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About Varied / Artist joe-wright28/Male/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Literature
Oversoul
Amanita set down her lantern in the grass, followed by the birdcage. Though forgotten by maps and men, the birds knew this forest well, and avoided it when at all possible – they would detour by a mile or more rather than fly directly overhead. The little sparrow in the cage was overcome with fear at being brought here, but even that paled next to the abject terror it felt at Amanita's presence in this place, of all places. Only by consulting the bird, walking in the direction it desperately tried to flee from, had Amanita been able to locate this clearing: a hole in the canopy through which a long dead constellation stared, guileless, milky-eyed, yet still potent, in a way. Those burnt-out stars could not be seen in human skies, but here, somehow, they were not only visible but connected to the land, reflected perfectly in the arrangement of rocks and growing things.
The trees shivered in the guttering light of the lantern candle as Amanita hung carvings and catchers from their
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Hydra by joe-wright Hydra :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 15 10
Literature
Love Letter
You bask in the candlelight as the ink dries on your skin. You've been penned by a suitor of Princess Annette, and the heart behind the quill is effulgent with hope – motivated by both genuine compassion and self-concern in more or less equal measure. Not a pure heart, nor an evil one; merely human.
You're folded with care and sealed with wax, and the following morning you're handed to a man, Father Tomas. Since the Queen's arrest for high treason, unfamilar faces have been most unwelcome at the palace; luckily, Father Tomas is almost a fixture of the place. He tells the suitor he saw her highness yesterday, withdrawn and pale with sorrow for her mother – he's more than happy, he says, to deliver you, and bring her something to be joyful about.
Tomas, however, is unlikely to run into Princess Annette again today, her self-imposed isolation rendering her inaccessible to the simple priest, that is unless she deigns to visit the chapel. You are passed instead to Baron Talus, a
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Literature
Lord
I know he's laughing somewhere close, but I can't hear him over the cacophonous buzzing. I see nothing, but somehow the nothing still manages to writhe.
I feel myself flayed by a living hailstorm. It stings beyond description; I can't see my own hands but I imagine the skin hanging off them, shredded and wet. They taste bitter as they crawl down my throat. All I can smell is my own blood, overpowering, sharp.
If I could cry, I would cry. If I could scream, I would scream. All I can do is retch as my ribs break one by one from the effort.
Curse the Duke of Hell. Curse Beelzebub. I always thought Lord of the Flies was a metaphor.
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Vivi by joe-wright Vivi :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 12 8 Blep by joe-wright Blep :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 12 4
Literature
Chekhov's Guns
Anton Chekhov (no relation) surveyed the racks upon racks of guns that lined the walls of his shop. Although many of them were black, each one of them possessed a dangerous sheen – gleaming hungrily like the alien from Alien. Their polished grips, some smooth, some textured, some wooden, some not, they cried out to be held, and more than held.
A drop of sweat rolled down Chekhov's forehead. He knew full well that he was in a short story, and he knew full well what that meant. He regretted now opening a gun shop, just for the sake of a lightly amusing pun. There was no way he could have anticipated the events playing out here, but looking back now, perhaps it was also true to say that he'd been asking for it.
What was the word count now? He checked his watch. One hundred and fifty words, give or take. That left him three hundred and fifty, no, less now, to find a solution, or for a solution to find him. He gripped the counter edge, his knuckles white. No, that was wasteful. White-
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Literature
No Turning Back
[1]
The thief had a small headstart, but it was a long road to travel from Reed's laboratory. In pursuit, Scarlet thought it best to pace herself.
