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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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2023 (fr-en)

Mes plans de 2022:

Je voulais écrire des petites histoires et les publier chaque mois et je l'ai fait !

Malheureusement, il y a beaucoup de choses que je n'ai pas faites. Je devais éditer le premier jet (voire même jet 0) de mon histoire Le Mangeur de Péchés, mais ça me prend bien plus de temps que je ne pensais que ça me prendrait (pour être honnête, ça n'a pas été l'année idéale pour se concentrer...)

Si je me souviens bien, je voulais aussi faire des présentations de mes personnages mais j'ai été complètement paralysée par le "Mais est-ce qu'ils vont aimer mes amis??", donc, pas idéal.

En conclusion:

Ben, ça a été une année longue et bizarre. J'ai fait quelques trucs, je n'en ai pas fait d'autres. J'ai voulu discuter ou rencontré d'autres auteurs pour promouvoir un peu leurs travaux, mais je ne sais pas vraiment si j'ai réussi.

EN 2023:

Je ne m'étais pas mis la pression l'année dernière, je crois que je vais encore moins me la mettre cette année !

Je n'ai pas de plans précis, je crois que ma seule règle va être la suivante:

Les jours pairs, je travaille sur mes plus longs projets, que ce soit Le mangeur de péchés, Si Notre Vie Devait Se Terminer ou d'autres projets sans noms...

Et les jours impairs, je travaille sur mes projets les plus courts, comme mes petites histoires...

Qu'à priori je continuerai à poster une fois par mois, histoire au moins d'être un peu présente ici !

Et toi, c'est quoi, tes plans?

My plans for 2022:

I wanted to write prompts and publish them each month, which I did !

Sadly, there's a lot I didn't do ! I was supposed to edit the first (very rough) draft of my story The Sin Eater, but it's taking way longer than I thought it would be... (although, to be fair, things were not ideal this year for focus...)

I remember that I also wanted to make character introductions, but I've been paralyzed by "but will they like my friends??" so again, not ideal.

In conclusion:

Well, that was a long and weird year. Did some stuff, didn't do others. Wanted to reach out to other writers and promote more of their works but I don't really know if I've succeeded.

IN 2023:

I didn't stress about it last year, I'll even stress less about it this next year !

I don't have a particular plan, I think my only rule will be as follow :

On even days, I'll work on my longer projects, like The Sin Eater or If This Life Of Ours Has To End or some other nameless projects...

And on odd days, I'll work on my shorter projects, like my prompts...

That I'll continue to post once a month, in order to be at least a bit on here !

And you, what are you going to do?

#creative writing #writer #writers on tumblr #french writeblr #french writer #writeblr #writers #tired talks #mes écrits

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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DEAD RITES

“There will never be peace, N.” Beau spat. “There will never be peace to them until my kind is wiped out.”

::PLOT::

Political candidate Richard Lindsey is shot dead at his first rally and all fingers immediately point to The Marauders, an pro-vampire and vampire run gang that fights for equality and protections for vampires across the nation. With Lindsey’s platform hinging on harsh anti-vampiric sentiments and fear mongering, every news outlet worth their salt is covering the horrifying incident, whipping the nation in a frenzy of distrust and fear against the already ostracized class.

All journalists, but one: Nathali “N” Blackburn, lead-journalist at Aurora Press. He’s not buying this story that The Marauders, who have no history of assassinations or violent resistance would take such dramatic action. He vows to get to the bottom of it, and plans to release a story debunking this baseless frenzy of fear.

Cashing in a few favors leads N to Beau “Bibi” Bellerose, a vampire and community organizer of the House of Night chapter of The Marauders. While he doesn’t have a high enough position to divulge information relating to any involvement in this assassination, to keep The Marauders from being slandered by the media even further, he agrees to help N in his investigation.

As they dig deeper and deeper into this web of conspiracies and lies, N and Beau grow close. So close in fact, that Beau enlightens him on the way to kill a vampire: evoking their dead rites. Dead Rites do not kill a vampire outright; however they’re an ancient form of exorcism where a hunter calls upon a vampire’s personal belief system to strip them of their undead immortality, making them killable by human means. And unfortunately… it seems someone is trying to make dead rites common knowledge. Someone who wishes to start a civil war between humans and vampires. Someone who wants to throw this delicately crafted, fragile peace out of the window for their own personal gain.

Will it be too late to stop this before there’s an all out war on their hands?

