#scribblers writing

[scribblers-shadowlands-arc]

Naga tboy who despite effects of T feels cold cause being cold blooded in winter sucks.

Your movie night immediately turns into cuddle session with him wrapping his tail in coils around your legs. Pants are off of course, skin on skin contact warms you up better. The rest of him melt into puddle around you. He insufferably adorable being wrapped around you like this.

T made him hella needy though. It not long before you feel him starting to grind against your ass, with a tip of his tail itching closer and closer to band of your panties risking to brush over your girlcock. He whiness into your ear, hands wondering over your body but not too far yet.

You giggle, grab his hands and guide them under your crop top then give 'em a squeeze. All hell let loose after that.

He knows you love to do it while high, so he bites you and the sweet warmth of his venom spreads through your body. Panties are gone and he stroking you with his tail. His tongue halfway down your throat already and tits definitely gonna be all in bruises next day. Then venom hits for real.

It already was hard to breath. Now your lungs was on fire with lust. You try to twist to fully face him, but coils are holding you in places way to strong

After attempt he wraps himself tighter around you and push you into matress, face down, ass up. His stroking drive you crazy and you start rut into tip of his tail wrapped around you. You fill his chest against your back, his teeth nibbling your neck make it tingling. With each passing moment strength leaving you, body grows hotter, now you one who whines and pleads.

He didn't tease you for much longer. Hearing enough of begging he work his coils to turn you around. Drunk on his venom is hard to focus but glint of his scales, his unblinking eyes, bratty grin make everything worse. Out of his cloaca two swollen tdick picked out, twitching a bit. Seeing them you moaned and bucked your hips.

He push you down even more, completely removing your ability to move. At this point you may as well be his toy. Then he eagerly press himself against you and started to grind.

You moan and whimp and try to struggle to get out of his grasp and on top of him, but venom made you weak and it's not like you can fight against naga three times your weight and size.

You at his mercy and now his mercy ment throting to edge you for how long HE wants. Thankfully it wasn't that long, he got you close couple of times and denied you, but eventually he let you cum. It made things worse though.

Now, when you were so much more sensitive he let you slide in. He bottomed out and relaxed his coils, and just sat on top of you, loming forward, pinning your hands above your head, carresing your cheek with tip of his tail.

Your girlcock twitching inside him, you couldn't take it any longer and started to move, thrusting up, slow, sluggish, so adorably pathetic. He met your attempts with his grinding, groaning in return, baring his fangs, hissing when he hit just right spot.

It took some work for you to get close a second time. He didn't edged you though, and just let you cum.

Then with you still inside he wrapped himself around you again and laid on top like a blanket, showering you in kisses. Soon he rolled you both to the side so you could fall asleep.

Morning meet you with the worst hangover ever and him apologizing for messing up amount of bites

[scribblers-shadowlands-arc]

Part two is on pause while witch x werewolf is going well. But soon I return to write part two of that one

Hazy party

Slow music beat merged itself with a swirl of intoxicated thoughts. I was third, fourth? glass of wine in. It was a bad idea, wine and I was always a bad idea. But there was this guy I met not so long ago, just a bit younger than I, and so ungodly handsome. It has been so long since the last time I had a crush. No blame in needing a liquid courage.

Good thing about partying with slightly younger people though. Is that sooner or later some of them will nudge or dare you to do something silly. Folding like a piece of paper under peer pressure and being down your fifth glass of whore juice didn't help to dodge the nudges.

So here I am, sitting on his lap, staring down his brown puppy eyes. His side burns coarse under my thumbs. He was so proud of them. Whoever dared me to kiss him, I hate you. I owe you a bottle of something very expensive.

I glanced down at his lips, just for a split second. When I looked back, he was smirking. No good. I wiggled my butt a bit to kick his composure to the same anxious horny place I was at. He froze like a stag in headlights, cute.

I thumbed his lips, "Can I?" He gave a slight nod in return. Sliding my hands to the back of his head, grasping a handful of his hair I leaned forward.

