#wcsecretsanta

[ashen-crest]

My Secret Santa Gift!

I'm participating in the @writeblrcafe Writeblr Secret Santa, where people post a bit of writing, then tag who it's for on the 24th.

I hope my secret person likes this! :) (and, like...other people reading it too)

The Ghost of Eastman Park Library

Summary: Eddie the ghost has his afterlife in the county's fifth-best public library all figured out- until he doesn't.

Word Count: 833

TW: ghosts, food mention

As far as afterlives went, Eddie thought, there were worse fates than haunting the public library.

He could have gotten stuck haunting the gas station across the street, doomed to watch hot dogs rotate on their greasy roller all day. Or the laundromat around the corner, which was already plagued with flickering lights and washers that went thunk in the night.

But the heavens, or fate, or whatever demon or angel was in charge of Eddie’s soul, had instead tossed him into the county’s fifth-best public library: Eastman Park Branch, a one-floor square of brick and eighties carpet on 6th and Bartleby.

(Open 9am-9pm except on Sundays. Wipe your shoes, no smoking.)

Now, there were better places to be trapped, too, Eddie pondered as he floated through the bookshelves. He could be haunting a bakery, a movie theater, a bakery, a botanical garden, a bakery…

He sighed and stopped at a dark corner of the library, where a mystery novel lay hidden behind a candy-colored children’s series. There was no use haunting a bakery. Ghosts couldn’t eat croissants, anyway.

And bakeries didn’t have all the books he could ever hope to read.

After making sure he was out of sight of the security cameras, he dug out the mystery novel and sat down to read it, angling the pages towards the weak yellow light of the streetlamps outside. 

Libraries had books yes, but it was one thing to read them, and another thing to read them as a ghost.

It wouldn’t do to spook the librarians with floating books and self-flipping pages—they didn’t get paid enough for that—so, Eddie did his best to read discreetly. Avoiding security cameras, reading when the library was empty, then placing the book back where he had found it. Book placement in particular had been more difficult to master than he had expected—not just because of the Mountain Dew, Honeydew, whatever-it-was system, but because books flinging themselves off shelves was generally not appreciated by the living. He couldn’t peruse the aisles like a normal reader, plucking whatever he wanted. Instead, he squirreled away his finds—grabbing a novel from the bottom of a cart, or quietly nudging a dropped book under the shelf. Then, as soon as the doors locked for the day, he’d dig up his find and settle into a corner such as this one, reading the night away and reveling in the library’s musk of stale coffee, outdated perfume, and yellowed pages.

Eddie had spent five years like this—secret library observer, voracious nighttime reader, eternal yearner for croissants—until one day, someone found him out.

It was a Thursday afternoon in January. Apart from the librarian peeling candy cane stickers off the front doors, no one else was there. A perfect opportunity, Eddie thought, to winkle a particularly saucy-looking romance novel from the abandoned book cart by the kids’ section. 

(Just because he didn’t have a visible human form anymore didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy an overwrought romance scene or two.)

He floated over to the cart, bent down, wiggled the worn paperback from the lowest shelf—

“Excuse me?”

Eddie leapt with a yelp. A small girl, no older than eight, stared up at him with brown eyes bigger than Bambi’s. He laughed and set a hand on his chest, quelling a racing heart that was no longer there. How silly. People couldn’t see or hear him. The girl was just talking to a librarian behind him—

He turned around. There was no librarian there. The woman on duty was still by the front doors, yanking down red and green streamers while a businesswoman paced around the lobby.

“Look, I just picked up my kid from school”—she glanced down at the expensive watch on her wrist—“but I can get you the report while she’s at Story Time—”

Eddie scoffed. Story Time—Tiny Tim’s Story Time, to be exact—was on Wednesdays at three. It said so on the fading pink sign by the door.

But the businesswoman hadn’t seen that, and neither did her daughter, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“Excuse me,” she repeated. “Are you Tiny Tim?”

He blinked. He wasn’t tiny. He wasn’t Tim. He didn’t work here. He didn’t even live here, because technically, he wasn’t alive.

But she could see him and, great croissants in heaven above, she could talk to him—so, he did the only thing a mildly panicking, book-loving ghost could do.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m Tiny Tim.”

“Good.” The girl held up a thin, colorful book. “I want to read this one today.”

She handed the book to him, flounced over to the bean bag chairs in the kids’ section, and sat down expectantly. Eddie took the large pastel chair opposite her and swallowed. At least it was a small book—perhaps he could finish reading it before anyone caught the girl staring at a floating book.

He flipped to the first page and cleared his throat.

“Once upon a time…”

#wcsecretsanta #the ghost of eastman park library #my writing #tw ghosts #tw food

[lexiklecksi]

New Year resolutions

This poem was written for @flowers-for-the-grave for @writeblrcafe's Secret Santa! I'm your gift fairy because your Secret Santa couldn't make it. Sorry you had to wait so long! I hope it was worth it and you like this poetic prose ;-)

New year, new me?

Now is the time to make resolutions

That won't end up as broken promises

Set realistic goals you are motivated to reach

Stand up for yourself and voice your opinions

Make peace with your past

Shine a light on your shadows

Choose compassion over competition

Befriend your sleep paralysis demon (it's always there for you)

Spend time with people who appreciate you

Take good care of your mind, body and heart

Let the sun kiss your skin, dance in the rain, make snow angels

After all, there's no rainbow without rain

Tag list: Never miss a poem or a short story I write! Comment + if you want to be added or - to be removed from my tag list.

@matcha-chai @dg-fragments @silversynthesis @heartofmuse @scatteredthoughts2 @rhapsodyinblue80 @alaskaisnothere @stoic-words @september-stardust @wordsforsadpeeps @writingitdown @intothevortex @aubriestar @warriorbookworm @raevenlywrites @alex-a-roman @artsymagee @giantrobocock @theheightofdepression @writing-is-a-martial-art @beautifulimposter25 @callmepippin @a-musingmichelle @kirkshiresloss @rhythmiccreatorofbeuty @eos109 @azriel-alexander-holmes @tini-rat @captain-kraken

#wcsecretsanta #poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #writerscreed #writtenconsiderations #poeticstories #poetryportal #brokensoulsreborn #inspireamuse #savagewords

[charlies-storybook]

Love is blind One of a kind Hard to find

My little dove

You, but oh you, steal all of my senses Leave me hopeless, defenseless

I fell for your voice At dawn, you give me no choice

You draw me in Warm, magnetic force within

Nothing I can do I return for more of you

Moonlit room, silky white dress Outside peace, inside mess

Love is blind One of a kind Hard to find

My little dove

(Author's Note: It's inspired by The Phantom of the Opera, hope I did it justice.)

@writeblrcafe

#bitchwrite #my writing #The Phantom of the Opera #poetry #wcsecretsanta

[akiwitch]

Secret Santa Gift!

This is for the @writeblrcafe secret santa event! I hope everyone likes it, I had a lot of fun with it.

Keeper

Summary: Wren is the keeper of the Dragon's Nest Bay light, and one calm night she heeds the call of the alarms to a very different visitor.

Word Count: 1352

The sea chimes woke Wren up from a lovely dream in the dead of night.

She pulled herself out of bed, nearly hitting her head on the rafters that sloped over her bedroom, panic driving her forward. She activated the lights in her room with a tendril of magic and grabbed her robe, throwing it over her shoulders. She yanked her hair into a messy bun and shoved her feet into her boots.

The sea chime rang clear and loud over the water.

She glanced out the window and frowned. The sea was calm and flat, the heavily round moon glittering on the surface. 

Still, the chimes ringing meant she had a duty. She grabbed her goggles and stepped into the lighthouse.

Wren took the stairs two at a time, hanging onto the railing. It was a long way up, but she was three months into her internship and only a little out of breath when she reached the top.

The top of the lighthouse was carved to resemble a massive, curled sea shell, the light nestled within it like a pearl. It glowed softly, having absorbed sunlight for several days without needing to be activated. Wren put on her goggles, making sure that there were no spots the light could leak in before she stepped beneath it.

