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#atlaswriting
bloodybigwardrobe · 5 months
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something something you're susan pevensie and you've decided that you will live again no matter the fact that you've done this all before. you decide that if you are to be in exile, there can be use and joy in making it work.
you're susan pevensie, and when you look at your siblings you see broken tools shoved into jobs they are not made for. your older brother is nothing more than a sword forcibly blunted, rust-red and sacrificial, a means to an end brought to ruin between gunfire and shrapnel pieces. your younger brother forgets to crave sugar like they want him to, forgets that he cannot speak sense to adults lest he be branded ill-mannered and dangerous. your sister seems like a tear in the landscape, so utterly alien, so unfitting, to the world that birthed her that you can't bear to look at her anymore.
something something your siblings yearn for the forge that broke them beyond repair, and all you can find within them are the ways they were molded to never belong to themselves again, the swords and salvation of a place that shaped them into things never meant for eternal use.
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madnessiseverything · 13 days
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gunpowdersyrup · 11 months
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aditi hilli's musings about her son and the moment he might have died
Your son is a beautiful wonder, a mess of eagerness and curiosity. His hands shape whatever you give him with awe, over and over again. Metal gives way like clay, sunset dyes stain stubby fingers. He laughs until his breath runs out and lets you coax it back for him with starry-eyed love. He leaves fruit-sticky prints on your skirts and gifts you lumpy buttons made of wire. When the world grows too quiet for him and his hands start to flutter like panicked birds, you steady them around the handle of a gun and listen to him talk until his voice is nothing but a happy, croaking mess.
You love him dearly, with every bit that he mirrors you, with every way that he mirrors his father. You love him wholly, mess and noise and blessings and all.
Your son isn’t awake when you breathe your last. You run one final caress over his cheek, one final kiss to his forehead where his head rests by cold hands. Your husband weeps, and you leave to dance amidst cherry and jurda blossoms.
Sometimes, you weave through stones to brush at spilling tears in the shade of your tree. Sometimes you laugh and hope that it carries to the kneeling figures above your grave. Sometimes, you watch your husband and son in the fields, their cracks full of festering grief and their hands infecting each other with rotting fear.
It hurts, so you never watch them for long—just long enough to feel your own grief at the way your two loves lock all your favourite parts of them up until their insides resemble a tomb; until they become grey shadows, broken and bent out of shape things in a house far too silent. It hurts, so you make sure not to add yourself to the ghosts they make of themselves.
Instead, you turn your eyes to the weave of fate spun out all around you. You brush curious hands over it. You let yourself drift.
Then, your son chokes. Your son chokes and your chest aches with phantom pain. No, you think, hands already wrapping themselves in the fabric of the universe to pull it apart. No. Your son chokes and his breath stutters. There is a poisonous thread wrapped around his lungs, pulling tight enough that you feel your own death for the first time in years. No.
He will not suffer your fate. He is a small, beautiful, broken thing, even now that he would stand as tall, if not taller, than you. He is beautiful, broken, a wonder, and you won’t let him find his way back into your arms like this. Not like this.
He chokes on the floor in a land he’s never stepped foot in before. You reach out and pull.
When it’s all done, when your words have painted his face with tears and his heart has cracked open between your palms, something that is not poison pulls at his back. His lips stain with blue dust. He clings to you like he used to, on the farm whose phantom image you both stand in. Your skirt stains with fruit, with gunpowder, with shifting dyes beneath a child’s desperate fingers. He clings, with grief and fury and so much goodness. So much love. You smile at him, press your lips to his forehead one final time, reach out and push. 
He wakes, gags. His breath returns. Metal shifts beneath his frantic hands, and eventually gives way.
He’s alive.
Your son is a beautiful, broken thing. He is noisy, a mess that leaves stains with little care. He is a wonder.
He is alive to fill his cracks up with new clay, and you trust him that he will.
