FREE Fantasy Creative Writing Planning Guide

Trouble

He’d wanted the persimmons and asked her for them, but when she gave him the brown paper bag, brimming over, he was taken aback. Did he really need that many ? Still, he brought them home to his wife, and soon there were persimmons ripening on the kitchen counters, lining the windowsills. Each day, growing more and more succulent until the air was thick and sweet with their scent. At breakfast, he’d break one open with his spoon—the skin supple and ready to give—stir it into his hot cereal. Indescribable, the taste. And a texture he might have described as sea creature meets manna from heaven. When he ate one, he thought of her. And when he saw her, he thought of the persimmons. When her arm brushed, just barely, against his, did he imagine they both felt the same quickening? In myth, fruit is usually the beginning of disaster. And the way they made themselves so obvious— an almost audible orange against the white walls— made him wish he’d never asked her for them, didn’t have to smell them sugaring the air with ruin, as he sat there, face lowered to the bowl, spooning the soft pulp into his mouth.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

you should come within biting range. no reason

The three-ring binder is the apex of book technology, by the way. All the advantages of a codex, plus you can add, remove, and reorder pages at will - pages which you can furthermore protect from damage in transparent sleeves, and store commentaries, notes, and other paratextual addenda behind them without obscuring the primary content. Truly the queen of codices. Reblog if you love the three-ring binder.

LUSH Series - Gouache by Madeleine Bellwoar

some of my favorite woven tapestries, by Cecilia Blomberg:

Point Defiance Steps

Mates

Rising Tides

Vashon Steps

Rites of Winter

We’d been feasting on the famous foods of winter: squash, potatoes, a steamed pot of dark greens. And after, we danced in Glenn’s living room above Crystal Creek, barefoot on the Persian rug, eating chocolate cake, and almost knocking over the candles. So when the frogs in the pond out front began to sing—a bass note followed by a high-pitched exclamation—we slid out the door and past the tall clusters of bamboo, over the wooden bridge, moving to the frenzied rhythm of the frogs, who—it seemed— grew louder and more intent the more we rocked to their cacophony. So it was frogs and moonlight and dancing under the bare bones of the trees, the creek suddenly swollen after six years of drought. And Glenn—one year older and nearing (though he didn’t yet know it) the end of his greatest love. And we were calling out to the frogs, who called back to us as we stumbled, nearly into the bracken water, and leapt up onto the pond-side boulders, hands in the air, a light mist falling on our arms, our upturned faces. And I couldn’t decide: was the world enamored with itself?— all this riotous back and forth? Or had we only invoked alarm, amphibian for get-back! get-back! I didn’t know. But how happy we were, for that hour, to believe we were one marvelous body, in our smooth and slippery skin. Even if the frogs did not want us. Even if our joint fates are written, already, in the tainted water, the dark and opulent mud.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

She's got him shackled to her ankle. He's on her invisible leash; he's wearing her invisible choke collar. He can't shake free. Deep breath, Stan, he tells himself. At least you're still fucking alive. Or alive and fucking. He laughs inwardly. Good one, Stan.

The Heart Goes Last - Margaret Atwood

Tag meme!

List 5 topics you can talk on for an hour without preparing any material.

Not including the obvious "my OCs/original works" and only allowing myself ONE video game for fun haha.

Disability activism

Music history (US centric admittedly)

Film production

Undertale/Deltarune

Doctor Who

Tagged by: @inspirationallybored, thank you ^_^ Tagging: @blissfullyunawares @daisywords @winterandwords @lazybats4wve @lamb-of-wrath @penpaperponderings @storyteller-kara

Failing and Flying

Jack Gilbert. Refusing Heaven, 2005.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

why is being creative immediately associated with shame. “yeah i’m a writer but i’ve never published anything.” “yeah i’m an artist but i’ve never sold a piece.” why do we always feel the need to immediately discount the great achievement that is creating something from nothing. give yourself some credit. you made something and that’s what matters