#writing piece

[unsanctioned-if]

Snippet #2

This is a small part of the prologue where the MC first encounters Muir. Enjoy!

"Frost clung to your eyelashes, cold bit your cheeks, and your thoughts ran deeper than the snow reaching past your knees. You didn’t even notice the silhouette until it turned its head towards you.

Sitting cross-legged atop a heap of snow was a ghost...or someone who looked much like a ghost to you.

His hair was an awkward tousle, white as the pile he was perched on. Near-translucent irises stared at you, void of pupils that might have otherwise inspired a sense of humanity. Despite the wintry air, his cheeks showed no hints of red; if anything, his unnatural paleness reminded you of a corpse.

Either too numb to feel the cold or merely oblivious to it, he seemed unbothered by his lack of layers, with only a thin cloth shielding him from the elements.

An open and serene smile stretched across his face as you took each other in, but shock surpassed whatever excitement you might have felt upon finding another child here. In twelve months’ time, Cirern had been the only living being in your vicinity – and in this case, you weren’t certain that the boy before you could even be called alive.

The lengthy solitude had rendered you more wary than anything."

#interactive fiction #unsanctioned #writing #if #snippet #muir #writing piece #one of these days I'll post a snippet with some dialogue in it I swear

[romanticizedream]

[ inspired by @honeytuesday ]

#~q~ #something personal #writing piece #silly little poetry

[systemwritingpieces]

Hers/Mine

Everything is hers. Every morning, I wake up in her bed in her room and put on her clothes and her jewelry. I say good morning to her parents and eat her breakfast. I feed her cat. I drive her brother to her school in her car. I introduce myself with her name and talk to her friends and sit in her seat in her classes. I do her homework and play her character in the musical she wanted to be in. I look in the mirror and see her face looking back at me.

Will any of it ever be mine? Will I ever drive my car or feed my cat? Am I doomed to wake up every morning in a bed I don’t own, put on clothes I’d never wear and go to a school I don’t belong to? Will I forever be stuck talking to people who don’t know me, who don’t know my name and don’t see that I’m not her, don’t see that none of this is mine and all of it is hers? Will I always be stuck living in a costume, pretending to be someone I’m not? Will they always call me by her name? Will I always look in the mirror and see her face? Will I ever claim any of it? Will I ever be her?

I don’t know what scares me more: the thought that I’ll never be her, never consider us one and the same, never consider anything mine and everything hers, or the thought that I will, that I’ll become her and lose my name, my face, my identity.

#writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #system writing #writing piece #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled words #system #did system #plural system #plural #plurality

[urfavmafioso]

i have written a poem of my own… 🍂☁️

i look out these cloudy dirty foggy old windows and all i can think about is why does everything happen for a reason? imagine you’re reminiscing different times throughout your life, then you snap out of it realising things will never be the same. everybody walks one path and you need to walk alone in the other. you need to face new battles. autumn is coming. but autumn will never be like the other autumn. even when there were not a cloud in the sky and there was a lovely warm breeze, i still couldn’t help but feel melancholic. even if every single day seems to be like a repeat of the last and i know i’m losing hope, i will continue to stand here. even if i can’t stand to face it anymore and sleep for hours on end during the day, i will continue to live on and wait for something good. everything happens for a reason.

the gloomy pianos of “candy necklaces” plays…

#poem #poetry #writing #writing piece #cloudy #cloudy weather #window #lana del rey #candy necklaces #Spotify

[maitaiwiththecorpses]

That Time Mat Went Batshit- Desi Edition! (Part 2/???)

Remember when I promised I would rant about the lack of rep for desi kids? Well, in my journalism class, we were told to write an opinion piece and oh BOY do I have some opinions.

Anywhosies. I hope I made y'all proud.

Growing up, seeing people who looked like me in the media was like seeing a unicorn: it’s impossible.

               And it was the same for any Indian kid up until…. 2018, when we got the first of five installments of the Aru Shah series.

               In fact, if you look on Goodreads, under the “Top Five Indian Character Books,” all five books will be from… Roshani Chokshi’s Aru Shah Quintet.

               Now, it’s not a secret that this is harmful to kids- not only of Indian descent but everyone else too! Western media consistently portrays South Asian characters with harmful stereotypes with caricature-like personalities that haven’t been updated since the 50’s- and in 2023? It looks a little basic.

               Now, I’ve talked a lot about books, and while they’re important, they’re not the biggest piece of media people consume.

