Bad Writing Idea! [May 6]
You’re playing your favorite video game when your favorite character suddenly obtains sentience.

blake kathryn


PR's Tumblrdome
noise dept.
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

roma★

Janaina Medeiros
taylor price

Product Placement
Cosmic Funnies
AnasAbdin
Game of Thrones Daily
Cosimo Galluzzi
KIROKAZE
dirt enthusiast
Three Goblin Art
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Love Begins
seen from China

seen from North Macedonia
seen from North Macedonia
seen from North Macedonia

seen from North Macedonia

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from North Macedonia
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Sweden

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from North Macedonia

seen from Singapore
seen from North Macedonia
seen from North Macedonia

seen from Canada
seen from North Macedonia
@lexlethargic
Bad Writing Idea! [May 6]
You’re playing your favorite video game when your favorite character suddenly obtains sentience.

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Tips for writing Hospital/medical scenes!!
Spent way too long researching this before posting lol. but please, if something's wrong, tell me. i'd rather be corrected than spread misinformation.
⋆˙⟡ Doctors don't run. Almost ever. Running in a hospital is a safety hazard, knocks into patients and equipment, and signals panic to everyone who sees it, which is the opposite of what hospital staff want to project. In a true code blue situation, there is urgency, but it looks more like extremely fast, purposeful walking and a kind of controlled chaos where everyone knows their role. The sprinting attending dramatically sliding to a bedside is a TV invention.
⋆˙⟡ "She flatlined" does not mean what you think it means. A flatline (a straight line on a heart monitor) means asystole: the heart has stopped producing electrical activity. You don't shock a flatline. CPR, yes. Epinephrine, yes. But the dramatic defibrillator moment everyone loves? That's for ventricular fibrillation, which looks like chaotic scribble on the monitor, not a flat line. Shocking a flatline in real life does nothing. Your doctor character would know this. Your nurse would know this. Your paramedic absolutely knows this.
⋆˙⟡ Medical professionals have a dark, dry humor and it's a coping mechanism, not a character flaw. People who work in high-stress, high-death environments often develop humor that sounds brutal to outsiders. BUT It's not callousness, it's a pressure valve.
⋆˙⟡ Hospitals are obscenely loud and smell very specific. Writers default to clinical silence and "the sharp smell of antiseptic." Real hospitals smell like a combination of cleaning fluid, stale air, cafeteria food leaking through vents, and occasionally something you don't want to identify. They're also constantly noisy. Intercoms, rolling carts, the beep of a dozen different monitors all slightly out of sync with each other, people talking too loudly, visitors crying in hallways. The silence only comes in very specific moments, and it's jarring precisely because it's unusual.
⋆˙⟡ Waking up from a coma is not waking up from a nap. Someone who has been unconscious for more than a day or two will have profound muscle weakness, and they often can't hold their own head up. They'll be confused, possibly for days. They won't be able to speak normally if they had a breathing tube, because their throat will be raw and damaged. They won't recognize people immediately and then have a tearful reunion five minutes later. The brain coming back online is slow, strange, and disorienting in ways that aren't photogenic. Patients frequently don't remember the first several days of recovery at all.
⋆˙⟡ There's a specific hierarchy and it matters to the people inside it. Attending physician, fellow, resident, intern, these are not interchangeable words for "doctor." An intern on their third week is legally a doctor and can barely order a sandwich without second-guessing themselves. An attending has full clinical responsibility and has seen everything. A fellow is post-residency, specializing, somewhere in between. Nurses operate in their own parallel hierarchy that intersects with but is absolutely not subordinate to doctors in the way TV suggests. Experienced nurses regularly catch errors that residents make, and both parties know it.
