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Mine is silhouette. I always think that there are two l’s instead of just one. 

I also have a lot of trouble with camouflage, because I can never remember the placement of the u.

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not to be selfish but i honestly love my own characters and stories :)

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The sun gently kisses my pale skin

The frosty grass glistens like shards of glass

Dark clouds ahead warn of mortal sin

Such forewarning could not concern me

For this moment is too romantic to pass

The sun shines her angelic light into my eyes

Silver sphere is not shy, she remains after sunrise 

A painters pallet flows across the heavens 

Winter conveying an ecstasy of expressions

The sun whispers goodbye over the horizon line 

Gripping me like the memory of a long lost lover

This new color scheme is bleak in design 

The claws of the cold rush to seek what they can uncover 

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The last Friday of September should have been no different than the rest. The alarm on my phone woke me, and I only had to snooze it once before rolling out of bed. This was a definite improvement on my part. I had never been much of a morning person, so it took an extra-long shower - scalding hot, of course - and the anticipation of coffee before I could feel like a normal human being.

Emma was already in the kitchen bent over a bowl of cereal; her latest book laid open on the table in front of her. I could tell she was really invested in whatever story she was reading because her eyes bounced back and forth like a game of ping pong, barely taking the time to blink. Two wet droplets of milk splattered the pages, but she was so absorbed in her story that she didn’t seem to care or notice them.

She didn’t acknowledge me first, so I offered her a polite, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” she replied absently, still reading. Perhaps someone else who wasn’t used to Emma’s ability to get lost in her books might think she was being rude. But I had spent enough time around her in the last few weeks to understand that she was living half her life in another person’s story. If you wanted a meaningful conversation or less than ambiguous response, you would need to make sure her nose was well out of the book first.

I grabbed the last banana and made a mental note to pick up some more over the weekend. I pulled down the peel and took my first bite. Banana had to be one of my most favorite flavors. Even the banana flavored medication that everyone says tastes disgusting was like a wave of pleasure for my taste buds. Mom always called me an anomaly whenever I’d require a round of antibiotics. She said that, in all her years as a nurse, she had never seen another kid who grew excited when the doctor prescribed that foul-tasting medication. But no banana flavoring substitute could match the delicious fruit I held in my hand, and I savored the taste. When I had finished chewing my first mouthful, I asked, “Did Jordyn leave already?”

I hadn’t heard her at all since I woke up, but she wasn’t in the living area, and I had just come from the bathroom. I knew that she had an early class like me, even though we rarely left together. I preferred to grab a quick coffee on campus before class, and she had no interest in that. But the clock on my phone showed that it was almost time to go, and I wondered if she had gotten up extra early today.

Emma glanced up from her book to finally look at me. “I think she’s still asleep.” She dipped her spoon into her bowl and pulled up a spoonful of cheerios. Another drop of milk spilled over and onto a dry page of her book as she brought it to her lips.

My phone began to ring before I could comment on that. I pulled it from where I had stuffed it into my sweater pocket and habitually glanced at the call display. I hit the accept button and brought it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”

The volume was up a bit too high because I had to yank it quickly away as my mom shouted, “Happy Birthday Bree!” into the receiver.

“Ouch, mom,” I cried when I had brought it back in. I watched Emma across from me as her eyes grew wide, and her lips silently mouthed what I could only assume to be ‘birthday’. Apparently, she too, had heard my mother through the table length distance that separated us.

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I’ve heard it called a great many things in my time, despite the shortness of it. I’ve lived a million lives, met a million people, and seen a million things from this 50 mile radius around my home, and yet, I haven’t found what I’d call it.

It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, warm and comforting so very suddenly that it might even startle you for just a moment. It’s gentle and yet bold in the way it begins to make you into who you are, in the ways it creeps up your arms and into your chest.

It’s the feeling you get when you see a vibrant sunrise and wish they were by your side. It’s the feeling you get when the world seems dreary and you just know it’d be all the better if their hand was wrapped in yours. It’s the feeling of seeing the oncoming storm but knowing exactly where home is.

So what have we built, darling?

If it leaves me warm when I wake on the coldest of mornings and runs its hands over my heart when I least expect it, what do I call it? If I couldn’t be mad with you even if I tried, if I couldn’t fathom losing you, what do I call it?