She adjusted the strap on her grimoire. Nestled in the markings on its pages were Splatypus the duck-billed water grimuon, Chimpansy, a green-furred monkey with a flowered tail, and Kiwick, a tiny red kiwi bird with a candle stub on its back.
Two paths branched from Inkwell, one leading to Buckram (2), the other along the coast (3).
[2]
Two Knight Owls stood guard outside Buckram Manor. The church couldn't possibly have heard about the missing page yet – why were they here? Town was quiet. Curtain-twitchers spied from above. Armoured acolytes were going door-to-door. Scarlet avoided their sight.
In the trees off the path she glimpsed a wanderer. He seemed in as much of a hurry as she was – she considered whether to approach him (4) or not (5).
[3]
The journey along the cliffside was beautiful. Atop the lighthouse Scarlet saw a St
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Literature
Mad Science is More Art than Science
The Annual Scientific Conference was in full swing, and deathly silent. Dr Cavendish had arranged a presentation on electron configuration. Dr Hallam sat proudly behind a display of his recent analysis of sand quality on South Western beaches. Dr Linehan was carrying around a five hundred page printout of his most recent findings, just in case anyone felt the need to pore through the raw data of his infamously boring experiment that nobody could remember what it was.
There was a boom, and the building rattled, dust descending from the jangling chandelier. The Annual Mad Scientific Conference was also in full swing, just across the street.
Dr Arthur Walsh watched through the window as a beam of green light spilled out of the adjacent hotel's door, followed by a pterodactyl. He tapped his fingers on the sill.
“It's a dog and pony show,” he complained. “We toil to make the world a better place, but if you want anyone to remember your name you have to create some sort of
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Literature
Raknar Under Sail
On a barnacle-studded rock, bewinged by plumes of cold saltwater, a young woman – her thick, flowing hair red and rich as seaweed – arched her back and sang. Her elegant fish tail carved the waves behind her gently, wistfully.
“One day you'll see,” she breathed with longing, her glittering eyes fixed on the distant mist-shrouded coast, “Someday I'll be - part of your worrrrrlll-”
She slumped face first into the ocean, a harpoon protruding from her back, and Raknar hauled her from the churning pink water in order to inspect his kill. The mermaid wore a superlative clamshell breastplate. He strapped it on, and pulled his Snuffleupagus cloak back over his previously bare chest.
His equipment was legendary – composed of only the finest armours and weaponry from across the realms of fiction. He'd roamed those lands corner to corner, hunting creatures exotic and inexplicable. Many had left their mark on him, but none so severely as the teletubbies. T
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Literature
WELP.
Once upon a time Joe had just discovered what a word war was, seconds before being subjected to one! Panic gripped his heart as he realised that not only did he have no ideas whatsoever, but he'd already wasted entire minutes getting distracted by a shiny thing. Shamefully, he resigned himself to the lowest of flash fiction practices: writing about himself not having any ideas. Nothing could have been worse. What did this mean for his legitimacy as a writer? The answer was simple. He had none. This was the final nail in the coffin. It was time to hang up his writing pen and take the long walk into the nuclear wastleland of adulthood, where nothing was ever fun and nothing he made would ever interest anyone, least of all his future children.
The following morning, Joe looked over what he'd written. No, this wasn't submissible. Editing it seemed antithetical to the premise. His only option was to soldier on. What, he thought, could possibly salvage his reputation as a writer of snappy, e
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Literature
It's Always Sonny in Inglemouth
Yves raced down the street, trenchcoat flapping in the wind. One generally associated the undead with the word shambling, but Yves found that undeath had actually improved his athletic performance – for one thing he wasn't limited by his several-packs-a-day habit anymore. His quarry darted into an alley ahead of him, and he almost lost his footing as he rounded the corner. Lashings of cold rain had rendered the mossy cobbles an archipelago, and his flat-soled oxfords could barely cope with a light stroll at the best of times.
