they're attending the local university. They're not living in luxury, but they're happy.

Sadık manages to get in contact with Havva Be Yauno via some university acquaintances. They migrated to Germany a while ago, after being kicked out working in local administration. Sadık gets to share a small flat in the building Havva manages for the landlord, together with a Kurdish Woman called Dilan Taş. After some initial hiccups, the two become close friends.

The hiccups with their neighbours next door are less initial. No, that's a lie - The Simonides don't mind their new neighbours, even invite them for coffee and tea. Omar pretty quickly evolves a crush on Dilan.

It's just Herakles and Sadık who keep butting heads.

They argue about petty semantics that only people who studied 'breadless art' would care about. Herakles complains that they're too loud at night. Sadık says Herakles is dragging stray cats into the house by leaving out food & now the whole staircase stinks. There's always something.

As time goes on, they get over themselves a little. Too busy with their own life. Sadık feeds the cats with scraps he gets from the Turkish butcher. Herakles comes over after it's been eerily quiet for weeks and finds out that Sadık's latest odd job makes him work at night. He actually finds him slumped over on the kitchen table when Dilan lets him in before she leaves for work. He goes back and leaves him a package of expensive coffee beans that he had imported from Greece.

One night, they end up together on the university campus. Sitting on the steps surrounding a piece of green near a small river. The city's barely still awake, there's only music, TV and chatter from the dorms. The occassional student crossing after they stayed late at the library.

"What did you actually study?" Sadık asked and put the lighter back into his pocket. It was a cheap one with a wheel. Pain in the ass to get working at this point. His last money had been spent on the cigarettes themselves.

Herakles took a deep breath through his nose. He stared at the water, flowing invisibly except for a few dancing white and orange specks. "Philosophy," he said.

Sadık chuckled and the chuckle quickly became a laugh. "Oh, what a surprise that you couldn't find a job with such a prestigious degree." He grinned and exhaled some smoke.

"And history. Archaeology, Politics, Linguistics, Architecture, Maths... I dipped my toes into physics, too, for a little bit, but couldn't really make it."

Sadık's grin had long faltered. Herakles looked to the river. A smile replaced the initial surprise on Sadık's face. "Oho, a real Renaissance man, aren't you?"

"I like to learn. But all I could do with the few fields I actually managed to acquire a degree in was teach in school. And I'm just not... very good at that." He sighed. Long. "But my dad had stopped paying once I had gotten a job, not that he had ever really paid me enough, mind you, so... I had nowhere to go if I had quit."

"Except here." Sadık wished Herakles would have looked at him. To even catch a glimpse of him, a little bit of that beautiful face illuminated by the pale moon or the orange streetlights.

"Except here." Sadık finally had his wish granted. "What did you study?"

Sadık took a deep breath through his nose. His cigarette was almost finished. "Architecture, too. Tried to get into engineering, but couldn't quite make it. Would have loved to do Literature, frankly. I dunno, get a teaching position at an university, but Anne* always had higher plans for me. Career woman and all that, only wanted the best for me, too, so studying something almost as useless as philosophy wasn't really up for debate."

Now he was the one to stare into the river while he took another drag. He looked at his feet. His shoes could need a good cleaning.

"A smoking literature professor, how cliché," Herakles said and the deep shadows on his face hid how much it reflected the amusement in his voice. He leant in closer to Sadık and put a hand on his thigh. His inner thigh. "All the women would have gone wild over this."

"You think so?" Sadık asked, an expectant but cautious smirk on his face. Rest of his cigarette between his fingers. Herakles' weight on his thigh. He enjoyed his touch. The nights were so cold here in Germany. He leant in for a kiss.

Herakles' hand disappeared. "But I don't kiss smokers." The next moment, Sadık was engulfed in darkness as Herakles stood and blocked the streetlight. He turned and adjusted his jacket. "I have a job interview tomorrow, so see you around, I guess." He turned to just the right angle that Sadık could catch his grin.

He only had a dumbfounded stare as goodbye while Herakles climbed the stairs back to street level.

Some time after this incident, Herakles gets a job as research assisstant at the local university. It's initially only for a project of the history facculty, but he's happy nonetheless.

Now that he knows Sadık enjoys literature, he tells the Simonides one time the topic crops up & they know of a regional literature club, who's holding public reading nights. Any author can show up and read their pieces for 10 Minutes to an audience. Omar tells Dilan, who knows that Sadık writes poetry. She thinks he should go and so after she bullied him into it, they do.

