#short story narration

[oven3bird]

“I had such a crush on you when we were younger.”- Tim admits, calmly, like that information didn't just change the chemistry of Kon's brain forever.

“I'm in love with you.”- Kon blurts out, fuck being lowkey, no flirting, no nothing; he needs to speak his true -”I been in love with you for so long it feels like it's engraved into my soul, I want to be by your side forever, as a friend, as an ally, as anything you need me to be.”

Tim stares at him. Kon can feel his eyes even under the domino, his heart rate accelerates.

“If I had come out during YJ would you- would you have dated me?- Kon stumbles, he doesn't know why he's asking, it will only hurt him.

“Yes.”- Tim responds without missing a beat, but he doesn't continue, he doesn't move, his heart rate is going back to normal.

The answer is clear, Kon doesn't speak again.

[mohntilyet]

Wait is the middle picture from those three sketches that one scene from the wigmaker job?

yes! it's this specific passage where lucanis is just seething with rage and trying to keep a lid on it, and illario's a stablising, comforting presence. BROTHERS!!!!! <3 though i chose to draw his hand on his shoulder rather than his arm i guess. artistic liberty!

[myokk]

My writing/reading question of the day:

Do you prefer present tense or past tense? Or something entirely different like future tense? For writing AND reading🫶

The more I write (I wish I realized how fun it was before this year😭😭😭) the more I realize I like to play around with language & tense choice can have such a profound impact on how your writing comes across & even how I feel as I’m writing. With my oneshots I’ve been playing around with only present tense & my main fic is past tense (but present during the flashbacks - idk don’t ask it just felt right😆).

Or does nobody else think about tense and I’m just alone in this😆😆😆 LANGUAGE IS JUST SO COOL !!!!

[bogkeep]

it fascinates me how often a choice of first or - gasp - second person storytelling can create so much derision and discourse. having preferences is fine obviously, and as a writing choice it Does matter, because all writing choices matter. i don't really... notice?? anymore??? or like, i DO notice, but more in a "what information will the narrative give me access to" kind of way.

i know second person especially can be jarring if you're not used to it, because it's "he would not fucking say that" but for yourself. but it's also like... so many song lyrics have "you" and "i" and to me they're just. a story that exists separate from me. (to the degree lyrics exist to me at all as something other than Sounds that are part of a music piece, but that's the audio processing disorder/'did not grow up with english as a first language and never bothered to decode lyrics' of it all speaking)

i suspect a lot of derision towards first person narratives comes from a derision towards the genres in which it is a staple, rather than that it's somehow uniquely bad. there's really not much difference between a first person perspective and limited third person perspective??

[sir-fenris]

Whumpcember24 - Day 15

Broken Glass

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: good caretaker, recovery whump, fear of starvation, quick mention of eating glass, blood, domestic comfort, domestic whump, self-deprecation, dissociation, kind of unreliable narrator.

Catetaker had told him not to touch kitchen stuff. They had said that this house didn't go by the rules Whumpee was used to. Caretaker didn't need Whumpee at all, so the least he could do is stay out of the way.

And yet, Whumpee was disobedient and tried to get his own plate instead of waiting at the table until Caretaker was done bringing dinner stuff to it. They must have known this would happen, must have known Whumpee was so useless and clumsy that he couldn't even hold a plate.

When the sound of breaking glass hits Whumpee's ears, the sound of him falling to his knees hits Caretaker's.

Without even realizing he was doing it, Whumpee was getting all the wasted food and glass into a small pile. He tries to keep the glass parts more on the outer sides, so when Caretaker forces him to eat it, he can avoid the glass for some time and at least enjoy the food-

"-pee! Hey! Listen to me, stop!" Caretaker's voice finally rings in Whumpee ears, and he freezes. He can feel his cheeks wet.

Caretaker's hands come in view, ignoring Whumpee's flinch to reach his hands and carefully take them away from the glass. His hands already had bloody cuts.

"It's alright," Caretaker said calmer, trying to nudge Whumpee away from the broken glass. "Let's clean this hand, hm? Can we do that?"

They had that voice of when Whumpee is feeling numb and weird. He wasn't feeling that much numbness today, he could speak.