That would be tv shows.

               The MCU’s Ms. Marvel and Netflix’s Never Have I Ever are the only two American tv shows made for a younger audience with South Asian main characters.

               “But Mat, why can’t people just until they’re older and then watch all the American tv shows with Indian characters?”

               Because by the time people are 30 and can afford a Netflix subscription, the harmful stereotypes will have already set it, and then South Asian people will only exist as the nerdy, ‘sure, I can hack into this complicated database in under 30 seconds for you,’ people.

               And the fact of the matter is- hacking takes a really long time! And Indians are chronic over-achievers! They will break under this stress.

Jokes aside, though, representation is so important, and one piece of media that makes a little kid feel seen can change a whole life. Media corporations and publishing companies must do better for this next generation of kids coming up, because generational unimportance and trauma will follow them if they cannot see themselves on pages and on the screen.

Do better, American media- for the future.

#desi things #mat digs deep #lost my shit #writing piece #journalism #column piece #representation matters #fuck the media

[cats-and-confusion]

"Adelaide" and the Honest Compulsive Liar

.

She’s woken by a heavy pounding on the door, rolling off the couch and onto the floor. Scrambling to her feet, she rips open the door to be met with a tall, burly man, wearing adventurer’s clothing. When he speaks, his voice is softer than she expected. "Pardon me, milady, but may I stay the night? There doesn't seem to be a tavern in this town, but I'll compensate you. I can just stay in the shed, if it's not too much trouble." He shifts his weight, and she notes the presence of a warhammer sheathed on his back.

Her face breaks into a cheerful grin. "Oh! I don't mind one bit! Come in, come in. Ooh, it's been so long since I had a stranger visit. New friends! How exciting. I think I'll call you Adelaide." She ushers him into the house, paying no mind that he has to duck to fit through the doorway as she practically drags him in.

"Oh, um…" He hesitates, unsure whether to correct her and properly introduce himself, or just let her do her thing. He’s met a lot of people in his travels, but this…this was new.

She guides him through the house, a decently sized home, clearly well used. Dirty dishes lie on practically every surface, and the floor is littered with clothes and quills and empty plastic bottles. "Now come here Adelaide, I've a spare room for you in the house! Haha, just kidding, I lied. But I do have a storage room that’s relatively well insulated, I reckon you could sleep in there!" She giggles.

The newly assigned Adelaide tries again to interject, not wanting to seem impolite by outright interrupting, but also having very little energy to deal with this eccentric individual. “I don’t, uh-”

“Ooh, take your shoes off before we go into the kitchen! I don’t like cleaning wood floors, you know. Actually you should sit down at the dining table, I’ll go ahead and get something for you.” She sits him at the cluttered table in a chair wildly too small for him, and she brushes aside the various trinkets and trash in front of him, effectively clearing a portion of the table.

She continues. “Y’see, my grandmum came over an’ gave me cooked squash in one of those bowls, but I hate squash, so I don’t want it. I reckon the roads ain’t too kind to you, you’re hungry, yeah? You want squash?” She gestures at him with a wooden spoon in her hand, taking things from the ice box already.

“...S- sure…” He agrees, resigned to his fate at this point. And, he may admit, he is rather hungry. 

She beams, heating the bowl over the fire just a little. “Splendid! Anyway, I lied, it’s not squash, it’s carrots. Here you go!” She sets down a bowl of carrots and other assorted leaves in front of him, along with the spoon. It’s still mostly carrots.

“I don’t know what the spices are so just pray you aren’t allergic. Cheers!” She takes a seat back on the couch, practically the only non-cluttered thing in this place, and picks up a notebook from the floor. She fishes a quill off of the floor, too, and begins writing in the notebook. He wonders where she gets all that paper; it’s rather expensive, after all.

He fiddles with the utensil, much too small in his hand, and stirs his food uncertainly. Should he mention it? He shouldn’t mention it. His mouth is already moving. “Hey, um…I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but…what the hell is wrong with you?” He asks sincerely, cringing at his wording. This person is being so kind to him, why did he say that? How will she react?

Shockingly, she bursts into laughter, interrupting his anxious spiral. “Ehehahahahah! Yeah, I get that a bunch. Actually I don’t because I never talk to people. But I bet I would!” Her laughter dies down to soft giggles, and then stops, yet she remains smiling.