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curvesomesunsets · 2 years
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no but you’re alex, unmoored and horrified at your fate and its unknowns, and sure you didn’t have the best life but at least you vaguely knew what was going on but now you’re dead and haunting a teenage girl twenty-five years after your death. and there’s this boy that crashes into you, that has answers and a smile bright enough to banish the memories of the dark room from your mind. and when you think to ask him for a favour, his face drops because he can’t help you---but then it turns out he can and he invites you to a place dripping with possible answers, bright as him and dazzling beyond belief.
and there is a man with the night sky stitched into his coat and he laughs and waves his hands and gives you male dancers because he understands. and you really, really don’t want to leave.
but not leaving tears the teenage girl you’ve become friends with back in half and yeah, you feel guilty because you could’ve left in time to save her the heartbreak. but the club was bright, and you really wanted to find the bright boy to have the dance you never could have had at prom when you were alive.
so you feel guilty, but you can’t say you would have done it differently. because then the night sky turns black and the man with too-blue eyes binds you to his club and a part of you is glad, because at least this way you won’t have to face another unknown. at least this way you might get to have that dance after all.
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indecentpause · 2 years
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Last Line Tag
@winterandwords left an open tag yesterday, so hello, hi, here I am with a last line from The Most Beautiful Puzzle!
cw: implied police corruption
“I’ve called Donatien,” Josselin says. “He’s served the court papers personally, so [REDACTED] knows he’s not supposed to come near you. But since you haven’t had the hearing yet, there’s not much you can do. Legally.”
You peek out from under the blanket. Josselin sits down beside your hip, Familiar wiggling around in his arms. Frankie stays standing, her hand on his shoulder.
“What do you mean, legally?”
“You can’t have him arrested. Yet,” Frankie says. She pulls something out of her purse and hands it over. You don’t grab it immediately, trying to figure out what it is.
“Taser,” she explains. “You’re technically supposed to have a license, but we can figure that out later.”
After a moment, you sit up and let the blanket fall around your hips and stomach, and you take the taser carefully, just examining it.
“I’ll teach you how it works,” she says. “And here, too,” she says, handing you a can of pepper spray. “There are also technically rules on when and where and how you can use it, but. We have friends.”
You never thought you’d be so glad to have friends who know corrupt cops. Corruption is bad, even if it’s corruption in your favor. But it’s good to know people who know people.
But is it really corruption if they’re just helping you protect yourself from a violent stalker? That doesn’t seem right.
You don’t realize how lost you’ve gotten in your own head until Familiar jumps into your lap. With a start, your vision comes back into focus. Frankie has stepped out. Josselin’s still here.
“You know what you need,” Josselin says, trying to be playful and failing miserably. “You need a distraction. You need to come down to the station with me while I sit in as Donatien interviews some people. He’s brilliant, but sometimes he needs help finding the right questions.”
“And you want me to–?”
“Just be there. There’s nowhere safer right now, right?”
I found a tag list for games!!! so from there, we’ll tag: @echoing-sailor @the-writerly-things @atlaswrites @inkflight @rose-red-ink @pen-for-sword ! hi there! I found your names in the likes and reblogs of a ‘who wants to play a tag game’ post, so if you don’t want me to tag you in the future, please just let me know! 
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What it means to be a writer
I feel like not enough people talk about this subject and I feel like it’s a really, really important one to tackle, even if it is just by sharing my own personal opinion on it. I feel like a lot of writers are quite harsh when they set their own standards for what it means to be a ‘successful writer’. Many probably look at inspirational writers they love and think, ‘They have so many books published. I want to be just like them’ and they set the worth of their words by the accomplishments and achievements of another person. There’s nothing wrong with being inspired by another person, but I think it’s important to keep in mind that their path is not yours and the more individual you can be, the more you view your own work as distinctly yours, the happier you may become.
 So to put this as simply as possible; if you write, you are a writer.
 If you write, even if your words never see the light of day and even if you are falling short of the milestones you set yourself, you are still a writer. For me, being a writer is about that itch niggling at the back of your mind that compels you to create. When a blank page drives you insane because you cannot find the words to fill it, but you don’t give up because you have a story you simply need to share with the world, you are successful because you are achieving your own personal triumph every single time you bring a new sentence, a sentence only you can write, into existence.  
 A visual artist isn’t successful when they get a place in the Louvre. They are successful when they create. A writers worth isn’t judged by how many books they have, or how many copies they have sold, or how many interviews they have gotten. It is judged in the dark hours of the morning when they are faced with a blank screen, an idea and the impossible urge to bring it to life no matter what.
