The Wandering Wizard

They're actually really nice and great people to have as friends.

Also ready to not mingle till after mission

I've been loving Elder Holand's talks recently. Specifically "Like a broken Vessel," from October 2013

9 hours ago, InfiniteInsanity said:

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I'm a mess

Spent my life

Trying to find my way around

Bumping into corners

Falling on the ground

Thought I was finally moving

In the right direction

Then ceiling was floor

And it all was upside down

 

I can't stand

Or walk

Or run or hop or leap

When my limbs are glued together

In all the wrong places

Just waiting for some light

To give me an idea

Of where my feet even are

 

I'm a mess

Spent my life

Trying find my balance

Seems the best way to move

Is crawling on the floor

Blisters, bruises, blood

on my hands

and on my knees

cause I can't seem to stand

on my own two feet

 

I can't stand 

Or walk

or run or hop or leap

when the world is crumbling

and I'm trapped underneath

the rocks that block the way

Are hurting my lungs

screaming for air

Cause it's almost all gone

 

Think I'll die in this maze

Before I'll ever be found

Not much point in moving forward

When I all find are dead ends

 

So give me ALLLLLL of you

Say that the world will be ours

When everyone tells us what we can beeeeeee

It's not up to you

Everything keeps us apart

Hiiiiiii

19 minutes ago, Just-A-Stick said:

You're TALL

...this thing is

18 minutes ago, Just-A-Stick said:

*hides behind @The Wandering Wizard*

...why me? XD

4 minutes ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

“I am in love.” He says it to his face, dead serious. That’s half the truth. “I am deeply in love and wish to be married to her as soon as possible.” He feels threatened, not by his father or by Mae, but that little street rat who has been talking to her. “Move the date closer.”

"Very well then," he replied, smiling internally.

Well it seems this marriage will do some good at least. May the last remnant of my dear Christina do some good.

@Lotus Blossom

On 12/30/2023 at 10:12 PM, SmilingPanda19 said:

“I think we should move the wedding to an earlier date.” He points his finger into the table. “Would that convince you that I am worthy to be called your son?” He raises and eyebrow, almost questioning his fathers authority.

His face remained impassive.

"Perhaps. What prompted the change son?" 

I LOVE DISEASE @The Bookwyrm

7 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Thank you so much!! I…think I like writing creepy things

That's okay! I'll read them and ask how you're doing afterwards and hug you anyways sis

12 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Well...7000th post! Stars, that's a big number. I didn't want it to get lost in RP (like all my other milestones lol) but all I had was a short scene I was in the middle of writing...and that got significantly darker than I thought it was going to. I'm still putting it here, but uh...yeah. It's kind of long and kind of dark. Sorry.

TW: Suicide, death, lots of gore, cannibalism, being possessed, more gore...yeah.

Control:

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I know what it is to be powerless. I know what it is to have no control. To be watched without ever being seen…to touch without being felt…I know these feelings well. It has been so many years…so long…but I’ve adapted. I’ve learned…

When the girl awoke, she couldn’t move. She tried to stand, but couldn’t, so she tried to cry out, but her voice wouldn’t make a sound…

That initial spike of terror is one of the greatest pleasures I still have. The panic that comes with not controlling your own body…oh, yes. When the one thing that has always been yours and yours alone is ripped from your control…and oh, how humans love their control. Taking it from them produces such a strong fear…but after that spike, every human reacts just a little differently. That’s where the hunt gets…interesting.

The girl felt her heart pounding. Her breathing would have sped up, but…but she couldn’t control her own breath. A tear dripped from her eye, soaking into her pillow. Then another, until her pillow was soaked. Still, she could not move. Her breath was steady…she felt a smile curl across her lips. 

I never have been able to figure out how to keep them from crying. Isn’t that strange? Every other part of her body is mine, and yet she still weeps…a pity, I suppose, but perhaps I should be glad for it. It keeps them from retreating into their minds, keeps them tethered to the bodies I now control…

The girl struggled for control. To take even a deeper breath, twitch her finger, anything…

They fight, sometimes. It used to give me trouble, when I was weaker. But I am not who I was, and I’ve learned a few tricks…

The girl felt herself stop breathing. Her eyes bulged as she tried frantically to draw breath with limbs that wouldn’t listen, into lungs that wouldn’t expand…

I let her stop breathing for longer than was necessary. How could I not? Her desperate struggle was utterly fruitless, her terror so sweet, and once I let air rush into her…

She stopped struggling. This was not a power she should fight. This was not a battle she would survive.

