Just-an-unkindness - Of Ravens - Tumblr Blog

ok wait, reblog if you’ve cried at least once because of math, doesn’t matter which grade i’m trying to prove something 

He snorted out a huff, anticipating the pain, his body was not what it had been. Joints creaked as he pushed his serpentine body from the ground, golden scales twinkling like bells as they rubbed together. The fur of his mane that travelled low and bordered his belly scales moved with a breeze that did not come from the still summer night and although the only light came from the constellations dancing across the sky his scales flashed on their own, a sheen of red and blue glinting from within. The only spot that remained dull was a large dark scar that started just below his front left leg and streaked towards his back. Although a few years old now it still arched as he stretched, the skin being pulled tight. He shook his head to remove any lingering stiffness, hair whipping around his v shaped horns and curled his whiskers back. But his eyes, pinpricks of electric blue drowning in black sclera, remained on the bundle of abandoned rubbish left in the grass.

reblog to give the person you reblogged this from the motivation to finish a wip

You can't really make something from nothing. My main OCS/original works were mostly created out of random character designs made for different homework tasks and somehow they slotted together nicely and dragged a story out of me. Basically I'm trying to say that starting from scratch is kind of impossible cuz if ya brains blank ya page will be the same. And no story has started from nothing! Spiderman came from Stan Lee looking at a fly on a wall and thinking 'that looks neat', just like how ancient people took things in nature and spun grand myths of gods and monsters. So grab anything, it could be something next to you or something you're interested in and then add something else, could be random, could be a word association. I'll do a random example on the spot. I'll look around me first, besides me I've got some thick sock-slippers, there's my face moisturiser, I'm lying done so I gotta look at my ceiling, there's a crack there with some flaking paint that I swear wasn't there yesterday, how on earth do cracks always appear like that? Is there like a wall crack fairy that visits houses during the night and attacks ceilings with lil' sickles Now I'm thinking about the actual reasons, it's cuz of the sessions and the drying and expanding of the earth but it's almost like houses breathe sometimes. They breathe out and sag forming cracks and they breathe in and those cracks close and then grind together until the render starts to blister outwards. Personifying a house is interesting, if these walls had eyes/could talk and all that. Writing a story told by a house would be a good way to explore a story through descriptions rather than dialogue. On the other hand what if it wasn't so much the house as someone stuck in place and unable to escape, a ghost reluctantly haunting the place of their death or maybe a noisy neighbour cursed by the neighbourhood witch to learn more about their neighbours than anyone should have to. Hehe neighbourhood witches sound fun. Maybe the noisy neighbour is the witch and they want to find out all your problems so they can make life easier on you, or harder, depending on what kind of neighbour you are. I really could keep going on and on… and on but you get the picture. A premise is your brain gallivanting so let it loose. Stop staring at that poor naked page and look around you! :)

Okay, does anyone have any advice for coming up with a premise from scratch? I try to brainstorm but I just get an error message. I think my brain needs to be rebooted or something.

starting a writing blog is so hard cuz on one hand I set it up to look nice and professional and posted some original writing, but on the other hand my existence is just... 99% fandoms and ships and filth, trying to pretend anything else is just straight up false advertising. But like,,, seeming like an actual writer person?? But also? fuckin' feels?? that I have to write. down. somehow. and shove at people who feel the same.... augh

There is a silence that befalls the world in the middle of a snowstorm. When the sky and the earth melds into a singular shade and everything disappears under a covering of snow. It sits unblemished and deep, erasing any memory of warmth, of familiarity, of humanity. The landscape is gently shaped by a silent wind that can just as easily slice through warmed skin, corrosive and biting.

These are the nights that our parents latched the doors and told us stories of spring.

If you hear a knock at the door sweet one, it is but the wind, pay it no mind and huddle closer, closer still to the hearth. Soak up the warmth because you can and rejoice for the warmth does not give relief to the truly cold, but instead it blisters their skin. 

The hearth of our home fluttered with the bellowing of the wind and our every breath. Each thump at the door and window would be swallowed by the pop of fresh wood. And yet every splutter and spit made us twitch, the threat of a burn being something instinctual, just as much as the flame had been mesmerising. Every ember that was spat fourth drove us back while the hands at our backs urged us forward.

There are no worries for we are warm, fear no flame for a burn will never hurt like the chill. Fire breathes and welcomes us home but does so to the lost as well. Never lose sight of the hearth on these nights. Now huddle closer and tell us what you see, what you see within the heath. Look away from the window, what tales do you see within the hearth.

No matter how much they insisted I couldn't help but look out the window. Snow fell like stars, creating patterns and shapes that passed by and rattled the glass. Shapes that knocked at the door. I would be scolded for turning away from the hearth only to do so again and again. The warmth felt so permanent, so present, it would never leave my bones.

I suppose I felt that that warmth had become too stifling. I must have turned away from the flames more times than I could find my way back. Now as I try to move closer to the heath, to home, my feet feel heavier with each step. Weighed down. I can feel the humanity leaking out, calling to me with each distant pop of wood, can smell the blood of family. I hear a mumble.

Pay no attention to that my youngest, she is lost but with the sun she shall be found.

The snow is thick outside. I know this because my feet, black and hard, sink lower, but I move forward, I must get to my hearth, to my blood. The warmth, their warmth will save me. A window, I stop before it and tap, tap at the warmth. A door, its familiarity is all but lost to me and I knock because that is what we do to be welcomed inside. I open my mouth to call out but my mouth is dry. I lick my lips, my tongue solid between them but it does nothing to wet them. I huddle, huddle closer. I can feel the warmth, only just. It seeps through the wood, and I can see it, much like I can feel the heart beats of my family. We must huddle together, huddle around the fire and rejoice as our skin splits. The rush of blood, inside or out, is something we will have no need to worry about but first we must huddle close, closer still, till we share space, breath, and blood once more. I remember how we used to and I yearn, hunger to do so again.   

 tap, tap, tap