eden-likes-to-write-blog

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

“Sorry I’m late,” Red said as we entered the morgue, slipping on some plastic gloves like a man with somewhere to be. “I took a long lunch.”

Angelina frowned as she inspected the corpse. “Of course you did, it’s not like you have a job or anything,” She said crossly, her hair up in a messy bun and glasses tied tight around her face with a piece of yarn so she could work unheeded, without her glasses slipping off her small, upturned nose. “I hate the feeling of contacts, and I prefer to be comfortable when I work - I get the job done faster when I’m not worrying about eyedrops,” She had said when I asked her about it once.

The morgue was how it always was, far too bright with the stench of death crawling up the walls, bathing in white tile and silence. It looked more like a doctors office than a place where the bodies that once belonged to the victims of the most powerful villains ever known were kept, it was uncomfortable to see the way Angeline meticulously took care of them. I could see why Red avoided the eerie place whenever possible, opting to treat me to some lunch instead.

Of course, He never did let me see the prices when he treated me, always said I got too worked up about them.

“Aright Sanders, get some gloves on. And get your head out of the clouds, we’re back at work.” He was concerned I’d mess up again and nearly get myself killed. Understandable. Medusa’s are not fun to fight, especially when you’re bickering about the difference between work personas and personal personas while trying to deflect a stone curse.

Before I could properly respond, Mathew entered the room like he owned it and everybody in it. “Red, Ethan,” He greeted us coldly as he walked over to Angeline. “That yarn is ridiculous! It makes you look like a librarian!” He exclaimed.

“How I look isn’t the important part. The body has been burnt, we’re dealing with a fire magic user - and a powerful one at that.” Angeline said promptly, pointing out the charcoal black parts of the corpse.

Red stalked over to them, turning it over in his mind. “He could already be in Canada by now, I’d say. However, it’s still to cold up there for a fire user - even in the spring. Mexico would be a better option.”

Mathew turned around, and gave Red a glare the likes of which I’d never seen, with an ice in his eyes that could turn men to stone. Detectives always hate when the ground work ruins the fun of pretending to be better than everyone else - or at least Mathew does. He straitened his posture so he was taller than Red, but Red still walked right by him to inspect the evidence for himself.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Red, but why were you late?” Mathew inquired condescendingly.

To my surprise, Red responded honestly. “Sorry, I took a long lunch, I was out with my boyfriend.”

Mathew looked sad for a moment, his dusty blond hair framing the pity in his eyes that I saw everywhere growing up. “Guys don’t call their guy friends ‘boyfriends’ the way women call their friends girlfriends, Red.”

“I know. I meant my actual boyfriend, you idiot.” Red said matter of factly, checking over the book of notes Angeline had religiously kept about her patients, presumably looking for notes on fire user effects on the body.

Meanwhile, Mathew seemed distraught, like the safety bubble around him had just popped. “Boyfriend? I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Angeline piped up. “It’s not exactly a secret. When my mama met my mom, most people couldn’t tell they were together until they’d been married for over a year,” She said. “And it’s not even your business, anyway.”

Mathew looked furious at being talked circles around, he was always the one to come out on top. He leaned in and took a firm grasp of Red’s shoulder, making him flinch. “You would know first thing about burns, wouldn’t you,” Mathew said, caressing the burn scar on Red cheek with his other hand. “This isn’t over,” He growled.

“No, it isn’t,” Said Red as I gripped the steel table so hard my knuckles turned white, my face flushed with heat and rage. “But I can tell you one thing right now: if you don’t get my hands off me in the next five seconds, my boyfriend will give you one-hundred times what you give me - that’s a promise,” He finished.

Mathew withdrew his grip like he himself had been burnt and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him so hard it shook.

“Some people,” Angeline tisked, handing me the records of all the other victims. “Now, onto the case.”

Red grasped my hand and looked over my shoulder as I searched the pages for clues. “Let’s do this.” He smiled, kissing my cheek.

@grandenchanterfiona I hope this was okay I just loved that idea

You know that ambiguously autistic character on TV who’s always portrayed as way too close to his mother, socially awkward and doesn’t get figures of speech that’s like on most TV shows, but especially crime shows?

