#prose sample

[cosmicgrapevine]

     Melanie was about to ask Lynd how he felt about another night (or two) sleeping under the stars, but the sound of of sneakers hitting pavement made her turn. It was Tabby, running at a full sprint, glimmering blue bractoscope in hand catching the dawn light. Her face was beet-red, her hair a sweaty mess, like she’d run at that pace clear across town. Seeing Lynd, she slowed, then stopped, keeling forward with her hands on her thighs, just barely not toppling, sucking in deep gulps of oxygen. It looked like she’d throw up from exertion. Then, she lifted her head, a wild grin peeking through her spiky bangs.       Lynd was still for a moment. He shivered like the lid on an overboiling pot. Then, in one smooth motion, he took a few running steps forward, leapt three feet into the air, and ripped his baseball cap off, flinging it into the sky with delight. From beneath, a small blue and green bird zipped out, chirping joyously and flying in a circle above Lynd. “YES!” He roared. Tabby screamed “WOO!” In response.       Coming back to earth, he ran to Tabby, scooping her up in both arms and giving her a spinning, spiraling hug at the edge of the driveway, her feet trailing in the air. “Keep it down, you dumb kids!” Some woman yelled from some unseen window.       Fawn’s lip curled. To Melanie, she said, “Can we talk?” The two found a quieter spot off to the side. Fawn planted her fists on her hips. “If this was all just to get your friend laid, I’m gonna be so mad.”       “What? No, it’s…that’s ridiculous.”       Fawn looked witheringly at the driveway celebration. “All I’m saying is, when romance and magic mix, things can get real ugly, real fast.”       “Is that what happened with Shanti?” Melanie said, side-eyeing Jordy.       “Oh, you brought that up?” Fawn said. “No wonder he’s acting so pissy.”       “So what’s the story? He didn’t hurt her, did he?”       Fawn sighed. “Hardly. He took her to homecoming last October; they started dating after that. Jordy followed her like a lost puppy; you know how boys get. She finds out his secret, somehow, right before winter break, and decides she wants to try exorcism, except just the screwing-with-peoples-heads part, not the smiting-evil part. He was too gutless to say no.”       Melanie cringed, fearing what was coming. “I take it he should’ve.”       “She used Jordy to settle all her bitchy little scores before Miss Verne caught them. Fixed what she could. Let’s just say the girl who's forced to make pig noises whenever she talks to a boy got it easy. Miss Verne blames herself. Jordy just goes non-responsive about it. And Shanti just doesn’t give a damn anymore. About anything. So yeah, I’m not crazy about everybody’s crush of the month getting a spot.”       “They’ve both had it rough. and just…wanna look out for each other. They won’t do anything stupid.”       “They’d better not. Mr. C. didn’t kick Jordy out completely, ‘cuz he’s the golden boy, y’know. But he did lose his post-grad 50K, and his captaincy. I saw you looking at those portraits,” she said. “I’ll get one soon, and this is my first big win with the crown on. I’d like to keep it a win.”       “We all want the same thing, Fawn. We’re a team now, remember?” Melanie looked idly past her, thinking a bit, then calling everyone over. “I think I answered my own question,” she said with a grin. She wasn’t manipulating anyone; just bringing together two people with shared interests.

     Miss Verne answered the door in a bathrobe, squinting into the sunrise. “Kids,” she said, “It’s 6 AM on a Sunday. What are you doing here? And who’s he?”       “Yeah, sorry, Miss Verne,” Fawn said, her chipperness glued back on. “This is a lot to ask, but…this is Lynd. He needs a place to stay. Melanie thought you might lend a hand.”       The poor woman could hardly even comprehend. “I’m sorry? A place to stay?”       The three girls alternated telling the story. Miss Verne’s eyes grew wider with each sentence. “Well,” she finally said. “That was…quite the puzzle you solved. You understand, Lynd, why I’m not immediately on-board here.”       “Of course, ma’am. But, I promise I will earn your trust.”       “Polite. That’s good. Well, come in. Consider this your first shot.”       Her home was mid-sized, sparsely furnished, and had two cats as the only other inhabitants, both of whom dashed away on sight. “Most Marksteppers think Wardens are weak,” she said, fixing herself some coffee, “that Ward magic is one crutch, and modern living the other, and that they won’t lean on either. Clearly you feel differently.” She fiddled with her cup.       “Well, the clans have an old saying…’the vine that does not spread, does not grow.’ It’s supposed to be about the clans themselves, covering new territory. But I always wondered…what about me? I could stay in the wilderness, killing one halfmire at a time, until one of them got me first. Or I could grow. I could join the world that I’m expected to give my life protecting, see what makes it so worth protecting.”       “Tabby thinks I will learn to hate school like she does.” Tabby gave him a swat and smiled guiltily at Miss Verne. “Maybe I will. But whatever else it is, it will be in the same place every day, I won’t find it ransacked, crawling with Mires, some morning…I can just go and learn, and talk. Make friends. I hear they’ll even feed me. It sounds piteous, I know, but these are dreams my people do not believe are worth following. I had to follow them myself.”       The assembled crowd was silent. “Well,” Miss Verne said, then nothing else. She leaned back in her chair, clutching her coffee. Melanie held her breath. Had they already won her over?       “This is…probably the most unethical thing I’ve ever done,” she muttered. “Alright, rule one. You don’t actually live here. If someone asks, then lie.”       “Of course.”       “Nightly check-ins. I’m not chasing you down every night. Curfews if it comes to that. And no one over without my say-so.” Melanie could hardly keep a straight face. What happened to that wild goth girl from five years ago?       “Naturally.”       “If you enroll, you’ll likely be in one of my classes. Outside of official LKPC stuff, you’re just another student. No special treatment.”       “Understood.”       Miss Verne sighed, like she was hoping he’d balk at such demands. “Alright. I guess we’re really doing this. You do have some clothes, right? Toothbrush?”       Tabby perked up. “Yeah, actually; we brought his stuff from the motel.” She patted Lynd on the shoulder, then whispered something, and they both laughed like two drunk pals stumbling home from a bar as they got the bags. Melanie felt a little tipsy herself. 6:37 AM…       “Lynd, you’ll take the first upstairs room on the right, the others are OFF-LIMI—” The door slammed behind them. Miss Verne drummed her fingernails on her mug. “Except the bathroom. Hm. Are they always this…close?”       “Since recently.” Melanie said. Make a good impression, you idiots. Please.       “Fawn, you should head home. Get some sleep. Melanie, just one more thing.” She waited until the two were alone downstairs. Melanie thought she heard Lynd snoring already from the bedroom. His first bedroom.       “I’m going to guess,” Miss Verne said, “Someone told you about the Shanti incident. So you figured I’d be extra-motivated to keep Lynd—and Tabby—on their best behavior. You guessed right. He’s already got you on his wavelength,” she said, looking north toward Florentino’s mansion. “Find weak spots. Use them to your advantage. I’m not angry,” she continued, although Melanie doubted that. “It’s part of your life now. But also, I’m not currently in the mood for second chances. For anyone. Are we clear?”       They were. Shanti was easy to spot at school, when she was there, with her risqué outfits and exotic appearance. Easy to keep a distance from. “Shanti’s not…working for them, is she? She’s not a Fullmire?”       “That would make things easier, wouldn’t it? But no, no signs of possession at any point. We don’t keep these secrets for our own amusement, you know. We keep them away from people like Shanti. She ruined those girls’ lives because no one stopped her; because she thought it would be funny.”