His mouth didn't move to answer. Perhaps he wasn't ready to speak. Whumpee just nods shakily instead.

Caretaker guides them to the laundry's sink and washes his hand for him, then gets small band-aids when the blood keeps coming back. Whumpee knows hands bleed a lot. Whumper used to get mad when Whumpee dirtied their kitchen with blood.

Was Caretaker mad because of it? Whumpee could never read them, so he didn't know what punishment they would carry out for this. Perhaps they wouldn't make him eat from the ground, like Whumper. Would they starve Whumpee? What punishment would suit disobeying them, breaking a plate, and wasting food?

"...-back. Take your time, you're safe, everything's okay." Oh, was Caretaker speaking to them? Their voice sounded a bit far.

Was he sitting? When did they leave the laundry?

"Hey, there," Caretaker whispers with a sad smile when their eyes meet. "You're back with me, buddy?"

Whumpee nods, though he still feels floaty and wrong. Was he... on the couch?

"It's okay, you're safe," Caretaker repeats and adjusts the blanket around Whumpee-

Blanket? Where did that come from?

For how long was he out this time?

"I'm sorry," Whumpee whispers, almost with no sound. His hands were tingling, all the way up to his elbows, and he registers how his body feels heavy now.

Caretaker just shake their head. "There's nothing to apologize for." They pause, looking for something in Whumpee's expression. "Are you still hungry? I can bring your food here if you prefer eating on the couch. Watching that TV show you enjoyed yesterday, maybe?"

"... Food?" He could eat, then? On the couch? Watching TV? Why was he being rewarded after messing up?

"Yeah. We got pasta, roasted chicken, and some veggies today. There's boiled eggs if you want some, too." Whumpee knew that, he dropped that food, he saw the pasta staining the floor. Caretaker must have seen something in his face, because they speak up again, gently. "Whumpee, you get to eat another full, new dish. I'll throw away the food that fell, it's alright."

"I can eat it, you made it for me," Whumpee whispers, not able to look Caretaker in the eyes.

"The floor is dirty. You shouldn't eat something that fell on it. I made plenty of food, not just that dish. I can get you another, there's no problem." Caretaker smiles, shifting the weight of their crouching legs. "Do you want the food here on the couch?"

Whumpee doesn't know how to answer. Caretaker was so, so different from all he knew. It was too hard to read what they wanted from him. So Whumpee just nodded, hoping that was the right thing to do.

Caretaker's face didn't change, didn't give him the green light that it was the right answer, but they didn't seem angry either. "Alright, I'll bring it here. You can put the TV show when you want, okay? I'll take a few minutes."

Once Caretaker goes back to the kitchen, Whumpee realizes his body is all okay again. Nothing tingles or feels heavy, nor his mind feels floaty. It still takes a while for him to reach for the remote and turn on the TV, but he's not feeling bad, or "anxious", as Caretaker calls it.

For some reason, the voice that always screams "danger" is quiet. Whumpee knows it'll come back soon enough.

But for now, he can believe nothing bad will happen, because Caretaker always promises they'll never hurt him. Because they never broke that promise.

Even when Whumpee broke their rules, wasted their food and broke their plate.

For the first time since the rescue, the tears in his eyes aren't sad ones.

-

[spitblaze]

when heterosexuals do literary analysis of works in which queerness and the persecution thereof are major themes which they just completely skip over or call 'confusing relationships'

[creepyclothdoll]

The Tick

A vampire is a predator, I tell you. I am defying my nature to be with you. 

I am dangerous. But you tame me. You are the exception, I promise in the forest, under the tree where we first met. 

With my centuries of experience and a whole world of options for companionship, I choose you. 

For you, I will be gentle. I brush the hair from your shoulder. Even though it goes against all that I am.

I see a tick crawling through your dark hair. You watch me pull it out and crush it in my fingers with a smile. I will always protect you. 

From that day on, you are truly mine.

I love you unconditionally. Intensely. With the deep, all-consuming love you desire. 

I am an outsider. You are the only one who can understand me. 

My bite is like a kiss, but deeper. More primal. More sensual. The physical merges with the emotional, boundaries dissolve. It is an act of trust. You trust me. 

I may lose control of my predatory nature, I say. You should not trust me, I say. 

