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goodluckclove · 7 days

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The Hot Dog Scene (Migration Patterns Preview)

I feel like I have to include this to provide closure to those invested in my Hot Dog Discourse. It's a first draft so it might look different when the book comes out next year, but like...here it is. The Hot Dog Scene.

Edgar lingered. He looked tired in a positive way. Tired like how a person feels after they stop shouldering as much of their unimaginable burden. His eyes locked with Tenzin and he twitched an attempt at a smile.

“You want to get a hot dog?” Tenzin asked him.

He blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Or chili fries, maybe? I’m probably going to get chili fries.”

“It’s the place next door,” Jude told him. “It’s good. They make a great Seattle dog.”

Edgar furrowed his brow. “What’s that?”

“Polish sausage with grilled onions and cream cheese.”

“They also,” Tenzin’s stomach lurched again and she sighed inwardly. “They also make regular hot dogs that humans can eat.”

Apparently all it took was the concept of a new type of hot dog to immediately start lifting Edgar’s spirits. “It’s – good?” He asked. “I never thought...I couldn’t even imagine that to be a thing that existed.”

Jude got this devilish look on zir face that Tenzin hated. “You’ve had a bagel with cream cheese and lox, right?”

“I suppose I have.”

“It’s the same idea! If Riley’s working the counter ask them to add grilled cabbage with a sprinkle of jalapeno brine. You won’t regret it.”

A slow, warm smile blossomed over Edgar’s face. He was excited, genuinely excited, despite the looming life-changing circumstances hanging just above their heads. Earlier today he was questioning if Scott would still love him under a new set of pronouns. Now all of that was rendered unimportant thanks to the promise of a singular, five-dollar hot dog.

It was childlike in a way that struck Tenzin right across the face. She knew then why Scott fell for him so instantly. Why Katy considered him family.

She bopped him with the corner of her briefcase and nodded towards the door. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

“Right now?” Edgar looked uncertain. “Don’t you still need to..?” Eventually his anticipation for a new flavor overtook whatever hesitation he had. “Uh – yeah! Yeah, okay. Cool!”

The hot dog place was dingy, yet clean. The checkered tiled floors were scuffed in the way that implied a heavy amount of foot traffic, while the furniture looked brand new. Tenzin and Edgar took a seat at the counter by the large window after they ordered.

Tenzin got a bite to eat here whenever she was in the area because it was a weird enough eatery to stock RC Cola. She sipped at the rim of her mug and enjoyed the icy, sweet fizz. Beside her Edgar watched out the window with the straw of his own glass held between his teeth.

“It’s interesting,” Edgar began.

Here we go. “What is?” Tenzin asked hesitantly, wiping her mouth with a napkin from the nearby dispenser.

“RC Cola is more sour than I expected. It’s not bad – I like how smooth it is. It’s like…” Edgar took a drink from the straw and analyzed it carefully. “Cinnamon, maybe. Some kind of orange or lemon, and – it’s crazy, but I almost get a hint of rose. It reminds me of kombucha.”

She didn’t even realize that Edgar got the same soda as her. It looked like he enjoyed it, though with much more thought than Tenzin tended to give to anything she ate or drank.

“Do you do that all the time?” She said. “Do you just analyze everything you taste?”

Edgar shrugged. “It helps me appreciate it.”

“You never just eat something just to eat it?”

He looked close to embarrassment, but something changed at the very last moment and he doubled down. “It feels more mindful to...know what I’m eating. And why I like it. How it makes me feel. I mean, growing up I didn’t always get – I don’t know. I like to be grateful for things like this.”

Tenzin let out a stifled laugh. She worried Edgar would take it personally, but when he spoke again there was a smile in his voice. “Do I sound like a crazy person?”

“You sound like a birthright.”

She looked at him sitting beside her. Edgar was newly relaxed – more so than usual, especially with it just being him and her on their own. He smiled easily with his eyes shimmering in a soft gold glow, one that held its potency without trouble. This might’ve been the first time she saw him use his abilities with total control. He looked in that moment like any other witch town member. If she noticed him in the Mess Hall she’d take him to be a new employee she just didn’t get a chance to meet yet.

And he was reading her now. Reading her like Regina used to when they first met. Or was he? Growing up Tenzin would see her mom’s eyes glow momentarily in moments of high emotion. Regina told her it was an empty gesture, a reflex that couldn’t actually gain any real information. Not from Tenzin. Not anymore.

Edgar wore another beaded bracelet around his wrist that she didn’t notice until now. It was done up in multiple colors, just a repeating line of black and gray and white and green. She recognized the Agender pride flag as one of the gender identities Scott, and by proxy Tenzin, were informed of in their childhood.

That must’ve been one intense conversation between Edgar and Jude. Tenzin was grateful she didn’t have to be the one to navigate it.

“You never showed her your work,” Edgar said, eyes pointed down towards Tenzin’s bag.

“Mm,” Tenzin quickly put on an indifferent demeanor. “Don’t really need to.”

Edgar raised his brow. “Really? We drove all this way.”

“Well that’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s exactly what Jude’s thinking right now. So when I go ahead and ignore most of what ze told me to do, ze can’t get that upset,” Tenzin raised her drink to punctuate her point. “Because we drove all this way.”

“Clever,” Edgar said.

He said that with both sarcasm and admiration. Very recently she described Edgar as her brother. He technically was in at least a few senses. Absolutely not in many others.

When they met Tenzin was so crazed by her Knight’s Bond that she elbow struck him off his feet and could’ve easily beaten him to death. She cleaned the blood off his face once she healed him and he sat so carefully, not even wincing at the sight of his own blood.

It could be that he was used to the sight. The smell. The taste, even. Enough so that it didn’t surprise him anymore.

I won’t let anything put you in danger, she told him when he lingered in the car before meeting Regina. Tenzin meant it, too. She couldn’t explain why and even now the reasons confused and aggravated her.

The cashier that took their order came by with two baskets with hot dogs and fries. The teen placed one in front of each of them, muttered a weak bon appetite, and retreated back to the register.

Edgar’s attention was fully enraptured by the meal. He looked down at it and grinned. His eyes were massive and bright with shy excitement. Tenzin wonders how something so tarnished could be cleaned to glimmer so brightly.

It is unfair for Tenzin to feel an echo her feelings for Scott reflected in a separate human being. It just wasn’t right.