[salarymanwaka]

Jamais Vu : Life on Mars Astronaut Yoo Joonghyuk (38) washes up on the shore of an unknown planet where he meets an unknown lifeform impersonating his dead lover.

script (sample) twitter art/lore compilation

cover picture for a sci-fi romance manga I've been working on!

[thatlittledandere]

Alright, you definitely should have listened to the village elders this time. Wandering too deep into the forest was a bad idea. They could have been more specific about what “too deep” meant though.

All you wanted to do was see if there were any valuable herbs in the area. You had heard rumors that if you went slightly beyond the usual reach of the villagers, a little to the west, you would find ingredients for most potential of healing potions. You didn’t think heeding the advice would cost you much; it was supposed to be only a little further, right? But which way was west again…

Before you knew it, you had gotten lost. Of course, forests always looked somewhat the same, but after 20 years of living in the same village, you came to recognize the areas you had always played, worked, and relaxed in. A tree that bent a little to the left; that boulder that looked like a fist without a thumb; the lightning-struck tree trunk, too heavy to be moved, blocking what used to be a path. You knew when you were near your home by the atmosphere alone.

And now you recognized nothing you saw.

It wasn’t dark yet - wouldn’t be for a long time - but you were still getting the shivers of being outside at night. This part of the forest was creepy. You didn’t know how else to describe it - threatening? It felt like something was out to get you. Or for that matter, anyone foolish enough to disturb the peace of whatever dwelled inside.

You stopped. Turned to look back — had you seen wrong? You must have — and turned back ahead. There was... It was like there was a line drawn on the ground. A border.

You looked to your right, then left. No, it really was… as strange as it seemed, it was clearly a huge circle. You were standing just outside it.

And everything inside was dead.

The grass was sickly, pale yellow, almost white, like after a scorching hot summer with too little rain. Trees gray and bare, bark flaking, crispy leaves lying sadly on the ground. Thousands of insect carcasses everywhere, a couple of dead birds and — oh no — a lone rabbit. All completely lifeless. How could this be?

You took a step back. Was this maybe… The work of magic? A fiendish warlock wielding dark sorcery?

You didn’t know much about magic; there weren’t many capable of using it in your tiny village, and the mages you knew were neither malicious nor the tiniest bit adventurous with it. But it was the only explanation you could come up with. Nature couldn’t do this on its own.

You felt a rush of excitement at the thought. Magic had always fascinated you. With nobody around to teach the craft, you had abandoned the idea of pursuing it years ago, but… It was exhilarating seeing its impact. Foul as this magic was, it drew you in - and if nothing inside was alive, it couldn’t do you any harm either. You had come so far; why not investigate a little?

You had barely taken two steps on the lifeless grass when you heard a soft voice plead: “Don’t come closer.”

You froze. Had there been a person around? Was it a bandit? Or, wait, maybe they could help you find your way home-

“Please get away from me,” asked the stranger again, even more desperate this time. Their voice was getting raspier, breaking towards the end of the sentence. Whoever it was must have been either sick or grievously injured. Perhaps you would have to help them more than they could help you.

You squinted your eyes, and finally caught a glimpse of a figure behind two trees.

He looked around your age. But not in such good health, as you had suspected. He was holding onto the tree, hunching, and the distance between you wasn't enough to hide the tremble of his hands or the hollowness in his eyes.

"Please, " he repeated, each word weaker yet more fearful than the last. "I can only bring misery. You must leave while you still can!"

His fear was contagious. You couldn't fight the shiver running along your spine nor the cold sweat erching your brow. It was like even the Sun knew better than to approach this self-proclaimed harbinger.

But you had always been too curious for your own good, much to your mother's chagrin. Weren't you an apprentice in the art of medicine? Wasn't this stranger in clear need of help? You couldn't just leave him alone to rot in his miserable circle of decay.

You forced a smile - sort of - and took a step closer. The stranger grabbed his face, screamed, and collapsed on his knees. You saw white and felt a strong gust of wind knock you off your feet.

And then there was nothing.

[valleyfthdolls]

Watching TikTok discourse about musical artists and just thinking “wait you guys actually think that bad art isn’t art worth making analyzing and enjoying I thought it was just a joke”

[deermouth]

This one's definitely aquatic, but not very marine to me at all. Closer to aquarium scent (where I wore it today!) or... well, certainly not chlorine-y like a hotel pool, but there's something about the water scent that makes me think of one. A bit of sweet greenness on dry-down, like dune grass if you squint, maybe? But I was really hoping for something that would transport me to the coast, and this isn't doing it. I'm not picking up any of the salty, stormy, or sandy notes. It's still a unique and fun scent, but not one I think I'll buy again.

Wearing perfume oil from a sample bottle, it's still on me 7 hours later, but faint. Just as well, I suppose...

This is the first I've tried from a sample 6-pack of Solstice scents, so I'm hoping I'll have better luck with some of the others.

[bluewithpurplepolkadots]

Honestly I did use to consume romantic versions of Hades and Persephone in the past. But I think what actually broke it for me was when I purchased a specific comic of it. No it’s not the most popular one out now. It was advertised on tumblr and the art was pretty damn good with decent prose.

Not naming or linking it because that’s mean but like I kind of need to rant about it a bit.

The art was good, and it was typical of such modern adaptations in having a suffocating Demeter: but somehow went further. It had the very stupid and insulting premise where Demeter in fact was just using Persephone and simply didn’t have the powers to bring about the harvest basically. Which was in fact why winter came and Persephone had to leave Hades once a year.

