80 posts
  • bluepuppy01 52w

    #bluepup #blue_truedare #cyanentry

    Royce (Part 2)

    [The Story Royce is Reading]
    “I said I’ll come with you, alright, so just put the sword down!”

    “Ha!” without warning, he slashes his hostage’s stomach open, “You say that but how can I trust you?”

    I focus on the pain of my nails digging into my skin to keep calm, “You should know me well enough to know I always keep my word. Need I say more?”

    “That’s a good point actually,” he strokes his beard and says with his grating voice, “Alright, let’s go then. My boys will send the kid back to town safely. I swear it.” He stabs the sword between the rocks and the salty breeze.

    “So we’ve got a deal then? You release my brother and I take you where you wanna go?”

    “Yeah, that’s the deal. Why? You have something to add?” His face only gets more menacing when his brow raises and a mischievous grin appears.

    “Not really. You?”

    His face droops in what I think might be disappointment before he hesitates to say, “Nope. Let’s go then, shall we? Boys! Take him.” The lackeys on standby rush up on either side of my brother’s weak and bleeding body. I wince as I hear a pained groan when they lift him up by his underarms and start to drag him along the shore. The lackeys then share what I assume to be a subservient glance with their captain.

    “After I’m done, I’ll come to find you right away, you hear? You’re gonna be alright,” I try to assure him but, honestly, between the two of us, I don’t know who’s more afraid. Then I pivot around, naively trusting the words of a marauder’s promise. The few steps I take fill my ears with gravel, but, a second later, what I hear is a sound I don’t even want to describe. My body freezes for only a moment, yet a moment is enough time for flashbacks, of what one could have done better, to engrave themselves within a guilty heart. I turn, again, to see the face of my brother looking down at the fist buried wrist-deep into the fresh wound on his stomach. The next instant, his guts are yanked out and raised skyward towards the circling gulls screeching above.

    My heart begins to beat erratically, its rhythm overwhelming my senses. The pounding of it echoing off the walls of my skull syncs with the image I have of my brother’s last breath. All I can do is stand shocked- motionless. Why did this happen? What did I do wrong? What could I have done? What do I do now? Who am I without my brother?

    [Royce pauses reading]
    Royce pats his hand over his rapidly beating heart, “Well, that escalated quickly.”

    [Royce reads again]
    I fall to my knees. Sand and sharp stones dig into the bloody marks I dug into my hands earlier, but it barely stings compared to the gut-wrenching realization I come across: It’s all my fault…

    I see a sword sticking out of the bloody rocks from the corner of my eye. Just the glare reflecting off the blade is enough to make my skin feel as if it’s being sliced through.

    ...No! It’s his fault! It’s all his fault! My brother would still be alive if it weren’t for him!

    I charge. Grabbing the sword, I rush at my enemy with his own weapon. Against better judgment, I attempt to skewer him with pure rage. Innards come flying at my face. I dodge, just barely, while continuing forward. Putting all my weight behind the blade, I aim for the same place where he brutally impaled my brother. He lunges for me at the same time, bare-handed. Suddenly, I’m tackled to the ground from the left side and land hard enough to dislocate my shoulder. The sword flew from my grip. My mind clears up a bit to process what just happened. I take a deep breath as the lackey that tackled me backs off in response to the swipe of his captain’s hand motioning to not interfere. Slowly, I stand up. He and I survey each other, waiting to see who moves first.

    [Royce pauses]
    “Oh, c’mon!” Royce shouts as he rolls his right shoulder back to unwind the sudden ache, perhaps from slouching too long, “Why the heck would you just charge at him like a raging bull?! He’s a pirate, not a matador!”

    [Royce continues]
    A seagull settles itself between us- apparently our signal to attack. It squawks then flies off when we dash towards each other once again. A feather or two falls between our punches. The wind picks up as we clash. Eventually, he wrestles me to the ground. One side of my face gets dragged across the gravel. No doubt my face is scarred. I try to kick him off of me, but he’s built like a whale, so I, instead, grab, break, and poke a seashell into the backside of the hand pressing down on my cheek. Surprisingly, his face just flinches before he pulls it out then firmly grips my chin with his bleeding hand, forcing me to see the crazed grin he’s giving. I can’t move out of the way in time. A scream escapes my throat. A bright light quickly flashes before everything goes black. He keeps shoving the jagged half of the seashell deeper inside my eye. Excruciating pain floods my senses like the waves crashing down behind us. I put all my strength into pushing his arms away. We come to a stalemate where he can’t use the shell to get to my brain and I can’t force the shell out of my eye. We lie there, one on top of the other, still struggling. The one good eye I have left turns everything I see red from all the blood gushing out of its twin.

    “Hey, Kyser! Don’t you wanna go meet your kid brother?” he cackles.

    “Huh? Gosh! Am I crying?” Royce, without glancing away from the page, uses a sleeve of his maroon shirt to wipe away tears he doesn’t realize consist of blood.

    [Story being read]
    “Not before I avenge him!” I spit in his face- close enough to the phrase, ‘An eye for an eye,’ I think. His hold on me finally loosens. I take the opportunity to knee his groin, then roll out from underneath him. With one hand covering my oozing eye socket, I quickly crawl and reach out towards the sword lying a few feet away on the ground. Though a little late, I hear him chase after me. Right as I’m about to touch the hilt of the sword, I get pulled down by my ankle. I rotate onto my back, getting into prime position for some kicks to be sent his way. Within my fist, I gather some gravel and throw it as hard as I can in hopes of buying more time. But my plan is for naught. I didn’t consider how a pirate would, of course, already know every dirty trick in the book, let alone my amateur moves. Expecting it, he uses his rum flask to shield his face while he plows his way through with pebbles flying everywhere. He lifts my torso up by the collar of my tattered shirt.

    “Wait! Wait! Wait!” I shout. And he listens. “Didn’t you want me to take you there? You need me alive!”

    He looks as if he gives it some thought, smiles, and then says, “But do I really?” He flicks his chin up a bit to the right. Shing! The sword is tossed over my head. The captain catches it perfectly and sets the sharp edge on my neck. I almost don’t notice how a drop of my blood is drawn.

    I gulp, “Yes?”


    Royce gasps for air. Gurgling sounds fill the room as blood spills from his mouth. His hands press onto the deep gash that appeared on his throat. The book has fallen to the floor. And, soon, Royce falls from his chair. He looks at the ceiling with blood pouring from one of his eyes. Confusion runs rampant in his mind before blankness arrives. Silence.
    A transparent figure awaits the appearance of Royce’s soul above their fresh corpse before saying, “I told you you needed me.”

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    Royce (Part 2)

  • bluepuppy01 52w

    Dare by @shadowassassin01
    #bluepup #blue_truedare #cyanentry
    The character limit is annoying me OMG������
    I had to divide this story up-
    Next part will be posted right after this.
    (Title is a work in progress)


    “Could you not?!”

    “What do you mean, ‘Could I not?’ It’s literally my purpose in this life.”

    “What kind of purpose in life is to talk over other people while they are trying to read? You’ve been doing this for almost the whole book already. Just shut up for a second. It’s getting to an important scene, and I don’t want you ruining it like you always do,” Royce says. His fingertips begin to turn as pale as the corner of the page tightly pressed between them.

    “Wow, you really mean that? Do you not realize how much you need me? That hurts, man.”

    “Oh, don’t try to guilt-trip me. In what world would I need a voice inside my head to copy everything I say for no reason at all other than to aggravate me to death?!”