She took a french fry from the pile in her basket and bit into it. It was hot, but no too hot.

“How is it?” Edgar asked, hushed and eager.

Tenzin ate another fry. “Uh – good?” She attempted. “It’s...crispy. Salty. Made of – potato.”

Edgar picked up a french fry. It was a french fry. It was the first result in a stock image search of the word french fry and did not deserve remotely as much focus as Edgar was giving it.

“You know what I don’t see a lot of?” He looked at Tenzin but didn’t give her time to answer. “Waffle fries. Why do you think that is?”

He’s supposed to be the normal one, Tenzin thought in stunned silence. He’s supposed to be the one that got to be a regular human being.

Edgar didn’t look like he noticed her silence. “I think they’re harder to fry. That’s just my theory though. I never got to work a deep fryer,” he ate the fry in his hand and smiled. “Ooh, it’s fresh.”

He took a sip of his soda and took a deep breath, rubbing his hands in private anticipation. Edgar Gallows was the origin of Scott’s agony for his entire life, and now the guy was revving himself up to eat a hot dog. Treating it like he was about to land a perfect back flip on the first try. How did the events of Tenzin’s life lead up to this of all things?

She watched Edgar tenderly handle his Seattle-style hot dog, a title of which sounded deeply questionable since Tenzin had been to Seattle for business and didn’t see anyone slathering their processed meat with cream cheese. She wasn’t sure if it was an actually style native to the city as a whole. It was far more likely to her that some pervert thought himself clever and decided to make Washington worse as a result of it.

Edgar bit into the end and chewed. His focus was refined and laser sharp, but Tenzin knew she could’ve left the restaurant right now and he wouldn’t notice her absence until she was halfway home.

An entire conversation was being held with himself through the slight twitch of his brow and narrowing of his large eyes. The gold returned in a soft shimmer, showing just how much emotional stimulation Edgar was getting from just one bite.

He’s...reading the intentions? Tenzin truly felt one misstep away from losing her mind. Is Edgar reading the intentions of his hot dog?

She smiled deliriously thinking about it. Then, softly, she began to laugh. Eventually the sound was loud enough to attract Edgar’s attention. He swallowed and smiled sheepishly.

“’S good,” he said.

Tenzin tried to speak and could only laugh. She held her hand over her mouth, lolled her chin down to her chest, and laughed even harder. By the time Tenzin finally got a hold of her senses Edgar was already halfway done with his hot dog. He ate calmly and paid little mind to her hysterics. Edgar remained perfectly satisfied with the situation he was in.

“It’s really good,” he clarified while she caught her breath. “It’s probably top – top five. In my list of hot dogs.”

“It’s not even number one?” Tenzin’s voice was hoarse from laughter and she was forced to drink some cola to dull the burn. “Ah. Ah man. What a shame.”

“No, it’s good!” Edgar grinned. “I always love to try a new food.”

He looked happy. The affection Tenzin felt for him in that moment was stark and disorientating. It was something long-sleeping in her chest suddenly startled out of hibernation.

This was her brother. No. Yes. Maybe. The answer didn’t matter as much as Tenzin’s new conviction. Edgar was here now, after all this time, and there was no point resenting him for things he didn’t know, understand, or have any control over.

Scott was willing to die in his search for Eddie. If he didn’t find Edgar when he did, he likely would be dead. Or worse. But none of that happened, and now the two of them could sit together and eat a strange and slightly sacrilegious hot dog.

Edgar went back to happily eating. Tenzin decided to join him then, and she picked up the soft bun and bit into the sausage. She tried to focus on what she was eating. It was – crispy? Crispy, but not crunchy. It tasted like cooked meat and tangy cream – so creamy meat, but not like that because that sounds terrible.

It was okay.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing community #writing #authors of tumblr #queer writers #actually writing #migration patterns #novel excerpt #book excerpt #writing excerpt #the hot dog scene #hot dog discourse

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bobo-cill · 9 months

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“Hmph, you think I can’t beat you?” “Jiang Cheng” said. “Don’t you remember how you died?”

The small smile playing at the corner of Wei Wuxian’s lips immediately faded.

It was as though, caught off guard, he had been pricked by a highly poisonous needle. Suddenly, his whole body tingled with small, stabbing pains from top to bottom.

[...]

“Cultivators, may I ask a question?” he said.

[...]

The “Yiling Laozu” looked at him, baffled and wary. “What question?”

“Why aren’t there any members of the Gusu Lan Clan?” Wei Wuxian said.

“But there are.”

“Where?”

The “Yiling Laozu” pointed at a child who had kept his mouth shut over the entire course of the proceedings. “Him.”

Wei Wuxian looked over and found that, sure enough, the child in question’s appearance was full of delicate beauty, his embryonic elegance and charm discernible with a single glance. A white rope was wrapped around his bright and clean forehead, serving in place of the forehead ribbon.

“Who is he?” Wei Wuxian asked.

The “Yiling Laozu” curled his lips disdainfully. “Lan Wangji!”

…Alright. This group of children had mastered the essence of things. The person playing Lan Wangji should indeed keep his mouth shut and remain silent!

In the space of a single moment, the corner of Wei Wuxian’s mouth lifted again.

The poisonous needle had been pulled out and tossed in some corner, and the prickling pain cleared in an instant. How very strange, Wei Wuxian thought to himself. How could such a dull person make me so happy all the time?

—ch. 32, translation by fanyiyi

The sheer amount of comfort WWX feels just by thinking of LWJ. How easy LWJ can make him happy.

I love Wangxian ❤️

#mdzs #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #novel excerpt

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catmaid-san · 7 months

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favourite wangxian scene or dialogue exchange if you wish to share?

@wutheringskies Hmm this is hard since I adore every WangXian interaction. But lately, I'm most impressed with the scene during the 2nd Siege.

This scene makes me so happy. It feels like a fulfillment of both of their wish. To be accompanied, and to accompany.

This scene also sounds like a proposal. When it comes to WWX, his chosen life path matters more than any affection. In the past, often times whenever he attempted to do something, no one was there to accompany him. So when he asked LWJ to accompany what he wanted to do, it felt like asking LWJ if he was willing to accompany him on his chosen path in life, a.k.a sharing weal and woes.