There is danger in controlling a body that isn’t your own. You have to be careful, if you want them alive. 

And I like them alive.

After all, I subsist entirely on their fear, do I not? 

And the dead do not fear…

She stood up. No, no, it wasn’t her. Just her body. She’d never thought there was a difference, but now it was stark and clear…her body was walking. She was not. Her body was moving and she was stuck inside it and there was no escape from the nightmare she was living.

Terror tastes the sweetest. Not to all of my kind, I am sure, but…humans are allowed their favorite foods. We are the same way. I like terror. It’s difficult to get it just right…like seasoning a particularly thick steak. It comes easily in small bursts, but prolonging it? There are many kinds of fear. I must be careful, lest I let terror wilt to simply fear, or evolve into anxiety, which fades to stress…so many variations of the same flavor.

There was a person in front of her. The girl knew the person. It was…it was her brother. She had no way of telling him she was not herself, no way of-

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” her mouth repeated, in her voice. She was still walking, walking closer to him, to the hunting knife at his belt…

The girl wanted to scream. Wanted to yell for him to run. Wanted to stop, stop, stop! But she was still walking…and then she took two quick steps, almost like a dance, and her hands were around the long hunting knife at his belt. He frowned as she held it in front of her, still smiling, still crying, still trapped in a body she no longer controlled.

Despair, though, makes for a much better food source. It isn’t as fun, because it doesn’t take as much of a hunt, doesn’t take as much effort…the hearts of mortals are such fragile things, and their broken edges are so wonderfully…routine, almost. Isn’t that funny? They build their lives around the assumption that everything they have will come to an end. And then, when it does, they weep salty tears to quench my thirst.

She raised her arm and brought the knife down, into his neck. He stumbled back, hands reaching for his throat, and her smile turned cruel. “Sleep well, brother,” her voice said.

The body collapsed. The girl ran over to it, barely noticing that she controlled her own body once more. Her tears were falling faster now, her face turning red and blotchy. “No, no, no,” she whispered.

You can’t take the body completely. If you do, they'll grow numb. Numb…is like hunger. It’s a void. If you push a human too far, break them until they can’t feel any longer, you’ll lose your meal. You’ve failed  your hunt. I rarely break mine. Not anymore. Practice makes perfect, I suppose…and I’ve certainly had practice. I do not like being hungry…but shock is unavoidable, sometimes. 

The girl stared at her hands, and the blood still flowing from…from…from the…the corpse. She stumbled back, horrified. She’d…she’d killed a person. Not just a person. Her family. Her breath started coming quicker. 

Breathing is a strange feeling. I don’t miss it. Humans always seem to, though…

The fear was returning. Growing, too. The girl found herself thinking about how she’d explain this to the people that were sure to be here any moment…any…she was standing up. Was that her? She couldn’t…couldn’t tell. Her breathing was speeding up, and she didn’t know if it was this…this thing controlling her, or if it was the fear, the terror, the panic, the…the…

Bliss. Utter bliss, distilled from the terror of the weak. 

A soft groan escaped the girl’s lips. It wasn’t hers.

It was mine. My pleasure, bubbling out of her.

The girl’s mouth twisted into a wide grin. It hurt. It was too big. It didn’t fit with the tears that dripped silently from her chin. Her hand tossed her brother’s knife into the air, and it flipped, and she caught it. 

The funny thing about fighting is that so much of it is simply practice. Muscle memory. I don’t have muscles. But I know how humans work. And all it takes is learning with one person…they’re all the same. And all utterly meaningless…but they feed me, and that is a worthy purpose. But that is beside the point. I can make them do things they never learned to do. I can make them dance…

The girl was walking again. The wood floor creaked under her bare foot. With a sinking sort of dread, she saw stain seeping from under the door…

She wanted to turn back. Wanted to leave. But her hand reached for the doorknob.

I spent a long while setting everything up. I couldn’t just let it go to waste now, could I?

The door swung open. The girl cried harder.

I’ve always wondered what I could do if I could control more than one person at a time. How delightful, to have two puppets dancing to my strings…what fun, neither of them in control, both of them producing terror enough that I could finally be filled…

The dead were everywhere. They must have been her parents. The must have been. No one else was in the room…but the remains were impossible to identify. A finger here. A blood-soaked cloak there. Splinters of bone arranged in a perfect, white heart that floated in a puddle that was surely too red to be blood…

It’s incredible, how much blood there is in a human body. 

The girl saw only fragments. Limbs, cracked and broken. A stomach, torn open and spilling organs onto the floor.

