working title: The Girl and the Typewriter (probably going to change it at some point)
genre: fictional autobiography
setting: late 1920s - 1990s in various countries
status: beginning to write
POV: first person limited
themes: bi protagonist (girl is my alter ego of course she is); expensive fur and perfume; pearls and diamonds; swing music; parties where everyone is invited; 1940s & 1950s glamour; travelling on old steamboats; being fed up with people and relationships; the overwhelming feeling that whatever you do; youâll always be alone
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themes + tropes: rivals to lovers, forced proximity, found family, war and rebellion, betrayal, very unreliable narrator, masks and the people that see through them, anti-heroes, grief, angels and wings and flying, complicated family dynamics, conspiracy theories, identity reveal, working through trauma, undercover shenanigins, spies and double agents, everyone has a motive and a side to the story.
status: outlining, first draft
wip page | wip tag
â SYNOPSIS:
an angel falls out of the sky.Â
a girl is shot in the stomach.
a spy goes to an auction.
when a mission goes abruptly sideways, nina rhodes, agent and sharpshooter for the ambigiously named agency â a network of spies and espionage working on both sides of the law; good and evil, mortal and divine â is partnered with atticus sideris, archangel and member of the elite, dangerous themis guard, dedicated to preserving the order of the divine realm.
an order that is in jeopardy. ages ago, in centuries lost to the clutches of time, the divide between mortal and angel was impenetrable. eventually, over thousands of years, the bloodlines mixed, and angelic divinity seeped into the mortal realm, enough so that most âmortalsâ have at least a modicum of divinity. archangels, those angels entirely pureblooded, live within the Aether, the divine realm literally above the mortals, with their own rule of law and a reaffirmed boundary.
a human rebellion was had.Â
a truce was formed.Â
the flames were not smothered.Â
now, ten years after one of the greatest terror attacks on record, a human bringing down three of the infamous themis guard, someone is producing divine weapons, able to harm archangels, for mortal use. the issue â divinity makes mortals feral. combine that with a bioengineering company looking to genetically alter mortals to carry more divinity, and a second war is on the verge of erupting.
nina and atticus, mortal and archangel, are assigned to a task force to dismantle the weapons smuggling ring. but when nina unwillingly finds herself the target of another investigation, and atticus helpless to reveal the truth, they have to work backwards, finding the connection to themselves and their team, even as they try to keep their truths from each other.
Some wars perhaps never end when they are thought to have.
As the story goes, its been ten years. Ten years since the sudden war between Vaatika and Orden. Ten years since the defeat of Vaatika. And ten years since the kingdom of Vaatika has been left in ashes.
But there are secrets. And there's much too many mysteries left behind in those ashes.
Kiran, on a mission, is wandering outside her kingdom, Orden, where she gets entangled into the lives of three Vaatikans searching for a way into Orden. When she gets recruited by them, she soon realizes that the kingdom of Orden might not have been the saviour ten years ago as everyone believed. As the consequences of ten years prior starts to cause chaos, it falls on Kiran, Vihaan, Alisha and Afreen to bring out the truth. But in between people who have trusted and told her the truth more than anyone else in her life, Kiran is holding a secret. A secret which threatens their shaky alliance. One, she is determined to not let out.
CHARACTERS :â
Kiran Shah: Stuck between court schemes, secrets and lies, she has to make her own choice, and choose her side before its too late.
Kingdom: Orden
Vihaan Bakshi: Heart full of love for his kingdom and vengeful for its destruction, he awaits the moment when the kingdom of Orden falls.
Kingdom: Vaatika
Afreen Ali: An artist stuck between her duty and passion, yearns for freedom of those wronged ten years ago.
Kingdom: Vaatika
Alisha Basu: Haunted by her past, a soldier biding her time by waiting for her moment of glory to come, she wishes for revenge and to see the kingdom of Orden burn.
Kingdom: Chaalki
Taglist (ask to be +/-): @opes-magnas @taqdeers @jiangsziyas @kishons @gnymedesâ @zoya-writesâ @seas-dubh
Tagging some amazing writeblrs:Â @rhikasa @mshelleys @yaqarah @the-unwrittenwriter
Special thanks to @myhollowcries for always helping me out <33
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@authorsnetâ event 01: first meetings â Najm Abbas and Sana Ahmed
Prequel to OUR VENGEFUL DESIRES
When one takes the pledge of the Dhimr Academy, one should not intend to break it.