Those Hundreds of Clans were there to besiege WWX, yet they were entrapped and about to be massacred by their trusted and beloved Governor. WWX could have ditched them on their own, considering their original intention. However, despite the stabbed wound in his abdomen has yet to recover and should be aggravated even, as it was later showed that:

,,,, he still chose to yet again, endangered his own life to save lives. You know what JC will say about this? It is a Heroic complex. "What do those people's lives matter to us?"

But this kind of choice has always been WWX's life path. Just like what he did in XuanWu Cave or with the Wen remnants. Therefore to have someone who not only agrees to his choice but is also willing to accompany him, really means a lot.

To me, this is like a declaration, a spoken proposal for WangXian before even the Heaven and Earth kowtows or the Love Confession. WWX should have already realized LWJ would follow him, yet he still asked for a spoken agreement. And LWJ, despite how he usually rarely responds in words but in action, he gave the assurance verbally with firm determination. And that is what I found, endearing.

#I dont know maybe im getting old lol #But I think when we're young its easy to find people to accompany casual things we did #But as we grew up we'll realize how few people are willing to accompany us on our journey #And how precious to find likeminded people like that #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #Answer #mdzs #novel excerpt #Btw I use the ExR since that's one readily used on my phone

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newvision · 8 days

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Raphael Bob-Waksberg, from Someone Who Will Love You In All Your Damaged Glory

#raphael bob waksberg #someone who will love you in all your damaged glory #literature #poetry #books #bojack horseman #litblr #excerpt #short story excerpt #short story #novel excerpt #I love queue. I’m glad I exist #mine

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starryrain · 2 months

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excerpt from our gentle sins - chapter twelve

Mercy snorted, covering her mouth to stop her from laughing. “I can’t believe you named a horse Twinkles,” she said, looking at Andhera, who shrugged.

“She’s a cute horse! Leave me alone!” she complained, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

“You named her while we were getting shot at by soldiers that were only sent after us because you decided to feud with your best friend,” sulked Mercy, and Andhera choked.

“She is not my best friend!”

Mercy raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms. “Sure, sure. You’re a horrible liar.”

“I am a fantastic liar, thank you very much,” said Andhera before looking at Surya. “So, I’ve decided that you can kill Callista. She’s very annoying and whiny, so it’ll probably be better for you to do it anyway.”

Surya tilted his head. “I thought that killing her was my plan in the first place…?”

“Oh yes, of course.” Andhera nodded.

tags because i want ppl to read this silly stuff!! @daydream-of-a-wallflower @stellarity @spo0ky-toast @silence-between-seconds @her-midas-touch @holdmyteaplease @hoezier

#writing #our gentle sins #writeblr #writers on tumblr #wip #novel in progress #novel excerpt #novel #dark academia #library #books and reading #books #literature

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minutiaewriter · 1 year

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Hera: To Catch a Star

First Look: Chapter 1

For all the lovely people who voted for an early excerpt of Hera: To Catch a Star, I present to you Chapter 1 (below the cut) and I hope you enjoy/get even more excited for its release soon! Be sure to reblog to spread the word!

The sky was a soft azure, dotted with clouds still reflecting the early morning lilacs and blushes and golds cast on them by the suns. There were likely a myriad ships beyond that peaceful atmosphere, gliding amongst the stars and flashing neon lights of spaceports, one step closer to the goddesses who had birthed the galaxy.

But Rynn’s eyes were on the ground: the swaying of young green shoots of grass, the lazy shifting of the tree branches, and the breeze that seemed to link the foliage into the same gentle dance of the day’s beginning. He glanced at the slender deer that pulled his grandfather’s cart and at the garden it was grazing next to that spilled over and out onto the grass. His eyes then drifted to the tiny cottage where he lived with his grandfather.

A small ladybug crawled across his limp hand. Its shell was black, with two prominent spots of red, like drops of blood amongst ink. Rynn stared at it, at the same time noticing how the energy inside of him had grown increasingly frenetic lately. It had first started out as a small fizz, and then sparked up, and crackled and spat so impatiently Rynn felt he could almost hear his veins buzzing.

The ladybug lifted its shell and then its wings carried it away from Rynn’s finger. He stared after it, an uneasy feeling coming to his stomach. He felt the blades of grass bend to caress his neck. The wind seemed to change direction, and it now ruffled his hair and cooled his skin.

He heard footsteps, the crunching of leaves distant but growing nearer.

Suddenly his eyes shot open. Confused, he blinked and rubbed them. Had he been asleep? He had a tendency to grow distant and stare at the woods bordering his home for hours—but this time he snapped out of his trance, even his energy seemed to have shorted.

But he had indeed heard footsteps. His eyes fell from the tops of the trees to his grandfather, who was laden with multiple bulging bags. Rynn sprang up and rushed over to the old man.

Asold Hera had a gray beard, long hair, and something in his eyes: some twinkle that was usually dim, but when Rynn caught sight of it, it seemed as if the old man knew something. The twinkle served to disturb Rynn, but only whenever he detected it.

“What did you harvest?” Rynn took some of the pouches from his grandfather’s arms.

“Tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, lettuce… All the excess can be sold in town.” The old man said it with a wary tone and squinted in the midmorning sunlight.

Rynn fumbled with the bags and his eyes caught on the staff tied behind Asold’s back—a staff with a unique head of blades. It was the staff his suspicious, alert grandfather always carried, along with his paranoid demeanor. Rynn could not understand what could possibly unsettle him.

“Grandfather…” Rynn began, stopping as he noticed the twinkle in Asold’s eyes.

They entered the quaint cottage, and the supplies crowded the main room. Rynn’s grandfather removed the long leather jacket covering his everyday robe. He then set to unpacking a few of the sacks’ contents to be washed, his movements a little stiff.

Two bright red tomatoes emerged, along with a bundle of carrots, and Asold headed for the basin.

“Grandfather,” said Rynn again, pausing when Asold glanced at him, “I was wondering if you would let me go into town with you next time.”

His grandfather said nothing and proceeded to wash the vegetables.

“The festival is coming up. You always come back with so many stories. They make me wanna visit more and more every year.”

Asold dropped the cleaned vegetables into a stained iron pot and then looked at Rynn. “We’ve discussed this, boy. The town is not safe, especially during the festival when all those skeptical merchants come in.”

“But you can’t just keep me here forever! Why won’t you let me go into town?” Rynn could sense the routine argument materializing.