Human screams don’t satisfy me. But they certainly are a pleasure. So full of life, and emotion…everyone is allowed to enjoy their own music, right?

A face, peeled off of a skull and stuck to a looking glass…

I do love my performances. Some might think it a pity that they can only happen once…but those are the most beautiful sort of things. The most fragile.

A mismatched pair of legs, impaled on the same sword…

Only two bodies. But so much potential…their terror as I flitted between their minds, as they tore each other apart…

The girl wanted to vomit. There was some of that, too, splattered across the bed.

I do not need to be seen to be known. 

She sat down on the bed, between faceless heads with bloodied teeth. Her leg stretched out from below her dress. She whimpered, her pulse rising.

I can allow her such simple movements…such noises…After all, I must keep her connected to her pain…

Knife still firmly in her hand, it started toward her calf…and she began to carve, hand steady even as her eyes blurred with tears and her voice cracked from screaming…

With only one, I don’t get to dance. But the human body makes such a wonderful canvas…

Tiny swirls, at first, growing larger as she wrapped the design around her calf, her shin, climbed up to her thigh…

I don’t need to be tangible to be felt.

It continued for hours. The girl dropped into unconsciousness more than once.

I can control her while she sleeps, but there’s no fun in that…her pain is nothing to me if she doesn’t feel it.

Often, she thought she heard a voice in her head. “Do you like that, little girl?” “Would you like to see how they died?” “Are you ready to die yet?” She wept and wailed and pulled at the shackles that kept her imprisoned in her mind.

I do like talking to them. But not at first. First, they must be alone.

Eventually, I bored of the knife…

The girl clawed at her own face. Her eyes, her mouth, her hair. Jagged cuts ran across her cheeks. Blood dripped from an eyelid that was shut over an empty socket.

Face wounds are peculiar. They rarely do much damage, but they hurt…oh, they hurt…and they tend to crush whatever remains of a person’s hope. Once they can’t see, it’s as if they finally realize that they are stuck with me until I let them die.

The girl raised the dagger, one last time.

The end is near, now.

A slit for the left wrist,

But first, a final climax.

A slit for the right.

Her panic is at its peak, now.

Set the knife next to the mangled legs.

I take her other eye, too.

Put each finger into the mouth,

One at a time,

Now,

Bite,

Chew,

Swallow.

She flung her arms out,

Like a Queen on an altar,

And her terror peaked,

As tears dripped with blood from eyes that were no longer there.

And the girl died.

And I rose from the body.

Filled,

But never satisfied.

Um...

Yeah. 

So that happened. And on that note...happy 7000 posts?

Woah...

*hugs fiercely*

Yup!

TPBM thinks Haly is a dragon

Welcome to the shard!!!

1 hour ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

Currently rewatching the Star Wars Franchise in Chronological order. Watched it a bunch when I was little with my dad, burned into my mind.  I’m actually really enjoying it, learning to appreciate it more now that I’m able to wrap my mind around it more.

Oooooo have you watched the clone wars or rebels? 

13 minutes ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

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Probably all really bad, but I was bored

They're brilliant Panda

8 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Okay, a couple strange and bizarre things that popped into existence because I haven't been sleeping very much  

Young:

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To be young is to have wings. They come in every shape, size, and color. But that doesn’t matter, because when we were young, we could fly. We rode the winds and claimed the skies as our own. We were above all the wrong, above all hate, above all fear. In our infinite pettiness, we were above frivolity. In our unending shallowness, we thought ourselves deep. We lived on our pride and our charm, soaring above the sharp rocks of the world.

But to be young is to know that your wings will strain, and come short. We could only fly for so long, after all. And the rocks below were always waiting, always ready for when we fell. And oh, we would fall. We’d ride through the sky, higher than the mountains, then fall on our faces, dragging ourselves along, deeper than the oceans, blood dripping from all our cuts, bones snapping and hearts crumbling.

Oh, to be young.

I dream of those flights, some days. I fantasize that I am back in the air, soaring between clouds.

But oh, to be young.

I should never like to return to the world of extremes. To the world where all is rejoicing and wailing. Where there are screams of bliss when we fly, and gnashing of teeth when we fall.

To be young

Is to fly

But to be young

Is to fall.

We were birds, then.

Short lived and always moving, hopping from branch to branch, barely staying in one place long enough to make a nest and leave it behind. 

We left so many things behind, in those young years. 

They were years of change.

Oh,

So

Much

Change.

They were years of such pain, those days when we were young.

