On a clear day,

With lots of sun,

I took my trikey

For a ride.

Like Humpty-Dumpty

I fell.

Don’t panic

Everyone

I’m okay

After falling from my trikey

It was quite the

struggle

To get back

On my trikey

Now that I’m

Back in the saddle

of my trikey,

It is time to

Hit the Great Reset button

And reset the settings

Back to mode Default.

This poem has been written by myself. Let me know of your opinions.

It is over before it has happened. They are past the black tar, the bloated concrete, the phantom limbs of seaside brutalism caving centre-bound into an amorphous metropolitan mass, pox-marked, copied not created, Celtic, Gothic, Modern, tumbling as one into an untidiness of fecal brown streets, bursting apart at their seams, chronic, the roadwork as the antidote to the surplus, evolving horizontally, rapidly, over cobblestones and public parks and the pelicans and the zebras, never pausing for the flashing green man, ever constant, moving only on higher power, forwards.
Maintaining heavy speed. Adjacent now to four tumour shaped tower blocks, strategically placed, affordable, unavoidable, but cast in the shadow of the latest architectural stillborns; photos of which remain filed on the hard drive hastily labelled REGENERATION, red sharpie on high-vis post-it note, dots not yet joined, ink dry. Inside people clot. Blow out beach front views of a publicly planned pier never built, ill funded, washed away in the redraft, posthumous, turbines that tumble beyond horizon and second generation Fiats, caked three times over in overfed seabird shit; short legged, once matrimony white, now impotent grey. Adrift, the passing world weary satanists launching limp-dicked kicks, homeward, tails between legs, hard night; the involuntary protestors of the barefoot angels clad only in miniskirt, brandishing broken heels like firearms, olive spray stained over peach pallor, acrylic nails popped cherry pink, colour chosen, applied at speed, without care, to the detuned cries of hungry child for mother’s milk, braless, legs spread; seen. The stars were out if they looked up.
Glow dimmed, power saved, all indistinguishable in economic silhouette, the quiet hum of a standardised colour temperature, set 120 miles away by a committee of unseen hands; mirroring hospitals, bank rooms and underground sex addict support centres. EXPERIENCE FREEDOM WITH OUR FIXED RATE INTEREST MORTGAGES. Focus grouped slogans, cardboard celebrity smiles and doors automatic, leading you in, the free lunch, the triangular bite mark, the cartilage caught between the incisors of the vagrant who spends his nights pissing in the archways of the same doors automatic, double bolted, glass. A stickiness of crimson and stomach acid green happens in three separate parts, congealing into roadside puddles of honeysuckle that slip anonymously into sewer drains, without notice. Those in the passing drizzle grow hot potato feet, bounce from aisle to aisle, keeping exposed January trainers mostly vomit free, matching emotional haircuts, humourless, toothless, grooveless, plasticine faces living from yawn to yawn, no mud left to leave a print, a trace. Fell, destroyed.
Getting ahead of us. They are past the tar plains, reaching forth to bruise the surrounding greenery, their fallen trees mechanically stacked, resting on land marked in one file as IN DEVELOPMENT and under another as UNBUILT, not yet toe tagged, but yes, without hope. Ground remains fertile, earth yet unsalted; irrelevant. Running parallel, farms backed in barbed wire fence, fields that die only for the winter, cows mounting one and other as cows do, later to the entertainment of churning school buses, teenage faces descending on gummed up windows, laughing hard. For now, roads silent, hard shoulders boast but snoring delivery trucks, overweight, a strong odour of fuel, diesel, leaking from their underside into fossilised rainbow pools, colour spectrum on full display, still glistening and glittering, even in night. All else stretches out ashen grey.