It wasn’t a grieving mother. Wasn’t even a demonstration of her power. She was just weak and a liar and a user according to this comic.

What the actual fuck.

I mean honestly from what I recall it even made Hermes into an idiot or something and tricked him with the Pomegranate as a reason Persephone couldn’t leave. You know. Making shit up to him because it clearly didn’t make sense and Hermes wasn’t the brightest.

Like, dude. Hermes??? The god of trickery?

It also had a very weird line where Persephone said Hades was the only one to ever respect what she wanted. Which was such a weird thing to write in retrospect to the actual hymn.

I think the only god which escaped being weirdly twisted out of shape or made out to be weak was perhaps Cupid and Zeus.

[reaveries]

▬  𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲

gif credit to @robpattinsongifs (much higher resolution on their account)

summary: late-night visits from your definitely human boyfriend

pairings: edward cullen x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k (approximately 7 minutes reading time)

a/n:  I’ve had this baby marinating in my drafts since January, when I was going through my bi-annual Twilight Renaissance. I was actually in the middle of writing a RE2R Leon Kennedy fic today and decided to put on a twilight playlist, and then I just knew I had to finish this one. It’s my first *published* non-RDR fic heehee (I have so much in my drafts, it’s insane). Anyways, enjoy (pardners)!

masterlist archive of our own

It’s that dreadful time of year again. 

The sun is making its curtain call as students from the nearby elementary school trip over themselves running home. Little girls and boys have sticky remnants of lunch peeking from the corners of their mouths and the grass is still slick from morning showers. But dusk is impatient in February, and its eagerness is encouraged in a town hidden beneath perpetual overcast nine months out of the year.

The school children ran past her window minutes ago when the sky had been painted brilliant indigo. Now, when she looks up the only thing left to see is her own dark reflection and the warm orange glow from a candle on the sill. Its tall flame stutters, collapsing and rising with the damp breeze. 

A page turns, disrupting the otherwise quiet room. The only other noise that can be heard is a soft pitter of water dripping onto the floorboards from a coat hanging off the closet door. 

She reaches for a mug sitting on the corner of her nightstand and promptly sets it back down upon finding it empty. It returns to its spot atop crumpled receipts and library hold slips belonging to the growing stack of books accumulating dust at her bedside. These books tower over the permanent nightstand residents: lazily discarded beaded necklaces, a sample bottle of floral perfume from Christmas, two little ceramic bunnies purchased from an antique mall in Port Angeles last summer, car keys, and drugstore chapstick. It might be worth convincing her to let go of some of these post-object permanence discoveries, but that is a matter for another time.

In a desperate attempt to comprehend the words she’s reading, she rolls onto her back and extends her arms straight in the air so the book hovers a foot from her face—a change of perspective to freshen the mind.

It does not help. 

No matter how much she shifts or squints, the antiquated prose remains stubbornly uninviting. She can’t fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to something so archaic and convoluted and furthermore, recommend it as one of their favorite novels.

With a huff, she adjusts the headphones at her ears, hoping the music will clear her mind. But despite her best efforts, the book slowly drifts closer to her chest and her eyelids grow heavier as the music lulls her into a dreamless sleep. 

When she wakes to cold fingers grazing her jaw it’s impossible to tell whether she’d fallen asleep or if she just blinked. The weight of the headphones gently disappears as they’re pulled off and set down on the nightstand. She grumbles incoherently and stretches out her legs, not unlike a cat after a long, difficult day of lounging around. Her eyes begrudgingly flutter open and immediately find him only inches away. He’s watching her, peering down with a twinkle in his amber-colored eyes.

“Edward…” she whispers.

“Dracula,” he says, eyebrows raised as he makes the observation. “I thought you didn’t like Gothics.”

She reaches a finger into the book on her chest and folds the page over before tossing it carelessly into the sea of knitted and quilted blankets at the foot of the bed. With the haze of sleep still clouding her eyes, she smiles sheepishly up at him.

“I’m trying.”

He chuckles lightly and brings his hand to her hair again, brushing stray strands off her forehead and tucking them behind her ears before leaning down to place a chaste kiss above her eyes. Though his lips are soft, the icy touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. He’s always cold; a result of his anemia, he says. However, the downpour that's dampened his hair and clothes to his skin has chilled him even more so.

In an effort to sit up, she raises herself onto her elbows and catches a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers on her bedside clock.

“You’re late, you know,” she chides, watching him settle uncomfortably at the head of the bed. He sinks down among the pillows, their plushness contrasting humorously with the stiffness of his demeanor. He reaches behind his back and tugs free a stuffed rabbit lodged between him and the headboard, then sets it down softly beside himself.

“I had to make a quick stop. I hope you can forgive me,” he says in a hushed voice, so as not to make too much noise in the resting house. His eyes flit towards the nightstand and she follows them to see a new item sitting amongst the disorder. A tall styrofoam cup with steam rising thinly from the lid. Coffee. 

The mug she just finished sits right beside it. She’d considered brewing more but that was before being rendered unconscious by Bram Stoker nearly an hour ago. Her heart swells at his thoughtfulness, but a more pressing question comes to mind before she can voice her gratitude.

“How did you even climb up here with that?” She asks, reaching for the cup with both hands.

“I’m very…agile.” There’s a look in his eyes that tells her there’s more to it, but she chooses to ignore it for now with a shake of her head.

The taste is immediately harsh, significantly more bitter than how she makes it herself. Any trace of a smile dissipates and is replaced with a pronounced look of disgust.

“Good God, Edward,” she exclaims. “Decaf? What did I ever do to you?”

He laughs and takes it from her hands, leaving her still reeling from the unexpected taste. “As much as I love staying up with you, you need sleep,” he says, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You didn’t get any last night and you don’t hide it well.”

He says the last part sweetly, tilting his head to the side and following her motions with his eyes, watching her pick up the stuffed rabbit by its cotton paw.

“Don’t hide it well?” She repeats, the indignation in her voice contrasting with the softness of the toy as she raises it high into the air and brings it down against his chest with a soft thud. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to hide anything if you—weren’t—keeping—me—up—all—night!”

With every word, the rabbit hits his forearms poorly attempting to shield himself from the blows. Edward grins as she attacks him, the soft toy barely making a sound against his arms. He watches as her hair falls across her face in the midst of the unrelenting attack, the warm glow of the candle casting a soft halo around her.

But then, his amusement fades as he sees the exhaustion in her eyes. 

He gently takes the rabbit from her and sets it aside before grabbing her arm mid-swing and pulling her into his chest. She sighs heavily and surrenders, relaxing against him. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair. “I’ll let you rest tonight.”