“Because you’re young and there are a lot of people there who are…” He seemed to mull over his words before settling on “…trying to hide from the law.”

“I’m not that young,” Rynn muttered, feeling impatient. Asold abandoned the food and walked over to Rynn. “Please, child, if you understood why we live so far away from the town, you wouldn’t ask to leave.”

Rynn perked up. That was as much information as his grandfather had ever betrayed, as close as Rynn had ever come to comprehending the knowing twinkle in Asold’s eyes.

“Now please help me wash these.”

Rynn glanced around and then obeyed, still troubled.

That evening they ate in silence, though Rynn’s mind was loud and chaotic. His extremities tingled and threatened to burn the entire length of his arms and legs. He squirmed in his seat, causing Asold to turn his head.

The old man then glanced at his staff, which was propped against the wall, its blades catching the white light of the rising moons that streamed in through the window.

Rynn’s skin suddenly became clammy, and he stood. He looked at Asold. “May I be excused?”

He only half waited for the man to nod before making his way out of the small house and into the cold night air.

He lifted his head and stared at the empire of blinking stars that had revealed themselves in the cover of night, the domain of the goddesses. He had heard every tale of how the seven sisters, daughters of a star, had made a long journey to the void that was now the galaxy Rynn resided in and each birthed a planet she would protect forever after; he had heard of how they once dwelt amongst mortals and even ruled them as their queens; and yet he never tired of hearing them again, or looking up into the sky and wondering if they were looking at him as well.

His grandfather had taught him he was to be immensely grateful to the goddesses and all of the sacrifices they had made, all of the ambrosial blood—for Rynn had been told it was sweet to taste—their veins had likely shed. When Rynn had asked what sort of sacrifices, Asold only explained that he was too young for such tragedies.

The five moons gazed down at him and cast an eerie light on everything surrounding him. A breeze rustled the trees’ leaves and crept beneath Rynn’s clothes and a chill spread across his flesh. There was a peculiar humming in his ears.

Rynn felt a hand on his back and jumped, startled. He turned to see his grandfather. He deserted the old man and sat on the steps leading up to the cottage’s door. Asold stood close by. No words passed between them, though in the warm light that spilled out from the house’s windows, Rynn could see his grandfather was thinking.

Rynn, too, was thinking. He was confused by his grandfather’s ever-present caution, and had been forever. What was there, really, that Rynn needed protection from? Although he had to admit to himself that he, too, had been uneasy lately. It was as if some great monster lurked in the woods surrounding Rynn and his home, never attacking but always watching.

“I trust you,” Rynn said finally.

Asold stroked his beard. “And it is I who must also trust you.” There was a long pause, then: “I will let you come into town with me for the festival. But only once.”

Rynn could not help the smile that blossomed across his face. He moved to slide off of the steps. Standing, he approached his grandfather.

“Thank you, Grandfather!” He embraced the old man, who stared absently into the sky at all of the stars.

Be sure to reblog to spread the word because the release of To Catch a Star is very very soon!!

🌟🩸🏷️ Tag list @toribookworm22 @arijensineink @andromeda-grace @tzipor-feather-blog @measlyfurball13 @measlywritingblog @elijahrichardwrites @chickensarentcheap @little-mouse-gardens @sarcasticjuiceboxes @eli-writes-sometimes @royal1asset-if @fourohnine @valiannnn @j-1173 @axl-ul @aquil-writes

The tag list is always open, so let me know if you’d like to be added to get first dibs on official Hera release content—the more the merrier!

#hera: to catch a star #hera trilogy #sneak peek #novel excerpt #indie authors #science fantasy #first look #preview #upcoming novel #upcoming books #Hera: To Catch a Star by S. M. Campbell #writerblr #authorblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing community #authors of tumblr #authors on tumblr #new authors

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nanowrimo · 11 months

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Read the YWP Novel Excerpt Contest Grand Prize Winner (13 and Under Age Group)!

In February, we challenged you to submit a 400-word excerpt from your NaNoWriMo novels. From over 650 fantastic entries, we chose two Grand Prize Winners and four Runners-Ups. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did! (For more excerpts, check out this forum thread.)

A Kingdom of Embers and Ash by Hannah G.

I slip there unnoticed, and sure enough, Willow slumps against the fence. Her arm is through the hole, beads of blood glinting on the metal where it bit into her skin. She clutches at the twisted metal as though it is a portal to a better place.

And maybe... maybe it is.

But maybe it isn’t. And that’s what’s kept us from running for all these years.

"Hey, Wil," I whisper, sliding to the ground beside my sister, my anger forgotten, the pain in my cheek and my heart pushed into a place where I can’t feel it. My sister… she's more important than any of that, than anything. "What's going on?"

Willow turns to me suddenly, her face red and blotchy, streaked with tears. Her eyes are like that of a wild animal: cornered and desperate and terrified. It scares me.

"Sage, I can't!” she wails. “I can't stop it! I can't do it! I can't not do it!" Her voice is pitched with distress, a hysterical edge to it that scares me.

I look at her with concern creasing my brow, coating my voice. "Willow?"

But suddenly, it isn't Willow I'm looking at. It’s a fox, white as the first snow of winter, with oddly human, intelligent, pleading eyes.

Willow's eyes.

I freeze in shock, staring at the fox that is Willow.

At Willow, who is a fox.

At my whole life, my whole world, being upended before my eyes.

And then — my sister is back.

I can't stop the stories we've been told about the creatures outside the fence, magical and evil, from flashing through my mind. The stories that have always been applied to us. And even as I look at Willow, my Willow, who I have known and loved all my life, a small part of me can't help but wonder if they’re true, if we are what they say we are.

Witches. Demons. Monsters.

But then, with a twist of revulsion aimed at myself, at the thing that just went through my mind, at Oke Darm and everyone living in it for conditioning me to think that way, I banish the unfaithful thought from my head. Because this is Willow, my Willow–no matter what form she takes.

But I know I'm the only one who will see it that way.

"Wil," I whisper. "Willow... We have to run. Now."

Guest author judge Sarah Suk had this to say about A Kingdom of Embers and Ash:

"In just this short passage, I was able to get a sense of the world, the stakes, and the bond between the characters in a way that made me instantly root for them (protect them at all costs!). Impressively told with a voice that shines."