A soft smooch at first, just to have a taste of him, an appetizer. His lips are soft against mine. I lean back to look in his eyes again, seeking the response I need now the most. This time his eyes slipped down for a moment.

I lunge at him again, hungrier this time. Parting his lips with my tongue pulling him closer to me with my arms. His response was a bit stiff at first. Did I rush too fast and spooked the lad? I grab his hands and pull them up my thighs, giving a light squeeze. He groaned, and finally leaned into a kiss intertwining his tongue with mine, digging his finger into my flesh.

Drown out moans escaped my lips. This was too fucking good. Groaning, groping, moaning, unrestrained, our wetness intertwines. I could swear I've started bucking my hips at some point, grinding against him. Sliding my arm under his unbuttoned shirt, feeling two scars underneath his chest. He grabbed my butt and pulled me in closer. His body was so hot, heat I've lost some time ago. I needed him a lifetime ago. Did I ever lust for somebody so bloody much?

I broke from a kiss, gasping for air, leaning my forehead against his. Kept like this for a moment, then whispered "I wanna see your scars, can I?" What the fuck girl, is it the best line you can blurt out?

Oh no, he’s smirking.

"Only if I'm to see how you've changed over you journey" he whispered

Thank goodness he is as dorky as I am. Hot. I grabbed his hands again and slid them up, so he would hold onto my waist. "You can do way more than just looking, handsome," I murmured.

[amoremagnificentbastard]

WIP Whenever

Good morning, it's Saturday and I was really hoping you'd get something more developed than a notes app snippet by the time I actually responded to the tags. But @kalmiaphlox, @saucy-scribbler, @deadly-diminuendo, and @busy-baker are too sweet and I can't bear to keep letting their tags go unanswered.

Tagging @gilded-glitter, @atsadi-shenanigans, and @bardic-inspo if y'all have anything you'd like to share!

[kiriti-savyasachin]

Words that make a difference

For the lovely @humapkehaikaun in honour of her birthday. Many more happy returns of the day, Di!

Most of us have often heard it told

That words are wind, at best a comfort cold.

And perhaps, those who are strangers to her warm heart might indeed believe

That words have no import, that they are but a mask, a sieve.

In the throes of loneliness and friendships lost, I, too, believed much the same,

Before I met this graceful and lovely dame.

Words are indeed not enough

To express the difference her love and acceptance made thorough

For me, struggling as I am, too see myself in a good light,

Her words made more than a difference slight.

To the lovely person who thinks far less of herself than she is in truth,

Wishes for a year full of joy, light and moments fine and smooth.

May this year herald you for you all the joy

That you spread among all you know, never for a moment coy.

Happy birthday, didi!

All my love,

Nila.

[finlands-world]

Whatever You May Be

As Crawley, the demon in charge of the first temptation, chatted with the angel of the Southern wall, Adam and Eve escaped by the Eastern gate, menacing the principality guarding it and stealing his flaming sword (Or at least that’s what the paperwork implied).

Over the millennia, Aziraphale and Crowley have managed never to meet one another, living their own completely separate lives.

One day, Hell sends an unusual request: This little bookshop in central Soho needs to be watched, and Crowley is assigned to the case.

Crowley didn’t own much, and of what he did own, there was very little he actually cared about. Excluding the lush plants, of course, all his prized possessions could fit into a simple wooden jewelry box, worn out by centuries of regular touch. It had once been adorned by skillfully drawn flowers, but the pigments had faded and the paint had cracked before flaking off, bit by bit.

Inside, a pearl necklace, a few rough-shaped rings, some coins of another time, whisps of fabric and buttons of all kinds, simple relics from those who’d broken his loneliness for a while, the humans who had appeared in his life and worked their way into his heart, taking a bit of it as they left, never by choice but by fate. Lovers, friends, or something in between. 

Read more of this fic on AO3

Little AU I've been thinking of for a while, hope you enjoy!

As always, thanks a lot to the @sohoscribblers for the amazing community, and to @rofell , @azeutreciathewicked, and @springofviolets for the beta! You're all amazing

[ambidextrousarcher]

Crowns of Gold, to Have and Hold-1

For @hum-suffer as a really, really late birthday present, but a timely Christmas present!