    “Hey, I’m not the one trying to kill you here! And why is it only you who has the say in this? What if you aggravate me too? In fact, I should be the one most annoyed here since you’re the one in control of our body,” roars Inner Royce (who would certainly be flailing his arms about in frustration if he had arms to control), “Did you ever think about that?! Huh? Wouldn’t you be more upset than you are now if, instead, you had to watch an idiot like yourself make stupid decisions all day and not be able to do anything about them?”

    “Oh, wow. That’s going too far!” Royce slams the arm of the chair with his free hand.

    “Is it?! Is it really, though?! Think about it!”

    “There’s no point in thinking about it. All I care about right now is having you leave me the hell alone for freakin’ once in our life!”

    “Fine then! Have it your way! Treat it as a lesson on why you can’t live without me!” Inner Royce gives this final remark as he fades into nowhere.

    “The only thing I’ll be learning today is how I should have gotten rid of your stupid voice sooner!” Silence. Royce is confused for a moment before realizing the voice within his head has finally disappeared. Relishing in the never before attained quietude, he turns the page with a smirk of victory and continues reading from where he left off.

    ~ See Next Post For Rest of Story ~

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  • bluepuppy01 53w

    #bluepup #blue_truedare #cyanentry
    Her Little Story-Bird Part 2
    54 Years Later
    The 80-year-old author sat down at her attic desk one evening, feebly shouting, “Paramythi! Paramythi, where are you? It’s time for a story!” As usual, the bird of diamonds, gold, sapphire, and rubies swooped in from an open window, placing its find of the day in front of the woman. “What have you got for me today, Myth?” It picked up the object once again just to drop the star-shaped button a few steps closer, glancing up to see her reaction. “Another star to add to our collection, I see.” The woman held the star button closer to her face to get a better look. “It’s beautiful,” she said and carefully added it to one of many jars full of knick-knacks Paramythi brought home over the years.

    With hands shaking, she picked up the new story, the papers quaking along with her. “You remember, right?” she avoids Paramythi’s eyes, “I won’t be able to write much longer for you. I can feel it. So, you remembered what I taught you, right?” The author finally faced her little story-bird. Paramythi hopped over to the ink pad and tapped a foot twice on it. With claws painted a deep shade of midnight, the gold bird fluttered over to an empty sheet lying on the desk. A tap here. A tap there. The little story-bird tap-danced into existence a single-sentenced story of its own that said, “Stay with me forever.” A sorrowful yet relieved, pecan-scented sigh released itself as the woman caressed Paramythi’s head. “It seems you remember well enough to survive without me, but if I could stay with you forever, Myth, I would.” Paramythi nuzzled its beak up against the woman’s wrist as if to comfort both of them.

    After some silent consolation, the woman offered her story to Paramythi. The words soared off the page and into a treasury of tomes inside the soul of a golden trinket. However, unlike usual, Paramythi wasn’t satisfied. It tilted its head in contemplation, but as the bird’s thoughts roamed, the old woman began to slump down in her chair. Paramythi didn’t yet notice, for it blankly stared at the black markings trailing the desk it had unmindfully made while flapping about earlier. A wrinkled hand belonging to an unknown author reached out to spread warmth one last time to her little story-bird. Tap. Tap. Paramythi, wondering why its beak was being tapped, turned to see what the woman wanted. Nonetheless, what was seen was not what it expected, for mellow silence welcomed the author in the attic as she slumbered. Tap. Tap. Paramythi responded.

    Her little story-bird then skipped over towards the micro tale it had created. “Stay with me forever,” soaked like ink between the lines of the golden bird’s beak. Immediately, Paramythi felt fuller than ever, and a change began to take place. Its shine faded with each ring of an invisible bell. The jewels embellished on the edges of its metallic skin fell one by one. Blind it became as the diamond eyes it used to perceive the world landed in the palm where it sent its last goodbye. White, silver, gold, red, blue, and black wisps of energy withdrew from the gold shell it once was contained within. Loosely in the shape of a bird, the energy strands rose, and through the window, as one entity, they left the attic. Its destination- the sky. It traced the night with its wings, settling in a place between others of its kind. A constellation to forever be known as Paramythi- a golden bird having fed on fairy tales to create its myth alongside a lonely storyteller, made its presence known for the first time in honor of its author.

    ~the end i guess~

    P.s. Paramythi means "fairy tale" in Greek according to Google translate ��‍♀️

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    Her Little Story-Bird:
    Part 2

  • bluepuppy01 54w

    @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ U said to use these lines from The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow: “a tiny ornate golden bird beautifully enameled and glittering all over with gold and precious stones...It was so small, so richly jewelled, so perfect. She bent to look at it more closely, and for a moment, in the dim light, it seemed, almost as if it were looking back at her. Its jewel eye glinted, as if it were winking.”
    #blue_truedare #bluepup #cyanentry
    But you didn’t say how to lol ; )
    So I mixed em up a tiny bit ��
    Her Little Story-Bird

    In the dim light, it was looking back at her. She bent to look at it more closely and, for a moment, its jewel eye glinted as if it were winking. It was so small, so richly jeweled, so perfect. It seemed almost as if a tiny, ornate golden bird, beautifully enameled and glittering all over with gold and precious stones, had breathed in enough of the words she always wrote. And those words granted it life. It was everything she had created over the years, all compiled into one consciousness, then accidentally stored inside the shiny shell of a trinket passed down for generations.

    Delicately, she reached out her hand to touch it. The golden bird reacted by curiously tilting its head and beginning to flutter about in circles above her fingers. Eventually, it landed its little feet in her palm, tapping some talons twice on her skin as if to say hello. Wonderstruck by the unintentional success of her creation, she smiled and responded in kind by gently tapping on the tip of its beak twice.

    Innocently, it blinked a few times as they met eyes, almost questioning why itself was alive. She, too, did not know the answer and, as that thought dawned upon her, grew anxious. Her mind filled with just one question, “How long will this little story-bird of mine survive?” She sniffled at that sudden thought in an attempt to not cry, but, little did she know, a tear had already settled in her eye. The bird let out a sad, metallic chirp- its diamond eyes glistening empathy. “It’s alright,” the woman said softly, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” She closed her eyelids in a smile, the tear sliding down her cheek. “Oh, dear me! Where’d that come from?” she laughingly choked out while wiping it away, “So, what should I call you? Hmm? How about Paramythi?” That time, Paramythi sang in delight at its new name.
    3 Years Later
    “Paramythi! Paramythi, where are you? It’s time for a story!” the woman called out. Paramythi then swooped in from the attic window and landed on the desk in front of its author. “What have you got there?” she asked while pointing at the thing in Paramythi’s mouth. The bird of jeweled gold dropped the object in front of the woman. It was a charm bracelet decorated with stars and crescent moons. Paramythi looked up proudly into the woman’s eyes, perhaps waiting for some praise to rain down on its job well done. “You didn’t steal from some poor, little kid when they weren’t paying attention, did you?” she said. Immediately, Paramythi flailed its wings around and stamped its little feet on the wooden surface of the desk, seemingly offended by the accusation. A giggle flew from the woman’s lips, “I’m only teasing.” In an if-you-say-so but still-unhappy kind of manner, the golden bird relaxed its feathers and sat down with its head, embarrassedly, turned away.

