#writerscafe

Just before Phoebe's twelfth birthday, the lion tamer was mauled to death. For weeks, the man's awful screams seemed to echo in the back of the poor girl's thoughts. Mrs. Forrester complained to her parents.

"She's struggling with her fractions," the stern woman said. "Daydreaming. I sometimes have to snap her out of it."

Phoebe had been in attendance at the circus, seated beside her father in the creaking wooden stands, drinking a fizzy drink and wearing last year's dress with the brown stain. When the clowns departed, the lights abruptly dimmed and in the center of the ring, a heavy-set man in an impressive top hat, wearing a colorful vest and slacks, emerged from a door, driving a lion forward with the cracking of a whip. There was no hesitation about the man. He moved with purpose, commanding the wild beast to march up a short flight of steps, then leap through a hoop, as though it were a trained Jack Russell. The audience applauded appreciatively.

For several minutes, the man demonstrated his fearlessness, humiliating the beleaguered beast by chasing him throughout the ring. Then, doffing his top hat to reveal a glistening bald head, he flicked his wrist as though he were tossing a frisbee and sent the hat sailing across the ring before giving a sudden crack of his whip and ordering the lion to sit. The lion obliged, hunkering down heavily upon its haunches. Then the lion tamer, through the magic of some quick gesture, commanded the opening of the lion's jaws. At this, Phoebe grew dead still.

"What's going on, Dad?" she asked, nervously, not daring to look away from the scene below. The girl had always been terrified of anything with teeth. She did not even like visiting her friend, Nancy, who kept a pet poodle.

Setting down his only defense, the lion tamer advanced upon the horrible gaping jaws.

"Dad," Phoebe repeated, wide-eyed and breathless, "what is he doing?"

"It's all right, P," her father whispered. "It's just a trick. Don't worry."

But his voice sounded uncertain. And a strange hush had fallen over the rest of the crowd. Every eye in the stands seemed to be taking in the sight of those long yellowing fangs which lined the enormous open maw which shook with the lion's breath. Inside, the fat tongue looked a foot wide. Phoebe had the passing thought that she could have fit very comfortably inside the lion's mouth.

The circus tent was now silent. Like Phoebe, the rest of the audience sensed blood in the air. Even the lion tamer, who until this point had moved with total confidence, now hesitated. Phoebe saw a look of bewilderment cross the man's glistening face as he slowly bent at the waist — sideways, so that his face remained in full view of the audience — then proceeded, to the amazement and horror of everyone in the room, to insert his shining head into the beast's mouth.

What ensued was total pandemonium, though for a moment, it appeared that the lion tamer might pull off his incredible feat. But no — the huge jaws snapped shut upon the poor man's face, and the crowd erupted into screams and shouts, and it seemed that the very air shuddered with the flurry of movement as every man, woman, and child leapt to their feet. There was a mad dash to the exit. Somewhere in the distance, the screams of the lion tamer could be heard.

Phoebe found herself swept away (it seemed) as if by an undertow, pulled into the panicked sea of people. She saw that it was her father who had pulled her up into his arms. She heard him saying, "Don't look, sweetie! Don't look!"

He was almost pleading. But Phoebe couldn't help it. Caught up in her father's fierce clutches, her body pressed into his chest, the young girl's eyes had nowhere to look but backwards, towards the center of the circus tent.

There, in the ring, the lion now stood triumphant over its nemesis. On the ground, the lion tamer's face, streaked red, emitted howls of pain. The wild beast roared, then plunged its bloodied snout into the dying man's belly and ripped out ribbons upon ribbons of entrails. The sight ingrained itself into the young girl's mind. The man's wails rang through the tent, never seeming to fade. Phoebe could hear them even during the car ride home.

For weeks, she dreamed about the incident. Usually, the dream involved a cave. Sometimes, it was a dark stable. At any rate a black curtain hung across an opening of some sort, concealing something inside. In the dream the girl, though afraid, pushed the curtain aside.

There, in the darkness, she invariably found the lion tamer lay on the ground, grunting with pain, holding his belly. And as on the night of the circus, the man in her dream fell silent, his head lolling to one side, as though his body had given up the ghost.

But his eyes remained open, unblinking, staring at Phoebe.

Then, in the dream, the girl would run as fast as her legs could carry her. Several times, she would turn to find the bloodied face still staring, the eyes still watching. The mouth would curl into a smile and from the surrounding shadows would come the thunder of pursuit. She could not see the lion, only hear the thick thud of its paws as it galloped towards her. The lion tamer's eyes followed her. The heat of the beast's breath blew upon the back of her neck.

A final snap of the jaws!

-talk about my OC in your inbox

-ask you questions about your OC

-talk about my novel in your inbox

-ask you about your novel

What an irony?

To run away so hard that you left your destiny behind .

What a shame to be so fragile that a hold of love was enough to break you down.

Didn't you find yourself on the floor scattered like a glass the next day.

I hope it hurts you the same like all of us.

You can fill yourself with love till your head runs out of hungry ghosts that eats you from inside.

Please no longer visit the graves of people you failed badly . It is a punishment to stand on your failures and cry .

It makes the sky crumble .

Your heart isn't enough when it comes to love . People nearly suck out the soul and keep asking you to breathe freely .

Part 1

Hey everyone!

If you're as passionate about Young Sheldon and The Big Bang Theory as I am, I need your help! I'm looking for dedicated fans to join me on an exciting fanfiction project that dives into a prequel of Young Sheldon.

Here's the plan: we're going to create an engaging story featuring new OC siblings for the Cooper family. These new characters will add unique dynamics and interactions with the familiar Cooper siblings, promising lots of fun and drama. Imagine the possibilities of adding fresh, original characters into the mix of Sheldon, Missy, and Georgie!