Despite his tender words, a residual half-baked frustration lingers inside her. “How did you manage to stay awake in class?” she mumbles into his sweater, the words muffled. “I mean, you didn’t get any sleep either.”

He chuckles, as if privy to some inside joke.

“Well, someone had to take your notes for you,” he says, his fingers trailing through her hair in a soothing motion. “And besides, you looked so peaceful drooling away.” 

She looks up at him, a hint of a drowsy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I did not drool,” she insists.

He grins down at her, his eyes alight with fondness. “Of course not.”

She groans and buries her head into his chest, to which he responds by encircling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.

“I’m never falling asleep in front of you again,” she grumbles.

His chest rumbles beneath her cheek as he laughs. “Alright, angel.”

He shifts his hand from the crown of her head to the curve of her back, tracing languid circles over the fabric of her t-shirt as the room fills with a comfortable silence. The rain outside grows heavier, tapping against the glass with a more insistent force. Her body is warm against his and he can feel the steady thumping of her heartbeat as if it's his own. A few minutes slip by, and he senses her breathing even out and deepen. Without disturbing her, he reaches for a nearby blanket and drapes it over her, then turns his gaze to the candle on the windowsill.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, as the dwindling flame fades out of focus. 

This is his favorite part of the day.

Vague arrays of soft, muted hues and shapes swirl around in his vision, overtaking the warm surroundings of her bedroom. They morph into recognizable figures after some time, and he can hear them speaking when he focuses. For the most part, they sound as if he’s underwater and they’re conversing on the shore. But every now and then, a clear phrase emerges.

Suddenly, the floating shapes assimilate into a figure resembling him and he realizes what this dream is. It’s a recurring one he’s particularly fond of. He settles in and pulls her closer as the scene ebbs between reality and distortions of the unconscious mind. 

He can’t remember how he used to pass the night hours before he met her. Books, records, films--looking back, they feel hollow compared to nights spent like this. Part of him hopes he’ll never know what it's like to want for this. But these dreams, and her thoughts in the waking hours, assure him he won’t ever have to find out.

[tragedynoir]

— introducing 017: IN THE WINGS OF DEATH + [ link ]

a writing-centric google doc template inspired by gothic architecture and tarot cards. its classic design allows your writing to shine, especially since all sections of this template can accommodate any length (especially long amounts) of writing! every purchase comes with single and double column variants for the backstory, writing sample and extras section. this premium template and static previews of both versions can be found in the link above or in the source link.

features:

9 total 8.5" x 14" pages with 7 unique custom backgrounds

all sections made to organically expand to accommodate any amount of writing, including long amounts of prose as you type

connections that can be easily duplicated for more

terms of use:

you may edit to your heart’s desire. Change the colours, replace, add or remove elements and images etc.

you may remix pages with pages from my other templates.

you may not remove the credit from the templates.

you may not copy, sell or redistribute my templates whether wholesale, in part (i.e. taking out certain pages) or remixed (i.e. modified).

you will also receive an additional guide with images on how to use and edit google doc templates! if you have any problems or issues, feel free to leave an ask or join our discord server.

I'm grateful for your tremendous and consistent support over the last year. thank you for all the likes and reblogs! ♡

[fanauthorworkshop]

Applications now open!

The Fall 2024 Fanauthor Workshop is a 7-week writing course led by Betts (@bettsfic). The workshop lends a supportive space to writers who identify as fans to receive constructive feedback on fanfiction, original fiction, or creative nonfiction.

Art by @emimayooo 💖

Where & When

We meet weekly over Zoom. You can apply for one of two sessions:

Group A: Wednesdays from Oct. 9 - Nov. 20, 12-2pm EST

Group B: Mondays from Oct. 7 - Nov. 18, 6-8pm EST

What

FAW is a feedback-oriented workshop with the occasional generative session. This means that each week we read 2 pieces submitted by participants, offer written feedback, and discuss them over Zoom. You'll be able to sign up for the week you would like to workshop your own piece, which can be anything under 6k words.

There may be weeks where, in lieu of workshopping, I present external readings and writing exercises. These sessions will be dependent on the number of participants. For example, if we have 10 participants and 6 workshop weeks, that means one week will be devoted to a reading discussion and generative activity.

I developed a workshop model that focuses mostly on affirmations and positivity, as well as descriptive over prescriptive feedback, which is to say, describing one's experience of reading rather than prescribing solutions to perceived problems. We also present improvement-oriented feedback, but avoid negativity, judgment, and pedantry. Week 1 is spent going over the model and how to give feedback.

About FAW

The first FAW was held in 2017 as an independent study in my MFA. I restarted it in 2022 and since then have led 9 sessions with a total of over 50 participants, about half of whom have participated in the workshop more than once.

Participation in the workshop includes entrance into the FAW community, an active Discord server where we host:

Ongoing accountability meetings, where we chat over Zoom about our projects and set goals for ourselves every other week

A monthly longform writing workshop, where writers can workshop any story between 6k and 100k words

A short story club, where we read and chat about original short form works

Events and activities like movie nights and co-op gaming

Scheduled write-ins and impromptu writing sprints

We also chat about writing and craft, offer resources, and share many, many pet photos.

In addition, participants of the workshop receive:

A one-hour consultation with me to go over your workshop feedback, come up with a plan for revision and/or publication, or anything else you’d like to discuss regarding your writing

Open enrollment in future workshops

Priority sign-ups for WTFS (Write the Fucking Story), WIP Cleanout, and other one-off generative sessions

Eligibility

Anyone over the age of 18 who considers themselves a participant of fandom and who is familiar with fanfiction may apply. A stable internet connection is also required.

Cost

The cost of the workshop is "pay what you can" with the recommended amount of $300. To be as inclusive as possible, I don't want money to be a deterrent for anyone interested in participating.

Payment (or notification of nonpayment) will be requested prior to the start of workshop via PayPal, Venmo, or Wise. You can also pay in installments.

Application requirements

To apply, you will need:

An informal cover letter discussing your fan history and goals as a (fan)writer (more specific instructions on submittable)

A short sample of your writing, either original work or fanfiction. This may be previously published/posted

You can apply via submittable. Applications close September 15.

FAQ under the cut

FAQ

Are there any content restrictions to what I can workshop?

The only restriction is word count (max 6k), with the following caveats:

If you workshop a piece in a form other than prose (for example, a script), your peers may not be able to offer constructive feedback on that aspect of the work. Participants are asked only to have a familiarity with prose.

