WyWrite
There's something there, sitting under a torrent of rain, especially in a car going too slow, driver searching for a hint of taillights amidst the rushing water. An odd, calm silence descends over the car, the urge to give the driver focus, sure, but also in fear of the water. People have died for less. People will die from less. It is easy to think how things would be different, if you were out there instead, the rain beating circles into your body like a pressure washer, vision blank, road stretching on for miles.
There is something about sitting under a willow that isolates you, cleanly, from the rest of the word, like a scapel seperating meat from fat. Here, she is no one; the tree leans over her, leaves swaying, protecting her from all overhead.
Unfortunately, her problems almost never came from overhead, but she appreciated the sentiment all the same. She wished she could be a protector one day, even if everyone always told her that Willow, her name, meant weak and flimsy--useless.
She would show them strength, she picked up the branch next to her.
There was something about dancing that was suffocating. So many bodies mashing up against each other, throwing extremities wide, eyes closed, laughing loudly. there was an energy in the room; impossible to read or gauge with tools, but palatable all the same.
To everyone but her, of course. She was never one to "feel". Such things were pointless for blades.
There was truly nothing special about the inlet. It sucked water like a thirsty child, rerouted all paper boats with a reckless passion, and overall was a blight on the wider water system. Twice he had gone down to the water in an attempt to reroute the waves, and twice he had returned soaked, efforts throughly thwarted. He was put out, and maybe a touch obsessed at this point, when he inquired about how one would go about building a dam.
There was something about watching the boy in front of her scrap down food that was almost endearing, if one could ignore the juice trickling down his chin.
She sighed, reached for a Napkin. The boy froze, deer in headlights, eyes for the first time locking with hers.
They were a deep, beautiful brown. Who could have hurt this boy?
"Napkin. For your chin," she said eloquently, turning back to her own food, watching out of the corner of her eye.
Slowly, not looking away from her for a moment, he grabbed the napkin by one grease-soaked corner, folding it into his hand with
The heather sways in the fields, oblivious to the bloodbath in the valley below. The wind brushes, blowing broadly fast over the land. The dead sleep, the heather grows.
The flicker of a dying ember, stoked once, twice, three times with the flint before dimming even further. The panic, a catch in your chest that makes breathing difficult, but you blow, slowly, in heartbeat cadenced breaths, trying to stoke a dying flicker of flame. Her death is not your death, but still you act the bellows.
writing since 2026 · 8 entries · 8 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Wyland showed up.
6longest streak
8days written
5.6entries / week
the words Wyland reaches for
watertwiceboynapkinratherflickerdyingslowlydeathheatherwatchingfoodchineyescornersoaked