::DETAILS::

POV: third person omniscient

Warnings: fictional politics & war, fictitious racism/speciesism, graphic depictions of death, gore & violence, major character death & undeath, supernatural violence

Tag: s: dead rites

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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All I Want for Christmas

[Teeeechnically, this is a prompt fill. :') @tryingtimi tagged me in the following game, and of course there was going to have to be some AtB holiday cheer. I'll post the rules at the end of this author's note, but because today is Christmas, I want to leave it open to pretty much anyone, should anyone want to pick it up.

In the meantime, thank you so much to all y'all who've been following AtB/my writing in general. It's been a wild year, not only in terms of writing but in life as a whole, and seeing you stick around and pop in from time to time has really been a joy. So as such, please accept one of two holiday ficlets I'm planning for this week.

Also, the rules of this tag game, should y'all be interested:

Rules: If anyone wants to join in and turn this into a mistletoe tag game for the holidays, I'd love to see yall's OCs kissing under a mistletoe, or your WIPs version of it! Whether in-world or a modern AU version where mistletoes exist.]

Title: All I Want for Christmas Word Count: 1747 Summary: It's Lykos's first Christmas out, and he's facing a bit of a dilemma.

Also available on Wordpress. Click here to read.

---

About five days before Christmas, Lykos shows up on Sadie and Zev’s doorstep in a panic. By the grace of all things good, Sadie opens the door within two doorbell rings, one leg nudging the Boston terrier that she and Zev had adopted out of the threshold.

“Lykos!” she exclaims. Then, her face falls at the sight of his expression. “Is everything all right?”

He swallows. “Sadie, I need your help.”

She doesn’t say anything else as she stands aside and motions him to come in, hand fluttering first at the empty space next to her and then at his back as she herds him inside.

“Hey, Zev!” she calls. “We got enough for another mug of eggnog?”

“Plenty!” Zev replies from the kitchenette, back turned and face to a large pot on the stove. “Is that Lykos?”

“It’s Lykos!”

Zev ladles something spicy- and sweet-smelling into a mug and whirls around to face their guest. He saunters over, passing a Christmas tree that’s a mite too large for the apartment yet somehow manages to fit in the corner.

“Lykos! It’s been a while!” Zev says.

“A week,” Lykos replies.

“Still a while.” Zev hands him the cup. “Careful. It’s hot, and I might have added a little too much rum. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Lykos takes a sip and silently agrees—far too much rum. Yet his eyes are on the Christmas tree over Zev’s shoulder.

“Um.” He hesitates, forces down his gulp of rum with a subtle hint of eggnog. “Are the two of you celebrating Christmas?”

“We are!” Sadie replies. “By the way, you’re more than welcome to come. We just weren’t sure if you wanted to spend it with just Joaquin or with us—you know, given the fact that it’s your first Christmas outside and all.”

“Oh, thank you, but, ah.” Lykos furrows his eyebrows at the two of them. “Aren’t you Wiccan? And Jewish, for that matter?”

Zev motions to a silver menorah on the table. “No need to worry. I’ve got myself covered, and Sadie is attending a Yule celebration with Sandra on the Cambridge Common tomorrow. We just felt like we should be inclusive for Sparky.”

“Sparky,” Lykos repeats.

They nod.

“Your dog.”

“He was surrendered by a Catholic family, and according to Don Bluth, all dogs go to Heaven,” Sadie explains.

Zev nods in agreement. “So therefore Sparky by default has accepted Jesus as his lord and savior and celebrates Christmas.”

Lykos looks from one of them to the other, then nods slowly and holds out his mug of eggnog. “Right. I’m calling Dagny.”

The two of them immediately jump, and, with overlapping apologies and insistences that Lykos stay, they manage to navigate him to the living-slash-dining room instead. The next thing Lykos is aware of, he’s sitting on Sadie’s broken couch with Sadie perched on the coffee table and Zev sitting, one leg arched over the other, on one of the dining room chairs.

“So what can we do for you?” Zev asks. “And we insist that you tell us. We’re your friends, after all.”

Once more, Lykos flicks his eyes from Zev to Sadie and back again, then sighs deeply into his eggnog.

“I don’t know what to get Joaquin for Christmas,” he says.

“Bow tie,” Sadie replies immediately.

Lykos lifts his head. “Oh, Sadie, no.”

“No, hear me out,” she responds. “Joaquin probably doesn’t want anything. That’s your dilemma, right? You know that.”

He recoils internally. “R-right. Unfortunately.”

“Well, one thing he never says no to are bow ties,” Sadie tells him. “Or DnD miniatures, but you probably know his collection more than I do.”

Lykos wrinkles his nose. “It’s . . . it’s practically complete, yes.”

“Anyway,” Zev cuts in, “whatever you get him, I’m sure he’ll be delighted. He loves you, Lykos. Don’t overthink it, and you’ll be fine.”