⋆˙⟡ Patients are almost never alone in their room doing emotional things. Nurses check vitals. Phlebotomists come for blood draws at ungodly hours. Housekeeping rolls in. A different doctor than the one managing the case comes to consult. Meals appear. An orderly needs to take them to imaging. The room itself is rarely private for long. The idea of a character lying in a hospital bed having a long, uninterrupted emotional conversation is something that mostly happens in fiction. In reality, someone knocks and enters approximately every 40 minutes, sometimes more.
⋆˙⟡ Paperwork and insurance are a constant, grinding presence. Discharge doesn't happen because the patient is better. It happens when it's approved, when a bed is needed, when insurance says so. Patients are sometimes sent home earlier than feels safe because the system demands it. Doctors spend an enormous, demoralizing amount of time on documentation, estimates suggest 2 hours of paperwork for every hour of patient care. The administrative weight of hospital medicine is a slow-burn horror that almost no fiction touches, which means the moment you do, it feels startlingly real.
⋆˙⟡ Prognosis conversations are never one clean scene. When a doctor tells a family that someone is dying, there isn't a single moment of devastation and then forward motion. People mishear. They ask the same question rephrased five different ways hoping for a different answer. They argue with the information. Someone pulls out their phone to Google the diagnosis. Someone else goes completely silent and leaves the room. A week later, one family member still believes recovery is possible and another has accepted the death entirely, and they haven't been able to talk about it. Information lands at different speeds for different people and the gap between them is its own source of suffering.
Body Language & Physical Tells List!!
𐙚⋆.˚ The shoulder drop when someone finally relaxes
𐙚⋆.˚ Crossing arms, but make it self-soothing, not defensive
𐙚⋆.˚ The way someone goes completely still when scared
𐙚⋆.˚ Fidgeting stopping the moment they're caught
𐙚⋆.˚ Leaning in without realizing it (interest/attraction)
𐙚⋆.˚ The leg bounce that betrays calm composure
𐙚⋆.˚ Turning slightly away from someone they distrust
𐙚⋆.˚ Hands going to the throat when feeling vulnerable
𐙚⋆.˚ The way grief makes a body look heavier
𐙚⋆.˚ Picking at nails/skin/sleeves when anxious
𐙚⋆.˚ Standing taller around someone they want to impress
𐙚⋆.˚ The full-body flinch vs. the one they manage to suppress
𐙚⋆.˚ Mirroring someone's posture unconsciously
𐙚⋆.˚ That slow exhale through the nose when trying to stay calm
𐙚⋆.˚ Hands shoved in pockets to hide they're shaking
𐙚⋆.˚ The way someone shrinks in a chair vs. takes up space
𐙚⋆.˚ Touching their own face more when lying
𐙚⋆.˚ The deliberate, controlled stillness of someone furious
𐙚⋆.˚ Turning feet toward the exit before the mind decides to leave
𐙚⋆.˚ Gripping something (a cup, a sleeve, a doorframe) to ground themselves
A Sibling Situation
He's standing in front of the feminine hygiene products now, eyes glassy, brow furrowed. His shoulders rolled forward in his purple woollen coat, hands stuffed in the pockets. A beetle alights on his mussed hair, heavy shell clacking as it closes. It wanders aimlessly from strand to strand before taking flight again, either unnoticed or ignored by the hulking man.
I can't watch this anymore. I honestly shouldn't be watching it in the first place, company policy frowns on staring at customers. Unfortunately, I'm stuck doing a reset in the same aisle this poor soul has decided to have his existential crisis. I turn back to the shelves and try to ignore him just as the bell dings and I hear Curtis chirp a greeting. I roll my eyes. He's *way* too chipper for graveyard shifts.
My breath catches at the fiery redhead strolling down the aisle. I try to look like I'm rearranging the shelves (like I should be) while surreptitiously checking her out in my periphery.
She stands shoulder to shoulder with the hulking man in front of the feminine hygiene products. The long quail feather in her plum bowler hat doesn't quite clear his head.
“Did your monthlies come in already, Davy?” her voice both lilts and screeches: a mockingjay with strange bedfellows.
He doesn't respond, apparently enraptured by the silhouettes of sporty women on the tampon box.
“Oi, Davy! You in there?” She bumps his meaty arm with her shoulder, her long braid jostling with the movement.
He blinks and I'm suddenly left wondering if he'd done it at all while I was staring at him. “Hmm?” he tunelessly intones.
“Davy?” She squeezes his bicep and I burn with unreasonable jealousy. Why are all the gorgeous ones straight? I turn more fully back to the bay. I suppose she could be bi. Then again, it wasn't exactly *sexual* contact. They could be siblings for all I know.
