#my short stories

[elizxbethofyork]

a rhaena targaryen story ♛ hope is a dangerous thing 2/2 inspo and gifs by @queensend

warning! depictions of incest, harsh language, murder, violence, abusive relationships, and mentions of rape

It had been a fortnight since that eventful night, the night her husband made her sing, and the night the witch Tyanna died. He had made a vow to place a prince in her womb, a prince he would never have, and yet he did not return to her bed. It was a relief knowing she was safe from his touch for some time, but it only consumed Rhaena with anxiety and panic. She played with the rings on her fingers and soothed herself at night with Valyrian songs, but it did nothing to calm her restlessness. Rhaena was a prisoner, a caged dragon, she did not know what occurred in the realm or even within the Red Keep. She was starved of information about her family and her daughter’s well-being. She pleaded with maids and servants who entered her chambers but no one would tell her anything, all of them fearful of the King. But their silence, her husband’s absence, and small council meetings dealing with traitors told her something was amiss.

Her paranoia made her more observant, she watched as the chambermaids cleaned her rooms and brought her meals. Day and night, she stopped begging and simply watched them. It was then she noticed how ten became seven, seven became five, and five became three. It was slowly becoming more and more obvious: servants slowly disappearing, the castle halls losing all sound until it was utter silence. Maegor’s tight grip on Westeros was suffocating and he was losing his hold on control, his hold on power, and his hold on the iron throne. But he shielded her from it, and she wondered if he truly only acted as such to hide the truth from her or himself. For a man that prides himself on strength, it would be hard for him to accept the reality, that he was not worthy of the iron throne.

The silence Rhaena had become accustomed to over the weeks had come to an erupt end, she would soon be in the company of her husband.

What little remained of the servants and handmaidens emerged as they stormed upon her chambers after midday. They swept and cleaned the rooms, fed the fire in the hearth, and changed the old bedsheets for new clean linens. Rhaena simply watched from the window seat in the alcove, it wasn't until they brought a large copper bath that she questioned their motives.

“We work by His Majesty’s orders. He wishes to be with your Grace tonight, and commands for the rooms to be cleaned and for us to attend to you, my Queen”, the old household maid replied sternly.

She knew this would come, she knew he would return to her, he always did. No matter where she went Maegor would always find her.

The shrew of a woman resumed her work and ordered the servants around the room. Rhaena turned her head and looked to the skies, not a single cloud in sight. A storm is brewing.

The old woman snapped Rhaena from her musing, “Shall her Grace, remove her gown and enter the bath? Or does my Queen need assistance in that as well?”. Her small suspicious eyes examined Rhaena from head to toe, reminding her of the Dowager Queen Visenya.

Rhaena relented and submitted to their will, as she had done since returning to city. She glared at the old woman. Were she a true dragon she would have bathed the old woman in Dragonfire, but she couldn't and she mustn't, she must save her whatever fire she had left for an even worse evil. They stripped her of her gown and the chemise underneath, until she stood bare in front of them. Their eyes staring and prodding as if they were skinning her to find something hidden deeper underneath. All they would find is a sleeping dragon.

The bronze tub was filled with steaming hot water, the room was filled with spiced and floral scents from the expensive Lyseni oils. The maids washed her sliver hair with utter delicacy, but scrubbed her skin raw until it was red. They dressed her in a soft white shift made from Myrish lace, and applied drops of perfume on her neck and wrists. Her long hair was left to dry freely without any braids but was brushed with an ivory comb. All of them gifts from her husband, all of them made to bring him pleasure.

When Rhaena looked at her reflection in the looking glass, she couldn’t recognize herself; she saw a meek, submissive, and fragile wife, nothing like the dragon princess she once was. It was already nightfall, and her hand’s trembled. A dragon does not fear, she reminded herself, a dragon does not fear. She has lain with him numerous times before, another night would be nothing.

When the young maid attending her laid her hands on top of her shaking ones, she all but shrieked. The young mousy girl looked around the room, making sure no one was watching, no was looking. She placed a small vial into her hands, and looked up into Rhaena’s eyes with pity, “For the pain, your Grace”, she whispered.

A dragon does not fear, she repeated, but she was afraid. “What pain? What is this?”, she all but sobbed looking down at the vial in her palm.

“Milk of the poppy, Your Grace”, the maid whispered, she stopped to looked around once again. She’s paranoid and scared, just like me, Rhaena thought. “His Majesty has been in a rage and wrathful since he heard of your brother, Jaehaerys’ proclamation. Of the uprising and rebellion he is inciting. He will surely be rough with you this night, a few drops would numb the pain that is to come, all of it will be as if it never happened”.

A warmth bloomed within her chest, but before Rhaena could thank the stranger. She bowed and scurried away. She looked to small vial once again, her mind racing with the news she just heard. Her observations were right, he’s loosing his power, his control. Maegor is loosing the iron throne to a boy of four and ten, she could almost laugh. The warmth in her chest grew and she didn’t notice the smile forming on her lips, hope was a strange thing.

“If that was all, my Queen, by your leave”, the old woman hissed, but she had no fire for the crone - only a smile.

“I would have wine brought before His Majesty arrives. Not a Dornish vintage, however, but Arbor gold. Only the finest for our King”, she commanded with sweetness in her voice, hope in her heart, and madness in her mind.

The old woman nodded curtly and with her maids, all of them left the rooms after bowing before Rhaena.

The Arbor gold she had ordered was brought before her swiftly upon a golden platter with two golden chalices. When she was finally alone, Rhaena rushed toward the tray of wine. She poured herself a cup and swallowed the sweet liquid down. She played with the vial in hand, thinking about all the possibilities. A few drops for numbness, and the entirety for oblivion. When she made her decision and filled both goblets with wine. Seven drops of poppy for herself, and the rest for her husband. It was madness, it was hope, and the poppy gave her a sense of courage.