Najm supposed intention was too big a word here. He had not planned to break the pledge, nor had he known that he would. But time had the tendency to alter plans.Â
Seven exits. Twenty-four guards on duty. Thirty-six classes in session. One Qubbaâone, one, one.
He gasped, hand flying to his head as a blinding pain erupted at his right temple. Najm reached for something to hold onto, trying to steady his steps as fire spread through his mind, his own skin hot to the touch.
Focus. Let the details come to you.
Seven exits. Because this was the largest academy in Arijwan, the most prestigious. One only highly qualified Saheraâor in his case, highly rareâwere privy to attend. Twenty-four guards. He had counted the few lining the roof, as well. For insurance. Thirty-six classes. Because he had memorized the Academyâs schedule his first night here. One Qubba, because there was only one word he remembered his mother shouting on the night she died.
Najm dropped to the floor, his knees hitting the tile with enough force to make him gasp. The pain was receding, white spots now littering his vision instead. He tried to focus on a small beetle, pleasantly tottering along the seam where stone met tile. He let his mind calm for a minute more before trying to stand again.
His professors had developed many words to describe Najm since his arrivalâspecial case was the one heâd come to expect. Ticking bomb was one they favored in his absence.
None of which seemed to adequately clarify why Najmâs affinity was the only one that brought about so much pain.
The Dhimr Academy was an ancient, large building that seemed devoid of light at any time of day. Stone arches made up the halls, diamond-shaped porcelain rising up from the sides in decorative circles. There was no effort spared in perfecting such a prestigious academy. And Najm should have loved it. The Najm he used to be might have. He might have marveled at the intricately carved birds raised against the inside walls. The swirls of color exploding beneath the high-raised dome at the main entrance. Or the library with levels of shelves too high for his reach, and too advanced for his mind.
But he had not been that boy for many months.
He rose on shaky legs, leaning heavily against the wall. If his memory served, and it always had, there were eighteen minutes left before someoneâlikely a guard, possibly a professor on his way to his next classânoticed that Najm was not where he was supposed to be. And if the headmasterâs threats served as well as Najmâs memory, then he had to get back before then.
âI was told you were clever, but only an idiot would try to sneak past the headmasterâs own office and expect no consequences.âÂ
Najm startled, his legs nearly giving out under him as he whipped around to face the voice.
A short girl, years too young to be on this floor, with hair cropped under her chin and an amused glint in her dark eyes stood there. Her arms were crossed, head tilted to the side.Â
Najm tried to prevent his mind from springing into details but it had already slipped its leashâher concealed fists were clenched, meaning her abilities were currently in use, and since Najm had not heard her approach, that meant she was a Silver. The beige dress she wore fell loosely around her, short sleeves connected to the fabric giving the appearance of a birdâs wings mid-flight. And the Silver threads weaved around the neckline confirmed his theory about her Sahera affinity. A Wielder of Winds. She was too young for this floor, but evidently, her control surpassed her age. She had been moved up a few levels.Â
And the only reason she would know the concealed back door to the headmasterâs office was only a few steps away, was if she had been one of the students who had played a prank on him months ago.
âSana Ahmed,â he said, wincing. He forced his breathing to even. Let the details come to you.
She hummed, a small smile curling her lips, âyou are not supposed to be down here.â
Najm swallowed. He was still recovering from his last burst of power, and he knew that any response his mind might generate now would be a lie. He settled for a shrug.
âWhat happens if they find you?â she said, apparently happy to keep active a one-sided conversation.
Najm said nothing. It hurt too much to lie.
âIâm told I can be reckless,â she added thoughtfully, raising a hand and uncurling her fingers one by one. Around them, abandoned classroom doors were being pushed open by an invisible hand. âDo I want to be here when they find you?â
Najm watched her for a moment longer. There was a door at the end of the hall flanked by two guards on the outside. If she wished to allow it, that door could burst open and theyâd both be caught out of class. She looked much too amused at the situation, and Najm had heard enough about the students here to realize none of them truly cared to mind themselves.Â
But then, none of them were being forced to come here against their will.
âWhat do you want?â he said finally. He doubted she even realized what he was offering. A truth. Truths didnât hurt. Truths were easy, the world was made of them. Truths were the details his mind overflowed with. But not everyone deserved the truth, just because it was there.