Sadık becomes a regular guest there and ends up meeting other literature enthusiasts, like the Beilschmidts. (He and Gilbert bicker a lot about what the other writes, both trying to take the other down a peg). Sadık never tells Herakles any of this.

So imagine his surprise when he spots him one night in the audience. Afterwards, he's torn between sneaking out and going straight up to him, but Herakles makes the decision for him.

"I didn't know you wrote poetry," Herakles finally broke the awkward stare-off.

"Well, now you do." Sadık closed his book and shoved it under his arm. With a grin, he asked: "You think it's good?"

Despite what followed, Herakles couldn't wipe the smile off his face: "I enjoyed it more than the other guy's crime story, at least."

Sadık gave a short bark of laughter. "Oh, you don't know half of it, Gilbert's been trying to make it work since forever. You got time for a coffee?"

So life's good. They're hanging out, they're working, they're pursueing their passions. One time, the heater in Sadık and Dilan's flat breaks and despite Havva trying their best to get it repaired and them a temporary replacement, they're freezing their asses off. So they go and visit their neighbours, who offer them to sleep over. Sadık is supposed to sleep on the couch. Dilan is supposed to sleep on a mattress in the Simonides' room. Both somehow end up sleeping in a Greek's bed instead. (Herakles has a really small room - his desk is even in the twins' room cuz it wouldn't fit in his own. Sadık asks if he wants coffee and they end up drinking coffee in his bed together and talk until they fall asleep.)

Life could be rosy. That is until one day, the Simonides get into real trouble with the landlord. You see, Natasa and Havva always had a tense relationship, because Natasa doesn't believe in playing by the rules too much, while Havva is a very organized person. However, now some things - like mayhaps Herakles living with them - have gotten directly to the landlord of the building and they're not amused. They threaten to evict them, unless Herakles is going - and want a hefty fine from the Simonides either way.

Getting a new home would mean severe financial strain, not to mention the fine. Omar and Thea may would have to pause or drop their studies. Herakles would have to go back to Greece and start from scratch.

Which he's willing to do, seeing how much trouble he caused the family, even if it breaks his heart. Natasa is having none of it - "I'm not sending you back to your son of a bitch, deadbeat dad, Iraklis" - and insists he stays.

Dilan and Sadık get wind of all of this and they're just as devasted as the family itself. They don't want to lose their neighbours. They don't want this to ruin Omar's and Thea's future. They don't want Herakles to leave. Sadık doesn't want Herakles to leave.

So he pleads with Havva to do something, anything, he'll help them do whatever it takes. Natasa is far too proud to do so. Maybe she even suspects that Havva had something to do with it. (They don't).

And through a lot of negotiation, bribery and running errands, the Simonides get to stay. Omar and Thea can continue pursueing their degrees in peace. Herakles gets to stay and keep working in Germany.

"You... You've spent your past weeks on this?" Herakles' stare pierced Sadık as much as it seemed to look right through him. His mouth hung open, jaw slack. "This was all your doing?"

Sadık took a deep breath, but had to settle for a rather unintelligent "Well, yeah." Herakles' stare unsettled him. He had never seen him at a loss for words before. He was even afraid the other might faint.

A heartbeat later, Sadık was afraid he might faint. Herakles had taken a step towards him, grabbed his face and pressed his lips onto Sadık's. It knocked the breath out of him.

His lips were soft. They were so soft and hot and melded with his own effortlessly.

He kissed back, hands on Herakles' face, fingers buried in the messy hairy. The pressure between them was right, felt right, made them one for a brief eternity.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. They both took a deep breath through their nose and Herakles panted loudly as he exhaled through the mouthm He swallowed.

"Herakles, I don't think that that's an appropriate enough Thank you", Ibrahim said, but neither of the two barely even registered it. Natasa laughed. Loudly.

"Oh, no, I think it's more than enough," Sadık replied as he stared at the wall next to Herakles' head. His hands were still on his face. "Although..." Ibrahim and Natasa were talking in Greek when he faced Herakles again. She still chuckled while a grin stole itself onto his face. "I think I could go for a little bit more gratitude, after all we've done."

"Don't push it," Herakles warned him. Yet, his cockyness was rewarded with another kiss.

Sadık's tongue slipped between his lips effortlessly. As if it belonged there.

Like Herakles belonged here.

So... yeah! I hope you liked it!

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