Rhaena sat on the edge of the large feather bed. Her fingers traced the stitching of luxurious bedding, while she cradled her wine in her lap. The thoughts and ideas rushed through her mind. It would be dangerous, but it was hope. The hope of freedom, the hope of living, the hope of her daughters alive and thriving. The best battle plans are planned, thought out thoroughly, and executed at a certain time; however, some plans are made during the moment in the heat of battle. Her purple eyes scoured the room, she heard the whispers of the passageways, and if there was a way out of her room, there was a way to find Aerea and escape the castle. However, if she were to escape the city she would need Dreamfyre —.

The sound of the doors to her prison unlocking pulled her out of her thoughts, and she was greeted by the sight of her husband. She rose from the bed instantly and lowered her gaze. The sound of his boots echoed against the walls as he approached her. She could feel the warmth of his presence, could smell the scent of his person: it was a pungent fragrance of rosemary used to conceal the other scents of ash and blood. His hands are large, rough, and calloused from the years of wielding a sword and dragon-riding; and yet his touch was gentle and cautious when they brushed against her cheek. When she lifted her gaze, her purple met his cold lavender, and yet she saw something else in his eyes, she could not name it but she feared it.

Maegor towered over her, he couldn't stop touching her, and his eyes continued to ensnare her. With a wicked grin on his face, one which she desired to slap off, he asked, “Have you missed my company, wife?”.

She held his gaze and answered sweetly and obediently, “Yes, Your Grace. A fortnight passed since I last been in your presence, it’s a great joy to see you, for it’s you all I thought of since” – thinking of all the ways to kill you.

The hum of approval she received as a reply, told her it was exactly what he wanted to hear. His hand gripped her nightgown, his fingers feeling the material of the fabric. He took the chalice from her hand and he drank what remained of her wine. His expression changed then, confusion grew on the lines of his face. He looked into the cup with suspicion.

She froze when she saw the look on his face, and in a panic she responded before he even asked, “Arbor gold, Your Grace. You expressed a dislike for the Dornish vintage, so I ask the maids to bring us the finest the Reach has to offer”.

He softened at her reply, and placed the chalice back into her hands. “Then you must bring me another cup, wife”.

She nodded and lowered her gaze, she walked towards the tray of wine and could feel his ever-burning gaze. When she turned to look back, she saw him whilst he was undressing. He gave her a savage grin when he caught her gaze, she smiled sourly. Rhaena placed the empty cup on the tray and focused on the special one she prepared just for him. Her knuckles turned white when she tightly gripped the chalice, anxiety, and fear rolling in her stomach threatening to her ill. She took a sip of the wine, praying for numbness, praying for courage, praying for the strength to do whatever she needed to survive. A dragon does not fear. She took a deep breath and returned to his side as a very loving wife.

She placed the golden chalice – as well as her fate, in his enormous hands. Her fingers lingered on his arms, caressing him with a softness. Her purple eyes flickered up and looked up at him with a longing through her lashes. She walked away towards the large bed seductively, knowing he was watching her every move. Rhaena slid the shift off her shoulders, allowing the thin fabric to pool at her feet, leaving her all exposed to Maegor.

Rhaena looked back him with a mischievous smile, “Shall we go to bed, husband?”.

Maegor’s hungry gaze was all she needed as an answer. He drowned the cup of wine and threw the chalice to the side. In what seemed to be mere seconds, he was grabbing her to his side and devoured her in a ravenous kiss. They were wild and harsh kisses that bruised her lips. All of her husband’s kisses left bruises on her body. He kissed her until they were gasping for air, his hands were touching every inch of skin on her body from groping her ass to her breasts. The poppy seemed to work for whilst he found pleasure, she found numbness.

“I missed your touch, I missed your scent, I missed the taste of you”, he mumbled against her ear.

Soon she was off her feet and on her back, like a common whore. His hands held her down against the soft silk bedding, and his tongue on the swell of her breast. She responded to his harsh hands with scratches and bite marks. He suckled her breasts as if he were a babe, drawing out unwanted gasps and moans, as he left her nipples red and hard. She loathed the way her body reacted, the sounds she made, for it all brought him pleasure. He should enjoy it while it lasts.

She could feel the thickness of his manhood against her inner thigh, “No”, she yelled, knowing what he intended to do. He looked up from her breasts like an upset child.

Her breath heavied with fear, she ran her fingers through his silver hair, and she pulled him into a kiss. “Let me, Maegor”, she whispered against his lips.

Rhaena mounted him as if he were Dreamfyre and rode him as such — she hadn't ridden her mount in weeks and a little practice wouldn't hurt, Rhaena thought. But when she looked down, it wasn't the blue dragon that she saw between her thighs but her husband and she only felt even more disgusted than before. She could feel his firm grip on her skin as his hands wandered from her hips to her full breasts — knowing that bruises would cover her pale skin by daylight. So she closed her eyes, trying to ignore his repulsive touch, and thought of something else more pleasant. Rhaena thought that this would be the perfect opportunity to kill him right there and then. She wished to take a Valyrian steel dagger and plunge it into his blackened heart, and stab him over and over again. She would relish in the feeling of both his cock inside her and his blood all over her — she could easily imagine the feeling of the warm red substance dripping over her naked skin. And it was such an exciting image in her mind that she felt herself reaching her peak, and as she did so she sunk her nails deeply into his chest, she could hear his deep groans of pain or pleasure, she did not care for it only added to her fantasy.