    “Oh, c’mon, now, don’t be like that. I’m sorry, okay. Do you forgive me?” the woman asked. No response. Then stretching out her syllables, she said, “I’ll only give you the story if you forgive me.” No response. Finally, the woman said, “Oh, look what I’ve got here! I just wrote this story, but I feel as if it’s not good enough. Maybe I should throw it away,” she glances over at the golden bird, still seeing no response, “I’m really gonna do it. I’m throwing it away now. Oh, look! The furnace is gobbling it all up.” At those last words, Paramythi hopped up, ready to fly into action to save its delicious meal. However, what awaited it was the sight of its mischievous author dangling the paper by her face. The bird’s lower beak dropped as its diamond eyes exuded a how-could-I-have-fallen-for-that feeling. Betrayed, Paramythi huffed and puffed, circling about, as if demanding to be given an apology in the form of a particular short story. “Oh, alright! I won’t tease you any longer,” the woman relented with a shake of her head.

    The author set the story down in front of Paramythi. The story-bird inspected the words by pecking at them a bit. After confirming its standards were reached, Paramythi nibbled at the first word, gripped it within its beak, then slurped up the rest of the sentence like a chick would a worm provided by its mother. Letter by letter, the cursive surrendered to Paramythi- its tale becoming a new strand of DNA inside the once-upon-a-time hollow library within itself. And, soon, the story came to an end.

    “Feel better?” the woman asked, and the golden bird, who just had its fill, let out a peep. However, the smile the woman showed wasn’t all there, for she worried if Paramythi didn’t amass enough stories to keep going, how its life could come to “The End” as well.

    ~ To Be Continued ~

    Okaaaaayy, so I know I don't have a good track record with multiple parts to a story, but I swear I'll finish this one!! It's just a long short story is all...not like it'll have real chapters or anything...
    Just, like, 1 or 2 more parts besides this one. ������ It'll be over in a jiffy!

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    Her Little Story-Bird:
    Part 1

  • bluepuppy01 54w

    @ablaze_writer gave me the dare to write a poem about how to kill a poet's muse and I was gonna combine it with another dare as a single prompt but omg @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ urs is hard (and gonna take a while)!!!!!
    So this is just for Nav's prompt ��

    #blue_TrueDare #bluepup #cyanentry

    A Poet's Muse
    “How to kill a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I realize how envious
    I am of someone else who is
    Oblivious of what they have.

    “How to kill a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I watch him watch her from afar
    With notebook in hand, pen in motion,
    And suspect the first word is her name in bold.

    “How to kill a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I read the pieces,
    Passionately scribbled and entered
    Into competitions she’s never even heard of.

    “How to kill a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I see him accept his reward
    For a poem inspired by a girl
    Who doesn’t know her poet exists in this world.

    “How to hide a muse’s corpse?”
    I wonder as I observe the unique patterns
    Of blood splattered across the floor
    And hatred pinned to her eyes.

    “How to hide a muse’s corpse?”
    I wonder as I drag her over kitchen tiles,
    By striped-sock-covered ankles,
    Through the lounge in need of exorcism.

    “How to hide a muse’s corpse?”
    I wonder as I borrow my cousin’s chainsaw
    ��For, certainly, no reason in particular...
    Is necessary when you live in Texas.

    “How to hide a muse’s corpse?”
    I wonder when I may have lost some pieces
    Along the way down to the basement...
    Oh lookie! Some wet cement from a recent renovation!

    “How to become a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as my gaze traces him,
    Between the books on the library shelf,
    And “accidentally” makes eye contact.

    “How to become a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I shyly gift a smile,
    Tilt my head to hide from his curiosity,
    And await the sound of footsteps leading to his introduction.

    “How to become a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as we sit in peace, talking
    About our past, present, and future-
    Oh, the coincidences!
    We recognize each other’s pen names.

    “How to become a poet’s muse?”
    I wonder as I read his poems to our children.
    They cringe at our young love stories,
    Yet wish to experience it when they grow older.


    How to kill a poet’s muse?
    Use a poet’s finest weapon- emotion.

    How to hide a muse’s corpse?
    Bury it between the lines of a poem.

    How to become a poet’s muse?
    Steal his heart, not just his admiration.


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  • bluepuppy01 78w

    #blue_dear #cyanentry #bluepup

    To find the other parts: #ritzstory
    Untitled For Now (2.1)

    “Dear Someone I Will Be,” he reads dramatically with a grin after snatching the letter I just finished writing from my hands, “I-”

    “Hey! Gimme that!” I jump up off the bed to try and reach the letter he now holds high up in the air, “Does it look like we’re ten years in the future right now to you?!”

    After a bit of flailing around, I finally tackle him to the ground and get hold of my letter. I look over and see him grasping onto his left shoulder, “Ow, ow, dude, ow. That hurt.”

    “Who’s fault is that?” I ask and he rolls his eyes and answers in objection to my rhetoric with a question of his own, “Since when does one greet a reading man with violence?”

    “Ha! A thirteen year old “man” who does something he knows he’s not supposed to deserves a bit of pain, don’t you think?”

    “Nah, I don’t think..and you sounded like my sister just now,” he says while sitting up on the creaky hardwood floor. Then he just gives me a look that says, “Really, dude?” after I comment, “Welp, your sister is pretty smart.”

    “Anyways,” he says while using his stretched out arms to support his leaning position, “Hole is dug. Found a box.”

    “Did you write a letter?” I ask.

    “Nah, I’m just gonna put some of my favorite trinkets in there.”

    “Then what the heck did I write all this for?!” I yell, exasperated at all this nonsense.

    “Hey, you think back now- I never did tell ya you had to write anything,” he says as he taps his finger against my temple thrice.

    “Wha-! Yeah, you did! You said we were gonna read the letters we wrote when we’re older and-”

    “Nuh-uh-uh,” he wiggles his finger back and forth telling me no, “YOU said that, remember? ‘Simeon, do you remember when we wrote letters to ourselves and buried them in a time capsule?’”

    And here I am, watching his reenactment of the fictional scene, (that totally doesn't count, by the way), he imagined, like an idiot, “...whatever,” I swat at the air as if to shoo away this mosquito of conversation, “Let’s just go already. The sun is about to set.”

    He laughs at my reaction as we head on outside back to the lone tree far off in the front field. On the way out the door, he picks up a small metal thing and I’m just like, “For real, man? A lunchbox? All this time and you couldn’t have just gone into the shop to find something better?”

    He shrugs, “It’s what they always use in those time capsule scenes of old movies.”

    I stare at him for a few silent seconds and sigh, “Fair enough.” We keep walking.

    On the left side of the grassy field is a big ole sycamore tree- that’s where we’re going to bury the capsule (lunchbox) under. When we get there, a shovel is sticking up out of the ground in front of the trunk and beside it is a hole unnecessarily a little bit less than six feet deep. I stop to crouch down near the edge of the neatly dug hole and I literally have no idea what expression I should show on my face right now as I say, “Now it makes sense why you were too tired to go to Papa’s shop. Why’d you make it this big? We aren’t hiding a body and I’m pretty sure you couldn’t have believed we got a box this big lying around anywhere.”

    He shrugs again, this time with an embarrassed tilt of his head, ‘cause even he knows how unnecessary his actions were, and awkwardly chuckles, “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

    “A little? Dude, ten years later, we’re gonna be digging up a lunchbox-turned-Jumanji.”

    “All the more fun,” he says.

    I shake my head, not knowing what else to do, “Ok. Hand me the box but don’t you regret it if your future is trapped in a jungle for twenty-six years.”

