this is a collection of unpolished, imperfect, messy snippets either from writing exercises or unfinished stories. I’m putting these here to document my progress as a writer, and to remind myself that writing is writing is writing — even if its not perfect.
this morning, the sun appeared to rise in the west…
“In the expanse of the Stone Sea, where hulls scraped against granite and crunched glass, silence and stillness meant you were stuck. Trapped in waves built from rock. If you were lucky, death would come first.”
forest, ghost, cotton candy
“Blessing was a little town, with little houses, filled by little, lost children.”
Gold
“There was no warning, just a sudden whoosh of wind and the curtain before them turned to gray ash. The god was there. There—but not. What was once beautiful and divine, turned corrupt and terrible. Its foul mouth gaped open, unhinged at the jaw. Eyes a sickly gold. From its fingertips, dripped something foul and milky white, and each fat drop hissed as it landed on the marble. It reached for them.”
papercut
“Still, I paid it no mind, only stared at the way my mother’s fingers toyed with each sheet, fingering its edges until blood welled up from her fingertips, only to be stripped, one my one, neatly into the fire.”
ruins, journalists, and pirates
“Shooting star journalist. Couldn’t take the heat and burned too quickly on impact.”
sharks, spies, space
“As she hurtled towards the planet, Melodia could only see a reflection of the fighter in its placid, dark water. Burning metal. Damaged wings. Her own face that, for just a fraction, twisted with fear before she broke through the surface.”
i just hit the switch
“Harper knew what to do in those towns too: hit faster than a pickpocket’s hand. Break a deal faster than a sweat. Every girl on the Isle knew when a hero came from one of those towns.”
the tide
“The memory begins with death. A howling. The sound of metal against stone. The sort of bright darkness that happens when the mind can dream of the color white while the eyes are still closed.”
dialogue
“Before I can speak, the grinding sound of metal against stone spills through the clearing. There’s a dark clarity to it. Not the clean pierce of a knife being sharpened, nor the spark of swords coming to blows. Instead, it’s the cry of something being dragged. Ringing with finality, it's the sound of reapers drawing out scythes, the sound of felled gods and kingdoms. “
the isle
“The isle always trembles before a new arrival. It’s a sort of warning, the rumble beneath feet, vibrating up spines like a shockwave. The gods’ way of telling them that whoever arrives on the island has the power to move it, move them.”
fire
“Don’t burn,’ he whispers, voice barely lifting over the howling wind, his hot breath fanning down my exposed throat like a flame, there and gone.”
the last star
“From the zenith, the last star begins to plummet.”