WyWrite
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 · 4 entries · 4 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Wyland showed up.
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the words Wyland reaches for
twiceboynapkinwaterflickerdyingslowlydeathheatherwatchingfoodchincornersoakedemberstoked