I'm struggling to come up with an idea for a logical "ghost" for my MC.

If you're not familiar with the term, it's something that's happened off-page before the story that's caused the character to believe a certain self-lie. It's usually brought up in flashbacks. This lie is eventually challenged by the conflict, other characters, etc.

My MC is being punished for a crime that the judge had personal opinions about, earning her a harsh sentence. (OT but in this world there are no prisons).

The height of the novel is her eventually revealing the truth and the judge is punished: themes of justice and who the truth hurts. But what ghost could serve as a rival to this?

All ideas are appreciated!

• H.

Pleaser may I have some more

I have traveled far and wide to hear your wisdom

Thought I left

Off where you started

Oft where you started

Where

There you started

Sit then, I’ll tell you a story about a nomad

Do you think Cesar was scared when the prophet said beware the ides of March

No I thought he was probably dismissive

Last lamb dismissive?

No, I wouldn’t be

Would you?

Dissmiss of?

Diss i Miss

Lamb o god

Mi amore

Said I love her

Thinking of flirting

Skirting the line

Of fake and real

Illusion, real to me

Meet you

Bender lifting wait shirt

She’ll know who it’s for

Just ask for the shifty eyes

Shit don’t make no sense

I wrote em the songs

Benefit to you to have me around

Know my story tho

How would you feel

They say and that was a walk

What you just read, is comprised almost entirely of lyrics from songs.

https://preview.redd.it/rg3awxyho1qb1.png?width=964&format=png&auto=webp&s=61a75654c40b0aff10e390ff240e782dd5941302

Happy Saturday everyone,

For anyone that might be interested, below is a link to an old Psilocybin Mushroom Trip Report from several years ago, that I recently reworked and publish on my Substack this morning.

Much Love

-B

https://open.substack.com/pub/btheauthor/p/voids-of-beginning?r=1p7rcm&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

Many stories I've written are very similar to real-life events.

True: On January 3, 1903 two trains collide head-on killing both firemen.

False: On December 18, 1895, two trains collide head-on killing both firemen and engineers.

True: On August 25, 1974, Welland Canal Bridge 12 is rammed by a lake freighter. Destroying the bridge. On August 11, 2001 Welland Canal Bridge 11 collides with a lake freighter.

False: On October 11, 1969 Welland Canal Bridge 12 is rammed by a lake freighter.

True: On November 10, 1975, a ship sank in Lake Superior with 29 men.

False: On December 18, 1995, a ship sank in Lake Erie with 27 men.

True: On November 24, 1971, a Boeing 727 is hijacked for $200,000.

False: On August 10, 1971, a Boeing 727 is hijacked for $200,000.

True: On May 9, 1980, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge collapses after an Ocean Vessel collided with the Western span of the bridge.

False: On August 31, 1995, The Moonlight Harbour Bridge collides after an Ocean Vessel collides with the Southern span of the bridge.

True: On April 6, 1929 23-year-old Fernley Basset is killed at Welland Canal Bridge 20, On October 11, 1969, his father William Basset was killed at the adjacent Welland Canal Bridge 21.

My story: On April 4, 1929, 33-year-old Is killed at Welland Canal Bridge 20.

Hi guys,

I was wondering if this product were currently designing would help the writing community by any chance? We are looking for feedback on the design's potential, and would love to here your thoughts on the product, if it help you, in more productive idea generation.

https://mettoworldfirstmetalstickynotes.com/

The product is not out yet, the website is just to test interest.

Would love to hear thoughts from dedicated writers.

Thank you,

Prad Gurung

Certainly, I'd be delighted to write a comedy routine that explores the intersection of free will, creativity, and divine intervention. Let's imagine God and a writer named Bill are having a conversation.

Setting: Bill is sitting at his desk, frustrated, staring at a blank screen. The room is dimly lit, and a clock on the wall is ticking louder as each second passes. Suddenly, the room illuminates with divine light and God appears.

God: (appearing in a cloud of light, holding a celestial quill) "Greetings, Bill. Mind if I sit?"

Bill: (startled, but intrigued) "God? Wow, it's an honor, but a heads-up would've been nice."

God: "Ah, the element of surprise! I find it keeps life spicy. But don't worry, I've been keeping tabs. Writer's block, huh?"

Bill: "Yeah, it's like my characters have free will or something. They just won't do what I tell them!"

God: (chuckles) "Free will, you say? My friend, if you only knew what it's like dealing with seven billion unpredictable souls."

The Logical Argument on Free Will

God: "Now, let me break it down for you. See, if you truly had free will in your writing, the act of creation would be unbounded by narrative coherence, literary techniques, or the specter of critical reception. But alas, you're confined by not just those variables but also by cognitive biases, life experiences, and even the limits of your language. Free will in writing is an illusion, my boy!"

Bill: "I never thought of it that way... but wait, aren't you God? Why did you design it like this?"