Don’t overthink it. Lykos forces a grin. Don’t overthink it. Sure. That’ll be easy.

As if reading his mind (or at least the expression he’s for sure not hiding remotely well), Zev reaches out to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“We know,” Zev says. “But try to not overthink it anyway.”

–

Their home has been tinsel and lights since a week after Thanksgiving. At first, Lykos thought it was just because it was his first Christmas on the outside, but one conversation with Sadie told him Joaquin was always like this on the holidays. Cheery. Over-the-top. Winner of the annual Godawful Christmas Sweater Competition at the Arcadia three years running. “You’ll get used to it,” she said to him then. “If anything, it’s a little warm and fuzzy. He’s like the distilled essence of a Rankin-Bass special.”

At the time, Lykos was terrified of asking what a Rankin-Bass special was.

(Joaquin rectified this by the third of December, courtesy of a marathon.)

Truth be told, Lykos didn’t mind. Doesn’t mind. It’s nice, he concludes. He doesn’t know why. He was from ancient Egypt, after all. He’s never even seen snow in person until . . . well, not even now. Global warming, supposedly. And he’s never even celebrated Christmas until now, either. He had different gods before entering the Library, after all, and the librarians never really celebrated anything. They probably still don’t, he realizes.

The point is when Joaquin hauled a seemingly endless stream of boxes out of a closet, Lykos didn’t bat an eye. He hadn’t even protested when the tree went up, when Joaquin roped him into decorating the apartment, any of it, except to fruitlessly mumble concerns over whether or not Artemis and her feline glory should be let near the plastic tree. (She has yet to destroy it, let alone, apparently, to take any interest in it whatsoever.)

It was only after he realized, nearly two weeks into December, that he needed to get Joaquin a gift, that Lykos had anything negative to say about Christmas.

And now, staring down the wreath on the outside of their shared front door, all of a sudden, all of this tinsel and glitter weighs heavily on Lykos’s soul.

What do you get someone who gave you a life?

A tie? No, not that.

A bow tie.

. . .

Lykos groans and thumps his head to the left of the wreath. Gods, Lykos is bad at this. Absolutely terrible. Here he is, almost a year out of the Library, and one of the three people who have kept him from running right back in, the one person who gave him a home and love that neither Sadie nor Zev could ever offer, love that he never thought he could ever feel again, and he can’t even—

“Darling, what are you doing out here?”

—notice when he’s approaching from behind. Great.

Lykos rights himself and clears his throat, and with a forced smile, he unlocks the door and pushes it open.

“Ah, just coming back from Sadie and Zev’s,” he says.

Joaquin, carrying a bag of groceries, offers a genuine smile of his own as he moves into the warmth. “Oh? How are they?”

“Ah. The same as usual.” Lykos shut the door behind them and started shedding his heavy winter wear. “Apparently celebrating Christmas with their dog.”

“Oh, Sparky!” Joaquin’s smile brightens as he pokes his head back out of the kitchen. “You know he’s Catholic, right?”

Lykos stops partway through hanging both of their coats to stare blankly at Joaquin. Joaquin disappears back into the kitchen for a beat—apparently to retrieve a small box, because he’s back in the next second with it held firmly in both hands.

“Anyway, darling, do you mind giving me a hand with something?” he asks.

Lykos starts for his partner’s side. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Your opinion,” Joaquin responds. “I’m thinking of hanging one last Christmas decoration, but I’m not sure where. Do you think this spot right here would be good?”

He points to a spot right above the door to their bedroom. Lykos frowns at it, puzzling at the wood forming the door frame.

“Well, I suppose that depends on what sort of decoration you were thinking of,” he replies.

And then, he finds a sprig of mistletoe dangling over his head. Joaquin drops the open box onto the floor and uses his free hand to pull Lykos in for a quick kiss on his lips. It wasn’t deep or passionate, but it catches Lykos off-guard and leaves him breathless for a second.

“You know,” Joaquin says, “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Do . . . do what?” Lykos manages to eke out.

“Hang some mistletoe. Then kiss someone under it,” Joaquin admits. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before, but . . . you’re the first boyfriend I’ve had for Christmas.”

Lykos blinks away the fuzz from Joaquin’s surprise kiss. “What? I thought you said I wasn’t your first.”

Joaquin pulls away to hang the mistletoe above the door. “You’re not my first boyfriend, but not a lot of them stick around for Christmas. Or, well. For more than a week or two.”

At once, Lykos’s heart sinks. It’s been months since they started dating; how did he not know this?

