Person A: Go fetch your himbo and let’s get going.
Person B: I don’t have a…himbo?
Person A: What?! Every well bred lady has a himbo who follows her around. Seriously, who raised you?
Person C: Hello! I’m Person C.
Person A: Ah, here he is. Excellent.
Home still exists in family pictures
One day, long ago
Intended to be
Passed on, I'm sure
Yet not as these images
In an album, raffled and filled with
Home is what lives inside, longing to thrive
Shared in smiles and a sense of belonging
A sanctuary's pillars, established
To be further built on
I leaf through the yellowing pages
And read my mother's handwriting
Accompany smiling faces
I tell myself
Remember to be good
Momma, I am a good man, I promise
Yet I am still all pillars
I haven't erected the walls to protect
There is no roof above my head
There once was a hearth, and a bed
But I have given those to
She was once a girl I thought to wed
Momma, please don't be mad
For the fact I am awash in dejection
Leafing through the yellowing pages
I am of home bereft
The calm of nostalgia dwindles
And makes place for melancholia, aching
As I hanker the future ungotten
Has been lain to waste
I’m sorry, momma, I am to blame
9-5-2021, M.A. Tempels ©
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Hey guys! I’ve started a new account where I post my weird dreams(trust me they are the most dramatic plots in the world), along with funny anecdotes and short posts or writing ideas. While this is a more dedicated account to writing, @dreamingdimsum is more focused on light writing. I was really struggling to be productive and finally took a step in this direct after wanting to do it for a while. Hope you guys will show it the same love and support! Thanks a ton for all the loveee
Loads of love,
but too much
will make it drown.
What it needs to survive
can also cause it to die.
-J.Wool, Thoughts Aloud
All writing belongs to me.
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Issue 25 now live!
Issue 25 now live!
Issue 25 (May 2021) features undergraduate creative writers from University of Benin, Florida Southern College, Occidental College, Principia College, Stephen F. Austin State University, Truman State University, Vanderbilt University, and Franklin & Marshall College. Thanks to all the contributors for submitting. We hope you enjoy the…
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Person A: Can you believe my therapist thinks I’m goth?
Person B: …But aren’t you goth?
Person A: How long have you been under the assumption I’m goth?!
Person B: Honestly? As long as I’ve known you.
Person C: You are goth, Person A. You’re just the last to know.
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He called me again last night
his voice flowed into my ears
rusted, age old locks were grinding
cackling, hanging on closed doors.
And when he said my name
They flew open like his mother's arms
after he had pushed himself out of her.
His breath grazed the shell of my ear
a memory of his knuckles
brushing against my gossamer edges
imprinted on me like the smoke from
his cigarette buried in my lungs.
And when he said my name
I shattered him with my screams
as if holding tight to another goodbye.
I rewatched The Two Towers last night with one of my roommates and the end of that film, the end of the Battle of Helms Deep... it always gets me emotional, without fail. So here’s a little... ehhh drabble
Also, this is technically a rewrite of a bit shorter piece that i wrote after rewatching the movie a little over a year ago. I just love this series man idk
Also also, sorry if there’s any weird formatting. I copy and pasted this from my notes and i’m in mobile so hopefully this publishes okay lol
But on that night, the strength of men held. Against all odds, it stood as strong as the walls of their mighty stone keep. Though darkness lunged from the shadows, biting nipping and tearing hungry for fear, for death, for blood like the eager wolf-dogs of the night, the men of Helms Deep never faltered. Never once did they sway from their stand. They stood at the one gate, standing before King and country and facing the evil that sought to sink them forever into the blackness of the night.
But it was not to be. And all the fellowship that remained saw the true face of Men that night. The fair elf of Mirkwood, his gleaming bow shining in moonlight, saw the true face of man that had only been known to him in stories. He saw the heart of his Elf-Friend reflected in the people he came from, at long last, and he felt pride for these brothers-in-arms, and sorrow for his true brothers, fallen to protect them. The mighty dwarf from cavernous mountains, his great battle cry echoing in the Keep, saw the true face of man that he had never thought to be true. He saw brothers and kin in both battle and fury and he fought all the harder, though his limbs ached and his body sore, he refused to let down the light and succumb to the darkness that evil brought. And Aragorn, son of Arathorn, child of Rivendell saw the true face of man that night, a race long since fallen from grace, which at last stood tall the long night, prideful and strong. At last the three found faith in the armies of Man and hope bloomed in their hearts.
For all of Middle-Earth glowed with a golden light as Gandalf the White charged the hill, his staff alight with the shine of the Kings and gods of old. All the might of the Rohirrim mustered behind, there was hope in Rohan’s eyes and in the tired eyes of her King.
And as they sought to do battle against the now fearful and blinded armies of darkness, they had brought an end to that night which had spilled blood and tears and had pushed faith and hope to its breaking point. Brave Eomer, ever loyal to his King, at their head, the Rohirrim would not fail and though Helms Deep was wounded, it would not fall.
And even amongst those most cynical among them, of all those who had survived the long, cold night, there could be no doubt that at last hope bloomed in all men. Hope that battles against armies of evil and fire and pain could be fought and won. Hope that days would come to pass where no man would have to take up arms against monsters too terrible to imagine. Hope that even on the darkest nights, when all hope would seem to be forsaken that the sun would rise again, and clear the shadows from the land and bring with it a new life to a world scarred, battered, and tired.
70% of writing if procrastinating
20% of writing is research
5% of writing is pinterest and brainstorming
3% of writing is editing the same sentence 20 times
and 2% of writing is actually writing
Person A: Is there a prayer for asking someone to get run over by a truck?
Person B: Those are called curses and they’re generally frowned upon.
