#creative writing Tumblr posts

  • She decorated her walls with pictures of people who lived the lives she wish she could experience.

    Famous musicians whose lyrics she felt in her soul, and movie characters whose mythological lives she would dream about beyond reality’s limits.  

    Christmas lights along the edges, scented candles of various flowers and foods.

    Glow in the dark stars were carefully and meticulously pasted on the ceiling, all the way down half of the walls.

    When the lights went out for the night, even in the middle of the city, she could almost feel what it was like to sleep among the stars.

    Laura’s sanctuary was her room.

    Her safe space.

    Her true home.

    Four walls painted with a color her parents had decided when she was still too young and which now was too expensive to change.

    Four walls away from the family war which developed most every night, her last line of defense being a lock that protected her privacy as well as her own boundaries.

    Four walls that allowed her to stay inside, far from the world and the noise and the pain and the envy.

    Four walls.

    Four walls that only Olivia was allowed to penetrate.

    Funny.

    Because Olivia was quite opposite to Laura.

    Laura was quiet, and calm, and kept to herself, and restrained.

    Olivia was loud, and quirky, and talkative, and outgoing.

    Being an introvert adopted by an extrovert was Laura’s only chance at making friends.

    And if Olivia hadn’t needed someone to immediately vent to at the café after a rude server gave her a dirty look, Laura probably would still be accompanied only by her books and movies.

    But Olivia made her way into Laura’s life, and Laura was happy with that fact.

    It wasn’t easy, but Laura let her in, and Olivia understood her.

    They were the Yin to each other’s Yang.

    Respected each other’s boundaries while at the same time pushing for each other to be better.

    Olivia learned to be calmer. Laura learned to go out more.

    Still, at times, Olivia was still loud as can be, and Laura most times preferred to stay at home.

    They cherished each other’s flaws and enjoyed each other’s company.

    Laura listened to all that Olivia needed to vent about.

    Olivia payed the closest attention to the movies and books that Laura kept closest to her heart.

    Laura made Olivia feel heard. Olivia made Laura feel seen.

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  • Word count: 494

    Hi, it’s been a while since I posted! I’ve been writing, just not much I can actually share. I was rereading some older work and found this little bit. I’m kind of proud of it. 

    Not much to say about this one. My Into Technology world that is pretty much plotless save for the character backstories and a few adventures. This bit features found family, some amnesia, and references to past trauma.

    The first, a son, spent his days learning close combat, talking with friends, and flirting with girls. 

    The third, a daughter, studied tactics, technology, and manipulation under the tutelage of their father.

    The second, another son, left for the Academy early on, then died during an underside excursion. 

    Or, at least, that was what Kuzma had been told. 

    A boy stood in front of him, thin lights from the city illuminating him from the side. He kept his hair buzzed short, just like the last time Kuzma had seen him. His clothing was definitely not Academy-issued, but worn and haphazard. There was no Stepanov crest anywhere on his person. He stood, quiet in the overly-large bedroom. 

    “Dmitri?” Kuzma breathed. He clutched the door handle behind him. 

    His brother flinched. “I had hoped…” He shook his head. “I’m not him. Not anymore.”

    Kuzma slid the door shut with a click. Silence reigned. “Anymore?” 

    “This was a bad idea.” Dmitri, or whoever it was, turned towards the large doors to the balcony. 

    “Wait.” 

    Dmitri paused.

    “I mourned. I didn’t know you - didn’t know Dmitri - but. What happened? You were dead. Father was proud. I was sick.”

    His brother seemed to consider it. His dark eyes glittered and turned. “I woke up, two years ago, scars on my arms and nothing but combat in my head. Dmitri is gone.”

    “But you’re alive.”

    “I’m not him.”

    “You’re my brother.”

    He paused. “My name is Damian. They left me with nothing. My only family is by choice.”

    Kuzma didn’t respond for a moment, watching the person who used to be his brother. They both stood still. Perhaps they were testing each other. 

    If it was a test, Kuzma failed. He broke the stillness first, nodding and glancing toward the only windowless wall, anywhere but the other boy’s face. “That’s fair.”

    Dmitri - Damian - gave him a grim smile, then turned to the balcony doors again. 

    “If you ever need more…” Family. “People to count on,” Kuzma continued, his voice just barely breaking over the new sounds of the city through the open doors. “I bet you know where I am.”