Up ahead, a bolt of tan fur and blue silk scampered up a plywood board inclined against a skip, and hopped effortlessly through an open window. Goddamn, thought Yves. I don't have enough time for this shit. Running up the loading bay ramp, he picked the window with the most rotten-looking frame and leapt through it. It caved inwards as if it were held together by wet cake.
Warehouse workers scattered. “Occult Regulation Bureau,” sho
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Literature
Playing With Fire - Part Three
Mister Charbonneau, he’d called him. Yves was furious - he’d changed his name for a reason. Death solved a great deal of problems, often permanently, but much to his chagrin, a paper trail was a paper trail. He’d been wherever he was for less than a minute, and already the vampire was pushing his buttons.
“Something keeping you?” asked Nico, pointedly, from his coffin. “Time is a factor.”
Yves had his good eye closed. “Patience, mon frere.” He was sitting on the floor cross-legged, arms open meditatively.
Nico sighed and waved Benedict to stake him. “Get it over w-” THUNK.
“With pleasure,” said Benedict.
Cheerfully, Yves hopped up and stole the vampire’s cigarettes.
“You’ve got some foam,” he said to Benedict, pointing under his nose, before stepping backwards into the spirit world.
Nico was waiting there, clutching his chest.
“I wish I could afford to go through shirts li
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Literature
Cry For Help
The quiet sobbing gradually became a chuckle. It was fucking unsettling. Everyone exchanged glances – wide, worried eyes glimmering in the dark. Nobody wanted to say anything though. For that they looked to me.
The man had watched that thing eat his children. What was there to say?
“COME ON!” he yelled suddenly, and everyone jumped in fright. “JUST FUCKING COME AND KILL ME! FUCKING KILL ME!”
I grabbed his shoulder but he shoved me away, standing up and screaming at the sky.
“FUCKING END IT! EAAT MEEEE!”
I don't even remember grabbing the rope, I just hooked him by the neck and heaved. He struggled; he didn't really want to die, at least not at my hands – he wanted to see the creature again, to fight it, as pointless as that may have been. His feet kicked, his back arched, he bucked and frothed and gurgled and fell quiet, heavy as his body became just so much meat.
Everyone was looking at me. I was still holding a dead man. I was st
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Literature
We Fight in the Shade
“Shit,” I said, falling out of my hammock. I felt like someone had done something unspeakable to my head – onboard the Ranger that was well within the bounds of possibility. Some Captains prided themselves on a 'tight ship'. Benjamin Hornigold ran a particularly loose one. The old boat would be sitting higher in the water once I'd taken my morning piss, that was certain.
I staggered up on deck, swearing loudly at what appeared to be a midday sun. What the fuck was that doing there? The previous night was a blur – we'd ran a merchant ship aground on Cat Cay, and the hold was spilling over with flour and spirits. Cause for celebration if ever there was one, and the crew of the Ranger barely required cause at all. I squinted around – the sails were slack, every surface was slick with rum and vomit, and the boatswain and quartermaster both seemed to be enjoying a heated debate with the crew – those capable of stringing more than one word together at leas
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Literature
Retro Future Gothic
Catherine wandered the floating Thornmoor estate, feeling thoroughly unworthy of its majesty. Her newly wedded husband owned quite the home – not only the gleaming white slabs of Thornmoor Hall, a Fallingwateresque masterpiece of modern design, but acres of greenery surrounding it, a garden sprawling enough to get lost in, all suspended in the Atlantic sky. When the sun set, the violet glow of the aeternengines ringed their small horizon, and wisps of magnetic energy fluttered about the eaves, soft as owls.
The tall white walls matched her long white hair, but while the walls were cool and impassive, she was forever fretting. The butler system's ocules judged her from the corners. The housekeeping robots cleaned every room after she left it, as if she sullied the house with her presence somehow. The sterility of the place haunted her. It was too empty – every surface pristine and uncluttered. Mister Thornmoor's house was well-kept to the point that it couldn't honestly be c
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Activity