What I'm looking for:

Fanfiction Writers: Whether you're a seasoned writer or new to the scene, your creativity is welcome! We'll be working together to weave an intricate and compelling storyline.

Beta Writers: Help shape the narrative with fresh ideas and collaborative brainstorming sessions. Your input will be key to developing our story.

Beta Readers: Your keen eyes and constructive feedback will be invaluable. Help us ensure our story flows well and remains true to the characters we all love.

Beta Editors: Polish our drafts to perfection. Your skills in grammar, structure, and continuity will elevate our fanfiction to a professional level.

Co-Writers: Join me in co-writing the chapters. Collaborate on plot twists, character development, and dialogue to make our fanfiction shine.

We'll use Google Docs to collaborate, brainstorm, and draft our untitled Young Sheldon fanfics.

Even though I'm a fan of both shows, this will be my first fanfic for both fandoms. I'm recovering from long-term writer's block, so I need all the help I can get. No experience writing for this fandom? No problem! We're here to have fun, learn, and create something amazing together.

I've written other fanfics on AO3 under the username Princess Shuri 16, and the goal here is to have creative fun with fellow members of the writing community.

Our combined writing communities on Tumblr, AO3, and beyond are filled with talented individuals. Let's harness that collective creativity and passion to make a fanfiction that the Young Sheldon and Big Bang Theory communities will love!

If you're intrigued and want to embark on this creative journey with me, please reply to this post. Let's bring our ideas to life and make a fanfiction that will be talked about for years!

I debated popping this here and thought about putting it in my main blog, but this is still a piece of my writing, even if it's not part of my worlds (The Paragon/Limbo) it's a bit of a ramble but one that gives me comfort to re-read from time to time.

It is based on Egyptian mythology, and you know how I do love to twist mythology, so read that how you will

Outdoors, the air is warm but not uncomfortably so. The meeting place is not unlike a gazebo. Octagon in shape and made of a rose quartz stone. There is warmth to the materials. There are pillars at each of the points of the octagon – Greco roman columns. There are vines of ivy using the columns as supports and the flowers in the garden surrounding the structure are in bloom. The smell of Plumeria and orchid makes for a heady brew. The floor is covered by a thick rug. The designs are reminiscent of Persian rugs and the design no less grand. There are two low divans in here that invite one to stretch out and relax. They promise comfort but do not invite sleep. It is a place for a weary traveler to find solace and comfort before resuming their journey. Between the divans there is a table with fruits – grapes, pears, mangos, apples and peaches sorted on a platter. There is also a tea set. It’s ceramic but brown with deep designs etched and inlaid. The pattern and influence does not ring a bell with me but it is beautiful nonetheless. There is music in the background – "Kai" I think – sort of a grand joke in and of itself. Classical meets techno – somehow I feel it is appropriate.

It’s nighttime. The moon is rising in all her glory and she is full. She signs a soft and inviting light into the gazebo and I start to lay out the chess board. While setting the pieces I ponder the pawn. Some people despise being the pawn. The word alone conjures up so many negative connotations – disposable, too many rules, least valuable. Yet the pawn is the only piece on the board that can transcend itself and become more that it was. It is the only piece that can become one of the others. In that sense it is the most valuable but the mutability needs to be used carefully and the road will be tough.

A cool breeze stirs and I know he has arrived. “Greetings Father.” I say, slowly standing and turning to se him. He is not one easily missed though, at the same time he is. Deep ebony skin and powerful presence. At first he seems impossibly tall, but as I get closer he seems to be just perfect. His presence is that of a comforting parent – a long time relative returning for a welcome visit that has been too long in coming. He is as I see Him, Ibis head, headdress, traditional dress, barefoot (shoes are not allowed in this place) and missing his papyrus and quill.

“Greetings Daughter, may I enter?” His voice is rich and deep. A baritone I think. It could ring off the walls should he wish it, yet he is soft-spoken.

As we enfold one another in a hug I hear myself saying “Be welcome in this place. Be at peace, know happiness and find comfort within its walls. You never need my permission to enter.”

art works and poetry, chronological order.

please don’t judge my art…i’m not exactly a Bob Ross descendant.

The Killing Kind - November 16

Is part of a writing challenge: The Eternal Sleeping Beauty

❝ 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀is the kind of land ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀that only knows ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀of days gone morose.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀is darkly grand - ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀gore and glory ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀is the heard story.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙? ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀One who stand ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀with broken wings ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀and tons of shillings.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀is the kind of band ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀playing with thorns ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀and growing horns.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀is the new brand ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀for goods like you ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀to turn askew.

Or better yet, if you do not want to fret, turn a deaf ear to these unlove language because 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 has spread on earth and 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥, 𝘮𝘺 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖊. ❞

Withering Blossoms - November 17

Is a part of a writing prompt: The Eternal Sleeping Beauty

❝ 𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀to a world I have carefully crafted ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀and painted with such gentle strokes.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀all sixteen petals crumpling and distorting ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as thorns prick at me beyond my broken vase.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as the weight of the killing kind ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀pulls me down to the land of tainted souls.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as I choose to have the most selfish desire ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀to wake and live in a new unblemished realm.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as a new seed is placed in the softest soils ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀and is kept warm by the freshest chasm.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as the bud grows into a new flowerette, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀a new beauty that wakes when the sun rises.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀as the budding flower reaches its full bloom ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀to be shaped and molded into the perfect cadette.

𝒜 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼, ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀and its memories that shall remain ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀in the hearts of those who lived.