Super Patron Creator Arts Grant Application. (19.11.17)

I’m Zoe Brook. I’m a writer.

I write short, long, surreal, silly, magical, and often queer fiction.

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The Woman Dipped In Ink.

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.

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Honey Vinegar.

He demanded salad, every Sunday lunch. The centerpiece. In the beginning, it was the symbol of his blandness, his normality, everything that frustrated and hurt her. But little by little she learned to make the salads better. Spiced dressings, bits of added fruit, nuts, or grains. They became her own. He didn’t change, but her salads did.

To this day, honey vinegar’s sweet bite reminds her that she is finally free.

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Potential Accumulated.

Imagine, a city in gray monotone. Noir aesthetic, perhaps with the odd pop of color only occasionally. It’s raining there, striking an odd balance between warmth and chill. The motion of the city blending together into a stillness.

A few people in this city feel balanced within themselves. But most are lonely, brave enough to stay the same, yet lacking the strength that a sincerely offered ear lends. Without quite the bravery to be the first ear in the domino line of change; listless islands they.

Stories are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.

When the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written stories, becomes physical force unseen within.

Does it bring hope or sorrow?

Yes. Exactly.

Books, Shelves, Maybe Some Writing. (19.11.1)

The number of pieces I had prepared has dwindled just in time for Nanowrimo season, when I’m definitely supposed to be writing longer things.

So here’s a quick check in, maybe some goals, maybe some progresses.

Haven’t written today for Nanowrimo. Spent a lot of time procrastinating and eating chocolate. Some of the procrastination was productive, such as working on my shelf build, reading a comic.

Considering how long the shelf build has taken, I’ve figured out and learned a bunch of things working on it, and I feel like I’m a lot better able to approach and continue on with various projects now. I planned this shelf shortly after I moved to the new house in December last year, and I’ve been chipping away at it since then. Trying to put in the effort to make it as good as I can, learning to tune in to when my instincts are telling me to take a break, wait, or to keep working to solve problems rather than settling for less than workarounds. I’m proud that I’m getting better at anticipating and thinking through problems without ignoring them and blazing ahead, or putting the whole project off indefinitely. I’m building up perseverance.

There’s already a lot of thought, character, and stories connected to this shelf, and it’s not even standing yet.

I’ve also been making good progress with my ‘get back into reading for me after college’ goal. Last year I read a bunch, far more than I had since mid high school, and this year I’ve kept that up. The library system I’m in right now is fabulous in terms of books and comics. I’ve had a steady supply of books since the beginning of the year. One of the first things in my room when we were moving was a stack of books.

I’ve just finished reading two nonfiction books, within their first set of checkout dates, which is honestly unheard of for me. Usually it takes me three times longer than that to read nonfiction.

One of them was Every Tool’s A Hammer by Adam Savage, and reading that during my slow process on my shelf, and all the other projects I have on hold, was extremely comforting. It made me feel like I’m going in the right direction to follow my interests, build skills, and improve my methods.

In addition to the awesomeness of the library, one of my goals is to read at least one book I already own by the end of the year. I have so many cool books that bring me joy, and I want to enjoy them, not just anticipate them.

A lot of my writing goals aren’t fit for outside eyes until they’re completed, (the brain somehow thinks that telling them is the same as completing them, it’s weird.) but I think I can get away with a couple of these writing ones.

I want to finish a draft of my main WIP by the end of the year. Does that still count as #FinishUrBookFall? I’ve decided that finished means that I have a draft that has all the main elements I need in it. Not necessarily in order. That ship sailed long ago. Not necessarily everything present. But, the main story completed. The end of the book has been a telescoping tunnel from a horror movie since making this goal, and it’s almost at the point where it’s starting to get shorter. I hope.

I have two or three short projects that I’ve been making progress on over the last few weeks, and I want to finish the drafts of those.