The sphere rotated slowly above her, bigger than she was tall, and she was not a short person. She placed her hand on the bottom.

The swirling design of her magic blazed across the surface, blue and green before blazing into the same silver light as the moon. Lines of magic raced from its surface, filling in the entrance to the cove with a net made of thick strands of light.

A small village sat near the lighthouse, sprung up due to the safety it provided.

But the lighthouse was only there to keep monsters out for their own safety.

The cove was too small for a kraken or a sea serpent. If they swam in at high tide they would quickly be trapped, hurting themselves in the process.

So the lighthouse had been erected at the top of rocks at the cove’s entrance. The magic was too much of a strain to keep up permanently, so it was only erected when something large enough entered the bay, usually during a storm.

It wasn’t completely unheard of for something to want to rest in the shallow and calm waters of Dragon’s Nest Bay during a clear night, or for one of the massive bottom feeders that swam down the coast to become curious about the cove on its journey.

Better safe than sorry.

The magic would last for a few hours, but she needed to keep watch, to be safe and offer any aid. She’d already helped a young lost kraken and bandaged up a siren brought to her by a massive turtle.

Besides, the Sea Witch might not care if the town was destroyed, but she needed to get snacks and tea from somewhere, and sometimes she was even brave enough to hazard a conversation with the woman who ran the gift shop, even as she reminded herself that her time there was limited.

She could sit in the chair she’d placed up there in her second week, maybe get her kettle and a tin of cookies out of the cupboard that shared space with the one in the kitchen. It would be a long and probably boring wait.

But for the moment she leaned against the railing. It was cold, with the damp wind coming off of the ocean. Even this far up in the worst storms she sometimes got hit by spray, but it was completely calm, not a cloud in the sky, just a myriad of stars embracing a full moon. She breathed in the salt of the air and watched the silver light of her magic and the moon play on the calm, flat water.

A ripple cracked the moon’s reflection.

Wren gripped the railing, leaning out as far as she dared. 

Something moved through the bay, straight for her. Fast, like an arrow fired under the water. She could just see something glowing beneath the surface, heading straight for the cove. She glanced at the net, it looked strong and uniform, and the light glowed brightly like a secondary moon.

She braced herself for an impact, ready to push back against whatever was so determined to come into the cove.

It swam directly to the base of the rocks and crashed through the surface, sending a wave that hit her, clear up at the top of the lighthouse, soaking her straight through even with her robe.

She shoved her sopping hair out of her face and saw a dragon.

It was a sea dragon, glowing a pale green, body smooth and glistening like a whale. Its head was slightly domed like a beluga, its fin-like wings spread out on either side of it. It clung to the rock face so its face was even with hers, turning its head to regard her with one shining blue eye.

‘Wren Ackerly?’

Wren winced back, the voice was loud, and layered with the dragon’s true language underneath it, making the words confusing to her ear. “Yes?”

‘I am Ceta, a messenger of The Sea Witch, and I come bearing fantastic news!’

Wren dropped into a bow, her wet robe pooling around her. “I am ready to receive it.”

It wasn’t a holiday, as far as she remembered. Just a normal night before the sea chimes started. Now she knew exactly what had set them off. 

Still, there were rules and propriety when it came to greeting a messenger of the great Sea Witch, and any dragon demanded a certain amount of decorum, though she was still dripping wet, shivering, and in her nightgown and robe.

‘She has declared that you, Wren Ackerly, are now a full sea witch in your own right!’ The dragon proclaimed. Magic formed fireworks around her, dazzling and bright blue, glittering all around the lighthouse.

Wren was confused, but didn’t voice it out loud. She hadn’t completed her internship, she hadn’t even started on her thesis, let alone her master project. Maybe it had been a mistake.

‘Congratulations, as the new Keeper of the Dragon’s Nest Cove Light!’

“Wait, what?” Wren lost all sense of politeness. “I’m…assigned here? For how long?”

‘For as long as the Sea Witch sees fit! You have performed the duty excellently, and the Sea Witch has assigned you as the permanent Keeper! Congratulations again, Wren Ackerly, on your status as a full witch. Here is your familiar!’

A bundle of wet seaweed fell onto the roof next to her.

‘Farewell, Wren Ackerly, until we meet again!’

“Hey, wait a second.” Wren started forward. “This is an internship, unpaid even, I can’t just stay here, what about-”

But the dragon launched itself off of the rocks and back into the bay, showering her with salty water once again. She stood, frozen, for a moment, trying to process everything.

The bundle of seaweed moved.

For the second time that night she shoved her hair out of her eyes.

A little face stared up at her. It wasn’t a bundle of seaweed at all, but a very large leaf sheep, magical enough to live above the waves. It crawled up her leg and latched onto her arm, nuzzling against her shoulder, the green tendrils on its back shaking.

“I didn’t agree to this.” She pointed at it. 

It didn’t seem to care, a soft purring noise vibrating its tiny body.

She sighed. Since the dragon had set off the sea chimes, she could go back to bed. Maybe in the morning she would discover this was all a strange dream.

More likely, she’d have to come to terms with being the keeper for a very, very long time.

She thought about the gift shop owner and sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“C’mon, Wooly,” she said, naming her familiar the first thing she could think of. “Let me show you around the tower.”

#aki writes #writeblr #secret santa #wcsecretsanta #short story #fantasy

[kittrrrr]

Tom's Diner

Hello! This is a secret santa gift for @sm-writes-chaos as a part of @writeblrcafe 's exchange!

It's 1,446 words and it was inspired by Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega and (to lesser extents) All I Wanna Do by Sheryl Crow, Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something and Allison Road by the Gin Blossoms. It's under the cut

===

Clinging to the corner of Alison road and Parker square, there is the tiny Tom's diner. It’s many things, but no matter what it was, from market to Chinese restaurant, it was always called Tom's dinner. People, young and old, would joke about old Tom's inability to let go of a name that often didn't fit. However, on this occasion, Tom had just completed a transition back into an actual diner, after spending at least three years as a Chinese restaurant. He was cleaning the counter, because the roof was leaking again, and if any of the regulars had been there, they would be ribbing him to “just fix that damn leak already!”.

The bell jingled, and a windswept wander stumbled into the store. Tom grunted, acknowledging the person's entrance. The person, in question, was Elliot Tiffany, son of the owner of Tiffany's, a little breakfast place on the otherside of town. He pulled down his hood, looking around the eatery. Wet floor signs (the only leak was over the bar, and the only wet spot by the door) covered the ground, and Tom manned the bar, looking like a taller, salt and pepper santa. Elliot picked his way over to the bar, Tom finally looking at him

“Good mornin’, what'll it be?” Tom huffed.

“Just a coffee,” Elliot said, picking up a newspaper. Tom glared, to which Elliot rolled his eyes. “I'm on a budget.”

“Says the person that's drivin’ me outta business.” Tom grumbled, shuffling around for a thirty year old pot that required oven mits to handle safely.

“It's not my fault you refuse to update. You're the only reason you're not making the money your father used to.”

“I ain't ruinin’ the place my father worked so hard on! His whole life went into this place, his whole life for me to have a chance in this country!” Elliot rolled his eyes, flipping through the newspaper, but otherwise saying nothing. Tom set the coffee pot down, although Elliot's cup was only half full. He picked up a clean rag and dried the counter again. Another man came over to the counter, one of the people that came into Tom's regularly. Thus, he knew that Tom was not in a mood to Be Messed With, and he accepted the menu that was thrown at him without complaint.

Tom aggressively tried to keep the counter clean, an impossible task with the only leaks in the diner over the counter and the heavy sheets of rain. Tom tried anyway. Elliot sighed, not finding whatever he was looking for in the want ads, if he even had a reason to look through them anyway, and set the newspaper down.

A woman paused, looking in her reflection in the window of the diner, and she shifted her hood, causing water to pour onto her hair. Then she came into the eatery, and kissed the man that had come in before her. Elliot walked around the back of the counter, well aware Tom was ignoring him, and grabbed a carton of 2% milk.