When she reached ecstasy, she cried out a moan of pleasure. However, the feeling passed when she opened her eyes, the dream had ended, and Rhaena met Maegor’s cold lustful gaze instead of the looks of agony and surprise she had imagined. Her body was scalding, beads formed on her brow as sweat slicked upon her back. Her breathing heavied as did the feeling in her breast from the vigorous riding, but the burning stare between the two remained.

It was in the silence that they share when he flip her over onto her back, for Maegor was both aroused and frustrated — he was losing his power and grip on the throne so he wouldn't allow such a thing in the marriage bed. He began thrusting into her vigorously and harder. She used this to her advantage and kissed him savagely, biting down on his lip and drawing blood into her mouth, and she even moaned his name serval times. All of it made his blood boil hotter, allowing his mind to be fogged by burning arousal and the poppy milk. He continue to fuck her multiple times throughout the night until he was utterly and completely spent. With one finally thrust he spilled inside of her, filling her with his seed, believing he had made a little princling that night. Maegor collapsed on top of her, his head once more lying between her breasts as he tried to catch his breath.

“A little princeling was certainly made this night”, he muttered against her skin. Over my dead body, Rhaena thought.

He kissed her once more before rolling over to the other side of the bed. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him. His breathing heavied, she watched as his chest rise and fall. Rhaena didn't know how long she watched him but she waited, waited until she absolutely certain he was deeply asleep. It wasn't until she heard the first sound of thunder that she risen from the bed. She quickly and quietly dressed into her riding leathers as she continued to watch Maegor. She had fucked him into oblivion, she smiled at the thought, of how the mighty have fallen. She made may to his discarded clothing and began to search his garments for the map detailing his hidden passageway. Her key to freedom. She had found it and the hidden entrance in the room, she should of left then and there. But she couldn't help herself.

Rhaena turned back to Maegor’s sleeping form, she leaned over him and whispered into his ear, “I found my release to the image of your dead body. I hope you die screaming”. He only mumbled in regards as a response and moved to sleep on his side.

As she begins to make her escape a glint of steel catches her eyes — Blackfrye. It was the sword of the Targaryen kings, Maegor’s most prized possession, but most of all it was her beloved grandfather’s sword. The heavy Valyria steel sword rested against the fireplace, the rubies in its sheath and hilt shining as if made from the fire itself. Maegor had propped it there when he'd entered, but she'd been too consumed with her task to notice until now. Now, it seems to call to her.

With her family’s ancestral sword in hand, she slipped threw the walls of her prison: to the arms of her daughter, to the wings of Dreamfyre, to the sweet embrace of freedom. Her husband should have known better, hope is a dangerous thing.

#preasoiafedit #rhaena targaryen #rhaena the black bride #maegorthecrueledit #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #fireandbloodedit #fire and blood #visenya targaryen #visenya the conqueror #blackfyre #houseofthedragontedit #hotdedit #gotedit #my short stories #aegon the conqueror #asoiaf & got characters #asoifedit #*myshorts #valyrianscrolls

[dogmasks]

as it can be seen, the organ of his crime, the hand, is not mentioned here. the matter presents itself this way because he does not exist in his body as a whole, but only in one point of it which changes cyclically, and which can become anything. as a rule, however, he does not direct himself into the hand, especially when he cuts meat, so that it operates strictly on instinct and does not know the concept of a trained blow. but mine does.

we wrote a simple tutorial on how to gut a fish for one of our ongoing projects ^__^ it's effective and full of helpful tips!

content warnings include descriptions of animal harm, of course, and the piece not being particularly sfw (but not explicit) at one point.

#2023 #my writing #tegument #my short stories #i wrote this in the span of about three days. but i had fun. and it's what matters #i like writing weird word vomits that sounds like baby's just read its first philosophy handbook

[inkcurlsandknives]

Hello! I saw your posts about your upcoming book making the rounds, and out of curiosity, I read your short story/science report on elves to get a vibe for how you write, and I think you broke my brain a little in a good way with that one. Fan get. Congrats on your deal, and good luck with the release! Looking forward to it now. I'll pick up a copy, or at least make sure my library gets one.

Cheers, y que vaya bien.

Hi!! 💜💜 Im so glad you enjoyed my little science Fantasy short story. It was a very fun experimental piece on what an advanced fantasy society might have in the way of academia. The style is definitely very different from my long form works but I do hope to have more fun in that space in the future

Many thanks again 💜

#science fantasy #advanced fantasy #fantasy academia #writeblr #my short stories #my writing

[catra-writes]

i dont believe in fate

fate is a thing of opinions. many say its a story etched in stone that you cannot change, that everything is already laid out and decided for you, or that your choices set your fate down a path you cant change once you've started.

every time someone describes fate to me it sounds like theyre describing a prison in earthy rock-like material created by some ethereal being who watches over every living being every decision and action.

i, however, dont believe in this sort of thing. i instead believe life is what you decide and you can back out anytime and change your mind, but sometimes the actions you take cant be reversed. it has nothing to do with this "fate" people describe.

the possibilities in life are as endless as a running river branching out in many paths until it reaches the vast flowing waters of the nearest sea or ocean, the depths of which still go largely unexplored by humanity just like the many possibilities we could chose every day.

everyone is free to make a choice, even as small as blinking or not in that moment, taking a breath or not and how deep or shallow that breath is or how long its held for. every manual movement of our body is a choice, a thing we control. that freedom of choice, that control, that is more freeing and presenting a sense of safety than any "fate" could bring.

your body, your life, your story. every day, minute, second, moment. all of it is safe for you to choose freely how you use it, how you spend it, how you shape it. you can take peace knowing you have the freedom of control and choice over even the things that seem the smallest or most mundane, theyre still signs you have control and will as a person and that your life isnt something predetermined.

that is what i believe in.