Her eyes gleamed with victory and a flick of her wrist slammed shut the few doors she had opened. âIs it true you are a Gold?â
Najm clenched his jaw, the word had already become a sore bruise against his thoughts. âYes.âÂ
âWill you let it kill you?âÂ
Najm was struck for a moment by how matter-of-factly she spoke. When the Kashif had revealed to Najm what his affinity was, his tone had been grave, almost sad. He had told him, your mind is not your own. And then paused. It had occurred to Najm then that at this point an adult might stare meaningfully into his eyes and demand he never forgets their words.Â
But he had not understood then that being a Gold meant never forgetting.Â
When he spoke again his words were quiet, filled with the fire that haunted his dreams and filled his thoughts. Those same flames turned determined.Â
âNever.â
Sana watched him for a moment, her gaze curious.Â
âGood,â she decided finally. She turned away as if to leave before hesitating, glancing back once. It occurred to Najm that while him being there at that exact time, in that exact place was entirely purposeful, Sana had appeared there by coincidence.Â
Coincidence, the thought echoed in his own mind, almost mocking. The world is hardly ever that careless.
âStay,â Sana said, at last, her words quiet. âNeither of us needs to be here alone.â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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authorsnet is back for its second event! for this month, we would like our members to write a piece about the folklore within their wips. you can interpret this prompt however you like, and don't forget to be creative with it!
to join:
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post a snippet of any bit of folklore from your wip!
caption your creations with: Â â @authorsnet â event 02: folkloreâ Â [ snippet ] â
tag your creations with #authorsnet
entries close on 31st july and this event is open to members only. good luck!
@authorsnetââ event 01: first meetings â alex and francis
"Alex, this is Mr Francis Farraday-Tate," Ivy said, pointing to the young man Alex had already noticed. He was very pale, had dark, deep-set eyes and was leaning majestically in the corner of the sofa with such an arrogant expression on his face that Alex would hardly have dared to address him of his own accord.
"He's a writer," Ivy added in a confidential tone.
"Pleased to meet you!" exclaimed Alex cheerfully, holding out his hand.
Hesitantly, Francis took it with his own, which was icy.
"I am seldom in the habit of speaking to strangers," he said with dignity, "but I suppose it cannot always be avoided. In this case: the pleasure is all mine." The hint of an extremely distinguished smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Now that's a cocky one," Alex said quietly to Ivy. "That couldn't happen to me!"
"Don't pretend to be modest, Alex. It doesn't suit you."
"Excuse me, I'm the most modest person I know."
"As you can tell just by that statement, can't you?"
In mock indignation, Alex shook his head and turned back to Francis, who quickly lowered his head as if Alex had caught him watching him.
"So you're a writer, Mr Farraday-Tate," Alex said.
The large, charcoal-coloured eyes locked on him.
"Do you doubt that?"
"Why no, I've just never read anything by you before. Are you any good?"
"Don't embarrass the poor man like that," Ivy called over her shoulder. And addressing Francis, she said, "You'll have to get used to him being so direct. And just quite impossible in every other way, too. You could be straight up angry with him if he wasn't so terribly disarming, couldn't you?"
Alex wrinkled his nose in her direction.
"I wrote something once too," he said thoughtfully. "It was a sort of small play about a man who finds out his best friend is a murderer. In the end, though, he gets killed."
"By his friend?" asked Francis, who suddenly seemed quite interested.
"No, by a policeman who thinks he's his friend. It's a bit complicated, to be honest."
Francis nodded. "Seems like it."
"And you? What do you usually write?"
"Ah," Francis said, sitting up. Obviously this subject was very close to his heart. "Do you know E. T. A. Hoffmann?"
"But of course," Alex replied. "One of my favourite authors, in fact."
"You know, all my life as a writer I have tried to write in that or a similar style, for example, Edgar Allan Poe-"
"I see, you write old-fashioned horror stories!"
"Well, I would rather-"
"Now, now, that's wonderful! I just love that kind of story! I must read something of yours sometime, if you don't mind!"
"No, not at all," said Francis, whose eyes were now positively shining.
general taglist: @wherewindysurgeswendâ @buster-keatonâ @bookphobeâ @write-gallagherâ @aphaimaniisâ @tragediesoftoryâ @ortolonâ