“I know I went overboard, but I guess I just got excited,” Joaquin continues. “Christmas is so romantic; it’s best spent with the ones you love, you know. All the gift-giving, all the cuddling up to a warm fire . . . I know you didn’t celebrate Christmas in Alexandria. I guess I just wanted to show you what it was like.” He steps back from the mistletoe to admire his work, then turns to face Lykos. “Sorry. What did you—”

Lykos stops him with a kiss. A proper one this time, pulling him deep into an embrace beneath the mistletoe and giving Joaquin all the warmth he has. After what feels like years, they separate, resting foreheads against one another in the quiet of their apartment.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lykos says. “I’m glad I’m here to celebrate with you.”

“Even if it’s a lot?” Joaquin says with a small smile.

“It’s never too much,” Lykos replies. “Anyway, now that we’re thoroughly meddling with traditions, what can I give you for Christmas?”

Joaquin sighs and brushes a hand across the side of Lykos’s face. “Darling, you’ve already given me everything I could ever want.” He plants one more kiss on Lykos’s forehead. “But if you have to go out and get me something, I could always use another bow tie.”

Lykos can’t help but laugh. “Well. That I can do.”

---

TAG LISTS: (Feel free to ask to be added/removed!)

Gen: @sereniatta @girl-like-substance @slam-dunkrai @leadhelmetcosmonaut @avian-writes @olimpias @ladywithalamp @chazzawrites @artbyeloquent @knittingknots @drippingmoon @jezifster @jaimistoryteller @avrablake @cassi-eats-cockroaches @ashen-crest @tryingtimi @bardic-tales

AtB: @dynadratina @homesteadchronicles @ayzrules @manotelier @chishiio @kittensartswriting @maguayans @oh-no-another-idea @tiredlittleoldme @magic-is-something-we-create @drippingmoon @adie-dee @tryingtimi @philocalizt @wordwizards @thegreatobsesso @dragon-swords-prophecies

#that was so cute !!!#thanks for this !!#other people's work #other people are awesome

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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Huge shout out to all writers dealing with stuff now. You've got this. I believe in you.

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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La planète

Basé sur ce prompt de @visualwritingprompts2

Ben avait le regard nerveux et rapide sur tout ce qui bougeait. La petite Jenny faisait des croquis du paysage dans son carnet, la tête cassée en deux vers ses genoux. Elle fredonnait même et Lena se demandait si elle était vraiment aussi nonchalante qu’elle paraissait.

-Moins vite !, souffle Ben, sa voix perçante irritant les deux passagères.

Elles échangent un regard, Lena se mord la lèvre pour ne pas lui répondre qu’elle ne peut rien faire contre le courant. Elle remonte tout de même les rames dans la petite embarcation et ils se laissent porter par la rivière sombre.

Une odeur saumâtre, dérangeante et envahissante monte jusqu’à eux. Lena sait qu’il y a quelque chose dans l’eau, quelque chose de gros et possiblement dangereux. Elle le sent dans les vibrations de l’eau, dans une pression familière dans le bas de sa nuque. Elle n’en dit pas un mot, ceci dit, ne voulant pas inquiéter les autres et en particulier Ben.

Avec suffisamment de chance, ils seraient sortis de la rivière souterraine avant que quelque chose ne leur arrive. Juste au cas où, elle touche sa poche, le poids de l’arme réconfortante contre sa hanche.

Jenny tient son fusain, la faible lumière de sa torche l’éclairant à peine. Ben fait bouger sa torche dans tous les sens comme si voir quelque chose allait vraiment l’aider à se défendre.

Les poils de la nuque de Lena se dressent et elle retient son souffle, laissant sa main agripper la poignée du couteau. Jenny relève la tête, leurs regards se croisent et elle range lentement son carnet dans une poche intérieure de sa veste, sa main allant dans la direction d’une des rames.

Ben remarque le changement d’atmosphère et vient s’asseoir à côté de Jenny, essayant de prendre le moins de place possible.

Une minute se passe dans un silence oppressant et Lena est tellement concentrée sur un bruit plus animalier qu’elle ne remarque pas tout de suite le rugissement de la rivière qui s’accroît. Ben laisse échapper un juron et, pour une fois, Jenny et Lena sont complètement d’accords.

-Accrochez-vous !, jette rapidement cette dernière alors que le tumulte de l’eau les entraîne bien trop rapidement.

C’est un conseil inutile: Ben et Jenny se sont déjà agrippés à la frêle coque de leur embarcation. Lena pousse ses pieds sous le banc de devant et prend une rame. Il faut qu’elle arrache la deuxième de la poigne solide de Jenny et bientôt, le courant les emporte.

