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For the bio of [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/19047076]one of my dragons[/url] (I have a group of six-year-old ocs that so happen to have FR dragons, and I felt like revisiting some of them, lol.) I know we don't have to include the quote, but I kinda liked the quote, soooo. Might see if I can continue this with another of the ocs, though it'll depend on what the next prompt actually is lol.
[quote][b]"Such a creature does not deserve a crown."[/b]
It's a rumble so low, and so deep, that only Haru hears it, perched atop the Ridgeback's head where she's been trying to put bandaids on cuts and grazes. She reaches down, and she can't have imagined it - because Chiyoko says it again. It goes right through her, and a little smile comes out the other side.
[i]You're slipping, Haru. You both are.[/i]
"What's this?" she asks, tracing claws over Chiyoko's hood, her mask, the slashes in the fabric and the wet bits where the blood soaked through. "You can tell me who the hell it is. Just me. And I'll goddamn deal with it. I won't rest 'til it's all dealt with. 'Til it's all over. Then..."
Then Chiyoko will have a debt, of course. There'll be interest. Bindings. There won't be anything good, she shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be involving Chiyoko. But... [i]well...[/i] she's been hurt. This is all Haru knows, as far as unhurting goes.
"Tell you?"
The Wildclaw closes her eyes, and digs her claws just a little into the hood, so she can feel the damp fabric - the blood, the hurt. Why she's doing this. "Didn't you get it the first time? Whoever did this, I'll get them for ya."
Slowly, slowly, the Ridgeback raises her head to the sky. Off in the distance, a Nocturne drifts, rolling back and forth through the early morning haze, and - he's the one. Haru can feel it, in how Chiyoko's heart picks up, in how she stiffens just to look at him.
She stiffens, too. But only because it sickens her.
"I'll get him. Screw him up good. You'll be so [i]happy.[/i]" You'll be so [i]bound[/i]. But- but happy, too. Only happy, if only she could be.
"No."
The word reverberates all around her, makes the air sing. Mister Orange A-Hole up there totally heard it; it's a tremor like an earthquake. Haru lets herself slide, until she's falling, then sitting in the Ridgeback's cupped talons. "Such a creature does not deserve a crown," Chiyoko repeats, holding Haru to her chest, until their hearts seem to sync. "Such a creature..."
"Doesn't deserve a crown, got it!" Haru snaps, wiggling about. "So, I'll beat him up! That's my job description!"
"No. He does not deserve that, either." Chiyoko laughs, for the first time in forever, and Haru goes so still, in case that'll make it last a little longer. "As surely as the moon rises, he will lose that sunlit crown, all by himself, and live with only himself. It is the way of things... Haven't you ever forgiven anyone?"
The Nocturne dips a wing and circles, forever in and out of reach. How can she forgive? Hell, how can [i]she?[/i] It's not Haru who's bleeding.
"I can't," Haru whispers, and Chiyoko holds her closer still. "You're hurt."
"You can learn." Words so tired, from a dragon so tattered and bloody. A worthless platitude. And yet, something skips inside Haru. "I wonder if you will?"
[/quote]
Edit: Forgot to say, comments are fine and I like them. ;P
For the bio of one of my dragons (I have a group of six-year-old ocs that so happen to have FR dragons, and I felt like revisiting some of them, lol.) I know we don't have to include the quote, but I kinda liked the quote, soooo. Might see if I can continue this with another of the ocs, though it'll depend on what the next prompt actually is lol.
Edit: Forgot to say, comments are fine and I like them. ;P
Quote:
"Such a creature does not deserve a crown."
It's a rumble so low, and so deep, that only Haru hears it, perched atop the Ridgeback's head where she's been trying to put bandaids on cuts and grazes. She reaches down, and she can't have imagined it - because Chiyoko says it again. It goes right through her, and a little smile comes out the other side.
You're slipping, Haru. You both are.
"What's this?" she asks, tracing claws over Chiyoko's hood, her mask, the slashes in the fabric and the wet bits where the blood soaked through. "You can tell me who the hell it is. Just me. And I'll goddamn deal with it. I won't rest 'til it's all dealt with. 'Til it's all over. Then..."
Then Chiyoko will have a debt, of course. There'll be interest. Bindings. There won't be anything good, she shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be involving Chiyoko. But... well... she's been hurt. This is all Haru knows, as far as unhurting goes.
"Tell you?"
The Wildclaw closes her eyes, and digs her claws just a little into the hood, so she can feel the damp fabric - the blood, the hurt. Why she's doing this. "Didn't you get it the first time? Whoever did this, I'll get them for ya."
Slowly, slowly, the Ridgeback raises her head to the sky. Off in the distance, a Nocturne drifts, rolling back and forth through the early morning haze, and - he's the one. Haru can feel it, in how Chiyoko's heart picks up, in how she stiffens just to look at him.
She stiffens, too. But only because it sickens her.
"I'll get him. Screw him up good. You'll be so happy." You'll be so bound. But- but happy, too. Only happy, if only she could be.
"No."
The word reverberates all around her, makes the air sing. Mister Orange A-Hole up there totally heard it; it's a tremor like an earthquake. Haru lets herself slide, until she's falling, then sitting in the Ridgeback's cupped talons. "Such a creature does not deserve a crown," Chiyoko repeats, holding Haru to her chest, until their hearts seem to sync. "Such a creature..."
"Doesn't deserve a crown, got it!" Haru snaps, wiggling about. "So, I'll beat him up! That's my job description!"
"No. He does not deserve that, either." Chiyoko laughs, for the first time in forever, and Haru goes so still, in case that'll make it last a little longer. "As surely as the moon rises, he will lose that sunlit crown, all by himself, and live with only himself. It is the way of things... Haven't you ever forgiven anyone?"
The Nocturne dips a wing and circles, forever in and out of reach. How can she forgive? Hell, how can she? It's not Haru who's bleeding.
"I can't," Haru whispers, and Chiyoko holds her closer still. "You're hurt."
"You can learn." Words so tired, from a dragon so tattered and bloody. A worthless platitude. And yet, something skips inside Haru. "I wonder if you will?"
It's a rumble so low, and so deep, that only Haru hears it, perched atop the Ridgeback's head where she's been trying to put bandaids on cuts and grazes. She reaches down, and she can't have imagined it - because Chiyoko says it again. It goes right through her, and a little smile comes out the other side.
You're slipping, Haru. You both are.
"What's this?" she asks, tracing claws over Chiyoko's hood, her mask, the slashes in the fabric and the wet bits where the blood soaked through. "You can tell me who the hell it is. Just me. And I'll goddamn deal with it. I won't rest 'til it's all dealt with. 'Til it's all over. Then..."
Then Chiyoko will have a debt, of course. There'll be interest. Bindings. There won't be anything good, she shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be involving Chiyoko. But... well... she's been hurt. This is all Haru knows, as far as unhurting goes.
