scrivener's output

the best advice I’ve ever been given. Image © Yasmin Emery...

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 22:43:07 -0500

the best advice I’ve ever been given.

Image © Yasmin Emery 2013

lacigreen: filed under: pickups that might actually work I had...

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 19:26:10 -0500

lacigreen:

filed under: pickups that might actually work

I had to, I just had to

T.T make a wish and throw it all away is literally me. throws feels at you HAVE ALL MY FEELS YAZZY

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 00:20:31 -0500

AWWW <3 Thanks Sabrina! I’ll take good care of your feels. I need to write more, I have so few recent posts…

what about your fav tumblrs?

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 21:25:50 -0500

Velvet Blory IS a Tumblr, haha c: I don’t follow many Tumblrs that aren’t my friends, and it’s kind of weird to pick and choose between friends, so… I’ll leave it at that. :P Sorry!

favourite blogs?

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 21:03:00 -0500

Velvet Blory (velvetblory.co.uk)! In their own words: “A ‘pseudo-literary’ blog that promotes/publishes excellent writing as a ‘Blory.’” Awesome stories, poems, etc. all concentrated in one place - it’s fantastic. (:

thethingsyouvedone: it’s weird how when women who work as prostitutes are murdered, the media...

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 23:42:36 -0500

thethingsyouvedone:

it’s weird how when women who work as prostitutes are murdered, the media refers to them as prostitutes rather than people. like, it’s never “man kills two women”, it’s “man kills two prostitutes”. you’d never see “man kills two lawyers” or something.
it’s like in their eyes being a sex worker takes away your right to being human

TMI Tuesday?

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 21:45:52 -0500

TMI Tuesday?:

So apparently this is a thing…

If you have any questions: now is the time. c:

First Draft: "Showers"

Fri, 04 Jan 2013 00:07:00 -0500

AN (Author’s Note): Hello again! Back with something I like much more than “Sunsets”… I think. First, some background information:

Writer’s Craft requires a summative project, and mine is to be a short story anthology. I was originally going to do my own take on romantic tropes (six in total), but I’ve since progressed to my own take on fairy tales. Unique, aren’t I.

Nonetheless, I love/hate fairy tales - the lessons they teach are, frankly, appalling, but they’re so interesting, and a joy to retell or rewrite.

So, anyways. This is the first completed short story I’ve written for this summative, and as it’s difficult to get a proper opinion out of people who know how I think, I’d like yours, Tumblr inhabitants. See if you can figure out which fairy tale it is, and tell me what you think of my attempt. :) Also, considering that this idea was prompted by, literally, taking a shower, that’s what I’ll title this post… for now.

Reviews extremely appreciated for this story in particular - thanks in advance! xox

It’s snowing again. That’s your first thought when you wake.

You haul yourself out of bed, throw on a robe. You’re not coughing this time; someone must have dusted. Mother, probably.

The thought of her makes you check your phone. Only one missed call… unusual, for her. You place it back on the receiver – she doesn’t need to know you’re awake yet – and shuffle into the kitchen.

Rummaging through the cupboards, you find tea (Earl Grey; definitely Mother) and put the kettle on. Some minutes later, you’re staring out the window. The hot tea in your hands steams up the window; you smudge it away with your sleeve.

The snow is fluffy and light. It collects on the ground, the trees, your balcony (which is frightfully covered in ivy – why hasn’t the maintenance man done something about that?). Everything looks like a Christmas card. Early-morning commuters shuffle through the snow; they look like they find it as much of a nuisance as you do.

For some indeterminable reason you can’t (won’t) ponder, you’ve always hated Christmas.

Your tea is gone already. Huh.

You find yourself heading for the bathroom, shrugging off your clothes, stepping into the shower. The hot water makes you feel blissfully clean; you hadn’t even realized how dirty you’d felt before. A rush of relief accompanies the heat, and you close your eyes.

You run your hands over your body, checking that everything is still as it was. The scars on your sides give you pause – you’d have thought they’d have faded by now – but ultimately everything is as it should be.