    Simmy hands me our low-quality capsule and I unbuckle the latch, opening it. Inside, he’s already got his stuff in it (which, of course, I heard rattling around all the way here). The first thing I notice is an old hot wheels car. Immediately, I recognize it as the last gift his daddy gave him on the day he turned five- his dad was shot dead later that night when protecting a mother and her child from a small town bank robber. Ever since then, Simmy carried it around in his jean pocket wherever he went. What’s it doing here? Seriously, I turn to face him and ask, “You’re sure you wanna put this underground?”

    He goes quiet for a while, probably hesitating, before he eventually answers, “Yeah, I’m sure. Go ahead. Go on and put your letter in there already and let's bury this thing.”

    Pretending not to hear the suppressed emotions in his voice, I leap into the grave of our present yet past selves and bend down, gently setting the coffin on its bed of dirt. I stand straight, head bowed a bit to give it one last look (taking in the cowboy design and all), then turn to grab on to his outstretched palm. He pulls me up out of the hole and I brush the invisible dust off my britches. “Is that it?” I ask as I rest my left wrist on his shoulder.

    “Yeah that’s it,” he quietly mutters.

    “Alrighty then,” I say after patting his shoulder once and then going over to pick up the shovel. He takes it from my grasp and proceeds to fill in the hole with the freshly dug dirt piled to the side.

    P.s. I went over the caption limit, so part 2 literally had to be divided into 2 parts lol

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    ~To Be Continued~

  • bluepuppy01 79w

    #blue_timecap #cyanentry #bluepup

    Ok, so I'm attempting to start a story with ongoing parts...but don't expect too much cuz I don't really have a good track record when it comes to keeping up with things like this��

    To find the other parts: #ritzstory
    Untitled For Now (1)

    “We’re too old for this,” I say with a shake of my head at the ridiculousness of this idea. I watch as my best friend bends down to shovel up and toss over another pile of dirt to the side of the hole. He quickly looks back over his shoulder to meet my pleading gaze just so he could show me the rolling power of his eyeballs and says, “No, we’re not. You’re just being whiny ‘cause you wanted to stay in bed and do nothing.”

    “Is it so wrong to wish for a comfortable place to relax all day, unbothered by everything?” I question with shut eyes and a wistful tone while clasping my hands together and above the spot where my heart is buried in my chest.

    He stops digging and peers over at me again (though I pretend to still have my eyes completely closed in “sorrow”). “Quit being ridiculous. I promise you, you’ll be glad we did this when you’re older. You’ll look back on this day and smile, saying, ‘Oh, I just thought of something! Simeon, do you remember when we wrote letters to ourselves and buried them in a time capsule? That was such a great idea! I should do this with my grandkids.’ And I’ll be all like, ‘Yes, I remember. That was my idea and you hated it.’ Then you’ll say something like, 'Nah, you must be recalling it wrongly. It was totally my idea. I swear!’ That’s when you’ll meet my you-sure-about-that inquisitive glare and then you’ll mumble, ‘Yeah, um, who knows actually. We’re old now, so perhaps we’re both wrong.’ Then I’ll be like, “Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say, bud.’”

    I open my eyes to stare dumbly at him with my what-the-heck face of awe and ask suspiciously, “You don’t happen to be able to know the future, do you? ‘Cause it totally feels like you know something I don’t, maybe have hidden superpowers, or you’re just a straight up genius who knows me too well.”

    He chuckles, “Who knows?” and smirks, “Maybe I have all those qualities.”

    Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes as we both laugh. Then I say, “So...who the heck digs the hole before we even have the box- or the letters to go in it?”

    He stops laughing at that and looks me dead in the eye with an expressionless face, “Dude, I didn’t even think about that,” he says as he facepalms, getting some streaks of dirt on his freckled face.

    “Ok, so that’s minus the genius quality then.”

    “Hey! Rude!” he playfully sticks his tongue out, but a mosquito comes buzzing along near his head and he frantically swats at it in surprise. At this, I burst into raucous laughter but soon remember the presence of mosquitoes, so I immediately close my mouth in an attempt to muffle my laughs and not eat a bug in the process.

    Simeon speaks up again as he returns to digging, for some reason, with his back facing me, “Anyways, just do it alright. C’mon, you won’t regret it.”

    “Ugh, fine!” I surrender. Walking off back to the porch, far away from this lone tree in the front yard of my grandpapa’s countryside house, he hears the shuffling of the grass and shouts, “Hey, where ya going? Aren’t you gonna help me?!”

    I turn, walking backwards, to show him my grin as he, too, turns to face my way, “Nah, you can go ahead and keep doing what you’re doing. I’m gonna go work on writing that letter,” I give a thumbs up and a wide toothy smile, “You’re doing great, Simmy!”

    “Aw c’mon, man! It’s too hot out here to do this by myself!” he shouts back.

    “Hey, this was your idea, dude, not mine!” I teasingly shrug in feigned helplessness and then pivot around before running full speed towards the house. I no longer look back, but know he’s already begun shoveling again, knowing he never expected me to help dig in the first place (and maybe also 'cause I can hear the metal end of the shovel pierce the earth). Once I get inside, I look around Papa’s office in hopes of finding something to write on and with. I don’t know when exactly I got fired up, but now I’m all gung-ho about Simmy’s idea. I don’t know- maybe I am just picturing the curious me later on in life, wondering what he wrote to himself back when he was twelve. Anyways, I gently slip out a piece of paper from underneath a pile of books on Papa’s messy desk (honestly, why does he always get onto me for having a messy room when he can’t even keep his office clean?) Paper in hand, I quickly grab a pen and rush out, pretending to be a ghost as if the creature I imagine I am at the moment can assure that he’ll never know anyone trespassed into his so-called precious workspace.

    In my room now, I plop down onto my bed (‘n notice I’m panting a bit, whether out of excitement or because of all the running- I don’t know) and sit with my back leaning against the wall. The blank letter sets atop a textbook (my poor selection of a “desktop” reminds me there’s homework I haven’t done yet...but that’s not important). What should I write, I wonder. While biting on the end of the pen that clicks, my thoughts wander to the future Simmy mentioned. I suddenly do a little jump in my sitting position and release the pitiable pen from my fearsome jaws, ‘cause, apparently, that’s how my body reacts to the thought of, “Oh! Got an idea!”

    My head bows to observe the emptiness of the page before, finally, my wrist lifts to put pen to paper. “Dear Someone…”

    ~To Be Continued~


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    ~To Be Continued~

  • bluepuppy01 79w

    I ended up transforming the originally abandoned story into a microtale as the previous post- now, it has become this��‍♀️��‍♀️

    (~~~~~~~) - indicates a switch in POV

    #bluepup #cyanentry #bayentry
    #blue_missedopp #metaphorc
    #blue_armor #duskc #worthc
    #fabric #bluestory #blue_pov

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    Spilled Ink

    The ink drips from the vial reaching out, just past the edge of the desk, and into the puddle of void forming below on the floor. On the desktop, near the toppled over inkwell, a cloud of words hovers over a now blank sheet of paper where, minutes prior, he met the world. The cloudy words peer over the edge to witness the final moments of the man who held the quill to his goodbyes- ‘twas then a storm began to cry. 
    Home Studio (Her house)
    POV of Soundproof Walls/Room
    (Skipping ahead in time a bit)
    She would always come to sing to me around the time 6:50 PM was displayed on the screen of her phone. I know because we’d often take selfies together and the numbers visibly hung above the tiny, technological mirror we were captured in. Hours after dusk, I’d listen to the soul in her voice and the heart in her lyrics. I always thought those waves being absorbed into the walls around my center were the deepest of emotions humans could project. Fascinated, I’d sometimes pretend those vibrations of a person were feelings of my own because I had learned through words of her song, once, that to understand someone, you gotta be someone first. However, what she felt in those daily hours demonstrating the prowess of her vocal cords couldn’t possibly compare to the miserable ambiance of THAT night when her throat produced only anguished slurs of sound capable of bypassing my foamy armor as well as seizing my soul- something I was unaware I possessed.