This is about 1.5 K words, therefore I am putting it under a cut.

I hope you enjoy this hastily written little piece and would like more of it!

Myrcellla hates her skirts. She always hates them, but never more than now, running behind her little brother. Tommen’s legs are tubby still, unlike hers, but these skirts of hers ruin it all the time.

Light gently heralds dawn, and Myrcella has to work to keep the sound of her steps down, lest one of the servants hear and tell mother of this. Mother always stresses the importance of curtailing one’s baser emotions and abhors the sight of tears.

But Tommen is her beloved younger brother, unlike Joffrey the terror, so she dares to raise her voice, even if it is only once. “Tommen!” Myrcella is lost for comforting words to follow his name, never having heard much of them. She resolves to try, nonetheless.

While she had been casting for words and for ways to keep her balance, she’d nearly lost sight of him. He bumps into a shadow which clinks of armor, and Myrcella winces. Mother will definitely know of this.

“Merda inferna,’- Myrcella has to giggle in spite of herself, for she knows enough to understand that those were curse words, not suitable for children. She wonders who has the consideration to swear in High Western, even when they sound quite tired and sleepy, when she recognises the speaker.

“Your Grace?” Tommen abandons all pretense of manly composure once he looks up and sees their uncle. “Uncle Jaime!”

Uncle Jaime holds Tommen close, wrapping him in his cloak, uncaring of his helm dropping from his hands. He finds a moment to give Myrcella a small smile. “What is the matter? What are you and your sister doing here at this time? Do you”- He’s saved from the trouble of asking further when Tommen, sniffling, mumbles, “Bad dream. Joff knifed Lady Boots. Again.” Uncle Jaime frowns. “Lady Boots?” “She is his cat,” pipes in Myrcella, trying to help.

“Joff knifed her?” He sounds almost horrified, something she had not expected from Uncle Jaime, for she thought he agreed with Mother on everything, and Mother was proud of Joff, no matter what.

“Joff did!” exclaims Tommen. “And mother was not even angry…she said he’s growing into his manhood. Is that what manhood is, uncle?” “It most definitely is not.” Uncle Jaime’s tone is clipped, curt. Tommen flinches. Myrcella takes a step, about to stand between them lest Uncle Jaime raise his hand to her brother against all reason, but Uncle Jaime sighs. “I am not angry at you,” he tells her brother gently. “I will have a word with Cersei, ensure the both of your safety, rest assured of that.” His words ring true, and Myrcella relaxes.

He does have a word with Mother. Myrcella can hear her mother’s voice shouting clearly, for all that the Septa tutting at her poor stitches is trying to distract her. “Remember that you are a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser. And they are my children. How dare you suggest that I am remiss! I am their mother, and I know best!” Uncle Jaime’s voice is too low to be heard, but the slap that follows rings clear, so loud that even the Septa drops her stitches. Mother’s voice stutters, lowered all of a sudden. “J-Jaime, listen…” she trails off. “Your Grace is too kind,” she hears Uncle Jaime’s voice reply, cool and smooth, lilting as always. “I see I must needs speak to His Grace.”

When Myrcella is able to hear Uncle Jaime’s footsteps, she too, tries to look as immersed in her stitches as the Septa does. She does not know what else to do.

However, Uncle Jaime is in front of her, facing the septa, and she dares to take a little peek up at him. He’s as charming as ever, smile wide on his face, beneath his helm. He manages to winkle Myrcella from her Septa for a while, bowing gallantly to both of them. The Septa actually blushes, and Myrcella giggles as he sweeps into another bow, this one only for her. “May I seek the honour of your company, your Grace?” he asks. Myrcella manages to remember her courtesies. “The honour is mine, good Ser.” She tries her best to sound grown up, but evidently she is not very successful, because Uncle Jaime laughs. Myrcella finds that she doesn’t mind. She likes hearing Uncle Jaime laugh.