Moving on; the residential towns and villages, with neat houses of drooping roofs, haemorrhaging into exposed brickwork; ugly but unremarkable enough to evade unwanted attention as they swell into “well developed” areas for several years now. Yet to stir, sedatives wearing off only in an hour or so. Around the corner, slick simplistic crowdpleasers with four wheel drive, well parked, unlocked, crew cut lawns, cast in that familiar terminal glow you’ve come to know, inflated rainwater, gathering about pavements, not tobacco brown but Americano; Macchiato, Cappuccino, all available now. Newspapers undelivered, still benign. Air listed as “clean”. Doctors, dentists, opticians and chiropractors, collecting the easiest paycheques of their lives, well nourished by an ache of loving mothers, all thinking the same thoughts, stiff, those who still tackled the school run with pushchairs, shouldering fat child after fat child, each old enough to run. Birds are yet to call. For now, all is unresponsive and as it should be.
Further still, Earth rests intact, dew clinging, harmless, uncut blades of ordinary grass, tall, cold to the touch. Free from light, all anaesthetising shadow. A landscape rendered pure; mottled greens, blueish purples, sterilised red. An image available exclusively to those who ate their carrots.
The delayed morning arrival moves through, clumsy like an aneurism, and the first birdcall of the day sounds aboard the 70mph rush; compressed, high end absent, castrated into waiting song Muzak and spat forth from the low quality speaker of the high priced phone with the fruit on it’s posterior side. You know.
Up above HARPER SEPTEMBER-PETERS waits, device pressed tight against ear, almost impersonating the cool damp on the window frame to his left, facing the direction of travel, as he prefers it, gazing down to the shapeless horizon, waiting for something to form, eyes straining harder, staring out to forever. He does this even though he knows the best things emerge only when no one is looking at all.
He too, an unseen forced portrait, show pony, talk of the town, in this quiet carriage anyway, still unconvinced that he is a full person, head above the parapet, if only to catch a glimpse of her at the table three down with the busyness, the cold coffee and the bleached bob air. Out of season.
She, unaware that he exists, thinking only of the approaching five-uh-oh, not as simple as an ill-worded decoration that could be disposed of as deemed tacky eight wasted years later, this was permanent, irreversible, her future was in her past, three children, two divorces, no current husband, the previously unexplored idea that she may be asexual, unattracted to fifty something men anyways, mortgage still there, habits still there, failures from thirty years ago still there, still there, still there, still there, parents gone, too many numbers going up instead of down, faithless, irrelevant, uninterested by other people and their uninteresting lives, consumed by envy, slipping under, gone.
September-Peters fixes his hair, only moments after discovery, but now, in his mind, they motorhome in Deutschland, two darling poodles, perpetual al fresco, lacking only opening titles and each year she can show him how to play the theme on piano. He was lost of the number of things he did on a daily basis just for imaginary people, conversations in his head only, private histories, ghosts that never assume material form; guiding him from place to place, job to job, person to person; he their marionette. The list was long, endless. Yet, when he died the manner in which he did so; the minuet gestures, the internalised sting, the perspiring, the shakes, the painfully conscious effort to guide himself face first onto the table before him, the thoughts still deemed selfish, the dignity, the trap, really all for the eyes of one person and one person only; her.
At the next stop, she left.
He had been doing well lately. Head down now, brain liquifying, tiny pieces of matter floating in the wreckage of who he had recently finished being. El Finito. Before him the autopsy reports, prematurely completed with steady hand, easing the stress of an oddly busy work week, final examinations scheduled, chances of yielding unexpected results; nil.
Several days from now, the very same pages finding their way back to his secretary’s desk, resting there for several more, held in her WIP middle drawer and when they were eventually seen, promptly shredded and recycled. No need for fuss without cause. Years later, emerging through the other end of the system, and arriving amongst wood chips, trees grown with fertiliser, by us, for us, sandwiched between plastic veneer in bedside table, on sale, the budget furniture behemoth. Landfill. Here, the final remains of the autopsy reports come to rest.
There is no pattern, only perpetual stew.