Elle ne voit quasiment rien et tout ce qu’elle entend, c’est le bruit cacophonique de l’eau et les cris de ses compagnons (peut-être les siens aussi d’ailleurs). Elle se laisse guider par son instinct, par la vitesse du courant et le bruit lui indiquant la proximité de berges ou de rochers.

Au bout d’un moment qui pourrait être quelques secondes ou plusieurs heures, non seulement leurs visions revient, indiquant une sortie toute proche, mais en plus au moment où ils atteignent la lumière, la rivière ralentit brusquement.

Il leur faut un moment pour reprendre leurs esprits, Ben vient se rasseoir sur le banc et pousse un soupir de soulagement.

-Arrêt., souffle Lena en indiquant une pente douce et verte.

Elle rame péniblement dans la direction, Ben plongeant sa main dans l’eau pour l’aider.

Quand ils touchent enfin terre, épuisés et les jambes tremblantes, Ben se laisse glisser sur les genoux et Jenny tombe à quatre pattes, une respiration lourde la seule preuve de sa conscience. Lena essaie de faire bonne figure, s’asseyant sur le bord externe du canot.

Un haut-le-coeur, rapide, et elle laisse son déjeuner entre ses genoux. Elle perçoit vaguement Ben se traîner vers elle et se redresser pour lui tenir les cheveux avant que le dessert ne rejoigne le déjeuner. Enfin, elle relève la tête.

Un adolescent en uniforme du parc leur fait face.

-Vous en faites pas, ça arrive à tout le monde.

Jenny est blanche comme un linge, mais elle a un sourire aux lèvres.

-On y retourne?

#mes écrits #j'écris #j'écris des prompts #writing #writer #french writeblr #french writer #writer on tumblr #writeblr #short story #histoire courte #la planète

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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Can I be added to the taglist please? This looks so good! (and sometimes I forget to rb and ask to be added to the taglist, I'm a bad blogger...)

Kwon Taeyeon, general of the Choo dynasty and head of his clan. Though he has been loyal to the throne for all his life, beating revolt after revolt has exhausted him. He reaches a point where he can no longer stay blind to the abuse of power of members of the royal family and their manipulations.

I tried to do it differently, I tried to make them my friends, but now… now I want them dead.

The Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!): @ruth-lund @crowandmoonwriting @kittensartswriting @homesteadchronicles

#other people's wips #other people's work

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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La neige

Basé sur ce prompt de @visualwritingprompts2

La neige avait tout bloqué. La météo avait été glacé depuis quelques temps, mais les tempêtes constantes rendaient chaque déplacement presque impossible.

En l’absence d’un ciel clair, il n’y avait pas moyen de voler. C’est ce que les autres essayaient de faire comprendre au commandant.

-J’ai pas un pouce de visibilité., râlait le pilote. Comment est-ce que je pourrais voler comme ça?

-Tu voleras parce que je te dis de voler.

Le pilote roule des yeux. S’il y a une personne qui ne craint pas le commandant, c’est lui.

-Bien sûr, et si l’avion se crashe et que la mission n’est pas remplie, on fait quoi?

-Tu voles toujours sans aucune visibilité, quelle importance... Tu ne t’es jamais crashé.

-Ça a jamais été comme ça.

Le pilote croise les bras et tout le monde dans l’entrepôt les regarde avec plus ou moins de discrétion.

-La mission va avant tout. Le cargo doit être livré quoi qu’il se passe.

-Tu crois que je ne le sais pas?

Le pilote est maintenant juste en face du commandant, l’équipage et le soutien au sol retiennent leur souffle.

-Je suppose que tu veux que j’aille lui parler?

La voix du commandant est basse, mais le silence est tel que tout le monde l’entend.

-Si ça ne te dérange pas.

Le pilote a un léger sourire aux lèvres, le commandant plisse les yeux, mais se retourne et s’enfonce vers l’intérieur de la base. Le pilote se retourne aussi après un instant.

-Allez, au travail !

Des murmures se font entendre, mais tout le monde obéit. Personne n’a envie d’être le responsable d’un éventuel retard de mission, pas qu’un seul cargo ait jamais été en retard. On se passe les caisses, les outils et bientôt, tout est chargé dans l’avion.

Les plus anciens fixent le ciel à chaque sortie, comme si le blizzard allait miraculeusement se lever à force de le regarder. Le pilote, tranquille comme si ce n’était pas LE jour le plus important de l’année, reste à la porte, les bras croisés et les yeux plissés derrière ses lunettes de vol. Le commandant s’approche du pilote, lui cognant le coude pour attirer son attention.