My eyes stray back towards the duo. Look at how fancy they're both dressed! With their fitted double-breasted coats and their pressed slacks, on the tail end of one in the morning no less – there's no way such a woman would look twice at me, in or out of my McMillan Pharmacy uniform.
“Oh. Hannah. Hello.” His gravel voice seeps into the packaging and drips between the shelves.
“We wondered where you'd gotten off to. The boys have been worried.”
He harrumphs. “Just the boys?”
“*Obviously* not, you ass. They're just the loudest about it.” She folds her hands in front and rocks her weight onto her toes and back. “You wanna talk about it?”
“*Obviously* not,” he parrots.
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. This is looking more and more like a sibling situation.
She doesn't rebut, opting instead to linger as he stares. She fiddles with the end of her braid and wriggles her nose.
The shuff of cardboard against metal is deafening as I shelve the row of condoms. I'm painfully aware of my presence in this moment of silent camaraderie, but the stalwart duo don't seem to take note of me at all.
I'm working on the last row of XL boxes when, barely perceptible over my work, Davy murmurs, “I really thought they'd make it.”
“No one makes it forever, lovey. You know that.”
“I haven't gotten attached like that in…gods, I don't even know how long.”
Hannah rubs his upper arm. “It's always hard. Have you been taking care of yourself?”
He shrugs his opposite shoulder, letting it drop back down like a stone. “It's been so long since I've had to think about that…I don't even remember what self care *looks* like.”
“For starters, stop isolating. Do you know how hard it was to find you? How many backwater dives I trudged through? Creed and Johnson have been relentlessly pestering me – and that's nothing compared to Jericho.” She flicks her braid back over her shoulder. “I thought I was gonna have to get him surgically removed from my ass.”
I snort at that one. My eyes go wide and cheeks flush crimson as I try to play it off like an aborted sneeze.
They turn toward me with a start. Thankfully, I'm facing the shelves so they can't see the blush creep over my entire face. I study the condoms I'm shelving like the fucking Rosetta Stone and hardly dare to breathe as the box slides into place. The beetle returns, this time choosing the lambskin box as their resting place. I watch their legs click over the cardboard as I shelve another box and hold my breath another age.
“Why are you here anyway?” Hannah asks at last. I can still feel her eyes on me.
“They carry the mac and cheese I like.”
She snorts. “Pretty sure you're in the wrong aisle for that.” I feel her approach and catch a hint of lilac on the air. “Excuse me, where can we find your boxed macaroni and cheese?”
My eyebrows dart up. I don't have to act surprised when I hadn't dreamed that such a dazzling vision would stoop to address a gremlin like me.
“Aisle 3,” I respond, my smile far too wide and desperate.
“Thank you.” She pats my head like a toddler.
My jaw drops and I stare, gobsmacked, as she loops her arm through Davy's and pulls him down the aisle.
“Let's get you your mac and cheese, old man.”
Moments that reveal your Character's Loneliness!!
✧ Keeping a running list in their head of things to tell someone, even though there's no one to tell.
✧ Talking to the cat. Not in a playful way. In a confessional way.
✧ Lingering at the checkout counter a beat too long because the cashier made eye contact.
✧ Watching the clock on Friday evenings and feeling something they can't quite name drop in their chest.
✧ Answering "what did you do this weekend?" with something tidied up and social-sounding, leaving out the two days they saw no one.
✧ Muting their TV just to hear how loud the silence actually is.
✧ Ordering too much food and eating alone with the plates set out, taking up the whole table.
✧ Spending longer than necessary in public places (bookshops, grocery stores) because being around strangers is close enough.
✧ Re-reading old messages from people who don't talk to them anymore, not out of longing but out of proof they existed to someone.
✧ Getting very invested in strangers' lives online: their updates, their kids, their ordinary days.
✧ Starting conversations with service workers and then feeling ashamed of how much they wanted it to continue.
✧ Making plans they know won't happen just for the brief warmth of having something to look forward to.
✧ Dreaming about people they barely know.
✧ Waking grateful, then embarrassed.
✧ Keeping their coat on too long at parties, as though they're still deciding whether to stay.