#writing blog #personal writing blog #descriptive writing #catra saves #creative writing #my short stories #original short story #short story #i dont believe in fate #choice over fate #original story #story by me #writing #catra writes #writing challenge #writeblr #writers on tumblr

[human-still-developing]

Gold and Brown: A Short Story

After so long of not posting my writing on here, I'm super excited to share this short story I've been working on for the last 3 months!!! It's a long one but settle back with a cuppa and watch the story slowly unfold!

Thank you so so so much to my beloved beta readers @oneofthewednesdays and @itsliterallysophie who gave such insightful comments and helped shape this story into what it is now <3 Also a huge thank you to my cheerleading team @peakogreen and @peggy-sue-reads-a-book who read this story first and hyped me to keep going!

Anyways that's all from me here, text only version beneath the cut <3

“If there’s one thing I promise you,” I remember my best friend telling me all those years ago, “It’s that someday we’ll make it out of here”

It is an early spring day, one of the last times that we can sit in the back of Kate’s ute to watch the sunset before the heat kicks in. Each day the blue of the sky seems more polluted by backburning smoke which striates across the horizon like ashes streaming in a running river. Even at night, when the colours are leached out of the world, its heaviness remains. 

Roiling. Waiting. 

It is hard to liken this field to the one we knew before the fires, when the endless rolling hills of green were marred only by the infrequent bursts of buttery-yellow fireweed. Before, when Kate and I would catch butterflies in our chubby palms while my brother Jake and his friends worked at the mines. Before, when we would climb out to the top of the hill and watch the endless field fold into its own corners at the horizon, golden in the dying sunlight. Before, when the wind would skid and yelp, tear through my dark hair like it once did through my mother’s and her mother before that and all the mothers who have ever existed in this landlocked, forgotten town. 

Now, there is just silence. 

I kick my legs against the red-rimmed tires as Kate pulls herself up to sit beside me. The thin, corded muscles of her arms ripple, the scrape of her sneakers against the mutilated road the only sound for miles. She used to be all soft curves and smooth skin but the relentless sun has brought out the hard corners and sharp edges of us all. We are at that delicate point in our lives where the balance of childhood and adulthood has just begun to tip irreversibly towards the latter. The edge of the cliff just before the fall to the bottom. 

“Jake’s back from Vietnam.” 

She raises her golden head and the contours of her face are cut out of the darkness by early starlight. When we were younger we used to play soldiers in these fields, pressing our rough summer tunics against the undergrowth as we raised our cardboard bayonets at each other. And one summer, Jake taught us how to shoot for real as well. He would ring steel every so often, cast bullets disappearing in the long grass as the sound rang on for miles and miles into the emptiness. 

It is the face that Kate made then that she makes now. Eyes narrowed but unfocused. Lips twisted and slightly pursed. 

“For good?” she whispers. 

I hesitate. 

Even when we were both children, Kate was always a better shot than me. Jake’s stolen revolver would dip and waver in my frightened grasp but in Kate’s confident grip it seemed like an extension of her. Steady hands, Jake would grudgingly remark as the swoop of her bullet sliced through the heavy, heated sky. Even now, the steadiness and grace in her movements is remarkable as she sits unflinching in the smoke. 

We have always lived in this tiny town a day’s drive away from Broken Hill. Drive ten minutes in any direction from the city centre and our little patch of houses and stores disappears into the barren red-soil that threatens to consume us. Our land is too sandy for agriculture of any type and while the newspapers will coin us a mining town, most families make their meagre dollars through their husbands and sons fighting in the war. 

My brother enlisted with his friends on his twentieth birthday. I remember ironing out his new uniform as the smell of Brasso wafted and hovered in the thick air. Back then he would only be drafted out to other cities for training, Bathurst and once all the way to Sydney, but that must have been a long time ago because for the last few years he had not written a single letter home. No sound from him until he showed up last week, battered by the sun in the five minute walk from the road to our front door. 

“I think he’s here to stay,” I begin but Kate scoffs and climbs over to her rucksack. 

She pulls out her heavy-duty torch, banging it against the side of the ute. It clicks and slowly shudders into a harsh white light that floods the field. Once, before the fires, Kate had found a brown coiled underneath her front tire and it has left her with a lifelong fear of snakes. Jake used to tease her about it and once after he hid a rubber snake in her school bag, she almost blacked out his eye. Even now, after the droughts and fires have pushed the snakes into deep country, she surveys the land around her car with the brilliant light. 

She does not have to worry anymore. Nothing can survive in the ashened, twisted remains of the paddock. 

Long ago, before Jake was deployed to Afghanistan and Kate’s mother abandoned her for the city, we had devised a great escape plan that involved us driving to Mildura overnight and hitch-hiking to Adelaide. We had almost carried it through; Jake’s beaten-up SUV packed with freeze-dried fruit from the corner store and winter jackets that had gone stiff from disuse. No-one knows exactly what went wrong in the plan but we never even made it out to the highway. 

Kate claims that we didn’t have enough fuel to last us the five hours down south. Jake insists that the floods had put too many potholes in the road for us to drive down. The truth was that it was the first time that any of us had truly considered the idea of leaving and it frightened us. The idea of pulling out the bricks in the foundation that had held strong for so many years.

After we drove home, I stood there on that road that seemed to contain my entire existence and stared into the nothingness for a long, long time. 

The idea of leaving is something that Kate and I talk about quite often, even though we are both careful to never mention the time we almost did. Everytime we drive out to this same paddock. Kate insists that she is leaving tonight but is quick to reconsider when I bring up the logistics. Sometimes we will contemplate where in the world Jake might be. Sometimes we will sit in silence and try to stare far enough into the horizon to see the ocean. 

“We’re leaving tonight,” Kate says like clockwork, “I’ve got a full tank and enough cash to fill up on the way. If we leave now, we’ll hit town before daybreak.”

