Another student died. This time it happened across from my apartment.

As an admin member of a university mental health textline, I can do something when the university does not (or cannot). Put encouraging post-it notes around campus. Table in front of the library to share resources. Post on social media in solidarity with the family. But I didn’t go to the planning meeting this time. I was under my bed crying. No amount of what we do is going to stop this from happening.

But then Audre Lorde speaks to me in her piece “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power*.” She asks me “how often do we truly love our work even at its most difficult?” She tells me to embrace my erotic power. She assures me that it's not simply within the sexual. It is within all aspects of my life. Her erotic power is replenished when she writes poetry with her, makes love with her, sleeps with her, “[rises] up empowered” with her, shares a lovely coffee with her, protests with her. Her is Gennie or Ginger or Bea or Eudora or Muriel and Lynn or Afrekete or any other woman she omits from her biomythography Zami.

She keeps pushing me. She tells me “Who Said It Was Simple?” She shows me her fragile anger, sitting in a cafe, “wondering which [her] will survive all these liberations,” witnessing what others think nothing of but what she knows is colorism and white privilege.

I wipe my tears as I see myself in the past, the last time a student died. I heard people gossiping about the death the second it was announced. I overheard comments that I do not wish to think about again. I don’t want to give mental health stigma power over my erotic power. My power to cry with my whole being and for it to mean something.

Because mental health advocacy is no soft bed of luxury self-care items. It is sitting in the face of death and telling it that we will talk about it. That we won’t deny that it’s real. That it is not as strong as our erotic power. Our power to write poetry. Our power to make love. Our power to sleep with who we love. Our power to wake up in a comfortable bed. Our power to drink a lovely cup of coffee. Our power to protest. the university’s silence on the harsh realities of mental health. Our power to protest the lack of campus accessibility to mental health resources without long waiting lists. Our power to protest the long hours of homework and extracurricular activities just to make a living.

I am always bracing myself for someone to die again. I just can’t figure out if it’ll be across campus or right in front of my eyes. Next time I'll still be under my bed crying. But I'll be with my her.

I feel like I'm purgatory I'm invisible. My life is pointless and holds no value. I don't know how to get back to the other side. It's harder now because I've been to that side many times and always ended up back here in purgatory. So why try and go back and just end up back in purgatory. It's so exhausting traveling between worlds all the time.

Easier to stay in this Gray world, and drift with the other drifters and roam...so much roaming for nill, but a part of me yearns to be colorful and uncumbured from this sea of constant disasstisfaction and labored breathing of life in meth induced purgatory

Days are filled with long faces and lost words. My skin is growing anew fungi overcoat. It smells. I stare at a screen filled of confused women doing sinful acts or posing for prince charming to come and save them from their low lit world and bring them some where shiny. My soul aches for a brief moment before their youthful skin brings me a much needed dopamine bath. Hours later dopamine crashed, I fight to stay away from the thoughts of suicide or God has forsaken thee.

Another snort or a red rose in a needle. I feel content again, but not as content as the first hundred hits. Color is back on the menu for 4-8 hours. But that color is slowing dimming over these years in purgatory. did you see that I ask myself again. Ah yes it's just the shadow people again. Atleast they talk to me.

I stare......I stare..... into nothing

I want to convey my deepest gratitude for every single thing you've done for me. From the delicate beauty of every petal from every flower you ever gifted me to the shared laughter, tears, and smiles that adorned our short-lived journey. Each late-night conversation, every playful interruption during episodes of our favorite shows—I cherish them all. I'm sorry for my nightly squirrel moments, the unintentional snoring, and the occasional theft of a fry or two. My apologies extend for taking up way too much of the bed, for squeezing too tightly in hugs, and for never having enough kisses.

I apologize for those moments when I wanted to be by your side while you wanted me to go make friends in the midst of social gatherings, and for the times my responses were delayed due to my daily commitments. I regret every accidental elbow nudge and shedding hair like a dog all over everything you’ve ever owned. I also apologize for my apprehension toward handling the things you were so interested in—it wasn't fear of you, but fear of my own ineptitude.

I acknowledge my shortcomings—getting upset over trivial matters, incessant yapping, and a litany of complaints. But amidst the flaws, I want to express my gratitude. Even the disagreements, the tension, and the fights—they were part of our shared journey, and for that, I am thankful.

As I navigate through the media's whispers and the labyrinth of late-night ruminations, I acknowledge the false hopes they stir. I understand the need to move forward, though the pain of realization cuts deep. While I envision you relishing in newfound freedom, surrounded by friends and endless possibilities, I can't help but miss the warmth of our connection.

In retrospect, I recognize my fear of love, of vulnerability, and the walls I erected to shield myself from potential pain. I wish I had embraced love wholeheartedly, rather than allowing fear to dictate my actions. I regret the distance that grew between us, fueled by my own insecurities and misunderstandings.

Despite the shadows of regret, I remain grateful for the memories we shared. From the laughter to the tears, each moment etched into the fabric of our shared history. I hope that someday, when the wounds have healed and the scars have faded, we can reconnect on a foundation of understanding and forgiveness.

So, as I say goodbye, I do so with a heart full of gratitude and love. Thank you for everything, for the good times and the challenges alike. Though our paths diverge for now, I carry the lessons learned and the memories cherished, forever etched in the tapestry of my heart.

Forever and a day, my love ♥︎

Hello everyone! I've been completing some writing exercises lately to help improve my dialogue, which is by far the weakest part of my writing. The task was to complete a "Maid and Butler" style conversation with an actual maid and butler. The twist was to make it readable. It still had to contain exposition, but deliver it in a way that is interesting to the reader. Let me know how I did, I'd love to hear some feedback!