If it scares me, what do I call it?

im less scared of calling it love than i am of losing you


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Fic Writers (and just writers in general tbh) deserve so much credit. It takes a lot to share your work with the world, our WIP has to be perfect and even after it’s published we still find things that we could have done differently.

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HMMMMMMmmmm currently I have no plans for a Part 2  but anything is possible! <3 Thanks, m’love!!

You can read the new Daryl Dixon x Reader fic Honeysuckle here!

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A feral feeling

I fell in love

In a way you can’t

Imagine the claws

Of my hands on your shoulders

I die like Persephone

Trapped and in love

For someone who’s not Hades

The depths of hell sings in agony

The perception of love

Is a non-existant verb

Not a DNA debacle

But a soul asphyxiate

Your skin should provocate

Manifest the sexual crawl

Towards my daunting demure

In the ceremonial hellfire

Persephone’s carnal affection

If left in God’s despair

Will wither into ashes of butterflies

For Hades emotionless flames

But what’s blue can draw

The picture of Dorian Gray

Eternally graceful and beastly

For two’s tulips and lilies.

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I thumbed the edge of the lid again, a nervous twitch of my fingers along the smooth edge of the cardboard. What would happen if I opened it? Finally deciding that nothing good could come of it, I pushed it even farther back into the closet.

“Just get rid of it, Bree!” My mom had once told me, a mixture of fear and repulsion dancing around in her eyes, tone heavy with a mother’s concern. “Stop torturing yourself! If you don’t do it, I will.”

But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Because I deserved to be tortured. Deep down, I knew that I deserved everything coming for me.

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Prompt: “Start your story with one character trying to convince another to take up their favorite hobby.”

A Short Story:

The silver Volkswagen Jetta snaked up the mountain road, maneuvering the switchbacks with ease. Despite Henry’s confidence behind the wheel, Ada still held tight to the door handle. He glanced over and gave her a dimpled smirk as they rounded the final corner leading to the resort.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never skied,” Henry said as he pulled into a cramped snowy space between two trucks that was far too small to be within lines, but traditional parking lot rules appeared not to apply.

“I grew up in the rain,” Ada replied curtly, grimacing at the large flakes already covering the hood of his car. “Not the snow.”

“You grew up in Washington,” Henry corrected, carefully opening his door. Ada scowled as she wiggled out the barely open passenger door into the bitter, windy cold. “The snow is never far.”

“Spoken like a true Eastern Washingtonian,” she grumbled, trudging through a waist-high snowbank behind him in the direction of the resort.

“You know,” He called over his shoulder, grinning at Ada with his mega-watt smile and wiggling his bushy, dark eyebrows. “If you let yourself…you might actually have fun with me.”

Ada’s inhale caught in her throat. He had distinctly said have fun with me, not have fun skiing. The diction of the words was similar enough that the blowing snow sailing in front of her face could have caused her to mishear. That had to be the logical answer because there was no possible way Henry Harrison, her only sister’s ex-fiancé, could be implying that he hoped Ada had a good time with him, specifically.

“Are you coming?” He shouted, having already reached the outdoor line to procure their lift tickets. Ada hesitated, wondering how many hours it would take her to walk back down the mountain road, avoid being hit by all vehicles, and reach the little town at the bottom of the mountain where she had been able to get one bar of service when they stopped for gas.

“Adaaaaa.” Henry was now wildly waving his arms, his fluorescent lime green mittens drawing significant attention from all the parties approaching the ticketing booth around her.  “Woohoo! Ada Anna Montrose!” Ada closed her eyes and swore in defeat because if there was one thing she could not handle, even more than spending the day learning to ski with her sister’s ex-fiancé, it was public embarrassment.

“I’m coming,” She hissed, marching up to Henry with hot, red cheeks that matched her auburn hair.

“Just checking,” He replied cheekily.

As they waited through the lines to obtain first, lift tickets, and then, rentals, Ada considered how she had landed herself in this situation at all. It had all seemed like a great idea when she agreed to Henry’s bet, four drinks in, at the arcade bar in Tacoma among their mutual friends. Henry had been a surprise addition to the night out, but that was the funny thing about long-term relationships that ended in a sudden, amicable breakup. There were no clear-cut rules on who got the friends. Although, admittedly, there was a clear rule on who got their own sister.