It is only when they are on their way to the White Sword Tower that Myrcella realises she still has her mess of stitches clutched in her hands. That, however, is secondary. First, she needs to make sure uncle Jaime is fine. “Uncle Jaime,” she whispers. He stops. his steps in step with her own. “Yes?” “Are you…alright? Mother-she didn’t-she didn’t hurt you very badly, did she?”

Uncle Jaime looks startled for a moment. Then he laughs once more. “No, not at all. I’m quite used to it, to be honest. It’s nothing to worry about, ‘tis just a sibling spat. I am as I always am, Princess.” He doesn’t seem to be lying, but Myrcella doesn’t understand. Only Joffrey hit her and pulled at her hair, wasn’t that wrong? She shakes her head. He seems comfortable enough, so he must be right, she decides. She smiles back at him. “Cella,” she replies. “I’m Cella, not Princess, not to you. You may be a Kingsguard, Ser Uncle, but I am your niece first.”

Uncle Jaime averts his eyes from hers for a moment, then kneels in front of her. “Cella it is. And I am quite fond of Ser Uncle as a title as well,” he replies, laughter in his voice, though Myrcella doesn’t think she imagined the sheen in his liquid green eyes. “Alright, Ser Uncle it is!” she replies, offering no further comment. Men don’t like to be seen when they are emotional, and for so fine a knight, surely it must be even more of an insult.

His eyes are on her messy stitches. He snorts a little. “And what masterpiece, pray tell, is this?” She blushes. “Septa despairs at my stitches” she mumbles. “Is that so? Well, we can’t have that, can we? I suppose that is what we will do.” “What will we do?” she asks, curious. He winks at her. “Wait and see,” he replies, as they ascend the stairs to his chambers.

Uncle Jaime fiddles with his drawers, clearly looking for something. “Ah!” his quiet exclamation is triumphant. “I only have red, gold and white threads,” he tells her casually, looking once more at the mess she’d stitched, “but we can salvage most of this quite quickly.” Myrcella knows that she’s wide eyed. “You can stitch?” she exclaims. Uncle Jaime smiles with a shrug. “Quite a fair bit,” he replies, “and I suppose I’ll only get better with practice.” “How did you learn?” She is intrigued. She had thought that knights scoffed at womanly pursuits. “That is a story for another day, Cella,” answers Uncle Jaime. His deft hands unpick her stitches quickly. “We don’t have much time, do we? Your Septa would probably return soon from her prayers, and you will have to be returned to her tender hands.” She scoffs. “Your hands are far more tender than hers.” she grumbles. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes comically wide. “Mine?” he whispers, affecting awe, keeping his hands at the level of her eyes. “Surely you don’t mean these callused palms.” She nods, as regal as she could, and presses a kiss on each palm. “These indeed, Ser Uncle.” She answers with a grin. He laughs, his hands picking again at the stitches, somehow managing to straighten a few of them. “We’d make a fine troupe,” he laughs. “Unfortunately, not all songs I know are suitable for such fine ears as yours.” “Perhaps you could learn,” she ripostes.

Before he could reply, they are interrupted by a knock. “S-Ser L-Lan-Lannister?” Uncle Jaime gets to his feet, opening the door. “Aye. I’m not about to bite you, lad. Say what you will.” A boy stands without, his hair tousled, freckles standing against his fair skin. “S-Septa s-said that-that the Princess has her lessons. And-and the Lord Commander s-said that the King is in his chambers, should you wish to meet him.” Uncle Jaime nods, and turns to her. “Shall we, Princess Cella?” She puts on a sigh. “Must we, Ser Uncle?” He nods gravely. “Needs must, Princess. Fear not, however. Your knight shall be waiting for you.”

He takes her hand, pressing a kiss to it. “We would make a fine troupe!” she grins at him, her hand in his, his steps with hers, as they walk out of his room.

Note: The words Merda Inferna mean something along the lines of “damn it to hell” in Catalan, the language I base my hypothetical language of the West the most on, afaik. In my works, Jaime swears, when he does, in that language, because well, he’s around kids, I see as him doing it first for Tyrion’s young ears, and then the habit carried forward.

[angie-words]

On starting again

This is going to be just a brief first post as I try to work out what the hell I'm doing. I was never a prolific user/commenter on Tumblr but I feel like I've lost what little knowledge I had accumulated.