Maid and Butler Dialogue Exercise

Ms. Baxter drew the feather duster across the mantle. “The house is always quiet now. I can hear the dust falling.”

“Enough of that.” Mr. Retond wandered around the dinner table, resetting the napkins. “Some of us prefer silence.”

Ms. Baxter went rigid and turned towards Mr. Retond. Before she could get a word out, he whipped around, brandishing a spoon. “I never, ever want to hear you say that again,” said Mr. Retond.

Ms. Baxter took a step back. “I suppose it’s some great crime to care about the man I’ve looked after since he was a baby.”

“He isn’t out exploring caves in the Rocky Mountains, set to come home with answers. He is gone.” Mr Retond set a plate down hard, the sound ringing out in the empty home.”

Ms. Baxter began to dust, then scrub, the polish off of the brass sitting on the mantle.

“You don’t know what happened when he and Mrs. Dustly went spelunking. I don’t either. You saw the photos. He is an ill man,” Mr. Retond said.

“I wouldn’t call science an ill pursuit.”

Mr. Retond scoffed and walked over to the cabinet, opening it to reveal a shelf of books by Alastair Crowley, and Mr. Dustly’s collection of geological samples, complete with dates, origins, and flavour notes.

“Did you ever check the messages?”

“It was locked. Even I don’t know his password. But he left it behind. Not an accident.”

Ms. Baxter sighed and slumped into a chair, her rag falling onto the floor. She was silent.

“If they want to bring him back into their lives, they can. I’m surprised he even answered them,” said Mr. Retond.

“It’s been four years, maybe he needed money. You know how he was when we was in college.”

“Some see their parents as a source of knowledge and support. He saw them as a source of wealth. But can you really blame him?”

“I suppose we will find out tomorrow, when he arrives.”

The Void

​

The man stared into the void that was his life, you might mistake it for the deep quarry outside of town. The wind rustled his clothes giving him the sensation that one gust could knock him into the darkness. How did he get here and why? That’s always the question at the end of an adventure not planned. The answer wasn't always easy and more often then not we don’t want it, it is there. This was his time, could he figure it out before the quarry swallowed him and never let him out? Was he destined to disappear outside of town today like others have? So many questions.

​

His name, what was it? It doesn’t matter, what mattered today was his life, or did it? At some point people break, but that point is different for everyone. He thought back on the good times and whether he would ever have such a thing again. He didn’t think so. That’s why he was here. Killing himself could give him peace he never had. Not an easy decision to make either way but he was here. Crippling depression, loneliness, mistreatment, no luck, he was a good person. Why was he here? DId he deserve to feel this way? It doesn’t matter. He was here.

​

The wind picked up, he almost tumbled over. Was he having second thoughts? How long had he been miserable for? Would they ever find his body? He got his feet under him, why didn’t he just let himself fall? Some part of him wanted to live. Interesting.Maybe he could just not care about the rest of his life and if it gets better, great! Maybe he should step off the ledge. How close do you have to get towards death to be scared more of it then life, how many regretted too late, the man wasn’t sure but he thought maybe a lot, he stepped back.

​

So i have always wanted to write stories and novels, and finally decided to give it a try today. However, having no prior experience writing, i am in need of some navigation. Dont be scared to critique as it would be highly appreaciated :)

Pointers regarding my writing, pace and descriptions would be very helpful. As well as any other rooms of improvement, and perhaps where i could look to learn from. I have a lot to learn, but im excited to develop my writing skills further! Thank you for any feedback :)

​

Amidst a waking dream

A restless agitation began to stir inside of me, like a ship gradually setting sail into the violent waves of the ocean. I could not tell if my body wanted to signify fear or uncertainty, as the shades of the two can be quite inextinguishable in the face of adversity. Similar to how a clouded sky dims the day, yet brightens the night as the pollution illuminates the clouds and reflects down to the ground. The clouds were now fading away, creating an opening for the moon to shine through. It was indeed night. Looking up through the hole formed by the bright clouds, I realized the moon was unnaturally large, making it seem almost intimidating, yet majestic as it was resting among a few visible stars. Turning away from the sky, I sensed a feeling of familiarity surrounding me, and vague figures and blurred out faces started to appear. Or perhaps they had always been there. I stood in silence as everyone around me were crowding together like flocks of sheep. The gradual pace of their movement made it seem like a vivid dance illuminated by the majestic moon above us. I began stepping around in circles as if I was looking for something, while I felt my uneasiness turning into a chaotic sense of harmony. A harmony where everything is falling into its destined pieces, in an attempt of creating a picture that will never reach its fullness. The lines between horror and beauty no longer existed here, and maybe never did. As some sort of picture was being formed, it abruptly started fading away, blending into the gray, bright shades of the landscape. The clouds were wrapping around the moon anew, and screams of a thousand crows could be heard echoing through the now gray night sky, while I was slipping away. Or rather everything was slipping away from me.

My eyes finally opened, and a sharp tremble fell through my spine, arousing what felt like a shock within me. I stared into the darkness of my room for a few seconds ruminating on the dream I just had, but it quickly dwindled away from my consciousness. I gave a final attempt to make sense of the vagueness of what was now a memory, but it had already disappeared back from where it came, wherever that was. All that was left was the lingering feeling of something important being lost, but not knowing what, if anything at all. I thought of how the pieces to the picture had been devoured by the indifference of time, not fully knowing what that would even mean.

I shaked it off with an ironic chuckle, and quickly shifted my thoughts towards the day ahead. The alarm had yet to go off, what time could it be? Usually I would have some sense of time based on the state of my body after waking up, but today I felt neither tired nor especially awake. I looked to my bedside table, reaching my hand to navigate the lamp. I turned it on, and saw as the clock just struck 6. I still had an hour left before I had to get out of bed and get ready for work. I pulled the bedcover over my head and wrapped myself inside it, as if I were going back to sleep. Maybe I could go back and find what I was looking for? The thought echoed in the depths of my mind. I didn't feel like getting up, but somehow I wanted to lay in my bed even less. Rumbling in my stomach, as well as the thought of the smell and taste of black coffee won me over.