Hey everybody! Back around 2014, I was a teenager and I developed an idea for a story. It was originally intended to be a show meant to be performed by a marching band, but I didn't end up committing to the project. However, looking back on it, I'm thinking it might have some potential as a book or movie, so I've done a bit of work to develop the idea a bit more and improve on the original design. That being said, I was wondering if people could read over the idea as I currently have it and tell me if the idea is worth pursuing, if you LIKE the idea, and if you have any ideas for ways to change or improve the idea. Here is the concept:

Most of us are familiar with the story of Santa Claus: the large jolly fellow dressed in red. He watches over us all year, keeping track of if we've been good or bad, so, around Christmas time, he can punish or reward us for our behavior. But, generally speaking, we know he's made up. Even if you believe in magic, once you grow up, you realize that all the presents under the tree were presents bought by you. But what if we're wrong? What if there's a chance that, maybe, Santa Claus is a real person? No, I'm not referring to the monk St. Nicholas from modern day Turkey. What if the tales of Father Christmas aren't the fabrications of generations of Christmas celebrators, but, instead, the tales of a true figure that have become warped with time? What if the idea of the jolly harbinger of gifts was a misunderstanding? Maybe the idea of Santa keeping track of the naughty and nice was actually a guardian, gifting safety to the innocent and punishment to evil. Let's explore that idea.

Nicholas MacCloskey was a simple man who lived in East Lothian, Scotland during the 17th century. A carpenter just finding the beginnings of his career when, one day, while fetching water from the nearby River Tyne, he noticed that the water he drank was beginning to turn colors. Upon investigating, he found what he believed to be a coven of witches performing a ritual using a glowing magical stone. The sorcerers, known today as the Wildheart Conclave, sprung into action, chasing Nicholas to ensure he didn't reveal their secrets. With time, Nicholas discovered that he was moving faster than before, he felt stronger than before, he was more durable than before. Whatever those witches were doing seemed to have affected Nicholas as well. Nicholas knew dark fae magic must be afoot and it can't be allowed to continue. Nicholas began the fight against the Wildheart Conclave, stopping the sorcerers any time they pursued a new plan. More importantly, he made sure to protect the Scottish people from the wrath of the Wildhearts. He fought and won, ending their plight and stopping them for good. Nicholas felt content to look for new ways he could help people with his newfound powers until the English Kingdom, who was at war with Scotland at the time, heard rumors of Nicholas' new power. They feared him and what he was capable of, so they fought and chased him away. Nicholas ran, desperately trying to escape the English forces that pursued him. Nicholas felt he had no other options, so, using his new powers, he escaped towards the ocean. He swam for what felt like years trying to escape the English navy until he found the shores of Iceland and hid. He was safe, but felt betrayed. Nicholas fought to help people and was punished instead of rewarded. He became bitter and decided it was best to simply stay away. Hide and remove himself from society so he wasn't punished for his generosity again. This seemed like a reasonable plan to Nicholas, until he watched as not decades, but CENTURIES pass. Nicholas sat aside and watched as society advanced over hundreds of years. And now he still lives along the shores of Iceland. He has the intention of surviving and living alone. But was he sure that he killed the last of the Wildhearts?

Overall, this is meant to be a refreshing new take on the frankly old and tired story of Santa that has been retold time and time again. I also really want to try and include as much historically inspired content as possible. The Anglo-Scottish war was something actually happening at the time. Witch trials were actually happening in Scotland around that time. I want to design the story so it seems like it could be even remotely possible in the real world. This is still only a concept, so there are still a lot of unanswered questions, but, for now, what does everyone think?

Haven't written poetry in years, had a crack at it tonight, looking for some feedback. It's a first draft, second half isn't finished.

Fingers of grief

Blackened and ill sink

Filthy hand into gaps

Meticulously tearing apart

Leaving an open space, no room to breathe

Jaw slacken, eyes tight

Trembling rain falls

Muddling the mess

The fingers do not care

no room to repair

Play with the brain clutter

Shake the cage

Til shattered

Need no soft whispers or sweet goodbyes

A strong quake that knocks knees

A dare, a bid to preserve

Crumbled rubble, no way to rebuild

There is no care

Here grief is

Playing his game

*

Filthy grief, you are obscene

The bets you place and gamble away

Soothed by only a bottle or sleep

You are an addict

Careless and malign

A viper freak

A fiend, Take take take

You are a disease

Leave a black spot, let them wheeze

Intolerant and foul, you weaken and grow

You will take hold

There is no other way

It is not an uphill battle

Your sword is sharp

If any of you are looking for a live beta reading, there is a twitch streamer (An Editor & Author) that does critiques every Tuesday and Thursday. Highly recommend, and they are completely free. Tuesdays are 4,000 word limit, and Thursdays are 2,000. You can submit once each stream, no limits besides words and must be TOS friendly. You can submit any genre or type of writing, as long as it is PG13.