Over the last week, none of us have gotten much sleep. 

It doesn’t help that on good nights Jake wakes up screaming and on bad ones sits on the porch with his rifle aimed out to the road. He doesn’t say much during the day either and spends most of his time sitting outside in silence. Only since yesterday, when they started the backburning for fire season, has he come inside during the daylight hours. 

Mum thinks that a part of him is still on the battlefield in Afghanistan but once he spends enough time out here, he will go back to the way he was. 

“Our land is harsh but it heals,” she said last night over dinner, “That’s how we have survived for so long.” 

Kate hits my knee with the handle of her torch and I look up at her again.

“We’re leaving this time, Jane,” she puts her coat over her sunburnt shoulders and fumbles for her keys, “Or we’ll never end up going.”

“Just wait,” I turn away from her and accidently kick her back tire, “Just a minute.”

As she takes out her keys, a rare wind blows from the south. We turn away because if we do not our eyes will be pierced with bits of ash and dry grass that pepper the air like shrapnel. My exposed skin, galvanised from years of standing tall against the world, stings until the wind dies out into nothingness. 

After the wind, the night air has turned warm and acrid. The white smear of the milky way stretches across the star riddled sky in between smoke patches. When I was sixteen, Jake taught me how to find due south following the constellations in the sky. It seemed pointless in a world where my entire life circled around these handful of criss-crossed streets but watching the southern cross rise above the plains brings back a familiar comfort. 

Two years ago, I had cut through the roof in the yard to watch the stars shift above me. The rotten planks gave way easily to the dark blanket that had shrouded civilisations. Holding the old rifle Jake had left behind, I had pressed myself into the floor as if I were a figment of him.

Waiting.

I climb into the shotgun as Kate starts up the car again. It does not take long for the main road to appear, a dark expanse that sinks into the blackness of the country.

“Let’s drive out a bit,” she says to the emptiness. 

Kate and Jake learnt to dance over one summer break. It was the Pasa Doble (the ‘Strictly Ballroom’ scene playing on loop on the television behind them) as they drew closer together and further apart. Sweaty from the late summer sun, I watched them sweep across the timber floors in cyclic motions like the wind-up dancers in mom’s music box. For a moment, there had been an energy between them. Something that made Jake’s fingers tighten around her waist. 

A beaten truck drives past us and Kate flashes her blinkers at him. With no street lights this far out, every vehicle drives on full beam after sunset. A crash out here is almost certain to go unnoticed until the next morning, by which time most drivers are dead from blood loss. 

When Jake had returned, Kate had bought him flowers. Real red roses, the tips at the verge of wilting from their long journey out here. She had given them to him out in that same field, where the bullets we shot in childhood lay like dormant seeds in the untouched soil. 

He had been quiet then. 

It was the next morning when we had woken up to find the roses smashed against the front steps. In Jake’s eyes there had been a mute haunting. As if all of us had cornered him until he was standing with his back to the front gate and the endless country behind him. But still he said nothing, although I could see the anger and anguish and hatred shifting like storm clouds behind his eyes. 

“I’m going to take the highway,” Kate says, “Or I know you’re going to turn me back around again.”

Almost before she finishes her last jibe, I know she is sorry that she has pushed me too far. It is like when you attempt to rev up an old truck out of heat-cracked pothole, accelerating slowly and letting the engine groan and scream as it tips you forward to where hole meets sun-softened road knowing all too well the rough skid of the tire as you inevitably fall back to where you started. 

But like Jake, I say nothing. Kate’s fingers barely touch the steering wheel. 

“You know we could just leave this time,” she whispers with surprising gentleness, “And they’ll never know the difference until morning.”

On the highway, there is the eerie stillness of night. Signposts occasionally pepper the rear-view window, speed limits and once bright-coloured advertisements that have long gone grey. Was it this same road that we tried to escape down last? Where my broad-shouldered brother was at the wheel and Kate in my place and me in the back trying to make sense of it all? 

The night is warm and still and silent for the country has not changed at all. 

And then my mind is drawn with sick fascination to the differences between that time and this. The dregs of affection for my brother that remain seem to swell inside me as I fill out the hollow that Vietnam has left of him. The way he used to roll down the windows and laugh into the trees as if they were old friends he had almost forgotten. The sturdiness of his step when he found me shooting in the grassland long after he and Kate had shot the bullseyes clean out of the targets. His calloused hand on my shoulder contracting into a rough squeeze. Try again tomorrow. 

As if a door is jerked open, Jake from the present blends into him from the past. His clothes are still dusty from his hitch-hike through the country and his fingers are white from being pressed against the doorframe of my mother’s kitchen. He lifts the bayonet higher, my mother’s cowering figure blended into some ghost from his past but I am transfixed as if the events in front of my eyes are just reflections in a puddle of water that I am unable to touch. It is Kate, roughened and emotionless, who pins him to the floor in some gross reincarnation of their dance here so long ago. 

I think in some way I have begun to realise that I’m no longer standing on the cliff at the end of childhood but on the ravine on the other side. For, in some unreasonable part of my mind, I have always imagined Jake coming home to be the sunlight that brushes away the storm clouds from Kate’s face or the first yellowish rain after almost a year of drought or any kind of reason to stay back, to stay here, to stay at all. 

But even as I am thinking this, I know inherently that nothing has changed at all. That the drought will come again this year and the year after that and every year this deep in the country. That I will grow older and my parents will grow old until one day all of us will grow no more and the land will stay the same, not forgiving, not remembering. 

“Let’s go home.”

Kate hesitates. 