Hannah Gumpert is in 8th grade, and admittedly spends way too much time absorbed in a book. When she isn’t reading, you can usually find her with her family, at a coffee shop with her friends, or writing and/or imagining her latest story, completely deaf to the world because she's living in another. Hannah wants to be a writer when she grows up — but she's not going to wait around until then.

#nanowrimo #writing #young writers program #ywp #novel excerpt #writing contest

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daughter-of-inklings · 5 months

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Your soulmate meets your crush and they hate each other (NaNo excerpt):

She paused for a moment, “… is the dragon okay?” “Saying the word ‘dragon’ over and over again will not make the reality of the situation go away,” Gabrielle snarled under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked more.. agitated than usual. Her ears were pinned back, and her pupils like pin needles, her tail occasionally thudding against the wall behind her as it flicked about. Though Rosely couldn’t tell if it was the improvised crash, that she’d been seen in this world by someone other than Rosely and the thought of being perceived made her nervous, or if she simply didn’t like Sieve. At the thought, she raised her head and scowled at Rosely. “Right— sorry, Miss… ?” “Princess Gabrielle Deornu, of the [name] kingdom. Almighty and Ferocious Beast, as my father before me; descendant of the original Royal Faerytales.” Sieve blinked slowly, looking to Rosely for confirmation. The latter nodded, and Sieve bowed somewhat awkwardly in Gabrielle’s direction. “Apologies, Your… Royal Beastiness. I’m sure you’d have rather… crashed your dragon—” “Biscuit’s technically my dragon here, I think.” “I’m sure you’d have rather crashed Biscuit—” Sieve reared her head around, snapping to look directly at Rosely. “Rosely, that sounds INSANE.” Gabrielle glared down her nose at Sieve, continuing her patrol of the room by circling closer around them. Keeping a close eye on Rosely and the scrapes along her face and arms. Though she’d tried to grab and shield her with her own body, it seemed she’d still neared the brunt of the hit. “Do you realize how insane you sound right now? There’s a dragon outside, and he’s your dog? Your therapy dog? And this— thing is here too, glaring at me in my own store? It’s got hooves—” “She.” “She’s got hooves, Rosely! And fangs, and a tail, and horns, a-and teeth that could rip me to shreds!” “She wouldn’t rip you to shreds.” “She would.” ** I would.

#ink's scribbles #writeblr #fantasy writeblr #fantasy writing #writing #writers on tumblr #fantasy novel #fantasy book #novel excerpt #novel wip #writing wip #fairytale wip #fairy tale retelling #fairytales #gasalea: the book keeper #nanowrimo 2023 #nanowrimo #playin with the idea of how to convey different people's thoughts and so gabrielle's are marked by **

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lucidloving · 6 months

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Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient // Waving Through a Window—Ben Platt & Original Broadway Cast of Dear Evan Hansen // Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart // @iimememe on Twitter // Alice Oseman, Radio Silence // Marie Howe, "The Landing"

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wutheringskies · 7 months

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do you guys ever think of how Lan Zhan shows so much physical affection to Wei Ying?

Pets him like a kitten

Just as his mind tensed, Lan WangJi reached out and stroked his back. Wei WuXian finally calmed down somewhat.

Exr, Ch 101

Lan WangJi stroked Wei WuXian’s back a few more times. Wei WuXian looked up. Lan WangJi didn’t seem at all surprised. His eyes were almost gentle. Wei WuXian felt his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t help but whisper, “… You knew?”

ExR, ch 102

Lan WangJi lowered his head and wrapped his arms around Wei WuXian’s waist. He looked quiet and motionless, yet Wei WuXian could feel his fingers stroke his waist, whether intentional or not. The fingers were so warm that the heat seeped through his clothes and went straight into his skin.

Exr, banquet

Lan WangJi stroked his hair and landed a kiss on his forehead. Shaking his head, he smiled.

Exr, Incense burner pt 2

Following are from chapter 94? By @boat-full-of-lotus-pods

Patting him on the shoulder, Lan WangJi stared at him with care and concern, as if asking Wei WuXian how he was feeling

Expression unchanging, Lan WangJi held him with one arm and patted him in a soothing manner. Holding Wei WuXian with one hand and Bichen with the other, Lan WangJi leaped onto the wall and peered at the angry hound beneath them.

Standing victoriously, Lan WangJi patted Wei WuXian on the back two more times for comfort. Hugging Wei WuXian tightly, he leaped down the wall once more.

so many pats !

#mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #lan zhan #novel excerpt

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goodluckclove · 14 days

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come on clove, stop spoiling your own series.

i don't know, man. book two won't be coming out for like almost a year maybe. probably less but still. i'm weak and i'm on a fucking roll.

also tell me what i'm spoiling. you know i'm spoiling something but you won't know until like middle of book one and by then it's like yeah man you bought the book now you're stuck in my new, cozy hell. sorry motherfucker. have some tea.

#writeblr #on writing #authors of tumblr #queer writers #actually writing #migration patterns #writing #writers on tumblr #writing community #novel excerpt #novel writing

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darichonne · 1 year

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insta: @darichonne

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listlessdionysian · 4 months

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Novel Extract - Folly

Below is an extract from my latest novel, which I'm currently editing ahead of submission. This chapter occurs somewhere in the middle of the first act, and is the reader's first introduction to a central character in the world's history: Mazulkeen, an Amunin.

The Amunin are a separate species, and preceded humanity - made for the express purpose of collecting and caring for the dead, as well as harvesting and preserving their memories in their verbal histories.

She's probably one of my favourite characters in the novel. I admire her defiance, her strong sense of self in spite of her alienation and dejection. Comments, questions, and suggestions are welcome.

Content warning: bigotry, neglect, and some references to physical and verbal abuse towards children.

Mazulkeen 7 Pre-Schism, Amunin Calendar

The Hallowed Dead forbade Mazulkeen from learning the art of Listening, the first Amunin to face such proscriptions. Hentush, the Chief Listener, acted on their instructions and barred Mazulkeen from the teaching halls. Initiates and masters alike who were not otherwise occupied, stood watch, and listened for the soft padding of her feet before they chased her back to the Eastern Tower. Faced with such an obstacle, Mazulkeen learned to be creative. She spent several days roaming the Inroads, looking for secret routes to the teaching halls on the lower levels, following each twist and turn, walking cold stone paths on bare, dirty feet. She noted each domicile, their crude doorways set into the porous rock of the great hive itself, peered into windows, spying on the others. She mapped the Undercity with her feet and probed its walls with her fingers, all in secret.