"Tell you?"
The Wildclaw closes her eyes, and digs her claws just a little into the hood, so she can feel the damp fabric - the blood, the hurt. Why she's doing this. "Didn't you get it the first time? Whoever did this, I'll get them for ya."
Slowly, slowly, the Ridgeback raises her head to the sky. Off in the distance, a Nocturne drifts, rolling back and forth through the early morning haze, and - he's the one. Haru can feel it, in how Chiyoko's heart picks up, in how she stiffens just to look at him.
She stiffens, too. But only because it sickens her.
"I'll get him. Screw him up good. You'll be so happy." You'll be so bound. But- but happy, too. Only happy, if only she could be.
"No."
The word reverberates all around her, makes the air sing. Mister Orange A-Hole up there totally heard it; it's a tremor like an earthquake. Haru lets herself slide, until she's falling, then sitting in the Ridgeback's cupped talons. "Such a creature does not deserve a crown," Chiyoko repeats, holding Haru to her chest, until their hearts seem to sync. "Such a creature..."
"Doesn't deserve a crown, got it!" Haru snaps, wiggling about. "So, I'll beat him up! That's my job description!"
"No. He does not deserve that, either." Chiyoko laughs, for the first time in forever, and Haru goes so still, in case that'll make it last a little longer. "As surely as the moon rises, he will lose that sunlit crown, all by himself, and live with only himself. It is the way of things... Haven't you ever forgiven anyone?"
The Nocturne dips a wing and circles, forever in and out of reach. How can she forgive? Hell, how can she? It's not Haru who's bleeding.
"I can't," Haru whispers, and Chiyoko holds her closer still. "You're hurt."
"You can learn." Words so tired, from a dragon so tattered and bloody. A worthless platitude. And yet, something skips inside Haru. "I wonder if you will?"
Edit: Forgot to say, comments are fine and I like them. ;P
The first nine words are from King of Scars by Leigh Bardugo, and ironically the prompt kind of fits the going ons of the book? It did kind of make it a challenge separating what I know happens in the book with what I wanted to write about. lol
BUT. I really liked writing this!! It was fun being creepy, and I could almost picture the scenes as if they were paintings. Maybe I should learn how to draw. xD
Prompt: “Such a creature does not deserve a crown.”
Challenge: First nine words from the nearest book, first nine words of the story.
Word Count: 925
Dima heard the barn doors slam before anyone else, and it only added to the tight coil of anxiety deep in his gut. He glanced at his brother, but Aleksandr had not stirred from where he had fallen asleep by the fire.
Masha spoke up from the table, not looking up from her stitching. “Go close the barn doors, Dima.” Her order was accented by the fire popping loudly from across the room, and Aleksandr snorting once in his sleep. There was no disagreeing with Masha, and so Dima went.
It was habit to leave the front door open at night, the faint light casting a long shadow into the darkness, but with the frost having crept in, Dima let it fall shut behind him—the light falling with it. Instantly the night became colder and crueler.
Forcing his legs into motion, Dima began the slow walk through the knee-high snow. His boots protected him from most of the cold powder, and the thick knit of his trousers did the rest. It was a relief to have already been wearing many layers, when shrugging on his winter coat with them was enough to keep out the cold bite.
Halfway across the yard, he heard the barn door slam once more. The wind tugged at his hair simultaneously, and Dima froze for a moment to squeeze himself tight and wait for the wind to die down. The gusts threaded their clammy fingers into the hidden seams of his jacket, dragging nails down his goose-flecked skin. And from the wind, it was like a voice whispered.
Dima froze anew, but for an entirely different reason. Slowly, almost too terrified to properly look, he dragged his gaze up.
Nothing was there.
Twisting where he stood, Dima peered around in the dark, but with a moonless sky above and the stars hidden by clouds, the yard was too pitch dark to see much of anything. The thick trees looked like tall figures crowding around. The hedge was something hunched and prowling. The fence was a slender thing, crawling its way towards him. Dima shuddered in his coat, but not from the cold.
Close the door. Close the door and go inside. The silent internal command set Dima’s legs moving again, and at a quicker pace than before. The sooner he was back inside, the sooner he could pretend everything was okay. And maybe it would be, for many creatures of the night would never step foot into a warm and brightly lit home. Blearily, he recalled the Wicker King and its rotten old bones, it’s wooden crown that pierced the air, and it’s hunger for boy flesh. Dima consoled himself that the Wicker King had to make deals to enter a mortal’s home. Such a thing would not follow him back across the yard, should he act swiftly.
The barn door rattled a mere few feet away from Dima, and he stiffly moved his frigid arms to close the door and latch it. The lock was bitterly cold against his skin, and Dima was quick to tug his hand away lest it cause permanent damage. It was foolish not to have brought gloves, and he could almost hear Masha lecturing him for the mistake already.
With the task at hand complete, Dima was eager to turn back towards the warm relief of his home. Yet, just as he began to turn, he was seized with a fear that could only be described as crippling.
Something was behind him.
He was certain of it. More certain than he’d been when he was terrified to look up, because now he was too scared to check for himself and confirm his fears—this time, Dima was sure there would be no relief of being alone.
For many a moment, Dima did not move. Whatever was behind him did not move either, and only the whirling wind stirred any sort of sound from the yard. The barn door in front of Dima groaned against the latch, the wind no doubt whistling in from the windows and cracks of the old building. Perhaps he could open it and hide inside. Perhaps he could be fast enough…
…no. That was a stupid idea, and Dima knew it. Whatever was behind him was the sort of thing that caught. It was the sort of thing that had never known the thrill of the hunt, because it had never had to.
The wind pushed against Dima’s back, and with it he swore he felt the press of fingers against his spine. With it, he felt something slide along his shoulder…
“Dima!”
Light and Aleksandr’s voice poured into the yard, and the combination shattered the spell that kept Dima pinned in fear. He whirled around, a warning shout at the tip of his tongue, but it died on his breath.
Nothing was behind him.
With relief, Dima released the frigid breath he had been holding for what felt like forever. He gathered his wits, stuffing his hands into his armpits, and turned back towards the house. “I am coming, brother.”
It was only halfway across the yard that he thought to look up, for Aleksandr had not spoken again and the door had remained open despite the cold. Masha would yell at them both for inviting in the chill, and Dima would not get punished again for Aleksandr’s foolhardiness.
Turning his gaze upwards, he alighted his eyes upon the doorway. Haloed by the warm light was a creature of rotten old bones, with a crown made of wood.
BUT. I really liked writing this!! It was fun being creepy, and I could almost picture the scenes as if they were paintings. Maybe I should learn how to draw. xD
Prompt: “Such a creature does not deserve a crown.”
Challenge: First nine words from the nearest book, first nine words of the story.
Word Count: 925
---
Dima heard the barn doors slam before anyone else, and it only added to the tight coil of anxiety deep in his gut. He glanced at his brother, but Aleksandr had not stirred from where he had fallen asleep by the fire.