Content warnings are required for each piece (if applicable), and participants who are uncomfortable reading certain subject matter may abstain from your workshop.

What is the time commitment of the workshop?

As a participant of the workshop, you'll be asked to:

Workshop any piece of your own prose up to 6k words, which will need to be uploaded to the group folder one week before your workshop.

Read 2 pieces per week, write out your individual crit, and attend the workshop itself.

What is the timeline of the workshop?

In week 1, we go over the syllabus and do a writing exercise. Weeks 2 through 7 will be a workshop, a discussion of an external reading, or a writing activity. Prior to the start of workshop, you'll be able to sign up for the week you would like to workshop your piece.

Structure of the sessions:

Question of the day

First workshop

Short break

Second workshop

We'll go over my workshop model and the syllabus in week 1.

Do I have to participate in the Zoom meetings (camera and mic on)?

Attending the workshop itself is required, and everyone is asked to offer at least one note of positive feedback on each piece, so mics are necessary. Cameras are preferred but not required.

You can't asynchronously participate, i.e. read the pieces and offer written feedback without attending the sessions.

Can workshop participants submit to OFIC Magazine?

Yes! Part of the reason I run the workshop is to inspire and promote the original work of fanwriters. You can follow us on tumblr @oficmag.

Who is running the workshop?

@bettsfic! In short, I lived a dreary cubicle life as a banker until I found fanfiction at 24. I loved it so much that I quit my job to get an MFA in creative writing. I loved the MFA so much that I became a writing teacher. I have some publications, awards, an agent, and 2 million words of fic on ao3. I don't have a book out yet but I'm getting there.

Currently I'm a writing coach and freelance editor. I also have a lowkey writing-related newsletter. And I've been answering writing advice asks on my blog for 10 years.

If you want an idea of the kind of writing activities I create, last summer I worked with @books on a workshop series which includes craft essays and some fun prompts.

If you're interested in my original work, my short story "Not If, When" is a good representation of my writing. For something darker, check out "Shut Up and Kill Me."

What is the workshop like?

Check out G's experience of attending the workshop. And here's some feedback from previous participants.

One final note: I'm working on updating the copy about the workshop on my website and move it over to OFIC's website. This post and Submittable has the most updated information on the workshop. If you have questions about discrepancies (or anything at all), you can shoot me an ask, DM me, or add me on Discord (I'm bettsfic there too). Or you can email me at ekweeks@gmail.com.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Detour 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor

Summary: You find yourself stranded in a small village.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You return to the hotel now less agitated than when you left. The longer you’re stranded in this sleepy village, the more exasperated you grow. You just don’t understand. You took every measure to make sure your vacation is perfect and you were sidelined by a damned axel. You will be having a long conversation with the man who did your oil back in the city. Empty promises are not good business. 

As you cross the lobby, you slow and peer around. That chirpy woman isn’t behind the counter. The place is almost desolate. You shrug and carry on up the stairs. Wouldn’t that be amusing if that oaf’s party turned out to be a bust? Who in their right minds would put so much energy into spending a single moment with the brute? 

Housekeeping has tended to your room. Fresh linens and even a new bottle of wine. You suppose that might be another pitiful attempt to lure you down to kickoff of Thor’s midlife crisis. You ignore it and focus on what you can enjoy. There isn’t much for you there but a hot bath sounds wonderful. 

You take your time, undressing, stretching, sifting through hotel samples. They smell of artificial rose. A pre-packaged migraine. You retrieve your toiletry bag as the tub fills slowly.  

As you sink into the steam pool, the first sign of trouble sounds from below. The blaring hum of bass thrums through the floor. You sigh as the contents of the bath shelf rattle. Great, so much for relaxation. That’s all you want after the last few days. You’ve been wound tight by that ox of a man and this boorish place; not too mention that fool who interrupted your coffee in town. This village breeds inanity. 

Your obstinacy keeps you submerged, just until the water grows cold. Still, you are tense and irritated, annoyed by even the sound of your own breath. You release the stopper and climb out, drying off with the plush towel. At least the amenities are acceptable. 

You hang the towel and wrap yourself in the rope. The hotel’s wireless should do for an episode or two of your weekly indulgence. You’ve a backlog to catch up after the last few weeks of tireless work and preparations.  

It would be a shame to put the wine to waste. You uncork the bottle and pour a glass. You set up your phone on the bed, propping it up with your purse and recline against the fluffed pillows with the rose. The subtitles are much too small on the screen to accommodate for the constant haze of noise from below. 

You give up, frustrated at straining to track the arguments of spoiled wives and eccentric widows, and turn off the show. Something to look forward to. Later. You put the phone face down on the night table and empty the glass. 

You rise to replenish the crystal and sift out the single book your brought along as Plan B. You never know when you might be bored out of your mind but you hard think the novel will withstand this monotony. You resume your laze in bed, this time with pages beneath your thumbs, and furrow your brow at the prose. 

Barely a few pages before you are once more torn from any semblance of content. You growl and slam the book shut. The music is louder now. Oh, that overgrown ape must be living it up. You can’t help but think it’s purposeful. He know he has guests, rather a guest, and yet he carries on so. 

Well, he will not get to you. You will not give him the pleasure of disturbing you. Not any further than he already has. 

You shove the book aside and grab a pillow. You are rather tired, as it were. You will need rest for tomorrow when you march down to the mechanic’s shop and demand that he fixes your car. At once. You cannot bear another day of this hole. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and smirk at the fantasy of your unbreakable will. Like a conquering warrior, you will not be beat back this time. You must escape from this place before you snap. A whole vacation planned on the premise of letting go and you are more stressed than ever. It is that cruel irony which has followed you through much of your existence. 

You manage to reach that foggy state right before the drop off. In a moment it dissipates. There’s a clamour in the hall and the high-pitch of a giggle, then another, followed by a booming thunder. Ugh, absolutely ridiculous. It sounds as if it’s right outside your very door. 

You toss the pillow away from your head as your temper razes through you. That’s it. You’re done being the better person. You will be the banshee everyone thinks you to be. 

You hop up and storm across the room. You rip open the door and snarl, “would you keep it down?!” 

You are faced by a rather dopey looking trio. Two girls with a drunken glaze in their eyes and the hotel’s resident idiot; Thor. He smirks as the girls stagger around and babble, ignoring you as they grab at his thick arms. 

“Come on, Thor, you said we could see the honeymoon suite,” one whines. 

“Who even comes here--” the other hiccups, “for their honey--” hiccup, “moon?” 