The few times the others found her, Amunin young and old – naked and pale and shining glorious – they chased her off. She was darker than them, where their flesh was a pale grey, the colour of sand in winter, hers was a burned amber. It was a gift from her father – whoever he was.

Mazulkeen investigated every shadow; inhabited every crevice until - after long days of searching - she found a narrow route that followed the natural spiral of the city itself and led down and down to the teaching halls. She went there early, one day, long before the tutors arrived with their students from the various houses. She hid in a distant, dark corner where she dragged benches and tables of living wood to further conceal herself which thrummed and pulsed beneath her fingertips. Much of the furniture in the Undercity came from the Aos Sí, who shaped wood from their forests with gentle words and soft touches and traded them to the Amunin for stories of their ancestors.

The living wood had always unsettled her. When she lay in bed, she wondered if the wood dreamed.

The door whispered open, and Hentush himself led the procession of students that filed into the room – children from each of the five houses, all of them silent and respectful, their bare skin glowing in the darkness. To hide her own distinctive glow, Mazulkeen was made to wear a robe. She was dusky where they were dark, her skin emitting a bronze light where theirs was silver.

At their approach, Mazulkeen shrank deeper into her hiding place, her hands tucked into her armpits, but her eyes were wide and staring, her breath coming in quick, whispered gasps. Her mind eager to learn.

Hentush’s back was to her, and she missed many of his gestures. He was old and shrivelled, his luminescent skin hung from his bones in soft folds that swayed and flapped as he gestured - the movements small, kept close to his chest. But she saw the faces of the students clearly: bright, eager. Each of them proud and happy to be initiated into the inner secrets of the Amunin. Mazulkeen felt her throat tighten, and she lowered her eyes.

Hentush’s hands fell still, and she snapped her attention back to the lesson. Something in the air of the classroom had changed. A charge ran through the empty spaces all around her. Mazulkeen tasted copper, her thoughts tumbled and tangled, blown by an unseen psychic gale as the light in Hentush’s skin raced to his fingertips. It grew duller from his crown to his wrists, but his fingers blazed with silver light that sang a high, soft melody. He traced a finger through the air, and all those dozens of young, eager eyes followed the light.

Something drew close, a presence, a voice. A whisper that grew into a mutter.

Mazulkeen’s breath caught in her throat. Secluded as she was in her darkened corner, she felt included, she felt a part of something greater, for the first time in her life. This is what she was meant for: to draw the spirits of the dead close, to hear their voice, to listen to their stories. To preserve their essence against time, loss, and decay.

A hoarse breath rattled through the training hall. A disembodied throat ejecting its first breath since its mortal body had failed.

‘Who?’ it said.

Hentush traced his fingers through the air, the light bled from his fingers to hover in the still, empty air, leaving symbols and glyphs suspended between him and the students, the meanings of which were far beyond Mazulkeen’s understanding. She knew this was the beginning, Hentush was asking the departed to share their story.

She gasped, and the light went out.

Hentush whirled on her, the light racing across his body, restoring his original glow, but the natureof the light had changed - it pulsed and flared with his indignation. His pupils collapsed into the barest of tight slits as he advanced on her hiding place.

Mazulkeen emerged with a shout, bursting out from behind the tables and chairs, sending them clattering and crashing to the bare stone floor. Hentush staggered back, his feet tangling and spilling him to the ground. She cleared the fallen furniture in a single leap and darted past the Chief Listener. The other children stared, and some clasped their hands to their eyes. One, without thinking, made a fist with the thumb outside.

Mazulkeen ran past them all, out the arched stone doorway. She followed the curve of the wall to the right back into the narrow passage she’d found, struggling against the incline, trying to get higher, to get away. Her bare feet slapping against the stone steps, keeping time with the thundering of her heart, and her own gasping breaths. As she reached the upper levels, she cut through the domicile districts. Other Amunin lingered in the passageway, and she darted between their legs, used their bodies as concealment.

Before long she was out of the Inroads and onto the Outroads, the rough walls curving to her right, and nothing but air and the blazing silver light of the Veil below to her left. Mazulkeen went higher and higher still. Amunin stopped to stare at her passing, flashing signals to one another. Her presence always inspired fear and discomfort, and the sight of her running caused the people she passed to veer close to panic.

Mazulkeen slowed three floors from the top. The bridge, a sharp, tapering jut of rock, to the world above stretched over her head, reaching across the chasm to an outcrop and the tunnels to the surface beyond. She crouched in the shadow of the bridge, drawing her knees to her chest, making herself small in the darkness. Feet padded on the bridge overhead, disguising her harsh and ragged breathing.

She knew she couldn’t hide forever.

Hentush would send someone to find Lektrim, and Lektrim would come looking for her. Mazulkeen would be disciplined. A beating, most likely, then she would be confined to her room in the Eastern Tower, set some distance away from the Undercity. It was a remnant from the earliest days of the Amunin when they were still brave enough to dig tunnels in the cave walls and explore wide and far. Only a rickety thin rope bridge connected it to the rest of the city. Mazulkeen knew that if things got worse and the Hallowed Dead lost all hope of controlling her, they might cut the ropes, casting the bridge down into the abyss below. They would leave her there, in the tower, to wither and fade like a bad memory.

The Amunin did not kill, after all. Their task was to guide, and comfort, and learn from the dead - to preserve them in stories and memories even when their flesh had shrivelled and blown away as dust. The Amunin knew no conviction or reason to add to the ever-increasing tide of the dead.

No one had ever told her why they kept her apart. Her mother had been part of house Slovehn - a proud, and noble house, adored and revered by the Undercity. Slovehn had produced more than two dozen High Listeners since the beginning, and two of her own ancestors were among the Hallowed Dead who guided the People and shaped the Undercity.

But she was not called Mazulkeen Slovehn. No one recognised, nor welcomed her into the fold.

She was only Mazulkeen, with only Lektrim - some distant cousin - living in the tower with her. Even at that young age, Mazulkeen knew Lektrim had done something wrong, to be sent to the tower to raise her. Lektrim knew it too, hence the beatings, the insults, and the long days and nights without food or companionship Lektrim subjected her to – leaving Mazulkeen to stare out her window at the city with its soft lights, and the people with their inner glows, and the Veil shining down below with its mysteries and its stories. She left her to hunger and loneliness, punishing Mazulkeen for the crime of her own birth.