    (Back to Present)
    Dusk was bathing in shadows of blood when a stranger called to inform her of his death. Before the woman on the other end of the call could utter the name of her twin brother, she dropped her phone and sped around the corner of the block where her eyes suddenly became blinded by red and blue flashes of light. Her chest visibly rose and fell, trying to keep up with the increased pace of a heart’s beat and the panting breaths of someone who raced forward, crossing the finish line in last place to unexpectedly be rewarded with more than a loss of breath. 

    Eyes finally comprehending the scene before her, she, again, ran as if her own life depended on how fast she could barge into the house to give her other half a surprise visit- one she wished had been given sooner. She blatantly ignored the presence of the yellow tape, somehow evading the cops in her dash towards undeniable proof of a life forsaken too soon. Not processing anything outside of her central vision, she races past the blurs of furniture and barren walls. Just as she is about to make it to the master bedroom, arms come like flying snakes, wrapping a tight hold around her and pulling her back towards the front door. Words she can’t quite discern enter her ears as nothing but muffled voices- echoes of the present when all she wants right now is to be, at least, fifteen minutes in the past. 

    Outside again, her knees give out having fallen numb. There, in the driveway, she wilts like a strangled flower. The arms that previously held her reach out again to catch her fall but miss her elbow by a split second. Crumpled on the ground, she rests on her knees while staring through the open door as if the hallway behind it is a black hole, a tear in the fabric of space, sucking in all her focus. She notices an officer walking out with something in his hand- a plastic bag most likely containing evidence. What catches her attention, though, is not the object inside the bag but the weeping cloud of words following it closely. The eyes of the cloud meet the eyes of her, the sister to its author, and what strikes their souls is a feeling of “just knowing.” 

    She jumps to her feet with newfound strength and rushes towards the revolving letters floating above what she now recognizes as a neatly penned letter addressed, “To My Other Half.” Blotches of dark ink drown a corner of the paper hugging fine, cursive penmanship. As she approaches, the cloud of words practically propels itself into the body between her outstretched arms as he intends to be embraced in a bear hug of comfort. Her steps halt when perceiving the change in the situation and again her legs weaken enough to slump down on the ground while she absorbs the contents of the letter which flew into her being. Tears slip down her cheeks like ink on parchment. A hiccuped cry, she didn’t know she was caging, escapes between the bars of her lips, finding freedom in its echo. Her eyes gently close- a motion indicating her concentration sinking into the message meant for the half left without a whole. The summary of the letter states how much he believes in the worth of her existence- how, though he's gone, she should still live on, yet all she can do is use her shaking hand to cradle the next words that faintly trip out of her mouth, “Idiot. Why couldn’t you see how much you were worth too?” 


  • bluepuppy01 80w

    #cyanentry #bluepup
    This is a poem that is part of the previous storyish post

    Someone a Poem Wrote
    I am a child wild and free to roam yonder as I please
    Exploring the world whose lines I fill in many a word
    Aiming to improve this speck of universe I am 
    Like refining poetry with a flame born from mind
    This magnificent place and I 
    Growing like vines immune to fire spreading 
    Over pages of life as lavaic ink or overgrown ivy
    Crackling feelings influencing me along the way
    To determine what I may or may not do each day
    Whilst in the silent buzz of everyday curiosities
    I dream of a time where my blazing blooms blossom
    Past obscurity and meet the near perfect and truest me
    The me I hope is closest to You yet still the me you penned
    It would be more satisfying to understand the mystery
    Behind how it is you do what you do
    Creating prose out of flesh, blood, and soul
    But I’ll settle for the aurora of content rising within
    Love myself for the wildflower x free volcano hybrid I embody
    And rejoice in knowing I am someone a poem wrote
    In the mystical journal of humanity amongst stars


    Read More

    a Poem

  • bluepuppy01 80w

    Ok, so I was listening to a song on youtube and searching through the comments to find the lyrics cuz there's always that one dude who comments that. But, ya know, how there are those people who'll randomly write a poem in the comment section too? Yeah, I found a certain comment, but I wasn't sure if it was the actual lyrics or some rhymes someone randomly came up with, and in that moment whilst wondering if it was a poem someone wrote, my head made a slip-up and what my first thought about it was, "is this just someone a poem wrote," thinking it backwards (woops lol).

    ☆Anyways, that's what got me started on writing this- the accidental phrase, "someone a poem wrote."

    Also, I think I reused the word I made up a bit ago, so here's the word and definition for that:
    ~ Lavaic (adj.) - reminiscent of lava; related to lava in some way
    (Lŏ vā ĭc)

    The sound of lava I described- found out its quite satisfying to listen to. Y'all should find a yt video of it some time��

    Will post the longer poem I have somewhere in here in a separate post as well btw

    #bluepup #pod #bluestory
    #blue_phenomena #cyanentry

    P.S. whilst writing this, I finally realized why the golden yellow crayon is called Dandelion...�� took me 18 years, apparently, to figure that out...

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    Someone a Poem Wrote

    Do you ever feel like you’re someone a poem wrote? You just know you’ve been written into reality instead of being shaped by dust. However, you don’t consider yourself a character in a story narrating adventures or as faded pages of a diary retelling days you breathed so-called life. Thou art abstract feelings encased in flesh, of a poem perhaps then, you wonder. Somewhere, lines of Poetry wrote you into existence, and all your mind broods about after somebody recently advised you to become a better person is, “how can I be more poetic?” 

    Thinking again, though, you realize if you’re someone a poem wrote, how does someone go about becoming more like the poem? Thus, you, as the someone, delve into a pocket of curiosity and find a tiny pencil dating back to elementary days when you sharpened away its length to where it's not much more than a horizon of just lead and eraser. Next, in a desk drawer, you find a blank sheet of paper and hence begin an attempt at understanding the aesthetic form of literature as if taking notes will somehow help you comprehend the nature of your creator better.

    First, you jot down something simple like an artist who prefers to doodle...


    I used to be a child
    I used to be a schoolgirl
    I used to be wild
    I used to be me freely


    ...and think that’s alright for a beginner, but the desire to draw it more colorfully overwhelms you. This influences the decision to switch out nostalgia for discovery, forgetting the pencil of the past and, instead, you utilize some crayons.


    I wish to know who I am
    I wish to know how to improve
    I wish to know who made me
    I wish to be more like them


    It’s improved for sure, but it’s far from how you want it to be. You know you can do better than this. You believe as such. On the end of your fingertip, there’s a spark of inspiration flowing through your veins down from your imagination and its waiting to be something more than it is just like you do, you just don’t know how to refine it into a fiery sculpture yet, ever-blazing and infinitely a piece of art. Tossing away names like Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown, Dandelion, and Cerulean as well as the rest of the crayola box, you take that spark within you and focus. Close eyes. Deep breath. Twiddle the magic in your thumbs. There’s a feeling of heat rising, the temperature transforming body and mind into a volcano- veins the lava flow. You let your eyes of blue meet the environment around you again only to witness the evolution of flame, bluer than your irises, streaming out from the end of your finger. You hear a sound like that of compressed air from a blow torch yet when you let the fine tip of the flame hit the page, it sounds like the crackling lava does whilst slowly hardening into magma. The popping static of the fiery creek spills, onto the paper, a cascade of ink forming magic in poetic words once the silence of a windless day. 