She is a person of action, shooting bullet after bullet into the dryness with the ringing of steel moulding into an endless sound that one sees rather than hears, the momentum turning her eyes dark for a moment with a viciousness that is not uncommon out here. Of hitting the accelerator until the engine threatens to give out and the smell of fuel fills the ute as if we are in the middle of a fire rather than a banged up getaway on these old broken roads. She is a person of movement, of moving forward rather than stepping sideways, of defying rather than powering through. 

She hesitates. 

It is only then that I realise that we are standing still. The night is full and glossy as the last striations of smoke are cleared away. In the middle of it all, Kate sits like a ghost, ashened with tears streaking down her face like the rain that continues to evade our parched lands. The dust has already begun to settle on her cheeks. 

I am almost sorry for stopping us when this is the furthest we have ever got from home. A part of me is still waiting for Kate to argue, to say something cruel she almost does not mean but wishes she did. But a larger part of me remembers her face that evening with Jake, that secret smile she tucked into his neck as they swayed back and forth to some old song on the radio. 

As we drive back from the empty, expansive road, the wind cuts in from the plains with a renewed anger. It tears at you, threatens to crush you against the scorched gravel as pieces of the land rip into and harden every soft and delicate part of you. Unless you turn away or close your eyes, it is impossible to keep going forward for the air is thick and dry and weighted and turns to dust in your lungs. You cannot look past it, into endless acres that have bowed and yielded to the temper of the land since eternity. 

You feel so much that you can hardly feel anything at all. 

Almost. 

For by holding your breath and squinting open your eyes, you can start to visualise. You will not have much but what you do have is now shrouded in the galaxies that have protected civilisations for millennia. As the wind dies, I turn to Kate who grips my fingers from when we were blown together. The land outside moves but for once we are not moving. Her calloused fingers have slotted into mine and now both our hands are white and indistinguishable from each other. The anger that I expected from her has mellowed into a brazen expression that I cannot understand. 

Perhaps, like my mother once told me, it is the healing of the land. The way that the same land that produces fires and floods and droughts also creates butterflies and sunsets. We lean close enough to each other that a soft breeze tangles our hair together in a swirl of gold and brown, light and darkness. I think it will be a long, long time before we drive out onto this road again but there is a stillness that pushes us forward towards home. I think I will try to find Jake, that maybe this is a world he may understand.

#creative writing #words #literature #writblr #writers #my writing #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #inspiration #australia #short stories #my short stories #writeblr

[thesunshinenotebook]

Ghosts Have Souls

Darkness. I couldn't bring myself to move.

"You alive?" That was Jesse.

"No, I'm a ghost."

"Ghosts have souls; you do not."

"I will haunt you."

Silence.

"What's going on?"

"Just–everything is so uncertain, and–"

"House rule eight: no hyperbole. Not everything."

"Name one thing that isn't falling to shreds."

"Those curtains seem solid. And… we're solid. You've got me, right?"

"That was cheesy," I deadpanned. 

"Fine, I won't comfort you."

"Jerk."

"Idiot." 

I couldn't help smiling.

"Now help me get the cake off of the ceiling."

"Wha–" 

#short story writing #flash fiction #writing short stories #my short stories #short fiction #short story #what the heck #im not even sure what this is #hope you enjoy it anyway #bye

[brighteyedbushybrowed]

I've Launched My Own Website!!

Interested in reading some of my original work? Want an insight into the sorts of things I write in my spare time and things I wrote at university? Well, you're in luck! I'm now in the process of posting some of my original work over on my writing website for everyone to read! Think of it as being like a portfolio of my own short stories and poems. Link down below for anyone interested!

#writing #original writing #short stories #poems #my short stories #my poems #original short stories #original poems #writer #writers of tumblr

[mycatts-is-writing]

Everything hurts.

Scars on her back, gashes on her legs.

She should be dead right now.

Is she dead right now?

In the place between life and death, She speaks to her. “It is not your time yet, young one” a voice echoes around the darkness she sees. “When is it ever” she scoffs.

The Goddess of Death replies “I am sorry dear mortal, you may not reunite with him yet”.

“You took him away from me, how dare you be sorry.”

“It has always been his destiny to be at my side, I am only sorry that it happened early in his life.”

“You would know a lot about fate, about destiny wouldn't you Fateweaver.”

“Yes, I do know much. And I do know that we cannot prolong this conversation any longer before I shall return you to the mortal realm”. Before she can even utter another word, She continues “You are the leader of your people, you have much to do in this life before your sunset. My champion would say the same.”

Looking around, here in the dark expanse of nothing, she asks “Can’t I at least see him, before I go back?”

“You see him everyday do you not?” she rolls her eyes at the question. She hesitates then says “I do not think you will be getting a visit from him anytime soon.”

“What happened?” she asks wearily. Flashes of dirt and dust and blood comes back to her. When she last saw him moments before darkness embraced her.

“He came.” 

“Yes, he did.” She says, with a twinge of disappointment in Her normally ethereal voice.

The young woman notices Her tone but before she could say anything, She interrupts and says “I must bring you back before it is too late, you have duties to attend to.”

“Wait, what about your champion? What happened to him?”

“I am hoping you are able to answer that question when you come back dear, I do not know what has become of him after he went after you.” As she says that, her vision fills to black once again and she wakes up.

As she wakes, she looks around. In a familiar space, a familiar bedroom with scars on her back, gashes on her legs.

Everything hurts.

#my short stories #this is basically a glorified cr fic #that i used for an audition piece

[ladyloveandjustice]

The anthology in which I published ‘Heroic Exit’- a short story about superhero and supervillain rivals reunited in a nursing home, sparks fly- is having a 99c ebook anniversary sale! It’s a steal!

#heroic exit #my short stories #myths legends and dreams #anthologies #queer lit #y'all say you want queer elders and i'm givin 'em to you

[unlikelywitchgalaxy]

Random word generated story 2

The story of: Dark

There was nothing but silence while I stood in my lit doorway staring into the inky blackness of the hallway.