Getting out of bed I felt my head spinning, before my eyes finally adjusted to the light brightening up the room. I put on my black pair of cotton trousers, made of thin, soft fabric. My legs were rather small, but not noticeably skinny, giving them a slightly oversize fit. I put on a loose gray t-shirt while walking towards the bathroom to wash my face in cold water. Opening the box of coconut curling cream filled the bathroom with a strong, tropical aroma, a stark contrast to the coolness of the morning air flowing through my bedroom window. The cold flush of water towards my face had a refreshing after-glow as I padded barefoot to the kitchen. The after-glow soon transferred down to my feet when touching the cold floor tiles, sending a shiver through my body. The house was silent, the kind of silence that tends to amplify even a quiet whisper — The ticking of the red plastic clock on the kitchen counter, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft sigh of my own breath. It felt as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for the sun to rise and dispel the remnants of the night.

As I stood in front of the kitchen counter, a familiar routine began to unfold, a comfortable rhythm amidst the strangeness of this morning. Reaching for the coffee pot, I could already anticipate the dark, bitter taste of the first sip. It was a fine sort of dark roasted, brazilian coffee beans, which my aunt had brought me from her holiday last month in late june. As I went to take the first sip, I could smell the bold and earthy aroma from the coffee filling my senses. The bitter flavor, followed by a perfectly parallel after taste had a wakening effect on my mind.

Despite the lingering unease from the dream, it seemed like it would still be yet another normal day. A day like any other day of the past 5 years of my life. After deciding my route as an accountant, I felt as though a certain part of my future had been sealed. The uncertainties everyone feels in their early adulthood, had been partially put to rest. To be honest, I never had a strong desire to become an accountant, but as fate stumbled me around the city, that's where i ended up. I neither disliked or liked my job, but it was a decent living. Last year, shortly after turning 25, I could finally afford to buy a house of my own. I disliked the business of the restless city life, so I decided to buy a small wooden house on the outskirts of the city in a small town near the sea. Although it was only a 20 minute drive before the houses, as well as the people started cuddling against each other, this town was rather quiet, some days even peaceful. At least in contrast to the deeper parts of the city.

Finishing only half of my coffee, I suddenly felt like breaking the morning routine I had been religiously following every morning since I moved. It was only 6:20 and I still had a lot of spare time before I had to make my leave. I spontaneously sprung out of the chair and grabbed my coat. “When have I last gone for a walk under the sunrise?” I thought to myself while putting my barefoot feet into a pair of brown leather shoes. I felt the weared out soles scratch my feet, but I didn't mind as the spontaneous energy of this unprompted strange act was still flowing inside of me. I quickly opened the door as if I were in a hurry so as not to miss the sunrise.

Looking around, the streets were completely silent, making it seem like an abandoned ghost town. Met by the cold morning breeze, I felt as if I wouldn't be shocked if a real ghost were to appear in front of me. My house was placed close to the sea right under a large hill, where a couple of houses and small shops were located beside each other on each side of the street, creating a large alleyway where people would walk by. I was not up there often, as I usually got my groceries from the neighboring building of my workplace in the city. When I made my way up the hill I was surprisingly met by the same silence that seemed to occupy the whole town this morning. I sat myself down on an old, almost rotten redwood bench on the edge of the hill. It must have been at least 50 years old, but it seemed no one had bothered replacing it. Finally, finding myself at ease at the bench, I could see the sun making its way over the large mountains on the other side of the sea. To the right, I could see the lights of city buildings shining like stars in the distance.

The sun now rising further over the horizon, filled the sky with strokes of orange and red, greeting the town with blissful colors. At this moment in time, everything felt quiet like a still lake in the wild. I felt at peace.

“I HAVE AWAITED YOU FRIEND” i suddenly heard a light-pitched voice announce loudly, awfully close to me.

I fell out of the bench in an instant, somehow tripping on something on the ground in front of me. Now laying butt-down on the grass, I could see who was speaking to me clearly.

Or rather “what” was speaking to me.

It was a fully dressed, tiny brown bunny holding a walking stick in its right hand, waving with the other.

Already having jumped once out of fright, it was not an option now, so I simply froze. While making eye contact with it, I could see the bunny's smile reveal its horrifyingly sharp teeth now gazing at me.

“Oh, please! A friendly greeting is the least you can do, you know it was quite the haze getting here” The bunny muttered at me. Its sharp voice cut inside my ears like a fork scraping towards a plate.

After a few seconds pause of horrifying disbelief, i managed to mutter in return rather loudly:

“Who are you?”

“And why the hell can you speak!?”

“Why wouldn't I be able to speak?” The bunny answered back rather confidently.

The bunny made a silent sigh

"Nonetheless." I am here to appoint you to your responsibility! Not mine, yours, you get it?”

I stayed silent, gazing at the small bunny which was now pointing its walking stick towards my face rather aggressively

"That's as good of a yes as i can expect under these circumstances i suppose” the bunny said with a slightly disappointed tone, as if it were expecting some kind of enthusiasm in return.

“I have arrived from the deepest depths of this world, to inform you that you are responsible for returning what you have lost!”

“What is it that I have lost?” I responded quietly, still in a complete state of confusion and disbelief. A ghost would be less distressing than an outer-worldly - speaking bunny appearing in front of my feet.

“Well… you see, only you may know what that is, it's your responsibility, remember?” The bunny said stubbornly.