“...Oh,” is all he can manage to say. This woman is baffling. Insane, even, but she doesn’t seem harmful like some perfectly sane people he’s met, so…this is a fine alternative, he supposes. “...Can i still stay the night?” he asks hopefully, wincing.

“You sure can, Adelaide!” She affirms brightly. He resists the urge to rub his face in stress.

“That’s not my-”

“You sure can, Adelaide!” She repeats, in a lower tone this time, more firmly. He doesn’t know why this lady is so intent on calling a very burly masculine man ‘Adelaide’, but he doesn’t have the heart to argue with her. Adelaide it is.

He relents. “...Okay.”

Adelaide begins to eat, or at least tries to, but it’s rather difficult. Who eats carrots with a spoon?

#my writing #creative writing #writing piece #compulsive liar #unnamed character

[halcyon-star-belt]

VIVAMAX: BETA TEST

this is a silly little story about a my interpretation of raihan from pokémon gen 8 and my silly lore about him. giggles. this ties into the nimbasa hideaways lore too!!

He was only 12 when Rose took him in and made him start on this path of who he was to become. Leon had just become champion a year ago, and Raihan had lost to him in the semi-finals. It's strange, why the chairman of the league would take him, the loser, in. Of course, the chairman's sick and twisted desires weren't known until he was 14, when the grooming first started. Every single time he could stand to walk after a night with Rose up in his mansion of a house, he'd always run back to that abandoned Dynamax den where his family- His true family- is always waiting for him.

Mama and Papa Goodra always treated him like he was one of their own little Goomy, raising the boy since the age of six to be a successful adult. Of course, that was only during the nights. During the days, he would be cooped up in his family's stuffy little brick apartment, his siblings running around him and laughing- At what? Probably him, now that he looks back at it- as his parents work from home and balancing taking care of the youngest children.

Looking down, the reddish metal of his Vivamax band wraps around his wrist tightly, the white V symbol painted on it meticulously despite it only being a beta. It's.. funny, how he got it.

After the championships one night, he was laying in bed after Rose had been done with him, and he had barely noticed when his regular Gigantamax band was switched for the Vivamax one. He always thought afterwards that the Dynamax energy just made him sick afterwards, and never even thought to question that it was his band that made him feel so ill.

It was because of this Vivamax band that he went feral the first time, his fingernails turning into sharp claws as he swiped at whoever was nearest. Of course, he was thrown into juvie for a few months afterwards, but the whole media circus around it seemed to.. disappear. For years afterwards, he trained to never become like that again, and when he did, immediately hide in that old Dynamax den with his Mama and Papa and his siblings.

That's been the routine for years, yet.. why does it suddenly feel so wrong..?

#writing piece #wow!!! me? writing? never happened before #nimbasa hideaways #oneshot #pokemon raihan #raihan #pokemon sword and shield #gen 8 pokemon #gen 8

[writers-block-dead]

Person A has been tortured psychologically and kept away from their team. When Person B comes to rescue them they are met with terrified eyes and screams.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"You're not real... YOURE NOT REAL"

Person A crawls brokenly as far away from B as possible.

#angst #torture #whump #writing piece #writing prompt #prompt #creative writing #writing #team prompt #whump prompt #otp #imagine your otp #prompt writing #torture whump

[depressed-werewolf]

Memories

Everything hurt. They couldn’t think and all they could hear was the buzz of unintelligible voices. There was a thick fog in their head that kept them confined to a dreamlike state.

Eventually, the hero managed to fight through the fog and open their eyes. They were immediately assaulted by bright fluorescent lights, worsening their already throbbing headache. They shut their eyes. The voices were gradually becoming more clear now. One voice, however, stood out as prominent.

“Hero?”

They didn’t recognize the voice.

“Hero!”

Louder this time. They could feel hands shaking their shoulders.

They opened their eyes again, and, this time, the lights were more bearable, though their vision was still too blurry to make out the room. The voices sounded more frantic now. 

“They’re awake!”

They could feel arms wrapping around them now, pulling them so that they were sitting up. When Hero blinked a few times their vision gradually became clearer.

They were sitting on a bed in a small room. There was a tall man in front of them with short, dark hair.

The man when he realized they were awake. “You gave me quite a scare, getting injured like that."

“W-who are you?”

An unreadable expression spread across his face. “You don’t remember me?” Hero shook their head. “Do you remember anything?”

They hesitated for a moment. It seemed there was something just out of reach that the Hero couldn’t put their finger on. They finally gave up and shook their head. “No.”