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/usurperkings

Sign-up sheet for critiques: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1VbjkaE2ctNY2Uplf1uGAx36hClr3QeB_Wc7WhrE0oF8/edit?usp=sharing

This is my first ever blogpost from August of 2021. I published four more in the meantime and work on drafts every other day but am not too satisfied with them right now. They mostly deal with my everyday experiences and what I make of them.

Any feedback regarding anything that comes to your mind is very much appreciated to get a grasp on which areas need further polishing or work on my part. Here's the link: https://medium.com/@mariobraendle/what-nicholas-and-jojo-not-the-singer-taught-me-about-real-life-relationships-part-i-aa9331cc238?sk=0df06e7978c734e5a1c49f87cab6893a Thanks!

​

Note: I like involving real stories in my nonfiction, but this is mostly educational, is this appropriate for this sub?

Mirroring is the first hypnotic skill everyone should know.

It’s incredibly easy, teaches important habits, and it is sufficient to induce sleeping trance. If you aren’t getting amazing results, you aren’t doing it right.

Before I knew what mirroring was, I remember being at home on a video call with my parents and noticing they had the same laugh. They would start laughing at the same time, their eyes would crinkle in the same way, and when they finished laughing they would both relax and breathe out in the exact same way.

After we logged off for the night, I started to wonder if this was part of the reason old couples look so similar. Not only do they eat the same food and share the same environment for decades, but they also start to share the same expressions and mannerisms.

I pulled up Google Chrome to do some research and I learned a few things:

People match body language unconsciously all the time- to signal friendship, comfort, and alignment. If you’re excited, I’m excited. If you’re incredibly happy, then I’m incredibly happy with you and for you. Or if you’re hated, if you’re not accepted, then I’m just as much of an outcast as you are.

It’s a deep and tribal feeling that might be called connection or rapport. It’s a real feeling that people really enjoy.

I also learned that the principle of treating your acquaintances like your friends applies here as well. If you mirror with people that you’ve just met, you’ll begin to feel connected in ways that you never have before.

After I learned all this, I started to try mirroring in the real world, and I learned things that weren’t online so I could bring them back to you.

---

The goal when mirroring is to come into perfect sync. You move when they move, with the same duration and speed and in a way that’s complementary to their movement.

If they pull something to themselves, you pull something to yourself, with the same speed, start and end.

Mimicking static body language like someone’s posture is effective, but coming into full dynamic sync is incredibly powerful and represents the pinnacle of mirroring. You can attain this by learning the signs of when someone is about to move, and practicing regularly.

Use your peripheral vision. Most of the large body language movements will be visible without you staring directly at them, so just notice them in your periphery and adjust accordingly.

When you arrive somewhere, arrive in the body language of the person you’re mirroring. If they’re sitting in a relaxed manner, don’t sit and then mirror, make it all one movement and sit directly as they are. This works especially well for making a first impression.

On natural movement in general, you’ll have to use your best judgment. If someone is using energetic hand gestures as they speak, don’t repeat those as they’re talking, but if you’re talking about something with a similar energy later, then do the same sorts of gestures. Beyond best judgment, you’ll need a dancer’s sense of movement. Move smoothly, don’t compensate for mistakes, and just relax.

Above all else, have the other person’s best interest at heart. You’ll naturally feel more connected with them by the mirroring, so allow yourself to feel that strongly and enjoy interacting with another human being with a whole vibrant inner world just like your own.

