spiceandlime

[spiceandlime]

Writing again...

To be a writer is to me at least, to never finish a single story, prompt or sentence. But to be utterly convinced that I could If I wanted to. It's been almost two years and the only things I write are university related tutorial papers and really terrible emails. I place so much importance in my ability to communicate and yet I’m not very good at articulating my feelings on writing, or more so, my lack of feelings towards writing. It is one of the most natural processes I undertake. I always write; grocery lists, to do lists, diary entries but not stories or prompts or ideas. My head has gotten so full with what I know it's difficult to even comprehend what I want to know or do. 

I think writing has become a supervised event, if there isn’t the shadow of an audience over my shoulder then I’m not really writing, when in reality the stories I write are just for me, and if anything my degree has taught me that to steal to rip the words from other writers out of the page isn’t a flaw, it doesn’t mean I can’t write it it just means i need to mold the words of others into my own. I remember reading about how someone was the part of all the people in their lives – I am the accumulation of a million artists, a hundred friends and my family.

#writers #writing #creative writing

[spiceandlime]

snippet of nothing

The wind whipped at the girl's bare arms, she stood unmoved at the entrance of the shrine.

A southern wind whipped through the trees, scattering the dead leaves and lifting the dust from the grassless ground. 

 Barely noticing the shifting eyes at the tree line. Her gaze never broke from the cave entrance. A slit barely big enough for a child to climb through. A sheer cliff stood in front of her, a blood red sigil rose high on the cliff face tarnished by years of weather and lack of care. She had found it. The entrance to the dead king’s resting place. For the first time in years the woman laughed. It was nothing brillant a puff of raspy breath parted by chapped sunburned lips. It had been a hard week in the forest, the dead forest. Very few made it through the night the woman made it at least three before the dead wood began to scare her, the deathly howl of nightwolves and clinking bones of passing swamp witches the dizzying maze of black spindly trees stretching for kilometres in all direction kept her from catching more than minutes of sleep at a time.

Looking like nothing else but a decrypted wildling, all burnt skin, bruised eyes and stinking of swamp water and fear. The woman sat at her knees and thanked none of the gods but only herself, for that is all she believed in now and crawled into the bare rock, blind but with so searching hands clawed her way through the entrance of the mountain. The eyes in the woods blinked away, nothing left the dead king's hands without being broken or dead. If she was dead they [the woods] would feast on her flesh and bone and if she was broken they would do all the same. 

The woman clawed her way into the space, no room to turn, no room to run; she slowly inched into the mountain one hand at a time. The time slowed every second was minute every minute an hour every hour a day, and the days in the forest and the days in the cave didn't seem to be able to compare. The woman never made a sound outside the brush of cloth and scratch of her breath in the tunnel. She had come too far to be afraid of death. For that is what she had come for, her death. What better way to die than by the hands of a dead king.

#wip #fantasy #story #reading #creative writing #writing prompt

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the moon in paintings. x

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“are u okay?” no i need more money

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We can't ibuprofen our way outta this one boys

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the secret rendezvous by pierre charles-comte

19th century; oil on canvas

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im not 17 anymore and i should find something new to talk about but remember when ophelia said “i hope all will be well” (4.5)

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"color theory"? Well personally I think red and blue are secretly friends even though they don't act like it but I don't know how popular that is

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babygirl this long distance mutualship has me yearning for pangaea

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being sexy literally has nothing to do with looks... you need to be a little bit weird and strange and unusual. people who are physically perfect by societal standards are not sexy like where's the flavour. the body hair. i'm right

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Lady of shallot. Lady of onion. Lady of garlic. Lady of chives.

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wish i would get thirstfollowed. but y’all only follow me cuz i’m funny and brilliant or whatever

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You can divorce me but you can't undrink my blood

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Illustration from La Belle Dame Sans Merci for Andrew Lang’s The Blue Poetry Book by Lancelot Speed (1891)

[spiceandlime]