Hope this helps someone out there.
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winterhelps · 4 years
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winter, você poderia me ajudar com alguns termos para descrever pele negra? não me sinto confortável em me referir a "cor de chocolate" ou "moreno escuro" e sinto que meu vocabulário é limitado em relação a descrições assim.
oi amore! então, eu não tenho propriedade alguma para fazer um post falando sobre isso ou dizer quais termos você deve ou não dizer, mas encontrei um guia completo que pode te ajudar.
descrevendo personagens negros, por atlaswrites (no fim dele, há dicas de outros posts que falam sobre isso)
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automatismoateo · 3 years
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Even if God existed. I would refuse to worship him. via /r/atheism
Submitted February 11, 2021 at 12:54AM by AtlasWrites (Via reddit https://ift.tt/3jEZZ3a) Even if God existed. I would refuse to worship him.
If a deity is so evil as to punish non-believers simply for not knowing or not believing (There's 100s of religions, can you blame people for being picky about what's true?)
Not to mention the dozens or hundreds of other atrocities God is responsible for.
If I was presented with undeniable evidence of God, such a God is not worth worship in my eyes. Throw me into the pits of hell. I would rather suffer then praise such an evil being.
You wont believe how many christian extremists I know that try to counter my argument by saying God can't do any moral evil because he is the supreme authority.
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zoetalks-blog · 7 years
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( ♡ ➟  ❝ um super post pra te ajudar na escrita + tive a ideia de fazer um masterpost com blogs que auxiliam na escrita, a maioria proveniente de fanfics, depois que o tumblr indicou três blogs ao mesmo tempo de escrita. quando vi, já estava olhando todos os parceiros e precisei compartilhar isso com vocês! muitos servem como blog inspo também. sempre que aparecer algum legal, eu vou atualizar o post. espero que gostem, é só clicar aqui embaixo! ❞ )
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@historias-descritas
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@atlaswrites
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@linhasdescritas
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bloodybigwardrobe · 1 year
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being back in their childhood bodies feels like wearing a quickly rotting corpse, lucy thinks not for the first time.
everything feels stiff, their adult death locking every joint with keys forever lost to them. peter's shoulders knock into every doorframe and corner no matter how much he presses his thumbs into the resulting bruises whispering curses. susan's hands violently shake around any object she dares to hold as though all muscles have long atrophied in this grave that calls itself england. for weeks, edmund falls down the stairs each morning, his feet uncoordinated and legs never long enough for the proud strides he tries to take.
lucy can't spin without getting dizzy. her body moves nothing like the years of grace she'd grown into. it tastes like decay, every time she lands on the floor, robbed of a living, worn-in self and caged in something that should have died decades ago; decomposing around their souls as though to mark their loss with the biggest insult this world could give.
she has half a mind to bury her siblings and herself beneath the sprawling green of the professor's lands—so that they might cease to drag their undead feet beneath their mourning minds and perhaps even finally find rest. she's tired of the sleepless nights, truly. tired of seeing edmund writing missives to politicians that would never be read, tired of watching susan bite her lip when yet another cup of tea spills down her dress, tired of watching peter sob over his bruises when he thinks they cannot hear.
lucy is tired of it all. she'd rather be dead, she thinks not once or twice but many times, even as she knows that burying themselves in english soil won't make their long-dead bodies bloom with narnian flowers.
she can hope, anyhow.
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madnessiseverything · 2 months
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gunpowdersyrup · 11 months
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please forgive my ugly ch4
a fic in which jesper gets evicted and ends up finally having to tell his friends just how bad he's gotten again.
ch4: Kaz pays Jesper a long overdue visit.
