#how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

...broke away from the “titling pieces after ghost songs” to name this one after a nicole dollanganger song :] anyways: meet mariona! i... want her to be the main character for this storyline, but with all the other over-developed characters i have i’m not sure how likely that is. i do love her, though, here’s a piece about her. she’s in a relationship with anton!

warning(s): some veeery mild gore? taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

I was elated to have my portait painted. This was, if you’ll remember, after I’d made my introduction into high society. They all wanted to paint me — lovely, demure Mariona Coria-Saldo with her sculpted cheekbones, heavy silk-like dark hair, soft and long-lashed blue-green eyes. It was a lovely portrait that I still have — I was very particular about what I wanted. But it was too lovely.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

My face is my fortune. I know that much and am content with it. This way and that I am told I am beautiful, that I speak words with a sweet touch of wit — yet when I ask what words I am greeted only by stammers. I do not wish I was ugly, but I can hardly get drunk or rich off of being told that I am lovely. I am not seen, at least not really. All people see is a face, and that is all they talk about. What might happen if I fell and cracked my head open upon the ground, bone shattering like porcelain as mucus-coated brains ooze their way out of my now hollow skull? What then?

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

For every book I read, every little bit of art I create, I feel a stomach-turning fear. What if no one sees these works? I am not myself. I am not flesh and blood. I am the portrait that hangs in the corridor, not made of hands but of liquid paint that smudges a dab of white and the palest pink for the corners of my eyes and haints painted softly in oil. And I should not feel the way I do, for I’ve got a mother and father who pass love down to me through their fingertips and a sun-bright future ahead of me.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy.

The Flower of Lirola is said to be able to cure any illness. One sprinkle of the dewdrops that coat its petals can cause blindness to drain away, for the afflicted to be able to breath with lungs not smothered by mucus. I will find that flower, prove that the beauty of the flower of Lirola is far more beautiful than me, that I am far more than the canvas of my face and I am made of life. I will travel the distance it takes, Anton at my side. I think Anton loves me as more than a portrait, but I can’t be too sure.

I don’t want to be drowned by paint. I want to live. I want to be me. I am an individual, and I want nothing more than to be seen as one.

People will ruin anything that brings you joy. But I don’t want that to be the case for me anymore.

#writing #writeblr #my writing #amwriting #writers on tumblr #how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

a tarnished potrait - an israfel/claude playlist

1. demons - imagine dragons

2. friend, please - twenty øne pilots

3. take me to church - hozier

4. saint bernard - lincoln

5. born to die - lana del rey

6. oh ana - mother mother

7. i’ll forget you - the scarlet pimpernel

8. while my guitar gently weeps - the beatles

9. the other side of paradise - glass animals

10. eden - sarah brightman

11. fool - cavetown

12. fireflies - chris garneau

taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ):  @adaparkwrites / @asablehart / @astralis-elysian / @austrohungarianwriteblr / @blueinkblot / @chris-the-dragonslayer / @farewellv / @ollieoxen-freewriting / @pe-ersona / @silverscene / @sunshineomeara / @wildler / @write-for-your-life2

#how'd queue like to spoon with me #writing #writeblr #playlist #wip #*rictus

[luciatraskwrites]

“lucia trask, as i live and breathe, writing something that’s not terribly angsty and sad? what witchcraft is this i witness before me?!” you heard it, folks! at least this part is, there’s no guarantee that the rest o’ this one is gonna be light and fluffy :]

warning(s): ...creepy scenarios but nothing overly graphic, just “that feeling of unease walking around at night when it’s dark out in the woods.” taglist ( ask or dm me to be + / - ): @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

The sun has set, Talia and Adrian walk alone in the dark woods. Pale, silvery moonlight squeezes between the dark gaps of the oppressive, twisting trees that circle around the both of them. The only trace of color that Adrian can see are the flashes of delicate red and bold pink of flowers underfoot. Each crunch of bark and pebble that sounds with every step he takes sounds too loud in his ears — even though he knows for sure the footsteps are his own, there’s that fearful little voice whispering softly in the back of Adrian’s mind that something or someone is following them.