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Shoutout to people with skiddish cats. Shoutout to the pet parents full of both love AND patience. They'll come around. Not every cat is "right at home" as soon as they enter your home. You're doing great ❤️
OMG THEY'RE ON MY BED
Drama!
Chaotic gremlin best friends!!
⟢ "I need an alibi for Tuesday." - "What time." - "You didn't ask what I did." - "What time."
⟢ "Hypothetically." - "No." - "You didn't hear the question." - "Hypothetically no."
⟢ "I did something." - "Scale of one to ten." - "Depends who's asking." "Me." - "Seven." - "Police." - "Four." - "God." - "Thirteen."
⟢ "We need to leave."- "Why." - "I'll explain in the car." - "Why." - "I'll explain in a different country."
⟢ "This is your fault." - "You literally came up with the idea." - "I have bad ideas all the time, you're not supposed to DO them."
⟢ "Okay hear me out." - "My lawyer has advised me not to hear you out." - "You don't have a lawyer." - "I'm getting one specifically for conversations with you."
⟢ "Nobody got hurt." - "Physically." . "Nobody got physically hurt." - "Yet." - "Nobody has gotten physically hurt yet, which is a win."
⟢ "I have a type." - "Yeah?" - "People who are bad for me and you specifically." - "That's not a type that's a pattern." - "Same thing."
⟢ "What's the worst that could happen." - "I have a list. It's laminated. I made it specifically for when you say that."
⟢ "Rate my decision making." - "Historically or right now." - "Both." - "Zero. Consistent zero across the board."
⟢ "You're the only person I trust." - "I dropped your birthday cake last year and told you it arrived like that." - "Yeah but you still got me a cake."
⟢ "I need your honest opinion." - "It's bad." - "You didn't see it yet." - "I've met you. It's bad."
⟢ "Why do you even keep me around." - "Honestly? Entertainment. And you're warm in winter."
⟢ "I wasn't thinking." - "First time for everything." - "I resent that." - "Statistically valid though."
⟢ "On a scale of fine to not fine." - "Remember that time in Prague." - "We don't talk about Prague." - "That fine."
⟢ "Nobody panic but." - "I'm already panicking." - "I haven't said anything yet." - "I know you. I'm getting ahead of it."
⟢ "Promise you won't be mad." - "Absolutely not, that's a trap and I won't fall for it."
⟢ "I have good news and bad news." - "Good news first." - "The car is fine." - "And the bad." - "Define car."
⟢ "You're my emergency contact." - "I know." - "You're listed as my next of kin." - "I know." - "You're also listed as my therapist, my lawyer, and my spiritual advisor." - "I know." - "Do you want to talk about that." - "Nope." - "Cool."
⟢ "I'm a responsible adult."- "You once called me crying because you got your sleeve caught in a door and didn't know what to do." - "I was panicking." - "For forty minutes." - "It was really stuck."
⟢ "I regret everything." - "No you don't." - "No I don't but I feel like I should." - "Same honestly."
I set the mugs, already glistening with condensation, on the coasters in front of the two men. The shorter has his nose buried in a newspaper, studiously ignoring both me and his traveling companion.
The other man nods congenially at me, complete with a smile so dazzling it unsettles me. It's a shark’s smile, set in a face of chiseled marble. Neither man belongs here, but I can't put my finger on why. They're definitely from out of town, maybe from another country?
The taller man downs half his beer in one swallow. He looks for all the world like he intends to slam it back down, but instead he sets it gingerly on its coaster, glancing at his companion through his lashes.
I busy myself with the dishes, trying to not eavesdrop overly much, in spite of my curiosity. Unfortunately for my intentions, their voices travel beautifully over the dull murmur of the nearly empty bar.
“You're my emergency contact,” the taller man comments.
“I know,” the shorter one replies, fluffing his newspaper with a snap.
“You're listed as my next of kin.”
He huffs a sigh. “I know.”
“You're also listed as my therapist, my lawyer, and my spiritual advisor.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to talk about that?”
“No…” There's hesitation in the shorter man's voice and I can hear the crinkle of his newspaper as it flags in his hands.
“Cool.”
I furrow my brow and try to divine what had been in the cup I'm cleaning, splashing it with hot water again and again, until I finally give up and let it soak while I move on to other tasks. It seems that's all the entertainment I'm getting for now. I polish the wooden counter, smearing the spilled grenadine deeper into its fibers until it finally buffs out.
“I simply…” The shorter man huffs his irritation and folds his newspaper in defeat. “I don't understand why you won't list me as your physician. It's the role I'm qualified for!”
Based on the shorter man's soft accent, he’s certainly from another country. He sounds like he came right out of a BBC remake of Pride and Prejudice.
The taller man grins and takes another slug of his beer. “What? You're not qualified to be my emergency contact?” His accent is a bit harder to detect, but once I notice it in his traveling companion, I can hear it in him too: just the faintest touch of a British accent. Scouse maybe? I'm not great at dialects but it doesn't have the same uptight, proper feel as his companion's.
“Come now, Theo,” the shorter man snorts, snapping his newspaper back to attention, “You know in any emergency I'll simply pull whatever plug there may be.”
Theo slaps his hand on the bar as he guffaws, “I knew you'd do the right thing! That's why you're my next of kin.”