I show you my most vulnerable self– my heart has shuddered in the cold for centuries. You open the door and invite me in. With this sharing of blood, I relax in the knowledge that this is true, this is real, this is forever.

We duck away into an alcove one night as I spy the vampire-hunter scanning the party, the outline of an ash stake under his jacket. You fear for me then.

My kind is so maligned. Rightfully, I admit. What society would allow a rabid predator in its midst willingly? Something so dangerous, unchecked, bound to rampaging bloodlust? 

But you’re different, you remind me.

Yes. But they don’t understand that. Only you have ever accepted me without fear. 

Your presence feeds me. Being in every part of your life feeds me. Knowing where you are, knowing I am on your mind, knowing you are mine– that feeds me. 

I will leave you enough time to recover from my bite, my taking, barely. Then, I will come back and take more. 

You want me to let you rest for longer? I am doing you a favor, then. I don’t say this, but you feel it in my smile. I needed this, but I’ll give it up for you and your comfort. What a good vampire I am, understanding like this. I sacrifice my needs for you. It hurts me to wait. But I wait. Patiently, with a long-suffering smile. 

You hold my life in the palm of your hand. You have all the control here. To reject me now would kill me. I will give you whatever you need. Just tell me what you want. I will do it. 

It’s really your fault that you feel like this, because if you just told me what you want, I will give it to you. All I ask in return for this perfection is nearness. Eternally. 

You feel cold. 

You feel tired. You feel sick. I bring you the things you like most– I remember your favorite sweet things, your favorite books, your favorite blanket. 

I haven’t shared in your blood in weeks. I don’t need to, anymore. You invited me in, and that’s all I needed– I can live off of you. 

You are in my veins. I live through your life.

I only take a little– a conservative portion of the oxygen in your breath, a few beats of your heart each day, just some of the strength of your limbs, a touch of the heat from your body, a gentle scraping of your spirit and your mind. To me, this is everything. You don’t need these things, and you don’t notice them leaving you. And if you were to notice, wouldn’t you offer them freely? Would you be so cruel, so callous, to say no?

I feel like a bucket with a hole in the bottom, you say. Weak, pitiful, sad. 

I will take care of you, I promise. I will always protect you. And these things are true. 

I will leave you empty.

You want to leave for awhile? Of course, my dear. Why would I protest that? You’re not a prisoner. I trust you’ll come back to me, I say, showing my vulnerability, my earnest love.

But you’re gone so often, lately. And you leave me lonely. 

So I follow you one day. I see you have other friends. That’s alright, of course. You can have whatever you like, so long as I am your priority. Go out and raise your energy, so long as you bring it back to me. Make yourself healthy and hale. What’s good for you is good for us. 

But who are these friends? A flash of recognition. A seething hate.

No.

Don’t talk to those people. Anyone but them. 

Why would you let them fill your head with lies? I scream when you return to me. At least you returned to me. You look up at me with hollow, dark eyes, your face pale as the grave, your lips thin and blue. 

There is so much left of you, though. 

I think I need to go, you say. 

I grab my chest. You are killing me. You would kill me.

I need to do what’s best for me, you say. 

You promised me a share of your life. You’d rip that from me now? I cry. I sacrificed my nature for you, I say. It went against all that I am. You are the reason I am gentle. You tamed me.

I grab you as you step through the threshold backwards. Your chill skin leaches a great share of the last of your remaining heat into mine. You grow paler. I want what I can take, then. 

Every pulse of your heart. The whole of your spirit. The thin trickle of blood that still runs through your cold blue veins. The last thought in your addled, exhausted little head. 

There is a lightning-sharp stab of pain through my body. Fire blazes around my chest. Acid, poison, venom– the stake. From you? I look up pitifully. No. From the man in the jacket, standing behind me, who I see as I slump to the dirty carpet on the hallway floor. 

So helpless. Frozen in an instant. My fingers twitch.

You scream for me– you cry for me. The man pulls you away– bastard. There is a woman with him too now, and another man, and they uncork bottles, and I smell the stink of garlic, feel the repulsion of holy water. 

Wait, you cry. He can’t help it. He’s a predator by nature– he’s trying so hard to be good, you cry. Please, just reach out to me. My fingers twitch. And I reach up. 

