Creativewriting - Blog Posts

writeblr introduction

☼ my name is avery and my blog runs two themes at once! witch themes/writing themes.

☼ if you haven't made the connection already, i'm an aspiring author and an inspiring witch!

☼ i just recently got back into writing after a two year hiatus, unfortunately stemming from a spiral in depression. i've realized that writing makes me feel better :)

☼ even better news, i've started my very first novel! i plan on attempting to get it published in early 2022, but that's a long-term goal.

☼ i love writing in my grimoire the most! something about being able to create not only memories, but test out my artist skills as well makes me feel alive!

☼ i hope to become a positive member in this community and i love making new friends! feel free to message me, especially if you want an opinion on your writing! i love reading!

☼ my favorite author right now is andrea cremer! she actually inspired this novel!

Hit back

I find you flying elegantly above me,

You feel the thrust of my hand as i reach out and snatch you,

experiencing fear in you is the only joy in which i thirst for,

i watch you shake and plead,

my fingertips plucking away, 

clipping your delicate wings,

i gain pleasure watching you suffer,

knowing what you've put me through is ever the more pleasing,

i look back on the torment you've caused me,

and nothing but hatred and anger fill my veins,

you never expected me to hit back,

well here it is.

Ticking away

Time is ticking away, 

to make my movie, is to embrace the worthy of embracement.

She's ready to fly, but yet i stand idle, blinded by her beauty,

tamed by her enchanting wonderment.

The love we share, seems to remain locked up in me,

everytime i look into your eyes, i'm lost,

in an ocean of azure bliss.

You make me smile, and warm on the inside.

My heart skips a beat, everytime i sense your presence.

I love  the way you smile, and always know what my next word will be.

I love the way we argue, and you get those little sparks in your eyes,

that tell me, we're gunna work this one out.

  When we lock eyes,

The clocks stop ticking.

Galactus and Peacebloom

Chasing The Fire

Hope is but a fleeing shadow,

Thorned and thistled by this fickle world,

Thee ice cold flame burns beneath the crystal walls in which it is tamed,

The flame survives caged and held captive,

by the ruthless zerg,

as the flame roars and sears for freedom.

Poisoned and Bludgeoned,

the blood runs freely down the walls of my mind,

twisting and staining all i saw was hope,

as I was once,

merely a marine.

A flame, so simple and so innocent.

So calm, yet so rage driven.

Easily manipulated.

The flame, as we speak of it,is the very spirit,of the terran.

The very soul, of mankind. 

The heart, of the damned,

The bodies torn and broken,

The lives shattered and warped,

Survivors of the final strike,

Forced into slavery,

The intergalactic warfare thrives with all its glory,

And the battle pulses,

With all its horror,

And all its glory.

Tsunami description.

The monstrous torrent,

Of the tremendous wave,

Looms tauntingly above the cursed city's feet.

The sinister blackness,

Of the waterwalls shadow;

Hangs tinorously teasing,

toying with the city.

Azure,

Now the city seems, 

held in submission by the relentless force;

Unmatched in its strength.

Gloriously it stands.

It’s easy to say

It’s easy to say I hope you’ve been well, than calling me up and having a meaningful conversation. It’s easy to say I support you, than showing up on the night of my performance. It’s easy to tell everyone that you know me, than actually knowing how I'm doing that day. It’s easy to say I hope you had a good day, than asking how my day went. It's easy to say I hope you get better, than supporting me on each step of the way. But I'd like to think loving me would be easy.

I’ve been losing my appetite

I’ve been losing my appetite, and no it hasn’t been recently — it’s been years.

My whole life actually. It’s always been like this.

Have I always been scary to look at?

I lay on the floor of my room staring at my ceiling through the gaps of broken fingers, wondering if I’ll ever change. I don’t know.

That takes strength though, right? I don’t know if I have any more of that left. The fight in me has disappeared.

The only ones fighting for me now are my parents shaking my frail body like a rag-doll as I stare into the abyss reminding me that I’m still alive. That I need to drink water. That I need to eat. That I need to take it step by step.

But all I feel is this impending doom. I’m tired of everything. Everyone. Me. I'm tired of myself feeling tired. I’m mean and I’m usually never mean. Why am I being so mean? Especially, to myself.

Someone once told me eating wasn’t meant to be enjoyed, it was meant for survival. I appreciate the way they tried to help. But I think they failed to realize I’m tired of surviving. I’m exhausted, actually.

So I’ve— like always, been losing my appetite. Everything tastes bland, everything is so uninteresting, and everything isn’t worth eating for.

like I’m five again

I hear the distinct footsteps across hallway floors, voices ricocheting off thin walls, cabinets slammed with force, and the door of the fridge being thrown off its hinges.

“I thought we moved passed this”, a thought that runs across my mind often. But it seems like we haven’t, and I’m hiding in the depths of my closet with puffy eyes, arms with scars, and knees to my heart. like I’m five again.

Every scream and yell triggers a shake from my bones, clattering from the last meal I had last night. Teeth clenched in aptitude and tears falling down with every hitch. like I’m five again.

I double check if my door is locked & if I have enough blocking it by force. Because words are words and threats are threats, but actions to end my life are much quicker.

So quietly I hide back in the nook of my darkened closet, tears so quiet that only the ants can hear them. Hiding this part of my life like it’s another Tuesday morning, smile gracing my hallow cheeks, and telling myself everything will go back to normal. because it’s just like I’m five again.

“I write slowly… with depth…”

Whispers Between Pages By Astrum

I have always trusted the quiet of untold stories, the soft ache that lingers between what is written and what is merely felt.