“During the next sunset, you will jump naked into the ocean holding something of significant importance in your hands! The next step of the process i have already arranged, but mind you it might hurt a bit”

“We shall meet again soon friend!” The bunny said while trustings its walking stick towards the ground, disappearing in an instant.

As the bunny vanished into thin air, leaving me sitting there in stunned silence, I couldn't help but wonder if I had finally lost my mind.

​

We have all fallen in and out of love, fought with those close to us, and struggled in a harsh world. Sometimes we fell, while at other times, we regained our composure. We have hurt, and hated, yet sometimes woke up to greater knowledge of love and seeking redemption. I want you to feel, and I want the feeling to help be compassionate towards yourself first then others. So cry, cry until the well dries

This is more of an idea for a video that I'm writing out. The idea is to show the inner monologue of someone trying to escape their inner monologue. Sort of... kind of... It's a very early version of the idea I think.

If you can imagine it The title card of the video will start with our character sitting on a blue fabric couch centered in the frame. Bright light from an unseen TV is cast on the character, and content being played is suggested by the dancing of the light cast on him. There is silence in the room except the ever present whirring of electronics. Behind the character, projected on a warmly lit white wall is a duplicate of the scene of him sitting on the couch. The real version of our characters shadow from the TVs light covers the middle of the projection up to the center of it. I imagine we can still the projected version of our character at least from the waist up. At most I think the head of the shadow may take up the center of the projected version of the characters torso.

“The couch monologue” appears on the screen in retro 70's/80's TV sitcom font, probably a dark yellow with a white shadow.

As the title wipes away, the camera pushes in slightly on the projection and the projected character sort of leans in, seemingly talking directly to the real version of himself in front of him. He says “I want to kill you.” The words hang momentarily in the air letting silence fill the scene. The real him is all consumed by the content on the TV, having no reaction to his projected counterpart. “You heard me. I want to kill you. And it's not because we’re running out of time. Quite the contrary. It’s because of the overabundance of time remaining in our coffers that I want to put us out of our misery. Do you know how tiresome it is to have to continuously remind you to disconnect and go experience life. I literally have to tell you ‘HEY DUMB ASS, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO REMEMBER THE 100TH TIME YOU WATCHED THE OFFICE BY YOURSELF’ I try to make you understand and see reason. I try to conjure up images of happy couples and friend groups that live on the other side of the screen. If you would just open your fucking eyes and see the source of their happiness is in their environment. And then realize you can’t remember the last time your environment changed. Sincerely, I can’t tell you the last time you didn’t walk through that door at the exact same time you walked through it today, yesterday, and everyday before it since you've moved into this place. You live in a world where anything and everything you want is so tantalizingly close to your reach, yet so unreasonably far away because you’re unwilling to get out of this room and get them. No, if you’re going to experience anything it has to smack you in the face if you’re going to experience it at all."

With and exasperated tone our projected character continues "God I want to kill you." With an unbearable amount of sarcasm he continues "But I could never bring myself to actually do it. I couldn’t do that to your family. What if someone needs a kidney, or part of your liver, or even a heart. You’ve got two lungs, you don’t need both of them you selfish little bitch. You’re at least good for parts for the older people in your family with less time to despair over their remaining existence, yet who also yearn tirelessly to extend it.” The projection seems to direct his attention more towards the camera and the audience now “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand 'The Human Existence'. I may be one, but I’m no closer to understanding what it means to be a human, why we’re here, or what our “purpose" is than anyone else"

"That said, I think it’s asinine to want to extend our miserable existences any more than we’re forced to endure. Don’t get me wrong, I remember when I was a child I wanted to be immortal. I had these nightmares. I died, and I was on my way up to heaven. I broke through the clouds, and I saw the big pearly gates. I was accepted and allowed to into the kingdom. I saw the beauty, and the riches all around me. There was happiness on all the faces around me. No one wanted for anything. But I also saw past all the beauty, and I could see what looked like endless clouds that seemed to go on forever. Wondering where the clouds would lead, I started walking, and no one stopped me. I walked and I walked and I walked for who knows how long until finally I came to the edge of the clouds. I remember thinking ‘I’ve reached the edge of heaven.’ How could such a thing even exist? 'The Edge of Heaven'."

"There was nothing past the clouds. It was just a void. Staring into it I could feel a fear building in me. This unknown anxiety that I wouldn't be able to explain to anyone for years. It was just fear. I remember the fear jolted me out of my bed.  My heart was racing. I was fighting back tears. I launched myself out of my bed. Paced my room, taking deep breaths to try and calm myself down. I don’t remember how old I was, but I know I was not old enough for that nightmare. And I misunderstood the meaning for so many years. I thought that maybe I was saw a false heaven, a false paradise. Perhaps I was actually dreaming about hell. The Devil was apparently a great trickster after all. And I was convinced that through immortality I could find salvation from that nightmare."

Turning his attention back to the real version of himself, the projection continues "No. I think I understand better now, I was being taught a lesson. I was truly shown heaven. Given a glimpse at the ultimate paradise. And it did nothing for me. I looked past all the beauty, happiness and riches I could possibly imagine to see what was beyond. I understand now that the meaning of the lesson I was being taught was that even when given everything, I’ll never truly enjoy it. My eyes will constantly be searching beyond the desires I sought before. I will never know true satisfaction. I will always desire more. And to that end, I will always end up void. Give me a sip, I want a drink. Give me a snack, I want a meal. A hug, a kiss. If you lend me your shoulder to cry on, I expect to be thanked for the tears that stain your shirt.” This last line makes the projected version of the character stop in their tracks. Almost caught off guard by the line. He gives an incredulous look at the real version of himself.