“Unfortunate.” That unreadable expression was back. It felt familiar in an odd sort of way. It made the hero nervous. “My name is Supervillain.”

They felt like they’d heard the name before but didn’t know when or how. They shook their head. It felt as if they hit a wall every time they tried to delve into their memories. “Supervillain…”

Hero shook their head and groaned. It was as if a wall blocked them anytime they tried to go back. “I can’t remember anything.”

Supervillain ran a gentle hand through Hero's hair. That unreadable expression was back. “Don’t fret, sweetheart, you’ll be fine.”

Their tone of voice jogged something in Hero’s memory, a single name.

Villain.

They had no idea what the name meant, but it was something. Everything would come back to them eventually, they hoped.

Supervillain smiled at them hesitantly and rubbed their back. “I suppose you’ve forgotten a lot, haven’t you? Perhaps showing you around the place would jog your memory.”

Hero took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah… yeah, that might help me remember something.”

“Excellent.”

Supervillain offered Hero a hand, helping them off the bed. Supervillain beamed. Hero wanted to remember, but secretly, Supervillain hoped they never would.

#hero x villain #villain x hero #hero x supervillain #hero x villain community #a #amnesia #memory loss #whump #snippet #hero villain snippet #writing #writing snippet #writing piece #my writing #mediocre snippets #a mediocre writing blog #depressed werewolf

[escapingabuse]

Can a family be a cult?

Cults are often thought of as organized groups that exert influence and control over members in extreme ways (American Psychological Association, n.d.). However, cult-like behaviors can also manifest on a smaller scale within family units. While most families share close bonds and form identities together, some families exhibit characteristics that can be considered cult-like.

A cult-like family typically has one or more leaders who exert excessive control over family members, often the children (Langone, 2018). The leaders may isolate family members from outside influences that challenge their authority. They may discourage or forbid contact with extended family, friends, or other social groups (American Psychological Association, n.d.). The leaders require complete obedience and loyalty from family members, even if that means violating one's own values, identity, or well-being.

Cult-like families often involve thought reform through indoctrination and manipulation (Langone, 2018). Children are taught that the family leader or leaders are infallible and can do no wrong, even when evidence suggests otherwise. Children are taught that the family unit and loyalty to it is the most important thing, surpassing all other values. They are taught that anyone outside the family is untrustworthy or a threat.

The consequences of growing up in a cult-like family can be significant. Children tend to develop an unhealthy dependence on the family unit, forming an identity based on compliance and obedience (American Psychological Association, n.d.). They struggle to think independently and form healthy relationships outside the family. They may experience psychological and emotional damage due to the manipulation, control and isolation.

In extreme cases, cult-like families involve physical and sexual abuse as a means of control (Langone, 2018). However, the psychological damage can be just as severe even in families that do not involve physical abuse. Any family structure that involves excessive control, isolation and indoctrination poses risks to the mental health and well-being of its members.

In conclusion, while cults are typically thought of as organized groups, the same cult-like dynamics of control, isolation and indoctrination can manifest on a smaller scale within families. The consequences for children growing up in such environments make a compelling case that some families can indeed function as cults. With awareness, education and intervention, cult-like behaviors within families can be identified and addressed to help prevent psychological harm.

References:

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). What are cults? Retrieved from https://www.apa.org/topics/cults

Langone, M. D. (2018). An overview of destructive cults. In M. D. Langone (Ed.), Recovery from cults: Help for victims of psychological and spiritual abuse (pp. 11-27). W.W. Norton & Company.

#destructivecults #cults #family #canafamilybeacult #psychology #writing piece #thetruth #escapingtheabuse #cult trauma

[st4rloverr]

let's talk about how the moon and sun cannot be together even though they reside in the same place, the dazzling sun illuminates yet stings the eyes of the world, but for the moon, it's its only reason to shine. about how the sun wants the moon to glow in it's serene glory, so that people can see it's beauty in the darkness of the night. and as the sun sets, and is disappearing, it looks as if it's bowing before the moon, admiring the masterpiece before it.

THIS WAS LITERALLY A THOUGHT BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP IM SO GONNA MAKE A POEM ON IT

#writer #writerscorner #writing #creative writing #sun #moon #poetry #prose #thoughts #writing piece #writerblr

[lilyminer]

Home is Quiet Now

- a small vent writing piece from the perspective of a crow of Philzas chat, cuz that’s what I am. TW death.

