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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 1 year

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Chapter Check Tuesday

Finished Chapters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-Three

Started Chapters

Chapter Six

Chapter Nine

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

#the time weaver #writing #writers life #writing community #writers #my writing #novel writing #novel #creative writing #writing progress #wip #my wip stuff #writing advice #fantasy writing #author #authors of tumblr #writers of tumblr

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 1 year

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The Time Weaver: The Story of Airships

Despite Sanduhr (the world of The Time Weaver) using airships and zeppelins as the primary transport across the world, the countries and islands are also surrounded by vast, beautiful oceans and seas. However, only Badhari and some of the south-eastern continents continue to also use seaborne ships as a method of importing goods and travelling.

This is because of the creatures that reside within the waters of Sandurh, primarily, the myths of what lies beneath the Azarell Ocean and the Sinriden Strait.

Historians of the continent of Tahva have recorded sightings and marine discoveries of large monsters lurking in the waters. The Azarell Ocean in particular is well known for its large population of Sea-Wyrms.

These giant, sharp-toothed monsters of the deep tormented travellers for centuries, crushing smaller boats in their long bodies and devouring survivors left stranded in the oceans. Many hunters have attempted to rid the ocean of these hellish creatures, but have only succeeded in killing Sea-Wyrms that scientists around the world believe to be babies. The true size these Wyrms can grow to is unknown.

These are not the only creatures to be found terrorizing the waters of Sanduhr. Other creatures include venomous crab-like insects buried beneath rocks and sand, humanoid merrows with cannibalistic tendencies, giant crocodilian horrors with teeth the size of a man's forearm, and even long-limbed, white-eyes women that emerge from under icy lakes to drag small children to their deaths.

After many centuries, and thanks to the industrial takeover in Tahva that followed Yelaborg's revolutionary war, airships and zeppelins became the primary source of travel, guaranteeing a much safer way of moving over the oceans without disturbing the things that lurk beneath.

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 1 year

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Cybele; forgotten deity

I have never found myself to be pretty.

There is a sharp steep hill from child to woman

and my incline is decorated in bits of coloured glass,

the rose-tinted mirror lies,

there is fairer than I in the land.

“you’re alright looking, nothing to brag about”

My portrait is skewed,

my frame cracked

my canvas torn.

“don’t punch above your weight there, you’ll just get told no”

Too tall but not tall enough for me,

if I could take the inches from my hips and

sew them into the length of my temple

would I then be goddess-like?

Enough to see people pray at my altar?

“nobody’s going to look at you dressed like that”

Good,

Sharp-toothed-grins and eyes like ice

betray intentions of darkened alleys I have spent my life

running from.

Look away.

There is no fairy-tale in me.

#poetics #personal #poetry #poems #poetry community #poets on tumblr #writing poetry #myth poetry #pagan poetry #love poetry #prose #writing #writers #my writing #creative writing #writing community

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 1 year

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Seven years after, I see you again 😚

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 2 years

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heye every one.

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 2 years

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Love Has

Love has bloodied my knuckles,

bruised my lips,

broken bones

and chipped teeth,

but all you have offered

is a roll of tape

and some glue.

#writing #creative writing #novel writing #writeblr #poems #writers #writing advice #writers and poets #writing community #poetry

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 2 years

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Experimental Gothic Fiction: Eilidh’s Prince

Mabon, the equinox of autumn and all things unholy. Where women are at their peak and the bonfires outshine the church’s choir. A priest tuts at the foot of an altar, his trembling hands clasped tight around a rosary. It is missing several beads.

Old wives tell tall tales in the town square. Share stories of frog princes and women who touch what isn’t theirs to take. A warning to the girls on the cusp of adulthood, with empty ring-fingers and a waning safety from wandering eyes.

Eilidh’s grandmother speaks plainly. She gets to the point, sharper than a knife’s edge. There is no fanciful wordplay. Men are cruel, she says. Men will fish you from the water like a salmon and boast that they saved you from drowning.

The night of the equinox, when the bonfire hisses and its smoke chokes out the sky, Eilidh listens to her grandmother. Women in feathered masks and pointed shoes tie ribbons to the mayfair pole, their shadowy figures blending into one seamless goddess. Firelight and moonglow press against one another as the clock’s hands tenderly cup the midnight hour.

Men offer their gloved hands, masks unable to hide the glimmer in their eyes. It flickers like the wick of a candle, blown into smoke and malice when Eilidh laughs at their offer to dance. They slink away, dejected, fishing rods reeled in. By tomorrow they will have plagued her name, cast her usefulness aside, a cradle of filth they dared not to touch. The treasure of her sex is nothing more than a dead-end street, a wound that never heals. A fanged rose, a vertical grimace they cower from, lest it bite back.

On her next footstep, she no longer dances alone. A slender figure emerges from between smoke and ashes, binds her hands in theirs and leads her in procession. A somber funeral song plays out across the fjord; a banshee’s call of warning. Eilidh’s laugh stills in her throat.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who danced with the prince, fleeing before midnight. This is a story we all know, yes? Of course it is. A story Eilidh has heard a thousand times, in a thousand different versions. The tongue twists the words, promises girl-children that if they are good girls, godly girls, then their reward will be to become a trophy, a prize worth winning.

Eilidh breaks the chain, she moves like dancing flames, taking the stranger’s glove with her. The bonfire’s thick smog consumes them, leaves her standing alone, holding a glove slender enough to be her own. She pulls it across her skin. It fits.

The laugh in her throat becomes free to erupt. For her dance partner, however sinful it may seem, was a woman.

The cross above the church shuddered in the wind. Eilidh moves to dance again, hands bound to the maypole ribbons, chained to a ritualistic rhythm. Her eyes wander, searching, seeking the lone ‘man’ with a single glove. She never stops to question why her dance partner has taken up drag away from a stage, why they wear the wolf’s clothing, don a cloak and boots and become Don Giovanni.

Finally, a glimpse! The naked hand in the light of the waxing crescent, a candle to the moth-girl that flits through a sea of disapproving males. Their faces are erased, black slates with puffing chests and broadened shoulders too weak to bear the burden of womanhood. The ungloved suitor is drowning in them.

Eilidh frees them. Eilidh asks their name.

Dawn fast approaches, and Eilidh has done what Prince Charming could not. A velvet glove, in place of a glass slipper, finds its rightful owner. The party dies, the equinox passes, and Eilidh marvels at her own handsome prince, whose body is not a hard rock wall, but a soft valley that dips and curves.

#writing #gothic writing #writing advice #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writers and poets #writers #writing community #my writing #feminist gothic #feminist writer #feminist writing #experimental writing #the uncanny

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 2 years

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The publishing community is a sad world to be in

Despite being responsible for some immensely popular book series', female writers are still stereotyped as romance and kitschy chick-flick books with love triangles and helpless heroines.

Fuck. Off.

We've written worlds, wars, and everything in between. Stop demeaning female writers and assuming their only works are in mystery, romance and YA.

#writing #women writers #creative writing #writers on tumblr #female writers #writers #writerscommunity #writers and poets #writing advice #novel writing #writers life #queer writers #writeblr

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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 2 years

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