Daily Writing Prompts discussion

I wrote this initially for a Reflections literature competition, but I loved the concept, character, and potential so much, that I really wanted to start a (hopeful) debut book (at 13).
This is the text I entered for the competition, of which I'm trying to form into a book. I hope you enjoy.

The Curse of Death by Elsie B.

Vile.
Malicious.
Cursed.
Villain.
Heartless.
Evil.
These are the sinful words mundanes spit at my feet as I tread past their cowering bodies in the shadows. They hurl more words; I let the insults fall and shatter like glass at my boots.
A tiara sits atop my head, decorated by black diamonds, jasper, and tourmaline. It radiates power that showcases the ebony jewels. My dark lilac hair bursts down to my waist, controlled in an artfully twisted braid. Inky purple strands sprinkle my face, adding layers to the strong nose that has been dotted by brown freckles. Skirts flood to my heels in jet black colors, decorated by gray, dark sage, and slate flowers. My collarbone’s on display under a golden chain.
This is me–Amara Verya. The powerful beast I’ve been carefully shaped into. A monster I’ve been molded to fit.
I look up to the sky, letting gravity push back the shamed charcoal tears that I feel rising. I sink to the floor, finally alone, pressing my back to the cold brick and hiding from the curse brought upon my burnt-out heart, though I still don’t let the tears come.
I trace the stitch in my dress draped over my knees until there’s a thread being rolled between my fingers. It’s the only thing that I focus on in the few, quiet moments I’ve acquired to myself. The chilled brick wall behind me seeks to touch the skin of my neck shielded by my braid.
Pathetic. Father will be so disappointed in you.
I force myself to stand and continue onto a new backstreet. I look up, fix my posture and roll my shoulders back, my face hardening back to stone as it should be, while I watch women shield their children from me and men yell my name in venom horror.
Lordess–the mundanes truly do scorn Death, don't they?
And they despise me just as much. For I am his ruthless daughter.

(Passage of time and/or space)