He continues again, but with a new cold intensity that pierces with every word. “I want to kill you, for no other reason than I know every terrible thing you’ve ever done. I know every lie you’ve told. I know every secret you haven’t kept. I know how easily, like insects, you cast aside every life you’ve ever caught in the countless web of lies you’ve spun. I know how easily you’ve discarded them to move on to the next poor soul trapped in the web. I know how mercilessly you’ve used your sharpened tongue to slash deep wounds into the flesh of the loved ones who’ve done nothing but keep you propped up and moving forward." Fighting back rage the projection snarls "I want to kill you because I can’t stand the fucking sight of you. I can’t look you in the eyes anymore. The cruel heartless bastard you’ve become over the years is unbearable to witness. You see the daggers of insults being hurled in your direction every moment of every day through nothing more than passing glances and unheard conversations. You see what you can’t possibly see, and know what you can’t possibly know. There is no simpler reason than THAT to explain why you sit on this fucking couch, day in and day out. All. By. Yourself." The disdain dripping from every word, palpable.

"Every person who has ever occupied the space around you has faced scrutiny unheard of by many. You think that being in your presence is reason enough for others to give you their all. You want more and more and more every single day. While giving less and less and less.” The anger and rage overwhelming the character boiling over into tears.

“I want to kill you. But I can’t. I know every dark crevice over your soul. I know every sin you’ve committed." Softening slightly he says "But I also know every pain you’ve ever endured. I know the weight of every burden perched upon your shoulders. I can account for every single ounce. I know the things you’ve hidden away, the secrets you don’t even reveal to yourself. I never forget, but I never let you remember. Some things just aren’t worth remembering. Some things deserve to be lost to the void… Others… deserve to experience the vast expanse of time. There are lights that shone on you that you should never had your shadow cast in. And I will never let you see those lights again." The anger and rage boiling back to the surface "Those lights are blinding. They will sear holes into your retinas and burn through the back of your skull. Those lights will leave you begging me to take the pain away, to end everything. And I may want to kill you, but I can’t." The anger fully dissipating now. The weight of knowing hanging off each word now "I watched as that boyish dream of immortality was covered up bit by bit by the shadows cast in those blinding lights. Now, when we dream at night, we see ourselves sprinting and diving head first into the void beyond the clouds. We embrace the nothingness, consumed by it, and we find comfort in the indifferent embrace. In the void, there is nothing expected of you. In the void, there is no discomfort.
There is no pain.
There is no sadness.
There is no happiness.
There is no joy.
There is nothing. And with nothing comes nothing but the ability to finally turn off and fully and completely stop."

As the projection says stop, the real version of our character reaches out with a remote control in their hands and presses a button. Suddenly the projection, and the bright lights of the unseen TV are turned off. True silence fills the scene now.

"This is my dream now" the character begins. They are calm, not expressionless. "I don’t want eternity. In this life or the next. I don’t want my consciousness to stretch across the vast emptiness of the universe and time. I can experience the harshness that accompanies emptiness now, and struggle to not escape it by slipping into the void beyond the clouds."

He reaches out with the remote again, presses the button, and the screen goes black.

The end.

~ REAGAN ~

​

It was a comfortable summer night. Reagan lounged in bed, reading the novel she kept on her nightstand. Her room wasn’t exceptionally large, which appropriately matched the rest of her modest home. Months of saving and scraping by for the cracked tiled, chipped paint, and busted water heater she called home was far from extravagant, but it was hers.

​

A yawn and sleepy tear accompanied another page turn of the paperback novel. A sappy romance she swiped from a small bookstore a few years ago. The once lightly used book was marked with ear-bent pages and a softly warped spine. It was just a simple romance story where a woman meets the man of her dreams by chance, their worlds colliding at the intersection of two streets. Important documents flew into the air like white fireworks, and the handsome man swept the woman off of her feet with romantic gestures and the softest caresses. Pure, sweet, maddening love. A simple plot that would have otherwise warranted a cynical eye-roll somehow resonated with Reagan in a way she couldn’t explain. As her eyes trailed over the promising declarations of “love, “forever”, and “I’m yours,” a dull and distant weight settled in her chest, one that only this sappy, lovey-dovey romance could bring out of her.

​

Reagan shifted in anticipation of pages with the bent ears. The build-up to romantic chapters always got her heart racing in an expected and comfortable way. Before she could slide her fingers down her body and relieve the tension built up over the last hour, the digital clock on the nightstand caught her eye.

​

12:30 AM

​

It was getting late. Reagan had to call it a night if she had any hope of getting errands in before her shift at the bar. With another yawn, she returned the book to its home, grabbed an empty glass from the nightstand, and dragged herself into the kitchen.

​

The temperamental water heater was much more bearable during the summer, and Reagan welcomed the chilly tap water from the kitchen sink. She sipped conservatively and walked up to the back door leading to the small patio. Soft slivers of pale white light peaked through the blinds, dancing across the kitchen tile. There was a full moon tonight. Reagan placed the glass on the counter and soon found herself outside, leaning against the wooden railing of her porch, the warm air contrasting pleasantly with the cool hardwood under her feet.

​

The moon was beautiful and so much larger than normal. When Reagan squinted her eyes, she could make out the small craters and divots along the surface. She smiled softly and lifted her hand to catch the rare gem between her fingers. Her smile grew at the absurdity of her efforts, and, with a sigh, she returned inside to finish her nightly routine.

​

Maybe tomorrow, Dad.

​

————————————-

​

Wash face. Brush teeth. Possible shower.

​

Before heading into the bathroom, Reagan took a quick detour back to her room, grabbed her phone, and rifled around for a clean but crumpled towel hidden at the bottom of a laundry bag that she promised to sort three days ago.