There is no better feeling than when you pop open the shampoo and a bubble floats across the shower stall. That’s the thought that finally makes you smile.

Minutes pass. Your fingers begin to resemble prunes. You shut off the water, towel off, stumble into your room to dress. A quick scan of your closet and you’ve found a nondescript t-shirt and bland jeans (were you always this colourless?).

Once that’s done, you pick up the phone. You don’t even listen to her message – it is far too likely that it will be carping or criticism. It takes you a minute or two to build up your nerve. Finally, shaking, you press a button.

“Hey, mum?” The phone is pressed to your ear; your voice is high-pitched, nervous, and you hadn’t meant that as a question. You try again. “It’s me.”

There’s sunlight on your face; birds are chirping. Spring, then, this time.

You glance at your phone (why was it on your pillow?) – no missed calls this time. You suppose that reduction might be construed as progress.

Shrug on a robe, drag yourself downstairs, fix tea. Orange Pekoe, this time; your taste buds revel in it. You stare out the window, familiarizing yourself with the time of year. The ivy has managed to obscure several glass panes of window; from what you can see, though, the world outside still looks like a card – a postcard, perhaps, for some idyllic hideaway. A realtor’s pamphlet, even.

You’re not a fan of either.

Pouring yourself a second cup of tea, you nearly smile. You’ve evaded the slush this time.

Shower; no shampoo bubble. The scars on your side are fading, slowly but surely. You hope they’ll be gone when next you wake. Steam clouds the bathroom as you turn the temperature up, up, up.

The girl in the mirror is drawn, pale. You can hardly believe she is you.

You can barely breathe, it’s so hot. Whoever covered you with a bloody quilt in the middle of a heat wave has got to be completely insane – oh, right, Mother. Hello, summer; nice to see you again.

Checking your bedside table, you discover your phone is not there. You step on a piece of it as you leave the room; it is shattered on the hallway floor. It is hard to muster up more than a shrug.

No missed calls this time, then.

Your kitchen is a mess. There’s still tea on the counter, though, and an unbroken cup. Boiling water in this heat seems a little bit foolish, but hey – you need your tea.

The cup of green tea is so hot you can barely stand to hold it. You throw in a few ice cubes – the resulting watery tea is just a little bit vile. Down the drain it goes.

A glance out the window tells you that nothing much has changed, except the pace of the world and the ivy’s progress in obscuring your vision (five of nine panes are covered). None of the passersby can muster more than a sluggish walk, if that. Joggers reduced to a snail’s pace. You can almost imagine someone fainting in this heat.

If you don’t cool off soon, that someone will be you. It’s time for a shower.

You make the mistake of instinctively turning on the hot water – your neighbors two floors in either direction probably heard the resultant scream. Not that they’d notice; they’ve all been so quiet, of late.

The cold water counteracts the hot, dry air, and for those minutes you almost feel comfortable. Not so much when you turn off the water. Is it unusual that the dry air literally hurts your lungs?

You find the house phone hiding under a pile of books and call your mother. You’re less nervous, after so many times; it is a quick, nonchalant conversation, reassuring your mother of your well-being. Well, you say ‘conversation’; it’s a message on her answering machine, but still.

One-sided conversations are still conversations, right?

Was that a kiss? That is your thought, as you wake.

It is harder to wake up this time; something is trying to pull you back down, but you fight it. You don’t know why you fight it, but you can almost hear your mother calling you from beyond this weird and twisted sleep.

With supreme effort, you open your eyes and take a breath.

It is as if the entire apartment building comes alive – you can hear the vacuums and arguments and televisions start up again. You wonder why they were so quiet, all those other times. Then you blink, and your eyes settle on something far more surprising.

There is a man. In your bedroom. Who, you’re pretty sure, has just kissed you.

You’re considering screaming bloody murder, when your mother bursts into the room. Now you’re expecting her to. Instead, she’s hugging him – is that gratitude you see on her face?