Ada was obviously on Evie’s side when her sister and Henry’s engagement was called off. Evie was just eighteen months older and Ada’s only sibling, and although their childhood had been filled with screaming matches, as adults they were the best of friends. Just one year apart in school, Ada and Evie’s friend groups had bled into each other over the years. Henry Harrison had come to know both girls set of friends quite well, ever since Evie had excitedly brought Henry home her sophomore year of college at the University of Washington.

Which was why, when the group chat agreed to drinks at the arcade bar on Pac Ave on a Friday night at nine, and Evie bowed out due to a nasty cold she had caught from work, someone had decided to invite Henry Harrison.

“How do those feel?”

Ada snapped out of her thoughts and took an awkward step forward in the ski boots. “Are they supposed to be so tight?” She frowned, shuffling uncomfortably across the carpeted floor of the rental room.

“They should feel secure,” The rental associate with tattoos covering her hands and a black Burton beanie said with a pop of her gum.

“Like your ankles won’t roll around and snap on the hill,” Henry added.

Ada blinked. “Comforting.”

“Those will work,” Henry said to the associate. Ada glared at Henry and he winked back at her. The associate looked between them, popped her gum in her mouth again, and gave a thumbs up.

“Dope.” She raised an eyebrow at Ada. “Do you need to add lessons?”

“I’m teaching her,” Henry interjected.

“Right,” She said with a third snap of her gum, and a smirk. “Good luck. I’ll ring you up around here.”

After having to be practically carried up two sets of stairs in ski boots – why a rental shop catering mostly to amateurs would be in a basement Ada could not fathom – she stood at the base of the bunny hill with skis in hand, a rented helmet and googles atop her head, and a pair of borrowed snow pants a size too small covering her legs. Ada stared in horror at the mechanical rope with staggered handles carting tiny children a third of her age to the top of the far-too-steep hill.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not doing this,” She declared, turning to leave.

Henry caught her by the arm, and she was forced to meet his honey-colored eyes pleading for her to stay. “Will you trust me?” He asked calmly. He looked annoyingly professional in his personal set of skis and matching grey snow pants and jacket, and Ada’s body betrayed her with a nod of her head.

On their acscent, Ada fell off the tow rope twice much to the delight of the giggly children around her, but Henry patiently skied off the tow rope trail both times, helping her upright and instructing her on how to get back on. When they finally reached the top of the bunny hill, he skied around to face her with his back to the bottom of the hill.

“You’re going to ski backwards,” Ada deadpanned.

“I am,” He confirmed with a smile.

“You are actually the worst.”

“I know.” Ada held back a laugh as Henry pointed to her skis. “Now, the first thing you need to know is how to slow yourself down and stop.”

“Sounds important.”

“You’ll position your skis in the shape of a slice of a pizza.”

“A slice of pizza.”


She sighed, adjusting her skis to look like a triangular slice of pizza. He then gently pulled her over the crest of the hill to begin her descent. Ada held her breath as her triangular shaped skis bumpily skirted down the hill.

“To increase your speed, start to straighten them,” Henry explained.

“I don’t want to increase my speed.”

Henry threw back his head and laughed, while skiing backwards, which Ada found both insanely impressive, and irritating. “Alright, let’s start turning,” He encouraged, and Ada sputtered with fear as she began to pull her skis into the shape of a much more acute triangle in a wide right turn.

“There you go!” He cried. She skied over the slope gently and Henry encouraged another turn, first right, then left. “Big, wide turns help you maintain your speed. Never go straight down.”

“They go straight down at the Olympics.”

“Are you an Olympic athlete?” He asked, with that stupid dimpled smile again.

Ada did not have an opportunity to reply, because her glance up to Henry’s dimple and away from her skis proved to be a fatal mistake as the two pieces of wood strapped to her feet crossed over one another. Henry lunged to keep Ada upright, but suddenly four skis were entangled in one another, and with a shriek from Ada and a “Shit!” from Henry, they were both on their backs.

“So, I am not, in fact,” Ada wheezed, wiping frigid snow from half her face, and looking over to Henry who was wincing as he attempted to sit upright. “an Olympic athlete.” Henry chortled as he sat up, his skis perpendicular to the sloping hill. Ada, fearing a broken ankle, remained on her back.