“I’m sure we’ll find the first rosebush soon.” He watches Talia squat close to the ground. It’s hard to make out her features save for a silhouette illuminated by moonlight, but Adrian knows what she looks like: Apple-cheeked face framed by puffy red curls, large brown eyes, small round nose, her favorite lavender dress trimmed with lace most likely smeared with dirt by now that they’ve been trekking through the woods for who knows how long. It’s all because of a rosebush — Adrian likes roses, Talia wanted to try and find flowers to show him now that it’s summer and the first roses are coming out (“Wild roses,” she’d said to him, “Are different-looking than what we’ve seen in the palace gardens, but they’re still very pretty.”)

Something coos in the distance — the crooning of an owl, perhaps. Adrian draws close to Talia, putting a hand on her arm. She jerks her head up from where she’s kneeling. Though he cannot see the brown of her eyes in the dark, light still gleams in the form of faint pinpricks against her pupils.

“Are you scared?”

Yes, I am. “No, I’m not.”

His voice shakes. He and Talia are only ten years old, and while her curse may not harm her, he doesn’t know what else could. He doesn’t know what else could hurt him, either. He just wanted to see the first flowers of summer.

“You sound scared.” Her words aren’t snippy or indignant. “Are you?”

“I just said I’m not.”

“But are you really?”

“…Yes.”

“How scared?”

“Very. I keep wondering if something’s following us around here. A panther. A bear, maybe. Or… something worse. Like the fairy who’d cursed you at birth.”

“She won’t be here. She hasn’t been seen for years. Besides, Mama always said she’d only intended for the curse to fall on my sixteenth birthday — and that’s okay, because they’re making sure to keep me safe from anything like spinning wheels.”

She stands up and pulls Adrian close, arms squeezing around him. And in the darkness of the woods, he feels safe.

“But if you’re scared, that’s okay. We can leave now and come back tomorrow. And if anything happens to us, I’ll keep you safe. I have my dagger! Do you want to go back now?”

“Yes. I don’t feel safe.”

Quiet, save for the tittering of crickets from farther down. Then:

“I’m sorry, Adrian. I shouldn’t have made us stay this late. If we get in trouble, I’ll tell Mama and Father that it was my fault.”

#my writing #writeblr #amwriting #wip #my wip #fairytale #sleeping beauty #how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

the newest in my colorful cast of characters: anton! (oh my - how very alliterative!) title is snatched from this very thought-provoking if not nightmare-inducing song by the vocaloid producer GHOST. isn’t this such a triumphant moment for our dear anton? *v*

content warning(s): generally uncomfortable imagery, child abuse. taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @adaparkwrites​ / @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @catandwitch​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

Was I supposed to exist?

I ask that because I was born then, umbilical cord still glistening from where it remained attached to my stomach — smiling bright, is what my brothers told me. They waited at the side of the bed, Casimiro clinging to my father and Lorenzo gripping hold of my mother’s hand. My father, stony-faced. My mother — eyes closed, peaceful-looking. Dead. The strain of giving birth took its toll on my mother, whose muscles and veins could only take so much.

Was I supposed to exist?

I ask that because of Father. He never said anything about it. But I could tell his answer was supposed to be no. Yes, I remember all the times he’d talk about how I brought shame to the family. Casimiro was always the one shielding me, pathetic and small and sobbing, from angry words or a burst of fire to the face. He has that scar from the time he defended me: It’s a large, blotchy burn covering most of his face. Father told him he’d be handsomer without it. Even though Casimiro could easily hide it with magic, he doesn’t. I don’t know why.

Was I supposed to exist?

I ask that for all the nights I spent awake. There were three of us those nights: Casimiro, the oldest, Lorenzo, the middle child, and me, the youngest. Do you remember being a child once? Regardless of whether the demons were in the flesh or whether or not they stalked you as manifestations of circumstance, you remember the night. There were sleepless nights I’d spend awake, curled up beneath the bedsheets tucked in next to my older brothers. I knew there were monsters that had exited my head and entered my bedroom, waiting for me. Not my brothers. But me. Because they knew I wasn’t supposed to be here?

Was I supposed to exist?