“We're not even related.” He has a newspaper concealing his face and I'm not looking directly at either of them, but even I can feel the eye roll as he says it. He slaps his newspaper on the bar and points a finger at Theo, “And I'm neither a therapist, nor a lawyer! There are…” he drops his voice, but I can still hear it over the murmur of the almost nonexistent crowd, “...penalties for impersonating such professionals.”
“Oh no, not…penalties!” Theo slaps the shorter man on the back. “No laws can hold us down, Johnson.”
Johnson huffs. “You're incorrigible.” His hand makes it halfway to his paper but instead he turns his attention back to Theo. “What is it you want anyway? I swear it's been centuries and now you call? What's wrong?”
I smile to myself. *I swear it's been centuries,* I'm gonna have to use that line.
“It's Jones,” Theo responds, his voice almost too faint to make out. “I think there's something wrong. I haven't been able to reach him in ages.”
Johnson snorts, “You know he never strays far from the island.”
“I can't find it anymore.”
Johnson's hand finally reaches the newspaper again but he drops it like a hot rock. “You,” he says flatly, “You, of all people, *you* can't find the island?”
“It's not…there all the time.”
They both look to where I've been mechanically buffing the same spot for the past several minutes, grenadine long gone, and a passable shine starting to form on its surface.
“Come now,” Johnson holds his arm out to Theo, “Let's see if we can't find this island of ours, but I must insist you list someone else as your lawyer and therapist as soon as we get back.”
“You'll be my spiritual advisor then?”
“We both know no one else qualifies.”
Writing Prompt: Drink of the Day
Mango Smoothie
I drum my fingers on my crossed arm.
“No, I said I don't want chia seeds, I want protein powder!”
It really seems like a simple request, but I get it. The poor smoothie teen has been run ragged by a neverending onslaught of cranky gym bros and soccer moms. I hadn't realized there were that many of them in the city.
“R-right,” the smoothie teen stammers, “I'll have that out soon.”
The singular pronoun doesn't escape me. I'll have that out soon, not we'll have that out soon. I glance around. Nope, not another smoothie uniform in sight.
“I can't believe how long this is taking,” the soccer mom whines in a pitch most audible to dogs.
The gym bro she addressed scoffs, “That kid’s not going anywhere in life.”
I grit my teeth. I swear the world would be better if everyone had to work in the service industry for a while. Give them some compassion for the kid who was abandoned by their coworkers. I glance behind me and breathe a sigh of relief for smoothie teen. It looks like I'm their last antagonist for this rush.
The bodies before me clear and I can see the sweat trailing down their face.
“I'm the last person in line,” I whisper when they ask me for my order, “Why don't you start making some of those drinks? I'm in no rush.” Then, louder, I announce, “I'm gonna need a minute to decide.”
Smoothie teen blinks at me then nods once and starts rushing around, cramming fruits, yogurts, sherbets, and add-ins into the blenders lining the counter. I make a big show of pondering my order: tap, tap, tapping my finger against my chin as I study the smoothie board like a sacred text. I feel a body settle into line behind me. My arm hairs prick up. I hate inconveniencing other people. Still, I've bought Smoothie Teen time to get caught up, at least a little bit, I'm not going to immediately cede my place in line just because I was conditioned to people please.
“Um, excuse me, are you in line?” the lady behind me asks.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles this time. She's not even being rude and now I have to be rude. This is my nightmare. I make another big show of tapping my chin. “Oh, yes!” I respond, feigning surprise as if I hadn't been acutely aware of her presence from the moment she sidled up behind me, “I just need another moment…” I trail off in that unaffected way I've seen so many entitled boomers do. How do they do this so easily? Refuse to give up their place when they do it for no one but themselves? Here I am, doing this for Smoothie Teen, and I can barely keep myself from ceding my spot!
I can feel myself flushing beet red, little beads of sweat forming along my own brow. My lips purse and I tap, tap, tap my chin. Good gods, when will this be over?
Smoothie Teen reappears, looking a little less manic. “And what can I get you?”
I flush deeper. For all my show of studying the menu, I hadn't actually read a lick of it. “Uh…” I panic and blurt out the first thing to pop into my head, “Mango milkshake?” I flush impossibly redder. “Smoothie. Mango smoothie please.”
Smoothie Teen beams at me, so much more possessed than before, “Want any add-ins?”
“Yeah actually. Throw some chia seeds in there.” I manage a smile, tip the highest percentage on the screen and, eternally grateful, step out of that accursed line. My mortification is so great, I almost can't bring myself to wait for my smoothie. I try to channel the boomers again and stand my ground but my stomach is all in knots.
When Smoothie Teen finally calls out my order, I breathe for the first time.
“Hey, thanks. Seriously.” They hand me my cup with a brilliant smile and I nod in return, smiling as best I can through my anxiety.
“Farewell, Smoothie Teen,” I murmur, only slowly becoming aware that I said that out loud. The red that had finally been receding from my cheeks, returns in full force as I turn on my heels and scurry out the door.

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Now *I* am the chew toy
One of the sisters is getting comfortable enough to sleep in front of me! 🥰
Loafing about
If your OC is tattooed, explain their most important tattoo and their least important tattoo.
Today’s speed writing run!
Time: 25 min
Word Count: 392
Goal: Finish the Prompt
Baker lays a kerchief over the stone step of the pub before sitting. There’s no obvious blemish he can perceive in the dim light, but based on the scent wafting through the alley, it’s better safe than sorry.
Ulysses sits a step below with his head in his hands.
Baker fidgets with the chain of his pocket watch, impotent in the face of despair. He’s not used to feeling powerless. It doesn’t suit him.
The tail of a finch pokes out from under his friend’s shirt. If he can’t comfort, at least he can distract.
“You’ve never told me of your markings.”
“Hmm?” Ulysses looks up; his blotchy face is red even by the amber lamplight.
“Your markings. You’ve never told me their stories.”
“I have!” he protests, hiking the leg of a trouser over his calf. He points to a thick pink scar wrapping around the meat. “This were from tha gentry-cove wi’th’a sword cane.”
“Nay, your skin painting. They’ve stories, I’m sure.”
“Aye, but they’ve too many ta tell.”
“Fine then, tell me of your most important marking and your least important marking.”
Ulysses rubs his chin and narrows his eyes at the wall across the alley, as if hoping to divine answers from the brick.
The man sleeping just below his line of sight coughs and rolls away, pulling the tattered rags over his ear. Baker starts. He thought that was a pile of cloth.
“I s’pose…” Ulysses says at last, “I s’pose tha grea’est would be this’n here.” He pulls his sleeve up to reveal an anchor on his forearm.”
“You’re not a sailor.”
“It were a symbol fer Aggie.”
“Your wife?”
“Aye.”
“Isn’t she dead?”
“Aye.”
“Didn’t you have a rather…spectacular falling out before she died?”
“We was mates then! Ain’t no need ta dredge up me hist’ry. Ye ken how we lived and ye ken how she dies.”
Baker chuckles. “It brings me delight when you blush at your indiscretions.”
“Well that’s about enough’a that.”
“How about the least important one then. Which one is that?”
He shrugs and points to the sparrow on his wrist.
“What’s the story there.”
“Ain’t much. I was gone on tha devil’s piss with Aggie when we’d been bound a year.”
“So your most important and least important marking are both about Aggie?”
“Ain’t none’a my markings is trifling.”
Yep, I put this on Redbubs. Link in bio! Although the PNG looks fine, it’s giving the sticker weird ghost images around the edges so it’s not currently a sticker even though THAT WAS MY PLAN TO BEGIN WITH. Oh well #ttjom #felixwrites #myart #oc #originalcharacter #captainzechariah #seaworthy #catlover #catlovers https://www.instagram.com/p/CbJJypxsaWb/?utm_medium=tumblr