My black cloak ripples around my boots as I walk down a market street, my head bowed towards the floor. Whispers echo in the crowd, and I almost regret trekking the more popular streets, kids running around carts that pass until their parents notice my presence and pull their children away.
I hear splinters of conversation as I continue my paces across the road. I tug my hair over my shoulder as I walk. I step down a trail of various alleys, the pathways that feel less like a maze the more I trek these familiar cobblestones. This is the way to get to the Kingdom of the Dead.
As my feet continue to pad the pavement, I roll my neck, absolutely exhausted, and distracted, my mind wandering down a million thoughts I can’t grasp when I bump into someone. The stranger’s calloused and rough fingers curve around my waist to steady me. My tiara now slightly tilted on my head and my braid swinging across my back.
“Are you always this clumsy or is today just special?” the stranger asks, looking down at me. A cocky smirk plays on his lips. His voice is raspy and hoarse, seemingly unused.
“What?” I pull away and glower at him.
His hands lower from midsection. “Are you always this clumsy-?”
“No, I heard you, imbecile,” my interruption is accompanied by a glare. “Who are you?”
“Marty Winson, miss,” he takes a step back from me to acknowledge my unique attire, before reaching up to straighten my tiara. I notice his leather jacket is frayed and worn at the cuffs. His satchel jostles when he moves. I almost slap his hand away. Almost.
Instead of his eyes watching me with the presence of fear and admonishment, as does most, his eyes sparkle with intrigue.
“Who are you?”
“Amara.” I stop for a few moments to let the syllables ring of my tongue. “Though I don’t know why you wouldn’t know that fact. You really shouldn't be talking to me, mortal.”
“Why?”
“I’m rather infamous for my… dangerous antics.”
“Well, storm,” his eyes glide down my skirts again before tilting his head to look at me. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Storm?” my brow wrinkles at the unique pet name he’s inflicted.
“Seems like it fits all…” he gestures to my entire presence, “this.”
I roll my eyes at the cocky response. “You're not… scared of me?”
He doesn't respond.
“I'm Death's daughter, Marty.” I feel weak, going soft towards a human.
Pathetic.
My face hardens, and my brow sets into my eyes as I resume my loathed glower at him. I’m exasperated that I’m letting myself–a daughter of Death and beauty–be pushed around in this weak storm.
Some princess of Death I am.
Weak.
Would Father even care enough to scorn me?
Perhaps he wouldn’t even notice.
I swerve past him to reach the portal, the smell of wood and nature clings to him.
“Bad day?” the mortal says behind me.
My boots continue to click as I walk, leaving him behind me.
“Bad day,” he drags out the word.
My mind continuously wanders back to Marty, though I try to think of anything else besides the redheaded boy with the glasses.
“Princess,” a soul says as I enter the Kingdom of the Dead, my home. The soul is arched over bent knees at my feet, bowing before me. I walk past the soul, offering a nod of acknowledgement, taking in the vast scenery towering high and low around me, adding much texture to the somber world I’ve grown up in.
The sky contrasts with itself–on my left, it features oranges, blues, pinks, and lavenders. On my right showcases a scorched, blackened sky, a splatter of stars dotting both sides, stitching them together. My eyes land on the smoky colored castle where my father and mother sit on the crowned thrones.
"Hello, Father," I say, entering the glorious doom that wraps around anyone that steps into Death’s throne room, intricately designed from top to bottom, my feet crossing the path of designs in the tiles in long strides before finally reaching the throne steps. My face writhes with a sarcastic grin, watching the eyes that resemble mine acknowledge my presence. "Mother."
"Hello, dear." Mother responds easily, her light blue eyes sparkle with some mischief. Her origin is the Goddess of Life, so her appearance and overall demeanor differ from mine and my father's.
Ironic how she happened to fall in love with Death.
She’s draped in a beautiful white dress featuring pastel colors in the folds while white heels surround the soles of her feet, matching the effervescent idea of her dress. A crown gemmed with rubies and shards of aquamarine sits elegantly atop her head, a braided bun just behind it. She looks like a painting in motion. A living piece of art. Her hand is in my father’s, their auras contrast each other heavily–opposite, yet, so very in love.
"How are the mortals today, Amara?" my father mutters, more interested in the stroke of his thumb across Life’s hand than what I have to say.
The words–how are the mortals today–strike a memory of a certain someone. I shove it back down and refuse to show a hint of visual representation of how I feel about a peculiar being.
His livid, ebony eyes continue to rest upon their intertwined hands. His raven black hair is trimmed, his face and arms scarred deeply. He is the perfect picture of death and ruthlessness. A crown also sits upon his head, made of blackened twigs and a few dead leaves.
“Nothing from the usual, Father,” the lie slips from my red-stained lips. “Would you like me to go into detail of how incredibly annoying they were today?” my voice is low, accompanied by an eye roll. “Their insults seemed rather volatile. They seemed rather excited to yell at me.”
“My dear,” Mother cuts in, “You truly should be much kinder to the humans. Perhaps they'll change their behavior if you give them a chance, Both of you, actually,” she points a scolding finger at my father. “You're both so cruel to my people.”
“Yes, Amara, I would love to hear more of your whines,” he says sarcastically. My father has never been kinder. “Explain to me why your presence here is desired now?”
“Ajal-” My mother interjects. Her fingers skim down the ripples in her dress at the tension bubbling in the room.
“It’s fine, Seraphine,” he murmurs softly, “Our daughter can handle some foolish banter, can she not?”
A woman then opens the two grand doors, darting her eyes from my father's to my mother's to finally land on mine.
“Princess Amara? A word?” her voice murmurs, too quiet for the king and queen to hear, before ushering me out the same doors she had just entered through.
“Someone’s asking for you, Princess,” she says as we reach the gardens outside of the havoc in the castle.
“Who?”
“A human, Princess.”
I don’t need to question who it is to already recognize the knowledge of who this human is.
“Why?” I demand.
She shrugs. “He claims his name is Marty Winson? He’s just outside the passageway, miss.”
I nod and hurry away, not especially wanting to go back to see him, but… duty calls, I suppose.
I don’t want to see him because he’s the only person who’s not terrified of me. And that’s foreign to me; being accepted. And to be honest, I’m scared of the unfamiliar.
I find most are–in fact–scared of what they don’t know. What’s unique about my being scared is the fact that it’s unfamiliar to me to be afraid of something.
I watch my feet skid across the mossy frame that elevates the portal. As I enter the land of the living, I notice a red-headed boy pacing the gravel.
Marty looks up to meet my hardened gaze when he hears the click-clack of my boots.
“Hey,” his lips form the word slowly.
“Is that all you have to say to have the honor of wasting my precious time?” my voice is smooth, but my insides are anything but.
“No…” he looks down at the book enthralled in his fingers that he flips through as he speaks. “I’ve been thinking about this since this morning. I believe there are two sides to every coin.”
“What?”
“You don’t scare me, Amara,” his eyes switch between various conflicting feelings, trying to form the words he so desperately wants to tell me. “I know I don’t know you, storm, but I feel drawn to you, in some ways.”
I huff. “Whatever, Marty.” I sigh. “You’ve used two whole minutes of my life. Does this conversation have a purpose?” my eyes trace over his casual profile as he stares back at me. The complicated feelings bubble and dare to explode against my chest, but instead I mask them with cruel words and a fixed glare.
“Even the thorns have a place on the rose, Amara.”
His words contrast my messy life.
Who am I?
“Marty,” I nearly seeth against the rising charcoal tears, though my venture to swallow my emotions crumbles as those feelings reflect in his eyes–he recognizes my failed attempt. “Why should you even care about my story?”
“Because I see it in myself,” he drawls, his eyes falling to the cobblestones we stand on, watching his feet shift, as he rubs and traces the cuff of his jacket.
“But I’m so… inhumane. I’ve been so cruel to you.”
“I know.”
“So, why?”
“I’ve never belonged either, storm.”
Even the thorns have a place on the rose…

Sooo I've started revising the first chapter (again). Don't make fun of me, this is the draft!!! ❤️