    “We do.” He jumped over the railing. 

    Kuzma’s heart stopped for a moment, ears straining for the sound of a drone, or the smack of a body hitting the ground several stories down. All he heard was quiet words, exchanged too lowly to make out, and the quiet tap of several people leaving the area. A cool breeze wound inside. He drifted forward on oiled boots and shut the balcony door. 

    The first, a son, stared into the whispering city and missed a brother he’d never had.

    The third, a daughter, read reports of underside raids with a passionless tone, the shadow of another sibling barely present, and only as a warning.

    The second, a stranger, jumped through a port and out of the strange brightness of the cityside, joking with his brothers and sisters, nothing in his heart resolved.

    Tags: @cookiecutterwrites @homesteadchronicles

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  • The sun burned out.

    Against all predictions from scientists that this wouldn’t happen for another couple thousand years.

    One day, it just never came back up.

    During summer, it’s normal for it to appear rather early.

    6am. No sunlight.

    8am. No sunlight.

    11am. No sunlight.

    Of course, chaos broke out.

    Robbery took over the peaceful town I live in.

    The few good shops in the downtown area didn’t stand a chance against the thieves coated by the darkness.

    The worst part is we didn’t know how the rest of the world was reacting to this.

    Without the sun, most communications disappeared as well.

    The only TV stations we got were local ones.

    The only people we could call through phones were the people who also were in the affected area.

    Some brave souls ventured into the highways to travel by car to the next town over, see what they could find out.

    We never heard from them again.

    4pm. Darkness still.

    My father and I stood our ground at home. Boarded the doors, pushed furniture to cover the windows to protect ourselves from suffering the same fate as the stores.

    Screams erupted from the streets. Crashing cars. Broken windows.

    Half the electricity wasn’t enough to keep the citizens calm and composed.

    Uncertainty and insanity quickly became correlative.

    After a few hours, hearing news of a town meetup in the main plaza, we came out of hiding.

    It wasn’t long into the meeting before a familiar car sped its way to where the townspeople were.

    Out came one of the men who had dared to escape the town into the road to find help.

    His skin was charcoal. His screams of pain, deafening.

    Smoke and the scent of burnt flesh made us all step away as he cried for help, not bearing to watch.

    Then he dropped to the grown, motionless.

    That’s when I realized.

    What if the lack of sun was a good thing for us?

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  • The Inheritance Ch 2

    Ajalise couldn’t believe they had the diamond. But she understood where the old heads were coming from, and hoped it would deter William from Ahm Shere, too. The desert blurred around her as her mind wandered off into hundreds of different scenarios. If she gave William this relic of the ancient world and storied piece of his family’s history, she knew it would most likely just encourage him to keep going. She hoped he was more like the stories of his great grandmother’s brother than the legendary woman who started this whole thing. But she knew better.

    Then she slammed on her brakes. From the direction of Hamunaptra rose a great wall of sand and dust. A low, rocky mound in the distance would be her refuge, if she could get to it in time. Racing towards the coming sand across the desert floor, she drifted her car to a near crash against the side of the rocks. This didn’t sound like the usual sandstorm. It was far too quiet until the deep rumbling came from the dust, like the final groans of a dying man. She kept her head down – not wanting to see if anything was being carried by the winds. Once the light returned in her car, her vision went black.

    The image of a great canyon appeared before her. Towering sheer cliffs of limestone, almost Dover white in spots, cut by a river of crystal blue water below. She was flying through the canyon until it suddenly came to an end, the waters of the river making itself known as the source of life for the lush green of the jungle surrounding it. But there was no other life there. Only the trees, the bushes, the plants, and the water. The pyramid in the center with the diamond at its peak reflecting the light. The ground shook and slowly, the lush world of green and water and stone was pulled into the earth. Then she saw it. Trees, all the plants, and fertile earth, sucked into to the temple and down a pit, trees compressed around the pyramid as it was brought into the bowels of the earth. Silent and whole.

    Ajalise came to, slowly releasing her grip on the steering wheel, stretching her tense arms and hands. The storm was gone. Even her car was clear of sand and dust which should have surely covered it. But what was worse, she could still see the trickle of that river, slowed by the intensity of the desert climate, seeping through the layers of compressed organic matter acting as packing material around the pyramid. The screams of the undead muffled by layers of earth and rubble.

    She sped off towards Hamunaptra.

    Ajalise picked up her phone. There were no new missed messages and for once William wasn’t answering.

    When she arrived, the camp site was all but completely swept away. The remaining cars were nearly buried by sand. The tents were scattered and flattened by sand. She got out of the car and ran towards the opening of the tunnel. The wind was still blowing hard enough to keep up wispy plumes of sand. She shielded her eyes as she ran towards the tunnel entrance.

    “William,” she screamed. Nothing. “Nasir!” Still nothing.

    Ajalise headed inside, trying to walk through the mounds of soft sand deposited at the entrance. Half way in, she noticed how strange everything looked. Clean. Dusted off almost to a shine, like the sand was sucked out of the tunnels.

    “William!, “she screamed.

    “We’re here! Everyone is alright!,” he shouted back.

    She followed the wires that led to the treasury and stopped at the entrance of the chamber. The gold remaining seemed to increase and was definitely shining brighter, as though newly minted.

    “What the hell happened here?,” she said.

    “We just added another day to our excavation,” William said with a gleeful smile. “Is everything we took topside is gone?”

    “No, the cars are still there,” Ajalise replied.

    “Then we are saved, my dear, Lissi. We will all be rich once we leave here.”

    “And then?”

    “After the bank, Ahm Shere.”

    “You can’t just deposit 3000-year-old gold into your account, you know,” she said in a faraway voice as she marveled over the mounds of gold and golden statues scattered around the black stone room. Even new engravings revealed themselves on the walls after the storm.

    “That I do. Don’t worry. The Egyptian people will get plenty to brag about,” he said. Ajalise leaned against the wall in relief. “I thought you were gone,” William said as he moved to stand next to her.

    “I uh, saw the storm in the distance. Got a little worried. Where’s Nasir?,” she asked.

    “He left after you did. But the storm…It was magical, Lissi. Like the gods blessed us with their gifts.”

    “Or like whatever is still lurking here wants to you to take this and be gone.”

    “Lissi—”

    Ajalise sighed, “Follow me outside,” she said. “The Medjai gave me a message for you.”

    William followed her out to the car she took and waited as she took a bag out of the trunk. She opened it and lifted the diamond.

    “This is all that remains of that story.”

    “How did—you? They—”

    “Doesn’t matter. Take this and go, William. Please.”

    He took the artifact, set it on the roof of the car with a sigh and took Ajalise’s hands.

    “I already found it, Lissi. Nasir is there right now.”

    “Of course, he is. How did you find a way in?”

    “Technology! Satellites or echo location or another, you’d have to ask Nasir, it was his idea. And you were right. There is definitely some strange activity underground.”

    “Egyptian hell portal. Jesus, William, really?,” she said as she snatched her hands away from his.

    “C’mon. Those are just stories to make an archaeologist’s life sound more interesting.”

    “Are you insane? We–,” she cut herself off with a deep breath. “The hell makes you think the hell part is fake? After everything we’ve seen!”

    “Lissi, hear me out.”

    “How long have you known?”

    “Lissi—”

    “How long, William?”

    “We searched for both sites simultaneously, but we found Ahm Shere first. I contacted you because Hamunaptra was more important to be me.”

    “Because of the big ass room filled with gold?”

    When he looked down, that told her everything she needed. Ajalise pushed passed him hard and walked to the car, pushed the diamond onto the ground, got in, and this time she would not stop for anyone.

    #originalbydondria #ecosystem of creatives #creative writing #black women writers #african american writers #black creatives#blackgirlmagic#the mummy#90s movies#fan fiction
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  • I write shit when I’m alone and sad to pass the time 😂

    I had dreams. Aspiration of a vast calamity in my wake that all excitement would burst at the seems.

    Green grass, blue skies as far as the eye could see. I stand in a mirror of blue produced by the soul of inexplicable grief.

    Nerves and bonds that root deep into the earth, I am petrified of the happenings which I have wrought yet all is my doing with no regret.

    Who would have thought that freedom and vulnerability would come with a cost of isolation and solidarity all in one ounce of discomfort.

    I sit in my bastille like a castle over a land of fermented joy and smile with content.

    Extend the gauntlet and let it fall like a drop of rain. To allow the seeds to find their way and live again.

    The tree will grow, tall and strong, to release the fears and replace all that is missing.

    Only then will the lock stir in the mist to find the key and open the prison.

    #poem#poetry#creative writing #she's being dramatic #feedback is appreciated #i need a hobby #that's the tea
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  • WIP Re-Intro: 

    image

    WIP Status: First Draft incomplete

    Genre: High Fantasy

    Rating: YA/Adult Fiction

    Synopsis: For the last five thousand years, the Order of the Four Winds has kept watch over the Southern Kingdoms after they defeated the god of chaos. More myth than fact to the rest of the world, the stormcallers of the Order wait patiently in their isolated homeland, awaiting a time when their patroness, the goddess of Fate, Kirada, calls them to action. 

    Seida Mauvir, a fairy agent for the Order, has served faithfully for the last two hundred years, tracking down young stormcallers born outside of Ist’Heom to recruit and train them on how to control their abilities. Despite her loyalty, her confidence in the Order has waned over the last fifty years. Tensions are running high in the Southern Kingdoms again, and dark whispers spread rumors of demons and horrors stalking the land. And yet, the Order stands by and watches passively unless instructed otherwise. 

    When the dragon, Mons, begins to attack the kingdoms while the Order waits helplessly for instructions from Kirada, Seida gathers up her two apprentices and her sister and abandons the Order to stop the dragon herself. What she comes to find out is far more troubling than she ever could have imagined. Unless she can unite the kingdoms to fight the dragons together, there will be more to fear than just dragon fire.

    Character Intros:

    • Seida
    • Sadra
    • Gregorim
    • Tauren
    • Kaelom
    • Maegwyn
    • Eleora
    • Ra’Shin
    • Queen Rivaile
    • Lord Silrend Bastien
    • Professor Laureinus
    • King Harroch
    • Mons
    • Haafindr

    Major Locations:

    • Ist’Heom
    • Elthora
    • Tigran
    • The Drakonian Isles
    • Sericuze
    • The Southern Wastes

    Major Deities:

    • The Great Spirit
    • Solund
    • Lunasta
    • The All-Mother
    • Cernun
    • Kirada
    • Nirceine
    • Varaelia
    • Sylus
    • Phobos
    • Naowin
    • Kelmar

    Tag: #The Dragon War

    Tag List: (ask to be added or removed!) @idriltelcontar@cookiecutterwrites@starrywritingg​ 

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  • I crave to live in a world where love is raw and natural. A world not yet defined by the unrealistic expectations chained to us like barbed wire, that chokes and cuts, restricting us from the vines and buds we could grow to be. A world where we fall in love with each other’s hearts, their minds, the liquid gemstones that flows through their veins, whatever colour it may be. Where we sneak out after dark to blush under moonshine and grasp hands, maybe brush our lips against their cheek and spend the next painstakingly long day re-remembering it, the warmth and comfort like freshly basked rolls produced from the oven. Where imminent texting is not imaginable and words are flooded onto paper under velvet skies, each thought stroked into the fibres ready to be absorbed by the other’s star-caught eyes which they read over and over until it is etched into their brain like a tattoo. I want to be loved for my uniqueness, what I can bring to the mountains and rivers and forests. My kindness or passions or natural quirks which someone holds so close to their chest, instead of passing likes and comments on photos I took whilst criticising my each and every feature. I want to live in a world built on this passionate need for honeyed love. I want to feel true love. 

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  • Alexos: Why did the chicken cross the road?

    Rivrin: Why?

    Alexos: to get to the idiot’s house.

    Alexos: Knock knock

    Rivrin: Who’s there?

    Alexos: The chicken.

    Rivrin:

    Alexos:

    Rivrin: I won’t stab you on one condition

    Alexos: What?

    Rivrin: go tell that joke to the Scholarch.

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  • Hi there!

    I’m new to the community, and I’ve been looking around different blogs. I’ve seen a lot of blogs dedicated mostly to advice and cheering on for writers, but not so many who post stories of their own. 

    If you’re a short-stories writer (would love to read longer, but for now I’ll keep it to short stories), reblog this or send me a DM for me to check out your stories!

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  • pixie dust
    litter this here carpeted floor
    and the incense is now just a
    distant lingering memory
    floating full of
    sandalwood peaches
    above the furniture
    above me
    so small in this chair
    and feeling a touch insignificant

    who took my brain out
    and refilled that cranium with
    electric shock therapy blues
    and a never ending drum roll
    …a beat I cannot dance to…

    I am a surfing pilgrim
    on a sabbatical
    away from the likes of
    women and bill collectors

    I sip like a real professional java drinker
    and although the coffee is
    really making it for me
    I desire a champagne jolt
    to make the photography on my walls
    strip nude for me tonight

    the Pixies
    end their bossanova
    leaving me palms up
    with a rosary chomping
    around in my little scrubby chest

    I am left feeling
    like an amazing
    ‘Oh My Golly’
    throughout my body

    spinal shivers
    and acid shocks
    as my toes become a lovely shade of blue
    from singing too many
    heartbreak songs

    so I light a Sonoma
    so I remove my dance shoes
    so I snatch my keys from the table

    and I hightail it to the liquor place
    for a bottle of
    $7.99 champagne
    because a celebration cannot truly start
    until you pop that cork
    and drink until
    you have a broken face
    from smiling so much

    and all will be good
    ….
    I’m counting on that

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  • I’m a paradox. I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad. I’m lazy, yet I’m ambitious. I don’t like myself, but somehow I also love who I am. I say I don’t care, but I really do. I crave attention, but reject it when it comes my way. I’m a conflicted contradiction. If I can’t figure myself out, there’s no way anyone else can.

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  • Lagi ka nalang bang walang gagawin para sakin?

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  • jan.24.2020.

    Blindly optimistic running the gun

    setting off fireworks in your eyes

    & lungs a jet-lagged illusion


    “it’s going to be okay” the world wants

    peace in the needle & your brain

    immobile, waiting for the next move —


    “The flight was long.” Windows cut-outs

    of the heavens & frost;

    imagine the temperature grab

    as we descend from a sky untouched

    by our hands. I want to rake my palm


    through the clouds, fall asleep. “What is

    that sound” rocking back & forth

    behind my skull? The lullaby of crisis —

    the crooning of frenzy, cooked up

    by politicos & science — swarms.


    Brings the ocean into my head,

    the vapor of our splice of heaven

    to rest in damp, mute dark.


    I step onto the platform, the chorus heightens — shrill as a westerner

    telling me I should have seen the warnings — as she readies the vein,


    slips new memory into my blood.

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  • YA/time-travel/Sci-fi

    The prequel of this is a comedy, I can’t not write comedy however since I’m new to working on this story I don’t know if they’ll be enough ‘jokes’ to label it comedy. 

    Prequel fully formed and not needed for you eyes… but will escape eventually. Showing you this because I want it in the world, for you to read. 

    Features you may enjoy: LGBTQA characters (main characters are Pan and ace), 1 straight character,  Cat people, lizard people, gods, superpowers, Swearwords. 

    ——————————————————————-

    Wet dew filled grass soaked her back and up her scratched legs, the black and white striped cotton jumper stained with blood was hard, and crunchy against her skin. Yet with the night birds, and spooky hooting owls she could not bare to sit up, to stand or even turn her head to see her surroundings. Her wounds were no longer serious having healed from that point almost the second she returned from death but still her heart ached like a heavy ball had been placed on her chest, and it was slowly getting heavier. Oh who in adventure and who dreaming for an apocalyptic scenario ever asked for this?

    She sleeps, or her eyes close for what seems like a second and the dark sparkling night sky changes, bright yellow begins to blur out the stars, and her eyes drift close until the heat of the sun begins to warm her. When sleep refuses to gift her the absence she desires she takes to watching a single cloud with the blue as it crosses her vision. Something prods her in the side, just below her ribs, small sharpish. A boys face appears above her own. Nine or ten, mud splattered up his face and clothes.

    Keep reading

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  • (a vaguely passive-aggressive rant on love)

    I’ve always thought of my life as a toolbox for what’s to come later. That strewn about inside the debris of failure, tucked inside the palms of new friends, and lying inside the abyss of self-discovery are little pieces of myself. I’ve spent years harvesting and gathering these fragments, a collection of arbitrary facts and lessons and encounters. With every acquisition, my writing covers a bigger portion of the world.

    Love. Amour. It’s dazzled thousands of yearning pairs of eyes with its splendor, with the careful words that tiptoe gingerly across the page into poems just to do it justice. The general consensus seems to be that it can’t be pinpointed, but that it’s etched into our hearts and courses through our veins and paints itself behind our eyes. La Vie En Rose.

    And because love is so complicated, it has whole industries throwing themselves at its feet. Because love is so pure that it can’t feel manufactured. We’ve pinned our awe on love’s ambiguity, and making the ambiguous unambiguous is woven into our nature perhaps as tightly as love itself. We’ll keep gnawing on it, like a dog onto its bone, long after the substance has been stripped away. Because love, from a non-nihilistic standpoint, is why we’re alive. And we’ll keep digesting and digesting until we’re incapable of it.

    In that sense, one could deduce that love is primal, a primitive response to a stimulus that piques our biological interest. But love is not lust, the poets and philosophes of the human race have scribbled tirelessly behind our eyes for centuries. How could I understand it’s all-encompassing fragility? I’ve never been in love. And I will have never lived until I have been.

    Perhaps my plight is the stream of unwritten words that tell me I’ve never truly found it. That I’ll know it when I do. That it doesn’t have a definition, that it’s fleeting and more than just something you feel. That it can’t be seen, but that I’ll see it in their eyes. That it can’t be had, but that I’ll know when I have it.

    But my repertoire is not whole, and perhaps it never will be. It’s devoid of the one secret ingredient, the special sauce that makes the industry of words foam at the mouth. For I have never been in love in the way that the artists of my time have been. And by default, my words will never be on par with all the heartfelt ballads and earnest poems. I can festoon strings of elegant clauses and bewitching adjectives across the page, I can make them hold hands and dance, but they will never be authentic. I can plait the fibers of existence into wondrous tales, but they will be nothing more than frivolity.

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  • Don’t listen to fire

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    Prompt by @flashfictionfridayofficial

    My magic wasn’t elemental yet it’s the best I can think of to describe it.

    At the beginning it felt like water. A small but steady stream that got wider and quicker the more I listened, the more I tapped and tried it out. The barriers were flooded, the waves so upbeat, the world was a playful place.

    At 14, when I was taken by the military, water started to taste sour, mudded with my anger. Too slippery to be a weapon they wanted to mold me to.

    That’s when I heard the whisper of fire for the first time. I could feel the sparks under my skin. But fire felt too powerful, too uncontrollable.

    I wasn’t going to let it burn me from the inside.

    So I turned to earth. Learned to pull the strenght from it like a tree, learned to spread my roots, to hold my ground. Steady and steely was my answer, my strenght, my form. They couldn’t break me.

    After getting to the front lines and facing true elements, my magic started to feel like air.

    There were so many currents inside it, spiralling around my enemies, the other mages. Just like the streams, but they were everywhere, leading me, singing to me.

    If I wanted, I could follow their core, I could channel the storms to my bidding. If I wanted I could have ignited the sky with fire and air. The sparks flew up in jittering excitedly from the agressivity, the violence. The power scared me.

    I would not allow it to blaze.

    I found another kind of bond when I left the army. Whatever it was, it was everywhere, in the forest, the sun, the clouds, the drops, the flower petals. In mages and non-mages. Connecting the whole world. My fire was quelled.

    Then more people joined. More children came. Magics started to mix and the energies grew uneasy.

    I could hear the sparks whispering to me again.

    I was to be a leader, an inspiration, an ideal. They wanted to follow me to fight for what was theirs. They needed me, their thorny flower, to flare.

    Only this one time. Only for them.

    I would listen to the whispering fire.

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  • Hi! I’m Cozy! Thanks for coming to my blog! I’ve loved to write for a really long time, so I finally grew a pair and decided to make one. Most of my stuff is realistic-ish, based on songs I’ve heard (mostly Taylor Swift songs) or paintings/photos I’ve seen, but I do like to play around with fantasy too. I’m also extremely obsessed with Star Wars and Marvel, so fan-fiction is a definite possibility as well. I’m really excited about finding and following other writers here and listening to lots of new perspectives.

    This is really my first exposure to social media, so if it looks like I have no clue what I’m doing, it’s because I have no clue what I’m doing ;) Constructive criticism is welcomed! 

    – Cozy :)

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