You try to get up, but stumble. Immediately your mother is at your side (still doting, overprotective, frantic; ah, familiarity) supporting you, and you hobble your way past the strange man (no, you do not steal a glance, thank you very much) and into the bathroom. A shower will make you feel better. You hope.

Ten minutes later, your five senses are up to par and your brain seems to be in working order. You’ve also put on more of the same drab clothing you can’t have bought. Hair wet and dripping, you march out of the bathroom and straight into the man.

Your mother hovers anxiously, makes some sort of introduction. Apparently he’s a member of the social royalty’ as well, though you’re assuming he’s the son of a business ‘king’, not a ‘king’ in his own right.

He sticks out his hand. You nod curtly. Your mother is, of course, appalled.

You head for the kitchen, meaning to make yourself tea. Your mother informs you that that will not be necessary.

How are you supposed to get back to sleep?

And then you glance out the window, and the ivy is gone, and you realize. This man, this ‘prince’ has woken you up for good. He looks as if he expects gratitude, when you voice your realization aloud.

You smile your prettiest smile, take the kettle you set to boil off of the stove (it’s barely hot, sadly), and pour it over his head.

© Yasmin Emery 2013

URL Project!

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 16:15:05 -0500

retrievearms:

retrievearms:

I saw a few of these floating around, and I absolutely love this idea. I live in a huge city, so for everyone who reblogs this by January 12, 2013, I will write your URL on a slip of paper and tape it somewhere in public! Then I’ll take a photo of where I put it, post it, and tag it with your URL.

This is 100% serious business. I am a 100% serious blogger (but not really)

Drabble: Sunsets

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 22:34:00 -0500

AN (Author’s Note): I asked my friend (his name is Stanley) what he thought of when he thought of sunsets. His answer:

“Sunsets are a pretty effect due of the scattering of light wavelengths.

[Just kidding.]

Think calm.

Romantic.

Sunset always feels like the short time until the end of the world.

You can’t stop it, you just enjoy what’s left of the day calmly.”

…and I decided to write something based off of it. Even if ‘of’ should have been ‘to.’ Not my best work, sadly, but this story was just not working out. Sigh.

Thoughts and opinions welcome, as always. HAPPY NEW YEAR’S! xo

The sky is the same brilliant orange-red-yellow-pink; the hill is the same dull gray-green-brown; the snow is the same - nonexistent. She is sitting on the same bench, next to the same tree. Everything is the same as it always has been.

She is not the same person.

She discovered the hill when she was five years old. She’d “run away” in a fit of pique, her parents having refused to return her little brother to the hospital. The new addition to her family, a scant few months old, had made her feel forgotten, overlooked. Ignored. So she’d thrown a tantrum and run out of the house crying.

Not the best of her plans, perhaps; certainly not the most effective.

At the top of a small hill in the park, she’d carved her initials into a tree, then sat shivering on the bench for a good three hours. She watched the clouds as she dried her tears; the eventual sunset was beautiful. Her parents had eventually found her, taken her home, insert feel-good family movie trope here.

The “her” of that moment, of that day, was jealous and childish and utterly self-absorbed. She’d like to think that she’s grown up since then.

She’s visited the hill many times; but as she thinks it over, glancing at the sets of initials on the tree trunk, a few visits in particular stand out.

‘KS + JL’, enclosed in a poorly-carved heart: a visit with her first boyfriend. The sky, mottled with clouds, obscured the sunset. A sudden downpour had drenched them both partway through carving the heart; one half (hers) is particularly squiggly. In retrospect, if she believed in such things, she would have been right to take that as a sign of things to come.

The “her” of that moment: still childish, but naive and brilliant and oh-so-happy. She knows she’s grown up since then; but God, does she wish she hadn’t.

A particularly deep gouge in the wood: her parents’ divorce. A sunny day, a stunning sunset, birds chirping happily, all while her world ended. The tree seems never to have healed itself around that spot. Ironically enough, her heart has healed that wound completely.