The diner was quieter then it should've been for nine in the morning, quite then it would've been when the coffee pot was new. There was the couple giggling, the gurgle of milk, and the pounding of rain. Too quiet. It got on Tom's nerves, how quiet it was, if he was honest, but he’d long learned to shove those feelings down. He had work to be doing.

Well, not much work. The only thing that demanded his attention was keeping the bar nice and dry. And that was not exactly urgent in itself. Nothing like it was when Tom was just taking over. Had he really been the reason that his dad's legacy was falling apart, thirty-odd years after it had been intrusted to him? He barely stopped himself from punching the counter. No! That uppity Elliot Tiffany was the only reason he was thinking like this! Speaking of which…

“I didn't take you for the kinda guy that would be messin’ ‘round in the horoscopes.” Tom said, not looking up from his drying of the counter.

“Just what I'd expect from someone who just wants to live in the past.” Elliot said coolly. “But no. I was looking for the comics.”

“Now that's unexpected. You? A funny bone? Hardly!” Tom chortled.

“There's something to subtle comedy. Not something your kind understands, I take it.” Elliot hummed. “More coffee, please.” Tom took the pot, fully filling up Elliot's cup this time. He dropped the carton of .ilk in front of Elliot.

“I suppose someone like you wouldn't appreciate the simple pleasure of a cup of black coffee, anyways.” Elliot flipped past the comics, coming to the orbituraties instead.

“I don't have to, old man.” Elliot poured the milk, steam rising off the cup. It twisted on the air, floating to the leak. Drip, drip, drip, and rub, rub, rub. The silence in the diner stretched as Elliot reached a point where he was content with the milk to coffee ratio. The couple had an order of juice and pancakes, then quickly left. The rain was freezing, but the normally cheerful diner was even moreso. They would find some where else to be until it thawed again.

Faint breathing and rain attempted to fill the canyon of quiet that filled the spaces between the two men. Finally, Tom couldn't take it anymore. He snapped, dropping the rag he was using.

“Why ya here!? You shouldn't have no reason to come botherin’ me, Tiffany's is on the other side a town!”

“You should know full well why I’m here, Tom. You’ve done a very good job of digging yourself into a hole. My mother and I have talked, and we believe that it would be prudent to expand our business. I’m here to offer you a way out of that hole.” Elliot dug into the depths of his jacket to produce a contract.

“No, no, no! I- I can't take this! My pop put his soul into this place!”

“It'll be your downfall. Tiffany is ready with a very generous offer especially considering the-” Elliot looked around the place, a sneer on his face “-the state of this place.” Tom growled. That was the last straw. This little twerp came into his restaurant, which had been managing since before he was born, and insulted it, insulted him. Tom snatched the papers out of Elliot's hands. A middle aged blonde came in, the one and only Mrs. Tiffany Tiffany. She smiled at Tom.

“So dear, have you considered our offer?” Tiffany asked, sitting at the bar. “I'll have a coffee. Budget, y'know? I wanted Lee to handle a deal on his own, but I couldn't help but see how everything was going! Love this place, y'know? I've been coming here for ages, and I can't wait to update it! Rip out that ugly flooring, redo the seating! Oh! Tom's Diner will be at its very best under my-”

“Get out.” Tom snapped, unable to handle the blathering of this idiot blonde for any longer. “I will never sell this store, not as long as I live. You don't know what it means, ‘n’ you never will. This place was the last hope for desperate people fleein’ their homes. You, with your fancy little breakfast café, would suck all the life out of Tom's diner- my home, the home of the hopeless.” Tom drew himself in, towering over Elliot and Tiffany. He was doing his best impression of a Latino bear. “Get out! I hope I ain't ever hafta see your sorry butts again!!” Tom dug his fingers into the papers and ripped.

And again.

And again.

He slammed the pieces of paper onto the counter, shrieking profanities at the Tiffanys as they scrambled out the door. They got soaked, of course, because it was still pouring. Tom smiled to himself, after he stopped shaking.

“Y’know why I won't sell? Tom's has been standin’ for much longer since before Tiffany's, and it will standin’ long after.” Tom turned away. He dried the counter with the shredded contract- it was really about time he fixed that leak- and started another pot of coffee. There'd be more people soon. Tom dumped Elliot's cup into the trash. There wouldn't be any trace of those two rats if he had anything to say about it. Shortly after, people, like drowned rats, started washing in.

A few years later, Tiffany’s went bankrupt… but that’s a story for another day. Tom’s Diner is a little diner that’s been many things, but it has been true to itself. So it's always been called Tom's Diner.

#wcsecretsanta #writeblr cafe #writeblr #writing #my writing #why not #writers on tumblr #does this make sense #i hope i tagged this right #fandom brainrot stole all my og ideas #made it harder to write this then it should've been #but i'm also on mobile and traveling

[aether-wasteland-s]

It's hard not to feel like a lonely ghost, sometimes. I had never been the type for anonymity; where I went, people tended to know my name.

Granted, that was normally all they knew. Secrets ran deep, and I couldn't afford to pay the price for the chance to live without the need to disclose everything.

Still, I didn't think anything would be as hard as this. I was left without a purpose or a direction, wandering the once familiar streets and feeling a deep cut of guilt with every step that I took. I was a ghost on every account except physical. On one hand, it meant I could do what I wanted, go where I wanted.

On the other, it made it more painful when I was walking through my hometown and nobody cared enough to notice that my heart had broken months ago and refused to heal.

It was a comfort to see everything had remained exactly the same while the world around it changed. The old corner shops I used to shelter in from the rain still stood, their shutters overrun with old posters and advertisements. The years had permanently plastered them to the rolling surface, leaving them cracked, barely legible and strangely bent where the plaster had been strong enough to let it stick.

They'd looked like that as long as I could remember. The sight of it was almost enough to bring a smile to my face.

The streetlights still stood in exactly the same way, and the amber glow that they cast on the street was only partially interrupted by the one that had flickered on and off for the last five years. I looked up at that one while I lit a cigarette across the way. In a way, it was almost like a camera, taking snapshots of the world around it.

If it was, what would it see?

Couples, surely, people's lives weaving together, and the city going about it's life. Some of the most wonderful moments, and some of the worst. Arguments, people who couldn't keep themselves in check, and the city falling apart brick by brick.

For all it was worth, I suppose I was happy to be a ghost. Nobody could catch a ghost on camera, and I could just drift off into the background, pretending I didn't feel out of place. Pretending I didn't see my failures wherever I walked. Pretending, for just one moment, that I didn't really exist at all.

--

written for @blind-the-winds as a gift in place of the secret santa

General taglist (ask to be +/-): @on-noon , @lakeside-paradise , @bardic-tales , @dogmomwrites , @elijahrichardwrites , @theunboundwriter , @chuuyas-beloved , @angsty-prompt-hole , @cljordan-imperium , @writeblrcafe

#wcsecretsanta #nova's crazy thoughts #idk what this counts as but it's something #it's kind of inspired by spies are forever? the four years between the two bits of canon? #but only really loosely #i was listening to the soundtrack while i wrote it

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Secret Santa

This was really fun to write, and was also my first time doing something like this, so for my first ever thing like this, I'm pretty happy with it. I hope my person likes this a lot :)

@writeblrcafe hosted the event

This is my gift for @kittrrrr - hope you enjoy!

A Recurring Face

Word count: 979

At first his name had been Kestrel. He’d liked it; for what reason, he couldn’t quite say, but when he first heard the word he knew he loved it. Later on, he found out that a Kestrel was a bird, but he didn’t mind it too much. They were lovely birds.

Over time that name had to change. It was only natural. As humans developed, so did their languages and the names they went by. His name would be seen as unusual or strange, and thus it had to change to something else. In his heart, though, he was always Kestrel. No matter what name he took, he was always just Kestrel.

Humans had nice literature, Kestrel decided.

They were amazing; artfully woven words into strings of sentences. Each word was carefully selected to have an intended effect. They could make him laugh or - on rare, memorable occasions - make him cry.