Home never used to be quiet, home had always been alive. Like a great joyful creature it claimed its freezing land and made the best of it. With warmth and light, with building that never seemed to cease, with the visitors that came and went, this home was alive. Friends always found their way here: the scared children and the fearsome allies, but most important were those that stayed. Home has changed now.

The lights that once filled the larger cabin were out, he had been resting there for months, but we never minded. He could rest as much as he wanted as long as we knew he was here with us, he was safe here, at least we hoped he was. He's still resting now, but not in the warm bed we’d always find him in. He’s gone, and our dadza remains. Resting atop a windowsill where he’s always been. We rest with him in silence, and like always he takes care of us. Those who sit close can hear a faint tune, he sings an old lullaby, for us or for him? It's hard to tell. He sings of triumph and of fear, of comfort and calm as well as loud and booming and awe inspiring. It seems as though he barely speaks words at all, some in languages we don’t speak, half in senseless metaphor, so quiet, yet we hear him in every truth he sings. We wish for nothing more than for him to be here with us, his faint heartbeat is all the life we need from him. And so we sit here, alone but with each other, mourning but comforted, quiet but alive, always alive. For that's how home has always been.

#tw death #Technoblade #philza #mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp writing #mcyt technoblade #mcyt philza #dadza #vent #writing piece #vent writing #writing #the antarctic commune #technoblades cabin #philzas crows #emerald duo #long post #It’s home it’s always been home it’s just a bit more empty now #this is pretty much how I feel rn enjoy ig

[meliorivm]

The penal institution was growing bitterly mind-numbing. She found herself surveying the walls, more often than not, practically certain a multitude of horrifics remained entombed inside of them long before she’d became one.

Topsy would come and go, religiously checking in, ensuring Hermione’s comfort all the while causing her skin to crawl each time she was referred to as mud blood, still. She knew the elf meant no harm, it didn’t prevent her from habitually picking at her chelidon, causing reddening bruises on taut skin. Draco would no doubt scream at her upon noticing, but it was a necessary distraction. Symbolism to remind herself this was all real, that she hadn’t yet succumbed to insanity. That her feelings towards him were valid as she attempted to glue memories of before and now back together with some synchronicity.

She dizzied, vivid images of The Weasley’s strung up, headless …

Harry. Oh god, Harry. Pale fingertips rubbed against temples, trying to slow down her breathing the way Draco instructed her to when it all came to a head.

Narcissa’s portrait relentlessly burned through her cranium each time she remotely self-harmed or swiftly split herself in two: the healer / the test subject. Not that the painting of Draco’s mother would ever speak to her and often looked away anytime Hermione made eye-contact. In desperate times, Hermione found herself rambling thoughts aloud — at the painting — a looming need for conversation with a woman, in particular one who had already bore a child. A malfoy, in-fact. Perhaps she was becoming too greedy, expectant… now that Draco was treating her mildly better, more human and less like furniture. Like something he remembered he loved.

“Be grateful, Her—” mutterings under her breath cut short by familiar proportions. She swallowed, noticing his eyes before anything else, always. They’d vary in colour depending on his physical and mental state. She’d made a point of keeping track in order to identify if he was lying or concealing how all of this was affecting him too. But also because she thought they were rather beautiful.

Did he even notice he was shivering into borderline pneumonia? Her spine straightened, a sudden flush of worry colouring her cheeks. She fell over herself to reach him, the ropes of concern hoisting her out of bed and instinctively flinging her into healer mode. It mattered more when it came to him, everything did.

“Draco, you’re shivering,” an obvious statement, her fingers caressing over his jawline and up along the hairs of his nape. He was so cold, silver hues slowly dimming into shades resembling ice. “… Do you still have the healing kit I gave you?” A memory surfaced, misplaced in the years that had passed since then, she hadn’t even noticed. Her focuses solely on helping him. It’s the least she could do.

“Please let me help you,” desperation in her eyes, staring straight at him. Her fingers moved to hold his hand, guiding him towards the bed. “… I’m not allowed to use magic,” It was apparent she was gutted by the realisation, but determination lingered nonetheless. “but if you lay down, i can keep you warm. You should drink your healing potion and something to help you sleep.”

She would hold him, she thought. Wrap herself around him until every ounce of her body heat evaporated into his skin. All night, because she needed it too. She was constantly afraid it would be the last time she did.

And so she would hold him, pour herself into him until there was nothing left of her to give.