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Such a feisty little thing, she is
and from the grimy
￼there's really no reason
to delve into
he was cold and lonely
and chanced a look
out of his grimy
inside her apartment
a real-life Renoir girl,
and uses a pencil
there are many sketches
in his drawer:
not all alike,
not all dissimilar,
each a different representation
of his psyche
and he whistles to himself, softly,
the girl next door.
©️ Anna S., 2021
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Writing Prompt #1574
“You promised me!” The scream tore from my throat with enough force that even I flinched. But he did not. Instead, he shook his head, and clicked his tongue at me as if I were an unruly pet.
“Now, darling, you have to understand. My word means absolutely nothing, and it always had. It isn’t my fault you got yourself so worked up over an empty promise.”
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What is going on today..?
"All these projects, all these shemes..." his mother sighed, running a hand over her perfectly coiled hair. "My love is not so easily bought."
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all that Shy exChange in Shade
be ‘tween G’od & d’Evil Play to Weigh
in The Light, Life's Love, Just Stay
through me Truth, Me Shine, White Ray
Dis-Spell Night might Bright the Day
Act & Speak the Goodness into Being All The Way
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Poetry is for everyone
I truly believe that there is something special about writing poetry. You don’t have to make it rhyme and it doesn’t have to be anything like anyone else’s. And no you don’t have to be Shakespeare or a scholar to be good enough for poetry.
As long as you are putting your emotions on paper and expressing yourself that is the best formula for a poem.
Writing poetry has always been an outlet for…
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Fernweh: Holding Out for the Unknown
I've been living in two places at once for four years now. I moved to Dasmarinas, Cavite from my hometown Nasugbu, Batangas with remorse; I thought I was being taken away from a place I vowed to never leave. And for a long time, I felt homesick.
Heimweh, as the Germans called it. I missed home so much. I would often cry myself to sleep because I was in a different place. The air was different, the people were different, and I was different. If there was something 13-year-old me didn't like, it was exactly that. Nasugbu was my home because it felt familiar. Dasmarinas was my house because I studied there. Nothing ever connected the two.
That's what I thought until I remembered the Kaybiang Tunnel. Although technically the property of Maragondon, Cavite, it starts (or ends, if you went from Cavite) in Nasugbu. The tunnel has been the road of choice for us when we used to travel in the afternoon. It was an escape route away from the dreaded traffic near Alfonso and Tagaytay. It was a dangerous road -- the only thing saving you from falling off the side of the cliff was the driver's skills behind the wheel. However, I loved going up there.
I strangely felt at home in a place that's neither Nasugbu nor Dasmarinas. It was a grey area. The middle of a Venn diagram. The mountain views from one side and the ocean from the other; it was the beautiful marriage of the two landscapes that enamored me to that place.
When you look at the forest for long enough, you will start to see the small entrances to the woods that seem to hide some kind of secret. My mind wandered into these woods without ever taking a step out of the car. I always loved thinking that there was some kind of Narnia there. Maybe I could even find myself my own Totoro. There was an amazing place behind those trees and I was sure of it.
Sadly, I got robbed of the chance to explore it. The quarantine made sure that we were all cooped up inside the house to ensure safety of each family member. That also meant that I no longer saw the mountains by Kaybiang, nor the wonders that lie inside it. But my mind never stopped thinking about it.
Like heimweh, the Germans also had another word for this: Fernweh. It is described as the feeling of nostalgia for a place you've never been to. Wanderlust, if you will, is the term usually accompanying fernweh. That is exactly what I had.
I daydreamed so much about walking into those woods barefoot, with nothing but curiosity and will accompanying me. I longed to go home. Be one with nature. Strangely enough, it felt like home. It was calling out to me. And if I could, I would answer to it as soon as I can.
There are still travel restrictions for minors all around the world. But once I get the chance to go outside again, I would go back to the forests of Kaybiang. It's the bridge between my past and my future, the line that connects my personal and professional life, and the keeper of my heart.
People say this is a bad idea, but I am planning ahead the books after book 1 while writing book 1. Like writing a series
I know the rough outline of the later books, I imagine scenes and write scenes of the later books for fun.
I am also worldbuilding for the later books, which I often find benefits the first book anyway. And as some characters will travel around in the world in a later book, I need to know how the world around them will look
As I am doing worldbuilding in moderation, I do not think I have worldbuilding disease. In fact, I sometimes feel I am worldbuilding the bare minimum. Another argument that I do not have worldbuilding disease is that I do write while I worldbuild. I do one and the other in about equal amounts. I do also try to use the world in the marketing
Do you think I am doing something dumb? Should I have waited with the success of book 1 before continuing planning the rest of the books?
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of burials and swords
I've been reading poems
ladies who wrote
with the swords they could not use
to pierce their hearts
why do I imagine
them to be forever young?
why do I see girls in fields
writing in leather journals
I'm forever surprised
to find out
that the vitality of women is preserved
even after adolescence
I've spent myself.
so much already
where are they, their souls
whence does their life spring?
why do I expect
to stay young forever?
contrary to my prayers, it's not a blessing
I don't even want it, I promise
but I've always seen myself
gory glimpses of my own demise at
11 years old
a certain sound of tragedy about me, broken crystal
always beauty in it, I can't die if I can't be seen dying
and I've decided
if it isn't the illness I forever shamefully wanted
that I should take care of it myself
at least I would get the chance to write
my last words and not have them
heard away from me
my overarching story must be perfectly crafted
whence do you get your life
enough life to carve your heart out with silver toothpicks
and preserve it
in a leather journal buried in the fields
next to your rotting, soft bones
take heart in your suffering
I will take whatever's left of it
poor shredded strings
grasp at its remnants and wonder
how it gets by with so little
where does it get its life from why
is it like the grass I used to pull
when I was a girl in a field
hiding it in a leather journal
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