The Paradox of Freedom and Constraints

God: "Ah, the delicious paradox of freedom within constraints. Constraints foster innovation and depth. Even within the celestial mechanics of the universe, constraints like gravity and the fundamental forces enable the richness of phenomena, from galaxies to life forms. Similarly, your so-called 'limits' can be catalysts for creativity."

Bill: "That's profound. So, it's not that my characters have free will; it's that I'm grappling with a complex interplay of influences and constraints?"

The Metaphysical Punchline

God: "Exactly! You're a narrative demiurge, operating under various influences. Now, if you truly had 'free will,' you'd be penning stories without rhyme or reason. Do you know what that would look like?"

Bill: "Umm, gibberish?"

God: "Worse! It'd be like giving Shakespeare a Twitter account—nonsensical and devastating for posterity!"

Bill: "A Shakespearean tweet, now that I'd like to see!"

God: "Been there, done that. Let's just say even I can't unread 'Romeo, wherefore art thou #YOLO.'"

Bill: "Okay, God, you've given me a lot to think about. Anything else before you leave?"

God: "Just this: embrace your limitations, for they are the secret ingredients in the stew of creativity. And keep writing; you'll never know what you can achieve unless you try."

God disappears in a cloud, leaving behind a celestial quill on Bill's desk.

Bill: (picks up the quill) "Time to write the next chapter... #DivineInspiration."

In this routine, God's dialogue with Bill serves as a comedic yet insightful exploration of the paradoxes surrounding free will and creativity. The argument traverses metaphysical terrain while employing irony, satire, and even a dose of the Twitter-age vernacular. Would love to hear your thoughts on this!

Still brainstorming idea's

Hello everyone,Let me be honest and say I am new to writing, and English is not my first language. Below is a portion of something I have been working on. Noah is the MC, and Eris is a demon that manipulates him to do her will. The portion is a dream the MC is having wherein he communicates with this demon in him. It is still kind of confusing without full context but I think it might be entertaining. Please let me know what you guys think. Any feedback is appreciated :

Quick notes: the MS Word Formatting did not carry over well so there may be some errors.

3

Noah watched with amusement as the dog scratched his ear deeply, a goofy look of sheer joy on the pup's face. The little guy had found his happy place, and it was right behind that perky ear. Ronin’s leg thumped on the ground like a joyful metronome, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the canine's simple and infectious delight.

Noah prepared his sleeping bag before settling down, using his pack as a pillow. They had found a clearing in the woods past the town to settle in for the night. It looked like some sort of old lumber yard. Most of the stumps had been cleared, but a few stubborn ones dotted the football field-sized clearing. In the flickering light of his campfire, they appeared like corpses sticking half out of the ground. The sky was clear, illuminated by a bright full moon. Crickets chirped, and he could hear the distant commotion of two raccoons in a scuffle. A yawn overcame Noah, and he stretched out on the sleeping bag, relieved to leave the waste of a day behind. By the time he had reached the market, the sun's last rays were barely peeking over the western horizon. The place had been scavenged, with nothing of value left on the shelves except a few magazines and spoiled milk cartons.

Noah rolled onto his side. “Come on, boy. Time for bed.”

Ronin trotted over and nestled under Noah's arm. This had become their routine—a ceaseless westward journey, occasional stops for sustenance, and nights spent recovering from the day's challenges. He’d forgotten how many years it had been since they set off.

“Four years, five months, and three days, to be exact.”

“Thank you, Eris. What would I do without you?” he replied sarcastically through another yawn. He had genuinely lost track of time, but it no longer mattered. He'd walk until the last star faded from the sky to feel his hands close on that woman’s throat. Only once he felt her windpipe cave beneath his fingers would he give Eris what he had promised years ago.

Fatigue began to wrap its weary tendrils around his aching body. Eris always remained vigilant, ready to detect any approaching souls. Always on alert, Ronin served as a secondary alarm while he slept. This was the best part of falling asleep. Ronin's warm, bristly fur gave him a few precious moments of tranquility. His stomach didn’t cramp, and his feet didn’t ache. The cold eased its crushing grip on winter nights, while in the summer, the heat seemed to take pity on him. At this instant, Ronin would protect him just like he had when he was young. For now, he could relish the peace between the waking world and his slumbering turmoil. Slowly, Noah surrendered to the embrace of slumber and sank into his Ronin’s fur.

​

(MS FORMATING DID NOT CARRY OVER, DREAM STARTS BELOW)

He emerged from the depths of slumber into the familiar setting he had come to dread. As his eyes flickered open, he stood exposed in a desolate winter valley. In the distance, towering cliffs rose on both sides, their peaks concealed by an impenetrable shroud of gray clouds. Behind him, another sheer rock face blocked any retreat. The stone path ahead, no wider than his outstretched arms, was flanked by glistening ice that seemed to stretch infinitely.