---

After I really started to develop my understanding of mirroring I had a new power to affect people around me. People listen to people they like, and they took my words more seriously. If you want the power of influence and you’ll use it for the good of the people around you, consider following me on Substack or Twitter and I can teach you more.

Or if you’re not sure about the effectiveness of mirroring, go out and try it. Don’t try it once, try it until it works, and when it does, come back and find more things to try

https://avecfacts.com/2023/03/02/more-americans-visited-libraries-than-movie-theatres-in-2019/

les tentations du decadent

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/la-tentation-du-decadent.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/608441527/les-tentations-du-decadent-erotic-poetry

Hey guys and gals, I was hoping you'd be interested in checking out my latest book of poems and short stories. It's live and free on Amazon currently. Please check it out and let me know what you think in the comments : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BM8PZSJJ

the decadent to love

https://www.scribd.com/document/604023403/The-Decadent-to-Love-erotic-poetry

Hi guys,

I’ve got a short poem (400 words) called “A Good Restaurant (I hate being nice).”

This is NOT a personal poem — it is fictional.

Looking for blunt critique and constructive criticism. You don't have to worry about being nice or polite! This can be quick. I do have some questions for you to fill out if you want. But you don't have to do those either. They're just suggestions bcz some people find that helpful.

I can't post this publicly because of the publisher's rules. I'll send it over PM or email. Whatever you prefer.

I’m willing to exchange 1:1 for the same length too.

Please let me know!

The decadent to its Love

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/le-d%C3%A9cadent-%C3%A0.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/599972096/The-Decadent-to-its-Love-erotic-poetry

The Decadent to its Self

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/decadent.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/597768658/The-Decadent-to-its-self-erotic-poetry

Amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Amour.pdf

OR

https://www.scribd.com/document/595190144/Amour-erotic-poetry

vouloir l'amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/vouloir-l.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/588777605/vouloir-l-amour-erotic-poetry

une nuit d'amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/une-nuit-d.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/586455620/une-nuit-d-amour-erotic-poetry

bout de chemin pour la femme fatale

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/bout-de-chemin-pour-la-femme-fatale.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/583999729/Bout-de-Chemin-Pour-La-Femme-Fatale-erotic-poetry

pas désiré

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/pas-d%C3%A9sir%C3%A9.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/583001364/Pas-Desire-erotic-poetry

l'après-midi du faune

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/l.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/580642627/l-apres-midi-du-faune-erotic-poetry

Les-Sacres-du-Printemps

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Les-Sacres-du-Printemps.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/578781119/Les-Sacres-Du-Printemps-erotic-poetry

Dionaea-muscipula

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Dionaea-muscipula.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/576966875/Dionaea-muscipula-erotic-poetry

A crimson Gwalior flower gently lands on my shoulder

I look up but there's no tree

Another fiery flower floats down and settles on my lap

I look up but there's still no tree

Soon the floor is covered in a red velvety carpet

I lay face down on it and stretch my arms and legs

And the existence of the tree is not of my concern anymore

 Take me back to the Source,
 to that moment of bliss.
 I knew it while watching the growth
 of a single sprout—
       germinating.

 There were so many possibilities then.
 Where did they go? Where is that sprout?
 Has it withered? Has it been consumed?
 Or simply cast aside—
       forgotten but resting
 on THAT GOOD SOIL
 .
 Silently striving.
 Quietly thriving.
 Its roots constantly diving.

 The Source.
 The Soil
 The Remembrance
 The Emergence.

 Clamshell opalescence,
 dull and not yet known—
 The expectation of a pearl.
 For now, just
 Grits-southern-and-buttered
 With a hint of love (always hinting at love)
 It clogs the veins and makes the blood slow.
 This I feels but to explain?— NO

 Crack me open and see for yourself.
 The tomb is empty.
 The vault had a trap door all along—
 leaving my thoughts trickling into the void.
 You see, the love you seek was already taken
 bit by bit.
 And now there is none.
          For that I am sorry.
 I shouldn’t have been so careless.

i. see. you.

do you wish i didnt?