Mazulkeen put her head down, pressing it against the soft worn fabric of her robe. She closed her eyes and waited for Lektrim to find her.

***

Mazulkeen sat on her bed with her back against the bare wall, staring dead-eyed into her bare room. A bed, a chair, a shallow stone basin for washing – these were all she owned. The cold of the stone wall behind her bled into her thoughts, calming and quietening them. Several days had passed since she had last disobeyed, and she was still confined to the tower. Lektrim visited once a day to admonish and lecture her, every lesson imparted through a flurry of hand gestures, her bare flesh strobing with light, adding force and emphasis, but the light always shifted when her gaze flitted to Mazulkeen’s face, subsiding into darker hues that spoke of fear and suspicion – the light casting racing shadows over her slitted amber eyes. Mazulkeen knew Lektrim was unaware of this, that her true feelings towards her ward bled to the surface.

This time Lektrim was late. Mazulkeen’s window faced the wrong way, granting a view of the Veil below and the vast cave wall as it arced overhead to form the great ceiling from which the city itself hung. The city, out of view, was silent as always.

She waited, unease mounting, shivering with tension. In the dark, she took to playing with light of her body, producing different colours and hues hitherto unseen among the Amunin: dark golds and reds racing in luminescent streamers, coiling and coiling around her forearm, to disappear into the hollow of her armpit. Mazulkeen had removed her robe to do this, so when Lektrim entered, she stopped in the open doorway and watched with mute horror. Lektrim’s own light dimmed, and took on a sick, green edge. She crossed the room in three quick strides, snatched Mazulkeen’s discarded robe from the bed and thrust it into her arms.

Lektrim snapped off a series of quick gestures, reprimanding her for her disobedience: clenched fist to pursed lips, palm opening to pass over her eyes, and finishing with the clenched fist with the thumb outside. Mazulkeen pulled her robe on, her lights racing in embarrassment. Once covered she stood, eyes downcast, averted from Lektrim’s hands, waiting for the lecture to begin.

Lektrim touched her elbow, and Mazulkeen looked up. Lektrim gestured her to the bed, and they sat side by side. Lektrim’s light was subdued, her eyes hooded, fingers twitching restlessly as she struggled to find the words.

Mazulkeen waited. This reticence was new. She had never seen Lektrim display such nervousness except when the Speaker came for their regular inspection.

Lektrim raised a hand. Hesitated. Then she began.

The Hallowed Dead have called you to them.

Mazulkeen blinked, uncomprehending. She touched Lektrim’s wrist with her left hand and unfurled the fingers of her right.

Say again.

The Hallowed Dead have called you to them. They say you can leave the tower.

Why?

The People all have their place. They wish to decide yours.

Mazulkeen’s hands flew to her chest, where they clasped tightly. She bit her foreknuckle, fighting against the sudden swell of hope that rose in her. She unclasped her hands and gestured with her left, her fingers shaky and clumsy.

She touched her ear, and then her chest.

Can I become a Listener?

Lektrim started to shake her head, panic, and alarm coursing through her lights, manifesting in that hateful green glow, then she stopped herself.

They did not say. Someone will come, tomorrow. They will take your robes, and you will meet with the Hallowed Dead as you are. Please, child, please-

Lektrim gripped her chin with one hand and continued to gesture with the other.

-this is your chance to absolve us of your mother’s shame. Be respectful. It is not for us to choose who and what we are. The Hallowed Dead guide us. Shape us. Listen, without speaking, and accept their wisdom. Will you do this?

Mazulkeen touched Lektrim’s wrist, and she withdrew her talon-like grip from Mazulkeen’s chin. Mazulkeen foreknuckled her brow, and her heart sang.

***

Two robed junior Listeners came for her, and Mazulkeen stared at them, consumed by a single thought: this will be me, one day. They were covered from head to toe, faces veiled, towering over her, inscrutable and impassive – full of secrets and knowledge. One held out their hands for Mazulkeen’s robe. She stood in the tower doorway and glanced back at Lektrim who gestured for her to obey.

Behind the Listeners, Mazulkeen saw others slow to watch from the far side of the bridge. They were little more than pinpricks of pale light, but she caught the flicker of movement as each gestured to their neighbour.

Mazulkeen straightened, thrust out her chin, and disrobed quickly. The Listeners paused at the sight of her darker skin. She couldn’t tell if they were disgusted or alarmed. From her earliest memories, she knew many among the People found her skin and her light shocking, even sickening, but they quickly corrected themselves.

Her robes taken, they turned and began to walk. Mazulkeen followed.

The crowds parted as they followed the Outroad as it spiralled around the perimeter of the Undercity, descending lower and lower. Some she passed averted their eyes, others gestured amusement to their neighbours, but many more indicated offense and dismay. She knew that the majority in the city were against her, she was a shameful thing, an aberration to be kept apart from the whole.

Lektrim had once told her that if her mother had not disappeared the Hallowed Dead would have discovered her parentage soon enough and Mazulkeen would’ve been cast into the Veil. Not out of hatred, or out of cruelty, but because they would’ve known, for a certainty, that she did not belong -that she could not learn from the Death Song, could not drink deeply of the Departed’s wisdom, and share it, untainted and unchanged.

Lektrim had told her this calmly, but Mazulkeen had felt fear and an overwhelming desire to vomit, and yet, as she walked through the crowd, she met the gaze of each bystander with an air of confidence verging on defiance. At long last she had been summoned; she would have a place among the People. No one could disobey the Hallowed Dead, they had to accept her.

The Veil grew brighter, its silver glow illuminated the pores in the city’s stone. Even at this depth, Mazulkeen was surprised to find the light gave no warmth. This close, she could glance over the edge and down onto its surface. It rippled like silk, shifting in graceful, rolling waves. At times she thought she heard voices emanating from beneath its surface, speaking in a dozen different languages, but what they said she had no idea.

At the penultimate floor, they veered inwards, switching from the Outroads to the In. Passing through narrow corridors, the walls studded with doors of a finer quality than she had seen before. These too, she knew, were made from living-wood gifted by the Aos Sí. The doors seemed to breathe. The Listeners took her to a large arched doorway, the wood swelling and contracting. It had no handle or knocker.