It’s a fair question. You roll your eyes as Thor takes the girls beneath his arms, sending you a pointed look, “ah, don’t worry, girls, I’ll show exactly why anyone might come to Thunder Lane to unleash their darkest desires, eh?” He turns them away and you snarl at his back, “you’ll like the shower head.” 

He chortles loudly and you gasp. Disgusting. You swing the door shut and stomp your foot. More than the village itself, you detest that man. You almost feel bad for those dumb girls. They look much too young for him. Does he really think the silver strands blend so well into the golden blond? Well, you wouldn’t assume wisdom comes with age in that one. 

You pace back and forth, arms crossed, trying to figure some way to settle down. You don’t want to spend the whole night annoyed by that man and his drunken guests. You paid for your room. You paid for peace and quiet. 

You will not be riled any further. You are smarter than him. You are smarter than all of them.  

You finish the glass of wine and find your sleep mask along with the pair of earbuds that came with the emergency travel kit you found at the bookshop. It seemed ridiculous at the time but at least it has proven a sound purchase. You put the silk over your eyes and push the buds into your ears. You once more bury your head under the pillows as you let the dreamy tones of the Carpenters lull you. 

The wine helps. You feel yourself drifting as the drumming softens and the woodwinds blend in with Karen’s heavenly voice. Your breaths thicken and catch in your nose, rolling into snores you can hear through your half-sleep. 

The 70s pop fades away as you roll onto your back, the pillow slipping from over your head. Dazed and dozy, you lay in darkness, the pulsing of bass still rumbling through the mattress beneath you. You groan as your lashes flick against the sleep mask. You reach to remove it but a vice closes around your wrist, then the other. 

The bed jostles again. It's more than the thumping speakers below, there’s someone else there. You whimper as your arms are pinned beside you and a weight straddles your middle. A rolling thunder seeps into your ears as hot breath fans over you. 

“Don’t think I forgot about you, sweetheart,” Thor’s devilish baritone sends a shiver through you as he grinds his pelvis against yours, “time for you to join the party.”  

[dlbookediting]

Image Text:

Hello, I’m Dominique! A freelance book editor.

With a keen eye for storytelling and a decade of experience editing fiction and non-fiction, I’m ready to help bring out the best in your writing! My edits are affordable, precise, constructive and geared towards enhancing your unique voice and vision.

See my qualifications below:

Philosophy BA (Pontificia Universidad Javeriana) Magna Cum Laude Specialized in Aesthetics, the theory of Art and Literature. Editorial Internship With World Renowned Art Historian and Curator Sir John Richardson. Philosophy MA Specialized in Anti-Fascist Ethics and Aesthetics, the theory of Art and Literature.

Services: 1. Proofreading Package

Your ticket to great prose! Get rid of any errors that may have slipped through previous edits. Includes a revision of your text’s grammar, spelling, and punctuation. $5 USD per 500 words. Every 500 words takes 2 days to check. Need it sooner? If you pay a rate of $15 USD per 500 words, I’ll check 500 words a day. *Best for final drafts

2. Standard Editing Package

Enhance your text’s overall readability. Includes a revision of your grammar, spelling, punctuation, word choice, syntax, style and tone, as well as a 1-page review and critique of your text. $0.01 USD per word; 5000 words min. Every 5000 words takes 3 days to check. Need it sooner? If you pay a rate of $0.015 USD per word, I’ll check 5000 words in 2 days (1 day faster). *Best for completed chapters, ACTS or drafts

3. Developmental Editing Package

Inline comments and a detailed report pinpointing your manuscript's strengths and potential for growth. Includes feedback on story elements such as: plot structure, character development, worldbuilding, pacing, and more. $0.015 USD per word; 5000 words min. Every 5000 words takes 5 days to check. Need it sooner? If you pay a rate of $0.025 per word, I’ll check 5000 words in 3 days (2 days faster). *Best for completed ACTS or drafts

FAQ

Are you a native English speaker? Yes, my first language is English. I grew up in the UK and went to university in the US, so I'm comfortable editing for UK or US grammar. What file formats do you accept? Please submit Microsoft Word files. This allows me to use the Microsoft Track Changes feature to make edits. What genres do you edit? I edit most fiction genres (YA, Fantasy, Romance, Sci-Fi, Horror, Mystery, Literary Fiction). Do you use AI? No, I provide 100% AI-free editing services. All comments and edits on your file are exclusively made by me.

Contact

therealsorcerersapprentice@gmail.com or DM Please include your name (or pseudonym), what service you’d like to request, the genre you’re submitting and your text’s word count. Sit back, relax, and let a seasoned editor bring out the best in your writing. You've earned it!

On the fence? Request a sample edit!

I’ll provide a sample edit of 1000 words of your writing free of charge. This is an excellent way to get a feel of my editing style and assess whether it’s right for you! *Only available for the standard editing package and the developmental editing package. Original text must be 5000 words min.

[cosmicgrapevine]

    Lynd stepped up before she finished talking, tugging the brim of his ballcap backwards. “Ready and eager,” he said. He turned and looked at them. “I’ll be at full health the next time you see me; the Ward won’t reject me any longer.” He looked more confident than Melanie had ever seen him, like he’d absorbed some of Jordy’s chest-thumping attitude by proxy.      Melanie had only seen this process partially completed, with Randall, and was eager to watch the non-deadly version. As Lynd walked, his pace slowed, like he was immersed underwater and pushing through it. He got smaller, too—no, not quite. He got farther away. He was in place, yet leaving them behind. In physics class this very week, Mr. Edgley said that even space itself wasn’t fixed; that things like distance and size were only relative to the observer. She couldn’t wrap her head around it then, but now, it all made sense.      The bractoscope pulled at him, little tendrils of light drawing him in. But they were welcoming, not tearing and cutting. Soon, like the doorway itself, only the ghost of him was visible, the impression, and then even that faded. Tabby shuddered. “Holy shit, I can feel him. Not like, in my head, but…God, I can’t describe it. Sorry, no moving, right.”     “Told ya you’ll know,” Jordy said. “Alright, Anthony, I know you been waitin’ for this.” Anthony rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Prepare for entry. All systems go.” He saluted them each individually. “Lt. Commander Bonifacio, Cadet Connolly, Cadet Kitz…godspeed.”      He passed through, disappearing in the same way. “Wow,” Melanie said. “He never turns it off, does he?”     “‘Turn it off’ would suggest there’s somethin’ else underneath,” Jordy chuckled. “But he knows what he’s doin’. I think the goofy nerd stuff helps. Like if he never acts normal, he’s not scared when it gets weird, y’know? Some peeps were just built for this shit.”      In a normal high school, guys like Jordy and Anthony would never learn each other’s names, let alone be friends and equals. In fact, it seemed unlikely that any of the seven of them would have crossed paths in a more mundane life. Maybe that’s what her mom meant by magic saving people. She looked at Jordy, who smiled warmly. “Go ahead,” he said. “It won’t hurt.”      As she approached the mirror, she realized that the cheerleader had it wrong; she didn’t think she was too good for Jordy, not by a long shot. She had thought he was too good for her. But, like so much else she had thought, it was spiraling apart from her, just like her sense of space and motion spiraled away into a brilliant blue light.