One day I want him to be like ‘Sorry I’m late, I was out with my boyfriend last night.’

And someone ‘takes pity’ on the guy and is like ‘Guys don’t call their guy friends ‘boyfriends’ the way women call their friends girlfriends’.

And the coded autistic character is like ‘I know. I meant my actual boyfriend.’

#post prompted #prompt #my writing #writing #creative writing #drabble #red and sanders #grandenchanterfiona

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

I imagine insurance companies in Gotham can’t cover destruction from all villains, so they have plans called things like “Pick 4″. And you pick 4 villains to be covered in your policy. Kinda like putting your chips on certain squares in roulette. And of course there are plans like “Pick 5″ for more money.

And much like roulette, it becomes a bet on which villains are gonna fuck shit up that year. “Honey, remind me to call up the insurance company and take The Riddler off our policy. He’s been pretty quiet and Halloween’s coming up so I’d like to put Scarecrow back on there.”

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

A Good Role Model

I’ve studied for years on how to read people, spent the better part of a decade locked away in the campus library reading paragraph upon paragraph on how to take apart the little bits and pieces of what made humans do what we do. I can still feel the uncharacteristic smoothness of textbook paper under my worn fingers, I can hear the hushed whispers of group projects across the library, the taste of cheap coffee on my tongue and the soft burn of nervous bile in my throat before a final exam. I’ve studied for this my entire adult life, perfectly practiced words and technique. When he entered my office, I was ready.

“-Wanted for five accounts of Arson, 35 murders, and 15 accounts of resisting arrest-” The television behind me stopped abruptly as I turned it off, I had heard enough.

“Ah, I see you’ve made it. Please, Red, take a seat- or would me rather call you something else?” I said in the most welcoming voice I could muster, extending my hand to the leather couch beside my armchair.

He looked powerful, confused, and deep in him I could see fear. The boy was scared, barely drinking age by American standards. The electric power fled from his eyes and hands. “I’ll stand,” He said strongly, and with dignity, as if he were putting on a brave face, “and Red is perfectly fine, Dr..?”

“McDonough, but you can call me William if you’d like,” I said kindly. “We don’t usually except walk ins, but I’m sure we can make an exception. I don’t have any appointments today,” I smiled. “Except for you now, of course.”

Red squared his shoulders, and the blue glow of power flickered back into his eyes. “I’m not here for an appointment,” He growled.

“My mistake,” I apologized. “Why did you come to see me then?”

“You can turn into anything, I’ve seen it!” He said.

I knew he’d seen it, obviously. He’s been tailing me for days - I showed him on purpose. I wanted - no, needed him to come here. “You have?” I rasped, scandalized.

“Yes,” He admitted, proud of himself. “I’ve been following you for days.”

I know, I thought to myself. “You have?” I said, bewildered. “Well, then, you’re here to kill me,” No you’re not.

Red nodded condescendingly, but I could see he was hurt. “I’m assuming you know how my power works, then?” He asked, wandering over to my oak desk and running his fingers over the leaves of one of my potted plants.

I was stunned, I didn’t think he’d ask that. “There’s been rumours, yes, but nobody is really sure but you.”

“S.P.A.R.C. thinks it knows,” He said offhandedly. “Everybody does.”

“I was told you stole powers from magic users,” I said. “When I talked to people 10 years ago, they were afraid of you.”

“Nothing much has changed, I’m just taller now,” He added. “I have to kill people to take their power, William.”

I had suspected as much, but I kept that to myself. “I’ve noticed I’m not dead yet, what else do you need?”

Red sighed. “If you can turn into a human, I want you to teach me.”

Taken aback, I brought myself to calm and gentle words. “Teach you how to shape-shift? You know I can’t, it’s impossi-”

“No,” Red cut me off. “I want you to teach me how to be human.”

There was a long pause, and silence hung thick in the skyline office like molasses. “Red, you’re already human,” I said gently.

“No, I’m a monster,” His voice was quiet like a mouse, and pained. Tears pricked at his eyes. “I always have been.”

“Who told you that?” I inquired, handing him a box of tissues.

There was another pause. “Everyone,” He said as he fell back onto the couch.