Kaz feels a familiar, ugly self-satisfaction settle between his ribs—a feeling that still seems to be reserved for hitting Jesper where it hurts. “It’s a simple safety precaution.” “It’s been years.” Jesper’s voice cracks on the shaky words.  “And I still have no intentions of letting it happen again.”  “So that’s it, then?” Jesper’s eyes meet his and Kaz watches desperation and resignation fight a losing battle against each other. A familiar fire of indignation burns through his words. “That’s why you’re here? To check if I’m a danger to them?”  Kaz raises his brows. “Are you?”  “Saints, Kaz,” Jesper exclaims, “how much more shit do I have to suffer for a little forgiveness?”  “What do you think my forgiveness looks like?” It’s a familiar question, one that had gone unanswered when Inej was in a hospital bed and Jesper’s nose cracked under Kaz’s fist. This time, Kaz doesn’t let the name slip out, but he watches Jesper straighten as if he said it all the same. 
read full chapter and fic on ao3
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curvesomesunsets · 1 year
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julie molina and the haunting of point medusa
the one in which Julie moves into the lighthouse of Point Medusa and promptly becomes a target for the building's frantic ghosts and less-than-ideal past. Hey, at least the girls in town are lovely.
Carefully, she folds the corners up and drops the cloth in the corner of the room. She’ll worry about laundry and new sheets tomorrow; when her brain isn’t a whirling mess of grey clouds. And even though the old sheets smell about as stale as they could, she just barely musters the energy to change into her PJs before crawling in and closing her eyes.  When she opens them again, it’s to the vast sight of the ocean and the night sky spreading out in front of and beneath her. Julie exhales and watches a small cloud drift out of her mouth and into the night. Her legs dangle where she sits on the railing, her hands curled loosely around the metal for stability.  Beneath her, the waves crash into the rocks where the lighthouse stands. Slowly, Julie becomes aware of how high up she is. Her heart leaps up into her throat, her vision blurs as she clutches the railing with a death grip. Her hands feel slick with something, too slippery to keep holding on for long. Julie knows she has to move and get back on the other side of the railing, where the light slowly turns inside the lantern room. She doesn’t remember lighting it, isn’t even sure it should still be functional. She doesn’t dare move.  The sound of the waves and her heart slowly meld together into a cacophony of low rumbling. Julie thinks she might hear a voice, distant and distorted. Her hands slip and she looks down again. The ocean breaks up on the rocks, the foam pink instead of white. The lantern turns and the waves shine red. Somebody screams. The railing disappears, and Julie falls. 
full chapter on ao3
so i FINALLY have started posting my @julieandthephantomsbb yall :D couldn't be more excited to once again bring yall a spooky multichapter (which is complete and will be updated either daily or every second day so no worries about this WIP being abandoned :P)
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atlaswrites · 7 years
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Gente, perguntinha rápida, alguém por aqui tem conta no pinterest? Eu comecei a usar o pinterest há um tempo, mas eu nunca parei pra realmente usar, porque eu ficava meio perdida (lmao porque é super simples), mas recentemente eu comecei a realmente usar o pinterest e eu achei maravilhoso pra procurar inspo pra personagens. Eu fiz umas pastas para os personagens da história que eu vou voltar a escrever (por motivos de inspiração, mas também por motivos de procrastinação) e eu to achando isso super bacaninha (em cada pasta eu coloco imagens que lembram os personagens e isso tá me ajudando a pensar algumas coisas a mais sobre eles, e além disso já tem um monte de imagem salva pra quando/se eu começar a publicar a história e sair fazendo aesthetic de personagem lmao). Pra quem quiser ver, meu pinterest é atlaswrites. Quem me seguir lá me fala pra eu seguir também.
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The effects of taking a break from writing
Alright, so that title might be a bit misleading since I haven’t really taken a break from writing, I’ve just shifted my focus and schedule around quite a bit. Before this month, I was writing, editing and uploading a chapter every month for a little over two years. Now, I’m ‘taking time off’ to work on the detailed outlines making up the finale of the story. So I’m not writing less, but I am writing quite differently.
 I got rid of my old schedule and haven’t introduced another deadline. Instead, I’m looking at these outlines as ‘taking as long as they will take’. This decision was made to give my mind some room to breathe and to give me creativity enough time to recover and view the finale with a fresh set of eyes. After all, I have no following to speak of, no Patron’s clamouring for the next chapter and threatening to unsubscribe, so I wanted to use that to my advantage. The only pressure I’ve felt on this project has been from myself to prove that I could maintain a steady stream of writing over a prolonged period of time. I’ve definitely proven that and, even when I didn’t upload a chapter this week, I did go ahead and commission a piece of artwork just to fill the void.