    Next time, Melanie promised, I’ll pay attention. Even with her new friends, it likely wasn’t every day she’d step into a different reality.     Maybe it was like a roller coaster, or a waterslide; she could remember the trepidation of getting on, feeling that first tug of gravity. She could remember popping out the other end, laughing and wondering what there was to fear. But the descent itself was just a haze of blind sensation. Because now, without even realizing it, she was inside the Viabract.      It looked something like a waterslide itself; an endless, twisting tube. The scope had not prepared her for the sheer size of the tunnel, its convex walls surrendering to pure darkness halfway to the ceiling—if there even was one. The material she stood on was luminescent, but she could only see a few dozen feet ahead: the glow was dim, emanating from the twisting shapes beneath her feet, shapes that looked at once made of clay, of tree root, of walkable glasswork, of solid light, compressed into fractious jewels. She felt like an ant, smaller than a single eyelash, crawling through an impossibly large plant. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so small.      Lynd approached and offered a fist bump, wiggling his fingers after they connected. “Tabby taught me that one,” he said. “What do you think?”      “I like it,” she laughed. “Wow…you seem so different.”     He smiled bashfully. “Yes, I can’t thank her enough. I’ve got a long way to go, but I feel like…a part of this world now. Not just an outside observer.”        And how do you feel about Tabby? Melanie thought. Can you tell she’s in love with you? She had no idea what Marksteppers thought of romance, or if they had any to speak of. Anthony was expecting some kind of axe-swinging barbarian, which wasn’t promising. Despite wanting to pose as a high school student, Lynd was a warrior at heart. Would he stand by Tabby now that he got what he wanted? If the violence got worse, would he keep her safe?      Anthony’s face was stony, the strange light bouncing off his glasses and hiding his eyes. “They watch,” he whispered, gesturing to the walls. Little patches of slime crawled slowly out of the uncountable nooks and gaps, falling to the ground with echoing plops. They looked even more primitive than the first ones she’d seen; not even vaguely resembling animals, except maybe amoebas. But even with no eyes or head or face, they were indeed watching. Waiting.      A shiver of energy from behind announced Jordy’s presence. When Melanie turned, there was no opening, no light, not even a shimmer of a way back. Only forward. But she still knew—felt—the opening on the other end. Just keep walking north. Or whatever ‘north’ was in here. She kept her voice steady. “Alright, Jordy, what did you say about scaring them off?”      Jordy flipped his bat in the air and caught it by the thick end. “Check this,” he said. He pulled his necklace over his head. It was a simple black string with a shark tooth at the end; as close as a jock could get to ‘jewelry’. Melanie hadn’t paid it any mind before, but now Jordy untied the tooth and jammed it into the top of the bat.     Melanie stumbled and fell backwards as a wave of energy hit her. Jordy’s bat had transformed in a flash of light, looking like some monstrous prehistoric cudgel. Hooks and ridges, knobs and thorns, spilled out from every inch, all looking more like bone or rock than wood. And at the top was a bayonet-like blade, a foot long at least, jutting out at a ninety-degree angle. The bat was as thick as his thigh now, and twice as long.      “Like it? I call it the Grand Slam,” he said. “Wish I could use it in a game, but Coach won’t let me.” He swaggered over a few feet as the other boys helped Melanie up. “These Mires are running on pure instinct. We don’t gotta outrun ‘em or outthink ‘em, just scare ‘em off.” He got into a batting stance, took a few light half-swings, then reared back and swung with all his might.     Another wave of energy burst forth, in the opposite direction, but still powerful enough to feel. It hit the wall with a deep echoing BOOM, which bounced all around them, shaking Melanie deep in her bones, and then scattered throughout the void. The Mires vanished, surely and quickly as mice who smelled a cat. A few unlucky ones took a direct hit and exploded into mist, their candy-colored juices decorating the walls. “Alright,” Jordy said. “I think they got the message.”

[saccharinescorpion]

4 Things You Can Try Now That You’ve Read THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE THE TIME WAR

(technically 5 things)

Mabel - a podcast by Becca De La Rosa and Maybell Marten.

Anna Limón is a home help worker currently looking after the elderly Sally Martin. When Sally has a bizarre and frightening reaction to a box of letters Anna finds in her attic one day, Anna attempts to seek answers by contacting Sally’s only known living relative: Mabel Martin.

“A podcast about ghosts, family secrets, strange houses, and missed connections,” Mabel is a story that is difficult to describe, but one of the most important points is that the vast majority of it is an epistolary narrative between Anna and Mabel, just like how This Is How You Lose The Time War is an epistolary narrative between Red and Blue. It also has a very distinct writing style- dramatic, flowery, and a little bit intimidating. However, if you loved the writing style of TIHYLTTW, I personally think that Mabel is a perfect match for you.

And I’m not just saying that because Mabel is a story about two extremely overdramatic women who are somehow both frighteningly caustic yet almost adorably useless.

The Honey Month - a book by Amal El-Mohtar 

I certainly hope I don’t have to tell you this, but Amal El-Mohtar is one of the authors of This Is How You Lose The Time War, and The Honey Month is a short book she wrote several years ago.

The Honey Month is almost more of an experiment than a book- in its introduction, a friend of El-Mohtar explains how she sent her several small samples of honey, leading El-Mohtar to use the gift as in a unique way. For one February, every day she used a different vial of honey as inspiration for a small piece of writing.

The Honey Month contains 28 short pieces of writing, poetry, prose, and some things in between. It’s a small book full of things with big impact, and contains the lyrical yet meaty writing I enjoyed from El-Mohtar in TIHYLTTW.

Otherside Picnic (裏世界ピクニック) - A series of novels by Iori Miyazawa (illustrated by Shirakaba)

College sophomore Sorawo Kamikoshi longs to find an escape from other people, and in trying to find it discovers the Otherside, a strangely beautiful yet unfathomably dangerous parallel world inhabited by the-once-fictional creatures she knows from net lore. She also meets Toriko Nishina, another young woman with a knowledge of firearms and a desire to find her missing mentor. Together, these two girls explore the Otherside and find themselves changing little by little, both due to their adventures, but also due to their relationship with each other.

