#artywrites

across the great southwest, massive herds of flowers are guided by cowboys, taken from the range to the cities where they’re transported to florists across the world. Sometimes these are mixed herds of flowers, other times they’re rarer varieties. Of course, the succulent blooms do the best in the dry, sometimes hostile, environment of the plains.

“Git those goddamn tumbleweed mutts outta the lilac herd!!”

Instead of brands, there’s color/marking types that ranchers use.

Show orchids in their fancy stalls/hothouses with special lights and everything.

The cowboys guarding the herds in the night against dangerous herbivores which would sneak in and whisk off with a plant.

IMAGINE THEM RIDING DEER INSTEAD OF HORSES WHY I DUNNO BUT I LIKE THAT IMAGE

Flower cowboy = plantboy??? blossomboy? bloomboy?? I like bloomboy I’m gonna call them that

Ten gallon hats fashioned out of giant leaves or fallen petals

Working with beekeepers to make sure the herd reproduces

Cattle rustlers (flower rustlers??) stealing seeds!!

Water plant based bloomboys!!! Migrating rivers with their lilies and lotuses

I want them to ride crocodiles because why the hell not.

I hope these flowers weigh a lot because imagine those poor bloomboys running around in a frenzy whenever a decent wind picks up “quick lasso that daffodil before it gets away!”

omg instead of bull riding...catci riding GOOD LUCK GUYS

Bloomboys sneezing nonstop during pollen season

Hey guys!

So I’m writing for the frat pack  - a group of teen/young adult werewolves - every day in October, which I’m calling “Howl-oween.”

But, I’d love some help with prompts! It’s only a couple of weeks in, and I’m already running low on ideas. If you have any ideas, suggestions, prompts, or even want to see certain characters interacting or ask them questions, shoot me a message! Basically, I’ll take anything.

kinda like a huge dump of stuff ive written and have no idea what to do with

(from the past few months)

Quiet taps of fingers and tacks hit the wall with emotional tact, cover the sound with woolen silence, wooden frames with empty pictures, sheep bringing dread only you could breed. Five thousand, maybe seven, find themselves countlessly begging to be taken down from the shame they’re presented on. Sewn by string, unanimous by society’s upbringing, like a thin thread of masculinity grants you pride you find another mouth shut, broken up around the edges that cease to hold much more at all.

You say one thing and they say “alone” a label through heart and heartily worn it hurts more than you’ll let on. Funny they say your heart’s on your sleeve, when you’ve worn it down to bone with grief.

Ich schlafe, ruhig, als ob die regen mich nie beigebracht, wie mein augen zu schließen.