Lin Fields
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linfields.bsky.social
Lin Fields
@linfields.bsky.social
47 followers 24 following 46 posts
☼ Current WIP: Roots of Regret, book 1/2 [speculative, women's, coming-of-age, YA/A-crossover litfiction]
☼ She/her, twenties, night shift EST
☼ Fiction and poetry author, cat lover, Canadian!
☼ 03.07.18 ♡
☼ ☸️🪷🕉️
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linfields.bsky.social
The sound of a warning. #wipsnips #warn #warning #writing
Eventually, a bird cawed overhead, and it gave Elay enough of a startle for her to continue on with what she even stopped in the first place for. Her face tipped up to the sky, eyes watching the flying feathery form, already instinctively knowing the sound. She was sure she was going to stumble across any lifeform that wanted to show itself to her on her travels in this new-to-her land, and she was aware enough to also know that a lot of them would not be ones she would recognize. But that caw was burned into her brain, much like a lot of other sounds that fuelled her nightmares, and she steeled her resolve to get what needed to be done, done. That was the sound of a scavenger–the sound of a warning. One that she intended to heed.
May 24, 2025 at 9:42 PM
linfields.bsky.social
It's late, I'm sorry! But I still had the #sense to post at all :)
All the same, she knew that the way she interpreted their half-elaborate familial promises was not in line with the pretense with which it was offered. The one thing she could not make peace with, because it was the singular thing she could not decipher, was if Cala knew that Ella could sense the disappointing fracture in their wavelength. It seemed like, with every passing interaction between the two, and the older Ella got, the gulf between their two pitiful icebergs widened and bowed their slabs of safety threateningly. It was a shame they were separated at all, but then, Ella couldn’t shake the nagging, innate feeling that they did not belong together in the first place.
February 21, 2025 at 4:22 AM
linfields.bsky.social
What do you do, when wanting to live necessitates risking the life of what will save you?

#WIPSnips #survive #chronicillness #ill #plants #herbs #medicine
The photo is of a quote from the first draft document of my book, Roots of Regret. "If you were to ask Elay how she managed to skirt the guards near-loitering around the manor, she wouldn’t be able to tell you. She also wouldn’t be able to tell you how she found herself standing in front of the rows of potted plants she prayed on the usage of to survive, surrounded by shredded plant matter, wrist-deep in the dirt, fingers coiling angrily around the roots of her health so that she could yank them from their nest–which, for the record, she did not do. They were too valuable, too rare, too necessary to risk damaging the fibers that gave the leaves their liquid life, that led to the oil she stuck below her tongue when the shakes got bad enough."
February 8, 2025 at 10:09 PM
linfields.bsky.social
When you must do what you must, even when it feels wrong.

#WIPSnips #train #writing #writersofbluesky #writingcommunity
December 16, 2024 at 7:24 AM
linfields.bsky.social
I'm a bit late on this one, as yesterday was very hectic. But better late than never!

#WIPSnips #writing #author #book #novel #cherry
The photo is a screenshot of my work-in-progress. Here is the paragraph in the screenshot: “Only a father who loves his son dearly would allow themselves to come to terms with the fact that they can be exactly what is holding him back. And I’m positive that someday, Ethan will understand that in losing you, he’s gained a chance,” she explained, slowly and carefully. She got the impression from Madoc that despite his very obvious attempts to keep strong, she didn’t have to cherry pick her words in order to avoid being forced to do her job as a guard, due to her advice inciting a flip from a conversation based in words to one formed around fists. But on the same token, it was easy to see that this man was in a precarious position; she would be lying if she minced her words and did not admit that she thought him sensitive, but then, what was a man meant to be about his son?
December 11, 2024 at 1:26 AM
linfields.bsky.social
I'm a little late on this for #vss365, as yesterday was hectic and it's 5am on the 10th - but I slipped it into my first #inkMine anyway.

Something a little more sweet this time :)

#prompt #poem #poems #poetry #poet #poetic #freeverse #freeversepoem #writing
Poem after photo explanation. The photo is a picture of a man and a woman sitting on a rooftop looking at each other, overlooking a hilly city, with a golden sunset in the background - the woman is facing towards it and him, while the man has his back to it and is facing her. The top roughly-half of the photo is the sky (credit to Dennis Flinsenberg on unsplash). Where the sky meets the land, roughly between the two people, is a set of three pink hearts outlined in black; the biggest one has a smaller one half overlaying it on the right, and an even smaller one doing the same on its left. The hearts are tilted to the left, so the hearts' points create a line straight with the horizon (credit to AKKAI STUDIO on pngtree). Until the word "sun" in my following poem, the text is black as it overlays the lighter sky, and the rest is in a peachy color as it overlays the darker land and rooftop. The word "whisky" is orange-brown, "numb" is bluish, "bronze" is a bronze color, "golden-rich" is golden, "gingerbread" is a ginger color, "hope" is white, "rosy" is pinkish, and "kiss" is red. Here is the poem: The whisky was strong tonight, the taste pungent and sour on his numb tongue from the drops she left behind. There was a gentle twinkle, a bronze glint in her eye against the setting sun, golden-rich in its descent, and he caught a glimpse of her fragrant perfume– fresh gingerbread and hope– as she pulled away. He sensed her go to speak, her rosy lipstick smeared, and instead killed the discourse with an eager kiss again.
December 10, 2024 at 10:08 AM
linfields.bsky.social
This is a true story, and he still speeds.

