writers-on-tumblr

I found it funny and terrible. And yeah, heartbreaking.” she laughed bitterly. “How can I keep on saying yes, even if I wanted to say no. How I keep on believing in so many lies even if all I wanted was to know every little bit of the truth. Maybe because I know it would hurt me so bad. To see things far from what I wanted them to be. To hear the words that would bring me back to every pain I’m always avoiding—to feel. It hurts like hell. And I am so tired of pretending that it was okay.” she looked down and finally said, “And if I continue this, it would just tear me in the end. I just realized that I deserve to say no.” she sighed showing that she’s exhausted, then she softly said, “And this time, I’ll choose to say no.
—  ma.c.a // Silently Breaking
I want balloons for my birthday. I want to wake up to my friends shouting happy birthday. I want flowers on my doorsteps. I want a note to follow instructions that would take me to a backyard where you’d be waiting for me with a box of my favourite pizza. I want all of that but what I get every birthday are excuses, emails from amazon wishing me birthday and stupid cards from my distant aunts. I get nothing which reminds me i’m special because maybe i am not. half my friends wouldn’t even care if I stop showing up for class, or I randomly disappear. that’s the sad part. the people who want to be loved the most, never get flowers on their birthday.
—  birthday/nikitagupta
Writing Prompt #322

The radio hummed and popped with static. Whirring of machines and the clank of old gears settled in the background like a soft wind. Everything was placid and ordinary. At least, until the voice came over the radio, decrepit and mechanical, calling out for my help.

Any other witch writers on tumblr?

Hey hey I’m doing a survey trying to find other witches on tumblr who write. Please rb with your stories.
For example, I accidently turned myself into a witch doing writing research for a character in my fantasy wip. I didn’t know how to write someone who practiced witchcraft, so I tried it out and ended up sticking with it :)

There has to something wrong with me. Right? There has to be something broken in my skull that’s making me this way. Because if there isn’t, and this is just who I am…I don’t know if I could live with myself.
I write and I write
I release and I release
but it seemed
no matter how hard I tried
you continued to invade my mind.
Perhaps it was time
to accept reluctant defeat
and admit you were here to stay
a permanent presence, only I could feel
locked away so tight, yet just as free
to follow me along
this path that I lead.
— 

A Constant Companion

I’m scared
that we are it for each other
and that we’ve just let it pass us by

Spending so much time
fighting to be right
and finding the perfect moment

When all the moments
have been right in front of us
all along

We should
have just taken them

I’m scared most of all
that were going to be thinking
of the ‘what if’s’ in 10 years

More than we already are now

—  wasted moments || melindacarolinee
Five Minutes

Rules are: write a title, set a timer for five minutes, and write like mad! Post whatever you come up with, whether it’s turned into a story or not. Feel free to join! (And to tweak a few sentences once the timer runs out. No judgement! It’s just for fun.) (I changed this to five minutes to allow a little more time to explore the ideas. Let me know what you think!)


Snakes

They pay us before we catch the first snake. Our reputation has spread for this kind of work, and now the villages we approach trust us enough to pay us before our work is done, however much we look like gypsies. I think they would rather not see us after the job is done anyway. They call me a witch, my husband a conjuror. They let us into the village to deal with their ‘problem’, but they wouldn’t be so quick to let us stay the night. Or help us if we were in trouble.
I know this only too well from long experience.
The snakes, they tell us, infest the canyon just short of the river. There are so many of them they come up through the tall grass three or four times a day. A few children have died already, and more than a few of their livestock. Snakes, especially poisonous ones, are a danger to nearly every community.
My husband and I make our living off of making them disappear, although I’ve never yet had to kill one. We’re charmers, not butchers.
We go down to the canyons, and I light a fire, scattering the herbs in the ashes. The aromatic smoke drifts through the trees, smelling of woodbine and yellow windflower. The smell doesn’t do much more than convince the villagers we’re working. They like to think our trade is all witchcraft and conjuring. It isn’t, but we get paid more for their superstition, so we never try to explain.
My husband sits down on a rock at the edge of our camp, pulls his flute out, and begins to play. His melodies echo through the canyons, among the rocks, cool and sweet and soothing to the soul.
A dry rustling flits through the tall grass, and the snakes begin to gather.

there are things in this world               that i could be. 
         heavy things like the road 
         spattered on by blood & bones & 
         cross-country hopes                  ( the ground is never green 
                                                              where you drop your heart.
                                                              you’re always a slapdash 
crime scene, waiting on 911 to get back to you. ) 

or       soft things           like        —         like —

right. you’ve taken the soft things out my hands,
freshly cut hair to the sound of wings taking off,
shaking fruit               tree             limbs until there
is nothing left. 

my list of things keeps getting longer.           flowers. frogs. fruit. 
open ended conversations. invitations that never pick up. the 
silence of dead air on the phone. soft things. hard things. the 
edge of his palm, the absent air — exchanged over and over 
inside lungs that loved 

and hated                     until they had nothing left. there was a 
belief that there are so many things given to you. air. steps. voice. 
use them wisely. 

                        and i stand here as none of those things. 
only hard and soft.                         the static in between. 

                       the split between road / kill.

In a cup full of worlds,

we found each other,

Drowning in his words,

In the harshest weather,

He anchored me down,

But you, you pulled me,

I was locked alone,

And you became my key,

Promised me that you’ll always be by my side,

But you too like him,

Pushed me in the tides,

Again, I am drowning in the vast sea cup,

Waiting for someone to pull me up

@unspokenpoemsandwords @writerscreed

Placebo, Brick Shithouse, 1 998

After the revolutionary eponymous first record of Placebo in 1 996, I started to listen to this second record, Without You I’m Nothing, and discovered, or rather, thought, that the direction was gonna be as stupendous as the one of the first record in spite of the absence of the fantastic first drummer Robert Schultzberg, when this second song after Pure Morning exploded in my ears.

Probably my favorite song of a record which is very mixed, in moods and levels, with almost useless songs like the syrupy My Sweet Prince which goes so far from the primal, ultra rock n’ roll energy of the historic band.
Globally a very good record, but for the ones who wouldn’t know, the real Placebo is in the first record, with punk spirit all over and double drum pedals magically marrying the rest of the instruments and compositions.

Basile Pesso, Barcelona, 17 November 2 017
Placebo, Brick Shithouse

Weight of the world

“I wonder if one day we won’t have to worry about all this weight we were born under.” It was a statement that had plagued me for a while now.

The tendrils of smoke from your cigarette hung in the air between us. A wall of disconnect in the hot summer evening. You chuckled and looked over to the golden treeline as if to ask the setting sun for the answer to such a big quandary. You frowned, and the smiled.

“I don’t know if *we* ever will. But let’s not add on to the pile if we can. Bare it now so others don’t have to, yeah?”

I remember this moment with you. I remember many moments with you. The last time we spoke will never leave me. Even now as I float in this tin can of a spaceship. Packed in with the other “valuble people” I can still see your face, etched into my core, video chatting with me at the world’s end, somehow laughing as it all went to shit.

Did you remember that summer?

Did you carry that weight?