“Listening to S.P.A.R.C. is never a good idea,” I warned. “They gather us and slaughter us like pigs, they make us hide powers that could save lives-”

“Or end them.” Added Red.

“Red,” I said softly. “They’re the monsters, I promise.”

“But what about me?” He asked. “I’m just as bad.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re not,” I reassured him. “No one is inherently bad, you’re a human, just like the rest of us. You may have a dark power, but what’s inside you isn’t dark - it’s just going to take some practice to ignore what your power wants you to do.”

“You’re sure I’m not a monster?” He inquired. Somewhere along the lines the power had flickered out of his grey eyes again. He made eye contact with me, and no matter how many walls he put up I could see he was just a hurt kid, confused and frightened by the world he’d woken up to.

I smiled. “I’m sure,” I said, with confidence. “You’re a human - you just need some practice being a nice one,” I ruffled his hair affectionately. “And maybe a role model or two.”

Red grinned, “Thank you, Dr. William,” he said genuinely, and stood from the couch to make the walk to the door, where he paused. “Oh, and William?” Red asked.

“Yes, Red?” I responded.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” He inquired, looking over his shoulder.

That answer was simple. “Because I know you’re good, and I trust you. You wouldn’t hurt me,” I said.

“No,” He smiled to himself. “I don’t think I would.”

That night when Red took his leave wasn’t the last time I saw him. He came in every Friday there after, a half hour after closing. He called it “good human” practice, but I knew that he didn’t need any practice being kind, or forgiving, or nice - he just needed someone to believe in him.

---- If this gets a good enough response I might just do a part two, so... Possibly 1/??? Depending on how much people like it.

#my writing #creative writing #writing #original #playgroundpost #Red #William #present for a friend #writing present #A Good Role Model #a good role model

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

gosh but like we spent hundreds of years looking up at the stars and wondering “is there anybody out there” and hoping and guessing and imagining

because we as a species were so lonely and we wanted friends so bad, we wanted to meet other species and we wanted to talk to them and we wanted to learn from them and to stop being the only people in the universe

and we started realizing that things were maybe not going so good for us– we got scared that we were going to blow each other up, we got scared that we were going to break our planet permanently, we got scared that in a hundred years we were all going to be dead and gone and even if there were other people out there, we’d never get to meet them

and then

we built robots?

and we gave them names and we gave them brains made out of silicon and we pretended they were people and we told them hey you wanna go exploring, and of course they did, because we had made them in our own image

and maybe in a hundred years we won’t be around any more, maybe yeah the planet will be a mess and we’ll all be dead, and if other people come from the stars we won’t be around to meet them and say hi! how are you! we’re people, too! you’re not alone any more!, maybe we’ll be gone

but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.

#reblogged

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

Why Commenting On FanFiction Is Important

Alright kids, Boo here with a hopefully non-arrogant PSA.

I’m a writer of FanFiction because I like it and it’s my preferred genre (also a great way to receive feedback on writing that I can use on originals, bref). But like with most artistic work posted online, I have very little feedback.

When I was in a slightly writing rut, I cranked one shots left and right, nothing out of the ordinary. But instead of people commenting with their thoughts and good feedback, they just gave me requests.

I don’t think I could ever put into words what that felt like, but I’ll try (the irony of being a writer). It suddenly felt tiring, being a writer, and very quickly I stopped writing altogether. I only ever showed my friend what I wrote and left it at that. I haven’t published anything for a while after. It felt like people were treating me like a mule wanting me to do work for them, and I just wasn’t up for that. I lost my will to write, and then I began to think, “If I post something else other than what was requested, will people even read it?”

Then you get the infamous comments, “You haven’t forgotten about my request right??? Here’s another.”

That just adds anxiety and guilt. I’m purposely ignoring the comments to save my own uncreative ass, at least that’s what it feels like.

After weeks of convincing myself that my stories are worth sharing no matter how many people read them, I started writing and publishing again while working on some longer pieces. Slowly it got better.

Now this week, I remembered I joined another fanfiction platform, and realized I had never published anything on it. I had an idea, and so I started writing. It didn’t come out as I imagined it would, but I was so proud? Like, I started feeling happy about what I created again. Like genuine happiness that I haven’t felt in months since my last published work.

A few hours later, I get this comment:

I cranked out three 3k stories after reading this.

In four days.

It never happened before, and I don’t know how many times it will happen again. It was one comment, but it gave me so much fighting spirit that I think I’m on my way to regaining my initial writer mindset.

Fanfiction writers depend on feedback as a validation that their stories matter to people. If you’re wondering why your favourite author hasn’t updated/posted in a while, ask yourself, “Did I do everything that would convince them to continue writing this?”

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

My gf: mimes are to clowns as dogs are to wolves Me, trembling: what

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

Study Date - Zachary & Joel

I threw my bag down into the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the frosty spring air.  Fumbling through the tears that blurred my vision, I ripped the crumpled bus transfer out of my back pocket, furiously trying to smooth it out against my thigh in an effort to make it readable.

Just then, barreling down the sidewalk to catch up to me, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, tie undone and pants unbuttoned, was Zachary. “Wait!” He shouted, “Joel, I can explain!” He added, sliding to a sudden halt beside me and gripping the bus stop pole for support to keep himself from being thrown by his momentum into the street.

I shook my head, stepping forward and leaning off of the curb so I could get a good look at the bus, slowed down by Chicago's late rush hour traffic. "You have about one minute," I relented, turning to face him, "but there had better be a 'sorry' in there somewhere, or so help me..." I threatened, trailing off.

Zachary took a moment to search the windows of the suburban mansions for onlookers that might report the happenings to his father, and once satisfied, took a deep, shaky breath. "I am so, so sorry," He said at last. "I thought you knew that 'study date' was code for 'let's hook up'. I should have clarified, and I'm sorry I didn't." He added, eyeing the bus nervously as it pulled up.

"What do you think I am? A whore? Like everybody else thinks?Is that what I am to you?" I replied.

"No, I-" He started.

"Sorry, out of time," I said curtly, picking up my bag and turning on my heel. As I stepped onto the bus platform, I felt him surge forward ad grab my sleeve.

"Joel, wait!" He said desperately.

I spun around and pulled my sleeve out of his grip, "Wait for what, Zachary, for you to grow up!" I shouted back, "What were you going to do, huh? Did you set up a camera so you can show all your shitty friends what I look like naked? Did you want to embarrass me again? Invade my privacy again?"

Zachary sucked in a deep breath. "Oh," He said. "That's what this is about."

"Damn right that's what this is about!" I shouted, furious now.

"Are you going to get on the bus or not?" The bus driver said, impatient and irritable.

"Hold on, just another minute," Zachary answered, handing her a $50 bill.  "Joel, that was is freshman year."

"'That was in freshman year'," I repeated mockingly. "You don't see the way they look at me in the hallways, Prescott. You don't have to hear the things they call me." I said evenly.

"I-" He started.

"No," I replied, putting a hand up to stop him. "Look at this," I said, pulling out my phone and scrolling through my text messages.

"Joel," Zachary started before he was cut off again.

"Either get on the bus or get off the bus," The bus driver drawled.

Zachary turned to her, irritated at being cut off once again. "It's okay, my father's the mayor." He said, flashing his ID.

"Here it is!" I exclaimed, holding out my phone for him to see. Plastered across the screen like an unwanted flyer was the picture, sent to me by one of the many students that had collectively decided to witch hunt me. It was me, laying in the alleyway behind Zachary's manor at his party last year. My eye was swollen and my skin bruised, I was laying beside my own vomit and crying in pain, my pants and underwear pulled around my ankles. The word "faggot" was scrawled across my forehead, shirt pulled up to reveal my beaten chest. The phrase "will suck dick for food" was also written across it in permanent marker, along with my phone number and all of my social media accounts.

"That wasn't me," Zachary said, tearing up at the sight. "Joel, I couldn't even look at that photo, that wasn't me," He said. "You think it was me?"

I blinked a few times, looking at the photo again in disbelief. "No, but you did!" I accused. "James told me you did!"

"James?" Zachary exclaimed, "Are you kidding? He wouldn't..."

"He told me-" I tried.

Zachary shook his head, "He told you wrong, Joel. I would never," He said, and with that, Zachary suddenly looked like he'd made a very serious decision. He stood taller, his expression powerful. He was so captivating that Joel almost didn't notice the bus had started moving, and the passengers were listening intensely. "James is a dick, and I'll get to the bottom of this. I promise." He said finally, his voice deep and certain, "In the meantime, Joel: I really like you, and even if it takes telling my father, getting rid of James, or even taking you to the moon and back, I'll do it." Zachary said decisively. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get on this but with you, and I'm going to take you to that Sally's place you like, and I'm going to buy you a big chocolate milkshake with whip cream on top and chocolate drizzle," Zachary added, reaching out and holding my hand tenderly. "We can talk about this, properly, what do you say?"

I stared down at my hand in disbelief, "Chocolate milkshakes are my favorite," I whispered dumbly.

Zachary chuckled, "I know."

"You remembered?" I looked up at him hopefully.

He leaned forward, pulling me into an embrace. "Of course I did."

Part 1???

#writing #creative writing #my writing #study date #story #zachary #joel #zachary and joel #playgroundpost

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

nobody’s prize pt. 2

You travel west. Days pass. Months slip away. Seasons turn. You left in spring, and now it is summer and the fields are gold with wheat, and then it is autumn and the trees in the forest lazily shake off their red leaves, and then it is winter and everything is in crisp monochrome: a hush of snow blanketing the ground. Then spring unfurls green across the countryside, and the cycle begins anew. 

You travel west. You run out of food quickly, and coin soon after. You barter with the townspeople. You help with harvests, you pick apples, you sweep courtyards and sit at long farmyard tables and eat dinner with the hired help. It is a new experience for you. You tile roofs. You hunt boar. You sit at campfires with the others traveling in your caravan and in the flickering warmth the castle seems like a another woman’s life. 

You travel west. You grow older. You cut your hair. You buy new leathers to replace your original ones, a new pack when your pack develops a hole. The only thing you keep with you, eventually, is the vials of potions that the witch gave you and the instructions. You wonder if you are ever going to find the tower. Perhaps it does not exist. Perhaps the witch is lying. But witches cannot lie. 

You travel west. You are no longer in your kingdom, nor in the kingdoms that border your kingdom. You meet foreigners (except now you are the foreigner) and trudge across unfamiliar landscapes. Many of them are beautiful. You think that you would never have seen these places, have met these people, were you to stay at home. 

You travel west. Ten years to the day that you set out on your journey, you arrive at a squat tower at the base of a sloping hill. It is spring, and there is a shock of bluebells near the door. You stare at the tower, dumbfounded. You had almost given up hope of finding it. It’s like a mirage, an oasis in the desert, made out of weathered grey stone. You approach it cautiously. 

The door is unlocked, and there is a set of stairs curling upward into the darkness. You light your lantern. You are afraid that if you do not ascend now, that the tower will be gone in the morning. You take a deep breath, and step over the threshold. 

It will be forty years before you see the spring again. 

#oh my god #please #this is great #nobody's prize #writing #creative writing #not mine #i love this #I've been blessed today #can't wait #part 2

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

nobody’s prize part 1.5/??

You ride back to the castle. You will leave for the tower tonight, any more delay and you will lose resolve.

The witch has given you the vials, a written set of the instructions she gave you verbally, and a bottle of homemade lemon cordial. You think about what else you will bring with you. A change of clothes. A waterskin. A sword. A bedroll. Rope. What will you leave behind? You wonder what your most precious possession is. Things have never meant much to you, you have always had the luxury of replacement. Perhaps your childhood dolls? The first sword you trained with? Your favorite novel, ragged at the edges? This occupies your thoughts as you ride.

When you get home, you have dinner with your parents and your younger sister. She is seven years old, an accident baby. The spare to your heir. You are sorry that she will have to be queen during the half-century you are gone.

Dinner is good. It is like every other family dinner that your mother insists the four of you have a few times a week. The servants bring out plates and take back plates and you chat with your mother and father about the economy, their days, and your studies. This is the last time you will have dinner with your family, you think, but it feels like every other night.

After dinner, you hug your mother and your father and go up to your room to pack. You do not tell them goodbye. You pack your travel knapsack thoroughly, leaving some room for food that you will purloin from the kitchens on your way out.