20 deviations

Amanita set down her lantern in the grass, followed by the birdcage. Though forgotten by maps and men, the birds knew this forest well, and avoided it when at all possible – they would detour by a mile or more rather than fly directly overhead. The little sparrow in the cage was overcome with fear at being brought here, but even that paled next to the abject terror it felt at Amanita's presence in this place, of all places. Only by consulting the bird, walking in the direction it desperately tried to flee from, had Amanita been able to locate this clearing: a hole in the canopy through which a long dead constellation stared, guileless, milky-eyed, yet still potent, in a way. Those burnt-out stars could not be seen in human skies, but here, somehow, they were not only visible but connected to the land, reflected perfectly in the arrangement of rocks and growing things.

The trees shivered in the guttering light of the lantern candle as Amanita hung carvings and catchers from their branches, sculpting the leylines. Following the flow of invisible energy with one hand outstretched, she placed prism stones in her wake, delineating a boundary, stirring the vortex, focusing its power. Sitting herself down beside the birdcage, she smoothed her nightdress and starting removing items from her knapsack, placing them about herself within arm's reach. The sparrow shrieked for help, and its fellows answered, but as they swooped down they were swept aside – caught up in a maelstrom unseen and unheard.

All the while incanting, Amanita took a waxen effigy in hand – lovingly crafted, bound with her hair and imbued with gemstone chakras – and picked those gemstones out with a pin, rendering the doll hollow and her own body … pregnable, shall we say? Chakras unlocked. Ajar. She set it below a strange funneled tripod into which she placed bright yellow brimstone crystals. They bloomed into bright blue flame at just a word and a glance. Entropic charms were the first and simplest to learn, since entropy required only the barest encouragement under normal circumstances. Blood red molten sulphur streamed from the funnel and splashed the waxen figure, filling its hollows, and Amanita felt her body yearning to change, her heart swollen with magic potential, ready to burst on catalysis. She removed her nightdress.

Deftly unlatched, the birdcage door squeaked open, and she seized the sparrow with twiglike fingers. She held it in her fist such that it could not struggle – the birds had trusted her once, and her betrayal made fools of them just as it made a sinner of her. With a careful motion, sickening in its slowness, Amanita's knife sliced through the tiny bird's body. As it convulsed she drew it down her face, from her forehead down her nose, and across her bared tongue. She painted a line of blood between her breasts, past her navel to her crotch, and when she was done she placed the twitching sparrow back amongst the flowers. They bled identically, though of course Amanita didn't really bleed at all. Fledging with oversoul, she sang ever louder, and crushed her own effigy in her hand. She felt the magic of it crackle on her skin, but no harm came to her. No harm would ever come to her again.

Lightly she stroked the bark of a tree, and smiled that she would be the first person to know what it was to outlive them. Forests would sprout and shrink around her. Kingdoms would rise and crumble. The gates of heaven would rust before they ever saw her face.

Stepping out of the vortex she sneered at the cloud of birds. She was far beyond them now. Even as they swirled and swarmed around her, she laughed. If their tiny wings beat at her, the oversoul would turn them away. If their tiny claws left tiny scratches, they would heal in seconds. If their tiny beaks plucked at her eyes … it hurt. It hurt so badly. She couldn't see.  

She swiped at them, but they flowed around her talons ungraspable, like cottonwood seeds on the wind. She chased them down, but every step away from her circle made her more vulnerable. She tried to curse them, but they ripped her tongue to ribbons.

A single soul is not enough to prolong a life indefinitely. A second soul is not easily obtained, and less easily manipulated. If one is to wear an oversoul, there is but one way: two living souls must be bound, and a sacrifice made.

Amanita spilled onto the forest floor, split and wet with a thousand cuts. As soon as the light left her one intact eye, the birds dispersed in a great ring. Not one of them wanted anything to do with this clearing, or anything the witch had done here.

Inside the circle the sparrow flapped itself upright, miraculously whole again. The stars above reflected in its beady eyes, or perhaps they were now contained there. It chirrupped, and fluttered away.

Oversoul
Flash Fic Month Day Omega!
I chose to answer challenges from The-Inkling
Bullet; Green Write a story making use of Hamartia
Bullet; Blue Featuring an Immortality Seeker
Bullet; Purple With the trope Small Role, Big Impact showing at some point.
Bullet; Black And including: stone, wax, and sulphur.
and GDeyke
Bullet; Black Fairy tale.
Bullet; Black And also horror.
Bullet; Black Include someone in a forest at night, wearing their nightdress.
Bullet; Black Include a bird as some manner of guide.

Sorry I fell so far behind with FFM everyone, I'm very ashamed of myself :(
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You bask in the candlelight as the ink dries on your skin. You've been penned by a suitor of Princess Annette, and the heart behind the quill is effulgent with hope – motivated by both genuine compassion and self-concern in more or less equal measure. Not a pure heart, nor an evil one; merely human.

