I Got A Short Story And A Poem Published In A Magazine And My Family Read It And They Said Youre A Good

I got a short story and a poem published in a magazine and my family read it and they said “you’re a good writer kid. That story is creepy though.”

And I did NOT realize it was creepy lmao so like my bad

(It’s fae based, because of course it is)

The Pinterest to whump pipline is so real!!! Did you fall from that pipeline?

I remember searching for “whump” boards until I just needed more and came straight to the source - tumblr.

Ahh, yep. The pipeline is one I hold dear. It was me googling writing prompts, finding stolen screenshots of moderntypewriter, and then stumbling onto tumblr when I figured out they were hers. After that my mother went into her authoritarian phase and I lost contact :( then I discovered how to use duolingo as a proxy and all was well.

A lot of the prompts were just *chefs kiss* but I think it was this one that really was like “oh. Oh.” for me. That and all the fae ones.

Word Tag

I’ve been tagged again, oh the horror (I kid) by the lovely @imaginativemind29new with the words Fire, Light, Book, and Chance. You keep picking words I do not have and I have realized I use the words lightly and slightly far too often.

Tagging with mild pressure, @imaginativemind29new @clairelsonao3 @jay-avian

Fire, Aletheia POV

“I curse you,” she called, voice raw. “I curse you with my bloodline, I curse you with my magic. I curse you with my heart.”

Her power rattled inside her with the rage of a thousand-pound waterfall, an earth slide, a roaring fire, a tornado.

She glared into him as if she could see his soul, see what made him twisted enough to pit her against her cousin.

“I curse you with everything I am.”

She let her power go, and it rocketed into the arena with a thunderclap so loud her ears rung—above, Clarke had the decency to look unnerved.

Around them, the walls of the arena began to crumble, and the crowd began to scream.

Light, Melody POV (and oh boy, does she have secrets)

Shit,” she cursed, and she fumbled her way out of the bathroom and into the hall. She made it to the kitchen with a fresh blooming bruise on her leg and an aching side and slammed into the countertop. Her fingers scrabbled through the door, the smallest amount of light coming in from the streetlight, until she found the drawer she remembered had the flashlight.

It clicked on, illuminating the empty kitchen in front of her like a beacon. She reached for her phone to check the signal and found it dead.

She cursed again. Jules was going to be pissed.

She headed for the garage, feet quiet on the ice cold wooden floors, and creaked open the door. There, on the wall, was the breaker box.

Her breath clouded in front of her as she stepped down onto the concrete, and she hurried to the breaker, wishing she had put on shoes.

When she pulled it open, she found a mess of wires and switches, unlabeled.

All of them off.

“Well fuck,” she said into the empty garage. “Time to get some work done.”

Chance, Briar POV (new character? No. Another WIP I forgot I had. I’m a horrible mother)

“Chelsea—”

“Shut up,” she hissed, shivering against Briar’s side. Her skin was uncomfortably cold. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Please.”

Briar bit her tongue, and Chelsea shifted to press her lips to Briar’s ear.

“This world and its occupants are not made for us— we are a rare commodity. If we are found, they will take us, and we will never be allowed near another mirror again. They will never let us have any chance of freedom. And we will suffer, until we die.”

Gooseflesh sprung to life on Briar’s arms.

A sound that’s otherworldly and terrifying rattled through the walls, somewhere between a scream and a roar, and her very soul stilled.

Chelsea isn’t joking.

Book, Melody POV (because this is the ONLY time I have typed book ever in my life apparently)

Bromwell read her face like a book, then closed his notepad.

He nodded to the agent above her.

“You can take her wherever Waters wants her to go. I think this was a decent first session.”

She let the agent guide her to her feet, hands gentle around her stitches in a way she had never had someone be, as her mind played the same question over and over in her head on repeat.

Have you ever wanted to hurt someone?

No.

Her mind purred with animosity.

Liar liar, it whispered. Such a liar.

Well how about that folks? I want to write but am so utterly enthralled with my own story ideas (and so utterly incapable of doing them Justice) that I cannot decide which one to work on. The options are: Serial killer story, pirate and siren story, dystopia rain story, superhero story, and mirrored fae world story. Comment your pick please I beg.

“We aren’t creatures of love, you and I,” the hero admitted. The villain was a statue behind their back, as if content to catch only the ends of their words. The hero kicked a foot against the side of the building, legs cold in the night air.

“Did you cook that up by yourself, or did they force feed it to you.”

The hero shrugged.

“Semantics.”

The villain appeared over their shoulder. The hero craned their neck to look up at them.

“They think you’ll fight me if they take away all the soft edges of you.”

The hero hummed, turning away. The villain settled on the lip of the roof a moment later. Almost close enough to touch, but not quite.

“They made me.”

“They’re remaking you,” the villain corrected.

The hero shrugged, again.

“Do you believe that?”

“I can see it on your face. It’s not a matter of belief, it’s a matter of ignorance.”

The hero laughed, bright enough to pretend they didn’t feel like a wound with the scab picked off. “You see too much.”

The sigh that came out of the villain was wrought with tension.

“Only with you.”

When the hero looked over they found the villain watching them, eyes intent.

“Stop looking, then.”

“Stop letting them break you, and I will.”

The brick crumbled beneath the hero’s hand. The villain paid it no mind.

They stared at them with something too close to concern, too similar to affection.

“You’re not supposed to like me,” the hero reminded.

The villain sat back. “I’m not supposed to murder people, either.”

“I’m hardly a crime.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

“Even with the heroics?”

“Because of the heroics,” the villain admitted softly, and the hero had to look away.

“We can’t do this,” the hero whispered. The villain simply stayed, radiating heat next to them.

“There’s a lot of things we can’t do. Don’t let this be one of them.”

The villain rose, brushing themselves off.

“Coming?”

The city hummed below them. Their city, even if they left it in ruins around one another, because of one another.

The villain waited, patient. Somehow, the hero knew they’d wait forever, if they had to.

They rose.

“Coming.”

I just had the most screwed up black mirror kind of vibe dream, and I am permanently reminded of why I’m good at writing horror. Cause like man. How does a brain have that good of a plot twist? And not have it be nonsensical?

If anyone needs me I’ll be shrieking in the middle of the woods and kicking my feet like a schoolgirl

Honestly the pipeline of “reading the-modern-typewriter snippets at midnight on the floor of my bathroom at age eleven so I wouldn’t get caught” to “being a tumblr writer myself” is a wild one.