​

Reagan stared into the mirror, taking in the sleepy blue eyes that stared back and pulled her dark hair from a tight bun, watching as it tumbled down her back. She quickly brushed her teeth while scrolling through songs to listen to on her phone and blindly reached her hand past her shower curtain to fumble around for the handle. After a few loud clanks from the pipes, water finally spurted from the shower head. Even in the summer, the water was frigid. Regan quickly pulled her hand away to avoid the sting of the cold. The water heater always took a few minutes to warm up, and Regan used this time to sing (song) admittedly poorly into her toothbrush. Despite its best efforts, the music couldn’t compete with the alarms blaring outside, and Regan tensed as the sound echoed against the bathroom tiles.

​

It took a few months to come to terms with this particular neighborhood perk. Sirens. At all hours of the day. Emergency vehicles used this street to bypass the highway to enter the city faster, but Regan was fine with the noise as long as it kept the rent low. What could have happened in the city that had the local police racing in at this hour? After a few moments, she paused, and her ears perked up. Tonight was different. It didn't sound like the cars were racing. In fact, the sirens weren’t fading at all. It sounded like they stopped a few houses down.

​

Spending most of her time working at the bar, she rarely socialized with neighbors. At most, she would politely wave to the elderly lady across the street who chain-smoking on her porch. Gloria? Gladys? It didn't matter. She had no interest in neighborhood block parties or summer barbecues. Keep your head down and mind your own business. She did just that as the sirens continued in the distance. It was probably a noise complaint or a domestic issue.

​

Regan glanced at her phone to check the time and, as if on queue, the screen showed a bright red battery symbol before the music cut off and the phone died. Just perfect. She shrugged and turned to the shower. The allure of sleep had finally caught up with her, and her bed was calling her name. She spent too much time reading tonight, and with no music to distract her from the noise, she decided to save a shower for the morning. She shut the water off and tugged her pajama bottoms back on before calling it a night.

​

A thought chimed in her head the moment her face hit the pillow. Shit, my water. One reluctant sigh and a stumble off of the stiff mattress later, she managed to sway onto her feet. The glass of water where she left it on the kitchen counter reflected light toward the small slits of her sleepy eyes. She tilted her head up to the ceiling when the sirens finally stopped.

​

Sweet silence...

​

Halfway back to her bedroom, she stopped and her eyes dropped to her feet. Her right foot slid against a small pool of water in front of her. Regan lifted the glass up to her face and investigated for any leaks. She couldn’t quite make out the glass in the darkness and felt around the perimeter. She didn’t spill any water, and her hands were dry. She looked down again at the floor, and her eyes followed the puddle trail to the entrance of the bathroom.

​

Something was very wrong.

​

Reagan's body stiffened as her ears searched for a sound they couldn't have possibly heard. A... breath? The summer air was replaced with an icy cold chill that danced along her spine. Her movements were slow and she turned to the small living room and scanned the area, focusing on the shadowed corners, searching for the danger her body insisted was nearby. Wide eyes scanned the couch, coffee table, TV, and curtains to the entrance. Nothing was out of place, not even the deadbolt on the front door. That was when an unsettling wave of realization hit. The porch!

For years, I’ve always wanted to write a book, and per the advice of my therapist, I started one. Her recommendation was to not research how to do it perfectly, but to just throw myself into it. 60,000+ words later, I’m stuck and a little frustrated.

My question is — should I plow through, finish the draft, and then rework it? Or should I stop, outline the story, and then see where my current word count fits?

Hi, all!

I've finally compiled about half of my first chapter of my first novel. I'm still working through things but I'm thinking this is a solid place to start. The novel's called 'And I No Longer Belong to the World' based on a line in Gastón Baquero's work. It's a historic fiction piece set in Ybor City with a Cuban main lead.

I welcome all feedback, thank you!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12P947EnwyqEdATQclVCLiBYbB1jxwHhNIs15XvMfrvE/edit?usp=sharing

It’s been 7 years, Double the casualties, But no death was casual to me, Always missing mine…

Hit the hymn, Lick her rhymes, Spending time, Probably going to end soon like…

Look at my life, -soulo in sight, Might just dive, Holding onto this time…

Last song won’t mean anything, They always say you don’t make sense, Till it’s time, Then they understand me like I, It’s been 7 years, Double the casualties, But no death was casual to me, Always missing mine…

Hit the hymn, Lick her rhymes, Spending time, Probably going to end soon like…

Look at my life, -soulo in sight, Might just dive, Holding onto this time…

Last song won’t mean anything, They always say you don’t make sense, Till it’s time, Then they understand me like I prophesied

Her head is always up in the clouds eyes fixed on the sky a daydreamer they call her. Endless dreamy skies and cotton candy clouds that pull me up, up and away… I swear I was a bird in a past life soaring to close to the sun… the way the wind dances on my skin kisses my face intoxicates me with the sweet smell of the nature sticking to my wing like honey…

Never to soar again.

I have an idea for a story that I have been stuck on for YEARS. If anyone has ANY advice on how I can sort through my ideas and stuff that would help! I am rather lost and Ive written quite a bit about it but I just cant seem to pin the story down. I keep letting it go but I always come back to it. I know the setting I want, I just need to piece it together.

28-year-old Jack Stine, a New Jersey Railway Conductor, conducted an experiment of how fast he could nut inside a woman's mouth.

He came in Jessica Kruger's mouth in 1 minute 11 seconds.

He came in Jackie Zeller's mouth in 4 minutes 26 seconds.

He came in Nathalie Edwardses mouth in 8 minutes 5 seconds.

He came in Sarah Olson's mouth in 8 minutes 15 seconds.

He came in Jackie Richardses mouth in 12 minutes 18 seconds.

He came in his own mouth in 12 minutes 19 seconds after Jack jacked himself off.

I am thinking of writing a few short stories that together tell the story of generations of women in my family. This is the first start.

The baby with the swollen tear ducts.

