Hey, so I made a blog so me and my family could post our poetry, short stories, and art!
I’m kinda proud of my cheesy little poems tbh
We’re only just getting started on the site so there’s not much uploaded yet, but me and both my sister’s have each put something up!
Will reblog with the link!
Joshua had been to that lake before, before all the cameras and the directors telling him how to act, and before the people had to be kept away from him like they were rabid dogs ready for the attack. Joshua had squinted in the sun while the film crew ran around him—courtiers for their king—and he was armoured, too. It was a period flick, and it won’t exist without him.
The director’s assistant ran up to him with her notepad. “Just a couple more minutes. We had trouble with one of the costumes for the extras.”
Joshua nodded, but he was looking at the sand and stones, not the woman in the peppermint shirt. When he did glance at her, he caught her in a moment of uncertainty. She was waiting for a response of some sort, for the king to assure her that she would not be beheaded. So he nodded at her, and she darted away.
There wasn’t much of a crowd that day. The scene was in the morning. There were going to be two more scenes in the afternoon, and the latter one was probably going to take a lot of takes, because it had a lot of fighting. Joshua did his own stunts, and he did his best to let everyone know that, without looking like he was bragging.
The water bore a fractured sun, Joshua noticed, like it did when he was nine. The horse and its handler were waiting on the stony beach. At the director’s mark, Joshua climbed up on the horse (with some assistance), and immediately did his best to look composed and assured. He was born in a horse, he told himself. He was going to conquer a kingdom that day.
A kingdom of cotton candy. A kingdom where running ahead of your parents seemed like a freedom. The guns at the shooting game booth were too heavy, and the bows were too primitive. The sausage roll stalls were appealing, but not as much as the boats that went out to the lake. You could pretend to be a pirate anywhere, but balancing yourself on a rocking boat and looking out into the horizon—all you needed was an eyepatch.
“Cut!” the director announced. The film crew, which was frozen in place a moment ago, came alive at once. Joshua broke out from his reverie and squinted at the approaching director’s assistant.
“Helen says you did a great job, you looked super pensive and emotional, just how she wanted it. Let’s try this a couple more times, and we should have enough.”
Joshua looked above her, at the director herself, striding forth towards him. If he was king, what did it make her?
“Joshua, you killed it in that scene. Whatever you’re doing is working, just do that again.”
She then looked at her assistant, and they discussed technical specifics.
“I’ve been here before,” Joshua said abruptly. “When I was a kid.”
Helen and her assistant looked at him puzzled.
“That’s great,” Helen smiled, and resumed her conversation.
Joshua watched the lake, where a pirate had once sailed, where it had been a lot more real than it ever was on a set.
“I just want a second chance, Niki. I know I left and I know I messed up but I’m here now. I’m sorry for leaving.”
What a picture perfect scene. It’s raining and I’m walking away from him but he’ll grab my wrist and declare his love for me. He’ll say words women only wish to hear and the audience will swoon, forgiving everything he’s done up until this point. I’ll start crying but then he’ll wipe away my tears and kiss me in the rain.
He’s held me back and any moment now the camera will pan to my face. But I won’t cry, he won’t kiss me, I won’t forgive as easily because I love him.
“You always reminded me of lemons.” I say and squints at me through the rain. “You were always so bright and warm but when you left I all I tasted was bitterness. I’ve never been as hurt as I am right now.”
“Niki, I’m sorry but-”
“Do remember that night? The one where we snuck out to go driving outside of the city? You told me that some things you can’t get back. I can’t get back my love for you. As much as I want to run into your arms right now, as much as I want to feel you again, I know I can’t love you as much as I did back then.” I look straight in his eyes when I say this. I’m so determined I don’t feel the rain. All that exists in this moment is him and I, and the scent of lemons.
“But here’s the thing. I loved you, that much will never change. You made me so happy when I couldn’t even see the light and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. When you left it hurt, it hurt so goddamn much I thought I would die. But in a way I loved that bitterness too because it meant that I really loved you. Leave it at that, Alex. Don’t come back.”
I walk off into the distance now. It’s a plot twist we all knew was coming and in the distance I can hear the director yelling cut. I smell lemons.