Au milieu du bruit du vent, de la neige épaisse, tout le monde essaie d’entendre ce qu’il va dire.

Il soupire, le pilote sourit.

-Il va le chercher et il l’envoie.

Le pilote a un geste de triomphe, le commandant roule des yeux. -Tout est prêt, au moins?

Un des gars de l’entrepôt s’approche timidement.

-Le dernier chargement vient d’être installé.

Le commandant grogne quelque chose en guise d’assentiment et consulte sa montre pour la cinquième fois en une minute.

-Relaxe., lui souffle le pilote. On n’attend plus que lui.

Il fait un signe à l’équipage qui se presse pour monter dans l’avion, croisant le personnel de l’entrepôt qui en descend.

-Vas-y, commence les préparations au sol. Il ne devrait pas tarder.

Le regard du commandant se perd à nouveau au fond de l’entrepôt.

C’est au tour du pilote de le pousser du coude.

-Ça va aller... On ne sera pas en retard.

Le commandant grogne.

-Ou si on l’est, au moins, ce ne sera pas de ma faute., ricane le pilote, s’éloignant sous le regard frustré du commandant.

Les préparatifs de vol sont rapides. Malgré la météo, à cette époque de l’année, l’avion est vérifié constamment pour être sûr qu’il est en état de voler.

Le pilote est moins stressé que le commandant, mais ça n’empêche pas à son coeur de battre la chamade. Être en retard ne serait rien de moins que catastrophique et tout le monde le sait. Il enfile son casque et la voix soulagée du commandant le rejoint immédiatement dans ses oreilles.

-Ça va, il est en route.

Le pilote sourit, répond au commandant, enclenche les dernières procédures et prévient l’équipage de boucler leurs ceintures. Quand tout est prêt, il inspire profondément en regardant par le pare-brise. La météo ne s’est pas améliorée et la visibilité est quasi nulle. Dans sa folle jeunesse, il en a fait des bêtises, mais ça, ça ne sera vraiment pas de tout repos. Pas qu’il ait pris le job parce qu’il était facile. Bien sûr, le reste de l’année est bien plus tranquille, mais tout repose sur ce moment, sur ce vol. Si le vol ne se passe bien, les livraisons ne seront pas faites et sans les livraisons...

Le pilote frémit, un frisson parcourant tout son corps. Il s’apprête à interpeller le reste de l’équipage qu’il sent aussi nerveux que le commandant (ce dernier, d’ailleurs, doit être sur le point de faire un anévrisme) quand devant lui, la lumière rouge qu’il attendait s’allume enfin.

Il pousse un bref cri de triomphe, ses mains volant aux commandes.

-Accrochez-vous, les enfants, on décolle !

Le pilote sent l’excitation monter derrière lui. Il ne peut s’empêcher d’adresser une prière à son guide.

-Allez, Rudolphe, montre-nous le chemin...

#mes écrits #j'écris des prompts #j'écris #writer #texte français #french writeblr #my writing #french writer #writeblr #la neige #short story #court texte #histoire courte #short fiction #original writing #joyeux noël

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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Sörknatten nature reserve in Dalsland, Sweden (September 26, 2022).

#wip inspo #wip: the sin eater

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tiredlittleoldme · 1 year

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YOUR WRITING HOLDS VALUE, REGARDLESS OF HOW MANY READS OR COMMENTS YOU GET. PLEASE DON'T EVER FEEL LIKE YOUR WRITING'S INSIGNIFICANT BECAUSE IT IS NOT

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tiredlittleoldme · 2 years

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If after 15 years and lots of therapy you ask your mother to acknowledge the way she failed to protect you, and she still responds by turning the volume on the television up, and only then do you begin tugging your roots free of her, are you holding a grudge, or is the grudge holding you, like your mother should have?

— Rachel Wiley, from "The Mother Riddle," Revenge Body

#must I stumble on this mere days before my mother's birthday??

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tiredlittleoldme · 2 years

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Rules: copy and paste the paragraphs below and bold the ones that relate to you

I write: daily | most days | a few times a week | a few times a month | random [these days a lot but it really depends]

In one sitting, I tend to write: a few sentences at a time | a few hundred words | a few thousand words | a complete chapter/section no matter how long | whatever comes [listen, sometimes, it's a jumble of words that don't make sense...]

I tend to write scenes:in chronological order with no skipping | mostly in order but with some filler/skipping | whatever scene I feel like | who knows what’s gonna come out????

When I take a break from writing, it usually lasts: a few days | a few weeks | a few months | it’s kind of random

My favorite thing to do when I’m on a writing break is : recharge with other creative hobbies | read/ consume other media | do something physical | catch up with old friends | work on my WIP in other ways like with playlists or art | other [wait, you can recharge?? I just go on overdrive and don't do stuff for a while !].