I do not chase endings — I unfold them, slowly, like paper worn thin by longing and hands that know the weight of memory.

Somewhere between ink and skin, I found my truest voice — not to speak louder, but to listen deeper to the words that choose to find me first.

Her Falling Star

Content Warning: self-inflicted violence

Estrella refused to look away from the sky, especially once she made her last wish on the star that shot across. She waited for another. Too late; her breath quickened. Starlight streamed down hollow cheeks. Estrella refused to take her eyes off the sky, even after the trigger was pulled.

Twilight miss me when I’m gone, bleed my shadow ‘til it’s grown.

Light don’t follow where I go, my face anew you’ll never know.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

What a pretty little lie we peddle children as loves are ended by mouth, laws are written on paper, and wars are declared in ink.

What could you have if you let yourself dream? If you didn’t squash anything that shone under that worker’s boot of yours?

If you want to know what someone wants, watch what they give away. Love, time, compliments. People think others yearn the same way they do, and they reveal themselves in these little interactions; the way daylight escapes blinds midday.

It’s easier for the caterpillar to die than to grow wings. You cannot choose ease when splendor demands difficulty.

If I pull the dagger out

What will be left of me

I am blood unspilt, nothing more.

I’m not going to hate myself anymore.

I’m like a child, the way my mind works. I want us to look at each other, but I keep covering my eyes.

There are versions of me you’ve never met. I carry so much hatred you never see. It’s like an ornate blade, you could mistake it’s hilt for jewelry on my neck. But it’s there, in the slit where words come out, to silence any iteration of me that could offend you. Any glimpse of a possibility that I could hurt you, I instead hurt myself. I’d suppress and push down and erase and lie a thousand times over if it meant you were pristine. If you could leave this world untarnished on my filth, leave me filthy. Leave me nothing but your memory.

We see each other’s Instagram posts.

But we don’t talk much.

I know what he thinks of the current administration. He likewise knows what I think of it. We play music on the car radio and sing along, not saying the words aloud.

I hear the posts on his phone undulating like neon gelatin, sugary nothings calling to him. A mixed bag of nuts that instagram feed, one post is an ai cat driving a semi and the next a cry against the white identity under attack in America. They’re both for my father. The algorithm knows him better than I do, he listens to it more than his own daughter. Our conversations are rarely in words.

He has women up in his garage, I covered them with grumpy cat pictures when I was only a girl. Make it lighthearted, make it fun, my objection to his sexualization of women. Why am I so eager to cater? I am a woman now. He has maga hats now, Trump ornaments up when it isn’t even Christmas. On the other side of the ornament is a mirror. It’s poetic. I keep turning it around, putting Trump’s face toward the wall and the mirror toward my father begging him to look. He turns it back around. How can I look at someone when they cannot look at themselves? How can I speak to him when we never have?

My age is, youngish, oldish? Depending on who you ask. I have time, and I don’t. The future is so far away and right outside my doorstep, and I’m just sort of here. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting to become my future self and grow out of all this childish shit. I have trouble discerning bad habits and personality traits, what grows from me isn’t all me after all. I have to take care with what I cull and what I cradle. I could become a walking quirk from middle school that I misidentified as wildly important to my sense of self and not just a random cultural reflex. What makes me myself? And how did it get there? What is genuinely me and what is grimly biding it’s time until I figure out it’s a stranger’s voice and not mine?

Nostalgia is not a cradle, but a coffin.

Rest carefully in its lacey black box, and be sure to take care when you visit those no longer there, to not join them thinking all new happiness is lost.

What empties you?

The way I hold my tongue around my maga father as we watch movies in silence, and I wonder why I’m so forgiving of his alcoholism and not my mother’s toxic positivity.

The way I point out the birds eating peanuts my grandmother put out for them, when all I want to do is scream in my grandparent’s faces and shake their shoulders to turn Fox News off and wake up from their stupor.

I want to wake up too. I don’t want to know their hatred so intimately. I don’t want to love monsters, anymore.

Why are people so cruel to you when you just want to make them laugh? Can’t you see that I love you, that I want nothing but light things floated your way? What have I done to warrant your biting criticisms when all I ever wanted was your attention?

-Confessions of a Jester

There is an understanding in burning high rises that only it’s occupants can gather—that the rapid footsteps and baited breath do little for longevity if the staircase is ash and the elevator an oven.

No, the hurried panic is not for survival of the body, but a hunt for another. A body heat almost indiscernible undulating between the flap like flames—like pop ups out of a picture book. You may think it madness to seek heat in a fire, but this is a heat of the soul, a desire to die in embrace. To know a heart beat’s breath against your own.

An understanding that if life must be unkind, you must never let it be alone.

I belong to my animals as much as they belong to me. I am no owner, and they are no beasts.

Share with me your shame, distill your weakness so that I may drink it like wine. Your secrets are precious to me, nothing shocks a man like me.

And when the night took his knee, and the sun grazed his face with her locks long and blonde as she stood, his eyes rested only on her.

These javelins, these poles sharp at their tips that cascade through me as water, do they hold me up or affix me to the ground?

Would my body be strong enough to stand without them? Would I still know how? The stacking of the feet, the ankles, and the calves. The shuffling against dirt and grain to the steady rhythm of progress.

Why do they call my brother a genius, when he cannot comprehend kindness? When his tongue is tied in any conversation but his own?

Why is the emotional intellect of the women in the room discarded? So often shamed out of me any desire to share myself, my thoughts, upsetting my family feels like embers landing on every inch of skin searing me to silence. The boy gets to be a boy his entire life. The girl has to be a woman the moment he enters the room.