Kill me. Murder me until my heart is seething with the idea of failure. Of death. Kill me now because it’d be so much easier than the curse stricken upon my broken heart. But I can’t die. I’m already dead.
Well, partly.
No, you can’t cast death upon me because I am the one who does that to others. And I can’t cast death upon myself either, just for the hope of escaping this malicious world.
I am Death’s servant.
Death’s mold. Doll. Toy.
I bow before his feet, just to not cause more pain for myself. Every damn day.
A loop. An everlasting, painless loop.
A drop a million feet from the splat on the broken cobblestones. Without pain, there is no happiness. No anger. No pride. And no sadness. Completely emotionless.
Expressionless.
And I have lived long enough–with enough frozen ice protecting my heart–to know it is pointless to strike a smile that means nothing.
So I don’t try to. I don’t try to make other people like me. Why should I, when they throw apples and trash at me?
When they call me vile?
Malicious.
Cursed.
When little girls and boys look at me with genuine fear and call me scary? Or a villain?
They say I’m heartless.
Or evil.
Perhaps they just can’t wrap their mundane minds around the fact that I am more powerful than them.
They claim I’m the monster in an attempt to strike ruin upon my already broken down soul (quite pointless, really).
Blood on my hands. A curse in my heart.
I watch the world shrink around life, the sun falling past the mountains and buildings slowly. The people sparse, finding refuge within their homes and away from the naturals of the night.
I descend the steps of the alley, my black boots thudding across the concrete, my black dress swaying around them. My eyes avert from one object to another before landing on the frame of a door a few feet away. An abandoned home I find myself revisiting a lot.
My feet step over the threshold while my dress decides to get stuck on a nail stick out of the frame. My fingers nestle with it until it gets loose and steps away.
A tiara sits atop my head, a constant reminder of knowing I will be queen at some point in my neverending lifetime. Its silver bindings wrap around each other, in an intertwined twist of a frozen vine. The flowers are made out of various black jewels; some diamonds there, jasper here, tourmaline flecking the leaves. My dark lilac hair falls to my waist in messy curls, barely contained by an elastic at the end of my braid. Inky strands add to my strong cheekbones and sharp jaw, though my freckles across my nose and cheeks soften my face slightly.
My skin is a tone between a light caramel, and a pale ghost-like color–I don’t even know how to determine what it is. My dress has a low back, showcasing my unidentifiable skin tone. Natural silver patterns snake all over my body, forming roses, vines, loops and lines. Spirals and circles grace my back, down my legs. One word is etched into the bone of my wrist in a loopy text: Death.
I stare back at the young eighteen year old immortal in the broken glass, still in its frame, on the floor.
My collarbone is decorated with several silver chains, one withholding my birthstone: a peridot, for August. I found it in one of the filthy shops some of the mortals work at. I thought it was pretty, surprisingly. I remember asking the older woman–whom my father will soon obtain to add to his collection in the kingdom–what it was.
“A peridot,” she had said to me. With a kind smile, innocent eyes. She had held a cane in her right hand, of which held most of her weight.
I was surprised she didn’t scream, many of the other people in the building then had been frozen, staring into the soul that had been deprived from my body.
“How much?” I had responded to the woman, Eliah. She shook her head, smiled her crooked smile, and wrapped my fingers around the necklace.
Now that woman has died. Who is to blame?
See, so many people despise me for what my father has cursed the Afterlife to. I’ve never really understood why. Although, it will be my responsibility in time.
My eyes trace the splinters in the poor wood, scorched at the corners and edges. I don’t let the familiar coal tears fall. I don’t let that weakness mark my face for the millionth time. That’s what my father calls them–my weakness.
“Don’t let them see any sign of-” his scoff echoes in my brain, “weakness,” he finishes. His mouth was twisted into disgust. He tells me this every time his dear love isn’t there to witness.
So I don’t let myself cry. Because I’ve been trained not to.
Pathetic. This is pathetic, the part of my brain that belongs to my father tells me.
Crying–how dare you.
This pain is the worst of all the nightmares I’ve lived: my own self fighting against me.
The mundanes truly scorn Death. They are scared of what is unknown.
And they despise me just as much. For, I am Death’s daughter.

Ooooh!!!!
*eats popcorn maniacally*

I'm going to try to 1000 words in!

Started at: 1343
993 (prologue) 350 (chapter one)
Ended at: 1825
993 (prologue) 892 (chapter one)
Goal: 2343

I got 482... 😅

Wow!!!
I keep trying to make a section for my story but it won’t let me. Are we not allowed?

No, you can, lovey. Do you want me to make one for you?

You should, at least.

I’ve tried four times
Pls help

It’s called “For Always”

Have you read it yet?

This is the *beginning* of Chapter Two!!

So now you know. Perhaps one will understand. And soon the world will know my story.
I sit there, in the silence that settles around me for just a moment. It seems like hours.
The sun sets, and the moon and stars sprinkle above roofs and the protected people in their homes. I sulk out the door into the night, my black dress and cape rippling in the breeze behind me.

Hehe, I don't have a lot.

For anyone who doesn't know, Amara Kali Verya is a character from The Curse of Death, so if I bring her up, I did not steal my name from myself to use in the book.
I am Elsie, and I thought it'd be fun to use Amar's name in my Goodreads name for myself.