​

i can feel you trying.

slow, long, sharp - pricks

deeper in than you expected

​

but i still see

​

i cry tears of blood now

but that wont stop me

the needle has numbed now

and yet i feel free

​

youve run out of room

to make me not see

theres no needle left

as your fingertip reaches me

​

i hear you

sit back and gasp

you seem annoyed

when you realize it wont last

​

i sense you

standing in distress

pacing around me

catching your breath

​

but i can still see

and hear

and feel

and sense

​

you finally realize

you must take my breath

​

and try as you might

you can steal it away

​

but in the dark of the night

i still see the same way

Ferocious flames fuming fiercely fabricate fear from fire,

Precocious people palpitate palpable, precipitated, paranoid, paramount plots putting paramedics in pertinent slots against problematic pyres

Can’t keep up? Too bad, friend,

You fill up cheap cups? You’re rushing your death,

Fire’s superior from the spark until the end,

End,

End,

Endeavour all you like but in the finale it’s me who will ascend

Gush through a river, stampede and crash,

All you do is splish splosh splash,

Rain on my parade,

I amaze, get lost like a maze, you can’t graze, I’m a craze,

I’ll drain your chance of victory faster than Usain

Your best rhyme, oh why do you try, it’ll be a damn cold day in Hell when you send a good reply

The devil will smile and justify my victory

While you try and can’t achieve anything half as great as me

I’ll smite this little smiling, shunned, rusting vilified fuel

Combusted by my robust writing, the incompetent sacrifice of this disgusting, overconfident fool, my revenue,

Fawning poodle’s thinking he can step up to yours truly solo all alone,

You’re so low you have to then get flung into my gusting sky to see my opposed

Silhouette,

Don’t need praised intellect or inconsistent internet to intercept with raising cycles of razing cyclones of burning passion made with perfect phrasing-filled-picked-phasing-infamous threats,

I enable sunlit sights with blazing ammo, farewell, bet I know he’s secretly a wry fan of me,

Carelessly blinded by a hopeful dream, in debt with no backbone,

Brutally infected crying unowned cyclops pupil filled with hectic jet-like smoke and steam,

Fret ‘n’ hide with your controlled stable, stubborn smile, sable like a shadow’s style

Futile dry eyelids drawn to rejecting nigh everything, shielding, seeking seeing selective stupid things, in a black hole

Auricles repelling with non-frugal-dyed-plateaued self-esteem,

I, Oracle enlightening am thus using lightning-fast parry, block, premie’s shocked, semi-tool, demi-ghoul, some good, half cruel, part cool, park’s full, but fool’s now striving, I’ll trim his life with evaporating flames, fuming, spewing, gunning, shooting igniting infernos filled with exaggerated blazes!

Perish, fool, I’m cloaked, nightmarish and cruel, go choke as I mock your pathetic rhyme scheme stream.

I’m not pedantic, I look at the big picture,

Zig zag, zig zag I rise like a fuming spire

Tick tock, tick tock, hear the turning of the clock

Now your situation’s dire, can’t you see?

I bring heat and incinerate whatever’s thrown at me

You go with the flow, so, you’ve got no ammo,

I grow, I know oh, I will easily mow right through you and saw so mightily I glow

I make my own flow then roar so ferocious big, bad, Hulk’s a measly joke, woah,

Beg for mercy, pity, what a shame

You’ll have to take your begging to your dug-out grave,

And engraved, it’ll say “Begged for mercy but failed to win against the flames”

I cackle as I crackle my embers I sizzle, fizzle my sparks crack like an egg

They’re raised to fear me, respect me,

Not to mess with me,

Why?

I’m the superior element.

River’s flowing as I splice and slice rhymes cold as ice

Fun bold crowing won’t suffice,

I puncture livers, harm the living, bring distant, bigger, disastrous lists of opposition down quicker

Than I convicted millions to drown and frown and flail around in rivers,

Armed ammo triggered I don't have to go through rigorous strife,

Scold me all you like but realistically I scald people all day and night,

Icey flow, fiery roasts, I see though, ivory bones, spicy trows, flowery words, dicey show, entirely fraud,

Quiver and quake and shiver, I’m sliding I’m rhyming, shifting, writhing, slithering like a

Speckled rattlesnake

Devil’s cattles make

Grave mistakes

Rebel’s brattels shake

Settled giants’ wake

You and your deduced history-infused excuses make me puke,

Use the lake as a form of ammunition,

Trivia: My storm’s artillery swarms your confused idioms.

