Funny, the things we love in people. You, especially. I could list the things about you what drive me upside crazy. All those silly tics that you don't even catch yourself indulging in.
You like scary films, even though they give you nightmares. I know it's daft. But I love the way you bite your fingers whenever one has you tipping your chair in terror. Like it's real. Only there's this little smile that hides in a corner of your mouth, the one that I can see without even turning my head. It's that little smile that reminds me that it's just a game.
I love that you hate dogs. I see you lie about the reasons, but I think I've sussed
Inspiration, Realisation by Kid-Apocalypse, literature
Literature
Inspiration, Realisation
The dusty quiet of the library welcomed few. It was very like a skittish bird. However, unlike a bird, it could not physically depart when disturbed. Instead, it withdrew its inspirational atmosphere the way a guilty cat retracted its claws upon being caught eyeing the tastier small and fuzzy pets.
Balanced on this tentative beam, Rielyth scribbled over a well-loved sheet of paper. Notes in the margins bred continuously, as expansive as the work itself. She could feel the world and story bursting in her head, egging her on in its impatient way.
A dark curl flopped onto her paper. &
The ringing crack of a calloused hand on a smooth cheek stood still in the air, like an invisible floating island. Athril's skin stung with the force of it, but she refused to shake the soreness from her wrist.
"Take your horse and go," she said, barely able to move her teeth enough to make the words legible.
Wodynis, typically unfazed by the blow, let his eyes coast up and over as he shook his head. Sighing, he lowered his gaze back to hers and quirked an almost undetectable smile. "Always the professional." He lifted a hand and flicked his fingers in a brief, yet intricate gesture, conjuring a rose.
Air came slow and hard to Ez, inflating his lungs to capacity but not quite exiting. He clutched his knees and stared at the weeds between his feet, blinking through the sweat in his eyes. The bricks of Dame Tanner's home burned into his back, bleeding the heat of the late afternoon sun into his skin through his damp tunic.
He began to ask himself a question, but he didn't have the breath for it. However, his answer came in the form of footsteps on the other side of the Tanner house.
Terrified, he clamped his mouth shut and prayed. His ears burned from the heat and the strain of listening.
1 of 500 Hello World by Kid-Apocalypse, literature
Literature
1 of 500 Hello World
Pebbles rolled down to collect at the base of the hill. Not a soul stirred above it, save for the coarse yellow grass as the field of blades bent in the hot summer wind. High in the air, birds called to one another, some proud and regal, their lesser fellows nattering and indignant.
A fist pounded through the flat earth, sending up a spray of topsoil and grass. It was followed by a hairy head and a rich curse. As he grappled his way out of the hole, widening it as he went, Goshul cursed as only a dwarf could. He was broad-shouldered, even for a dwarf, and splinters of wood stuck in his dark hair like clumps of dirt in a bowl of pepperco
How to Care For Your Muse by Kid-Apocalypse, literature
Literature
How to Care For Your Muse
So you're ready to open up that big shiny box that mysteriously showed up in the mail after you got home from your local used book store with that battered copy of "So You Wanna Be A Writer (Utter Moron Edition)". A word of caution before you slit the tape....don't cut your fingers, that knife is not a toy, you know! What? Oh yeah, about what's in the box.
That box contains your brand new muse, a wondrous creature that is capable of unimaginable blessings and hellish torment. Every writer receives a different one, and some love them so much that they send for more, sometimes more than they can handle. We here at Muse It or Lose It, the
Green peppers had seemed like an obvious alternative. They were the same color as apples, after all As a rule, PDQ gave most green things a rather wide berth when it came to his own meals, so it probably shouldn't have surprised him that he'd made a mistake.
He slumped against the moldy dungeon wall and kicked his leg to make the shackles sing. They were rusty, but most of the iron down here was. The damp was wreaking havoc on his nose and throat. Calling the king Adelbert the Fair was definitely a misnomer then. If PDQ ever learned to write, he would have to keep a record of correct history with fitting names. Adelbert the Ven
"I'll get it!" Jussi chuckled as he jumped over the low fence and out into the street. His sister Aliisa was a top-notch baseball player, the best pitcher in the neighborhood, but she was terrible at basketball. The ball had bounced out into the street for the fifth time in twenty minutes, and he could tell that she was getting frustrated.
The road in front of their small townhouse was on an incline, which meant that he had to run as he tried to overtake the rolling basketball. He muttered a few nonsensical medieval-styled curses at it, noting that he would have to tie his shoe soon.
One short leap and he had it in his hands. He grinne
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Exciting, new, not like the same thing they did every other weekend. But now Jussi was lying face-down in a pile of clean laundrymostly shirtsand chuckling at a stupid joke his roommate Caj had just made about ducks. Just like every other weekend. Liv, Jussi's best female friend for the past year, and girlfriend as of two weeks ago, was probably rolling her eyes and finishing off the last beer. Jussi didn't like beer and had let her and Caj fight over who got to monopolize the six-pack. Everything was funnier when Liv was drunk, even if she was the only one who was.
The apparently
Ark was young, with all the hallmarks of a boy who was not rushing towards puberty with all the speed and grace of a half-blind bull. He had barely lost the last vestiges of his baby fat a month ago, and he guarded his polyplastic toy soldiers with vicious care. In accordance with Lennegian traditions, he still wore his fair hair woven into two small braids that hugged the sides of his head like a comforting thought, leaving the rest of it loosely tied back. He wormed a finger in between a braid's tight sections, scratching his head. Against those same traditions, he refused to cut his hair, and braided it himself. In spite of this and o