Over the Moon
Hunting. Always hunting. Her ethereal body prickled in anticipation at the sound of prey moving into her trap. Every noise echoed in the panicked hush of the woods she encircled. Each twig snapping, each bone chilled shudder, each bemoaned cry as a foot fell wrong through the mossy rocks. But the trees sheltered her prey, their hammock wide and unblinking. A thousand evergreen stares peered back up towards the Huntress.
Then! A sudden gasp of air; frantic cast net eyes gleaming out from the dark forest below. She swooped in eagerly through a breach in the clouds, her talons like silver shrapnel shredding through the soft skin of the poor human girl.
A terrible cry pierced the night sky, like the first bullets on a once silent battlefield. Falling to her knees before crumpling in the clearing, the girl was at the mercy of the Moon. Trilling out rhythmically, a machine gun fire of sobbing racked the body of the young woman caught in the single glimmer of moonlight that descended through the terrible scene.
Cold, serene, the moon did not hesitate, she cupped the girl in a gentle, unforgiving calm- setting a chill softly into the human's delicate, delicious bones, until soon the crying became soft moans, and sooner after a peaceful silence purred from the girl while she slept.
It did not matter the little human's name. Nor the circumstance the Moon had whispered into the dreams of the wolf like men around the girl that led to the blood staining the girls colder and colder body. What mattered was the Magic. Sleeping into the Earth and the trees and kept far from the rivers that would wash it all away. Before the girl was just meat, before the scavengers were brave enough to steal pieces of her flesh that the Moon had no use for, before she was even born, a seed of Magic had made its way into her. Like so many other Human girls. "So undeserving," the Moon hissed to herself.
The moon did not feel sorry for the embrace, she felt no guilt and would give no penance. She feasted, hungrily, until again she was a full, beautiful, lucious Moon. Round and perfectly spherical, hung in the heavens like a goddess, to be worshipped. It would not be until she began to wane again that she would need to hunt. The decaying body of this girl would tide her until then, but already, like clockwork, she had set her spell into the dreams of others. Others who would unknowingly help her With the next kill.
Shakespeare
To be or Not to BE?
That is the Question
or was it
What makes a “good” writer? lol
I failed EVERY English class EVERY year because of ALL the stupid
“man’s” ways.
Punctuation matters to the writer if the writer cares how the person reads his words.
I thought Writers push the dIFferent...
We paint reality with our own StYLe why would anyone ever try and hold back a person’s creativity just because it’s not the same as everyone else's.
I thought to be a good writer meant to be brave to be dIfferent to use words in a creative way bringing forth a new reality.
I thought the writers were the movers and the shakers.
I thought good writers were the ones who didn’t fear what others thought when they werer expressing even if there are errorrorrs. LOL
writing is an art in the form of the imagination.
the better the writer can pull you in with their words, making you want more...
thirsty, reading the next word, starting to lick your lips from the dryness of your mouth. Now wondering how did I do that with my words? Make you want to lick your lips? Can you resist? Reading my words? Is your mouth watering or getting dry thinking about how much you need to lick your lips but you don't want to because you are a rebel inside and you resist. Now you know you are a rebel...
Did you lick or Resist?
ah another good question. hahahahaha
a good writer will bring you into their world, you will be breathing in every word with desire and lust knowing you can’t just STOP with one word.
To finish a story is a huge feat in itself. Then to bring emotions, smiles, tears, and even anger before the end. You are a
“Good Writer” no matter what society says.
Pat yourself on the back congratulations.
You are sharing your uniqueness and someone wants to explore it with you.
What does it take to be a “Good” Writer?
not punctions, capitalization, spelling, or any of that. That ALL changes anyway...
What makes a Good Writer is LOVE. You can ALWAYS TELL WHEN SOMEONE WRITES FROM THE
HEART ❤️
IT IS LOVE that makes a difference in everything.
Athena
10/27/20
1:23 pm
The Tyranny of the Majority
“k”
Are you angry?
“sure”
Are you being sarcastic?
“love you”
Are you being sincere?
Gone are the days where words held breath, held power, held certainty. Where writers touched lives, held hands, and ruffled the feathers of issues blue and black.
We blame the young, blame gen z, blame those whom we think perpetuate this vicious cycle. Yet have we thought, could there be more?
The answer is yes.
It goes back months, years, decades, to a time where facebook was taking its first steps, and instagram was but a figment of imagination.
And suddenly, like out of the flames, it burst out with a cry. No one expected it, really. No one anticipated it, certainly. But people flocked, nonetheless, hid under its wings and took refuge in the comfort of the undisputable. For that was the power of the majority, the fervent thirst to belong. And slowly, writers followed suit. For fear of exposure, or the lack thereof, no one really knew. What we knew, though, was that slowly, writing descended into an abyss of conformity, simplicity and unoriginality.
And that thus laid the bedrock and built the cornerstone of our imminent destruction, of our dismal dismay, and of our perpetual dissatisfaction.
But is this the end? i think not. Humans are not as weak as portrayed, and hope is not lost. For akin to the phoenix rising from the ashes, perhaps one can take heart that like an act of catharsis, an act of purgatory, and an act of purification, the binary opposites of destruction and restoration merely precede change, and destruction and loss will pave the way for rebuilding and redemption.
And perhaps, someday, we might find ourselves no longer merely skimming through words, but once again find pause in the social issues and heartfelt emotives that books portray. And then we might realise, that good writers? Good writers make up the cornerstone of our reborne civilisation; they teach us to empathise, to envision, to empower. They are the voices speaking what has not been, but has to be said. And this, this is what will secure our survival in a world so ambiguous, so lost, and yet so hopeful.
Siren
The creak of old ship beams
the sighs of tired men
fog drifts over water
like paper pressed to pen
Out past the bowsprit
from the unseen beyond
comes a voice like spun gold
casting spells with no wand
Pressed flat to the deck
hands slapped tight to his ears
a man screams his warning
through the mist of his tears
The ship moves with purpose
pulled tight on a string
to the source of that song
to the end of all things
Long and shimmering fins
mouths stretched tight with glee
they wait for the ship
black eyes and wild teeth
Sharp rocks up ahead
but the ship isn't turning
the men sway like lovers
held trapped in their yearning
Wood splinters jagged
high screams split the air
decks drenched in saltwater
the topsails stripped bare
The songs runs its course
then laughter like fire
it burns and it burns
witches strapped to a pyre
On the banks sit the guilty
their cruelty untamed
dense fog lifts around them
their shoreline bloodstained
Claws dig deep into feasting
lips smeared with dark red
and the wind softly echoes
through the bones of the dead
There is blue in the water
there is sun in the sky
and tomorrow a new ship
will surely pass by