    I am a child wild and free to roam yonder as I please
    Exploring the world whose lines I fill in many a word
    Aiming to improve this speck of universe I am 
    Like refining poetry with a flame born from mind
    This magnificent place and I 
    Growing like vines immune to fire spreading 
    Over pages of life as lavaic ink or overgrown ivy
    Crackling feelings influencing me along the way
    To determine what I may or may not do each day
    Whilst in the silent buzz of everyday curiosities
    I dream of a time where my blazing blooms blossom
    Past obscurity and meet the near perfect and truest me
    The me I hope is closest to You yet still the me you penned
    It would be more satisfying to understand the mystery
    Behind how it is you do what you do
    Creating prose out of flesh, blood, and soul
    But I’ll settle for the aurora of content rising within
    Love myself for the wildflower x free volcano hybrid I embody
    And rejoice in knowing I am someone a poem wrote
    In the mystical journal of humanity amongst stars


    Reading, again and again, what’s been burnt into the sheet full of graphite scribbles and now glowing hot, cerulean shades of cursive, a tear, like the last raindrop to fall from the sky, drizzles down your left cheek. A sob doesn’t need to be muffled, for no cry escapes your throat- only an unwavering smile shapes your lips. You ask yourself why you dwelt on such impertinent advice from anyone other than the amalgamation of verses who exhausted precious moments to forge you into who you truly were, are, and will ever be. Enlightened, you are, by the fact you never were less than yourself- you just previously chose to believe you were the “least” and, thus, never tried to be the “most.”

    Poeticism always lived inside you- breathed the same breaths you were never always convinced you deserved. Poetry always ran through your veins, you just never dared to bleed for truth before. 


  • bluepuppy01 80w

    This is:
    "Lost the Words" Part 3
    "Perhaps Hope in a
    Poet’s Purgatory" Part 2
    (Through a different POV)

    Click this tag> #blue_block to find the other parts ��

    I was too lazy to see if there was a word that meant this, so I just made my own:
    Lavaic (adj.) - reminiscent of lava; related to lava in some way

    #blue_challusion #cyanentry #bluepup
    #yearnc #myriadc #aubic @writersbay

    P.S. I discovered that all synonyms of "sand" suck �� lol that's why in the part before this, I referred to it as "deathly static"

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    Perhaps Hope in a Poet's Purgatory Part 2

    Still reflecting on past experiences,
    I relive those harsh times in my imagination:
    We had to decide what was the best solution 
    To liberate the sentient concepts,
    Abducted by a beaver wearing human skin
    From behind the dam on a deserted, desert island,
    Across from a decaying city settled in lavaic sand.

    We scouted for days- ones we couldn’t spare,
    For a way to save us from the tragic end
    Of a dream yearning to be more.
    When we couldn’t last any longer 
    Without determining a decisive course of action,
    We ultimately decided, “To hell with it!”
    And planned to demolish our alleged enemy
    With the only way we knew how.
    Digging, digging, digging, digging,
    We dug into the concrete until, and after still,
    The flesh of our hands slipped off,
    As if we weren’t attempting to strip away
    A wall, piece by piece, with bare bones,
    But, instead, imagined gathering soft earth
    In preparation to construct a sand castle. 

    For years, we persisted in gravedigging,
    Not noticing how we were already living skeletons-
    Was there even a reason to hope for survival 
    When death had already overtaken us?
    No, not us- me
    I was the skeleton pointlessly burying myself
    In a hope I lost long ago
    But still pretended I believed in out of habit,
    And like how I realized too late
    The state of my mental and physical being,
    I didn’t comprehend the betrayal
    Of my one and only companion, Emma,
    For, at some point, when I paused to glance up
    From the task I’d repeated gazillions,
    Staring back at me with an evil smirk of triumph,
    Body unscathed- with flesh and all, was she
    Who was my travel buddy for almost a lifetime.

    Not two seconds later, 
    After her eyes and the sockets 
    Where mine used to be held met,
    The water blocked by the dam 
    Burst out of its prison-
    An eruption I should’ve been ready for,
    Washing me away with the tsunami.
    It happened too swiftly-
    I could barely perceive 
    My own lack of breath 
    And the dam’s debris storming at me
    As I was shoved, dragged this way and that,
    By the thoughts I never knew could drown me.

    The flow calmed eventually,
    Leaving me to rest on a bed of wet sand
    Like a seashell discarded on the beach.
    I couldn’t move what was left of my body,
    Only able to gape at the bleeding sky of purgatory:
    *Sigh* it finally rained brutal irony-
    Why did it have to rain at that moment?
    How fitting for life blood to fall down on a corpse
    When all it wished for
    Was the right timing for it to grant life.
    My final breath was whispered to the downpour
    Betwixt my jawbones peeking out 
    From underneath the desert island shore-
    Fortunate to breathe until then, I guess 
    (Imagine a skeleton who could live 
    Until the last of its flesh was rinsed off).
    The last sensation I felt was of the hot zephyr 
    Carrying over myriads of sand
    To bury the last of myself in oblivion.

    Apparently, however, death was not the end
    For when my body died- my soul remained.
    Now I haunt the traitorous poet 
    Who chose words over me, Writer’s block,
    Patiently waiting for the perfect moment
    To strike back into her living days
    Like Earth’s assassin, Lightning.
    I’ll dive into her head, erasing her everything
    Like she did to the me who believed 
    In the friendship we, perhaps, 
    Infinitely could have sailed along in 
    If never ever we found ourselves in Purgatory,
    And this time, I’ll construct a dam obstructing 
    Nothing but what I’ll make her believe is behind it,
    So that when she aims to kill me again 
    With hands still stained with my blood,
    What she’ll find after shoveling into obstruction
    Will be the realization she dug her own grave instead.


  • bluepuppy01 81w

    #bluepup #cyanentry #blue_veneer

    Feigned Ignorance of Inner Worlds
    We just see what we wanna see
    That’s what we humans do
    We look into people’s eyes
    Or up to the moonlit skies
    And believe a truth
    We design in our own mind

    We dismiss the sparkling glints
    In the orbs between eyelids
    As glittering joy or reflections of light
    We read their gaze as if it's saying,
    "Yeah, I'm alright"
    Rather than the reality
    Of a world flooded with sorrow
    And raining silent tears unlikely
    To be evaporated puddles by ‘morrow

    We ignore what nature dangles
    Above our heads at nighttime
    Treating the moon like a disco ball
    With complete passivity
    Thinking, “Oh, it’s only a little shiny”
    While its phases swing to and fro-
    A pendulum always coming back home
    Yet we utterly waste
    The time in between
    When what we could’ve done
    Was something right for a change
    We never stop to ponder
    Perhaps what’s behind those shades
    The weight each phase carries
    Whilst it shows us only one face
    ‘Neath layers under its craters
    Lies a world waiting to be understood
    But we, the beholders,
    Are blind by choice
    Not by circumstances unfortunate

    There’s a world inside all of us
    Like there’s a world inside the moon
    But when fear makes one hesitate
    To show their true self to the stars
    We avoid landing our fallen wishes
    Beyond the veneer of a silicon-clad soul
    And pass over their sky
    Pretending we never saw
    The ground belonging to that moon


    Read More


  • bluepuppy01 81w

    Um..this- I'm not too sure about. I feel like I forced it too much and focused a little more than I should have on the specific motions of objects before decisively ending whatever it could've been prematurely, but oh well- it is what it is��

    Challenge tags:
    Midnight #midnightc #bluescene
    Redolent #redolentc
    Zephyr #zephyrc #bayentry
    Iridescent #iridescentc #blue_word_32
    Evince #blue_word_19 #cyanentry
    Phantasm #blue_word_05 #bluepup
    Susurrus #blue_word_31
    Dive, Shallow, Quiver, Generous,
    Redolent, Summon #blue_word_33
    Delphic #blue_word_28
    POV of Something Abstract #aubic
    Shadow POV: #blue_pov_07

    Loom of Midnight Monsters

    Midnight fog swam with the invisible currents, floating towards the forest that wouldn’t be eerie without it. Where the fog crosses through the shallow winds of change, I lurk in the depths of an ocean where they never dare to dive too deep.