#vss #vssdaily #truck #speeding #speed #drive #driving #slowdown #poem #poems #poetry #poet #poetic #freeverse #freeversepoem #writing
The photo is a gloomy picture of a pavement road stretching forward, with a guardrail and trees on either side, and cloudy sky above (credit to Darya Grey_Owl on Pexels). Pasted over top of this is a photo of a piece of torn grey cardboard (credit to zackzephyr on Vecteezy). Written on the cardboard is my poem, with each line of the last stanza indented at the beginning so that it increasingly starts and ends further to the right side of the screen than the line before. Here it is: We sit in his truck, and we speed along the man-made channel-between-trees while he tells me about the time he almost hit a cow, hooves stock-still in the road, and it makes me wonder– as his fake-leather seats bake in the summer swelter, door handle hot in my palm– why he won’t just, please, slow down
December 9, 2024 at 3:08 AM
linfields.bsky.social
I am not whole.
I am the sum of my parts–the ones I still have, and the ones stolen, alike.

#vss365 #planaria #planarias #planarian #planarians #poem #poems #writing #poetry #poet #poetic #freeverse #freeversepoem
The photo is a top-down, rectangular picture of a patch of dirt (credit to Buster Benson on Medium), and the shorter sides of the photo are the top and bottom. Overlaid on the dirt is a semi-transparent, rectangular, brown text box (credit to The Southern Poetry Anthology); there is a free edge of dirt surrounding it. Within the brown text box is my poem in a peachy color, and here it is: My entire life– chopped into p i e c e s each one a memory of every timeline, of every universe, and of every dream– a sprouting recollection of all I was supposed to be. Every heartbreak, every regret, every missed opportunity, sliced at the very point in which I would have grown into something original, complete. There are infinite versions of me, buried beneath the stars and wading within in the sea, and for a moment, I can breathe– until something comes along to separate the part with my heart from the lump with my lungs again, and like planaria, I’m forced to inch forward– and yet, in the mirror, I'll always see a copy of me, a segmented vision of a pilfered, forgotten ambition.
December 9, 2024 at 1:39 AM
linfields.bsky.social
#vss365 #devotion #poem #poetry #writing

The prowl—bloody fangs in a grin
The dance—all devotion within
Of feathers and grace
Full moon-glowed in chase
The war of a tuft and a pin
The photo is of a red river flowing throughout a forest in winter, all of the trees covered in snow (credit to "Blood on the Snow" by m3wk4 on Deezer). In the top-left of the image, obscuring a lot of trees, is a grey rectangle with a smaller grey rectangle inside, the smaller one outlined by a lighter grey border (credit to rawpixel on preepik). In the smaller rectangle is the poem in the body of this post, written in the same red as the water and in a flowy font.
December 7, 2024 at 7:24 AM
linfields.bsky.social
#vss365 #parameter #poem #poetry #writing
A little bit of commentary on the world these days is what my brain demanded I deliver today. So, here it is... and then, back to work we go.
By the way, the font I used is called "Bitter." I feel like that fits here.
Slant rhyme on "shut/up"... Sorry! 😁
Photo is of a sad-looking, nearly-empty cubicle; there's a white desk, and on it is a laptop, a plug-in keyboard, and a desk phone. The walls of the cubicle are dark and claustrophobic. Along the walls are each stanza of my poem in white text, and the last stanza is placed on the keyboard (the stanza is warped slightly to follow the sideways angle the keyboard is laid at). Here is the poem: Do you know the instructions? Do you know the rules? Can you follow every #parameter, and do you have the tools? Will you do what you're told? Will you keep your lips shut? If you have any quandaries, will you not bring them up? Have you been briefed? Have you clocked in today? Does it all look a bit muted, have you learned to love gray? Just step up to your post. Just work to the bone. Don't give it any thought— you are no longer your own.
December 6, 2024 at 5:00 AM
linfields.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #writing Sadly, I don't have "courtesy," but hopefully the vibes of "respect" work well enough? I'm actually surprised I don't have the word - I was sure that I would!
The photo is of a landscape full of hills, trees, and various buildings (credit to the Malana, Himachal Pradesh Wikipedia page). The mood is gloomy and dark, the tops of the hills filled with fog. The top third-or-so of the photo is the sky, following the diagonal line of the biggest hill or mountain. In the sky is the quote: "Because it didn't happen immediately, it occurred to her then, as she cleared her throat delicately, that they had been in an exchange of mutual respect much sooner than she had originally assumed; what she said next should have been said initially. The facts over the feelings—her job over personal relationships, all of that, always. Except it wasn’t, not right now, and it made her feel all the more awful for the man standing in front of her." from my book. The text follows the line of the mountain, each line of text ending sooner and sooner until the final line only has space for two words, though the lines at the start don't go all the way to the right in order to leave some empty space. To the right of the text, in that space, is a doodle of spear (credit to the website Vexels.com).
December 6, 2024 at 4:35 AM
linfields.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #rib
There is a big image of a gloomy cabin bedroom (credit to Marvin Nardo on ArtStation). The floors of the bedroom are wooden, and there is a red carpet, a sidetable with a red flower emblem, a bed with a grey plaid blanket on it, and a picture frame above the bed. On the right side of the screen, blocking the doorway, there is a picture frame (creidt to tree on Pngtree) overlayed on a new layer so that it is essentially floating over the bedroom picture. The inside of the frame is plain white, and in this white space is this snippet from my book: "She felt a strange sort of kinship with this entrance to her room–she felt like it was borne of her chest, her ribcage, its wooden panels made up from the slats in her skeleton. For in those late moments of night, when the moon was high and the plants she had worked on all day were resting, she was one with her heart, because she was the only one who ever even tried to peek through those bars and understand it." The "rib" in "ribcage" is underlined.
December 5, 2024 at 12:56 AM