The Listener that had not taken her robes pressed a gloved hand to the door, and it hummed before swinging open. The chamber beyond was dark. No hint of light, nothing that Mazulkeen’s powerful sight could draw on. It might as well be a door that opened onto nothing.

This was the hall of the Hallowed Dead, and she had no choice but to enter.

Mazulkeen stood naked and freezing in the darkness. A breeze, soft and stale, and she flinched as it ran its fingers across her bare shoulder, taking a step back, closer to where she thought the door was. She’d only advanced into the chamber a step or two, but when she reached behind her Mazulkeen felt only empty air.

Something stirred in the dark.

A sense of age, of dryness, of dust and crumbling and something having fallen away, rushing towards her - a stale wind that dwindled to no more than a rasping gasp which fell across her skin like a whisper. Mazulkeen felt it withdraw to the darkest recesses of the chamber where it skirted around the edges, watching her, studying her.

She felt the full weight of its attention, strong enough to press in on her skull, provoking a deep ache behind her eyes. She rubbed at them with her palm, but it wouldn’t abate. The force of it drove her to one knee, her eyes streaming. The pain pulsing and flaring, growing bigger and brighter, banishing all thought.

Then it came at her in a rush, its reticence forgotten. A formless cloud of dust and light, full of a clashing confusion of smells: spice and dust and sweat and smoke - half a dozen different bodies and beings, each with their own sense of self, each making a distinct impression only to be blurred, confused, and then erased by the others, all rolled into a single force that rushed towards and overwhelmed her.

The wind knocked her flat on her back. She felt stabbing fingers in her mind, cracking every last wall within her mind, every last dam holding back the unending tide of loneliness and alienation – and all the bitter fury that came with it. It burst the dams and let the emotions flow freely, and she felt the people she had sensed watching with idle and detached curiosity as it swept through her. As her fingers twitched into claws, as the moisture from her eyes turned to burning tears, as she clutched at the bare stone beneath are as if it were flesh she could knead and tear in her grasp.

Mazulkeen opened her mouth to scream, but found she lacked the air and the strength. They were inside her, every pore, every crevice. Excavating every last secret.

And then they were gone, and she lay cold and naked, gasping and shaking, without the strength or the bravery to cry.

It should’ve been a mercy – to feel that relief - but that refusal brought its own strength. Her shock, her feelings of violation, were but a thin veneer over a seething tide of bile and fury. The tide rose, and she felt stronger for it. Mazulkeen found her feet and discovered that they would hold her well.

Mazulkeen stood alone in the dark as the dry wind swirled around her.

‘Well?’ she shouted into the dark.

Patience, child, patience. We consider, we deliberate. You are not known to us. Your parentage is not known to us. We shall be cautious.

The voice was female in timbre but old and throatless. Mazulkeen found her own throat working to produce the sounds, but the tone and the phrasing was far outside of her own. Her hand clutched at her throat, unbidden, as if it could massage the infiltrator out.

‘Stop,’ she croaked, ‘Don’t.’

You would instruct us. You who speak aloud before the Dead.

A different voice, male. Mazulkeen’s throat spasmed to produce the sounds. She found that with the sounds came a sense of the speaker: this one felt like old vellum beneath dust, the smell of guttering candles as they worked long into the dark, and a sense of straining and grim determination through great pain.

Mazulkeen ducked her head. She hated this. Whatever future lay on the far side of this conversation, it was nowhere close to balancing this violation, this total loss of control. She spoke to herself, in the dark, her body seizing, and manipulated by things she could not see or name, and for what purpose?

To humiliate her? To interrogate her?

The thought brought fresh fury, that the Hallowed Dead would summon her, not to finally welcome her into her own culture, but to deepen the divide – to remind her, in word and deed, that she was different.

Mazulkeen clenched her fist, and her body lit up in her own amber light - soft at first but growing jagged, flickering, and flaring, torrid with shadows.

‘Stop,’ she said.

She felt a sudden release, like an exhalation of breath, and the pressure on her ceased. They let her go with ease but did not dissipate. She felt them lurking deeper in the dark, pacing about her, watching, and considering.

Strong.

She is strong.

Too strong. Too dangerous. A warning.

Caution, caution.

Strong.

Great strength, but anger too.

The voices came from the air itself, a rustling of whispers that rolled and reverberated through the dark. Mazulkeen tried and failed to sift out the individuals from the collective – scents and impressions clashed and mangled in her mind. She felt dizzy with the effort.

It does not know its father. Knows little of its mother, too.

Knows more than she thinks. She is strong enough to resist. Could be hiding.

She is but a child.

Therein lies the risk. Children are impatient, impetuous. If it learned-

‘I’m not an ‘it’,’ Mazulkeen slurred. The warring voices staggered her, and she fought to keep her balance.

It does not speak. It listens.

You put too much stock in your identity, in your difference. The Amunin are nothing and no one. The Amunin listen and remember.

The Amunin do not speak.

The Amunin do not act.

The Amunin watch and recall the world as it was. Every life and every death. Every growth and every loss. Every joy and every sorrow. This is the order of the world.

The order.

This is the order.

If it wishes to become a Listener, it must follow the order of the world.

Mazulkeen twitched, and her anger quelled, for a moment, enough to feel a slight burst of hope. She opened her mouth to ask, to push them into speaking clearly, but prudence bid her to silence.

It learns. Listeners listen, no? Only the Speaker has the privilege to commune directly, and even then, it is to share our wisdom with others.

We speak to all but only once.

But to you we would speak often. But for you to hear us, truly hear us, you must be taught. You must learn.

Learn and obey.

Learn and adhere to the order.

Learn and become Amunin. Become as nothing to the world, but an ear.

Could she do it? Could she let go of the anger, the insult? Could she dismiss a lifetime, however brief, of alienation and separation – just for the hope of belonging and acceptance?

A different question came to her, then:

Could she stand to spend another night in the tower, looking at the lights of the Undercity, wondering what it would be like to live among others like her?

By way of answer, Mazulkeen inclined her head. When nothing happened, she fell to her knees and pressed her face to the cold stone.

The breeze stirred her hair, warm, soft, and accepting.

It is done. You will become a Listener.

Leave the tower and join your fellows in the initiate’s halls.

Listen.

Adhere to the order of the world, and always Listen.

We shall see you again.

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