Tagging everyone who sees this cause I see you but am also lazy !!

Writing Habit Tag

I was not tagged, but @cometworks did this and I really really wanted to. So I did it!

Rules: copy and paste the paragraphs below and bold the ones that relate to you

I write: daily | most days | a few times a week | a few times a month | random

In one sitting, I tend to write: a few sentences at a time | a few hundred words | a few thousand words | a complete chapter/section no matter how long | whatever comes

I tend to write scenes: in chronological order with no skipping | mostly in order but with some filler/skipping | whatever scene I feel like | who knows what’s gonna come out????

When I take a break from writing, it usually lasts: a few days | a few weeks | a few months | it’s kind of random

Tagging (with no pressure): @a-completely-normal-girl @fayoftheforest @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @littlerothridinghood @tiredlittleoldme @just-a-coincidence @a-cosmic-elf @sheyshocked @cadmusfinch @rhikasa @annlillyjose @thewritingace @kryskakikomi @scmalarky @loopyhoopywrites @teasenpaiwrites @talesofsorrowandofruin @vivian-is-writing @writing-valentines and anyone else who wants to!

Like this post if you me to tag you in tag games!

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tiredlittleoldme · 2 years

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La route

Basé sur ce prompt de @visualwritingprompts2

Il faisait chaud, à l’arrière, mais Lou était déterminé à ne pas desserrer les dents. Iel pousse un long soupir, évacuant tout l’oxygène de son corps par le nez.

Ça, par contre, ça attire l’attention de sa mère. Elle lui lance un regard à travers le rétroviseur et iel force son regard vers l’extérieur brûlant, serrant sa mâchoire si fort qu’iel a l’impression que ses dents bougent.

-Ne fais pas la tête.

Iel ne répond rien.

-Lou? Lou !

Iel sait que c’est aller au devant des ennuis, mais reste dans cette position, le verre fumé de la vitre donnant à tout le paysage une teinte rouge sang terrible.

-Tu crois que c’est quelque chose que je voulais?

Iel se sent grincer encore un peu plus des dents. Ce qu’elle voulait, ça, c’était drôle. On n’avait jamais demandé ça à Lou, on se contentait de lui dire d’emballer ses affaires, de dire au revoir aux autres enfants des travailleurs et de monter dans le quelconque transport qui venait les chercher. Lou soupire, ayant presque oublié sa mère en ce moment. Elle, par contre, n’a pas oublié.

-Tu comprendras, un jour.

Iel roule des yeux sans pouvoir s’en empêcher, mais heureusement, sa mère a de nouveau son regard vers la route monotone qui les mène droit au nouveau cocon.

-Je voulais rester avec Mamie., s’entend-iel dire.

-Mamie est morte.

Sa respiration se bloque alors qu’iel lève la tête, le ton gelé et énervé de sa mère figeant sur place le peu de son corps qui bougeait auparavant.

-Oh, bébé, je suis désolée, je ne voulais pas dire ça, je...

Elle s’interrompt, comme si elle ne savait pas quoi dire. Iel l’observe, sa langue figée dans sa bouche. Tous les adultes disent ça. Sa lèvre tremble, iel évite le regard de sa mère et le tourne vers la place derrière elle. Tous les adultes l’ont dit. "Il faut partir, il n’y a pas le choix, il faut partir."

Ils n’ont pas dit que c’était leur faute, parce qu’après tout, ça n’est jamais la faute des grands.

Lou a un secret, tous les enfants ont un secret. Tous les enfants savent. Tous les enfants blâment les grands. Mais bien sûr, ça, ils le savent.

Tous les adultes savent que tous les enfants les regardent avec un dédain qu’ils ne parviennent pas à cacher, avec un désespoir et une colère que les grands ne comprendront jamais vraiment.

-Je suis désolée, Lou, mais Mamie...

Elle s’interrompt encore, comme si elle ne voulait pas le répéter une nouvelle fois.

Iel garde le silence, sa langue accrochée à son palais, la mâchoire serrée fermement.

C’est ce que tous les enfants savent. C’est ce dont ils rêvent, toutes les nuits. C’est ce que Lou voit, plus clairement que la route rouge serpentant dans un désert de roches au dessus duquel trône un ciel d’un jaune sale.

Iel la voit. Sa planète, sa vraie planète. Sa grand-mère qui l’attend. Et un jour, iel y retournera.