I was born with swollen tear ducts. Like many, I enjoyed perusing baby pictures and old family photos as a child. I must have been 6 years old, it was before the age of 8 because I remember the setting was our apartment in Singapore, white walls and warm air with distant green trees rustling in my view from the dining table, when I asked my mother why my eyes looked puffy in a picture of me as a baby. I was sitting on a brown chair, just a few months old wearing a yellow onesie with white frilly socks, teetering to one side as I was not yet able to hold up my own body weight. I was smiling with glee, drool falling down my chin. The photo was a favourite of mine. I thought I looked cute, but I was curious about my eyes. My mother said "your tear ducts were swollen when you were born. You were crying in my womb".

I was too young to understand the magnitude of that statement. I would later come to appreciate the likelihood that I was crying in her womb because she had experienced great trauma and pain, not only during during her pregnancy with me, but throughout her life, and that trauma would be passed on to me through her DNA, woven into me and my DNA because, after all, I am a part of her.

Hey everyone!👋 So, I finally did it—I finished publishing the first book of what should be a thrilling trilogy. But now, I'm sitting here wondering if anyone other than my friends will ever read it. With millions of books out there, ... I feel a bit like I'm trying to shout from 10 feet under. With all these bestselling authors backed by big money and flashy ads, it's difficult to imagine how my little book could ever find a reader. Maybe the Amazon algorithm takes pity on me or decides to have a spectacular glitch... someone can dream... So my motivation is down to continue writing.😟 Do you know this feeling? How to get over it?

Ps. If you have any questions for me ask however if they ask rude or stupid questions I do not want to know okay you are the best guys and gals.

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Has anyone else ever run into this problem?

I'm ridiculously forgetful, scatterbrained, unorganized (I have ADHD) so this might not be a common thing. It could be that my brain is just weird, which is fine, whatever.

Anyway, sometimes when I'm writing, there will be a sentence that pops into my brain and I'll really love the way it sounds. It'll seem like it belongs there in that scene, like it fits perfectly.

But then I'll reread the paragraph I just wrote and think, "Hmmm... Wait a second...This actually sounds maybe a little TOO good for me to have written... Like it might be familiar... Like it might just be a line that I had somehow memorized from a book I've read."

I'll pause to try and think of which random book I spouted it from, which character it involved, which scene. But I won't be able to think of it for the life of me!!

Then I'll wonder, "Well, maybe that wasn't what happened after all. Maybe it really WAS me who came up with the awesome sentence." But I still won't be absolutely sure lol

Obviously, I'd never want to copy a line from someone else's book and use it in my own, but when it seems perfect, it's hard to want to get rid of it.

What do you do at that point?

This might all sound dumb, but hopefully at least one of you guys get it lol

This letter lets you know how much I appreciate you being in my life. “I’m so glad we met and how close we’ve been” was what you wrote me in the first postcard you gave me; has echoed in my mind ever since, a constant reminder of the depth of our bond.

      You, my dear friend, are the embodiment of kindness, happiness, and boundless love. You've taught me countless lessons, but perhaps the most profound is the art of loving selflessly, without reservation.

  Our friendship began with a letter, and now with a heavy heart, I find myself concluding it with one. You confided in me, trusted me to be there for you, always. We discussed your feelings of loneliness, feeling lost, and your coping on distractions to numb the pain. You missed your family, who genuinely care for you, and fearing their disappointment. I told you we could fix it. We plan to get better, and you stop doing what causes you harm and find yourself again. 

You told me you want to be better, and I will be there to help you.

   Yet, despite your words, your actions continue to betray your intentions. You persist in placing yourself in situations you once feared, perpetuating your own suffering. It pains me deeply to witness this cycle of self-destruction, and I can no longer stand idly by.
   
   This decision stems from a place of deep concern and love. I care for you deeply, and it pains me to see you harm yourself in this way. I can no longer expend my energy trying to pick up the pieces each time you break down.

As your friend, and someone who wants only the best for you, I must be honest: I am disappointed.

   I can’t be friends with you anymore, maybe just for right now. I love you, it’s ruining my life.

I'm getting back into writing after like a year and a half and I just wanted some feedback on what I've done so far.

A dark, distant land void of the sun's caress. A land in which shadow is light and clouds blanket the murky skies in a perpetual dusk. A land in which none venture beyond, A twisted governance this land lay beneath, Far from manic zealots... All...yet but one, that is. The great ashen gates- relics of a bygone era- dragged across the gravelled land, deep creaks following, projected out by the rotted, ivory latches. The Dwa'kan city came to a point of reticence for this here traveller. The nearby denizens observing him close. This journeyman, was, so it seemed, a knight of the Northern Inquisition. His creed’s epitaph erased from the annals of history. His woollen cloak, threadbare and worn, was feeble in its attempt to hide the glistening silver plate he adorned beneath- that whispered tales of battles past. This man, this zealot, was far from home...yet the reason was obscured by mystery. The Dwa'kan mused no more, Ahst'wogth guards swarmed him, surrounding him as an orb of shields. Yet he stood, motionless, with his weary hand resting upon his earthen pommel. Their advance slowed and, with ill-intent, a young guard (wanting to prove his noble worth) swung his blade. The air thinned. The blade grew heavy – his steel weighed upon by destiny . The Inquisitor (with a grace born of countless duels) unsheathed-revealing an immaculate broadsword that sang its silent song, directing the blade of his opponent towards the ashen gates. His hand steady, he followed through. The boy’s hand clenched evermore before being struck with a vexing shudder, his hand flashed open as his blade clattered upon the cobbled street. With the boy's ego inflicted, the outsider surrendered both himself and the blade to the Ahst'wogth guard. With a solemn nod, he kneeled against the muddy ground, the earthen embrace claiming his brass poleyn as its own – his blade lain beside him. Thus marked his surrender to the phalanx of guards however not to his fate yet to come. The shallow light of the outside valley ignited a lingering shadow upon the prison wall. Two days had passed since the Inquisitor’s surrender, awaiting trial. He had not moved from the southern corner of his cell, still shrouded by his laniferous cloak. Illuminated by the dim candlelight of the dungeon he was entrapped, the outsider stood a solitary figure of enigma. His stature proved commanding, with his broad shoulders set back and a unwavering posture, a complementary feature in relation to his battle-worn face. Such visage was a tapestry of his past; his eyes, a piercing blue, sang a story of his wisdom and experience of the five realms of humanity. His eyes flickered with the intensity of a stormy sea, yet still a shadow of calmness engulfed them- a silent assurance that he returned scatheless from the abyssal nature of the furthest depths, where petty evils and sins drowned, leaving only the purest atrocities of man. His hair, once a deep shade of sable, now bore streaks of aging silver that shimmered like ripples of moonlight across an ocean of black. A robust beard latched onto his chiselled jaw, thinning out as it grew closer to the gash that ruptured his chapped lips. His skin sung chronicles of prior trials he endured, projected out by the scars and cracks that painted his distinctive face like an arid canyon.