Some of his favourites belonged to the Greeks.

Kestrel walked through the town, his eyes wandering across the shops and men walking around him. The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays beating down on him pleasantly, if a little too hard at some points in the day. There were no clouds that would drift by. The fact made him frown a little, but he recovered soon afterwards when his attention was captured by a man arguing with a vendor.

The man was not dressed like the other men and women roving around. He wore a white button-up shirt underneath a leather waistcoat, accompanied by pinstripe grey slacks and shiny shoes. His hair was a ruddy red and his eyes bright green, like moss in a forest. The man was trying to bring down the price of an urn, to which the vendor was trying to maintain his composure whilst explaining to the man that “This urn is incredibly valuable, it cannot be sold for such a price.”

Smiling, he approached the two men slowly. His arrival caught the attention of the vendor.

“I can pay for it,” he said. Kestrel took out some drachma and handed them to the vendor, taking a glance at the strangely-dressed man beside him. “Is it enough?”

The vendor’s eyes bugged out of his head. “This is too much.”

“Consider it a bonus, for putting up with my friend’s antics.” Kestrel turned to the man with a smile, hoping he would play along. “Come, let’s go back home.”

He placed his hand against the man’s back, but not before taking the urn and handing it to him. Kestrel escorted the man away from the shops and people and down a more private road.

He stopped when they were far enough from other people that no one would overhear.

The man looked at him curiously, his gloved hands shaking a little as he held the urn. He rotated it, tilted it, looked at it from every angle imaginable, then began to smile brightly. “Thank you,” he said, “I do not think I would have made it out of that unscathed.”

Kestrel laughed. “I’m sure you would’ve managed it.”

“I’m Thomas,” the man - Thomas - held out his hand. “And who are you, good sir?”

“Kestrel.” he answered, shaking Thomas’s hand with vigour.

---

His love for Greek literature was threatened by the appearance of Shakespeare. He couldn’t help but adore the man’s craft; his way with writing and creating likeable and repulsive characters; his amazing skill for both comedy and tragedy; the way he had risen to fame and even earned the favour of the queen herself.

He had arranged tickets to see one of his favourite plays and took his seat. It was a more private area, since he found that sitting with other people was quite tedious, at times, and that  plays were far more enjoyable with less clamour.

A man walked in. “My apologies, sir, but there aren’t many more seats available. Would you mind sharing with another?”

Kestrel nodded. “I see nothing wrong with that. Tell the fellow that he is welcome here with me.”

Bowing his head in response, the man scurried away, then returned with—

Oh.

The man disappeared, and Kestrel was suddenly alone with Thomas. He hadn’t aged a day; no wrinkles, no crow’s feet around his eyes, nothing. He was just as youthful as the day Kestrel first met him.

Which couldn’t be possible, since it had been several centuries since their last encounter. Unless Thomas was also…?

“I recognise you,” Thomas said, breathlessly. “You— you’re that man. From Ancient Greece.”

“How are you still alive?” he blurted out.

Thomas’s brows furrowed in thought. His eyes took in Kestrel’s clothing, his hair - which he had to cut short, sadly - and his face, lingering a bit too long on certain features.

Kestrel felt his cheeks colour, and looked down at his lap. He nervously fidgeted with his hands. “Why don’t we enjoy the play?” he suggested. “Then we can talk afterwards. Perhaps go for a nightcap.”

Hesitant, Thomas sat down beside him. Their shoulders brushed against each other for a brief moment.

“I think I would enjoy that very much, indeed.”

He wanted to never see Thomas go. He wanted to learn everything he could about the man who had disappeared for centuries and then came back.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

It took a short while for that to sink in. He wasn’t alone anymore. Kestrel didn’t know what to do. He could sing, he could cry, he could dance for hours on end and never stop!

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked, a nervous smile on his face.

Kestrel beamed back at him with an expression akin to a child on Christmas day. “Yes. More than alright, in fact.”

Their attention was snatched by the commencing play as the actors rushed onto the stage.

He was not alone anymore. Maybe things would be different this time.

#wcsecretsanta #short story

[mary-is-writing]

@writeblrcafe Secret Santa 2023🎅🎁

Thank you for organizing this event! This is my gift for @sparrow-orion-writes , I hope you like this short story!! Sorry it took me so long, I wanted to finish by Christmas but life happened. Still, here it is, a coffee shop kinda enemies-to-lovers with a fantasy setting story. Happy holidays and happy new year!!!

Title: Snakes and Vines

Word count: 2409

CW: None

Something was burning and it wasn’t Eri’s fault.

She could’ve sworn she hadn’t left the oven unattended for that long. She simply went to decorate as many cookies as she could while the cupcakes finished baking, and then, she was planning on going back and multitask on decorating both to finish earlier. But it seemed that hellfire powder, though a quick rising agent, was more flammable than she thought, since the whole oven went up in flames with a kaboom that could be heard from every place in the shop.

The bits and pieces went flying, destroying most of the kitchen as well as whatever pastries were lying around. The good news was that nothing hit her and the coffee shop was empty since it was already late; the bad news was that the destruction reached even the tables and chairs that were farthest from the kitchen. The worse news was that her boss was already stomping his big combat boots towards her direction while yelling and cursing all heaven and hell, and there was no way for her to fix it before he opened the kitchen door. The terrible news was that the fire was spreading quickly through the wall.

And the worst, most absolute, horrible news was that a bunch of cookie-frosting and burnt cupcake had flown right into Amalia’s face, of all the demons in Obertham. However, as established earlier, this was not Eri’s fault.

“This is your fault!”, she quickly yelled at her, while Amalia tried to clean her face.

“WHAT?! How the fuck this is my fault?!” Amalia’s snake hair hissed back at her.

“You kept messing with the oven when I told you to leave it alone!” Eri answered, vines with thorns quickly growing around her.

“YOU’RE the one that added the stupid hellfire powder even though I told you not to!”

“And I wouldn’t have needed to bake another batch quickly five minutes before going home if you knew how to bake shit!”

“The only reason I have to bake is because of your slow ass that doesn’t get anything done! At least I know how to prepare coffee while working in a coffee shop.”

“You’re just a–”

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY KITCHEN?!”

Their boss entered, his screech giving off a freezing gust of wind so cold it immediately put down the fire. Then, after giving a quick look to the damage and the two, proceeded to freeze them in place so he could lecture them both for about half an hour, all the while letting his rage take control of his ice and making them feel like they were in a freezer. Eri didn’t like working for an ice demon; whether he was happy or angry (especially when angry) he was always surrounded by the cold. The whole “enjoying a warm coffee in a chilly environment” was part of the shop’s charm, but a dryad like her would never understand why anyone would like that. Still, she needed this job, so she had to suck it while trying to not freeze to death.

But getting yelled at was unfair. Sure, maybe she had added a tiny bit more of hellfire powder than she should have, but if Amalia hadn’t been messing with the oven, the settings would’ve been the correct ones and it wouldn’t have exploded. Nothing her boss would listen to, though, and she found herself being ordered to stay overnight, clean the whole mess and re–bake everything to be ready for tomorrow.

Alongside Amalia, because of course. And at that hour, it was only natural for their tasks to extend into ungodly hours of the night, so of course they had to spend it there. There was a sleeping room, destined to be used by employees in times where the shop had to remain open for days straight, like in the Festival of Light, so they could take turns sleeping and working during their shifts. Eri was glad that she at least wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.

There was only one bed. Because of course.

“I’ll take the floor”, she said with a groan.

“No, I’ll take it”, Amalia said. “You take the bed. Just give me some sheets or something.”

“I said I’ll take it”, Eri responded dry. “It’s gonna be colder than usual thanks to the boss’s fit, and that’s bad for a snake demon like you.”

“Said the dryad, the cold is just as bad for you. Besides, I’m younger, so it’s better if I take the floor.”

“I’m sorry, did you just call me old?”

“Oh, for the love of–” Amalia ran a hand over her face. Some of her snakes hissed in frustration at her, and Eri almost wanted to hiss back. “Just take the goddamn bed, Eri.”