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Person A: “Thank you for letting me stay with you, this has been the best week of my life! I haven’t even died once!”
Person B: “….You wanna run that one by me again?”
10-Minute story blast with my mom and here’s what came of it!
“Would you like any refreshments while I’m over here?” the sailor calls from the other side of a stainless steel door.
“Yeah, grab me a pop,” Davy replies, scrolling through the shipwreck scene from his crimson settee.
“I wasn’t certain which type…” He hands over the can with a shrug.
“Doesn’t matter, they know what I want them to be.”
The sailor plays with his soda, tracing patterns in the condensation. “I wanted to thank you for letting me stay with you.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Truly, it’s been the best week of my life.” He chuckles. “I haven’t died once!”
Davy pauses the action and narrows his eyes at his guest. “…You want to run that one by me again?”
“Just a bit of humor. The ship’s doctor tells me I die on him on a biweekly basis.”
“Once every two weeks or twice a week?”
“Twice a week.”
“Hmm.” The man looks at his guest. “You remember how you got here, sailor?”
“Of course! On a ship.”
“A ship was involved.” Davy Jones chuckles. “But you weren’t on it anymore.”
Prompt #846: 5 + 1 Things (9)
5 times Character A tells Character B 'I hate you' and means it at least a little bit and one time they say it and don't mean it at all.
As I chip away at my novel, I find myself in need of both palate cleansers and exercises to know my characters better. Thus, I’m starting a new challenge for myself: Weekly writing prompts! Each week my OCs will dance to the tune of whatever writing prompt I find amusing. These are speed runs and they’re not beta read, otherwise I would never finish or post them.
This week’s prompt is by @creativepromptsforwriting
The First Time
Creed almost misses him, weaving through the cumulous cloud of powdered wigs. In truth, he would have missed him, were it not for the company he keeps.
Captain Zechariah sticks out wherever he goes. It could be the narrow tricorn that went out of fashion a decade ago, his proud military posture, or the black cat lounging across his shoulder. Whatever the reason, Zechariah is obvious and therefore, so is Dr. Francis Johnson.
Creed grins and shoves through the bodies between him and the diminutive doctor.
“Johnson! Johnson!”
The duo stop cold at his voice.
Zechariah gives Creed a stiff nod before glancing to the doctor. “Have you any desire for a dialogue?”
Johnson’s back is to Creed but the sailor can paint a picture of his face by his fuming reply, “I’ll be just behind you, Captain.”
The captain nods and leaves without another word.
“Creed,” Dr. Johnson says, turning at last with a positively deadly glare, “Glad to see you’re alive at least.”
“Come now, doctor,” he replies from a forced smile, “You know the Universe won’t do me in that easy. You either, it seems.”
“The Universe will do me in however it sees fit. I don’t fight it.”
“Really? You haven’t aged a day!”
“I’ve aged nearly four thousand days since last you clapped eyes on me.”
“Ah, that’s why I’ve earned your ire. Doctor, you must understand, time flows differently for a god.”
“Were you truly a god, wouldn’t time be at your mercy?”
“I’m not that kind of god.”
Dr. Johnson’s lips thin to a line. “Then what kind of god are you?”
“I meant to visit.”
“You could have written or sent a pigeon or shipped a bloody note in a bottle. I thought you were dead!”
“You can’t kill a god.”
“You were my friend. I sent word to every place you’ve lived and no one knew where you’d gone!”
“I didn’t know you worried so.”
“I needed you.”
Creed’s blood freezes at Johnson’s broken voice.
Tears hedge the doctor’s furious eyes as he concludes, “Yet you were nowhere to be found.”
“Johnson, I had no idea…”
“No, you didn’t. How could you when you ran off without saying goodbye?”
“I’ve regretted that every day—”
“Save it, Creed. I have no time for you.”
Creed’s body churns with incompatible temperatures as the doctor turns away. His cheeks burn. His palms freeze and sweat all at once.
“Hoy, wait!” His boots click on the cobblestones as he rushes to catch up, though the sound is lost to the crowd he wades through. “Johnson! Don’t leave! We’re shipmates!”
“We’ve not been shipmates for a decade,” he calls without turning back.
“We’re brothers then! Come on, we’re friends! You love me!”
He stops and glares over his shoulder. The look he gives stops Creed in his tracks.
“We’re no longer brothers-in-arms. I wonder if you ever truly considered me as such.” As the crowd swallows him up, his angry glare fractures with grief. It’s scarcely more than a whisper but every other sound dies away. All Creed can hear is, “I hate you,” echoing in his ears.
The Second Time
“Oh, I’ll be hanged!”
“Johnson!” Creed cries, nearly giddy as he hunkers beside the doctor. A splinter of ship zips by his hear.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“What do you mean? This is my ship!”
“You’re not a captain!”
“You’d be amazed how far the right attitude will get you.”
Dr. Johnson scrubs his hands over his face. “So you’re leading these villains then? I might have known.”
“I wouldn’t call it leading per se and — wait, villains? You attacked us!”
“Of course we did! Your ship is manned by Deathless!”
“Yes, and?”
Dr. Johnson gives him a blank look.
“Are you quite mad?” Creed asks at last, laughter drown out by the impact of a canon ball. “You’re a mortal. What are you doing crossing wills with Deathless?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Johnson stands to a crouch and watches for a decent time to make a break for it.
“Johnson, come now. We’re not all bad. Why are you doing this?”
“Loyalty means something to me.”
“I’m loyal to you, doctor. You’re my best mate, you know that.”
“I don’t know anything about you anymore. Not since Theophany. I think I hate who you’ve become.”
Creed sits on the deck for some time after Johnson leaves, watching his ship dwindle to splinters around him.
The Third Time
“Johnson, what are you doing?”
The doctor’s trembling fingers, always pale, gleam with ghastly pallor against the dark handle of his knife. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the blade.
“Johnson, talk to me, please.” Creed holds up his hands and steps forward.
“Isn’t it funny how the things that kill us are so often the things that bring us to life?”
“This isn’t one of those things. You know Charon will take you straight away.”
“Of course he would. But Davy hates hitchhikers.”
“How would you know?”
“The veil gets awful thin when you’ve sent as many souls through as I have.” He digs the tip of the blade into his thumb. “Why did you leave?”
“I don’t know. Theophany wanted to see the world.”
“You didn’t have any say?”
Creed shrugs. “What say does an ant have when faced with a magnifying glass?”
“You never come when I need you.”
“I’m here now.“
“You weren’t there an hour ago, you weren’t there a decade ago.” He digs the blade harder against his thumb. “Why is it your face I see every time I think I’ve reached my end? You can’t come for me. You can’t even breach the veil. The gods must think me a fool. I’ll hate you to the end of my days for leaving. Lucky for you, that won’t be long.”
“Johnson…”
“It’s Francis.”
“What?”
“My name is Francis.”
The Forth Time
“Francis, please.”
“No! Fuck you!”
Though Francis fights like a wild beast, he’s lost enough muscle that it’s scarcely worse than the claws of a kitten. Creed throws the much smaller man over his shoulder and tows him through the crowd.
“Who gave it to you?”
“What are you, a narc?”
“Who gave it to you?”
Francis flails against Creed’s iron grip. “Fuck you, Creed, you selfish bastard! Take me back!”
“No! You’re killing yourself!”
“I can’t kill myself! No one will take me!”
“Well then, you’re making your life miserable.”
“It’s the only thing that makes life bearable!”
“No, Francis!”
“You…you corkbrained puckfist!”
“Good god man, those swears went out of fashion centuries ago.”
Dr. Johnson falls limp against Creed’s back and grumbles, “I hate you.”
The Fifth Time
“Drink something.”
“I can’t keep it down.”
“Just a sip this time. Even a little broth will help.”
Francis sits with his back against the gleaming tile, stripped bare save for a long loose shirt, backed away from his most recent pool of vomit. He lets his head fall against it with a thud. “I think I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
He glares and purses his chapped lips together.
One More Time
“I didn’t expect to be here with you.”
They stare out over the ocean together as the sky lights up with crimson and orange.
“Yes you did,” Francis returns, smiling at the brilliant sky.
“No, honestly. You’ve been mad at me for most of our lives.”
“Don’t be daft, I still hate you.”
Creed chuckles. “Come off it old man, we’ve always been friends, in a way. You just had to protest.”
“Of course I did! How else was I to save face? You stood against everything I believed in…until I realized the issue was my perspective, and your laissez-faire attitude.”
“Too bad we couldn’t have realized that sooner.”
There’s a faraway look to his eyes when he nods. “It would have saved a lot of trouble.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Even if I’m not, it’s a bit late now.”
“Are you scared?”
“I’ve been scared my whole life. I’ve been afraid of hunger, excess, obscurity, popularity, brilliance, stupidity, existence, and oblivion. I don’t think I’ve the energy to fear any longer.”
Creed takes Francis’ hand.
“Until we meet again?”
“Aye. Until we meet again.”
There’s that searing blue again.