Creative Corner

I reuse this thread for random worldbuilding and storytelling, and I am forever jumping between concepts. Should anything ever catch your eye, please say so! I don't tend to stick with stuff long unless someone wants to see more of it. If you want to know what happens next, just ask! :)

Status: Writing poems, so many poems! It's been awhile, but things have been a li'l rough recently. They're not as good for worldbuilding, but very enjoyable (like fast-food literature?). Kind of weird putting these out there, but eh, it's a pet site--not exactly full of my coworkers.



Prompt I run: Emotive Scenery

(reserved for when I do art)

My shoes had nearly melted to the tarmac by the time the catchers got there, breathing hard and ten minutes late. The runes still glowed under the hot sun and cicada-song. I'd kept my ear to the ground (metaphorically, I wasn't looking for new burns) and my eyes on my Patented Little Man's Sense-O-Matic, and still I couldn't be quite sure where it'd gotten to. A sudden plume of smoke by the old Nealy place gave us our hint.

The catchers were off, then, at the pace of public servants paid by the hour. We kids rushed past them, forcing them to follow in fear of a tongue-lashing from our mothers. They were Patrick and Beatrice and Lamarr, and I knew them from the socials in the church-lot. Patrick was the loud one, theatrical when it came to the chants, and Lamarr made the best brownies in town. Beatrice was a newcomer, though--only been here a year or two, which was new enough by our standards.

By the time we got there, the glass of the farmhouse was nearly cooled. There was the fact that it hadn't been glass before, of course, and so its cooling was still of some sort of interest. But that's besides the point, since by then we well knew what we were dealing with. Patrick peered into the bubbles in the cured glass and declared that there was something looking back. I peered in myself, and got a little glimpse of the thing curling itself through the cracks.

"Yup," I chirped, "you got here in time!"

Patrick just grunted and motioned for Beatrice to grab the clackers. They paced wide circles around it, calling to all the usual customers. The got all the way down to the Q's before someone took responsibility, and sucked the wicked little thing back down with a shwww-oopop. We waved away the sickly-sweet smoke and tried to see whatever it was that had claimed it, but the brightness of it (like staring at a magenta sun) just made us rub our eyes and curse.

It was Beatrice who shooed us off, and we trotted back down the balding, baking grass in low spirits. We kicked cans down the hill (CONSUME laser-etched in unadorned tin, glyph depicting cubed meats on the reverse) and complained about governmental meddling in a kid's right to an interesting Thursday night. The stars would be coming out soon (would be, if Shan hadn't put them out with a bad cast), and that meant curfew. We punched each other farewell and goodnight.

Hmmm...I think I need more practice before I can competently worldbuild with poems. I think I'll take a page from some stuff I've seen and try POVing as a character from a given world. For now though, here's some recents:



The mossy veil of earth’s first breath
lay heavy on the wilderness,
where swelled the buds outside of time,
where kind rains fell, and on the vine
waxed full the fruits of innocence.

There trod the Golem, nameless she,
pushed along by loving God,
who slept in bowers and plowed the heath,
who warmed the goslings with her breath,
who raised the rose and goldenrod.

She slept ’til goslings aged and died,
’til fruits all rotted on the vine,
and Mother She, the Holy One,
seemed distant—though not truly gone,
and dragons begged the Great Divine.

Awoken by an errant curse,
she follows, though her tongue is gone,
and muted is the swelling song
that pulled reluctant Spring along.
She, blossom waiting for the dawn.






There’s the old sewer outlet,
just like I said.
Its concrete-claw
Rust-jaw
Burning, blinding, stench-belching,
Growling, sharp-edged grin stretching,
Evil, evil eyes, dripping, grasping in the night.
(Can we go home, sis? The dark feels wrong here.)

Been awhile. Worldbuilding with poems! Fleshing out a character elsewhere, but it's a poem so it ends up here.

There's no one here to save you
(says the man in black and gold)
and of the options I've presented
that's the kindest, truth be told,
for the sort compelled to save folks
aren't compelled to save them whole,
and imperfect as we are, it's best
to spare our spoilt souls.

"Salvaging from darkness"
is a process done in parts.
Reassembling from salvage is
a Necromancer's art.
So believe me when I say, my dear,
some only take the heart
(or brain or lungs, beliefs or songs,
or lips). They'll leave the flaws and wrongs
aside the pit they pulled you from
and choose what they'd impart.


I can't imagine this guy being all that comfortable giving a pep talk. Getting sort of awkward and maybe a bit preachy about it, being cynical, dancing around the embarrassment of offering assistance, but ultimately both offering it and trying to inspire action. It's a workhorse poem, but I think that's how I want the character working, so I'll take it.

The biggest problem is that I can't imagine his apprentice ever needing this sort of advice. A more honest exchange could be titled "Oh God Where'd You Find That" or "I Appreciate the Thought, But I Don't Need a Wingwoman, and You're Scaring the Men Away"