“You do this for fun?” She exclaimed, looking up at him.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” Henry admitted, smiling. “It’s the closest I think I’ll ever get to flying.”

“You could, you know, just take a flight.” Henry swatted at her shoulder and they both chuckled.

“That was really good for your first time on skis,” He added.


“I mean it,” He insisted, extending a hand to help her sit up. Ada eyed it warily, suddenly panicking over whether her hand should be in his. In the six years of knowing him, she could not remember after taking Henry’s hand. And why would she? He was her sister’s fiancé. Ex-fiancé, her brain reminded her.  

Ada ignored his hand and scrambled up to sitting on her own, her legs flailing briefly and her hip protesting at the angle she chose, but upright, nonetheless.

“Why did you invite me?” She blurted out, pushing the wavy auburn locks that had escaped her helmet back inside.

“Well, I didn’t invite you, per say,” He replied. “You lost a bet.”

“But why did you bet me?” Ada pressed, suddenly feeling quite warm despite sitting in a bunch of a snow on a cold hilltop. Henry bit his lip, and Ada noticed how his normally pale cheeks were rosy and with his goggles back on his helmet, those honey brown eyes practically sparkled in the sun. Ada’s heart thundered in her chest.

“Do you really want me to say it?” Henry asked, his voice lower and huskier sounding than normal.

“No,” Ada said instantly, shaking her head, picturing Evie cooped up in her Seattle apartment with a cold and takeout, clueless about her ex-fiancé and sister’s whereabouts. “Never mind.”

“Do you remember that dinner at Lowell’s in the market?” He asked softly, and despite Ada looking away, observing the elementary school aged child blubbering to his dad about hating skiing, she remembered. “It was that unusually warm day in April.”

“I remember,” She whispered.

“Evie cancelled because of a last-minute client dinner, so it ended up being just the two of us.”


“I knew, then. When we stayed for hours, talking and laughing.” Ada closed her eyes, remembering his tousled chestnut hair that day and the forest green button up he had worn. “I never laughed like that with her-“

“I can’t,” Ada said sharply, opening her eyes and finding his face inches from hers. She felt shaky and lightheaded. Evie was fading from her mind as his lips moved towards hers. He hesitated, his eyes asking the question his mouth would not. The smell of his cedar shampoo filled Ada’s senses, and she was taken back to that dinner in the market where they watched the sun set from their table and a soft breeze had blew that same cedar smell her way.

Ada pressed her lips against his, butterflies erupting in her stomach. She shifted her body toward him, moving off her hip and digging the edge of her skis into the hill melting into his kiss, when they both heard an abrupt snap.

They broke apart to discover one of Ada’s skis had released from her boot and was rolling happily down the remainder of the hill. She frowned, swiveling her head slowly from the runaway ski to Henry, who was fighting back laughter, his hand cupped over his mouth.

“I don’t think skiing is for me.”

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We all need that first heartbreak. You might have been terrified when you saw people having their hearts broken and maybe you’d said to yourself, “nah, I’m good, thanks.” But deep down you knew you needed it. It’s one of those things you are terrified of, but at the same time, you know you’d need it at some point of time.

Because even though it probably had you jolted to the core, probably made you not want to believe in love ever again, it has evolved your whole being. They say, true love changes you for the better. I’d say, heartbreak does that too. If you ask me why, I might not be able to answer you today.

But to everyone who’s had their first heartbreaks and find it tough to get over it, hang in there. I won’t say it gets better, sometimes, it doesn’t, but I hope it does. Hope is a nasty little thing. It lingers on to you even if you’ve given up on it. So let’s not do that. The special memories of that one person, of that one love that you have locked inside that beautiful jewelled box of yours, don’t throw it away. It’s special. Think of it as a painting you’d created after days and sleepless nights. Or a beautiful vase you’d fabricated out of mould. You don’t have to keep clutching to it either, but keep it safely at a place and be proud of what you own. For the heartbreak, the memories of the person, the memories of your love for them, they’ve made you, you. Let’s give hope a chance, let’s love hope. Let us let hope build us. Let us let hope heal our hearts and build the love we truly deserve.