#mes écrits #j'écris #j'écris des prompts #la route #french writeblr #writeblr #french writer #court texte #short story #histoire courte #short fiction #original writing

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tiredlittleoldme · 2 years

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Let me ramble about my 13th Floor WIP because I finally have a title. I call it ✨Mystique Heights✨. Does it sound…mysterious? Hahaha

Mystique Heights is the name of the place where the story takes place. MC inexplicably receives a letter telling her that a condominium unit was bought and transferred under her name. Her unit is on the 14th floor of the building, but somehow the elevator sometimes stops at the 13th floor—she was told the building didn’t have one because the proprietor is very superstitious. Maybe the staff lied to her because it’s there. And more importantly, the welcome committee of the building gave her a really sketchy set of rules she had to sign.

AAAAAAAA This is so cool. Makes me wanna drop everything else and start this NOW, but I won’t. Unless…

#very mysterious !!

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tiredlittleoldme · 2 years

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Why Being A Writer Is Everything To Me

Writing has always been an important part of our way of life. It’s what makes the movies we watch so memorable. It’s why certain TV shows move us to tears. It’s what makes the speeches we’ve heard again and again from leaders around the world so powerful. Writings can start wars but bring peace.

Writing is a personal hobby that I’ve enjoyed since the age of seven. Of course, at that age, my stories were written in childlike ways, but the passion that ran through me each time I wrote kept me going. There had never been a writer in the family as far as we knew, but my parents fueled my passion anyway.

“Read,” they’d tell me, “check out as many books as you can. Learn new words. Reading is how your stories will feel more alive.”

I followed their advice. I read pretty much anything I could get my hands on. From historical fiction to Greek Myths and everything in-between. There wasn’t a day that went by that someone didn’t see me without a book in my hand. I lived in books. I lived in the stories and the characters. Their downfalls and their triumphs. Reading is probably the main reason I passed all my English classes. Reading gave me a certain sense of freedom.

As a young teen, I started exploring romance in my stories. I wrote about romance because I craved it. Often, as humans, we write about things we either know about or long for. It’s in those moments of longing that we start to find ourselves. Most teens write only about the starry-eyed, puppy love but I was wise beyond my years. I hadn’t truly experienced romance first hand but I knew in stories, there can’t be all good. I knew that relationships had ups and downs and that is exactly what I added in there. For every victory, there was a defeat, and for every defeat, there was a victory.

When I got into college, I started writing a series starring a young girl who has autism. Autism is another personal subject to me, as it is a part of who I am. I started exploring scenarios and picturing what any person—autistic or not—who was my age would face. I used my experiences growing up to develop my character. I even named her after me, wanting my story to be told through a fictional character, a character I could separate myself from when I finished writing.

Today, I focus more on poetry than short stories, but I am still writing. Writing will always be a part of me. It’s something that, even if I stopped for a while, I could never truly give it up. Writing has embedded it’s presence into my very soul and won’t let go.

You’re reading this article in hopes of knowing at least one part of me. Why writing means the world to me.

For starters, writing is my expression. When my vocal chords fall silent, my hand picks up the message. My fingers fly across the phone or page and the words spill out of me. I know how to use my vocal chords, I know how to speak, but writing lets me release a part of myself that my vocal chords cannot. Writing can be my anger when screams no long express it or writing can be my sorrow when tears no longer apply. My writing speaks out against injustice without having to make a sound.

Sometimes, I do not wish to share my writing with the word. I write for myself. I write about things I never share because others won’t understand. Private thoughts or scenarios no one else needs knowledge of. Sometimes, my anger, pain and sorrow are so great that I must write it out but never share it with anyone. There are parts of my pain that do not need to see the light of day.

The beauty of writing is that you get to share it however you want. You are in control of your writing. You don’t have to share parts of your writing you feel are only meant for you. People consider that to be a selfish act, but writing in of itself isn’t one or the other. Writing is a tool, an art form, a way of saying things our mouths cannot.

Writing is also a way of releasing whatever it is I’m holding onto. I’ve written personal letters that I’ve never shared in order to let old friends go. I’ve written poems to my depression, my anxiety, the pain of my past, to let them know they don’t control me anymore. Writing leaves me in control of something. It’s been my most powerful weapon in the many battles I’ve faced in my lifetime. Writing gives me power that nothing else can give. Writing has also taught me many valuable lessons.

Friends, if you let it, writing can become your most valuable possession. Do not be afraid to write because of the fear of being judged. Your writing will never judge you; it is more than happy to let you express yourself. To any new writers who are afraid of being selfish, block out the critics. They will never understand us, the humans who create stories for our own comforts.

#so so true #writing can be my anger #perfectly said

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