I’ll mindlessly massacre your cute verse

While I stuff mine with killer words

Maintaining malicious meaningful, main, major mad masterful

Mechanically-manufactured-meticulously miraculous meanings might move my mindless, meaningless adversaries into miles of the most mayhemous massacre most must meet.

I’ll extinguish smoldering flames,

Diminish mouldering remains

Delinquents scold blurring pains

Relinquish conquering brains

Ocean tides put out your fire just fine,

My fighting devotion’s glorious,

Your side’s boasts’re abusive like Zeus is

Beg me to induce strides towards a frozen truce, divide, useless

I’m favoured by the Lord, God,

Check records I’m rewarded

You’re hated

But you dug your own grave today,

Your time’s dated…

“Superior Element”, that’s a foul bold claim,

Where’s your grand cold proof, mate?

Must’ve goofed it in the myriad o’ mail, courier issues, ey? Tried to call or issue yet?

You’re talking ‘bout cracking eggs? I’ll crack dry linear ships full o’ wrack ‘till they creak, screaming colliding as I eat and steal their racked materialistic stacked contents, my prey, creak, creak, creak, creak, click, CLACK

Summon slaughter on command,

I’m on laughter all around

C’mon louder let’s scour yours out,

From the towers, go spout

Oh, don’t cower, shame is showerin’ this coward with nothing to shout,

It’s execution time for YOU (persecution) to pull, unveil the cowl, fold and unleash your scowl,

I’m wise like an owl of serious old age

Now evolved to prowl like a sol(i)d steel barrel, growl, solved revolving ‘round raged revolver’s to howl spew you, pew!

Don’t get used to this told flow, when I let loose, I’ll loosen both jowls and break both moulds ‘n’ rules,

You’re a worrier, not warrior, a despised icon ready to be shred,

Resolution-wise I’ll revolutionise armies painted red,

Wit and power, feel the water devour louder until you’re left dead.

I morph, water’s my turf, I’ll dwarf you, I shift and transform but revolvers’ are all you’re worth:

I’m the gunman, edging the button, you won’t live ‘till ‘morrow

Your bow ‘n’ arrow falls short of a small barrow you can’t score like carrow road get ready for narrow, non-low harrow insults digging deep in your bone marrow

Beg on your knees and plead, be unpleased be deceased from these unique sayings, toxic phrases, flying over your hollow head

Freeze! Mr. Failed Julius, I’ll seize ceasing this caesar-wannabe.

Too long didn't read summary: We are looking for writers to adapt our Dungeons and Dragons adventures into novels. The stories are three hour long standalone actual play D&D podcast episodes. Each episode is a different, complete adventure. The plot, characters, and dialogue are already completed for you. Your role is to adapt the story into a novel. Your name goes on the book's cover!

Full information: Hi fellow writers! We are the Firebreathing Kittens Podcast. We're posting to see if anybody would like to join our publishing collaborative. Our collaborative is a bit different than things you may be used to. It's not really ghost writing because you have full creative freedom over the story, and your name goes on the cover. You are fully acknowledged as the writer of the book, and can use it on your portfolio or wherever you'd like.

How it works: Every week, the Firebreathing Kittens podcast publishes a three hour long standalone adventure. The story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. They are sometimes funny, action packed, scary, mysterious, or clever. Each one is different. Then we, a group of collaborators, turn our weekly D&D standalone adventure podcast episodes into books. Each week’s adventure is already about 20,000 words as a transcript, and has developed characters enacting a plot from start to conclusion. The story is complete, but it's in an audio format. Your job? Adapting the transcript of the spoken words into a novel.