For nano, I want to work on something new. Justifying that with all the other projects in progress is a fun experiment in surrealism. But part of that justification is wanting to take something, do some actual outlining/prep work, and then throwing myself at it, to see what I learn about plotting and outlining. See if I can find some bits that I can use for the next projects, for streamlining, faster development of the stories I love and want to tell.

However, I didn’t do any of that plotting before nano started, and I don’t want to completely drop the other projects, so we’ll see what happens next. Maybe I’ll finish a shelf.

Some project one liners, for practice and anticipation:

A tiny dragon surrounded by queer love, sexiness, and rebellion, featuring the occasional dildo.

Kinky lesbian ghost erotica parts 1&2.

Murmurs. Watcher Garden #17 (19.3.2)

Somewhere in the vastness it murmurs

It is not painful to look at the sun.

But it is.

It is painful to look at the sun.

It is not because of the heat, the gas, the sheer power, as has been decided.

It is because the eyes that live there do not want you looking back.

It is easy to create an entire existence if you are a brain.

So the illusion of pain, brightness, heat is easy.

To keep from seeing the eyes that do not want you looking back.

Hot Berry Dream. (19.3.21)

Falling, falling, falling.

Down. Up? Stop.

Whites meld other colors. Blues. Deep purple. Chasing playful passions.

Passions in the air, twisting vines of design across the fading white colors.

A blink is a century, wait. Bees make the colors and wipe them across the sky.

There is nothing but sky and working bees.

What else would you stand on but sky?

Sky in front, behind, is peace. Calm. Anxiety.

Behind is guttering worry, pressing on the senses but staying just out of consciousness.

Can’t see the peace behind. Only see the beauty in front, found after a fall.

Bees migrate between the worlds. Their passions trailing off at the precipice, wilting until their bee returns for them.

If their bee returns for them.

Emerging and returning bees bring the ingredients for the colors made to be wiped across the sky.

A passion barrels toward you. Hits you square and knocks the sky out from under you.

Falling.

Symbolistic metaphors.

Falling.

Pick your poison.

Falling.

Teach yourself which metaphor you see.

Fell.

Jerked awake hot and sweaty next to a bed not slept in. Foreboding and hope tangled together as unsupervised ropes, a jittery urge to do something, choose something.

Which thing? No matter.

Follow through on change, there will be.

Tea first, then decide. The kettle whistles. Cup clinks on a saucer. The fruit cup glitters with fruits.

Picked up on a whim at the market, couldn’t possibly hurt. Hot berry’s visions only a myth.

Then why does the hand shake as it brings tea to the lips?

What did you see? What did it teach you?

Which change will your choice bring?

It must be chosen after tea.

Choices and Chances. Watcher Garden #16 (19.5.17)

Choice is an illusion,

Sometimes

Choice is a circumstance

A situation

Held in stasis forcibly

Not allowed to leap.

Choose perhaps,

but not freely.

Only from a set selected for you

Rarely is indecision an individual’s fault.

They seek the whole picture,

A bird’s eye view,

Complete with highlight in the pupil,

To know truly what all the options are,

Why some cannot be opportunities taken,

Before making a choice,

While they can feel its illusion

Plastered over station, status, means.

….

Past illusions have brought them together,

Probability, improbability.

Will it be, this time,

Choice?

To go along with each other.

Justices Meeting. Watcher Garden #15 (19.4.23)

Evenings sweet tonight,

Hot sugar and fireflies floating.

Moccasins protection meeting mossy edges.

Edges orchestrating the demise of toughest rocks

Surviving themselves in delicacy over thousands of millenia.

Clutching pastry kebabs, a celebration of success that day, she follows the beckoning call to the rooftop.

Her trellis climb to freedom and rest.

Tripping gusts of wind playful around her feet as she steps up.

Justice of hers catches justice of another’s.

Trellis delicately strong for hundreds of footsteps, well traveled well known, snaps.

Weight of justice clinging to the ground, the newfound

Kindred spirit huddled.

Become awkward pile of legs, kebabs, startled fearful yelps.

Has luck run out?

Or found its complement?