Masha spoke up from the table, not looking up from her stitching. “Go close the barn doors, Dima.” Her order was accented by the fire popping loudly from across the room, and Aleksandr snorting once in his sleep. There was no disagreeing with Masha, and so Dima went.
It was habit to leave the front door open at night, the faint light casting a long shadow into the darkness, but with the frost having crept in, Dima let it fall shut behind him—the light falling with it. Instantly the night became colder and crueler.
Forcing his legs into motion, Dima began the slow walk through the knee-high snow. His boots protected him from most of the cold powder, and the thick knit of his trousers did the rest. It was a relief to have already been wearing many layers, when shrugging on his winter coat with them was enough to keep out the cold bite.
Halfway across the yard, he heard the barn door slam once more. The wind tugged at his hair simultaneously, and Dima froze for a moment to squeeze himself tight and wait for the wind to die down. The gusts threaded their clammy fingers into the hidden seams of his jacket, dragging nails down his goose-flecked skin. And from the wind, it was like a voice whispered.
Dima froze anew, but for an entirely different reason. Slowly, almost too terrified to properly look, he dragged his gaze up.
Nothing was there.
Twisting where he stood, Dima peered around in the dark, but with a moonless sky above and the stars hidden by clouds, the yard was too pitch dark to see much of anything. The thick trees looked like tall figures crowding around. The hedge was something hunched and prowling. The fence was a slender thing, crawling its way towards him. Dima shuddered in his coat, but not from the cold.
Close the door. Close the door and go inside. The silent internal command set Dima’s legs moving again, and at a quicker pace than before. The sooner he was back inside, the sooner he could pretend everything was okay. And maybe it would be, for many creatures of the night would never step foot into a warm and brightly lit home. Blearily, he recalled the Wicker King and its rotten old bones, it’s wooden crown that pierced the air, and it’s hunger for boy flesh. Dima consoled himself that the Wicker King had to make deals to enter a mortal’s home. Such a thing would not follow him back across the yard, should he act swiftly.
The barn door rattled a mere few feet away from Dima, and he stiffly moved his frigid arms to close the door and latch it. The lock was bitterly cold against his skin, and Dima was quick to tug his hand away lest it cause permanent damage. It was foolish not to have brought gloves, and he could almost hear Masha lecturing him for the mistake already.
With the task at hand complete, Dima was eager to turn back towards the warm relief of his home. Yet, just as he began to turn, he was seized with a fear that could only be described as crippling.
Something was behind him.
He was certain of it. More certain than he’d been when he was terrified to look up, because now he was too scared to check for himself and confirm his fears—this time, Dima was sure there would be no relief of being alone.
For many a moment, Dima did not move. Whatever was behind him did not move either, and only the whirling wind stirred any sort of sound from the yard. The barn door in front of Dima groaned against the latch, the wind no doubt whistling in from the windows and cracks of the old building. Perhaps he could open it and hide inside. Perhaps he could be fast enough…
…no. That was a stupid idea, and Dima knew it. Whatever was behind him was the sort of thing that caught. It was the sort of thing that had never known the thrill of the hunt, because it had never had to.
The wind pushed against Dima’s back, and with it he swore he felt the press of fingers against his spine. With it, he felt something slide along his shoulder…
“Dima!”
Light and Aleksandr’s voice poured into the yard, and the combination shattered the spell that kept Dima pinned in fear. He whirled around, a warning shout at the tip of his tongue, but it died on his breath.
Nothing was behind him.
With relief, Dima released the frigid breath he had been holding for what felt like forever. He gathered his wits, stuffing his hands into his armpits, and turned back towards the house. “I am coming, brother.”
It was only halfway across the yard that he thought to look up, for Aleksandr had not spoken again and the door had remained open despite the cold. Masha would yell at them both for inviting in the chill, and Dima would not get punished again for Aleksandr’s foolhardiness.
Turning his gaze upwards, he alighted his eyes upon the doorway. Haloed by the warm light was a creature of rotten old bones, with a crown made of wood.
The first nine words are from King of Scars by Leigh Bardugo, and ironically the prompt kind of fits the going ons of the book? It did kind of make it a challenge separating what I know happens in the book with what I wanted to write about. lol
BUT. I really liked writing this!! It was fun being creepy, and I could almost picture the scenes as if they were paintings. Maybe I should learn how to draw. xD
Prompt: “Such a creature does not deserve a crown.”
Challenge: First nine words from the nearest book, first nine words of the story.
Word Count: 925
Dima heard the barn doors slam before anyone else, and it only added to the tight coil of anxiety deep in his gut. He glanced at his brother, but Aleksandr had not stirred from where he had fallen asleep by the fire.
Masha spoke up from the table, not looking up from her stitching. “Go close the barn doors, Dima.” Her order was accented by the fire popping loudly from across the room, and Aleksandr snorting once in his sleep. There was no disagreeing with Masha, and so Dima went.
It was habit to leave the front door open at night, the faint light casting a long shadow into the darkness, but with the frost having crept in, Dima let it fall shut behind him—the light falling with it. Instantly the night became colder and crueler.
Forcing his legs into motion, Dima began the slow walk through the knee-high snow. His boots protected him from most of the cold powder, and the thick knit of his trousers did the rest. It was a relief to have already been wearing many layers, when shrugging on his winter coat with them was enough to keep out the cold bite.
Halfway across the yard, he heard the barn door slam once more. The wind tugged at his hair simultaneously, and Dima froze for a moment to squeeze himself tight and wait for the wind to die down. The gusts threaded their clammy fingers into the hidden seams of his jacket, dragging nails down his goose-flecked skin. And from the wind, it was like a voice whispered.
Dima froze anew, but for an entirely different reason. Slowly, almost too terrified to properly look, he dragged his gaze up.
Nothing was there.
Twisting where he stood, Dima peered around in the dark, but with a moonless sky above and the stars hidden by clouds, the yard was too pitch dark to see much of anything. The thick trees looked like tall figures crowding around. The hedge was something hunched and prowling. The fence was a slender thing, crawling its way towards him. Dima shuddered in his coat, but not from the cold.
Close the door. Close the door and go inside. The silent internal command set Dima’s legs moving again, and at a quicker pace than before. The sooner he was back inside, the sooner he could pretend everything was okay. And maybe it would be, for many creatures of the night would never step foot into a warm and brightly lit home. Blearily, he recalled the Wicker King and its rotten old bones, it’s wooden crown that pierced the air, and it’s hunger for boy flesh. Dima consoled himself that the Wicker King had to make deals to enter a mortal’s home. Such a thing would not follow him back across the yard, should he act swiftly.
The barn door rattled a mere few feet away from Dima, and he stiffly moved his frigid arms to close the door and latch it. The lock was bitterly cold against his skin, and Dima was quick to tug his hand away lest it cause permanent damage. It was foolish not to have brought gloves, and he could almost hear Masha lecturing him for the mistake already.
With the task at hand complete, Dima was eager to turn back towards the warm relief of his home. Yet, just as he began to turn, he was seized with a fear that could only be described as crippling.
Something was behind him.
He was certain of it. More certain than he’d been when he was terrified to look up, because now he was too scared to check for himself and confirm his fears—this time, Dima was sure there would be no relief of being alone.
For many a moment, Dima did not move. Whatever was behind him did not move either, and only the whirling wind stirred any sort of sound from the yard. The barn door in front of Dima groaned against the latch, the wind no doubt whistling in from the windows and cracks of the old building. Perhaps he could open it and hide inside. Perhaps he could be fast enough…
…no. That was a stupid idea, and Dima knew it. Whatever was behind him was the sort of thing that caught. It was the sort of thing that had never known the thrill of the hunt, because it had never had to.
The wind pushed against Dima’s back, and with it he swore he felt the press of fingers against his spine. With it, he felt something slide along his shoulder…
“Dima!”
Light and Aleksandr’s voice poured into the yard, and the combination shattered the spell that kept Dima pinned in fear. He whirled around, a warning shout at the tip of his tongue, but it died on his breath.
Nothing was behind him.
With relief, Dima released the frigid breath he had been holding for what felt like forever. He gathered his wits, stuffing his hands into his armpits, and turned back towards the house. “I am coming, brother.”
It was only halfway across the yard that he thought to look up, for Aleksandr had not spoken again and the door had remained open despite the cold. Masha would yell at them both for inviting in the chill, and Dima would not get punished again for Aleksandr’s foolhardiness.
Turning his gaze upwards, he alighted his eyes upon the doorway. Haloed by the warm light was a creature of rotten old bones, with a crown made of wood.
BUT. I really liked writing this!! It was fun being creepy, and I could almost picture the scenes as if they were paintings. Maybe I should learn how to draw. xD
Prompt: “Such a creature does not deserve a crown.”
Challenge: First nine words from the nearest book, first nine words of the story.
Word Count: 925
---
Dima heard the barn doors slam before anyone else, and it only added to the tight coil of anxiety deep in his gut. He glanced at his brother, but Aleksandr had not stirred from where he had fallen asleep by the fire.
Masha spoke up from the table, not looking up from her stitching. “Go close the barn doors, Dima.” Her order was accented by the fire popping loudly from across the room, and Aleksandr snorting once in his sleep. There was no disagreeing with Masha, and so Dima went.
It was habit to leave the front door open at night, the faint light casting a long shadow into the darkness, but with the frost having crept in, Dima let it fall shut behind him—the light falling with it. Instantly the night became colder and crueler.
Forcing his legs into motion, Dima began the slow walk through the knee-high snow. His boots protected him from most of the cold powder, and the thick knit of his trousers did the rest. It was a relief to have already been wearing many layers, when shrugging on his winter coat with them was enough to keep out the cold bite.
Halfway across the yard, he heard the barn door slam once more. The wind tugged at his hair simultaneously, and Dima froze for a moment to squeeze himself tight and wait for the wind to die down. The gusts threaded their clammy fingers into the hidden seams of his jacket, dragging nails down his goose-flecked skin. And from the wind, it was like a voice whispered.
Dima froze anew, but for an entirely different reason. Slowly, almost too terrified to properly look, he dragged his gaze up.
Nothing was there.
Twisting where he stood, Dima peered around in the dark, but with a moonless sky above and the stars hidden by clouds, the yard was too pitch dark to see much of anything. The thick trees looked like tall figures crowding around. The hedge was something hunched and prowling. The fence was a slender thing, crawling its way towards him. Dima shuddered in his coat, but not from the cold.
Close the door. Close the door and go inside. The silent internal command set Dima’s legs moving again, and at a quicker pace than before. The sooner he was back inside, the sooner he could pretend everything was okay. And maybe it would be, for many creatures of the night would never step foot into a warm and brightly lit home. Blearily, he recalled the Wicker King and its rotten old bones, it’s wooden crown that pierced the air, and it’s hunger for boy flesh. Dima consoled himself that the Wicker King had to make deals to enter a mortal’s home. Such a thing would not follow him back across the yard, should he act swiftly.
The barn door rattled a mere few feet away from Dima, and he stiffly moved his frigid arms to close the door and latch it. The lock was bitterly cold against his skin, and Dima was quick to tug his hand away lest it cause permanent damage. It was foolish not to have brought gloves, and he could almost hear Masha lecturing him for the mistake already.
With the task at hand complete, Dima was eager to turn back towards the warm relief of his home. Yet, just as he began to turn, he was seized with a fear that could only be described as crippling.
Something was behind him.
He was certain of it. More certain than he’d been when he was terrified to look up, because now he was too scared to check for himself and confirm his fears—this time, Dima was sure there would be no relief of being alone.
For many a moment, Dima did not move. Whatever was behind him did not move either, and only the whirling wind stirred any sort of sound from the yard. The barn door in front of Dima groaned against the latch, the wind no doubt whistling in from the windows and cracks of the old building. Perhaps he could open it and hide inside. Perhaps he could be fast enough…
…no. That was a stupid idea, and Dima knew it. Whatever was behind him was the sort of thing that caught. It was the sort of thing that had never known the thrill of the hunt, because it had never had to.
The wind pushed against Dima’s back, and with it he swore he felt the press of fingers against his spine. With it, he felt something slide along his shoulder…
“Dima!”
Light and Aleksandr’s voice poured into the yard, and the combination shattered the spell that kept Dima pinned in fear. He whirled around, a warning shout at the tip of his tongue, but it died on his breath.
Nothing was behind him.
With relief, Dima released the frigid breath he had been holding for what felt like forever. He gathered his wits, stuffing his hands into his armpits, and turned back towards the house. “I am coming, brother.”
It was only halfway across the yard that he thought to look up, for Aleksandr had not spoken again and the door had remained open despite the cold. Masha would yell at them both for inviting in the chill, and Dima would not get punished again for Aleksandr’s foolhardiness.
Turning his gaze upwards, he alighted his eyes upon the doorway. Haloed by the warm light was a creature of rotten old bones, with a crown made of wood.
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PinkRose06 @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @BlurryReflection @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @naranciag @Mypilot @gn0me
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Jxckal @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PlanetMarz @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @Mypilot @gn0me
Hello hello! It is that time… and by “that time,” I mean it’s time for both the newsletter and the weekly prompt!
Here’s the June newsletter: Boop!
As for the weekly prompt:
And of course… here is your reminder to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Jxckal @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PlanetMarz @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @Mypilot @gn0me
Hello hello! It is that time… and by “that time,” I mean it’s time for both the newsletter and the weekly prompt!
Here’s the June newsletter: Boop!
As for the weekly prompt:
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
And of course… here is your reminder to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PinkRose06 @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @BlurryReflection @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @naranciag @Mypilot @gn0me
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Jxckal @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PlanetMarz @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @Mypilot @gn0me
Hello hello! It is that time… and by “that time,” I mean it’s time for both the newsletter and the weekly prompt!
Here’s the June newsletter: Boop!
As for the weekly prompt:
And of course… here is your reminder to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
@cartographic @seige @PuppyLuvr06 @Jxckal @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PlanetMarz @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @Rustea @Lotus7 @sorrcha @Mypilot @gn0me
Hello hello! It is that time… and by “that time,” I mean it’s time for both the newsletter and the weekly prompt!
Here’s the June newsletter: Boop!
As for the weekly prompt:
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
And of course… here is your reminder to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
| ___________ |
|
|
@Vngel
Real life has taken an hectic turn. I should like to be removed from the ping list, please. Thanks ever so
Real life has taken an hectic turn. I should like to be removed from the ping list, please. Thanks ever so
@Vngel
Real life has taken an hectic turn. I should like to be removed from the ping list, please. Thanks ever so
Real life has taken an hectic turn. I should like to be removed from the ping list, please. Thanks ever so
Yes, my name is strangely spelled.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am not a hoarder. I am, in fact, the caretaker of an exquisitely curated collection of Level 25 Dragons. Yes, there is so a difference.
I am not a hoarder. I am, in fact, the caretaker of an exquisitely curated collection of Level 25 Dragons. Yes, there is so a difference.
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
I absolutely love this prompt and it reminded me of Metro Exodus, which I really need to finish, so I'm writing this with the game in mind!
It also devolved from something dark and insane to a little comforting end, because I think we all need that right now.
It's so dark. It's been three- no, five- or was it... eight? Fifteen? I think I've forgotten how to count. I like the number nine. Let's say nine.
It's been nine days. Nine weeks since we were told to go underground. Nine... months? It hasn't been very long.
It's hard to remember things in this kind of darkness. The cobwebs cloud your mind like a permanent fog, except it isn't just in your mind when you walk into it. Gross. I've walked into my fair share of cobwebs. You can't see them when there is no light.
The torches and flashlights die all the time. The people, we have resorted to using lighters. Or... we did. I think. I think the last butane lighter ran out four years ago. We've resorted to sparking fires with flint and steel. I don't know. I only ever get to see from a distance. They don't like me around there very much.
I get it. Maybe. When the sirens sounded on that cold winter, the air was so cold it could set your skin on fire, like that summer sun that burned everything. Why did we even come down here?
I think the earth is scorched. Unlivable, dry as a bone and covered in a layer of snow and ice that will suck you down into its shallow depths that goes on forever and you can't escape. I know that. I saw someone fall into one of those gaping maws of the earth's doing. Those teeth are so rotten and strong and they crumble easily and crush bone. I fell into one of those, and I'm still falling, watching from the top as I descend away from it. The surface is nice.
How long has it been since we saw the surface? The people huddle underground, in sealed up train stations. Sometimes I hear music. I heard people singing last week. No one has been singing lately. I haven't heard anything or anyone in years. But the caves are so loud when they collapse and the sounds of my brothers and sisters are deafening and eternal. They scream and cry into the night, just like the people who find us amidst the dark.
Why are they scared? We're just like them. Perhaps their language has transcended beyond ours, to the point where we no longer understand them because they spent so long in the train stations, having family dinners, screaming, crying, killing, playing sounds that sound nice for years and months and generations on end.
Last night, I heard some of the people bring one of their dead into the ends of the tunnel to torch them, send them into the flaming depths where they might see a golden gate with lights and the angels shrieking. I need to eat, but that body rot and turned into nothing but bone fifteen, sixteen... I like the number nine. Nineteen years ago.
I can't remember a thing. I've been sitting here under a string of fairy lights for years and the lights won't go out. The blankets have gone cold and the dumpster fire burned out generations ago. Not a second has passed since I came here and your smile is still there.
You left with the people forever and never ago, and I watched you walk away to some other paradise where the people still sing and dance, even though no one has seen real light in three, five, eight, nines and time has long since stopped. I'm sitting next to you now and you're holding me but we never touch as you hug me.
It's quiet. The lights have been out for a thousand years and the train has rusted and fallen apart. Everything is the way it was. I'm sitting on the same, old bed I borrowed from you when we were herded down here when those sirens began to sound and the sun scorched the frozen earth and split open and crushed itself. The string of fairy lights are yours, but the battery died and I've been looking in the tunnels for new batteries so we can keep them going while they're still on and shining bright.
It doesn't matter. While we're sitting here, alone and surrounded by the people, you're holding me and we never touch. You don't care, you never care about the way I look. Even when I never came back from the tunnels, you waited under the fairy lights for me and here I am.
I can't remember what you look like, but you are as beautiful and radiant as the day the lights turned off. We're alone, and the people left for safety in some other train station. They still haven't seen the light in nine months, hours, years, centuries, minutes. I haven't seen the light in nine.
That's okay, though. I don't need the violent sun and I don't need to remember anything but they way you're holding me, even though I look nothing like the person I used to be and I can't remember what I looked like.
Time has flown by and not a second has passed. The lights are off again. I'll go find batteries and we can keep your fairy lights on. I'm about to get up and leave and you ask me to stop. Let's sit here for a little bit more, your friend is about to sing a song for the people of the train to hear, now that it's finally quiet and the people are all around.
Okay. I'll find you those batteries later. Let's sit here a little bit longer, even though you want those lights back on.
It's so dark.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
I absolutely love this prompt and it reminded me of Metro Exodus, which I really need to finish, so I'm writing this with the game in mind!
It also devolved from something dark and insane to a little comforting end, because I think we all need that right now.
It's so dark. It's been three- no, five- or was it... eight? Fifteen? I think I've forgotten how to count. I like the number nine. Let's say nine.
It's been nine days. Nine weeks since we were told to go underground. Nine... months? It hasn't been very long.
It's hard to remember things in this kind of darkness. The cobwebs cloud your mind like a permanent fog, except it isn't just in your mind when you walk into it. Gross. I've walked into my fair share of cobwebs. You can't see them when there is no light.
The torches and flashlights die all the time. The people, we have resorted to using lighters. Or... we did. I think. I think the last butane lighter ran out four years ago. We've resorted to sparking fires with flint and steel. I don't know. I only ever get to see from a distance. They don't like me around there very much.
I get it. Maybe. When the sirens sounded on that cold winter, the air was so cold it could set your skin on fire, like that summer sun that burned everything. Why did we even come down here?
I think the earth is scorched. Unlivable, dry as a bone and covered in a layer of snow and ice that will suck you down into its shallow depths that goes on forever and you can't escape. I know that. I saw someone fall into one of those gaping maws of the earth's doing. Those teeth are so rotten and strong and they crumble easily and crush bone. I fell into one of those, and I'm still falling, watching from the top as I descend away from it. The surface is nice.
How long has it been since we saw the surface? The people huddle underground, in sealed up train stations. Sometimes I hear music. I heard people singing last week. No one has been singing lately. I haven't heard anything or anyone in years. But the caves are so loud when they collapse and the sounds of my brothers and sisters are deafening and eternal. They scream and cry into the night, just like the people who find us amidst the dark.
Why are they scared? We're just like them. Perhaps their language has transcended beyond ours, to the point where we no longer understand them because they spent so long in the train stations, having family dinners, screaming, crying, killing, playing sounds that sound nice for years and months and generations on end.
Last night, I heard some of the people bring one of their dead into the ends of the tunnel to torch them, send them into the flaming depths where they might see a golden gate with lights and the angels shrieking. I need to eat, but that body rot and turned into nothing but bone fifteen, sixteen... I like the number nine. Nineteen years ago.
I can't remember a thing. I've been sitting here under a string of fairy lights for years and the lights won't go out. The blankets have gone cold and the dumpster fire burned out generations ago. Not a second has passed since I came here and your smile is still there.
You left with the people forever and never ago, and I watched you walk away to some other paradise where the people still sing and dance, even though no one has seen real light in three, five, eight, nines and time has long since stopped. I'm sitting next to you now and you're holding me but we never touch as you hug me.
It's quiet. The lights have been out for a thousand years and the train has rusted and fallen apart. Everything is the way it was. I'm sitting on the same, old bed I borrowed from you when we were herded down here when those sirens began to sound and the sun scorched the frozen earth and split open and crushed itself. The string of fairy lights are yours, but the battery died and I've been looking in the tunnels for new batteries so we can keep them going while they're still on and shining bright.
It doesn't matter. While we're sitting here, alone and surrounded by the people, you're holding me and we never touch. You don't care, you never care about the way I look. Even when I never came back from the tunnels, you waited under the fairy lights for me and here I am.
I can't remember what you look like, but you are as beautiful and radiant as the day the lights turned off. We're alone, and the people left for safety in some other train station. They still haven't seen the light in nine months, hours, years, centuries, minutes. I haven't seen the light in nine.
That's okay, though. I don't need the violent sun and I don't need to remember anything but they way you're holding me, even though I look nothing like the person I used to be and I can't remember what I looked like.
Time has flown by and not a second has passed. The lights are off again. I'll go find batteries and we can keep your fairy lights on. I'm about to get up and leave and you ask me to stop. Let's sit here for a little bit more, your friend is about to sing a song for the people of the train to hear, now that it's finally quiet and the people are all around.
Okay. I'll find you those batteries later. Let's sit here a little bit longer, even though you want those lights back on.
It's so dark.
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
I absolutely love this prompt and it reminded me of Metro Exodus, which I really need to finish, so I'm writing this with the game in mind!
It also devolved from something dark and insane to a little comforting end, because I think we all need that right now.
It's so dark. It's been three- no, five- or was it... eight? Fifteen? I think I've forgotten how to count. I like the number nine. Let's say nine.
It's been nine days. Nine weeks since we were told to go underground. Nine... months? It hasn't been very long.
It's hard to remember things in this kind of darkness. The cobwebs cloud your mind like a permanent fog, except it isn't just in your mind when you walk into it. Gross. I've walked into my fair share of cobwebs. You can't see them when there is no light.
The torches and flashlights die all the time. The people, we have resorted to using lighters. Or... we did. I think. I think the last butane lighter ran out four years ago. We've resorted to sparking fires with flint and steel. I don't know. I only ever get to see from a distance. They don't like me around there very much.
I get it. Maybe. When the sirens sounded on that cold winter, the air was so cold it could set your skin on fire, like that summer sun that burned everything. Why did we even come down here?
I think the earth is scorched. Unlivable, dry as a bone and covered in a layer of snow and ice that will suck you down into its shallow depths that goes on forever and you can't escape. I know that. I saw someone fall into one of those gaping maws of the earth's doing. Those teeth are so rotten and strong and they crumble easily and crush bone. I fell into one of those, and I'm still falling, watching from the top as I descend away from it. The surface is nice.
How long has it been since we saw the surface? The people huddle underground, in sealed up train stations. Sometimes I hear music. I heard people singing last week. No one has been singing lately. I haven't heard anything or anyone in years. But the caves are so loud when they collapse and the sounds of my brothers and sisters are deafening and eternal. They scream and cry into the night, just like the people who find us amidst the dark.
Why are they scared? We're just like them. Perhaps their language has transcended beyond ours, to the point where we no longer understand them because they spent so long in the train stations, having family dinners, screaming, crying, killing, playing sounds that sound nice for years and months and generations on end.
Last night, I heard some of the people bring one of their dead into the ends of the tunnel to torch them, send them into the flaming depths where they might see a golden gate with lights and the angels shrieking. I need to eat, but that body rot and turned into nothing but bone fifteen, sixteen... I like the number nine. Nineteen years ago.
I can't remember a thing. I've been sitting here under a string of fairy lights for years and the lights won't go out. The blankets have gone cold and the dumpster fire burned out generations ago. Not a second has passed since I came here and your smile is still there.
You left with the people forever and never ago, and I watched you walk away to some other paradise where the people still sing and dance, even though no one has seen real light in three, five, eight, nines and time has long since stopped. I'm sitting next to you now and you're holding me but we never touch as you hug me.
It's quiet. The lights have been out for a thousand years and the train has rusted and fallen apart. Everything is the way it was. I'm sitting on the same, old bed I borrowed from you when we were herded down here when those sirens began to sound and the sun scorched the frozen earth and split open and crushed itself. The string of fairy lights are yours, but the battery died and I've been looking in the tunnels for new batteries so we can keep them going while they're still on and shining bright.
It doesn't matter. While we're sitting here, alone and surrounded by the people, you're holding me and we never touch. You don't care, you never care about the way I look. Even when I never came back from the tunnels, you waited under the fairy lights for me and here I am.
I can't remember what you look like, but you are as beautiful and radiant as the day the lights turned off. We're alone, and the people left for safety in some other train station. They still haven't seen the light in nine months, hours, years, centuries, minutes. I haven't seen the light in nine.
That's okay, though. I don't need the violent sun and I don't need to remember anything but they way you're holding me, even though I look nothing like the person I used to be and I can't remember what I looked like.
Time has flown by and not a second has passed. The lights are off again. I'll go find batteries and we can keep your fairy lights on. I'm about to get up and leave and you ask me to stop. Let's sit here for a little bit more, your friend is about to sing a song for the people of the train to hear, now that it's finally quiet and the people are all around.
Okay. I'll find you those batteries later. Let's sit here a little bit longer, even though you want those lights back on.
It's so dark.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.).
I absolutely love this prompt and it reminded me of Metro Exodus, which I really need to finish, so I'm writing this with the game in mind!
It also devolved from something dark and insane to a little comforting end, because I think we all need that right now.
It's so dark. It's been three- no, five- or was it... eight? Fifteen? I think I've forgotten how to count. I like the number nine. Let's say nine.
It's been nine days. Nine weeks since we were told to go underground. Nine... months? It hasn't been very long.
It's hard to remember things in this kind of darkness. The cobwebs cloud your mind like a permanent fog, except it isn't just in your mind when you walk into it. Gross. I've walked into my fair share of cobwebs. You can't see them when there is no light.
The torches and flashlights die all the time. The people, we have resorted to using lighters. Or... we did. I think. I think the last butane lighter ran out four years ago. We've resorted to sparking fires with flint and steel. I don't know. I only ever get to see from a distance. They don't like me around there very much.
I get it. Maybe. When the sirens sounded on that cold winter, the air was so cold it could set your skin on fire, like that summer sun that burned everything. Why did we even come down here?
I think the earth is scorched. Unlivable, dry as a bone and covered in a layer of snow and ice that will suck you down into its shallow depths that goes on forever and you can't escape. I know that. I saw someone fall into one of those gaping maws of the earth's doing. Those teeth are so rotten and strong and they crumble easily and crush bone. I fell into one of those, and I'm still falling, watching from the top as I descend away from it. The surface is nice.
How long has it been since we saw the surface? The people huddle underground, in sealed up train stations. Sometimes I hear music. I heard people singing last week. No one has been singing lately. I haven't heard anything or anyone in years. But the caves are so loud when they collapse and the sounds of my brothers and sisters are deafening and eternal. They scream and cry into the night, just like the people who find us amidst the dark.
Why are they scared? We're just like them. Perhaps their language has transcended beyond ours, to the point where we no longer understand them because they spent so long in the train stations, having family dinners, screaming, crying, killing, playing sounds that sound nice for years and months and generations on end.
Last night, I heard some of the people bring one of their dead into the ends of the tunnel to torch them, send them into the flaming depths where they might see a golden gate with lights and the angels shrieking. I need to eat, but that body rot and turned into nothing but bone fifteen, sixteen... I like the number nine. Nineteen years ago.
I can't remember a thing. I've been sitting here under a string of fairy lights for years and the lights won't go out. The blankets have gone cold and the dumpster fire burned out generations ago. Not a second has passed since I came here and your smile is still there.
You left with the people forever and never ago, and I watched you walk away to some other paradise where the people still sing and dance, even though no one has seen real light in three, five, eight, nines and time has long since stopped. I'm sitting next to you now and you're holding me but we never touch as you hug me.
It's quiet. The lights have been out for a thousand years and the train has rusted and fallen apart. Everything is the way it was. I'm sitting on the same, old bed I borrowed from you when we were herded down here when those sirens began to sound and the sun scorched the frozen earth and split open and crushed itself. The string of fairy lights are yours, but the battery died and I've been looking in the tunnels for new batteries so we can keep them going while they're still on and shining bright.
It doesn't matter. While we're sitting here, alone and surrounded by the people, you're holding me and we never touch. You don't care, you never care about the way I look. Even when I never came back from the tunnels, you waited under the fairy lights for me and here I am.
I can't remember what you look like, but you are as beautiful and radiant as the day the lights turned off. We're alone, and the people left for safety in some other train station. They still haven't seen the light in nine months, hours, years, centuries, minutes. I haven't seen the light in nine.
That's okay, though. I don't need the violent sun and I don't need to remember anything but they way you're holding me, even though I look nothing like the person I used to be and I can't remember what I looked like.
Time has flown by and not a second has passed. The lights are off again. I'll go find batteries and we can keep your fairy lights on. I'm about to get up and leave and you ask me to stop. Let's sit here for a little bit more, your friend is about to sing a song for the people of the train to hear, now that it's finally quiet and the people are all around.
Okay. I'll find you those batteries later. Let's sit here a little bit longer, even though you want those lights back on.
It's so dark.
|
S O K O L
knowledge of comprehension, benevolence, and aesthetics | active | slowly revamping xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
xx |
|
@seige
Of course! I just removed you. If you'd ever like to be readded to any pinglist, let me know ^^
Of course! I just removed you. If you'd ever like to be readded to any pinglist, let me know ^^
@seige
Of course! I just removed you. If you'd ever like to be readded to any pinglist, let me know ^^
Of course! I just removed you. If you'd ever like to be readded to any pinglist, let me know ^^
| ___________ |
|
|
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.
Time taken: an hour, give or take
i may have accidentally written undertale fanfiction, but maybe i didn't
this was a fun prompt to write! google docs really hates lowercase i, which drove me minorly crazy as i typed this, but it was fun
Everybody lived underground. (all but those above) That was how it had always been, how it would always be. (and yet still they tried to leave) That’s what everyone thought. (their leader had seen sunset, ages past. they could again, if they weren’t so kind) Hope knew they were wrong. They had seen the surface once, and they could do it again. As long as Hope lived within them, they would not give up. They could not give up. They refused.
And then Hope abandoned them. Hope got its wish, saw the surface, faced the sunset. (ha. Hope died on the surface. i died on the surface.) Hope was gone. (not hope the concept, Hope the being. hope still existed. Hope did not, and yet it did. i did not, and yet i did.)
Hope was gone, replaced with twisting, rotting, terrible despair that wore its face. (i am hope. i am despair. i am all they love, all they fear, fear itself. i am powerful. i am… i died on the surface. i was born on the surface. i live underground. everyone does, and they always will. i always will.)
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.
Time taken: an hour, give or take
i may have accidentally written undertale fanfiction, but maybe i didn't
this was a fun prompt to write! google docs really hates lowercase i, which drove me minorly crazy as i typed this, but it was fun
Everybody lived underground. (all but those above) That was how it had always been, how it would always be. (and yet still they tried to leave) That’s what everyone thought. (their leader had seen sunset, ages past. they could again, if they weren’t so kind) Hope knew they were wrong. They had seen the surface once, and they could do it again. As long as Hope lived within them, they would not give up. They could not give up. They refused.
And then Hope abandoned them. Hope got its wish, saw the surface, faced the sunset. (ha. Hope died on the surface. i died on the surface.) Hope was gone. (not hope the concept, Hope the being. hope still existed. Hope did not, and yet it did. i did not, and yet i did.)
Hope was gone, replaced with twisting, rotting, terrible despair that wore its face. (i am hope. i am despair. i am all they love, all they fear, fear itself. i am powerful. i am… i died on the surface. i was born on the surface. i live underground. everyone does, and they always will. i always will.)
Prompt: Everyone lives underground.
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.
Time taken: an hour, give or take
i may have accidentally written undertale fanfiction, but maybe i didn't
this was a fun prompt to write! google docs really hates lowercase i, which drove me minorly crazy as i typed this, but it was fun
Everybody lived underground. (all but those above) That was how it had always been, how it would always be. (and yet still they tried to leave) That’s what everyone thought. (their leader had seen sunset, ages past. they could again, if they weren’t so kind) Hope knew they were wrong. They had seen the surface once, and they could do it again. As long as Hope lived within them, they would not give up. They could not give up. They refused.
And then Hope abandoned them. Hope got its wish, saw the surface, faced the sunset. (ha. Hope died on the surface. i died on the surface.) Hope was gone. (not hope the concept, Hope the being. hope still existed. Hope did not, and yet it did. i did not, and yet i did.)
Hope was gone, replaced with twisting, rotting, terrible despair that wore its face. (i am hope. i am despair. i am all they love, all they fear, fear itself. i am powerful. i am… i died on the surface. i was born on the surface. i live underground. everyone does, and they always will. i always will.)
Challenge: Write your story from the point-of-view of an abstract concept (fear, peace, etc.
Time taken: an hour, give or take
i may have accidentally written undertale fanfiction, but maybe i didn't
this was a fun prompt to write! google docs really hates lowercase i, which drove me minorly crazy as i typed this, but it was fun
Everybody lived underground. (all but those above) That was how it had always been, how it would always be. (and yet still they tried to leave) That’s what everyone thought. (their leader had seen sunset, ages past. they could again, if they weren’t so kind) Hope knew they were wrong. They had seen the surface once, and they could do it again. As long as Hope lived within them, they would not give up. They could not give up. They refused.
And then Hope abandoned them. Hope got its wish, saw the surface, faced the sunset. (ha. Hope died on the surface. i died on the surface.) Hope was gone. (not hope the concept, Hope the being. hope still existed. Hope did not, and yet it did. i did not, and yet i did.)
Hope was gone, replaced with twisting, rotting, terrible despair that wore its face. (i am hope. i am despair. i am all they love, all they fear, fear itself. i am powerful. i am… i died on the surface. i was born on the surface. i live underground. everyone does, and they always will. i always will.)
@cartographic @PuppyLuvr06 @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PinkRose06 @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @BlurryReflection @Rustea @Lotus7 @naranciag @Mypilot @gn0me
Hey all! I just got back from a family vacation, so I have an excuse for why the prompt is late this week! :D
Don't forget to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
Hey all! I just got back from a family vacation, so I have an excuse for why the prompt is late this week! :D
Prompt: How do you survive the frigid winter nights?
Challenge: Write your first draft without deleting ANYTHING (except to correct grammar/spelling). Once something's on the page, do not remove it. If you want an extra challenge--write your first draft as your final draft (in other words, when you finish, no editing)!
Challenge: Write your first draft without deleting ANYTHING (except to correct grammar/spelling). Once something's on the page, do not remove it. If you want an extra challenge--write your first draft as your final draft (in other words, when you finish, no editing)!
Don't forget to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
@cartographic @PuppyLuvr06 @Spooner @Silvfyre @Brokenwing @Cattafang @PinkRose06 @fwuitgummy @JCStitches @obanai @Kaial @Agion @ghostpath @BlurryReflection @Rustea @Lotus7 @naranciag @Mypilot @gn0me
Hey all! I just got back from a family vacation, so I have an excuse for why the prompt is late this week! :D
Don't forget to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
Hey all! I just got back from a family vacation, so I have an excuse for why the prompt is late this week! :D
Prompt: How do you survive the frigid winter nights?
Challenge: Write your first draft without deleting ANYTHING (except to correct grammar/spelling). Once something's on the page, do not remove it. If you want an extra challenge--write your first draft as your final draft (in other words, when you finish, no editing)!
Challenge: Write your first draft without deleting ANYTHING (except to correct grammar/spelling). Once something's on the page, do not remove it. If you want an extra challenge--write your first draft as your final draft (in other words, when you finish, no editing)!
Don't forget to enter our Evolution of Genre Competition! Submissions close on July 1st, 2021.
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I have no idea how I only just discovered this, seeing as writing is about 80% of my on-site "living".
I want to join!: In case this is also a question, then count me as a yes. :)
How long have you been writing?: Loaded question! Tentatively since I could, but in a more directed sense, probably about twelve years. Site wise, I've been doing it since I joined - that's half the reason why I joined, honestly.
Example of your writing: Ah man, where to begin. It's a touch patchy since I almost literally just started it, but my clan's lorebook can be found here. The bulk of my writing can be found on my shop - either by scrolling to find commissions or reading the bios of the dragons I have sold.
Why do you want to join?: To kick me in the butt to write more for my lair.
What should you give Sentari and Vngel?: Elephants and horses, respectively.
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [x] Monthly Newsletter: [x] New Members: []
Thanks!
I want to join!: In case this is also a question, then count me as a yes. :)
How long have you been writing?: Loaded question! Tentatively since I could, but in a more directed sense, probably about twelve years. Site wise, I've been doing it since I joined - that's half the reason why I joined, honestly.
Example of your writing: Ah man, where to begin. It's a touch patchy since I almost literally just started it, but my clan's lorebook can be found here. The bulk of my writing can be found on my shop - either by scrolling to find commissions or reading the bios of the dragons I have sold.
Why do you want to join?: To kick me in the butt to write more for my lair.
What should you give Sentari and Vngel?: Elephants and horses, respectively.
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [x] Monthly Newsletter: [x] New Members: []
Thanks!
I have no idea how I only just discovered this, seeing as writing is about 80% of my on-site "living".
I want to join!: In case this is also a question, then count me as a yes. :)
How long have you been writing?: Loaded question! Tentatively since I could, but in a more directed sense, probably about twelve years. Site wise, I've been doing it since I joined - that's half the reason why I joined, honestly.
Example of your writing: Ah man, where to begin. It's a touch patchy since I almost literally just started it, but my clan's lorebook can be found here. The bulk of my writing can be found on my shop - either by scrolling to find commissions or reading the bios of the dragons I have sold.
Why do you want to join?: To kick me in the butt to write more for my lair.
What should you give Sentari and Vngel?: Elephants and horses, respectively.
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [x] Monthly Newsletter: [x] New Members: []
Thanks!
I want to join!: In case this is also a question, then count me as a yes. :)
How long have you been writing?: Loaded question! Tentatively since I could, but in a more directed sense, probably about twelve years. Site wise, I've been doing it since I joined - that's half the reason why I joined, honestly.
Example of your writing: Ah man, where to begin. It's a touch patchy since I almost literally just started it, but my clan's lorebook can be found here. The bulk of my writing can be found on my shop - either by scrolling to find commissions or reading the bios of the dragons I have sold.
Why do you want to join?: To kick me in the butt to write more for my lair.
What should you give Sentari and Vngel?: Elephants and horses, respectively.
Check the things you want to be pinged for: Weekly Prompts: [x] Monthly Newsletter: [x] New Members: []
Thanks!
tundra monolair (except when i'm not)
