I don’t know what happened, but it doesn’t rain anymore. And they’re all gone, our parents and our friends and the elders and everyone but us three. What’s so special about us…that’s something I wonder every day. What made us worth keeping in this empty city of sand and stone and whispering corridors? Maybe it’s the fact that we’re the only ones who noticed things fading.

IMWRITINGIMWRITINGIMWRITINGIMWRITINGANDHAPPYTOBEDOINGSO:D

so this is a plot bunny thingie I wrote a while ago:

We live in the ruins, me, Luce, and Pan, and whoever shows up day to day, stumbles in drunk on delirium, whispering insanities, wasting away in our arms. We always carry them the rest of the way, when we see them on the horizon, but by the time they get to us it is always too late. They’re gone; the sun has smoked away their thoughts, they only continue staggering towards us because it is what they know. Perhaps somewhere back at the beginning of their journey they see the spires and think of them as beacons of hope, but once we get to them they stop, and they know nothing anymore. We get them to the creek and try to get them to drink, we pour the water over their faces, over their fingers and toes, but it never works. They float away in the shadows of the birds, swirling in circles above them, waiting for an ebb in the flow of the water over the rocks to strike. 

We, us three, are the only ones who live here. We live in the towers, in the stoned streets, in the sanded down corners of the homes, in the winding passages, in the hidden staircases, in the dust and the dirt and the grime. We grit our teeth, swallow our pride, beg the heavens, ask for rain, ask for snow, ask for no more eggshell blue, ask for clouds. 

But nothing ever comes, and the eggshell blue lives on forever, and we wait, and we carry the bodies when they come, and we wonder about our lives. When we are in bed, late at night, we think about our childhood selves. We do not admit it to one another, but I know they have the thoughts and the dreams just as I do, of years past when there were people, and there was not just eggshell blue but all the colors a sky should have. 

/I know this is fairly scatterbrained but doesanyonethinkthisisworthpursuing?/

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thesleeplesswriters:

We’d love to feature some online writing done by and for people like you! Is there a story (from anywhere, Wattpad, Figment, Tumblr, etc.) that you’d recommend?

Submit people!

Wood comma Writing: New Nano Technique

woodcommawriting:

Alright so I’m incredibly sorry to say I don’t remember where I got this from, and I can’t find it to credit it from, but one nano-er I saw on the interwebs offered up this way of making sure you get a lot of writing done without killing yourself for hours on end:

1. At the start of the hour,…

reblogging for the nano-ers who following my main blog but not my writing one

YA Authors Do NOT Have Duty of Care

guacamole12346:

woodcommalithia:

hey i just googled you

and this is crazy

but here’s my query

publish me maybe?

Hahaha if only.