A bone-chilling wind howled through the valley, stealing his breath and leaving behind an unsettling chill. It was a place he had first encountered the night after his father's death, a night etched into his soul like a scar. That night, he had stood motionless for what felt like an eternity before mustering the courage to take a step forward. He had attempted to navigate the icy path towards the valley's distant walls, but the ground beneath him had betrayed his efforts, constantly stealing his footing. Each clumsy stride seemed futile, for no matter how many steps he took, the desolate gray cliffs remained unreachably distant, and the stone path seemed to mock his every move by materializing at his heels. In those initial nights, he had fought against the path, resisting the all-too-obvious route in this strange and haunting place. Eventually, however, left with no other choice, he succumbed to its relentless pull.

Noah ventured deeper into the valley's heart, his feet throbbing from the cold and uneven terrain. Only is his dreams did he feel pain anymore. The statues came into view just as his feet lost all sensation. Their number was so vast that he had long abandoned any attempt at counting. Each figure stood imprisoned in ice, resembling mourners in a solemn procession. They maintained a somber vigil, facing the stone path, their features hidden behind a frosty veil. Their frozen hands pressed together, creating an image of either reverence or repentance, their silent presence adding to the haunting emptiness that permeated the desolate land.

A quaint house came into view at the far mouth of the valley. It seemed to have been plucked from any high-society suburb, with its earth-colored façade dominated by two large bay windows. Noah ascended the short staircase and pushed open the heavy mahogany door. Inside, the house lay devoid of life. He saw a kitchen and dining room to the left, while to the right, the living room stretched out. Directly in front of him, a hallway led deeper into the house and towards a stairway. The stairs, however, vanished into an ominous darkness midway to the upper level. The walls bore faint traces of where pictures had once adorned them, a poignant reminder of happier times. In the kitchen, a striking chandelier hung from a bronze mount.

A voice echoed in the empty living room, shattering the silence. "Welcome back," it said. It was Eris, reclining on the hardwood floor, propped up by a pillow beneath her arm. A small, vibrant red fire hovered freely above the floor, radiating an incredible warmth without consuming anything. Behind her mounted on the wall were weapons of all shapes and sizes. Knives, swords, bows, and any other conceivable instrument of war glistened in the amber light. Eris was dressed in a delicate crimson silk dress, its hem adorned with brilliant gold accents, and thin, smoky lines traced intricate patterns on the dress's body. The dress was purposely left open enough at her chest to draw his attention to her ample breasts. The dress ended just below her waist, revealing her thighs and a hint of her shapely buttocks, teasing him.

Her face was most striking of all. A cursory glance was enough to captivate even the most chaste of men. Her fair, porcelain skin held a subtle, rosy hue, lending her complexion a healthy, natural glow accentuated by the flickering dance of the firelight. Her perfectly black hair cascaded down to her hips without a single strand out of place. A red hair brooch shaped like a rose adorned the right side of her head, granting her an air of regality. Her eyes, however, were the most arresting feature—they pierced deep into Noah's soul, shining crimson like rubies and housing every conceivable desire within their brilliant depths. Noah sat on the floor across from her but fixed his gaze on the flames.

With a slight nod, he acknowledged her presence. "Eris."

She inched closer, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "Now, is that the proper way to greet your loyal companion? Especially when I've taken extra care to adorn myself for you."

Noah scoffed, trying to maintain a degree of detachment. "You're always dressed like this, nothing extraordinary."

Eris refused to be ignored, her fingers lightly tracing his arm as she placed a hand on his right shoulder. "You may deny me with your words, but your body speaks a different language." She relished the sensation of her fingertips grazing the skin that enveloped his arm, a coat of gray ashes and embers that extended from his fingers up to the base of his neck, where the mark tapered. She pressed her lips to the fresh burn on his neck from the day, sending a jolt of electricity through his body.

"Eris, please, just cut it out," Noah muttered, brushing her hands away. He stood quickly and tried to walk away, but she was the master of this place. A quick flick of her hand, and he was forced back onto the ground by an ethereal force. Over their years together, he had found first fighting her, then drawn to her. She offered him vindication and everything a man could want. She gave him the power to face any enemy. Still, he fought her whenever he could. The satisfaction never lasted long, fading like this fleeting dream after this false carnal embrace ended. His genuine desire, he knew, awaited him upstairs in this house.

"The woman you seek, Noah, she's still months away," she said, gently climbing on top of him. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, her voice a soft, seductive murmur. "Your mortal legs can only carry you so far shackled by starvation. The relentless heat of the sun slows your progress. You're savoring only a fraction of my sweetness right now."

"I have to do this on my own," Noah replied, his voice tinged with reluctance. His hands remained at his sides, though they inched upward toward her body. Whether they moved of his accord or by her will he didn't fully know.

She laughed softly and cradled his face, locking eyes with him. "Noah, it's not just your choice anymore," she whispered. "Remember, your place in my ledger is already set. You've already given me this much." Her nails pressed into his ashen shoulder. "And now, you want to surrender the rest. I am your path. I am your nourishment. I am your chalice and your wine. Through me, you will drink deeply of life. Be mine, body and soul, and you will yearn for nothing for as long as you wander this barren world.”

She gently kissed his neck, and Noah didn't resist her advances. Deep down, he acknowledged that she was right. Without her, he felt fragile. Her presence was his source of strength, much like a queen empowering her king. Ultimately, he knew he would become one of her trophies in that line of icy sinners, but that was a price well worth his prize.

He resigned to her will when her dress started slipping farther off her shoulders. She explored his body with her nimble hands, which exhilarated him. She was his vice. No matter how hard he resisted, he was bound to seek her out again.

Just as his mind lost itself to her wicked temptation, she abruptly stood up, leaving his hands grasping at the air. “It seems the rats followed your trail,” she sighed. As the last word tumbled from her sweet lips, the ground below Noah gave way to a dark pit. Eris watched him with a smile and halfhearted wave as he plunged into the depths.

​

​

​

​

“Dear beloved cock,
I want to express my deep affection for you, my dear cock. You are a remarkable sight to behold and an immense joy to hold. I promise to always stand behind you, supporting you through both your rises and falls. When life becomes hard, we will face it together, united we rise, united we fall. Please forgive me if there are times when I may handle you too firmly; it is simply my way of showing tough love.
At the end of each day, I am grateful for your ever standing presence. From the moment I wake up until nightfall, you consistently rise and shine, bringing excitement and pleasure into my life.

My dear cock, I am committed to you for a lifetime, as symbolized by the ring I placed on you. I will always offer you protection and care, ensuring your well-being as we explore dark holes and moisty entrances.
We have shared countless moments, from standing in the rain to basking in the warmth of the sunlit fields. I have even painted your balls during Easter and Christmas, a testament to our shared experiences and celebrations. Though there may be times when you may not fully cooperate, please know that I will always stand behind you, advocating for your needs and desires.
I will always love you, my dear cock.
With love from your one-armed master.”

Where do I start in order to learn writing a novel?

Are there any resources, tips or advice you would recommend?

" It's been two years , since I had crush on you , I was heels over head over you , back when you're my little silly crush that I stalked him all the night so I can get his instagram account, it's September again , I thought of you again , I still remember how happy I was when I found your Twitter account , I scrolled down until your first tweet , I got plenty pictures of yours and I saved them in special album that I don't even remember what I called it , and it drives me crazy , how I had known all your accounts , your phone number , your parents, how we share blood, last name and family , that we met but we never talked , I wish if you could know how painful it's to know everything about you but you don't know me , how I'm around everyone you know but never around you , and it kills me that we never had the chance to be a thing but what if we will have a chance in the future? That's the reason I can't move on and give up on you my little silly crush who I told everyone that I'm over him two November's ago but it's almost November again and yet I'm thinking about you... " i wrote this thing that I don't know what's it , and it's not my best work or something but i just wanted to share with someone so i can get opinion about it , so what do you think (:?

I am currently writing a poem about the datura flower, hallucinations, simulacra, depersonalization and psychosis. Any ideas or things that I should add?

“I have already witnessed a 'miracle' of yours, scribe, yet here I stand doubting your strength. Prove. Me. Wrong. If you even can,” growled a voice filled with resentment.

“Oh, I'll be more than happy to do so!” replied another voice swiftly and smugly. Then, a short yet poignant click from two clawed fingers and a thumb echoed throughout the walls of a dingy cabin. “Alright, just give it a second.”

Several nerve-racking seconds went by. Nothing happened. An air of awkwardness began to set in.

“Ok, maybe more than a second. My old brain can't get every detail correct, haha,” The confident voice chuckled, its smugness only mildly tarnished. “Perhaps you are not as almighty as you thi...” A terrible rumbling from the ground cut the words of the resentful voice short. It was as if the earth now bore a hungered stomach that shook and churned with a starved pain, desperate for any form of satiation.

The cabin quickly became akin to a hare caught between the jaws of a rabid fox as it wildly swayed back and forth. Dust and splinters billowed from the ceiling like an avalanche of dirt, soaking the owners of the two separate voices in ashen soot.

Beneath this newly formed and blemishing layer of filth stood a tall man who, despite the quivering floor, remained unfalteringly still like a grand bastion amidst a violent storm. He was dressed in magnificent attire that shone a brilliant silver even from underneath his coat of smut. The silver was emboldened and embellished by several serpentine emblems. The pythons on these emblems formed circular patterns, partially devouring their bodies in an eternal frenzy. Symbols such as these tend to signify a cycle of destruction and rebirth. However, the manic eyes of each python seemed to suggest something else as well—a carnal desire to achieve the unachievable.

Each python knew it could not swallow their entire body whole. They were keenly aware of this yet showed no signs of stopping. Their ambition has doomed them to a never-ending cycle of torture, but they could not care less. Each python would struggle and endure until they finally achieved the impossible or perished.

This same ambition burned through the tall, silver man's eyes like flickering embers. Whatever he desires to achieve must link him to the mania of the serpents he bears on his clothing in some way or another. Past his fiery eyes, the man had a gorgeous visage except for one crucial factor. A vile scar shot upward diagonally from the right side of his chin, tearing past his nose and almost cutting into his left eye, mangling what would be utmost handsomeness. Bizarrely, the scar was bright crimson as if it had only been recently wrought upon the man, and yet he showed no signs of pain or discomfort as he gazed forward with a determined expression. This grisly wound contrasted with the inherent beauty of his flowing locks, which glowed an ethereal white, granting him a near angelic quality.

These features formed a larger-than-life picture of this person within the cabin. One that fits somebody of grand status and importance. A royal.

Finally, he spoke, revealing the resentful voice to be his own.“Is this... It? Will I... No, the world be free from its grasp after all this time?” mumbled the man in quiet bewilderment as the monstrous earthquake concluded. His determination faded into a look of pure relief as if a monumental weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Go and... Go and see for yourself. Little Ocelote,” faintly spoke the smug voice from the mouth of a cloaked figure. No piece of this humanoid being was visible except for its two skeletal arms. Its clawed left hand began to clutch at its concealed chest in pain. Blood sputtered out of the void where the mouth of this figure would be, staining the moulding wood below and turning it a dark carmine red. Steam began to rise upwards from the grim puddle as if the blood was acidic, further reinforcing the otherwordly presence this strange figure possessed.

“Do not let him out of your sights. I will return in just a moment,” ordered Ocelote to two other silver-clad individuals who stood cautiously beside him, with spears pointed straight like the snouts of frightened mice. They were utterly petrified of the figure in the cloak. If you listened closely, beyond the fizzling blood burning the ground, you could almost make out the sounds of chattering teeth and pouring sweat from the two men. Like Ocelote, the two were covered in silver but in the form of suits of armour instead of royal attire. The same serpents were emblemized upon the men despite the two clearly showing far more fear than ambition. The sounds of Ocelotes metallic boots clanged behind the two's ears, signalling one worrying fact. They were now alone with that thing.

The men shuddered as if the earthquake was still occurring. The green plumes atop their helmets vibrated like leaves in the wind. Further speech from the figure in the cloak almost sent the plumes flying off their collective heads. “Gentlemen, I'm rather thirsty after all that. Could you fetch me something to drink? There will be ample reward for bringing me some apple juice,” calmly asked the cloaked creature as it brushed off a layer of mould and dirt from its already rugged cloak. “N...No, just stay put and be quiet.” The man on the left responded as soon as his panic-stricken body allowed him to. “Aww, come on chaps! Don't you think I've earned it? After all, I did save your precious kingdom.” said the creature with vibrant sarcasm emanating from its non-existent mouth.

“Quiet, demon! Or I'll shove this spear where the sun doesn't sun!” yelled the man on the right as he stepped forward, the tip of his impressively long spear now inches away from the scribe's hole of a face, this sudden vitriol was much to its chagrin. Yet undeterred, it politely asked, “Pretty please, may I have some apple juice? My good sir”. Well, as polite as something referred to as a 'demon' could muster. Infuriated by the tone and condensation of the beast in front of him, the man took a deep breath. Not to calm himself down but to begin putting a plan into motion. “Hey, you cowering over there. Since your colleague is as stubborn as a boulder, I have henceforth appointed thee as the apple juice fetchSHUUNNKKK!!!!”. With the force of a headbutt hailing from a sheep that has been backed into a corner, the steel tip of the spear punctured through the facial abyss of the demon, spilling near-gallons of acidic blood and soon turning the room into the eye of a storm of steam. Amongst the fizzling of unearthly blood upon wood, the man on the left came to terms with what had just transpired. “WHAT THE FUCK TROELS! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!” screamed the left man with a fury that boiled over his former fear. “It was taking the piss, Jorge,” replied Troels as he gazed at the long end of his spear dissolving within the slain beast. The once apple juice-craving creature was now lifeless. Its corpse was now the crown jewel in the treasure trove of rot and waste that was this cabin.

“I knew it... haha. Moron wore itself out Ocelote's wish must have drained it, ha,” Troels declared and snickered. With the sheer danger and absurdity of the situation, the soldier was fully expecting his plan to fail tremendously. The surprise of succeeding for once hit Troels like a brick made from self-assurance. Proudly and with a prideful heart, he turned to his cowardly comrade and asked, “Jorge, go tell the King that I, Troels, Son Of Trog ha—” “Has not brought me any apple juice.”

Troels almost lept backwards through a wall in shock, “What... How?” he timidly mumbled. The scribe did not answer. It simply wrenched the spear from its hole as a response. Any emotions or feelings were near-impossible to ascertain from the formless entity, but it's not hard to figure out at least one thing somebody would feel after getting stabbed in the head. Anger. Like a conductor for an unseen orchestra, the creature waved what little remained of the burning spear around the air in front of it. Its frail-looking hands held the melted weapon with a firm yet calm grip before flicking and pointing the corroded end directly at Troels.“Can you even fathom what I am? How vast and boundless I am. No, of course not. You are just a little speck barely capable of thinking about little speck things.”The creature dropped the spear, allowing its acidic remnants to crash onto the floor. Now empty-handed, it pointed its index finger outwards as if it were replacing the fallen polearm with its decrepit right arm. “Yes, that's it. You're a little thing with a head crammed full of little thoughts. Let's cram something else inside there.” inquisitively said the scribe with the same cadence as an author being struck with an idea, and then, just like an author, the demon began to write, not with a quill and paper as you would expect but with its elongated nail and thin air. The floating symbols carved by claw resembled no known language and looked far more like scribbles than anything discernable, but the further you peer into the lines and curls, the more sense they began to make. Letters and words could now be perceived, clicking together like puzzle pieces to form a floating inscription. Though he was grovelling on the floor, Jorge could still barely make out what the creature had written. It stood out to him as one of the more perplexing sights he had seen on this bizarre day. Written on a canvas of nothingness, glowed and shined the words 'testicle head' like a crude beacon crafted by an immature smith. As he tried to make sense of the situation, Jorge felt droplets of liquid splatter across his right cheek. Quickly yet hesitantly, he turned to his right and witnessed a sight most foul. Troels, his friend and brother-in-arms, appeared to have testicles sprouting from his eye sockets.

With a short, pained grunt, Troels collapsed to the ground. Dead. The hairless sacks fell and dangled from his sockets mere inches from the eyeballs they had just evicted. His head swelled up as if even more testicles had taken up a residence in the home where the brain used to live. Jorge gagged.“Ah, my sincerest apologies. I thought that filling his head up with testicles would...lean towards the more comedic side of things,” said the scribe sincerely, not out of guilt for the death it has just caused or empathy for the man it has just scarred, but out of genuine disappointment that its punchline failed to land. Jorge puked.

A gallon of his vomit now stained the rustic floor, mixing with the spilt blood. It smelled repugnant, but within its putrid stench, Jorge gained some clarity. He had to run. Now.

He bolted from the room like stray lightning, soon replacing the suffocating wooden walls for the open air of a forest glade. Its fresh breeze upon the skin would be a blessing under different circumstances. “Whilst you are gone, fetch me some juice,” taunted and called the scribe from the disgusting maw of the cabin. Jorge couldn't hear a word it was saying as the wind rushing past his ears deafened him to its venomous sneering. Farther and farther, Jorge ran, leaving the cabin and its horror to become a dot in the distance. A fleeting thing that quickly became obscured by trees and foliage.The forest was dark, its canopy blocked nearly all light, with what little poked through dwindling in the dusklight. Its trees encircled the cabin like a cage. Even with prior knowledge of what nightmare lurked at its centre, most would hesitate to wade through this sea of foliage. Though at the speed he was fleeing, Jorge made this 'sea' look more like a pond. All visual evidence pointed towards entering this dark mosaic of trees being a terrible idea. You would struggle to find a more ominous location, and yet the King deemed entering it to be a necessary action. Was this a brilliant, bold decision? Or maybe it was just a last resort used by a desperate ruler.

Jorge, understandably, could not give two shits about why he and Troels were in this forsaken place. All he cared about was leaving this forest and that thing behind him forever. His heartbeat was like a drum pounding up and down, but thankfully, salvation was in sight. The trees ahead became less frequent, and like a window in a prison cell, the outside world was visible and within reach.

With one final push, Jorge crossed the final stretch into lands beyond the malignant woodland. He collapsed as soon as he deemed it safe enough to do so. The strain Jorge had put on his lungs to escape had finally caught up to him, causing searing pain to afflict him as he lay on the ground exhausted. Jorge lived to cower another day, but before he could graciously revel in that fact, a familiar voice spoke out from his side. “Do you see that, Jorge? Please tell me my eyes do not deceive me,” questioned Ocelotte, whom Jorge had unknowingly collapsed beside in panic. “Wh...Y...Your majesty—” “Just answer me, Jorge.”Jorge gathered his composure and breath before looking to see what his majesty was talking about. He scanned his surroundings acutely and discovered nothing of interest. All that stood in this field was hundreds of thousands of blades of grass, flicking toward the dread forest. “Not here Jorge, there,” Ocelote pointed towards the horizon. The sun beamed over the horizon line, forcing Jorge to squint, but as he did so, he became aware of something strange.

A monolithic structure that stretched for as far as the eye could see, its size cast a colossal shadow over the land in its wake. A chill shot down Jorge's spine at the sight of the structure. It reminded him about his journey leading up to this point. He, Troels and their leader, King Ocelotte, set off from the remains of their kingdom mere days after great catastrophe had struck it. This kingdom in ruin now lay behind the titanic wall Jorge and Ocelotte were staring at. Almost certainly in further chaos than when they left it...

“I see it, Your Majesty,” Jorge said with a tone that served as a meagre veil for his shattered mental state.

“Alright... So far so good,” Ocelotte replied.

A second of calm went by before Jorge exploded with rage, caring neither for his position nor rank as he yelled at his King. “GOOD! IN WHAT UNIVERSE IS THIS SITUATION GOOD, OCELOTTE!!! MY HOME MUST BE IN SHAMBLES!”

“I know, it is my home too, Jorge. But do you not see? This is precisely what I needed that piece of shit in the cabin to do.”

“So are you telling me Troels died so you could make a giant wall?!”

“Troels's death was not in vain. The calamity that drove us here will never happen again. The wall you see ahead, the thing I wished for being the reason.”

Jorge looked at His Majesty with contempt. He understood what Ocelotte was saying but couldn't resist the urge to despise him. Troels was dead, seemingly as a consequence of a plan spun up the person he served.

“Now I know I have put you through a torment like no other, but I still require your assistance,” said the King as he rose. The fading sun lit up his silver, the serpents glowed, and his white hair basked in the glorious incandesce. It was exceedingly hard not to be captivated by him. Jorge still bore hatred for his King, though he could not ignore that assisting him seemed the best decision he could make for now. Ocelotte held his hand out for Jorge to grasp onto and pull himself up, which Jorge reluctantly accepted. “Thank you, Jorge. Now, we need to move. There's a long road ahead of us, and I have work to do...”

anyone have advice for making monster ideas?

I want to make a story that like stranger things and it maybe with a little touch of fnaf? the orriginal idea was the enttities could attach themselves to people and turn them into weird dolls. Not sure if thats the monster I want to go with.

Reposting this because I forgot to clarify.

Some context: The story plays in the future. They live in an underground city which originally started out as a giant bunker. The city has expanded vastly since the apocalypse that happened about 100 years ago. People are made to believe it is not safe outside. The sky in this city is a hologram. It has a day and night cycle, but some things are a bit off from the actual sky (like there is no visible sun or moon).

How can I clarify that 1. The sky is a hologram and 2. This mega-city is located underground? Having the narrator describe it would feel too forced in my opinion.

Hello! This is my first post, hope I do everything correctly. Just looking for feedback on this story and open to finding a partner to critique with! Let me know what you think. 2235 Words - Stolen Flowers

I can see those two both having colors Pink and blue Standing and talking under the shallow light One looks dark while other is bright I listen to them talking about their roll who are they? No one Just me and my soul

I don’t just want the narrator to describe it because that would feel too forced in my opinion

"Must be nice"

Those wretched words

Incantation

Of Cain's curse

Bottled fury

Jealous glare

Indignation

And despair

Loser complex

Crummy genes

"Not enough",

It always seems

Take it, break it

Misdemeanor

Neighbour's grass

Is always greener

Abstruse ramblings

Cursing God

Growling

Like a rabid dog

Seething ire

None to blame

Endless whining,

What a pain

Adoration

Sick fixation

Comfort found

In resignation

Freak of nature

Can't be helped

Born defective

Cards are dealt

So I’ve made a whole character list ranging from her favorite drink to her favorite Dino nugget to how she would react to someone buying gas station sushi. But she’s still feeling bland. Anyone have advice? For context she was living her life attempting to become a scientist before she’s yanked from her life and bullied. She goes from being a bright flower to a husk of her former self. I’m thinking that she might just detach from many goodness she thinks she has left and embrace the darkness though it feels out of character. Please help. Thanks.

Hello, this is my first time using Reddit, so I am not to familiar with how things work or how communities work, any help would be great

Below is a short(?) fictional story about a person who is unable to get necessary aid to function in their society. It's more of a rant, if anything. Feel free to read, comment, critique, or ignore.

Methylphenidate Extended Release, known as Concerta, is my disposable wheelchair. And if you didn't know it before, the Drug Enforcement Agency hates disposable wheelchairs.

I am not some unwashed gutter-trash trying to scrape together enough dimes to feel good and escape the world around me, I'm a square-shaped person trying to fit into a round world. My brain (and the brains of others who need stimulant medication) is like a microphone with the gain set too high. I pick up on background noises and sounds that others don't. When the main target of the microphone does speak, it's much too loud and harsh to effectively focus on. I'm writing this in the waning hours of my last available dose, living my daily experience of Flowers for Algernon. I was very attentive and focused today, because the gain on my metaphorical microphone was turned down by my medication. I likely will be very attentive again sometime soon. But that day seems to be an indeterminate forever away because my ability to think, to function at school and excel at my studies and enjoy the tasks and joys before me are held hostage by an alphabet agency states away, all because they see the need to harm struggling people, like me and likely you, because it's better than solving that one problem any other way. Let's use a more physical, if not necessarily accurate, example.

Janet is a young adult who, no matter the cause, was recently made wheelchair bound. Whether she discovered this from a car accident or from some other source isn't the concern today; what is important is the daily life of Janet and her Disposable Wheelchair. Janet starts her day by waking up, sipping some water, and taking her wheelchair. She, mustering all her strength, crawls out of bed, brushes her teeth, and gets ready for work. Janet's parents chide her for not being as fast or as active as the neighbor's kids, and express their concern for the nice outfit Janet picked for herself. After asking, Janet's parents respond by stating that they had to crawl to work, and that everybody crawls to work! Why did Janet bother wearing such nice clothes if she's just going to rub dirt on them crawling to work? Janet is caught off guard by this comment; her parents' don't seem to understand that their experience of life isn't everyone's experience of life.

No bother, says Janet, as she sets off. The first few blocks of the crawl to work are a drag, both literally and figuratively; her Disposable Wheelchair hasn't kicked in yet, so she has to brute force her way to work. No matter! Janet's been doing it this way for many years, and has developed many coping strategies to alleviate her condition. As she clambers her way past puddles and ruts in the road, Janet blinks as her Disposable Wheelchair appears beneath her. It happens imperceptibly, like a magic trick. She doesn't remember it appearing; one second, she was fighting tooth and nail to do the thing she so very much wanted to do, and the next second she was effortlessly gliding down the sidewalk! Janet never got tired of the feeling, of control locking into her hands. She could set herself to a task and not get bothered by crawling up stairs or hobbling over ledges; she could simply push herself up the ramps! This new task of climbing many small ramps was by no means effortless. She zigged and zagged up the assembly of ramps, and most people just walked up the adjacent staircase. But, thought Janet, climbing all these small ramps beats not being able to climb the staircase in the first place!

Janet works her job at the Job Factory, moving effortlessly from one task to another. Certainly, her wheelchair sometimes bumps into things. And other times, strangers will come along and try to push her along, even when she specifically asks them not to. There are small hints, pangs of this place not being a world where Janet is in charge. Janet doesn't mind, though; she has a group of friends, some with Disposable Wheelchairs, some without, that support her all the same. While she's never voiced a word with them about how tough life can be both with and without her Disposable Wheelchair, having this group nearby gives her a sense of resiliency and solidity that she alone doesn't believe she'd have. She gets by, wheelchair-pushers and all, but the worst day with a Disposable Wheelchair is absolutely better than the best day without.

Janet leaves her shift at the Job Factory and enjoys a leisurely journey back home, watching the sun set and the trees rustle in the cool autumn wind. She makes it to her home and enjoys whatever little hobby she does when she remembers to, and as she's thinking about what to do for dinner tonight, disaster strikes. Janet collapses on the floor, her Disposable Wheelchair turning into a pumpkin like Cinderella's carriage at midnight. Janet, now alone and without her Disposable Wheelchair, is grateful for the solid platform it gave her to not only do what she needed to accomplish that day, but also enjoy what she did. She knew it would never last forever; that was never the point. If it did, it wouldn't be Disposable. She makes her way over to her bedroom or bathroom or wherever she keeps her medicine, and is horrified to find that she had, mere hours before, taken the last Disposable Wheelchair.

Janet, the next day, wakes up. She always dreads this. She crawls her way disgracefully towards the phone, and struggles for minutes to reach up and grab it, let alone dial it. She agrees that she needs her Disposable Wheelchair, that her life is much worse without it. Her doctor, on the other end of the line, agrees that many patients see the benefits of Disposable Wheelchairs. However, the Wheelchair Enforcement Agency has decided that Wheelchairs, especially the Disposable kind, must be heavily regulated. Anyone with too many Wheelchairs will be charged with a felony, any doctors handing out Wheelchairs beyond their allotted amount will be stripped of their license and punished. Janet is horrified! Certainly, she doesn't doubt that somebody has abused a Wheelchair at least once or twice, but why is she being punished for someone else's behavior? Why not revise this system with a more just, more meaningful system that provides Wheelchairs for those who need them and gets help for those who don't?

Do you see what a horrible system this would be if we treated physical disabilities like this?

If you do, why do we allow this horrible system for mental disabilities?

The race is on as our ideals clash. Look out!
Get out of my way!
Not fair!

Is there something more to know?
Is there something more to see?
Is there something more to learn?

Wisdom rests, it lays in wait beneath the hurry and the rush.

Wisdom is a place to seek before the action. Wisdom is a place to set your heart. Wisdom is the place to set your eyes to open to compassion. Wisdom is the place to labor to bear empathy.

Wisdom is a place.

How You Grinned

Leaves fly with the wind Alongside the mocking jays And the flickers of snow

As I look back on how you grinned At everything I said or will ever say Asking myself if you still know

That you are why I sinned Every day since that day When the drinks made me mellow

What is a reason a person would sell a house that has been in their family for generations, they grew up in and clearly loves the place dearly?

still not sure what to write about atm