Bear with me.

If it helps to get a sense of my history with this platform, I stopped using it waaay before the ban on "female-presenting nipples".

I burned myself out pretty badly on writing thanks, ironically, to studying a Masters about it. But the one thing that's really brought the joy back to the process is the Good Omens fandom.

Thanks to the amazing Scribblers of Soho, I'm putting up things on AO3, getting wonderful help with beta reading, and doing some beta reading myself of incredible, inspiring work .

I'll make some links and things when I have more time but it's honestly kind of nice to be back and enjoying writing again.

[see-arcane]

writing patterns

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there’s a pattern! 

Tagged by @bluecatwriter

Okie dokie

“Centuries. Centuries he has been doing this.”

2. He was on the water when it happened.

3. The eyes might have been their own weight for how fully they paralyzed.

4. It isn’t a dream.

5. “Intolerable, unacceptable, and utterly, irrevocably insufferable."

6. They waited for night before bringing out the book.

7. It was in a way almost as extraordinary as stunningly mundane how the mess began.

8. Captain Nemo was a man shocked by very little.

9. Quincey is always described as the laconic one.

10. He meets her under the moon.

Only pattern I'm seeing is 'mmm classic horror lit.' I'm kind of bouncing all over the place as far as opening style, but mostly I seem to sidestep a dialogue opening in favor of omniscient third person. If I had to pick a favorite, it'd be number six due to all the uncanny eldritch drama I managed to cram into it.

If you are a writer then consider this game foisted onto you. All of you. Yes, even you. I know you're reading this, chop-chop.

[sohoscribblers]

Sharing an educational article written by one of our more experienced Scribblers for any new or hopeful writers out there. This is the first in a series on POV

______

An Overview of Point of View in Writing

by @adeptdragonfruit54

What is point of view and why is it important?

Simply put, point of view is the lens through which you tell your story. It’s the voice of the story and your perspective character.  It’s important because the POV you tell the story from will impact the details available to your reader and the reliability of the narrator among other things. “No decision you make will impact the shape and texture of your story more than your choice of Point of View,” says editor Dave Lambert. Surprisingly, it can also be one of the trickier skills to master for a new or inexperienced writer. A common problem is an inconsistent POV. You don’t have to stick with a single POV throughout a story, but if you’re new to writing, sometimes it’s better to stick with one POV until you have a little more experience under your belt. Another problem I’ve seen is using an incorrect POV for the story being told.  I’ll give you an example of this once we dig into the different types of POV below. So, what are the different types of POV?

Primarily, there are three types of POV. We’ll start with a basic overview in this article and then go into each, in depth, in subsequent articles.

First Person POV:

First person POV uses personal pronouns like “I,” “me,” “we,” and “us.” Stories written in the first person are personal narratives where the protagonist is telling their story or a side character is telling the protagonist’s story. Ie. Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games is written in with first person from the POV of the protagonist, Katniss Everdeen.

Finish Reading on AO3

[neurodivergentscribbles]

Episode 2 - Ashley Halliwell

Welcome to Neurodivergent Scribbles, a writing podcast curated for neurodivergent people, by neurodivergent people. Today is Friday, June 28th, 2024. I’m your host, Abbott Manning Hansen. 

Content Warning - Today’s episode discusses themes of abuse, war, neglect, violence, and gore. Listener discretion is advised.

First, before we hop into the episode, I do want to offer my apologizes. Normally, we do drop an episode of Neurodivergent Scribbles on Wednesday at noon. Obviously, today is not Wednesday; it is Friday. And it is far passed noon local time. So, I want to apologize for not dropping the episode earlier. I had moved this weekend and I got sick immediately, thereafter, so I was unable to record like normal. So, again, I do offer my apologizes to all of you. And I want to thank you so much for your patience and your patronage.