I (F15) need help writing a book, it’s for teens who are struggling with feelings of loneliness or feeling like no one can understand you when you need someone to. The book is full of stories from other teens (12-18) who also feel alone and who’ve shared their stories so they can help others feel less alone.

I need stories from other teens so it can be a book to find the reader’s story. I want the reader to feel less alone by finding a story at least similar to theirs.

If you wanted to help me, all I would need is a story no matter how boring you think it might be and your age. I don’t need your name or anything. Just a story that you’re willing to tell. Please DM me with your story if you’re willing to share. Thank you!

i'm a new writer and this is my WIP's first chapter ever so plz could you guys read it?

this is my 2nd version after i edited it due to the feedback i got from many of you thanks

the WIP is called REBEL 9:palace of the golden lotus it's an upbeat contemporary adventure fantasy

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xW5ZP-2C7SwBX7v0sYW91UlvRhOotTxnVSoeFFjtOos/edit?usp=sharing

I've been in the process of fleshing out the plan for a novella anthology that follows five different people of different backgrounds living in a futuristic luxury city-state built on top of and with the money collected by an oil rig out in the ocean. I was looking for a frame of reference for the dimensions and the physics-side of making a megastructure like that work, and someone on reddit mentioned using something from the book Altered Carbon as a frame of reference.

I look up the city thing from the story only to see a violently striking similarity between my story and this one. The city in my story is ruled by an aristocratic class of the families that amassed their fortune through oil. Altered Carbon's city was built by the head of an ultra-rich family. In my story there is a highly advanced VR system that feeds pleasurable experiences to lower-tier workers while monitoring their chemical levels to ensure satisfaction and complacency, but the same technology is later used to torture a character. In Altered Carbon, a VR torture technology is a large reason that this family amassed their fortune in the first place. In my story, the ruling families are known for reveling in sexual depravity through an entire economic class of trained concubines, as well as with each other. In Altered Carbon, a large reason that the city exists is to facilitate illegal sexual depravity. In my story, one of the inciting actions is a member of the uppermost class in the city killing a concubine (the consequences are more internal to the murderer than they are a catalyst for anything external). In Altered Carbon, the wiki says that one of the inciting actions is a top-level individual murdering a prostitute and preventing whatever method exists in that story for reviving dead people.

I'm just baffled to say the least. This morning I had never even heard of Altered Carbon. Now I just feel floored because even if I write my story, from its entirely sincere, original, and organic idea, I feel like the similarity to Altered Carbon that it will bear will hurt it significantly.

I don't know how this even happened. I'm so bummed rn.

i'm a new writer and this is my frist WIP ever so plz could you guys read it?

the WIP is called REBEL 9:palace of the golden lotus it's an upbeat contemporary adventure fantasy

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xW5ZP-2C7SwBX7v0sYW91UlvRhOotTxnVSoeFFjtOos/edit?usp=sharing

Hopefully this will make sense and not seem too cringey I'll do my best to explain my endeavor to write my own fiction story.I went through a horrible break up recently and I feel like writing would be a good outlet for me right now. I always loved to write but haven't done it for a while because I'm trying to figure out how to use my own real life experiences and applying to my writing without making it obvious that I'm writing about people I know, especially my ex. I feel like writing would help me process my emotions and deal with the break up in a positive way, instead of crying and watching Sopranos, screaming at my tv because my ex reminds me a lot of Tony Soprano. But thats not the only reason why The Sopranos is my favorite show and still is (I refuse to let my ex ruin the show for me even though the show reminds me of him) he never wanted to watch sopranos, and that fascinated me- I didnt realize how much he relates and is literally Tony, and I find myself rewatching clips. He's hinted that I was like Carmela and the shows been a huge inspiration for me, its been making me want to write my own drama. The psychology aspect of the show is interesting and I consider it to be one of the best shows of all time. But I don't want to copy Sopranos either. How do I take inspiration from my real life experiences and my favorite show and create something original without copying? This has been something I've struggled with as a writer which results me to not writing even though I love to write and I know I can do it well if I just focused on it. It doesn’t have to necessarily be a mafia story or be set in NJ/NYC even though I would like it to be and I've been over there and I've taken a lot of inspiration taking trips up there. (I'm from out west not east coast.) We were in a LDR.

I also don't want to be like Truman Capote and his swans, I read that he based the characters off the women he knew pretty much exactly and it ruined his career pretty much. How do you create your own original work without it pissing anyone off? My ex has a jersey accent and I've been to new jersey and I wish I could write about my experiences but I still want to have my own original work. How do I balance all this?