But they were the years of our purest joy. 

Because surrounded by change,

We learned to let go.

And we learned to hold on.

We learned as we fell. And we learned as we flew. You cannot fly with rocks on your back; you cannot fly when you are chained to the ground; so we let our rocks be misplaced, let our chains break free. We learned to forget our pain so that we could fly. We learned to ignore the things that hurt so that we could laugh. We learned to leave the world behind and live in our heads.

But we also learned that there were some things that couldn’t be ignored.

We learned through our pain.

We learned as our chains shot up from the ground below and dragged us back down; from the peaks of Heaven to the depths of Hell our chains would pull us, from the glowing skies to the muddy earth. They would yank us back down and shackle us to the world. They would force us to remember, pile our stones back on our backs, and tell us to keep moving.

And the higher 

You

Fly

The harder

You

Fall.

And we certainly learned how to fall.

But we didn’t like it. No. We didn’t want to fall, because when we fell, it hurt. And when we were young, the pains were so sharp, so deadly…

So we stopped flying.

Because if you do not fly,

You cannot fall.

Oh, to be young.

To fly.

To fall.

I should not like to go back…

I do not miss falling. 

But I do miss flying.

I miss my wings.

They were bright and feathered and so full of color and life.

But they weakened with disuse.

And as I grew, my feathers faded and melted into uniforms and routines.

I stopped flying, so that I would never have to fall.

But you,

Young one.

No longer a child,

But young enough to soar.

You are stuck between, but there is nothing between about you. I see the flights in your smile and the falls in your heart. 

Keep flying, young one.

Keep your wings.

Break your chains.

You will fall.

But oh, see how you will fly.

Rise above the clouds and bring the sun back with you so that when you fall it is as a star from the glittering sky.

Don’t get stuck between.

Don’t forget how to fly.

Don’t forget how to fall.

Don’t forget how to feel.

Fly,

Young one,

Fly.

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I think this started because of a conversation with @Lightweaver2, but then I started thinking about an old poet turned soldier watching his daughter suffer through a heartbreak, and...it happened. I like it  

Soldier:

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The first time I saw him was on a battlefield. It’s no wonder I was so awed; the battle was his palace, the mud his throne, the bodies his feast. If you’ve ever met him, you know what I mean. When he fought, he was a king. When he stepped onto the field, everyone knew it. Entire battles were fought and won and lost based on his presence or the lack thereof.

And yet, he was just a man.

Just a silly little human.

But he was so much more than that. He was so much stronger, so much greater…

I was a messenger, that first day. I didn’t want to be there. I was scared. I’d seen my first corpse only days earlier, and had promptly thrown up the entire day’s rations. I was wearing dark trousers, a recommendation from older messenger boys; if I lost control of my bladder, at least it wouldn’t be visible. Even walking between tents was a foreign feeling; there are different kinds of mud, you see. There’s the pure, earthy mud that comes after a long rain. There’s the sticky mud you’ll find in an animal pen, full of droppings and straw. There’s the mud that’s just barely hardening, the frozen mud that’s solid on top but oozes when you put too much weight on it, the mud that’s more water than dirt, the mud that covers stone and the mud that’s made of sand…and then there’s battlefield mud. It’s a mixture of all the others, but it has so much more mixed in.

Blood, for one. 

Blood has such a strange texture. You never notice it until you’re trudging through it day in and day out. It mixes with the dirt, so that even when you start fighting on a desert you end in a mud pit. At first, it stains the ground a deep red, but that quickly turns to black. From a distance, an old battlefield looks almost like a night sky. A pretty metaphor for something so ugly. But it’s a true one. Scattered across the dark canvas are little spots of light; glinting armor, white cloth, abandoned weapons and glinting bones, decaying arms and legs and corpses that weren’t worthy of burial.

Suffice it to say that I could see no beauty in such a place. Not until I saw him. I was running a message from my squadleader to the command tent. My boot got stuck in a patch of mud. And while I paused to pull it out, I caught a glimpse of the battle. I was on a hill, a perfect vantage point for a general trying to command his army…or a young boy, glimpsing true talent for the first time.

Message forgotten, I gawked. The sheer mass of people below was astounding. There were more, even, than at the festival I’d gone to in the capital last year. And they were all moving, fighting. Dozens of lives ended in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t tell if we were winning or losing. I couldn’t even tell which soldiers were ours and which were the enemy’s.

But even in the mass of thousands, he stood out. He always fought in white, as if he fancied himself some sort of destroying angel. Of course, if he was, I certainly believed it…his sword glowed. It sounds like a story, I know. It’s hard to believe it without having seen him. But if you’ve seen…then you know. He had a short sword in one hand, an axe in the other. His gleaming white armor seemed to push the blood away. And he was moving, always moving, dancing around his enemies. He whirled through the center of the battlefield, utterly competent and perfectly alone. I almost took a step forward, so as to see him better, but my boot was still stuck.

I fell on my face. I blinked, the shock of cold mud bringing me back to myself. I rubbed the mud from my cheeks and ran into the tent. It was crowded, and I could barely see the general through the press of bodies. But it was dead silent. 

“Get him in here,” The general said sharply. “We don’t have time for this. Someone has to go.”

I didn’t raise my hand. I know you think I did. And it would be easy to lie, easy to say I volunteered like a hero, like…like he would have. But I didn’t. Someone spit in the general’s face. 

“If we make it tha’ far, ‘e’ll kill us ‘imself.” They started filing out. I took the hint and started to follow, but a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly back. 

“You,” the general said. “Boy. What’s your message?”

“S-sir?” I asked, terrified.

“Your message,” he repeated angrily, shaking me and nodding at the white armband that identified me as a messenger. 

I swallowed, throat dry. “Y-yes, S-Sir. 4th Squad, 2nd Division awaits your orders.” Everyone else had fled; now he and I were the only ones in the tent. He sighed, suddenly looking very tired. 

“I’ll send someone for your squad, boy. And you…oh, gods above. I’m sending you to your death, and I’m sorry, but there’s no time for anything else.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “I…I’m sorry.” I blinked at him wordlessly. What can one say to such a thing? He nodded sharply, face turning back to stone, and pulled me with him out of the tent. Others milled around, and the first dissenter saw me and spat into the stinking mud. 

“Yer a monster,” he whispered. Then he saluted me. Looking back, it wasn’t for me. It was a sign of rebellion; spit at the general and salute the boy. But in the moment, it filled me with bravery. I could see him down on the field, and so when the general shoved me down the hill and told me to run like I never had before, I did, my eyes blinded with visions of heroism like that of the man I’d been sent to fetch.

He never had a name. No one ever bothered to give him one; few people ever had a need. Those of us who tried to know him…we called him Brother. But you are not one of us. We’re all dead now, aren’t we? All dead, all worthless, all gone…you do not get to see him as your brother. So here, I will call him Soldier, and I will pray that, should we ever meet again, he will forgive me.

I ran down the hill. Only the gods themselves could have given me such bizarre strength that day; running as I was, I should have broken my ankles many times over before I even reached the battlefield. 

But reach it I did. And then I felt what I had never been able to see. And I smelled it. I fell, then, and I am not ashamed to admit that I was trembling. I hadn’t eaten, more advice from the older boys, but I dry heaved plenty. Most of you probably haven’t been around enough blood to really understand how strongly it smells. And how…how artificial. It’s disorienting. Blood is, perhaps, the most natural substance in this world. And yet it smells like one of those new factories the islanders are building; wretched and metallic and forbidden. 

I stumbled on, eventually. I had to reach Soldier. Someone swung a sword at my head. I screamed, but the battle was so loud, I couldn’t even hear myself. I ducked and ran. And kept running. I wanted to close my eyes, but there were so many enemies, so many people…So I ran. And the gods stayed with me. They must have. Because I made it to him without so much as a scratch. I fell more than once; soon I was covered in the congealing mud, my messenger’s band stained and torn. And then, suddenly, I broke out of the press of bodies and weapons. I was confused at first; where the fighting was thickest, there were corpses standing upright because there was no room for them to drop.  But I wasn’t out of the battlefield, and right here there was simply…room? No one dared enter this hole…

And then I saw Soldier. His eyes were black. At the time, I thought it a sign of his strength. I have learned much since that day. Sometimes it’s hard to believe I was ever that little messenger boy…but I was. And Soldier saw me. And he raised his sword, savoring the killing blow. 

“Wait!” I screamed. “I’m-we’re the same army! G-general wants you b-back…” I could barely hear myself; even in this safe pocket, it was so loud…I pointed back up the hill, to the tent that now seemed so far away…his sword came down.

But not on me.

Several enemy soldiers had snuck behind him, hoping to catch him distracted. The precision with which he cut them down reminded me of a tailor’s sharp scissors slicing through rich cloth. It’s funny, the pictures our minds see in these sorts of moments. My mind was so full of pictures that day…As he spun his sword around, he looked like an artist with a paintbrush. That’s all it was. Thick, red paint. And if it was only paint, why would it matter if it splattered across my face? Why would…I stumbled to my knees and dry heaved again. My bladder had long since emptied. I knew, then, that I was going to die. I was sure of it. And it brought me no peace, only terror. 