Today’s featured writer is Ashley Halliwell. Ashley Halliwell is an accomplished artist for not having reached 30, yet. From the age of 11, they were trained professionally as a choral singer. At age 14, they released their first album. They have since released over a dozen more, with another in the works. They have created various visual art pieces, from painting, to digital masterpieces, since they were 3. They have acted since they were 7, engaging in productions of the self-produced variety, as well as local and school related productions. While acting, they also wrote, creating their first poems at age 5, and having written plays, serial fiction, essays, nonfiction blog posts, research articles, songwriting, short fiction, and self published poetry collections in the last two decades. Ashley’s writing has always been one thing: an outlet. From their songs, to their poems, to their self-proclaimed “shit-posting empire,” Ashley has poured their lived experiences into their work. In doing so, they have become relatable; speaking to experiences that have, until now, never had a voice. They are honest, raw, and unapologetically authentic in how they deliver the messages woven through their many adventures. They have since used their platform as a multi-faceted artist to serve as an unwitting advocate for the black sheep, the disowned, the weirdos, the misfits, and the healing traumatized people the world over. Their popularity has also made it possible for them to organize and operate a mutual aid community for individuals with disabilities. Their various social media will be in the description for your viewing pleasure. Originally from the heart of Texas, Ashley came from old money and was homeschooled. But they were raised with an entrepreneurial mindset, where resourcefulness and critical thinking skills were key. The idea of working for what you want was not lost on them. Having traveled all over the world and lived in various places within the US, Ashley learned their worth, becoming larger than life and creating positive change for themselves and others they interacted with. They serve as an example of what life can be when you live in an unapologetic authentic manner, never letting others dictate who you are and what your truth is, and rising from the ashes of trauma new and stronger than before. This phoenix reborn is why I decided to feature Ashley. They prove that in climbing through the depths of the darkness, there is strength in moving forward toward the light of a better future.

Singing Molten Gold To The Morning: Poems is a collection of poetry written by Ashley Halliwell under the pseudonym Perzival D.H.C. Dunn-Blackthorne, the second of two collections written under this nom de guerre. Today’s excerpt is Guernica, parts 1-2 from Singing Molten Gold To The Morning: Poems. Let’s dive in, shall we?

Guernica -

I. 26 april 1937…

I don’t know what i do best

Anymore

Except turn pain into something

Beautiful

But what about the horrors of it

And not the glory?

I want to take what I feel and

Not what I say

Turn it into something 11 feet

Tall and 25 feet wide

But my hands are little

My hands are little and no

Paintbrush is small enough to

Catch

All the detail

I’m tired of walking over

Thresholds of bombed out

Buildings or a half built house

I’m tired of only seeing rubble

I’m a builder, damnit

I’m supposed to build people up

I’m supposed to help

Not have nightmares like

Flashbacks that crush me!

So I dare myself

Now -

Put your own oxygen mask on

Before you

Drop that bomb

And then stay awhile

Before flying away

II. Thresholds are for brides

And I was a bride once

But that was a moment and

I wore a dress as red as blood

People asked why I did that

I know why I did that now

I didn’t know how else to say I was angry

When my mind was taped shut and

I was

Kept in the fog

Damn those pills!

Damn the nightmares!

Damn that house that should have caught fire

With all inside!

I am not the crazy child kept in the attic!

Not anymore

I am the human unchained,

I am the one that walks free!

I have doors now

I have miles in my pockets

I can and will lock you out

And there’s blood on their hands

They kicked a child

They should have loved the child

But when they dropped the bombs

The empty house of my mind caved in.

But the structure is stronger than that

I am stronger than that

And this is me calling it what it is…

You make your own hell,

I say to the bombers

I say to the horrors that I experienced

Some people see battlefields

I have seen a mind turned inside out

I have been trapped in my own body

I have seen my innocence die before me

And I’ve shouted into the hole of loss

And I’m still hearing the infinite echo.

I don’t know which is worse

You make your own hell,

I say to the demons I fight

Your hell is not mine,

Your chains are not mine,

I am not your wall to punch.

I’m not a pewter cup to drink

From and laugh with

Your hell is not mine

Not anymore.

This is me calling it what it is…

Hell.

And I enter it on my own terms.

Not yours,

Not anymore.

