Rain crackled as it hit the ground, scattering sparks in every direction. It was a nostalgic kind of rain, with a warm electric glow and steam that curled upwards as the falling water smashed into the pavement.
It was a beautiful sight, but a dangerous one.
A familiar voice startled him from behind. “You actually came.”
Cathias turned from the window to see the soft glow of Matiah’s eyes blinking from the doorway. Blue eyes, the color of a sparkmoth in flight. “Of course.”
“Come then. We need you to see this.”
“The worms.” Cathias said, keeping pace wit
I spent a lot of time staring out that window. Staring down at peeling red paint on an old shack, and a few defiant weeds that refused to flake away. Sometimes I would see the shadow of a bird cross the dust, and sometimes a lizard run for cover. But mainly, I watched the wax-dip girl.
She must have been about my age, just a sliver of a girl who came out from the shack just as sunrise turned to day. I watched as she balanced on a stool, dipping a string in a bucket of wax, in and out, in and out, as the sun arched over her and the shadows flipped over themselves.
It was a fascinating rhythm, watching the string thicken with eac
I created a cat
from anger and thread,
clawing at curtains
until they run red.
I created a snake
from leather and vice,
feasting on lies
and ivory mice.
I created a hawk
from feathers and sin,
striking the sun
and riding the wind.
I fashioned the man
with clay in his heart,
accepting the light
or craving the dark?
I like to go out in the tunnels. I don't tell Grandma, she'd get mad, so I just sneak out when she's sleeping and run out to where the town turns into a train station. That way, I can reach the tunnels without anyone catching me. That way, I can meet my friend.
My friend lives in the tunnels, which is strange, because it's cold and dark in there. It's also where the trains go through, so fast that you can just see a smear in the darkness. I have to go to her, because she says she'll never leave the tunnels. She says that we're scary and that her family calls us monsters.
She's not afraid of me though, since we talk and laugh and play lots
The Obligatory Non-Magical Person by TheShanar, literature
Literature
The Obligatory Non-Magical Person
My mother would have a heart attack if she knew I was about to rob a church.
“Hey Lalia.” I whispered, trying to fill the silence with something other than my hammering art. “What kind of shape rejects the Five Holy Orders of the Blessed?”
Lalia sighed. “You tell me, Dav.”
“A dodecaheathen. Get it?”
“Yes, Dav. We get it.”
She wasn’t impressed. Of course, Lalia wasn’t impressed by anything, except Glenin and his limitless knowledge of all things magical.
Glenin wasn’t with us, thank the Blessed.
Unter snorted behin
The house even smelled expensive. The lacquered wood floor reflected the light that filtered in through the panoramic windows that overlooked the ocean, and the modern design gave the place a crisp, clean look. Sandy almost forgot she didn’t want to be there.
“Not too bad, huh?”
Sandy turned to glare at Jason.
“Oh, come on Sandy, you can’t be angry all month.”
Oh yes she could. She followed him up the staircase, dragging her suitcase behind her, relishing the angry thumps it made as it slammed onto each step. Somewhere, her parents were living it up on a cruise ship while she
It started with a drizzle
streaking towards the sky,
confusing men in lab coats
who couldn’t answer why.
Would it stay exalted
pooling in the air
continue casting webbed light
from the atmosphere?
An astronaut in space
said the earth looked like a laugh,
a spinning, churning tub
with too much bubble bath.
And when his ship returned to earth,
it splashed.
Mr. Greystone, Alan thought idly, watching his teacher pace in front of the classroom, has very impressive cheekbones.
Of course, had Mr. Greystone heard Alan refer to them as cheekbones, he would have fumed like a kerosene lamp. “It is the zygomatic arc, boy!” he would have snapped. “There is no vernacular nonsense in this class. Have you learned nothing?”
Alan watched him pace in front of the classroom with fervor uncharacteristic of a man with such prehistoric wrinkles. Greystone held up a skull, Hamlet style, pointing to the different origins and insertions of muscles.
“And here’
The biologist sings
go to sleep,
let circadian rhythms
murmur rhymes
of melatonin.
Let blood cool
from daylight strife,
let eyelids flicker
in the lies of night.
Sleep until
brain waves churn
from morning light
and blood boils
in the heat
of life.
Wernicke felt his face twist into a grimace. “Broca, return that to me or I’ll break your arm.”
“Ah so you finally decide to show some backbone on the eve of your failure.” Sir Broca said, holding the acorn up to the light. “How endearing. But I’m afraid you are too late. You see, I have the…”
Wernicke narrowed his eyes. He had traveled three long years to obtain that acorn, and he wasn’t about to lose it to a conceited, power-hungry princeling like Broca. He lunged forward and drove a gloved fist towards Broca’s gut.
Broca block
Writing Advice: Verbing adverbly by Jon-Wood, literature
Literature
Writing Advice: Verbing adverbly
"You know what I hate?" u63r said angrily.
"No. What do you hate?" Alex queried curiously.
"Said bookisms," u63r answered peevishly.
"Said bookisms?" Alex parroted quizzically, scratching their gender-indeterminate head.
"Said bookisms," u63r confirmed, nodding. "It's like the writer is afraid to just say words like 'said' or 'asked'. And it just ends up being intrusive."
"Hold up," Alex interrupted, raising a hand. "Was there something specific that set this off?"
"Yeah, this one fanfic," u63r admitted. "Not only that, but he combined it with that redundant narration I mentioned earlier, where the dialogue 'tags' tell us information we
Rain crackled as it hit the ground, scattering sparks in every direction. It was a nostalgic kind of rain, with a warm electric glow and steam that curled upwards as the falling water smashed into the pavement.
It was a beautiful sight, but a dangerous one.
A familiar voice startled him from behind. “You actually came.”
Cathias turned from the window to see the soft glow of Matiah’s eyes blinking from the doorway. Blue eyes, the color of a sparkmoth in flight. “Of course.”
“Come then. We need you to see this.”
“The worms.” Cathias said, keeping pace wit