I’ve Done It For Good Omens, I’ve Done It For Sherlock, Now Here’s One For RTD Era DW Characters

everyone's got that one homie who zealously adheres to his inflexible code of honor even though it has long since become a burden to him

Many Cats Square - ENGLISH - Crochet Pattern PDF by PonyMcTate

A lotta people tell me that they're sorry and that it's unfair and not right. It's a nice thing to say and I do appreciate it. Of course I do.

But sometimes I'm bitter and empty enough to think well what the fuck am I gonna do with that. That it's unfair changes nothing. It just is.

Word Counter - Not only does it count the number of words you’ve written, it tells you which words are used most often and how many times they appear.

Tip Of My Tongue - Have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t figure out what it is? This site searches words by letters, length, definition, and more to alleviate that.

Readability Score - This calculates a multitude of text statistics, including character, syllable, word, and sentence count, characters and syllables per word, words per sentence, and average grade level.

Writer’s Block (Desktop Application) - This free application for your computer will block out everything on your computer until you meet a certain word count or spend a certain amount of time writing.

Cliche Finder - It does what the name says.

Write Rhymes - It’ll find rhymes for words as you write.

Verbix - This site conjugates verbs, because English is a weird language.

Graviax - This grammar checker is much more comprehensive than Microsoft Word, again, because English is a weird language.

Sorry for how short this is! I wanted to only include things I genuinely find useful. p>

7+8=15~~~mystical magic of abstract thought~~~ 75

writer problems: trying to figure out how many chapters you’re going to stall until An Event™

What a fat mood, I havent even thought about my wips 😅

I can't decide which andreil wip to work on ;____;

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Prologue

I’m writing a novel and it’s the primary basis of my description.

The new slave girl darted her eyes around constantly and, when she thought no one was looking, furrowed her dark brow in thought. It intrigued Priscilla Elizabeth Hamilton as she observed people often herself. She noted that the girl was younger than she was, maybe fourteen or fifteen while she herself was already seventeen. Priscilla watched her continue to take in her surroundings rapidly and consistently while she knelt on the floor, hands and ankles bound in iron. There was something clever behind her dark eyes despite the anxiety radiating off of her. The two other new slaves beside her were much older and seemed resigned to their fate; their eyes trained on the floor and shoulders weighed down. Priscilla was used to slaves like that - subdued and docile. The little girl who twitched and fidgeted in her shackles, as if she could wriggle her way to freedom, was certainly interesting. Priscilla was apparently not the only one to notice.

“Little slave. What are you doing, writhing in your chains like that? Are they too loose for you?” Her father’s voice drawled out, lazy and condescending; his power made apparent by his effortless arrogance.

The girl’s head snapped to Edward Hamilton. The air around her turned prickly. Her face debated a snarl. The other slaves stared, somehow feeling the terror that escaped her. There were two very clear choices the girl had. Priscilla oddly hoped that she would be wise and not get herself killed; she was too interesting to die so soon.

In hardly a fraction of a second, the slave lowered her eyes in submission, shaking her head repeatedly and cowering. Edward settled back in his chair, satisfied with the alarm he instilled in the room. Priscilla’s father had always been a simple man - in both mind and wishes. “Good. Now, what is your name? Or can you even understand me? A savage like you would find our civilized speech complicated, after all.” Priscilla fought the urge to roll her eyes at the irony.

“My name is Halima.” The soft voice that floated from the girl’s mouth was accented like all the slaves; the vowels stretched out and the words almost musical. The lilt in their voices was always something Priscilla secretly enjoyed.

“Halima,” her father pronounced it with a lazy sneer as he strutted over to the trembling girl. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the role you have now.” He kicked her onto her stomach and sunk a foot into her back. “The only movement I should see from you should be done in accordance to what you are ordered to do. I have no need to see you squirming like a pig and making a racket.” He dug his foot in harder and sneered, “But don’t you worry my dear, you won’t need those chains for that much longer - I’ll have you branded soon enough.”

With a final harsh kick, Edward finally relented off the girl and dragged her back into a kneel by the shackles around her wrists. Priscilla was unsurprised that the blood Halima coughed up and dripped down her chin was red as her own. Halima’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears; her thin frame wracked with silent sobs.

Her father, who had seated himself once again, watched with something akin to satisfaction. “Don’t dribble on the carpet, Halima.” He didn’t bother looking at the other slaves when he said, “Get out; I expect not to be able to distinguish them from the rest come morning.”

“Yes master,” came three soft, musical voices, followed by a flurry of movement. The new slaves were heaved up, albeit in a kind, supporting manner, and lead away.

Priscilla’s sisters and mother were too bored and distracted; her father too pleased and self-absorbed; her brother too starstruck by their father’s showcase of power to notice what happened as the slaves fled the room. But she saw it clearly. Halima’s shoulders were stiff and tense; there was a flash of blood-stained teeth as her lips pulled back in a quiet snarl. She was small and young but had all the presence of a caged beast, one too strong to stay confined. A threat of a reckoning shimmered behind her dark eyes.

There was a distinctive lack of alarm and an abundance of excitement when Priscilla thought, Oh, this is fascinating.

I’m Angry. Can You Tell?

I also write poetry. I prolly write more poetry than anything else really.

Anger is easy to feel.

Easier to manage than abandonment,

Easier to manage than bitter disappointment,

Easier to manage than crippling despair.

It is so easy to feel fiery fury,

And expect justice to soothe those flames.

It is so easy to be in denial

To cling to it.

To let it have you think things can be different,

That it can be better.

If only you are are angry enough, 

Passionate enough to command change in every facet of the universe.

So yes, anger is easy.

Easy to swallow,

Easy to let burn,

Easy to pull out and use as a shield.

It is easy as it is empty.

Fruitless in its gains

Barren in its answers

A tempting, hellish, warm, void for the lost who cannot deal with the cold, unfeeling nature of life.

And yet to embrace life as frigid is to surrender.

It is to resign yourself to a dreary, insipid existence,

An existence of the same ruthless, unwavering pain.

Rage cannot change circumstance,

But submission will yield no revolution.

Be enraged,

Angry,

Pissed,

Fucking furious.

For you burn bright as you do, if only for yourself.

  Be weary and disillusioned when there is nothing left but Death’s waiting hand,

Be weary and disillusioned when you can do no more. 

Yield your rage when there is nothing left to burn.

It is easy to be angry.

Easier than holding expectations,

Easier than nobility,

Easier than infinite patience.

And for peace, it is just.