I stood there wondering if it had always been that dark at night. I dare not step into the hall while my mind started to race. I questioned wether or not I should just go back to bed and and ask my grandparents in the morning about the noise. "Its super fucking loud, for them not to hear it is... strange. Plus grandma is a light sleeper" I mouthed not wanting to wake her if she was really still asleep.

I decide to put on my phone's flashlight but it illuminated nothing, the inky blackness unyielding to the light. I suddenly felt uneasy as if I was being stared at, like a million eyes where on me all at once. That feeling persisted until from the dark 4 pairs of yellow orbs with black inky slits in the middle trained themselves on me.

I was glued to the spot. I watched as the darkness pulls itself together as it bent into a familiar position. The darkness then rushed at me as I tried to close the door the lights in my room flickered. I get the door closed and rest on it panting as the lights stop flickering. "Oh God" I whisper as I fall to my knees leaning on the door for support gasping and panting.

I start to shake and cry, when I feel something soft bump my leg and a small yet audible "mew" was heard.

#stories #my short stories #short story

[withinthesplendor]

Death & The Maiden -

The Tragic Love Story Once Untold

A Maiden so fair & full of life lived very simply & unnoticed by most who passed her by until one evening, as the moon slowly rose, Death took notice of thee. He approached her casually asking her forever to dance by his side. Fearful at first of his advances, the Maiden tried as she might to ignore his witty, charming & deepening glances that peered into her soul. Smitten by love, Death would not give up and eventually the naive Maiden gave in to his wiles curiously. She quickly took comfort in him as he paraded her around for all to see. Oblivious to the tragedy soon to be, the Maiden noticed as others whispered behind her back. Though she didn't care, for the Maiden had fallen in love with Death. She kissed & embraced him gently falling back into his arms as Death took her life. Claiming her forever to dance by his side. -jdr/withinthesplendor 🖤🌹💀

#death & the maiden #my writing #jdr #my thoughts #my short stories #withinthesplendor #short video #my work

[elizxbethofyork]

i have decided to do a series of short stories on maegor and his six wives.

so far i have posted rhaena targaryen’s story, which you can go and check out right now, and will write a second story as a continuation of the first.

however, i am in the works tyanna of pentos story, which will probably posted later tonight or tomorrow.

two wives down, four more to go.

comment which of maegor’s wives i should next.

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #asoiaf #my short stories

[bloodkrieg21]

Creative Writing II first writing project project.

#art #digital art #my work #my short stories #short story

[fromwhencehastthoucomest]

Hush Hush

Today was...well...a day. The femme in question had managed to yet again just barely dodge needing to be involved in a skirmish with the Maximals. She vented softly as she watched her "team" by relation, return to their base with menial pomp and circumstance seeing as there were injuries to attend.

Waspinator was only missing one arm and Quikstrike the other. Inferno had obtained the most damage and was reduced to barely trudging along instead of flying. Megaton was in his beast mode however, he seemed to limp, putting a hitch in otherwise confident strides.

She was just happy no one on either side had died. The blue whale was by no means a fighter. She took no pleasure in war or unnecessary bloodshed, however her fellow Cybertronians did not share the same feelings. Regardless, Baileen was willing to admit that her feelings of war were lofty at best.

The Aquatronian had seen the aftermath of such things, especially on the losing side. Memories of the past, best left forgotten, worked their way into her processor. The dread of her kind's original captors made her spark run cold.

The sea colony, Aquatron, had suffered many, many, many casualties. The smell of old energon seemed to rise up out of the sea, tinting the one before her a sickly brown instead of a clear blue.

#hush hush #beast era #my short stories #open rp #megatron #waspinator #inferno

[catra-writes]

The Dream Catcher

One must exercise great caution to secure safe, sound and sweet sleep. especially for those who wish to dream at all, let alone have good dreams.

When going to bed at night, your windows must be shut tight, curtains drawn and everything locked up. A night light in the hall or corner of the room and quick access to a light source near you is optimal but do not sleep with lights on and be sure all screens and devices are off at least and hour before sleep.

Precautions must be precise, lest you fall prey to the thief of the night.

With piercing white eyes that glow in the light of the moon, thin limbs and a torso that can slip through cracks with ease, drawn to bright lights like a moth to a flame and a taste for the imagination of the human mind's conjuring.

The thief creeps about the shadows, wisping away dreams like threads of silk from a caterpillars cocoon, feet light on the ground like silent flakes of fresh snow.

the dream catcher leaves its victims restless, too tired and unmotivated for the day, creativity seemingly drained along with their energy regardless of how many hours of unconsciousness one manages to get at night.

once youre a victim, the dream catcher will return each second night or another dream. you only have one night between its visits to prepare, setting up charms and wards to keep it away like you would ward off a nightmare or a fox from a chicken coop.

many things can be done to keep it away, hanging specific herbs and plants near entrances like garlic or holy, hanging woven sigils or engraving markings in willow wood, all are acceptable ways, similar to tactics used to keep away the fae's visits.

this has led to people believing the dream catcher is fae folk. though no one is exactly sure, nor has anyone seen its form clear in the light.

anything more known about the dream catcher is simply speculation. rumors spread by the paranoid people constantly on edge from losing sleep over their worries.

the dream catcher has only ever been known to steal dreams and be active in the night.

i would still urge one to be wary however...there are now rumors of the dream catcher taking hold of victims in the waking hours, stealing our day dreams.