Now I almost wish I had died on that day. That would have been better. I looked up from the mud to see that…the enemy was retreating? A victory? Soldier had started back towards the command tent, and I stepped to follow. I was…I was alive. I had been to the center of a battlefield, and now I was going to leave alive…

But hands grabbed me, then, rougher than the general’s, and stronger, too. I found myself being dragged to the wrong side of the field. 

Towards the enemy, with their greedy hands and thieving eyes.

If I were braver I would have run, would have fought…

But try as I might, I have never been the soldier. I have never been my Brother. 

And so on that day, I followed my captors, meek as a lamb walking to the slaughter.

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I'm...genuinely not sure where this one came from. I don't love it, but...I might write more, because I'm curious about where it's going.

...heehee I read so many books that sometimes I forget I've never actually been in a real fight, let alone on a battlefield.

Dreams:

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He has dreams. He didn’t…he didn’t have dreams before. When he was with them. But he dreamed now. 

He saw their faces when he was sleeping.

He didn’t see them when he was awake. Not anymore.

Most of the time, the dreams were pain. Pain incarnate. He watched them scream. He watched them…he watched them die. They fell, one by one, eyes accusing him. Their faces filled his mind, cursing his name and begging him to save them. And he knew he could. If he were stronger, if he were faster, if he were braver…he would do anything to keep them alive. They were his family, weren’t they? But they died anyway. The sun went down and the ghosts woke up and called for him to join them…

But not always. Sometimes the dreams were…everything he’d ever wanted. They were together. They were laughing around a warm fire. There was nothing to fear, no one to run from, no one trying to remember a family that had been gone for too long. No one fighting over supplies that were growing scarcer by the day; no one arguing about problems that would never be solved; no one in charge of anyone else. Just friends. Sharing a meal and enjoying each other’s company.

Those were the dreams that hurt the most.

Because he couldn’t call them nightmares, even when he woke up with wet cheeks and a throat dry from screaming. 

How could he call his deepest wishes nightmares?

They were dreams.

And every time he woke up, it hurt just a little more. To see the anger in the ones who remained.

And to see the blank places where there had once been his…his brothers.

To hear the silences where there used to be laughter. 

To see the scars where there could have been beauty.

That was why the dreams hurt, he realized.

They were everything that could have been.

He didn’t let them see him hurt. They were too angry and he…

He wasn’t allowed to hurt.

When you’re the shoulder they come to to cry on, you don’t get to cry. So in the mornings, he brushed away the tears.

And he smiled.

It didn’t matter if he was falling apart, because he was holding the rest together.

He was their glue.

He would keep laughing, keep giving them the moments that swirled through his dreams.

Keep holding off the pain that shackled him to his nightmares.

But then the nightmares,

And the dreams,

Stopped setting with the moon.

The sun no longer burned them away.

The faces peeked from every window.

The laughter echoed in every corner, chasing away the silence until but one word remained, echoing through his mind like a promise to the fallen.

Please.

Please.

Please.

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Okay so I lied. This is actually called Newt. As in, Newt from the maze runner (which I never actually finished). But...I insulted Athena, and she made me promise to write her something about him as payment, and I actually sorta like it. I also think it's funner to read when you don't know the context, so...yay!  

Welp, that's what I've got right now. If anyone has writing prompts, please give me them!!! PLEASE I BEG YOU!! I'll have more with Liz and the peeps at some point, but I really like just short lil things, and I need I N S P I R A T I O N

 

*hugs*

Hmmm uhm a prompt. Uhhh I might have one later

1 minute ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

She smiles in the dark. "Ill be sure to make it... Maam."

The only answer is the sound of soft breathing as Ahna, once known as Emma dreams of what was and what will be, her family at her side.

Just now, SmilingPanda19 said:

"I've missed you too, honey." Says quietly. "You'll sleep alright, right?"

"I will," she mumbled, half asleep. "Would you join me for breakfast in my quarters tomorrow?"

2 minutes ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

She just lets her.

"You do that hun." She steps back, shutting off the light.

"I've missed you, Rosalind." She whispered as she crawled into bed.

5 minutes ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

She stays silent, shivering with her breath.

"Ssssshhh."

She leans forward and kisses her on the lips, "alright I'll go to sleep now, my princess."