In Singing Molten Gold To The Morning: Poems, the piece entitled Guernica is split into seven parts. Each part beautifully plays into the next, but for this examination, we’ll look at the first two. Part one speaks to the painting of the same name by Spanish artist, Pablo Picasso. Guernica is an anti-war oil painting that portrays suffering shaped by violence and chaos. It is a gory display of gray-scale agony that was unlike Picasso’s more vibrant works. This theme rolls over into part two. Part two of Guernica speaks to the hell endured by a former bride through childhood trauma and medical neglect. A hell the bride walks through now, but on their terms, claiming their strength of will and removing themselves from the abuse of those who were supposed to love and nurture them. Something often overlooked by neurotypical and abled individuals is the abuse neurodivergent and disabled individuals endure through no fault of their own. Being emotionally abandoned by a parent when you don’t fit their idyllic vision of what you should be. Facing the violent onslaught of bullying from your peers. Educators ignoring, or worse, berating you for not measuring up to the rest of the class. Society deciding that being neurodivergent and/or disabled is all you are and ever will be, assuming you’ll be nothing more than a burdensome drain on the community and its resources. How it's that much more difficult to find genuine love and kindness compared to our neurotypical and abled counterparts. For today’s prompt, I want you to think about a time you suffered because of your neurodivergence. What happened that caused you to suffer? How did you overcome it? Let this prompt be a structured poem. There are a variety of different structures to poetry. I’m personally very fond of Spenserian sonnets. Rhyme and iambic pentameter make my brain happy. But you can use any poem structure you like best! Haiku, sonnet, limerick, an ode, villanelle, free verse, and more. This one isn’t timed, but I would recommend doing some free writing first to get your thoughts down before jumping into writing a poem. Free writing can allow you to gather your thoughts on any subject, which can assist in finding patterns and how you want to move forward with expressing those thoughts in the form of a poem. And do so however is most comfortable and accessible for you, whether that be writing long hand, typing on a computer or typewriter, typing on your phone, or using a speech-to-text program to dictate your thoughts in a notes app on your device. This prompt will be posted on our various social media for you to reference later, all of which are connected to our Linktree in this episode’s description. Be sure to submit your writing prompt to the podcast email, nd.scribbles.pod@gmail.com, for a chance to have your work featured at the beginning of the next episode!

Today's ending quote: "Our story may have any number of endings but its start is a singular choice we make today." - Dr. Faisal Khosa, Associate Professor in the Department of Radiology at Vancouver General Hospital, University of British Columbia. He is passionate about giving back through coaching and mentoring students and his mentoring has benefited students all over the world.

My name is Abbott Manning Hansen, host of the podcast, Neurodivergent Scribbles. Thanks for listening, and have a creative day, my fellow Scribblers!

[birdboy-blues]

HOLY SMOKES MUTUAL

WAAAAAAAAAAGH WHAT DO YOU MEAAAAAAAN

[scribblers-shadowlands-arc]

Winter date with a dragon. When you get cold, she insists on making a makeshift pouch-carrier out of her coat. She put you inside making an improvised blanket out of your coat so your almost uncovered back would be pressed against her for more warmth. She is damn toasty even just in sport bra underneath. She also carry your drink in her hands to keep it warm for you.

[topoet]

Scribblers

pull up a chair sourced from internet I live between four or five schools, with a transit stop five minutes from my place, so I see lots of school kids mornings & afternoons on their way to & from one of the schools. When the school term starts it takes me briefly back to the ends of my childhood summers.I don’t recall ever looking forward to the start of school in September. I do remember…

[sakshiwriter]

Many times we are so preoccupied with future happenings, that we don’t live in the present anymore. And everything runs on autopilot.

We regret it later because we let that precious time slip from our grasp. The only time over which we have control. 

[highsummonermercar]

If I could find the creators of The Sims 2 Hangout, Scribblers Abode and Inscriber Shack, I'd love to write a nostalgic piece on how they brought together The Sims community in the early to late 2000s.

[finlands-world]

Remember Banana Face? The carved banana peel? Well someone in the @sohoscribblers discord wrote a fanfic about it. It's genius, really.