#unreality #the dream catcher #catras book of creatures #writing blog #personal writing blog #original character #descriptive writing #catra saves #creative writing #writing #descriptive writing challange #descriptive writing practice #catras stories #catras characters #catra writes #short story #original short story #my short stories #original story #cryptid story #cryptid inspired

[human-still-developing]

Perfect Imperfect

A/N: For my friend @oneofthewednesdays <3 A very belated Happy 31st Birthday <3 She requested something magical realism so I took inspiration off 'The Hunter's Wife' by Anthony Doerr (my favourite slip-stream fiction author) but then this story got a life of its own and wrote itself :) Oh well, hope you like it anyway <3

Massive thank you to my dearest beta readers @peggy-sue-reads-a-book and @peakogreen who helped me craft this story and to @doodlewizardry who heard this story first.

As always, likes, comments and re-blogs are extremely appreciated and constructive criticism is warmly welcomed. Enjoy :)

Perfect Imperfect

Entropy – the lack of order or predictability, a gradual decline into disorder.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness. - John Keats, Endymion

Here’s the thing about human faces.

For all the words of the greatest poets, there is no uniqueness that draws people apart. Not when the face is like a lego house, built of the same tiny pieces as the postman, your best friend and Sue next door. Protein on protein, configurations of carbon and nitrogen and oxygen pulled together into the amalgamation of browns and reds and whites that form her likeness. There is nothing to it, loops and coils of DNA wrapped around histones in billions of cells that assemble to form the perfectly predictable, perfectly orderly shape of her face.

You’ve captured her likeness a million times and not once have you got it right.

The golden sandiness of her face, touched with the palest hint of mahogany coalescing into a drop of moisture at her cupid’s bow. The dark expanse of her hair that fades into the shadows of the canvas, matched by the slight frill of dark lashes that adorn her heavy lidded eyes. Burnt umber for brows, red crimson for lips but there is no colour for the depth of those irises that shine like forbidden lights across still expanses of water.

The smallest building block of her replicates in a fiftieth of a second but you can’t even replicate the shape of her shadow in fifty years. You stare at her for a moment longer, enchanted by even the imperfect reflection of her, before casting her aside like the other half-cast paintings of her. Unfinished.

–

The first time you draw her, you sit in the back of year 11 Chemistry together. You reduce your sharpened pencils to stubs as you scrub at the faint outline of her chunky safety goggles until the nib at the end of your compass stabs the flesh of your palm and smears her cheek with crimson. Blinking tears, you press your blackened, raw hand to your blazer as your teacher sweeps past.

“Entropy is all about change. Allowing things to take shape and change form. There’s no limit to this measure of disorder; the only truth is that it increases over time.”

Perhaps, you muse, the bleached, colourless pencil wouldn’t do those cheekbones right. The period ends and you file out after the familiar figure of her lab coat but a part of you remains frozen in that moment. Stagnant as the rest of your world folds to chaos.

__

For a moment in the middle, you find yourself immersed in the disorder. It’s like that moment when the bus halts a second too fast and you’re still travelling forward in an echo of the previous motion, not quite falling but not quite upright either.

Inertia; a tendency to remain unchanged.

You are older, but not old. She kisses your mouth and you wrap your hands low around her hips as a blush blooms over the apples of her cheeks. Tiny blood vessels dilate up to meet the thin layer of her skin as the redness creeps down her jaw to the delicate swell of her neck and her hands travel into your hair. Like every other moment, the order in the world is slowly unravelling but for a moment it seems to stand-still.

She is beautiful, she is perfect but before you can imagine creating her likeness in paint again, she pulls you down beside her.

__

This is the last time you remember giving her your sketch.

She’s your wife, perfect head tucked on your shoulder. Your entwined legs dangle over the Harbour Bridge and her laugh catches upon the morning breeze. By all your geographical knowledge, you are sitting in the heart of Sydney but for a moment it feels like you are at the end of the world.

She has changed but the essence of her remains the same. How could it not, when the code that makes her is a perfect replica of that tiny cell that first created her? Her limbs lengthen, her waist narrows but it’s the elusive turn of her mouth and crease at her brow that defines her. You press her portrait into her hands and she’s left speechless until she realises the figure is still not right. The imperfect copy of a woman who smiles with a lip too red and eyes too brown could not even pass for the perfection that stands in front of you. She smiles, fingering the impasto fringe with love as she kisses your cheek, but you can only imagine those little proteins that make her, pulling piece after piece apart and together again in a perfect mirror image.

“It’s perfect.”

But later that night, you take the board out and begin again, once, twice, until those imperfect eyes stare back at you from every wall in the house.

__

You’ve got her this time.

It’s the perfect picture, the depth of her lips, the curve of her neck. Pale sunset-orange freckles along her nose, a slight dimple under the corner of her lip.

The real her, the template upon which you make your replicate strand, is half asleep and tangled in blankets and dawn. Elegant, refined, mysterious. In your world forever descending to disorder, forever accommodating growth and loss and change, she is your constant.

It’s a funny thing, entropy. The slow movement towards disorder; the way that the world is always inching away from perfection. Apart from the gentle puffs of her breath you could have mistaken her for a statue, silent and unmoving. But deep down, the pieces of her are always in movement, always shifting and rearranging, forming and re-sketching. The cells of her skin die and are replaced. Her hair creeps longer in increments so fine that you can’t even imagine it. She grows and ages, she smiles and blushes, the lines on her face pull her features close together into the brightest of laughs which fades into a ringing echo.

For so many years, your muse has eluded you. This is the last time you will draw her, this is the time when you finally get her likeness right.

But maybe, you muse as you touch her painted jawline, maybe this isn’t perfect. Maybe you’ll try sketching her face again tomorrow, just to make sure.

#@oneofthewednesdays #literature #words #creative writing #my writing #inspiration #poets on tumblr #writblr #writers #writers on tumblr #john keats #entropy #science #metafiction #meta-narration #meta-narrative #short stories #my short stories