“No”, she crossed her arms. “After all, it’s the responsibility of the older ones to take care of the children. So, you take it.”

“Fine, I guess nobody is sleeping in the bed, then. We’ll both sleep on the floor.”

Eri was used to fight with Amalia at this point, so much so that she didn’t even think to contradict her just for the sake of it. Forest will wither and oceans will dry before she’d let her win an argument.

“If that’s the case, why don’t we both sleep in the bed, then?”, she said, only realizing what words had left her mouth afterwards.

“Fine! Geez! Have it your way then!”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

After a couple more “fines” that we’re said in a very “fuck you” kind of way, they both climbed in the bed. Amelia took the side closest to the wall, while Eri the side towards the door. There was also just one sheet and pillow, so they had to sleep back-to-back without moving an inch.

What a night. Eri couldn’t remember a worse one since she started working there…though having to carry around her tree in a pot in the middle of a cold night after getting evicted was a close one. Now what? She hoped the boss wouldn’t fire her for this. Without a job, one cannot survive in Obertham, not only because it was required for non-humans to have one in order to remain in the city, but also because it was expensive as hell and almost no landlord would give her a lease without one. Feeling the physical exhaustion and the mental stress growing got to her and, ever so softly, she sniffed a few tears away.

“I’m sorry.” Hearing Amalia apologize shot Eri wide awake.

“What did you just said?”, she asked, still not facing her. Amalia sighed, in a way Eri’d never heard before.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have messed with the oven. I thought that, if you weren’t gonna listen about the hellfire powder, at least I could prevent the oven from exploding by changing the settings, but…”

“Wow. You literally couldn’t have done a worse job.”

“Yeah. So. Well. I’ll tell the boss tomorrow to not punish you too much more for it.”

That was…weird. Was Amalia actually…being reasonable? As Eri was trying to wrap her head around this situation, a thought crossed her mind.

“You heard me cry, didn’t you”, she asked, monotone.

“…No.”

“Okay. Yeah. That’s not gonna fly.”

“I just thought you…could use a win.”

“Wow. Thanks.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips. And it must have been really bitter because Amalia immediately stood up.

“Why do you hate me, Eri? What have I ever done to you?”

“You mean besides destroying the kitchen, almost killing me, and jeopardizing my livelihood?”

“But you didn’t start hating me now, did you?” Even in the darkness, Eri could see the silhouette of the snakes in Amalia’s head squirming because of how agitated she was.

“I don’t hate you.” She answered. “I just don’t like you.”

“What’s the difference?”

“If I hated you, you’d be seeing me with thorns all around me all day long, since I have to be all day long next to you.”

“Okay, fine. Why do you dislike me, then?”

Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was that they were completely alone, in the darkness, and she couldn’t see Amalia’s face. For whatever reason, Eri felt like spilling her guts.

“Because you’re arrogant, despite only knowing how to brew coffee. And you are terrible at baking, yet you act like you’re in charge of the kitchen. And you’re younger than me, yet ever since you first came you’ve had this attitude of ‘why do I have to work with this useless adult?’. And even though I need this job to survive, you act like just being here is a bother and couldn’t care less of what happens to it or me.”

The silence that proceeded was as cold as the floor, and as the seconds passed and Eri regained her composure, she started to wonder if she’d said too much. But then, Amalia talked.

“What about you, then? Ever since I came here, you’ve treated me with nothing but hostility.  You just assumed whatever you wanted about me and decided that you didn’t like me. I’ll admit I’m bad at baking, and I hate it, but if I didn’t care about this job, I would simply get another one. Saying that I don’t care about what happens to it or you is honestly insulting. You think I’m that heartless just cause I’m a demon?”

“Of course not. You think I’m nice and delicate just cause I’m a dryad?”

“A rabid hellhound is nicer and more delicate than you.”

Eri let out a sound that was a mix of scoff and laughter. Still laying on the bed, she breathed deeply.

“I’m sorry, too. For, you know… Antagonizing you, and stuff.” It felt awkward. When was the last time she’d talked with her without feeling a headache? Scratch that; Eri didn’t even think she’d ever had this calm of a conversation with Amalia, ever. “But don’t you think it’d be better if you showed you care more?”

“Well, don’t you think it’d be better if you learned how to serve a cup?” She said, playfully.

“Why? Your coffee is great, I don’t need to learn.”

Amalia blinked. Some of her snakes looked at each other.

“You…like my coffee?” Eri felt wide awake for the second time. Crap, she hadn’t meant to say it. “You’ve…never said so…”

“Because I didn’t want it to get into your big head”, she said, then instantly regretted it. “Yeah, I like your coffee. It’s good coffee. Great, even. I don’t know how you do it, but every single fricking cup you make it’s perfect. Happy?”

She wanted to cover her face with her vines and disappear. Never would she had imagined she’d compliment Amalia, out loud, to her face.

“I…I like your baking.” Amalia responded, shyly.

“Don’t give me the pity talk, please.”

“No, I mean it. I started working here because… because of it.” Eri looked at her in the dark. She could almost see Amalia’s hand playing with her snake hair. “And I’ve always been good with coffee cause, y’know, my snakes help me perceive the smells and temperature appropriate for each brew, so I thought I could work here. Never expected to blow up the kitchen.”

There was something there, though. Something about the way the silhouette of her hand moved, how the snakes danced over the fingers. Like a very distant memory Eri’d almost forgotten but that came back little by little as she spoke.

“Wait…” Eri threaded carefully. “Are you– Are you that girl that always came here and always ordered black coffee with marshmallows and a slice of abyss strawberry shortcake? The one that always burnt her tongue whenever she had her first sip?

Amalia let out the biggest groan Eri had ever heard leave her lips.

“How do you remember that but not me?”

The dryad basically jumped up and sat on the bed next to her.

“WHAT?! That was you?!”

“Of course it was me! How have you never noticed it?! How many snake demons do you see in the daily to not recognize me?”

“I mean, all dryads have face blindness, so…?”

Well, that wasn’t an answer Amalia was expecting at all.

“W-Wait. What?”

“Yeah. We can only recognize one another. Everyone else just looks the same, like, beyond things like voices or mannerisms? It’s like trying to differentiate two grains of rice. And that was so long ago that both things are very fuzzy in my memory. But was that really, really you?”

“Yes, it was. Why do you keep asking?”

“Cause I’m pretty sure that girl gave me a love letter once”, she said. “But then she stopped coming, so I could never answer back.”

Eri could almost swear she heard a little gasp. The snakes suddenly stopped moving, and Amalia turned away, the line of her face showing she was looking left. Suddenly her coming to the coffee shop a lot, to the point of even starting to work there, made much more sense.

“That was in the past. Before I knew a rabid hellhound was nicer than you.”

The feel of a grin in Eri’s face made a few little flowers grow at the tip of her hair.

“Hoh? Disappointed, then?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe”, Amalia answered, trying to sound calm. So, since she was playing the cool card, Eri decided to play along.

“Really?” She approached her. Vines filled with leaves and flowers grew around, and she trapped Amalia with them by the wrists, the hip, and one ankle. “Then I guess this would do nothing for you, hm?”

The snakes hissed at her. For the first time since knowing her, she thought that reaction was cute.

“Screw you”, Amalia spouted.

“Pfft. Yeah, you wish.”

“ERI!” The dryad laughed as a response. She released the snake demon and went back to lay in the bed.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Goodnight, Amalia.”

Eri closed her eyes. Who knew her demon coworker could be this innocent? If she didn’t get fired, she’d have to start treating her more gently. Perhaps she’d get more fun reactions like those. As she was getting ready to start drifting into sleepiness, the voice of Amalia reached her once more.

“And what was it? Your answer…?”

Eri didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled.

“Maybe I’ll tell you over some coffee and cake.”

#writeblr #writeblrcafe #secret santa #wcsecretsanta #writing #writers #writing stuff #writers stuff #gift story #secret santa 2023

[abalonetea]

@ashen-crest i thought that we were supposed to be posting these on the 31st, oops!

