Anecdoche | Penana

Writer

Aretice N. Treader

{ a b o u t • m e // h i a t u s }
she, her, hers. pinoy. i've been reading online for far too long and disappearing offline far too often.

{ i n t e r e s t • m e }
» villainess webcomics • they could rip my heart out of my chest and i'd thank them
» documenting dreams • people call them nightmares bc i always have to put trigger warnings on them but i never notice in the moment
» rainbow kitten surprise, fall out boy, fiona apple • my top 3 artists on last.fm but i also love glass animals, h.e.r., and lola amour

{ f i n d • m e }
» Archive of Our Own • http://archiveofourown.org/users/areticentreader/profile (archive)
» Wattpad • https://www.wattpad.com/user/areticentreader (main)

» Twitter • https://twitter.com/areticentreader
» Goodreads • https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/85276535-aretice

» profile pic credit • https://picrew.me/image_maker/257476

{ r e q u e s t • m e // c l o s e d }
» reading (+ short reviews) • closed
» beta, editing • closed
I reserve the right to refuse any request at my discretion. Please direct all requests to my inbox, my stream, or any of the links on my profile. Any requests in the comments of my stories will be ignored and deleted.

catch you in the next one!
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Anecdoche

random collection writingprompts anthology compilation areticentreader extras

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Table of Contents Intro Comments (3) Top sponsors

{ p r o m p t s } College Student, Crumpled Paper, Train, Laptop

{ p r o m p t s } "You can all go home now."

{ p r o m p t s } The Color of Worn Silver Dollars

{ p r o m p t s } "One bullet is a lifetime supply."

{ p r o m p t s } "An only son. A folded flag."

{ p r o m p t s } "He is a poem said out loud; I'm a word on the tip of someone's tongue."

{ a n d // T r e m o r s } Keta: December 25, 2017

{ a n d // y o u & i } n » At Odd Hours

{ a n d // y o u & i } i » At Odd Hours

{ a n d // y o u & i } ii » At Odd Hours

n. a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, simply overlaying disconnected words like a game of Scrabble, with each player borrowing bits of other anecdotes as a way to increase their own score, until we all run out of things to say.
{The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows}