/lit/ - Literature

My attempt at an Animu plot
Yeah, bash it as much as you like, just please tell me where it CAN be credited, if only for the sake of the writing.


A wrought dream of so long past, where stars clashed and collided in great waves like oceans in two parts separate going against two coasts at their opposites, and there she was, Camilla, standing by the coast of one world, waiting for the coming of that other.
A great wind turned howl at her back and she screeched as she turned to face the noise. There, upon the beach, stood a man wrought in iron, clad from head to toe in great mails of grey metal, the very plate infused with his skin as if he wasn’t a man wearing a suit but the suit himself imbued with the flesh – a gory image which always snapped her back to reality.
“Hey lazy!” said Wendy, tugging at her big sister’s skirts, “It’s time to wash the clothes!”
Camilla woke in the middle of the laundry, hands full of a basket. She had been daydreaming more and more frequently these past few weeks and her aunt wasn’t liking it, spending more time for lectures on their worthiness to stay for free at her house than to actually get some work done to earn said worthiness, but maybe her Aunt Clara was just a lonely woman who inwardly needed people to talk to, and at times like this with the whole world spiralling – a friend in a friend wasn’t so bad a thing to wish.
Wendy ran up to her sister’s side, basket full on her head, “Have you thought about whom you’re taking to the Surefire Dance tonight? All the boys in the village look like they’ve been taken, except Randal of course, yuck!”
Camilla couldn’t even bat a gesture towards her usually puppy-adorned charms when all she could think of was the meaning of vague, unnerving dreams, and even more so that perhaps, and this was just a theory on the part of a sleepless maid, if these dreams had something to do with getting a partner for the Surefire Dance.
Camilla wasn’t ugly, not that she thought, nor was she particularly beautiful, but again as she thought and what she particularly thought of herself might as well be the next vapid steam of another’s, for even the ugly can call themselves princesses if they wished, so how would she be any different from them if she sought to praise herself the same?
Can ugliness lead to something beautiful? That was the question. Camilla thought back to the man of iron and wondered if it was significant for something within her particularly, or perhaps an omen of the things to come. She knew not of anyone in the village who’ve ever worn armour in their lives much less tasted the liquor of war outside a stick fight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t particularly looking for a fighter in a man, and maybe just – that was the significance of the dream.

Part 1 of 2