@ everyone else, have you guys seen A Rival Most Vial? If not, check it out here!

And a little poem diddy too!

Two potion shops One rivalry Ambrose Beake doesn't break but he does find a give and in that give in the Crack in the Chasm in the Dark there's light. A light beneath the cauldron burning bright, bright, bright. Bubbling, toiling, troubling with another face peeking through the steam. And maybe it's not just a potion brewing in the pot but something deeper richer more meaningful. It has a name: romance. And another: Eli.

@writeblrcafe

#wcsecretsanta

[betweenthetimeandsound]

“I thought the goddess of love would look…different.” The wrinkled old woman waved a dismissive hand, leaned closer, and smiled. “You are thinking of my daughter, the goddess of passion and romance. Dearie, I am the goddess of LOVE.” --prompt from @writing-prompt-s

"Um...hi?" Tamara asked, giving out a stray hand to the lady. Despite the gesture, the goddess waved hers aside, completely aloof to the fermenting situation. Nevertheless, the rings in her hands enchanted Tamara, who tried to see herself through the reflection.

"Why would you think that she would know what love is?" The goddess sighed, nestling the multicolored quilt across her scrawny knees. Etching each stitch with her finger, she thought of the woman in front of her, who only stared with widened eyes.

"Because she attracts people and tries to find ways to get people together. I've seen pictures of her rising from foam, and her fighting with the power of love. It feels a bit strange, you know?"

"But what happens after she is born a woman, and saunters off to land?" The goddess asked, and Tamara hesitated on her next response. Instead, she merely shrugged her shoulders and fiddled with her sweater, slowly pilling.

"She is oggled, and people laugh at her." With a wry finger, the goddess tried to attract the woman to her orbit, forcing her to come closer and graze her wrinkled hands. Though they've only known warmth, when Tamara stroked them, a sudden chill struck her palms.

"But I thought--"

"Everyone thinks that they would be good enough when they're raw; but that's because they're innocent, with nothing bad happening to them," she clenched onto Tamara's hands, this time, tighter. "Once their potential is gone, they are discarded. Once you've eaten the apple, it's useless to pretend.

"Now tell me, young lady," she continued, "why do you come to me?"

Looking up, Tamara thought of a person, but their image remained hazy as she tried to resist crying. To cry was to open up wounds she never thought were anything but unhealed; they remained on her skin, unyielding. And she herself wandered the world for the chance to know the goddess of love, who resembled her grandmother more than anyone else.

"Because, I don't remember being loved."

"And that's why I'm the goddess of love," she muttered. "Because it has to transcend the physical."

Author's Note: To my Secret Santa, sorry this has come so late, but I hope you bring some joy out of this! Happy New Year!

#flash fiction #my writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing #wcsecretsanta #prose #goddess of love #love #beauty #fantasy #speculative fiction #writeblrcafe

[sparrow-orion-writes]

Of The Earth

Genre: Fantasy

Word Count: 1222

Notes: This is the beginning of Golden Dandelions, a sapphic fantasy-romance about a girl who wakes up in the realm of the fairies.

-

This was written for my secret santa @herethereagain , I hope you're having good holidays, and it's not too cold where you are in the world. Good luck with the new year, I hope you enjoy the story :)

The ground burned beneath her in a blaze so brilliant that it would be all she recalled when she awoke. Dirt stained, arms burned, she lay in the dry grass and tried to recall anything else. She remembered how her heart had felt, pounding in her chest until a wave of nausea overcame her. She remembered that the fire had spread towards her, consumed her gaze. And then…nothing. 

Then, here. 

Gently, Fleur drew her tired body up to a seated position and took in the world around her through blurred vision. She was not anywhere near her home - not that she recognised, at least. In front of her were miles upon miles of forestry. The trees towered above her like giants reaching for the sunlight. Some of that light fell spattered around her, but still it was darker than she would’ve liked. 

A rustle of leaves dragged her attention from the obscured sky, to the surrounding forest. Drawing herself to her feet with a wince of pain, her eyes trailed the dense thickets and broken pathways, until falling to the floor. She became distracted with a sudden horror and remembrance of childhood horror stories, as she realised she was surrounded by pale white mushrooms - only half the horror - in a perfect circle. 

Her wavering breath exhaled suddenly at the sound of crunching twigs, a pressure applied that could only be something living. She dragged her panicked gaze left and right, twisting on the spot - but found nothing. Not a breath. Not a stir. Simply herself and a vast expanse of cavernous trees looming above her. 

“I would step out of that, if I were you.” 

The voice is so abrupt and sudden that she lurches herself against the tree, gripping the firm bark beneath her fingertips as if it might grant her some strength. There was a giggle, and quickly she found herself face to face with…a woman, of sorts. 

In truth, woman was one approximation. By the scream she gave, pressing back against the tree, there was something rather alarming - and not just the fact she was hanging upside-down from the tree branch. 

It was that her skin was mostly moss, her hair a curtain of foliage, hanging like willow tree branches from her head. When she tilted her head back, there were mushrooms growing in the hollow of her throat. 

“Fairy,” Fleur whispers, “...get away from me!”

“Or…?” The fairy raised an eyebrow, before slipping off the branch and landing with all the dexterity of a cat, or thief, to her feet. Her translucent green eyes bore the resemblance to a light in the darkness, peering up at her curiously. “I mean, you’re hardly in the position to be making demands, little one.” She grinned, sharp teeth peering from pale lips. Fleur frowned, thinking that this was both rude and a threat. 

“Well, that’s rude,” she frowned, crossing her arms. The fairy faltered a moment, taking a step back, the corner of her face lifting as if she was almost impressed. Fleur ignored the way her heart hammered in her throat, or the wave of sudden instability that made her want to sink to the floor.

“How so?”

“Ruder still, making me elaborate, but if you’re intending to make me feel like prey - then you’re most certainly achieving great hospitality!” The fairy grins, and for a moment, Fleur feels her ploy to have failed, but then she stepped back, nodding. 

“How rude of me, how may I make it up to you?”

“Please show me how to get out of here,” she glances left and right at the endless winding paths, wondering which one would take her from this place. “I want to go-” home, she thought, and remembered the flash of fire, looking down at her scarred hands. She felt a twitch of pain that so far, she had ignored, and came to realise that her skirts were singed too. “-away from here. Back to where the people are.”

“I’m a people,” The fairy snapped, arms folded, “I may be a different people - but still-!”

“The human people.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

“You’re the one who is snapping at me!”

“You want to leave my home!”

“You live here?” Fleur asked, looking around, “...this is your home?”

“This is all our home, this is Dandelion forest, home to the prince, Dandelion.” 

She pauses a moment to let these words sink in. How, she wondered, had she got here? If this is the realm of the fairies, then this place was not the same as her own. She couldn’t afford to get lost in here, nor trust the fairy beside her. But, there again, she hadn’t many options on getting to safety in a place she would neither know nor understand. 

“How do I get back to the human realm?”

“I don’t know.” The truth stung her firmly, and she could only frown in response. “I’m not in charge of things like that, I don’t like humans very much - usually,” she amended smoothly. “... But I can take you to my family - they will know.”

“Are your family in the habit of whisking away humans and hunting us for sport?”

“Not at this time of year, and not inside the forest, that would be horrible to our ecosystems - clumsy humans trampling all over the fauna, do you know how much cultivation -” the fairy stopped in her tracks, clearing her throat “...what I mean to say is humans are not all that much a part of our diet.”

“So I will be safe?”

“You will be safe from me, and most of my family, I can’t guarantee any safety overall.” She examined the words carefully, looking for gaps in the truth, and finding none. Perhaps the good neighbours were as varied as humans themselves - complex and often misunderstood. She wondered what folklore the creatures must have of them. 

“Then I will come with you.”

“You hardly have much choice, your alternative is wandering the forest for eternity,” she turned on her heel, her voice carrying an air of false indifference. “This way!” Not that Fleur liked that the fairy was right, but she followed anyway. 