    Following relentlessly, like a remora to a manta ray of heavy mist, we move in sync over the quivering blades of grass seeming to suddenly grow dull upon our arrival as if the presence of a ghostly fog and its shadows could belittle the sharpness of the tools in the shed that is the backwoods. As they quiver in fear, the susurrus of their timid cries contributes to the macabre atmosphere we’ve waded our way into whilst maneuvering through the transparent blue of the sky ‘neath the sky.

    With this welcome, we haughtily and hauntingly glide onward between tall, grotesque beings with needles and broader grass blades growing out from their rough, scaly skin. It is here where I stealthily blend into the darker shades ‘neath these trees where even the moonlight cannot reach.

    Buried under the zephyr of silver clouded waves lacking iridescent sheens yet drifting above Lady Earth among fellow brethren, I somehow drown in something redolent of the feeling a specter gets when convincing a human how perhaps it isn’t just a phantasm, for this bewitching hour is the prime time for creatures, commonly dismissed as ordinary occurrences of nature, like us, to come out evincing to the inhabitants of this world the monsters we truly are.

    It is our purpose. We are here, as commanded by the summoning of our Delphic master, to generously flood this humanity infested realm with terror. Therefore, how could one, such as I, not be immersed in rapture when traversing through the midnight of a planet unaware, thus far, of the future that awaits it?

    Btw, if it ain't obvious enough, all I did was overly describe the movements of fog, wind, shadows, and a forest through the point of view of a cloud of fog's shadow during midnight...
    but then, in the end, it sort of had a supernatural element ��‍♀️

    Read More

    Loom of
    Midnight Monsters

  • bluepuppy01 81w


    Nowhere is where I belong.

    A place I can call my own
    Is nowhere in this world.

    I made it this way.

    I carved this of my life
    With my own bare hands,
    And created it so perfectly-
    Too perfectly.

    Now, I can’t withdraw
    From this space
    Even if I wished to be
    Someplace else,
    But nowhere is where I belong,
    So why would I dare
    To seek “a somewhere”
    Not destined for this someone I am?


    Dear Reader,

    Please read this all over again, but this time read “nowhere” as “now here” instead.

    ��Many thanks,
    This is an entry for the challenge created by @pragya_a_dreamer on my @cyan_rose account. ��

    #cyanentry #prettypic164
    #blue_pd_nowhere #bluepup

    Read More


  • bluepuppy01 81w

    #chrysalisc #bluepup
    @writersbay #cyanentry #bayentry
    Lol does this count for #blue_insect ??
    Oh well- since I'm the judge anyways, I'll go with, "Sure, why not?"
    Chrysalis Stage
    I’m at the chrysalis stage of my own life
    Where eighteen equals adulthood,
    But my mindset,
    More mature for my age yet scatter-brained,
    Is far too underdeveloped
    To properly function
    In the world of grown men and women
    Who perseveringly sacrifice
    Blood, sweat, tears, and time
    To provide, for themselves and others,
    Food on the table among other necessities.

    Rather than emerge from
    The temporary home I made myself,
    I’d prefer it to be a permanent nook
    Where my life is free
    To stay just the way it’s always been-
    Private and fully accepting of who I am.
    Instead, I’m expected to abandon
    This safe haven I’ve sculpted
    Using the skin I’ve molted,
    And transform into a stranger
    Who’s less part of me
    Than the chrysalis itself,
    So the world will accept me
    More than I would after metamorphosis.

    Why can’t time just freeze
    Or this chrysalis remain forever
    Protecting me from sinister reality?
    Why must I go out into the world,
    Performing actions I care naught about
    For results that make no difference
    To the person I am presently?
    They say it will matter
    To the me of the future,
    But if there’s only one more stage
    After chrysalis,
    Then I don’t think I should spend
    The infinitesimal time I have now
    On things I’ll supposedly care for
    Moments prior to lying on my deathbed.


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    Chrysalis Stage

  • bluepuppy01 81w

    ��‍♀️ (Part 3)
    Just realized I used bugs
    In both of these
    "I have no idea what I'm writing" posts
    One in a picture (let's not talk about that particular insect though)
    The other in written form

    Figured that's an incentive
    To create a part three
    Cuz why the heck not?
    Might as well do something else
    In an attempt to relieve myself
    Of this "having nothing to do" syndrome

    I wonder how long I can keep this going-
    Will it turn into a neverending spiral
    Of subtly rhythmic formations of words
    Streaming out of my consciousness?
    Ah, now I'm curious��
    Like, for real:
    How many of these could I make
    If I'm forever awake
    And capable of typing away
    At these flat buttons of alphabetic characters eternally?

    What if Boredom leaves me alone first?
    Then what?
    Would I be left paralyzed cognitively?
    Would my hands, too,
    Become numb and frozen stiff
    Because Boredom stopped messing
    With the remote that controls me?

    Oh, right...just remembered
    I was supposed to add a bug or something
    To this piece that ended up not including one so far
    Technically, anyways...
    ��Hmm...a bug?...
    Aw man!��
    My mind just went blank
    Oh well..
    Let's just cheat and say
    That when I used the word "bug"
    It counts as accomplishing my original prompt
    For this third, random stream of thought


    #blue_bored #cyanentry
    #bluepup #prettypic281
    Lol I figured a pic of a remote would be boring/ugly, hence this����‍♀️
    Realized I wanted to have a bug in this pic too so I just doodled one real quick

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    ‍♀️ Part 3

  • bluepuppy01 81w

    ��‍♀️ (Part 2)
    Okay, let's keep this random stream of thought flowing
    'Cause I can't seem to get rid of this boredom
    That has befallen upon my being

    What should I type now?
    Not quite sure
    Now that I'm purposely trying to capture
    Random thoughts before they flee
    Like grasshoppers in a field
    From predatorially curious hands
    Of the beast known as a child
    Thinking back- is predatorially even a word��
    Whatever- let's pretend it is if it isn't

    Now that I'm aware of my randomosity
    I can't seem to think of much else
    Because they're not so random anymore
    But rather thoughts trying to say
    Something that perhaps makes more sense
    Than the words in the piece that came before this
    Conscious rivers are weird things
    Whether what flows in them
    Be liquid or intangible nonsense...


    #blue_bored #bluepup #cyanentry

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    ‍♀️ Part 2

  • bluepuppy01 81w

    ��‍♀️ (Part 1)
    Still bored as you can see
    Typing random lines on Mirakee
    Through a phone that used to be
    One my mother used before me

    Thumb nails tap away on the screen
    Having naturally long nails is fun indeed
    The sound effect is rather pleasing
    L.o.l. why does such a little thing make me happy
    And distract me or rather guide me
    To continue typing these odd first thoughts coming
    To this mind that's still just walking
    Perhaps floating since minds don't have feet��
    Nah, nevermind- they can't fly either
    Yeah, I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore...