I ask that because of Dama Vivia. She is as lovely as all the legends say, with those glitteringly blue eyes staring out of her pointed, pale face. She dresses in gowns of white, gazing upon me with a gentleness I don’t think I deserve. She says that while it was not my destiny to find the Flower of Lirola, I should make it so. It should be me — not my brothers! — because with the quest to find such a flower, I will be loved. I will belong. I will be good. She was hurt in the past once, too, she says, by her own sister. She can feel my pain.

I want to be good. I want to be loved. It is a terrible thing, to grow up knowing you are bad luck.

Yes. I was supposed to exist. I just have to find the proof for it.

#my writing #writing #writeblr #amwriting #prose #character study #how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

writing this was... an interesting experience. i had to rely on bringing up a lot of very uncomfortable recent memories (nothing to do with my own family upbringing - please don’t grow concerned, my parents are lovely people who i admire) for this one. but it was cathartic and soothing to lay all that ill ease out and just write this snippet for casimiro.

please bear in mind that what casimiro says... may not necessarily line up with what he thinks or his experiences. as well as the fact that yes, this piece is sort of a critique of a certain attitude and subgenre of fiction. i won’t say everything, because the latter can be summed up more succinctly in an essay - i think it’s important for you to take away your own more personal meaning from this work and make of it what you will :)

warning(s): implied/referenced child abuse, uncomfortable imagery taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @adaparkwrites / @austrohungarianwriteblr / @blueinkblot / @catandwitch @chris-the-dragonslayer / @ollieoxen-freewriting / @pe-ersona

I have to set a good example.

Father taught me I needed to set an example. Oh, Father — you could make me feel fear and cry in an instant and you did when you burned me, but the moment I heard your booming laughter fill the room, I knew all was right in the world. Mother, too, told me this. I love you, Mother. You would always let me know that you and Father only wanted what was best for me and my brothers, you’d tell me this as I’d rest my hand upon your swollen stomach. You both loved us all. I know that much was true. Was. Because it was only several years ago that you were lying there, my wriggling baby brother sobbing in your arms.

I have to set a good example.

It was for my younger brothers, Lorenzo and Anton. Of the three of us, I think Lorenzo understood the least. He still doesn’t, really. He says such awful, awful things about Father when he grows angry. But he’s my brother, and I love him. Anton, too: If he was scared of not being good enough for Father, well… that just meant he needed to work harder. So I tried, I really did, to be a good brother. The one I wanted to be. The one everyone else expected me to be. I held Anton and Lorenzo close to my heart, told them how to keep away from the monsters in the closet at night, played with them. Because even though I was told that I was loved, I wasn’t sure of it.

I have to set a good example.

The moment Father discovered I liked to keep to myself reading books that were far than appropriate for someone my age, eyes poring over the frayed and yellowed pages, he knew. I was an intellectual, an old soul trapped in the pudgy-handed, soft body of a small child. But I grew up, and fought to shine for people as much as I do now. It’s no use if I can’t live up to the image they painted of me. Casimiro, the next in line to the throne, the wise prince, the goodly prince, the handsome prince. That’s what they call me. And some days, I worry. Because I’ve been hoisted upon a pedestal for the kingdom to gawk at. What if I take one wrong step and come toppling down, broken bones splintering through muscle and flesh once I hit the ground? What will everyone think of me then?

I have to set a good example.

I was — am — hope. My people look to me to cure my father and give him his sight again. As does Dama Vivia. She is one of the most glowingly beautiful people I have ever watched. She’s a splendor clad in white, a flush of color set upon her cheeks, large dark-set blue eyes staring from past the gauzy veil draped over her hat. She is life itself in all its glory, all that is heartbreakingly stunning in the form of something mortal. She tells me that yes, it is my destiny to cure my father. It has to be. It will not be an easy journey but I will be rewarded as will my people. I am good and pure, I have to keep fighting with my optimism as a shield and hope as a weapon.

But why am I crying tears that aren’t of joy? Why do I feel so sickened in private, as though there’s an illness inside eating away at me? I must keep going, though.

I have to set a good example (I can’t). I must use my kindness as a weapon (I don’t have any weapons, I don’t want to keep going). I will find the flower of Lirola (What if I don’t?) and all will be well for all in my life (It won’t).