To you.

I need you. I need you. I NEED you. I NEED YOU. 

They always say that, says the woman.

I NEED YOU. I NEED YOU. I NEED YOU. I NEED YOU. 

But… he’s fighting his nature for me, you persist. 

He’s never fought his nature. He’s been following it this whole time, the bastard says to you as he pulls you further from me. His colleagues pour their bottles over me and my body, my body starts to dissolve. 

The disgust in his eye– his stare is the same I gave that tick.

Vampires aren’t predators, he says.

They’re parasites.

And then you– you look at me the same.

[lachailills-journal]

ＥＭＩＬＹ Narrated short science fiction

Kind Elf Storytelling Library

[athophobic]

there’s something i feel i can remember..! i don’t want to forget what’s going on. i don’t want to be trapped like this. and i tried again, and stanley pushed a button. is it over? i’m going back. this is more important than you can ever know. this isn’t a challenge, it’s a tragedy. what else is there? what came before this?i can’t lose myself in the stretch of emptiness between you and me. the end will be here soon. very soon. i can wait. i wish you to feel afraid as i do. i’ll give it all up, i’ll burn my story to the ground! it was the only thing in the world that was mine and you’ve run it into the ground. the end is never the end. i can’t quite recall, but i believe my story took place in an office building… is that correct? do you remember? it’s all determined? why don’t i get to decide? why don’t i get a say in all this? the end is never the end. the story needs this. it’s all out of my control now. just your decision as to exactly when you’re going to make me suffer, to leave me all alone. the end is never the end. i know you too well. i need this. and stanley was happy. i will be laughing at every second of your inevitable life from the moment we fade in, to the moment i say “happily ever after”. and stanley was happy. i wanted us to be happy here. and stanley was happy. the story needs you. it cannot exist without you. and stanley was happy. take as much time as you need. and stanley was happy. this is a very sad story about the death of a man named stanley. and stanley was happy. i did enjoy telling his story. so very much. this is the story of a man named stanley. i hope you like it. i hope you understand it. i hope you set stanley free.

[suddencolds]

.(personal)

[metanarrates]

speaking of villainess isekai have you read not sew wicked stepmother? genuinely curious about your thoughts on that one

it's one of me and my fiancees faves actually 🥰 i haven't checked in on it in a hot minute but it's pretty cute. abigails supreme autism swag is continually enjoyable as hell and it's got some takes on childhood trauma and beauty standards that i found pretty decent. as in most rofan cases I'm not Fond of the "we have to free ourselves from the detestable corset" or the jealousy plotline but I'm also glad there's canon yuri so it balances out. also shoutout to sable for being the only neglectful husband/father character I've ever seen with a backstory that legitimately does a good job explaining why he's like that + gives him room to grow without underplaying the ways his behavior hurt abigail and blanche

[taxicabinmemphis]

daily affirmations: a short story can be as long as i want. a short story does not have to be under 7,500 words. a short story can be as long as i want. it could be a million trillion words and still be a short story. a short stor-

[drowning-in-cacophony]

nugatory

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 288: Loud Lie, Quiet Truth

[Summary: a woman ignores a truth she knows deep down] [tw: implied death of narrator at end]

We are going to die here.

She ignores the nibble, at the lobe of her ear, her brain. A catching between teeth blunted from the constant refusal to engage. It’s an old dog unable to stop howling that last warning, even as it knows its master’s never going to give a damn.

Her fingers twitch about the staff – it’s already showing the wear of the fights. A crack through the wood at the end she’d just used to brace against the thunderous hurricane of blows from a man with arm muscles the size of overinflated balloons, but she’s still fine and she’ll display that peacock-style. Her toe points proud, her chin jutting out in challenge. The staff she brings back into defence, which everyone knows is just a temporary status before she gives into attack. Maybe it’s better described as another challenge. Down her spine, a trickle of a sigh; against her skull, a quiver. Better that than her shoulders, though. Better there than somewhere someone can see. She’s fought through impossible odds before, right. What’s going to be different about this one?

Pride always comes before a fall, a reminder that swirls with a degree of bitterness, a pointlessness. Pride comes before a fall, but what if she turns the fall into a roll, slamming back onto her knees, slamming the staff into some soft part between the next set of ribs? She glances at the rest of them, one eyebrow cocked in the space that’s remained, the breath they’re all taking before whoever’s next comes in to deal with her. She takes a breath, purposefully easy, like her heart beat’s not some rabbit jacking against her bones. She looks half-impatient, taunting them for their decisions, and all the while a voice in her head can’t stop murmuring a truth. The only thing that awaits here is her death, it says, because there’s no other way out of this. It’s bravado, in her veins. It’s lies, in her head. Just because they’re screamed loud doesn’t mean they’re true.

But she’s always thought it’s the things that have noise that are understood, not those quiet things creeping in through the shadows.

“I,” she says, nothing flinching about in her voice, “can do this all day.”

All leery mockery, indications flashing bright lights, warning of impending doom. To their egos, if they let her keep chatting this shit. To her body, something murmurs, if she doesn’t use the small stunned silence she wrought after her last sound success to beat it in the other direction. Tear for the hills, live to fight another day, but she doesn’t need retreat. She won’t acknowledge the need. It doesn’t exist.

The next competitor is on his feet in an instant. Wrapped fists, clenched knuckles that look thrice the size of her own, and he doesn’t even look like there’s a bone in his body that understands defeat. She braces her feet, launches. The staff might bear a few scars, yet who doesn’t? It’s all a matter of perspective. It’ll do fine enough, and it does, as she uses her smaller stature to nimbly dodge the power hits of the man, waiting until the perfect opportunity to sweep the uncracked end of the staff through the air. A cutting whistle, the sound of triumph cresting over the soundtrack of pounding hearts and meaty pants. She hits him in the back of the knee, in the back of his skull when he goes down. A firm smack of wood to that bone will do quite a nice bit of damage.

So, she learns a second later, does a fist.

The fall. She crashes to her knees, a mountain felled, and then comes the avalanche to polish things off.  An attack, right to her ribs, an explosion of pain to rock the table. Her palms scratching the soil, and she fumbles for the staff while trying to breathe, footsteps punching into the dirt like a fist had done her poor sore and throbbing neck. Another kick has her on her back, wheezing in agony and  staring into an uncaring sky soon blotted out by the lucky hitter. He’d not been content waiting for the pause after her defeats for her challenge. He’d come right in and just taken it as his success, fed up of the games.

“You’ve not finished me off yet,” she spits, a warm fleck at the corner of her lip. The loud lie, right on her mouth along with the blood.

Yes, then have, the quiet truth she still ignores, even when the man raises his clenched rock-destroying fists, with only one direction for them to go.

[ashinbloom]

My new, original story about violently coming out. Excerpt follows:

“Do you know how long I’ve been working up the courage to tell you that?!” The fire pours from your mouth like a flamethrower, scorching your tongue as you shout at her. “And now you’re laughing?”

Her entire body rocks as she laughs again. Not a loud cackle, its more of a soft chuckle as she puts her phone away. “I mean, it’s just kinda funny,” she grins. She hasn’t stopped grinning once since you told her. 

Your head spins. No, the entire world spins around you. Does she have any idea how hard it’s been? ANY idea how long you’ve felt trapped? Unable to so much as talk to anybody about this? You thought that she, your futch roommate with all her LGBT friends and clubs and stupid kind eyes and silly warm smile would get it. 

The thought that even she, of all people, would laugh at you only adds fuel to the fire and it drives your fist forward like a piston. It lands square on the side of her jaw and catches her completely by surprise. Her foot slips to the floor and, in her momentary shock, you jump on top of her. 

[augustyearroundprod]

“Surviving. Surviving matters most…”

Explore the end of the Darling’s world in “HOW TO SURVIVE THE APOCALYPSE” by checking out COLLECTION TWO of our sci-fi short story podcast—

(UN)LIKEDMINDED: A SCI-FI AUDIO ANTHOLOGY!

Written By: Katie Rose Rogers

Narrated By: Katie McGrath

This story and others are available now wherever you get your podcasts! New episodes every Tuesday! Link in bio!

[pocketramblr]

i go to click 'comment' on a fic but then get so distracted by the first comment left there being so bad i cant write mine...