    #blue_bored #bluepup #cyanentry

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    ‍♀️ Part 1

  • bluepuppy01 82w

    #bluepup #bluestory #cyanentry
    #ceesreposts #bayentry

    • Warning: Lengthy!
    • Warning: Switches thru like 3or4 POVs
    (POV change symbol: ~~~~~~~~~)
    • Sorry in advance for any mistakes
    (�� I had an aggravating headache
    while I was writing)

    Entry for @cyan_rose challenge #blue_raindropthoughts &
    @writersbay challenge #birdc

    P.S. �� my original idea was to write something using the 269th prettypic from my @azureabyss prompt acc and then use that to help me write an innocent love story between a raindrop and a human girl (don't judge me- there's literally a movie out there about love between a human and a bee). Anyways, yeah, this is not that...idk why this happened...or even what happened.
    Materialized Dream
    Lost in an abyss of inspiration- a world carrying too many things to write about in one armful, a young lady sits in a dim room with only a single lamp lit in the corner. Before her, lying in wait on the cherry-stained, beech wood desktop is an open journal- pages blank. With her legs folded underneath her on the chair, elbows leaning forward, and cheeks resting on the knuckles of her closed hands, she boredly stares out the window, letting her gaze unfocus. The falling rain blurs in her vision.

    Her thoughts want to wander, yet her mind reins them in, not allowing them to drift too far from within the safety of their home. Thus, the thoughts as if put in time-out, stay there and do nothing but pout, but when the mind isn’t paying full attention, they’ll sneakily go out beyond the set boundaries, trying to explore as much as they can, then run back before their absence has been noticed. One mischievous explorer, however, roamed too far and didn’t come back for a while.


    I seem to have found a lost child. Though, perhaps she’s the one who found me first. I was falling from the sky, as per usual on a rainy day, for I take my job seriously and don’t laze about like those drought fiends. Then out of nowhere, I see an outstretched hand reaching towards the sky appearing directly on my course for land! Now, this unplanned scenario is playing out where, after this little girl caught me in her palm, I am confused as to how to proceed from this destination I wasn’t destined to be.

    Oh no! Now she’s twirling! Ugh, her spinning is making me dizzy! And the racket! Oh this strange noise doesn’t help at all! I prefer the melody of thunder to sound in my ears, not human roars! What do they call this outrageous echo?


    “Laughter, silly,” a young voice giggles.

    “Ugh! Yes, laughter. That’s it. Wait, what? Who said that?"


    *The hand that holds the raindrop rises up to meet face to face with the little girl* "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing?! Rainfall isn’t meant to rise!"

    “I just wanted to see you up close,” the girl with joy ringing in her voice says whilst observing the droplet with curious eyes.

    “How can you hear me?” the splash of water asks with suspicion.

    “I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m not human,” the girl shrugs.

    “Not human? How is that possible?! You’re clearly wearing their flesh! You talk like them! And even laugh like them!” the raindrop counters.

    “Nuh-uh! See, look what I can do!” shouts the girl as she raises her other hand for the raindrop to see. The fingers begin to disappear- no, not disappear, but warp into wisps like the tail ends of a ghost’s gown perhaps. Her skin color fades and seems to blend in with the gray surroundings how a chameleon would. Soon, her hand returns to its normal appearance.

    “Wha-? How? How did you do that? What are you?”

    “Ha! You believe me now!” she says victoriously, then answers, “I am simply a dream created by my human. I have tons of brothers and sisters too, but we don’t have our own names. They just call us ‘thoughts’ or ‘daydreams’”

    “Dream? Thoughts? How is that possible? Are you telling me that all the people we see aren’t even all humans?” the raindrop begins to mumble to itself as it speaks.

    The girl, now a bit bored by the conversation, says, “I don’t know. Maybe.”


    The raindrop and the dream are startled by a grating shriek and a loud thump. Turning every which way, they look around for the source. That’s when they spot a crow getting back up on its feet in front of the tree near the mailbox.


    I. Ran. Into. A. Tree. Why? Because I saw some sorcery going on, that’s why! Like seriously, one second I was flying to this tree to get some shelter from the rain and the next, SPLAT, I crashed straight into the thing all because I looked away for a bit.

    I peer over towards the human wearing a yellow raincoat, hat, and rubber boots. I coulda sworn I just saw its hand disappear and then reappear like glints of sun but without the shine. It seems to be talking to its other one. Oh, here it comes. It’s walking over here. Oh no...is it one of them crazy people who worship crows or something? Not again! Why is it always me they try to mess with?! I gotta get out of here! Accursed storm! The rain is pouring harder and my wings are already soaked, so I don’t make it into the air in time before it approaches me.


    “It’s a crow,” the dream says as she slowly walks up to the bird struggling with its wet wings.

    “So it is,” says the raindrop, “Why are you just walking up to it? What if it attacks us?!”

    “It’ll be fine. Not like it can hurt me or anything- if it can even see me that is.”

    “Oh right...but still, crows are such filthy creatures. In all my time working for the water cycle, I’ve only landed on a crow once. And I never wanna touch one again!” the raindrop ripples- an equivalent to goosebumps or perhaps shivers up the spine.

    “I won’t let him touch you. I just wanna see a crow up close. I’ve never been out this far and haven’t seen much of anything.” A gleam reawakens in the dream’s eyes as curiosity resurfaces from within her very being.

    “Caw! Caw!” The crow cries for it hasn’t yet learned that almost nothing can kill a dream’s curiosity.


    A dream steps through a storm to meet a bird widely feared as a creature of evil. However, soon, lightning strikes down far off in the distance at the same time a little girl starts vanishing. The dream child begins to fade. Her form, as if confused as to what it is supposed to be in the first place, distorts, warping back and forth between the shape of a human and a cloud of fog. A droplet of water slips off her palm and falls to the ground. Now, only a transparent strand of thought exists among the rain, across from a nightmarish crow, and hovering above a poor raindrop who lost her way in the human world.

    The dreamy wisp, seemingly weighed down by gravity but tugged by the winds, is pulled away by a mysterious force into the nearby countryside cabin. Inside a particular room, sits a young lady whose head rests on one arm lying on a desk- the other arm splayed out across a journal open to a blank page. Drool slowly streaks down one side of her chin. Just as her eyelids begin to flutter awake, a dream who had wandered to the outside world returns to its realm of imagination, reuniting with the thoughts just like it.

    The lady awakens with a heavy yawn and a stretch of the limbs. Whilst sluggishly wiping her eyes from their sleep and lapping up the drool with her tongue, last night's dream dawns upon her. Suddenly, her sight darts out the window- still raining, yet morning light somehow seeps in through the glass sparkling with raindrops. She follows a single droplet with her gaze as it slides down meticulously in its strange, squiggly pattern. Shaking her head out from its daze, she then picks up a pen and hastily begins to jot down words she won’t allow to escape- thoughts she hopes stay long enough to enter the papery doorway of her journal and into the story she will create.


    Read More

    Materialized Dream

  • bluepuppy01 79w

    Intergalactic journey
    Betwixt flurries of
    Concocted worlds of fiction;
    Transportation of self to reveries-
    Fantasies braiding together magic and realism.