You still do not know what you will leave. You are leaving so much stuff behind, you reason, that probably your most precious item is in the multitude. You lie on your bed and sigh. You wonder if you should be doing this at all. Is fifty years worth an empire? Fifty years is worth the liberty of your people, you think. You can always turn back, you think.

At the stroke of midnight, the castle bells ring, and you stand up. You dress in traveling leathers and attach your sword at your hip and tie back your hair.

On the way down, you run into your sister. She’s barefoot, in her nightgown, and shouldn’t be out of bed. She looks like a ghost. You freeze.

“Where are you going?” she asks, rubbing her eyes. “I wanted to sleep in your bed, tonight.” You deliberately loosen your shoulders, and shrug.

“Just an errand.”

“Okay,” she says. “Can I still sleep with you?”

“Sure. Actually,” you unclip your necklace from around your neck, suddenly inspired, suddenly nostalgic. It was a gift for your sixteenth birthday, and your sister has always liked its shine. You kneel down, push the necklace into her hands and stand back up.

“Keep it safe for me,” you tell her. “I’ll be back.”

You kiss the top of her head impulsively. She smells like soap and lavender from her bath. You turn and heft the pack onto your shoulders. You walk down the corridor and lift the tapestry into the hidden servant’s corridor.

You leave the castle on horseback, provisioned with stolen goods from the kitchen, galloping into the night. You follow the western road, and by morning, the castle no longer looms back in the horizon. It no longer looks like anything at all.

part one 

#i've been blessed #part 1.5 #nobody's prize #writing #creative writing #not mine

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

nobody’s prize

You are a princess and your kingdom is beautiful and rich. It is beset on three sides by enemies. One lusts after your land, the other lusts after your mines, the last would take you as his bride and rule with an iron fist. Your mother’s spies have told you these things, over tankards of ale in taverns when you are wearing your plain blue cloak, in the silence of the night on your balcony when the moon is dark, passed in notes slipped under your plate at dinner. There will be war by the eve of your seventeenth birthday. Troops amass at the border. At all the borders. 

There will probably be an alliance between the countries that surround you. There will probably be blood and war and soldiers swearing allegiance to your soul. Perhaps you will lead an army, dressed in full armor and carrying a broadsword. 

Your mother and father discuss this in their small council room, heads bowed together. You watch from your hiding space in the rafters. You did not know they had so much grey in their hair. They say that victory will not be assured, and if it is the outcome, it will only be so through a slim margin. The fields will run red, your father says. The harvest will not be good, your mother says. What of our daughter, your father says, and you creep away back to your rooms. 

You decide to go see the witch. 

The witch lives ten miles from the Capital, in a hut with a pointed roof that puffs smoke. She has lived there as long as anyone can remember. Witches are immortal until they choose not to be, just like cats and gods. The witch has white hair and skin, as if living so long has bleached the color out of her. But her eyes are a gleaming gold. She ushers you in, and presses a cup of tea into your hands. 

You explain the situation. You want to know how you can fix it. If she can fix it. You are the princess, you explain, and its your duty to your people. How can you ensure that your kingdom is never besieged, never conquered. She nods and pours more tea for you. You have been visiting her with your problems since you were knee-high, and it is comforting to tell her your dilemma and hope that she gives you an answer. 

She reads your fortune in the tea leaves leftover like she has dozens of times. 

This time, she frowns. 

“I am sorry,” she tells you, stroking your hair with her arthritic hand. “It is not an easy price.” 

You are silent. You did not expect an easy price. Your jaw is set and your eyes are hard. You will undertake whatever quest is necessary, slay whatever monsters. You were born to rule the kingdom. 

“It is not fate,” she tells you. “You may refuse if you wish. It does not mean you will lose the coming battles. But it means that you will lose the war, whether the war ends in one generation or twenty.” She sighs. “For everything there is a price. the price for your empire’s prosperity is time. Specifically, yours.” 

“An empire?” you ask. Your kingdom is no empire. It is thirty leagues across and only wealthy because of the mines and fields. She nods. 

“An empire, to outlast the dying of the sun. You will be empress, if you choose.” 

“How much time?”

“A half-century.” 

You gape. She cuffs your head. “What part of ‘not an easy price’ did you not understand?” 

You close your mouth. “I’m sorry. What do I have to do?” 

The witch rises from her seat and goes to putter in the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling bottles and solutions out of drawers. She talks over her shoulder. 

“Pack a bag and go west until you find a tower. Leave you most precious item at home. Climb the tower until you find the topmost floor, and then do not leave the floor no matter what you see or hear, until your half-century is finished. Read every single book on the bookshelves. At the end of the second decade, drink this.” She hands you a blue bottle. “Then at the end of the third, drink this.” She hands you a green bottle. “And at the end of your fourth, drink this.” She hands you a red bottle. “And once you return, you will be empress.” 

A half century. Your parents will probably be dead. Your friends will probably all be old or dead. Your kingdom will have changed. But you will be empress, and your empire will never be conquered. 

“Thank you,” you tell the witch, putting the bottles in your bag. “I’ll come visit when I’m done.” 

Part 1/??? 

#part 1 #nobody's prize #writing #not mine

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

And today when my friend asked me if there’s anything I ’d love more than the ocean, I almost said your name.

//M.I.

Mahin Ismail

(via faded-flare)

#poets of tumblr #poetrycommunity #poem #not mine

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

Autumn is my favorite and least favorite time of year, Because on one hand, the whole idea of it makes me feel hopeless,  Like a woman tied to train tracks,  As she feels the wheels racing towards her, And hears the distant squeal of a whistle. You can tell me it’s easy, That it’s just a change, But it feels like just hours ago, I was a child, With the world at my fingertips. But now it’s on my shoulders, Too heavy to carry anymore, Tired, no matter how much rest I get, Unhappy, no matter how many colours the leaves bring to me. I am a storm of vague feelings and anger, I am a hurricane that rips everything it touches to shreds, But it feels like just hours ago, I was a gentle breeze. I walk alongside him now,  Hand in hand,  A hurricane and a late summer rain, The kind that comes just before the snow, The kind of peaceful invade, That leaves droplets dancing gently on your skin, Like a soft embrace after a long day, Like the calm before the storm. Faced with my violence, Faced with the storm I bring, He is an anchor, Forged from iron will, He stands through it all, He keeps me company when it gets bad, When I can’t carry the world anymore. I used to think I’d never die, But as I walk alongside him,  Breathing in fresh autumn air, I know we’ll hit a dead end someday, But every day I walk, With him beside me, I turn a new leaf. -on turning a new leaf

r.m.b

#poets of tumblr #poem #poetrycommunity #on turning a new leaf #my writing #writing #creative writing

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

I just wanted to say that your "nobody's prize" fairytale was awesome, you're an amazing writer. I hope there's a part two!

thank you so much!!

yup, part two (and three) coming sometime in the uhhhh next couple of days probably. 

#can't wait #im so excited #this story really gripped me #nobody's prize #anonymousalchemist

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

inspiration for your (my) rainy monday

#poetrycommunity #poets on tumblr #poem #reblogged #not mine #beautiful #motivation

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

The mirror and I are so similar, Unease spreads through my bones like an earthquake, The ground shakes under my feet, My clenched fists bleed from the knuckles. A spiderweb of cracks runs across my reflection, Pieces are missing, Leaving a void that nothing can fill, A blackness that consumes, Until there is nothing left. This mirror has taken too many punches. My reflection looks angry, Or maybe sad, Or maybe like nothing at all, But he's still there, Standing in an empty bathroom, Alone, At least in a mirror, When you look, You see yourself. -the difference between mirrors and people

r.m.b

#poetrycommunity #poem #the difference between mirrors and people #my writing #creative writing #writing #poets on tumblr

[eden-likes-to-write-blog]

You are a bad habit I can’t shake,Like chewing my nails, Or alcohol,But no matter how many times I chew my nails, And how many drinks I have,I’ve never woken up at 5pm,My face stained with tears,An ocean on my pillow,One hand on a picture frame,The other on the needle. -the boy who ruins everything

r.m.b

#the boy who ruins everything #creative writing #writing #my writing #poetrycommunity #poets on tumblr #poem #drug use