Marion Norindale
-
In a society that glorifies hustle culture, external validation, and people-pleasing, writing has long since ceased to be a hobby for the pure and simple joy of the author’s satisfaction. The age of social media has helped to wrest away the role of writing as a tool of self-expression. Nowadays, an author’s chief concern is
-
Normally, she liked the cool touch of the stone beneath her bare feet; but tonight, it only felt stiff and icy—like a foreshadowing of the mood that awaited her. She fidgeted with the skirt of her dress as she waited for the council to settle into their seats. She knew she wasn’t going to lie…she
-
Every book falls into one of several predetermined age categories, intended to signal to potential readers the maturity levels of any given story. Or at the least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. In reality, age ranges have basically become tools for publishers to slot their wares in front of potential target audiences. A book
-
She carefully hefted the ball, admiring the way it glittered in the light from the museum’s distant windows. Greed flooded her chest, filling her head with a buoyancy. She declined against the gallery wall, allowing herself a moment to reflect on another well-executed plan. From petty cons and small-time robberies, to orchestrating the entire scheme
-
I don’t know whether it was posting over the holiday weekend, or the fact that this post’s previous title might’ve been misleading; but I’ve decided to repost this bad boy from last week with a new title and an updated intro. People likely hear “Star Wars” and “bad boy” in the same sentence, and worry
-
The market in the last several years (ever since the 2010s, really), has become oversaturated with surface-level tales of shock-value atrocities and aesthetically packaged suffering. Nobody is willing to dig into a deeper discussion on the repercussions of trauma and abuse; but they’re more than eager to coat deep and troubling topics in a rose-tinted
-
“Are you ready?” If there was ever a pair of eyes she could face with the truth, they’d be his. Ivy searched them for a moment, sifting through the memories in those soft blue irises. Then she reached for Kaiden’s hands, drawing on the warmth that closed around her fingers. A small smile twitched her
-
I’m a sucker for a good prophecy. The trope of the Chosen One may be clichéd; but I’ll never get tired of a melodramatic tale of a fated hero versus an insurmountable evil. But that doesn’t mean all prophecies are created equal. Take the one from Harry Potter, for example. “The one with the power
-
In today’s installment of “how did the patriarchy screw up the media?,” we’re going to talk about the infamous “not like other girls” trend. Some may be under the impression that this movement was the result of “angry feminists” who sought to desecrate the sacred concept of femininity. But in reality, it was just another
-
For a moment, my presence towers over the room, unable to be smothered. They’re not all staring at you— I prepare a disarming grin. No matter how many times my arrival heralds wide eyes, hushed whispers, and coyly disguised smiles, I’ll show up. “It’s been so long,” I announce into the silence that’s temporarily taken