 The effects of a looser schedule took a while to sink in. At the beginning of this month, I didn’t notice much of a difference. I was working hard on the outlines and I’ve made fantastic headway with them and rectified a lot of problems I’ve always had with the story overall.  I still had that itch to write and I was doing it and pleased with my progress. But it was only weeks later, towards the end of this month, that I’m beginning to really see a difference between ‘then’ and ‘now’.
 An important fact to keep in mind was the fact that I was doing freelance writing work over quarantine as well, which contributed massively to my creative burnout. For months, when I wasn’t working on my novel, I was working on someone else’s ideas. Often while dealing with customers that were less than pleasant or helpful, if I’m honest. So for months, I was up against deadlines on a near daily basis. I shut down my freelancing service when I went back to work and this ‘break’ followed soon after to focus on my own writing.
 My general mood is a lot better right now. I feel personally happier, less stressed and less tense on average in my day to day life. I find it easier to live in the moment rather than looking ahead to the next page/next draft/next chapter. So that’s pretty cool to begin with. But for my writing, it really gave me the space and time needed to get my thoughts together. It’s taken the better part of a month for my creativity to recover and begin to flow properly for the first time in almost two years, but it’s only now that I have a chance to breathe that I realise just how much pressure I was under for months at a time. I adjusted to the pressure so that after a while, I didn’t even notice it until it was gone. Like a backpack on a long hike; it’s heavy at first but with a little practice you can ignore it and when you finally take it off, you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
 That is what this break has been like for me. And with that weight removed, I slowly felt my creativity return until it feels like it’s back to normal. I feel a lot more engaged with Ruins of Dalaghast now than when I was writing it non stop, and during the outlining process, I’m finding a lot of ideas easier to come by than when I was half heartedly brainstorming while writing months ago. I still have quite a lot of writing to do before this project is over, but I am definitely reconsidering how I schedule the final few chapters moving forward.
 So, I guess the moral of the story is to take a break and let your creative mind breathe every once in a while. It’s taken a while for my own writers mind to begin working again like it used to, but it’s definitely getting there and writing is much more enjoyable nowadays, as I’m taking a relaxed approach to the subject, than when I was writing a chapter a month. It was stressful, but doable, and something I wanted to do for myself, but its effects can only really be gauged accurately in retrospect. I hope this helps someone out there who might be struggling with the same ordeal. Until next time, take care and keep creating.
 TLDR: Take a break every once in a while. Especially for larger projects.
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fxfads · 6 years
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oi, gente! ♡ tudo bem? tô apaixonada pela premissa do rp, sempre foi algo que eu desejei demais, sério! mas sempre que eu começo a planejar um char, eu demoro demais, porque penso em todos os detalhes, e acabo não tendo tempo suficiente para passar tudo a limpo por conta do meu trabalho. como ainda não temos acesso à central, vocês teriam alguma sugestão para começar a planejar um char? no que pensar, coisinhas para responder e esse tipo de coisa, sabe? desde já, agradeço pela atenção! ♡ xx
Oi amore, se seu problema está sendo no desenvolvimento e edição da ficha, nós temos um milhão de links para te ajudar
huermione: como desenvolver bem um personagem
nandahelpsarchive: ideias de personagens diferentes
nandahelpsarchive: como fazer starters e desenvolver a bio
nandahelpsarchive: desenvolvendo as habilidades do personagem
lovhelps: jeitos de desenvolver seu personagem
biosiren-blog: biographies (em inglês)
linhasdescritas: manual do escritor
helpingwithfcs: 100 perguntas para fazer para seu personagem
atlaswrites: criando um personagem
atlaswrites: desenvolvendo personagem
atlaswrites: criação de personagem (tag)
Agora se o assunto é sobre nossa ficha em específico, então atenha-se aos tópicos principais, história da família, habilidades mágicas, casa de Hogwarts, vida social, tipo de varinha e essas coisas. Ela é bem simples e pode ser feita em tópicos.
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