#my writing #writeblr #writing #amwriting #how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

next in this series of snippets is lorenzo! it was only after i finished this that i realized i may have made him a bit too similar to me: to clarify, thank g*d i don’t have the childhood he did (i’m very grateful for my loving family) but i’m familiar with the resentment and anger he feels about people who dismiss his problems a little too well.

content warning(s): mild torture, child abuse, uncomfortable imagery. taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @adaparkwrites​ / @catandwitch​ / @blueinkblot​ / @austrohungarianwriteblr​

I had nothing but my anger.

I was a hair’s breadth away from hating Anton, the youngest. I remember the day he was born, imprinted with precision upon my mind. There lay my mother upon the bed, cradling that screaming little bundle of pink-faced life in her arms, so quiet and still and lovely. But dead. And I was always a hair’s breadth away from hating my oldest brother, Casimiro, too. He was a sweet-faced child who grew into a beautiful man. He was kind. He could do so many things, regardless of whether magic sprung from his fingertips or it was something as simple as diplomacy. He was gentle. He was loved. He was everything I was not.

I had nothing but my anger.

I did not hate my brothers. I really didn’t. Sometimes I would look upon Anton and think, Why did Mama have to die so that you could live? What if it had been you? Three is a chaotic, child’s scribble of a mess. Three is unbalanced. But Mama was gone, and I had more to be angry about. It was Father, wasn’t it? Father was the one who was ever so close to being afraid of me — me! Because I did not shy away from him like Casimiro or curl up sobbing like Anton. I would snap back. I did love Father, I did. But there was a method to his cruelty. He wanted us to be his perfect sons, dolls to be propped up on shelf as lifeless glass eyes peered at a toy’s shop below. I didn’t want that. I was scared of that.

I had nothing but my anger.

I remember running away when I was fourteen. I’d gotten into a fight with Casimiro who up to now had been Anton and mine’s savior and protector. But I had not estimated the amount of people who were desperate to have a prince’s blood decorating their hands. They did not kill me — I bit and scratched at them too much for that, and had been whisked away too soon. But they had been the ones to carve a tattoo onto one arm, and I gaze at it proudly now knowing that my anger had kept them alive — my anger is clarity, it tells me of all I am supposed to do. Father had been in tears when I got back and though Casimiro hoped against hope that that would be the moment the exterior shattered and he was as goodly of a father as he was a king, it did not. He went back. I wasn’t surprised.

I had nothing but my anger.

Dama Mora is not like the others. She clothes herself in black, so it looks as though she drips with ink. There are cracks running all along that moon-like face of hers — scars. Some say she is ugly and horrifying to look upon, but I think she is breathtaking. She is unlike any of the other goddesses. She does not murmur saccharine words of There, there, or you must keep fighting, there is good in spite of the bad. She is harshness and death’s cold talons that will come to grip all eventually and never let go. She snapped at me the first time I met her, and that was what I needed. I needed to know that people like me who knew what had to be done, who had the world’s cruelty force-fed to them and could not put a stopper in their anger no matter how much they tried had a place, too.

Fire burns all things. I will have no epiphany of goodness and all that is wholesome and light. But I can make others feel my epiphany.

I have nothing but my anger. And I am grateful, for it is my anger that has kept my vision clear and my body alive.

#my writing #writing #writeblr #amwriting #prose #character study #how'd queue like to spoon with me

[luciatraskwrites]

just in case my opinions on the titular subject matter weren’t clear enough :)

taglist ( please ask or dm me to be + / - ): @adaparkwrites​ / @astralis-elysian​ / @austrohungarianwriteblr​ / @blueinkblot​ / @chris-the-dragonslayer​ / @ollieoxen-freewriting​ / @pe-ersona​

We think ourselves Immune to the disease. We wouldn’t burn books, we say Not like the people who do Cramming us all into boxes Of sinners or saints. But the disease spreads Skin crumbling off fingertips Tongues covered in lumps As we spew our disgust It’s different for us, isn’t it? Us with our eyes open Because we don’t see sinners or saints Just black and white? And in order to make room for white We must all have our limits And stitch unwanted mouths shut Tear up unwanted paper. So we, contaminated by disease Do so And watch in a parody of triumph As what we need burns away.

#writing #my writing #writeblr #amwriting #poetry #poem #spilledink #spilled ink #how'd queue like to spoon with me