If you know me you probably aren’t surprised at this reccomendation. Otherside Picnic is a truly odd beast- it’s sci-fi, it’s horror, it’s comedy, it’s yuri. It’s about trauma, it’s about Japanese creepypasta, it’s about useless lesbians, and it’s about how the scariest thing of all is being vulnerable with another human being. I think fans of  This Is How You Lose The Time War  will enjoy it- Otherside Picnic’s writing style will likely feel almost spartan compared to TIHYLTTW, but in my opinion there’s a similar level of poetry in it. There’s also a similar level of women who are “badass” yet kind of messes. You’ve heard of “Enemies to Lovers,” get ready for “Accomplices to Lovers”!

(there’s also a manga adaptation by Eita Mizuno, as well as an anime adaptation directed by Takuya Sato)

The Handmaiden (아가씨) - a movie directed by Park Chan-wook (written by Park and Chung Seo-kyung, based on the novel Fingersmith by Sarah Waters)

In Japan-occupied Korea, the pickpocket Sook-hee is recruited by a con-man to aide him in his scam of a Japanese heiress, Lady Hideko. While the con-man poses as “Count Fujiwara” and woos Hideko, Sook-hee will play the part of her maid and subtly push the heiress towards him. But as time passes, Sook-hee begins to realize there are things occuring in the mansion that are even more sinister than her and the Count’s scheme, and there is much, much more to Hideko than meets the eye.

This is a list of recommendations for “people who have finished “This Is How You Lose The Time War,” but I try to recommend The Handmaiden to as many people as I possibly can. I’ve described it in the past as the cinematic equivalent of running a marathon: with a 144 minute runtime full of gorgeous direction and set design, dark machinations, twisted yet romantic writing, often troubling themes, and so, so many plot twists, it’s a movie that nearly feels like too much of a good thing. But for fans of TIHYLTTW, I’m sure what will intrigue you most is the relationship between the two main characters, one so complicated that “Enemies to Lovers” can’t hope to capture the roiling feelings of pity, guilt, hatred, desire, annoyance, sympathy, and everything in between. 

It’s also just really hot.

The Handmaiden is a movie that is best enjoyed going in knowing as little as possible. That said, it is also a story with dark and often upsetting themes that are absolutely crucial to its narrative. If you are concerned about that statement,  I reccomend looking at the movies’ entry on DoesTheDogDie, which I have looked at and found to be a pretty comprehesive list of content warnings that can be examined in a way that doesn’t spoil the twists of the story.

Fingersmith - a novel by Sarah Waters

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear I’m going to get around to it!! I can’t technically recommend the book that inspired The Handmaiden since I haven’t read it yet, but I have at least one friend whose opinion I trust who sings its praises, so it’s good enough for me. Besides, if the recent popularity of This Is How You Lose The Time War has showed us anything, it’s that people constantly crave stories about complicated women, so it certainly can’t hurt, right?

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hii, i was wondering if you could help me with how I could grow my vocabulary, because everytime I'm reading I get really stuck on how to write certain facial expressions/ emotions and its really frustrating cause I understand what I'm trying to convey but I just cant seem to articulate it properly and it makes me feel like a really bad writer. thank you!!

Struggling to Articulate Facial Expressions

This isn't due so much to a lack of general vocabulary (though, if you want to improve your vocabulary anyway: Improving Vocab, Guide: Improving Prose) but rather a lack of two other thing...

1 - What external cues (facial expressions, body language, gestures) go with which emotions.

2 - Specific vocabulary related to expression of emotion.

A really great resource for both is the Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi if you can get a copy. If not, you can Google their web site to get a nice sample. Otherwise, you can use Google to find alternatives. For example: "facial expressions that indicate jealousy" or "body language that shows anger."

Another helpful tool is the thesaurus, though it's a good idea to cross-reference suggestions with a dictionary to make sure you're using the suggestion correctly. For example, maybe my character is confused and I imagine her having creases in her brow, but I don't like the way that sounds. I can use a thesaurus to find alternatives for crease, which gives my "furrow" (and, the dictionary confirms that "furrow" can refer to creases in a forehead). I can also find alternative for brow, which really just gives me "forehead." So, in this instance, I would probably say, "her brow furrowed" to illustrate her confusion.

I hope that helps!\

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[daxieoclock]

EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS

My best friend and her girlfriend (both transfem) are struggling financially right now, and at risk of homelessness. I'm opening commissions to help raise funds for them.

I do prose or fic requests, ghost writing, fiction editing, genre tutoring, and photography+poetry. I will provide samples of any on request.

Prose, fanfic or ghost writing: 1$ per 100 words (5$ per double-spaced page).

Fiction editing: 1$ per page you'd like my in-depth feedback on.

Genre tutoring: 15$ for a (roughly) hour long lecture on a genre, trope or writing technique of your choice.

Photography + poetry: 15$ for a single image and poem pair with a subject, tone or prompt of your choice.

Sensitivity reading (transfem, nonbinary, lesbian, autism, bpd, ptsd, Jewish): 10$ minimum for <15 pages, 1$ extra for every page over 15.

Either of the following "links" should work (remove the spaces). Even if you don't want a commission, please consider sending a few bucks of support. Even a little bit helps.

p a y p a l . me / cashforjaneycat

p a y p a l . me / itsjustquin

[iamamythologicalcreature]

Three lost boys (found)

“Pan would have never done this,” Hook eventually says. “Tonight would have ended in blood.”

“Disappointed?” Simon asks.

Hook releases a long sigh. It sounds sad. Tired. “Can’t say that I am. I used to be a lost boy myself.”

“You were?” I ask, turning to look at the slumbering kids a short distance away.

“Not that kind,” Hook says with distaste. His voice softens. “A different sort of lost somewhere else.”

Excerpt from Lost Boys, by @mooncello

I am so excited to announce that I'll be adding illustrations to @mooncello's absolutely gorgeous (and highly inspirational) fanfic "Lost Boys." I've been fangirling this story from the first sampling I read on a wipsday post, and getting to illustrate Heath's beautiful prose is an absolute dream.

If you haven't read Chapter 1 yet, now's an excellent time to do so! You can get the full context for the illustration above, and see a higher res version, if you so desire.

Thank you for inviting me to play in your sandbox, Heath! <3