@draconivm @fleurdenarcisse

discord writing server: cursive curses.

#draco x hermione #harry potter #hermione granger #writing piece #manacled #manacled au #narcissa malfoy #draco malfoy #Hermione granger rp #cursive curses #dramione

[catmannn]

A Bit of writing #1

Prompt: To save his own life, he would have to kill

Time limit: 5 minutes

"I don't want to do this."

The beast across the arena snarled. Not a hint of understanding in its eyes. "Please, I don't want to do this!" He clutched the bestowed knife to his chest.

He hated fighting - always had - but it was expected of him as the chief's son. Their heir was supposed to be big and strong, capable of protecting his people. Not small and soft, something dainty and delicate like him. He was of the age where he would have to start proving himself "strong" enough, so he was given the challenge of slaying this beast.

But as he stared into it's feral eyes - seeing the fear and fury in it's stance - he couldn't bring himself to do it. He turned to look up at his father.

"I'm sorry."

He dropped the knife.

#writing piece #angst prompt #angst #writing ideas #writing #drabble #angst writing #whump? #maybe? #writing challenge #challenge #httyd inspired #httyd #kinda wanna make it a Sanders Sides au #like Roman's backstory #roman sanders #Sanders Sides

[dark-raven-feathers]

Based on a writing print I saw a few weeks ago:

(I’ll send you a picture of a sleepy birb if you can tell me which plague doctors I inserted into here, and extra points if you can tell which other characters are based off of TikTok content creators)

#dark raven feathers #plague doctor #plague doctors #plaguesona #plaguecore #bird doctor #dark acadamia #writing #writing piece #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writerblr #049 is not a plague Doctor btw #Not part of the list

[niamhpoppleton]

The Orange Tree

She.

She who stood within a field of fast growing, relentless weeds that spread like a wildfire across the forest of her very being, or a pandemic across what was her world.

She who could still remember when the sun would beam down across the town. When golden shards of light would tiptoe across her skin. When her smile was pearl white, and her eyes were alight with wonder and awe – when her passions were the main fruit that she bore.

That was until the skies turned endlessly grey, and her smile faded away into something bitter and sad, as she waited for the rain to pour down upon her, drenching her in eternal misery and sorrow. You probably wonder why didn’t she just walk away? You probably question why she didn’t she just escape from the cage of never-ending pain that circled day-in and day-out through the train station of thoughts that lived within her jigsaw puzzle of a brain.

As a solitary tear rolled down her face, she realised all she wanted was to cut away the weeds that wound their way around her ankles and up her thighs, binding her to her place.

Silence overcame her, as a single thought began to formulate. Staring down at her seemingly permanent fate, she realised that she didn’t have to stay. And as the thought dashed through her mind, a voice called out from far away – a voice that she knew far too well but had lost when she fell into a rabbit hole and was buried with sharp, taupe-coloured stones that dug deep enough to tear a hole in her heart, yet never, ever drew blood.

When she looked up, she saw what was not that far away but just too far to be out of reach – an orange tree with fruit hanging from every branch, and the girl who sat beneath.

She tried to scream for help, to cry out to the girl beneath the orange tree, but her voice became tangled within the broken, unturned music box that lay between her skin and bone. An overwhelming feeling of melancholy possessed her entire body, sending shivers that ran–like ice-cold water on a winter day–down her spine, and she had to try so hard to suppress the urge to vomit. Nevertheless, the sickening feeling rose until it overtook her entire soul, and orange juice spilled out from her throat onto the ground below.

The girl beneath the orange tree arose, and held out a hand; she did not look up from the grass and the yellow roses that grew like an enchanted garden below the motherly nurturing tree. However, the girl encaged by the weeds that dug into her figure, did look up. By moving her hand from her side, and allowing her skin to meet the girl’s, a smile began to carve it’s way into her face.

Slowly, but surely, the girl beneath the orange tree faded away into golden fireflies that made their way to the heavens above. They did not leave, however, before encircling the girl trapped by the weeds, cutting her free from their cruelty and toxicity. Once again, she was allowed to be the girl she was previously, who sat beneath an orange tree.

#short story #short story writer #writer #teen writer #writing #creative writing #female writer #self love #depression #toxicity #breaking the cycle #the orange tree #my writing #writing community #writing piece #anxiety #writers on tumblr #anxiety writing #anxiety art #insecurity #insecure writing #short stories #writers and poets #tumblr writers #writers of tumblr