I wish you all the very best.

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Loss of life

I am too tired

To write like fairies

A masterpiece of identity

Before I die

I guess its not that great

Just like my life

A could have been

All the great things in my head

I wish of many things

Like taking a faster death pill

And of many regrets

Of not dying before this awful poem

It’s time I bid farewell

In the least artistic way

Maybe I wasn’t born creative

Or the creative left me cold.

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the dancing winds against my chilled skin

looking up at the stars and breathing in

a gust of air is like freezing water

the days are quick and we all grow older

one, two, three, four, five, six

how many days have passed since then?

where all we did was laugh and smile

and we didn’t have to pretend to be anything

how many days?

how many times has the thought come to me?

the thought that I would never see you again?

the thought that tears me up inside

that everyone in life has a timer

we live and we breath and we die

but we don’t forget

we don’t forget about the ones we love

the ones that surround us

the ones who love us

life may go on

life may give us choices that we don’t want to make

choices that define who we are

we are living in a world

a world of love and hate

a world of living

and a world of fate.


Originally posted by coolcrazyplans

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“At times like these it is best to stay quiet and small.” His father kept his hand on his shoulder. “Let them choose a different victim.”

“But why shouldn’t I step in if I can save that person?”

“… Oh, my boy. You are a kind soul.”

His father tenderly ran a hand through his son’s hair and then, when his hand was at the back of his head, shoved, hard enough to send the boy sprawling in the mud. Hard enough that, when the boy rolled over, he spat out mud, coughing slightly and rubbing at his forehead.

“Get up.”

Spitting out the remainder of the mud that had made its way into his open mouth, the boy climbed to his feet and hardened his face. “Why did you do that?”

“The world has no mercy. It will not treat you as a kind father, and neither, it seems, can I, anymore.”

“Because I am a ‘kind soul’?” He demanded, “Because I care about other people?”

His father leant down, placing them face to face, “You cannot afford to care about other people.”

“You cannot afford to place bets, and yet you do every week at the tavern.”

This time, he was expecting the blow and rocked with it rather than being knocked down.

“Do not speak to me like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now.” His father stood back up and placed his hand back on his shoulder. “You see a boy being accused of theft by the palace guards when he has not done anything, what do you do?”

The boy sucked in a breath, “I tell them that. I do not let him be executed for no reason.”


The blow came again, but he was not knocked down because his father grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

“You do not give them a reason to choose you as their victim! Your mother! Your sisters! They need you!” He took a deep breath and stepped back, speaking calmer, “I have to obey the king’s orders. I have to fight in the war. You will be the man of the house.”

“I don’t want to be the man of the house.”

His father sighed, pulling him much more gently, and cupping his face, still dirty from the mud. “I know. I didn’t either, but they need you. Repeat it.”

“They need me.”

“They need you.”

“I will not give the guards a reason to make me a victim.”

Based on the prompt in bold by @givethispromptatry

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<div> —  <b><i>Can’t Run Away // Ig:</i></b> @How.ItFeels </div><span>I don’t need liquor to get drunk, the thought of you intoxicates me just enough. The tequila could hold back the memories of you, but what if I never wanted to escape them in the first place. I can run as far away as I’d like yet the route to you is the only one I can follow, if I wanted to lock you away, tell me why am I standing behind the bars, keys dangling in my hand</span>
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Life is a series of photographs,
an album composed
of occurrences and reactions.

Sometimes pictures come out
perfectly, flawlessly,
with us not having a care
about the problems in the world.

Sometimes they come out
unplanned and unforeseen,
their unexpectedness catching us
at our most vulnerable.

And yet they all have
one important thing in common:
Photos hold memories.

Keep reading

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Have you ever struggled writing that really quick, yet important conversation between characters? That in-between scene that feels boring because its just two character’s talking? Well, there’s actually a really easy fix. 

Keep your characters busy!

Have the conversation over a game of cards or during training. Have them go for a run or talk over dinner. Have them go shopping for ballgowns or dissect dragon entrails for potions class. It doesn’t matter what they’re doing, as long as they’re doing something. This adds depth to your writing, furthers the plot on all fronts and helps avoid White Wall Syndrome

[If reposting to Instagram please credit @isabellstonebooks]

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