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The Cost (A Particular History 3) {RW}

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Cynthia’s dreams are cyclical. The way she could weave images together and create false realities so grounded and potent was a brilliant feat. She could erase their very existence in a few choice words. It was an act of strength to destroy that which was created. I always envied her capability. In her hands she held the very fabric of time and space each moment she took to breathe. She was also an excellent liar.

Cynthia used to speak of far off places and sword fights. She dreamed of technicolor swirling waterfalls that cascaded into endless seas of silver and of floating castles that lived amongst the clouds yearning to touch the ground. She spoke of mysterious towns covered in the fog of always midnight where shadows lived and lurked haunting the inhabitants who never had arrived to begin with. When she was sixteen, she told me of floating to another world in her dreams where the man in black greeted her and asked her for a promise. She did not give it to him. Instead she followed him through unending staircases to stores she could list off in languages that I did not name.

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Blog, Random Writings

This is Love {RW}

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This is Love {RW}

She didn’t like the way that we were always together. She didn’t like the way that I would whisper to you in the night, or how you would giggle with me at our own personal jokes. She didn’t like when we rearranged her terribly organized house. She didn’t like us.

It is not so surprising. I have found that many people tend to lose their rationality when it comes to me. They twist about spouting words, red faced, and bathed in fear. How could I possibly be here? How could I intrude on their lives? I have long grown used to the calloused looks away, and the way that they pretend that I don’t exist. But you saw me.

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Concinnity Characters PreWriting

by themarlenamarie1 Comment on Concinnity Characters PreWriting
Concinnity Characters PreWriting

I thought this could be a fun idea. I didn’t do it with YP, but I might make one once its completed.

Alright! So here are the character aesthetics for the main characters for CON. These are the aesthetic boards I made for the characters as the inspiration for each of their characters. I do not anticipate for this to be the way that the characters remain through the story (some have already changed a bit as it is lol). I think it could be fun to have before and after photos of what I picture their character aesthetics in my mind.

I’m going to give a few character words that I think they might say. I will give some other characteristics that I think of them when I see them in my mind. I will revisit these later on and give you real quotes and other details later on.

Without further ado.

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Blog, Random Writings

Echo {RW}

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Echo {RW}

The echo of voices started soft. A siren song luring the mind deeper into the darkness. She knew she shouldn’t approach. Her mother had told her to avoid the voice when it came for her. 

The first time she had heard the voice was when she was ten. For a decade she had fought it off in her nightmares. It would come in the grey of the night as the wind lulled her to sleep. It started as a distant wordless vocalization that grew closer with each breath. She learned that voice was beautiful, but it could not be followed. She had to pretend that she did not hear its twisting serenade harmonizing with itself as the echo grew.

She had once asked her mother what the voice was. Her mother had claimed that the voice was calling them home. Her mother believed that they had left some strange land to come to this one. The voice was a calling to return, but they could not. Their homeland was dangerous, terrible; they had left it on purpose.

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One Aunt Grace (A Particular History 2) {RW}

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One Aunt Grace (A Particular History 2) {RW}

Cynthia always said the door was an oak one. The description of this door changed all the time, but the wood was always oak. It may have been painted red (with white swirls and gold twist knobs and hinges) or bleached oak (with a brass keyhole and a peephole painted black). It sometimes was as large as ten feet and other times just big enough for her to squeeze through at six years old. Most of the time it was a standard seven foot tall, dark brown door with a black handle that could only be pushed down, and squeaked when it tried to move open. It was, however, always oak.

Cynthia doesn’t have a key. Not in the way that Cyndy and I do — or rather I do, as Cyndy lost hers far too long ago. Cynthia does know, however, that her aunt had one. Aunt Grace had a long black iron key that she held on her at all times. Cynthia said it was far too heavy for her to ever hold. (Which was not saying much as the last time Cynthia had been to Aunt Grace’s was when she had been no more than eight and she had been a very weak child.)

Cynthia had only ever gotten a glimpse into the room once — although she swears she had never seen the room open in her life. This attic door, she claimed, was the gateway to a back attic room stuff full of old brown boxes and a single window looking to the outside. The exterior roofline of the house had no such window. And while Cynthia says that’s what she saw, she will likewise swear that it never opened. It never could open. It never should have been opened.

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