You're folded with care and sealed with wax, and the following morning you're handed to a man, Father Tomas. Since the Queen's arrest for high treason, unfamilar faces have been most unwelcome at the palace; luckily, Father Tomas is almost a fixture of the place. He tells the suitor he saw her highness yesterday, withdrawn and pale with sorrow for her mother – he's more than happy, he says, to deliver you, and bring her something to be joyful about.

Tomas, however, is unlikely to run into Princess Annette again today, her self-imposed isolation rendering her inaccessible to the simple priest, that is unless she deigns to visit the chapel. You are passed instead to Baron Talus, a softly spoken man whom, you suspect, has a great deal of clout. While he gives his word to the priest that he will deliver the letter forthwith, his actual path takes him to the far wing of the palace, where he confers with an ally, presumably of another esteemed house. You gather Talus' confidant bears another letter, similar to yourself, though penned in another hand. The respective merits of your writers, and the potential benefits of the matches you represent are debated at length. Eventually, and much to your relief, you are borne away from the room, while your counterpart is quietly disposed of.

The Baron hands you to Countess Wilhelmina, the young Princess' closest friend. They gossip animatedly, although you get the impression neither of them is learning anything new. It seems half recreational, and half a ritual, intended to keep each other in each other's pockets. In any event, now that you're in the Countess' hands you are confident you will be delivered to Annette before the setting of the sun. Within sight of her chamber door, Wilhelmina is stopped in her tracks. The King wishes to ask her something. A ham-handed attempt at weaselling his way back into her highness' good graces. Wilhelmina forces her most trustworthy smile, and surreptitiously hands you off behind her back to a passing handmaiden.

Susannah the handmaid glides into the Princess' room, exchanges you for a tray with an empty cup and a cold teapot, and leaves again, invisible to the palace at large. With a warm smile at the sight of your wax seal, Annette unfurls you and begins to read.

'Dearest Annette,
Your elegance, charm and beauty are far beyond my ability to describe, but nonetheless I find …'

“Well, well, What do you have there?” booms the King in a typical dubious attempt at joviality.  

Annette may well be elegant, charming and beautiful, but the first word that strikes you is 'timorous'. If you were to stretch to a phrase it would be 'ill at ease'. She's young, and matters of the heart embarrass her deeply. You're screwed into a ball before you can be read any further, and tossed into the fireplace. The Princess brushes her hands off on the front of her dress, blushing a fetching shade of red at having been discovered contemplating the possibility of courting your writer.

“Nothing,” she lies.

Love Letter
Based on the card game Love Letter. This took way more research than I expected. 572 words.

CHALLENGE: Nobody Wins


Flash Fiction Month isn't the only thing that ends in July: the Tour de France also winds up and crowns a champ. In fact, way back in 1999 and 2004 Lance Armstrong nabbed the title on this day, only to have it stripped away later for his use of illegal performance enhancing drugs. That means for two years, the Tour de France has no winner (which is, hail Hydra, today's theme (what?! You cry. It's almost like this was planned!))
Bullet; Blue ELEMENT FIRST PLACE: board of playing games
Set your piece in a board game of your choice: will you go for a more traditional game like Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit or something more recent like One Night: Ultimate Werewolf or Betrayal at House on the Hill. This also means the rules of the game you choose must be applied!

Bullet; Blue ELEMENT SECOND PLACE: very superstitious

Lucky for some, your word count must be a multiple of the number 13.

Bullet; Blue ELEMENT THIRD PLACE: smiles all the way
Surprise, there isn't a third element. It's just happy to be included.
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joe-wright

Artist | Varied
United Kingdom
Joe is basically Charlie Brown only instead of a dog he has social anxiety issues.
He spends most of his time thinking about etymology and looking like a startled owl.
Interests

Comments


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:iconobsydiandreamer:
ObsydianDreamer Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017  Student Writer
Hello, I just wanted to say thank you for the watch. I really appreciate it :)
Reply
:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017   General Artist
No problem! :)
Reply
:iconlealsfeels:
lealsfeels Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016
Happy Birthday! :party: 
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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:iconpaladinrebel8:
PaladinRebel8 Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   Digital Artist
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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:iconpaladinrebel8:
PaladinRebel8 Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   Digital Artist
No Problem! 
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:iconuskius:
Uskius Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! :)
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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