“This is such a waste of time. He isn’t gonna come.”
“We said we would wait until midnight for him and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“And if he isn’t here by midnight?”
“We leave without him. I love him, but we can’t afford to be caught here at daybreak.”
Neither of them said anything, but a feeling of understanding and agreement replaced the tense air that had been hovering around them previously. They were deep into the dead-end alley, deep enough that if anyone came down it, they had no way to escape, but also deep enough that the perpetual lights that lit up the streets could not reach them.
It was a quatre of an hour until eleven. An hour and fifteen until they would be on their way without their third companion, but they didn’t know that, so they waited.
Three, or maybe four, alleys over a young man lay with three knife wounds in his abdomen and nothing to stop the bleeding, only his hands to apply pressure with, and the utter conviction that this was going to be how he died. The patrollers who had attacked him had even taken his communications device, so calling his companions was out of the question. Calling out for help was likely to attract some people who would finish the job the patrollers started sooner- in this area of town some of them might be hungry enough they wouldn’t even wait for him to die.
It was a quarte past eleven. Forty-five minutes until they would leave the city without him, forever. A little over an hour before he would take his final breath.
The two of them moved a little closer to the mouth of the alley, hoping that they might be able to see him coming, his bag swinging against his leg and his cocky grin that asked whether they had seriously considered leaving without him. He wasn’t- the street was deserted except for the one patroller who had taken shelter on someone’s doorstep and was reading a book.
“He isn’t going to come.”
“He has to!”
Coughing quietly was hard, and it was even harder when you had a broken rib puncturing your lung, he discovered, wishing that they had at least left him with a weapon that could end his suffering sooner. He needed medical attention an hour ago if he wanted to survive, and now it was just a waiting game for when the darkness would take him.
“Are you alive, mister?” a voice asked quietly from somewhere above him,
“Not for long,” he managed to wheeze out, “stick around and you can have my flesh when I’m gone.”
“Thank you.” It was a small voice, probably a child, “Did the patrollers get you?”
Three, or maybe four, alleys away, his two companions glanced out at the street again- there were still fifteen minutes until midnight and so, pointlessly, they waited.
Based on the prompt in bold by @givethispromptatry
Does anyone know any great short story collections? I really want to read some. Preferably by famous and dead writers, but modern works too. Any recommendations? All responses are very much appreciated :)
The day Alicia’s painting was supposed to be finished, I found her crying uncontrollably in her bed with an empty easel near the window. The curtains billowed and stroked the wood of the easel. The clouds outside peeked in like curious passersby. Alicia saw me and wailed.
“It’s gone, isn’t it?” I asked. “It got raptured.”
“I don’t know!” Alicia screamed back, and her face seemed to glow even redder than it already was.
I stepped towards the easel, ran my fingers along the wood. “It’s been happening a lot lately,” I said. “We’re living in a golden age of art.”
“It could be stolen. I left the window open last night, like a complete imbecile.”
I pressed my lips together. “Who would steal a painting no one knew you were painting? I’m the only one you even told about this. Look, it only makes sense when you consider that you finished it last night. You did, right?”
Alicia nodded and pressed the back of her palm on her eyes. “I told myself the painting is done at midnight. Then I put up everything, and went to sleep. When I woke up, it wasn’t there.”
I sat on the bed and held Alicia’s hand in mine. “And what does that mean? That means you’re in the same class of artists as Dezoule, Williams, Potrevsky, Herschel…”
Alicia looked at the easel miserably. “I don’t think it’s that good. It’s just not. It’s good for me, but it’s not so good that God would rapture it.”
I smiled at her. “That’s not for us to decide, now is it?”
Alicia sat up and hugged me with her dark hair covering half of my face. Her body was warm, and she was shaking. “I just wanted to see it in the morning light, how it was, finished. I don’t even get that.”
I kissed her gently through her hair. “God loved it so much, they raptured it as soon as they laid eyes on it.”
Alicia leaned back and then dropped her head on the pillow, staring up at the peeling plaster of the ceiling. “No one’s going to believe that but you. God doesn’t just rapture art from random artists. They take from writers like Williams, and sculptors like Potrevsky. They reward exceptional talent, not nobodies.”
“Maybe that’s the sign you always wanted,” I said. “A sign that you are an exceptional talent. You always put yourself down, and now your art has been taken by God themself.”
Alicia touched her forehead with the fingers of her right hand, wiping away sweat with her thumb. “Do you think that’s true? That this is the start of an illustrious career?”
“I think there’s every reason to believe that’s true.”
Alicia smiled. “But it still hurts, you know. It’s like having a baby ripped away from you. It hurts.”
I nodded and rubbed her hand. “Do you want to redo it?”
Alicia shook her head immediately. “No. If it pleased God, then what greater reward will that particular painting bring?”
I smiled at her. She looked happy now, and her tears had dried. It was enough. All I had to do next was to sell the painting before she came to my place.
Since she came to Bell Town Rosie has been trying to learn to read a clock, to listen at the aqueduct for the distant chimes of the city (the Proper Bells, citizens’ bells, serving the same function for people who were trusted with a little more beauty and a little more information). But after marking out a novilunium on a page of a seal-marked desk calendar found on the floor of her old home, time still slides off her awareness like water on glass. Where she came from there was no today or yesterday, just on shift on shift off shift on shift, a pattern repeated ad nauseam. When Rugsnatcher came to get her on the day of her decommissioning she told her in so many words that her face looked twelve and her light looked eighty-three–it was how they named her, for her rosy haze of premature age–and she replied that maybe she was both.
There are stories, especially on outrider worlds, of spacefarers taken by black holes and gravitational anomalies into the realm of reflections and echoes–into the trajectories of the dead. There, time passed erratically or not at all, and they returned to families long gone or planets now sparsely inhabited. Roco, who thinks hard about this kind of thing, told her once that the legends were probably accounts of early faster-than-light voyages, before gravity ballasts and temporal compensators, distorted by many repetitions. She wonders if a day can move and morph like a story, being repeated over and over. In any event, she thinks with a smirk, the worker-cloning industry has proven the same true of a person.
This passage is like a bingo card for my writing. Cognitive disability? Check. Working-class alienation? Check. British isles folklore? Check. Space? Check. The evolution of common narratives over the long history of a language? Check
1977 reprint of Shirley Jackson 1949 short story collection, w biography in background
Alright, a couple of questions for everyone:
1. I want to write a collection of side stories to show what was going on with the rest of the party while the others are on the main questline. (For example the craziness that happened to Skuld, Stitch and Kimahri trying to get his sword back, and ended up failing at) would you guys be interested?
2. I also wouldn’t mind doing more stuff involving some of the nobles including larxene and xehanort and the Redcliffe crew. Would you guys be interested in seeing that at all? I also think it would be fun to do more with Biggs and Wedge and their three mischievous cats.
I woke up with a grumbling stomach and a memory of a fading dream. I met you at the corner of the street with some common friends and your siblings and we we walked all the way to the open field stadium where a thousand more people are waiting. A voice of a woman was blaring from the speakers, instructing everyone to fall in line and so we did. When we got to the stadium and all seated, a friend of ours was called in the stage. I screamed, “Go Mira!!!” a little too soon I got everyone’s attention. Oops.
The memory drifted to dinner with some common friends from work. You invited everyone to coffee after except me. Intentionally.
I know it’s only a dream because we don’t have a friend whose name is Mira but strangely, the twinge in my heart for being left out felt very real, like confirming what I already know deep down.
I rarely have dreams that I remember, much less with you in it. Whoever said that people who appear in your dreams mean they missed you is a myth and I debunked it.
My stomach grumbles again. I must have not eaten well in that dinner.
I apologize if this letter comes with graveyard dirt for I am writing this after what has transpired tonight. Though I don’t know if you will respond to me, I thought you would at least enjoy the tales of a foolish man floundering in the mud.
Today was the day in which I decided to prepare my first experiment for which I would need the essential parts. Organs are simple to acquire, you see. Knowing organs are the first to rot within the body I was determined to find the freshest specimens possible. And there are many in need of organs for scientific study. So I visited a doctor in town and asked if he had any supply. Of course I told him I was a medical student and provided him with a card I expertly forged. He suggested I inquire with my university but I explained to him this was for my own research. The man was skeptical at first but with some convincing he directed to the local undertaker. I then struck a deal with him that would allow me to purchase the organs of those to be buried. I was quite elated when the undertaker told me that he would be able to remove said organs without the family of the deceased knowing. I would not want to cause anyone the undue stress of learning that their loved one is missing their intestinal tract. But what cannot be taken without notice is the brain which the undertaker refused to collect for me. It was quite a blow to my work but as this would be my first attempt I supposed that I could substitute with a pig brain as I make adjustments elsewhere. I would also not enjoy having a sentient creature loose in my home who I could not subdue.
The problem with organs settled, I steeled myself to the larger task at hand. Grave robbing. Now as a man determined to resurrect the dead you might assume that I do not respect the dead. But it is the exact opposite. I have an enormous respect for the dead. After the passing of my mother and father, I would be furious with anyone attempting to dig them up and desecrate their grave. But this is a necessary step I must take to bring back the dead. After all, necromancy was banned 250 years ago.
It was well past midnight when I ventured into the graveyard for the first time. All that I had taken with me was my spade and a large bag. I suppose I chose a poor night as it was raining heavier than I had seen all year. But knowing my resolve would fail if I decided to stay in, I told myself the rain would provide ample cover and went out.
The graveyard is as you would expect. It has not been taken care of in many years and weeds run rampant between the graves. Most of the names on the headstones are eroded and any that could be made out are covered with moss. The ground squelched underneath my feet, the marsh more wet with the rain but I pressed on. I had my eye on a grave closer to the entrance but a few yards from my house. That way they would not look to me first if they noticed any tampering with the grave. Also, it is my guess that graves closer to the front would be more new but it would be a fool’s errand to try and read the stones to find out.
Hidden by nearby trees I began. Sticking the spade in the soil I knew immediately what was ahead of me. Gruelling and tedious was the work. Never have I had to labour before and the strain went straight to my arms and back. To bend in such an angle for a long period of time gave me a newfound respect for farmers everywhere. I made a note to myself to tip the farmer in town next time I purchased produce. The wind was whipping through my bones and the rain was beating at my back. It must have taken me mere hours to dig but it felt like years. Every creak from the marsh elicited a jump in me. Crouching into the grave I would try to stay hidden while looking out for anyone. No one could’ve been out tonight but I was frightened of being found. Only when I felt safe would I continue my work. But I would always have an eye pointed at my back.
Eventually I hit wood. Joy and relief filled me and in my triumph I forgot my inhibitions. I let out a cry of joy but swiftly covered my mouth. Removing the excess dirt I lifted the coffin lid. What I saw inside is something I hope never to get accustomed to. A woman’s rotting body lay there. I am glad you weren’t with me, Alice. You would have never forgiven me for the smell. Sulphurous but also like rotting fruit, the sickly sweet scent of death filled my nose and I climbed out of the grave to relieve my stomach of its contents. After minutes of gathering my strength I crawled back in. The woman inside must have died in her forties for her skin wrinkled and not from decomposition. But fortunately her parts were still intact. Bringing them up and out into the world again I shoved her into the duffle bag.
She was lighter than I had expected but the weight of a body is still something to contend with. Dragging her back to my house I immediately stuffed her in the cellar to prevent any further rot. Tomorrow I will perform the rites to preserve this state permanently. But for tonight I will rest.
Darling Alice, I do hope the fumbling of you beloved idiot will encourage you to write back. I miss you. I do not think I will be able to sleep tonight without the comfort of you in my arms but I will try my best. Please do me the honour of responding. I miss your witty humour, wherever it may be directed.
“There is a certain kind of magic that some people have. It’s unconscious and uncontrollable but so, so powerful.”
“What is it?”
She stared at him for long enough that he started to look slightly unnerved.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Joy?” She repeated incredulously in lieu of an answer, and he smiled at that as though he had regained the upper hand in their conversation,
“Yes, it is a magic more powerful than any other.”
She threw up her hands at that, and muttered something he didn’t quite catch about unnecessary journeys and tricky people, he watched her impassively,
“This is not the answer you were expecting.”
“You’re damn right it wasn’t!” She exploded, lunging towards him with the frustration of a caged animal that has now seen the outside world, “I travel all this way, looking for an actual answer, and instead I just get the same hippy bullshit that I could have got from the town freak!”
He continued to watch her impassively, drawing his legs up into a folded position and situating himself more comfortably on the rock. “Would you care to join me for some tea?” He asked, as she didn’t show any signs of ceasing her pacing, “I find it’s quite calming.”
She glared at him, her movements stopping with a suddenness that he could not have predicted, “I don’t have time to be calm!” she snapped, twisting her fingers around each other, “My brother is dying!”
“Yes, I remember you mentioned,”
“And the only thing you can say to help is ‘joy’?”
“Who will determine whether or not your brother lives?” he asked, moving to begin brewing the tea anyway.
“Me! I will!”
“Hmm. Will you? Do you have control over the fates? The elements and the people?”
“The Gods.” Her previously expressive voice had fallen into a monotonous fact.
“We cannot hope to know who they will decide to take, but- we can make their lives better for the time they are with us. What do you want your brother to remember you doing for him in his time of incredible sickness?”
Based on the prompt in bold by @givethispromptatry
The archipelago of Erhen was rocked by scandal when leading businessman Mozer Erheni began his media conference by handing the microphone to a demon. The fearsome, seven-foot-tall demon identified himself as ‘Iko-trell’. He carried himself with uncommon grace, even when cameras turned to show people walking out of the conference.
Iko-trell began the conference with a speech on relations between demons and humans, and how demonic energy has greatly enhanced the quality of life for human beings. “We have a saying,” Iko-trell said. “The more you enjoy in life, the more you suffer when you go under.”
It was supposed to be an applause line, but there was, instead, very confused silence.
Iko-trell was joined by Erheni himself, who even touched the demon (while wearing a protective glove). Without any further words of opening, Erheni, in his truly eccentric style, announced “It’s official. Our hardware runs on demons.”
This got scant applause from the front of the crowd, which seemed to ripple unevenly towards the back.
Erheni and Iko-trell were next accompanied by a refrigerator. The refrigerator had a transparent body, but you couldn’t see inside, because the body was filled with small demons. Gears, levers, ropes, platforms, conveyors, lifts, and they were all manned by demons with horns, tiny little things working tirelessly to keep the fridge running.
“Thanks to our trademark QuietHell technology, the newest refrigerator from Erheni offers an 80 percent reduction in demon screams. You won’t even notice they’re working in there.”
Flashes occupied the stage, and Iko-Trell had to raise his hand to cover his eyes a little. His axe glinted from his back.
“What’s more, we’re extending the QuietHell technology to our line of mobile phones, laptop computers, televisions, media boxes, and other demontronics. Please see our post-conference brochure for details on noise reduction and energy savings.”
This was then followed by an on-stage performance by the Roaring Waters, who played with demontronic guitars. Iko-Trell looked particularly pleased with the finely-tuned screaming of the hell demons in the guitars, guided by the hand of vocalist Nerrel Shikopra.
Towards the end of the concert, Nerrel stepped towards the edge of the stage and smashed his guitar on it. The mic captured his own scream, which sounded affected and fake compared to the torments suffered by the demons in his guitar. This scream of his was quickly overshadowed by the demons that escaped the cracked guitar, tearing off its transparent coating and breaking through.
As the assembled audience fled their seats, Erheni tried to maintain calm. He turned to his business associate Iko-Trell for help, but the demon was clearly distraught by what was going on. He took the axe in his hands.
“We seem to be experiencing a few technical glitches,” Erheni commented on the microphone. By this point, an army of small demons was approaching him, armed with whatever metal and shards they could find.
“But I’m sure that our chief demonic engineer Iko-Trell will get things sorted out soon…” Erheni said, mostly to himself. These are recorded as his last known coherent words.