They walked for what had felt like hours, to the point where Fleur was growing more and more irritated - and disorientated. Her head hurt the further into the forest’s depths they travelled. The trees whispered in hushed tones, and the ground itself felt almost hungry for her. If she had been of less sound mind, she might’ve asked if the very nature of the place was somehow…alive. 

When they finally broke through the forestry - suddenly - into a vast, open field and a bright, blue sky, she shuddered with relief. The wind curled over her hot, sticky skin, and calmed the sweat that had formed on her red cheeks. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Hitching her skirts, she stepped easily over the last few stoned to the lush green grass, seeking a deep breath inwards.

The air smelled of fresh pine and something floral. The grass peeled all the way to the distance, covered in bright golden dandelions. She couldn’t help the rush of joy that so suddenly overcame her. 

“This is my home,” The fairy smiled, swaying on her heels, her willow-laden hair catching the blow of the breeze. “This is where my family lives.”

--

Taglist:

@gabe-killed-me-with-ace-cream

@carefulpyromancer

@captain-kraken

@moonshinemagpie

.

@writeblrcafe

#wcsecretsanta #this was supposed to be longer but the seasonal depression is kicking my ass #i hope it's good anyway #wip; golden dandelions #of the earth #my writing #writeblr

[ladyazulina]

Secret Santa

I think signing up to participate in this was the best thing I could have done for myself this month, so I really hope you all (and my secret person) like this.

Event hosted by @writeblrcafe 🎄🎅🤶

There’s a new monster in the lake

Word Count: 977. | TW: death, drowning, mourning, negation (and the likes? Nothing explicit, but uh)

It was cold. 

I remember the cold. 

But that’s everything I remember. 

I’m not sure for how long I have been blinking at the darkness of the water, but, since I noticed, little white dots have slowly been appearing on the surface, covering it to the brim until there’s no more space, mirroring the starry sky above. 

It’s like having two starry nights for myself—in a secluded place deep in the woods where at the right time you find a whole other world only filled with stars, secretly hidden in between the forest's trees—but the one on the earth, the one on the lake, is closer. Approachable. Inviting to discover the secrets of the space beyond under its waters. 

Waters that never were as cold as the far away icy shore say that it is now. They always were as warm as if a huge, cozy blanket was wrapping you on the coldest days, and at the perfect fresh temperature to want to splash in it for the rest of your life on the warmest days. 

It’s not as tempting anymore, though. 

I turn, giving my back to the lake, somehow knowing that the monstrous head I used to see at the back of my head breaking the surface to follow my every move with its glassy eyes doesn’t exist down there. 

But something that doesn’t used to exist is out here: a cabin. 

There was a summer cabin miles away, where we stayed every year. I remember running by endless trees to arrive at the hidden lake, jumping and kicking to reach as far as my legs could get me. It was taken down. I don’t remember seeing it tore apart, but I don’t need to make the way back to be sure. 

It was a long time ago. 

This one, though, didn’t take years to be made. I can swear it wasn’t here the last time I got out. I would have noticed. 

The last time I got out? 

With each step, the dark ground gets whitened. Like the trees. And the cabin. The stars hide behind a light grey cloudy coat and the air fills itself with white fallen dots, as if it were jealous of the sky. I don’t slow down because of it, even though in just a few seconds the ground has grown some centimeters of a soft, white cloak. The edges of the lake laminated in a heavy, bright white, but the water in the middle is still dark and seen. 

Merry laughter calls me from the warm lighthouse that is the cabin, orange light spilling through the big windows fighting against the coating white. The snow covering the crystal makes it blurry, but I can see through the cold. 

It’s warm inside, there’s no need to be in there to know it. An orange hue eating the walls, trying to do the same with the darkness attempting to creep from the window. 

Not a huge family, despite the large table filled with warm dishes, simple and complex. Only two people in the room, she setting an empty plate in front of him. 

She. 

Lovely. 

Optimistic. 

Terrific. 

Tolerant. 

Ingenious. 

Endearing. 

The brave companion in my not-so-lonely adventures in the woods. 

So bright. So vibrant. 

She looks up and, for a second, I think she’s seeing me. 

“Avan,” her lips silently mutter. 

Something flutters inside of me with a warmth that only can ignite because of her. 

But she’s seeing through me. To the lake. And the awareness is a bucket filled with icy water knocked over the remnants of the coal that once upon a time was my core. 

I would have known. 

A rumble disturbs her peace and she blinks, the warmth not wavering in her no matter if she’s a little blue, but it comes back growing in radiance. Even in her lowest moments, she has always been so full of life. She shakes her head, forming a smile before looking back at him. 

At... him? 

My figure is reflected in the semi-crystal window, a little pale, blueish on the edges. A perfect, more lively copy sitting just next to her, reaching for her hand. For my- For what was MINE. 

I know him. HIS- always attempting to get HER. AWAY from ME. 

And he did.

He’s the one sitting next to her, in her warm place, with her warm presence. 

And I’m the one outside. In the cold. 

And he’s looking just like me. 

It’s a nasty joke, but even he knew that was the only way to get her. By being me. 

And even then- 

Even then... 

She keeps looking for me. Through the cold. At the lake. She knows- 

She knows! 

The touch of my icy hands would freeze the crystal, covering its surface with frost cobwebs. Cracks would follow the pattern until the frame couldn’t hold the broken window anymore, bursting with a frozen breeze into the warm room. The warmth would decrease in intensity with the second, but it would keep firm and strong around her, because of her. But he would lose all his colors. Because all those colors were mine before. 

I know she would be able to see me then... if only I were able to affect her world like that. 

I would be holding her gaze. 

She would confirm that I was in the water, that I was the water, like the monstrous head that only I could see in here back then. 

Because my head would be breaking the surface to follow her every movement. 

To watch her across the distance, through the snow and the cold crystal, inside her warm room, wasting her precious time and her oh-so-gentle presence in a fake. 

At least she knows he’s a fake. And where I could be. 

Where I will be waiting for her until the ice melts. 

#wcsecretsanta #writeblrcafe #secret santa #writers on tumblr #writers #writeblr #writing community #writing #writers of tumblr #writerscommunity #writer #writerblr #tw: death #tw: drowning #tw: mourning #tw: negation #I didn't get to say it anywhere but it has a thing with the moon #I hate to spoil things but I hope the content is still unexpected #and the backstory... delightful #I have so much lore for this I hated to be finished in a handful of words

[sadfragilegirl]

To Die From A Meaningful Death

(Trigger Warning: Death)

In order to die from a peaceful, yet a meaningful death like a rainbow of flower petals flying from the sky, there are few things you have to do: Give generously that comes from the heart, write your last thoughts in your life that's unforgettable without regrets, learn how to be thankful in your life to diminish your unfavorable things you did in the past, forgive both yourself and to those who have wronged you and finally, live the very best before your time has come to an end.

Death can be the most fearful thing in the whole world. It's like flowers wilting, burn it up and turn into ashes. And sometimes, it ends up sending to the depths of hell if one of the few parts of your life didn't disappear. However, there is such thing as a meaningful death when you feel contented about your life story is. It's like you've entered the rainbow bridge and a garden of serenity that always blooms and never dies.

This is written for the @writeblrcafe Secret Santa event. This is for you, @mary-is-writing because I'm this year's Secret Santa. Have a Happy Holidays to you.

#wcsecretsanta #writeblrcafe #writeblrcafe secret santa #prose #literature

[charlies-storybook]

Last First Kiss

John H. Watson shouldn’t have realized his feelings for Sherlock Holmes this way. Getting his suicide note call. John was at the right place at the wrong time.

"I'm a doctor, he is my friend," John shouted, pushing through a mass of bodies that were gathering around the accident while suffering a concussion himself. He was late - half of Sherlock's face bashed into the concrete. John stared at the sight in horror while his gaze was still hazy and blurry due to his head injury.

John was the only one who stayed, watching the scene in front of him, grief-stricken, as the hospital staff picked up Sherlock's bloodied corpse and carried it away. When his eyesight got better and his head didn't echo the ambulance siren, the last thing he saw of Sherlock was his hand hanging lifeless from the stretcher.

Eighteen months, after eighteen months John Watson finds himself sitting in front of Ella, his therapist. Both of them sit in silence, John looks tired and pained.

“Why today?” Ella inquires.

“D’you want to hear me say it?”

“Eighteen months since our last appointment.”

John gets visibly but quietly angry. “D’you read the papers?”

“Sometimes.” Ella answers simply.

“D’you watch the telly? You know why I’m here.” John groans as he ends the sentence, hoping his therapist gets the memo.

But Ella doesn’t answer, instead watches John curiously to continue.

“I’m here because...” John chokes and looks at his lap, he swallows hard not to weep. Ella shifts in her seat and leans forward sympathetically. “What happened, John?”

John closes his eyes, breathing heavily trying to collect himself. He clears his throat and looks at Ella again. “Sher...” He says, his voice breaking.

"You need to get it out," Ella says gently.

John clears his throat again, his voice full of sorrow and tears. “My best friend... Sherlock Holmes...”, he sniffs, forcing his voice through the torture, “...is dead.”

All the weight of the news falls on him as he breaks down and starts to cry.

Three months before, when everything seemed peaceful and normal until John Watson got the dreadful call.

John arrived to St. Bartholomew’s as fast as he could after he learned the attack on Mrs. Hudson was used as a distraction for John.

He was stopped in his tracks a few feet in front of the building by the sound of an incoming call. The caller's ID read 'Sherlock'.

Sherlock watched John pick up his phone call. He was breathing heavily, he stepped on the edge, swinging over the ledge. Sherlock’s breath only slowed down and steadied when he heard John’s voice.

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Turn around and go back.”

“No, I’m coming in.” John requested.

“Do as I say.” Sherlock said desperately before adding, “Please.” Which was wild coming from Sherlock because ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ rarely occupied his vocabulary.

John then turns around and looks everywhere confused. “Where?”

Sherlock pauses and watches John return to the road in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, then speaks urgently. “Stop there.”

John stops. “Sherlock - “

“Okay, look up. I’m on the roof.”

John turns and looks up, his face filling with horror. “Oh God.”

“I-I can’t come down. We’ll... We’ll have to do it like this.”

“Sherlock, what’s this? What’s going on?” John asks anxiously.

"An apology. It's all true." Sherlock sounds like he's smiling but John can hear he's on the verge of tears. "Wh-What?" John tried to cut into Sherlock's monologue. "Everything they said about me." Sherlock continued. "I invented Moriarty."

“Why are you saying this?”

“A note. That’s what people do, right? Leave a note?” Sherlock chuckles, but a tear rolls down his chin.

“Sherlock, no...” John breathes out and takes a step forward.

"Don't come closer!" Sherlock says in a panic. "Fix your eyes on me."

John shakes his head, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment.

"Goodbye, John. I love you." Is the last thing John Watson hears before Sherlock Holmes swings forward, throwing himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

John is standing near Sherlock's grave, everyone else has already gone home, his hands in his pockets.

“I believe you, I always believed in you. And if I could have one last wish... Please, stop being dead.” And before John walked away, he ended his monologue with: “I love you, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock saw and heard everything as he watched from afar, hidden in the shadows of the trees that hugged the cemetery all around. John's words broke Sherlock's heart, but he did it for them and their safety. John's, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Sherlock watched John walk away before walking away, too.

Three years have passed and John Watson started visiting Ella more than once in 18 months. Even after all this time, he couldn't get over the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Not only to get over his death but also over Sherlock himself. All those years, he still had feelings for him. He tried going on blind dates, regular dates, and all that jazz. But he failed every time, John saw and compared all of them to Sherlock, putting him in their place.

John gave one last blind date a chance. Something about his date tonight felt familiar - his date looked like Sherlock, acted like Sherlock, felt like Sherlock - no, that's just his head playing tricks on him, surely.

Their waiter arrived asking them if they were ready to order, he started with John. While John was distracted with ordering, Sherlock started to shed his disguise - took off the wig, erased the fake mustache, and took off the glasses.

When John turned back to his date, the waiter was long gone and Sherlock Holmes sat before him. John's eyes were wide in shock and surprise.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said gently.

But John’s reaction wasn’t gentle - he stretched over the table and punched Sherlock instead.

“I guess, I deserved that -” Sherlock said bluntly.

But John didn’t let Sherlock continue as he grabbed his collar, pulling him closer to join their lips in a kiss, at last.

@writeblrcafe

#wcsecretsanta #secret santa #my writing #bitchwrite #bbc sherlock #John Watson #Sherlock Holmes #johnlock #Word Count: 1 021

[mkaugust]

The windows of my car were fogged up

As the day turned from cold to warm,

The threat of freeze lingering in the air.

Fog turned to frost in the blink of a eye...

The frost.

-

The frost moves in from the edges,

The lines of your reflection not yet obsurced,

Like frosted windowpanes

In a picture perfect winter home.

-

Painted lines in the snow,

Melted and destroyed,

Circled the flooded drains,

Fog lifted up like steam...

Until the unexpected frost covered even the freshest of puddles.

The frost.

-

The frost, creeping along the edges of windowpanes,

Creeping into your mirror.

No one thinks about how that house is too cold.

Frosted windowpanes become frozen homes with frozen shut windows and doors,

Stuck and stationary until spring thaw.

-

I yearned for the quiet stillness

That comes only from a winter snow.

Instead it was the eerie calm

That warns of things to come,

All the while tricking my mind;

The warmth of the fog lulled me until the end.

Until the frost.

-

The frost creeps further and further,

No longer on the windowpane edges,

Now it coats and cracks the mirror.

The frost covers your reflection.

The frost keeps you trapped,

Keeps you trapped from even yourself,

Keeps you trapped out of your own eyes.

The frost doesn't stick to its designated spots,

Dotting the windows anymore.

The frost hides everything away.

-

The fog turned to frost and I lost it all

to places I could only ever see before and now couldn't touch.

The frost took and took from me.

-

The frost takes and takes from you now too.

Remember what's behind it,

What's trapped in the other side of the mirror,

Waiting for the frost to turn back to fog,

If you can only hold out and wait that long.

-

#wcsecretsanta #writeblrcafe #poetry #my poetry #poeticstories #writerscreed #poets on tumblr #poetscreed

[writeblrcafe]

Secret Santa: it's a wrap!

What a wonderful writing exchange our Secret Santa event was! Thanks to all participating writers for spreading joy through their words! We wrapped up all gifts for you to read here:

@betweenthetimeandsound gifted @charlies-storybook this flash fiction piece

@blind-the-winds gifted @sadfragilegirl the poem Dear Dorothy

@charlies-storybook gifted @aether-wasteland-s the Johnlock fanfiction Last First Kiss

@ashen-crest gifted @akiwitch the short story The Ghost of Eastman Park Library

@flowers-for-the-grave gifted @kittrrrr the short story A Recurring Face

@aether-wasteland-s gifted @betweenthetimeandsound the short story Feels like home

gift fairy @charlies-storybook gifted @charlieswanismydad this poem

gift fairy @lexiklecksi gifted @flowers-for-the-grave the poetic prose New Year resolutions

@sparrow-orion-writes gifted @herethereagain the fantasy short story Of the Earth

@mary-is-writing gifted @sparrow-orion-writes the short story Snakes and Vines

@akiwitch gifted @cyril-v-pyromancer the short story Keeper

@kittrrrr gifted @sm-writes-chaos the short story Tom's Diner

@abalonetea gifted @ashen-crest this poem

@ladyazulina gifted @abalonetea this short story

@sadfragilegirl gifted @mary-is-writing the prose piece To Die From A Meaningful Death

@herethereagain still has to gift @ladyazulina

gift fairy @aether-wasteland-s gifted @blind-the-winds this short story

#wcsecretsanta #it's a wrap #secret santa #wc.admin #writers on tumblr #writing community #writeblr #writing event