Pro: the plot and dialogue are already provided. Because the character quotes are the voices of real people talking, the dialogue is realistically phrased and even, sometimes, funny :) Also, a cover is made for you and we do all the publishing red tape for you.

Con: we’re not a big publishing house so the pay is that we evenly divide the royalties amongst the people who worked on that specific book (which right now is basically 7 people splitting one dollar, ha ha). But we like it. It’s fun. :) And we really do publish the books. There’s something about holding your paperback in your hands. With your name in big letters on the cover!

Definitions:

Game Master: person who writes and runs the standalone fifth edition Dungeons and Dragons game.

Players: people who play characters in the game master’s game. After you’re done writing, these players read what you wrote, so your book has four built in editors.

Podcast Editor: edits the podcast

Transcriber: writes down the quotes from the players from the podcast.

Author: adapts the transcript of the podcast into a book. This person’s name goes on the book cover. This could be you! The author sets the tense to past tense, unbreaks the fourth wall (removes any references to dice, rolling, Dungeons and Dragons, and game masters), unmonotonizes quotation designations, formats the text into paragraphs, chapters, etc, and in general turns the spoken word into literature rich with mental images. The author also goes through and makes sure no D&D copyrighted monster names or player classes were used. The author has full creative freedom over their novel. Add scenes showing what the NPCs were up to when the player characters weren't around, change the ending, whatever you want. You get FULL creative freedom.

Cover Artist: makes the book cover.

Royalties from the book’s sale are divided evenly among its contributors.

Pro to royalties: You could earn income from this book, which has your name on the cover, for the rest of your life. It might start out at no sales each month, $0.05 per word, or one day it could blossom into something more. We just don’t know. Royalties depend on the number of books sold. Don’t expect Animorphs level of popularity, but that is an example of a successful series that was written by multiple authors.

Con to royalties: There is no guarantee of sales. However, your book will be one of a series of books that is continuously being added to and promoted. We release a new episode every week.

About turnaround rate: there are no deadlines in our writing collaborative. The only thing we do is check in with everyone on the first of each month just to make sure everyone's still doing good. You don't have to have changed a single word since the month before. Everyone writes at their own pace. No deadlines. This is a hobby, have fun with it.

If you like our stories and want to join our writing collaborative, send us an email at firebreathingkittenspodcast at gmail dot com. We'll send you a contract for you to take to a notary, sign, and return. Then we can add you to the writer's collaboration group. We do everything “by the book” ha ha pun, including that formal collaboration contract, registering with the state as a business, properly paying sales and income taxes, etc. The proper infrastructure is all completely set up. All you do? Is write. Take the words of the adventure and transform them into a beautiful literary butterfly.

We like it. It’s a fun hobby.

In the stillness of the waking morning,

a furious bee buzzing brain,

inquisition.

On this day of unknowing,

I find that I cannot acknowledge

the thoughts which collect like traffic

pooled behind a wreck— s

some colliding with the wreckage, n

others skirting the edges gawking. o

o

Always Aware of imbalance. l

Always Aware of thoughts l

escaping from my mind like a

untethered b.

My words pouring like coffee that is left untouched

souring after sitting out too long—

like a sore that bursts after festering for days,

weeks.

I rot- so slow it sounds like a song

coming from the belly of the earth.

Calling me back to rest in her.

Waiting for the days and years to pass.

All the loves and heartbreaks,

the ambitions and despair,

are just a fleeting moment to her.

She waits lovingly,

like a mother waiting to embrace her child—

a child who has been gone for a bit too long.

She waits lovingly,

calling to us to abandon our fear and abandon our hope.

To rest perhaps even to dream.

Whether it’s better to suffer the woes of the world?

The slings and arrows?

I do not dare answer that for

I dream when I’m awake.

The character is strong. It's like there is something wrong No, I think there is something right Well none of us thinking bright.. The character is so strong..

Well the character is so strong.. It's longer than the long.. Well I believe it different I believe it's not along The character is so strong

As I said the character is so strong.... It beautiful as a song.. I believe nothing is better neither wrong.. The character is strong..

Thanks