The “her” of that moment was a knot of negative emotion; still childish, still selfish, but with so much rage and hurt that she might honestly have been frightening to behold. Suffice it to say, the tree trunk was a stand-in.

She and her mother had moved away; visits to the hill were few and far between. In all honesty, she’d forgotten, until a story of a petulant five-year-old had been retold at this year’s family New Year’s party.

And now she sits, on the cusp of a brand new beginning, reminiscing about past mistakes.

The sun is almost below the horizon; the colours of the sunset are fading to stars and inky night. She pulls a Swiss Army knife from her pocket.

It is unlikely that she will return - she leaves for a job two provinces over in the morning. The tree bark suffers its last injury at her hands. Perhaps she will bring her children one day; or perhaps some other lonely child will find her inscriptions and add a few of their own.

The “her” of this moment bids goodbye to old resentments; to her parents, to her brother, to JL. The “her” of this moment is reasonably mature, calm and serene and as honest with herself as she can bear to be.

She turns slowly and walks down the hill; away from the just-past-sunset, the bench, the tree. Half a block and a left turn later, she is out of sight.

A child, running from their problems, stumbles upon a tree, a hill, and a bench (not necessarily in that order). Gawping at the tree, they notice markings: ‘KS’, ‘KS + JL’, some indeterminate slash… and a message.

‘LET IT GO.’

Because Why The ---- Not

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 21:41:07 -0500

hobbititus:

If you reblog this before May 16 2013, I will write your URL down and stick it in a jar or whatever. Over the summer I will take the jar of URL’s and I will scatter them around. They may get taped to public loos, they may be thrown into crowds at festivals, or they may get put under napkins at restaurants.

Some one may find your URL, and who knows, they could message you telling you where they found it.

You have until May 16 to reblog.

im refering to the flowers in the beginning.

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 21:30:00 -0500

That’s up to you to decide ;)

Really though, the story kind of wrote itself- it’s completely dependent on your interpretation. What do you think?

in the "Garden" is the main character just desiring to see maria (rose) or are the flowers representing other women that he saw too?

Sun, 30 Dec 2012 20:35:45 -0500

Are you referring to the flowers at the beginning or ending of the story?

It's in comic sans!? I thought I set it to Bodoni! D:

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 20:00:46 -0500

I’ll double-check, but it appeared to be Comic Sans…

Check out what i have right now! It's not the finished product, i'm still messing around with the html and colouring to fit my style. :P

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 19:35:23 -0500

Very nice, I really like it! One problem - why Comic Sans? D:

(It’s a Cyber thing.)

Definitely nice, though. c:

Thank you Yasmin! Sadly, i haven't posted any of my personal works yet D:. I want to make my blog perfect before i cover it with my stories!

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 19:30:30 -0500

Fair enough - how’s finding the perfect theme coming along? :P

Yasmin, how do i get fans like you D:

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 17:10:34 -0500

LOL ABDALLA.

Hey, anyone who looks at my Tumblr- follow this kid! His writing is awesome (I can attest to that- I’ve edited most of it!) :P

Yasmin... im a guy and i almost cried after reading the fiction based off a picture story...wow! ps: may i please have your autograph ? :)

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:17:17 -0500

Thank you! I’m so happy you liked it :) LOL, an autograph? If I know you, sure, though I don’t think I’m anywhere near that level of proficiency/fame yet O:

i got to give mad props for The Hunger. btw i don't think i'll be able to sleep tonight

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:13:26 -0500

Thank you (: Haha good - that means I’ve done my job well! ;D

"make a wish and i'll throw it all away" was aspiring/ inspiring! you know what? why dont i write my own short story and put you in as a character?but since im to scared to put in ur name how does Jasmine sound? :)

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:12:16 -0500

Thank you so much! :D LOL, Jasmine works- unfortunately, as you’ve sent this under ‘Anonymous’, I won’t be able to see the completed story/your blog… Send me the story or the link once you’ve written it? c: