Take my mind; all my right, all my wrong.

Take it with you as you climb.

One with yours, our silent song.

Find us love, all you deserve.

My selfish questions, need now no answers.

Take my mind; my rights, none to reserve.

(Feedback also welcome) My original post on r/OCpoetry: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/jAq03e0zjB

you do not want them to stand over you, stomping the steps they take. Stand. where is the line drawn between walking away and being a man. I know that I'm strong I could endure your worst. you attack my honor and pride to the point where love hurts. this is where the sword, must be slashed through the throats. Of men fighting over prizes tempting however mediocre.

This is a book I'm writing about a victorian mudlark, called Miles, he's only 9 years old. What's your honest opinion! I will be happy to take any constructive criticism.

I drag my saturated boots along the Thames bank, each step forward squelching in the mud. The overpowering faecal scent lingers in the bitter air, smothering my nose. Have you ever heard of a mudlarker? Yeah, well, that’s me! My name’s Miles—Miles the Mudlark. Quite a ring to it, huh?

I scavenge for bones and coal to sell for pennies to help my parents out. The repetitive bending down and inspecting every little thing is straining my back and the winter nip pinching my fingertips. It seems like the shores are being selfish tonight; I can't find anything to sell. All the good bits have been picked by others just like me. That's it with scavenging. It's hit and miss. But then, instant relief fills me when I spot a sparse bone sticking out between jagged rocks—quite a plentiful bone filled with meat, although it’s rotting and dirty. My mum will be pleased! She makes a hearty bone broth out of these finds; she’s mastered it after making it so many times!

I’m just happy that me, my parents and six siblings can fall asleep with our stomachs lined with toasty broth. We need it to keep us warm against this glacial November breeze—especially since I didn’t find enough for Mum to put the coal fire on tonight.

Hi everyone,

I’m seeking some advice and would really appreciate your insights.

I’m about to launch a thriller blog where I’ll be releasing chapters weekly. My aim is to build a community of readers, engage with them, and take on board their feedback to refine my writing. I want this to be an interactive journey, but I know that building an audience from scratch can be challenging.

I’d love to hear your tips on how to:

Build a community of engaged readers before I’ve started releasing chapters. Find fans and get people interested in my blog in these early stages. Any advice, personal experiences, or recommendations would be hugely appreciated!

Thank you in advance!

Hi all! I am posting here for the first time. I'm working on a contemporary romance novel, and this is my synopsis and excerpt: https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vQqMKHeyzuKcdY7FPOJp6Ua1RPQIC5FkqY2u1o4Wju3c7NNjW1BBW53t7mgLlmHcIhUfCVZORSfCVoR/pub

Any feedback/suggestions to improve would be very helpful. Thanks!

My world—it is not a world, but a churning war,
Started when we were pulled apart, afar.
The blood, it reigns between love and hate;
My heart won’t little hear that it’s all just fate.

The mind is blind, yet the kind soul still grinds,
The promise that binds when two moons align.
But when the time finally chimes, it’s sour as lime,
Yet the past still mimes, like a wavering rhyme.

Like the tale of a pale flower that broke into a rock—
Roots that run deep, yet the shallow buds they flock.
Now, they become the crumbled pieces of my heart,
Made by our never-expected depart.

Deep into the roots I seep while sinking in rain;
I could never rise—that's the beauty of this pain.

little girl's perspective from a woman's point of view

daddy, I remember
the day of fourth birthday,
you watched me do swirls and twirls,
You looked happy, watching me dancing,
didn't know at time, cherished memory of life.....

I'm so tired of scars and the bleeding,
the shadows ambushed after creeping,
the dreams of this child has been left dying,
and all I've known, bruises and forever shame.......little girl's perspective from a woman's point of view

Authors Notes: I have been drinking way too much and making too many enemies lately. It's no secret I am a fan of cute young girls but people have been making too many accusations. In Australia the legal age of consent is 16 +

  My phone lights up and then dims. I ignore it. It lights up and dims again. I ignore it again. This happens five more times. I ignore it all five times. Each time, I glance at it, knowing what it is, but I don’t want to deal with it right now. The phone lights up again. I sigh, dry my hands on the kitchen towel, and I flip it upside down. I can’t deal with this right now.

  But my mind wonders despite myself. What could it be now? Where is it happening this time? How bad is it? I really don’t want to, but I pick up my phone and unlock it. Who was I kidding, it was only a matter of time before I did anyway. But as soon as I do, I feel my chest tightening yet again. I take in a deep breath and let go. I do it a few more times before I feel the grip on my chest loosening. I set my phone back down and try to think of something else, anything else, to distract myself.

  I lean back against the kitchen countertop, crossing my arms across my chest as I watch them sprawled on the living room carpet. He laughs as he holds her and rolls around with her. She finds this game hilarious, and she giggles, a sweet innocent sound that fills the room with warmth. I watch them and smile.

  She has grown so much, so much since our last visit. My mind drifts back to six months ago. I look away, my smile fading and pick up my phone again. This time I go to my photos. I scroll through them for a while before I land on the images I had taken six months ago.

  Swipe. I remember taking this photo. My brain is flooded with the memories of what once was. For a moment I forget what had transpired and I smile. Swipe. I remember this video, and I softly laugh. Each image and video capturing a moment from my memory. Beautiful memories which once brought me happiness, now tainted with fear, sorrow, and profound sadness.  

As I continue scrolling, I wonder. Will I get the chance to see them again? Will I recognize them? Will they recognize me? We have all changed, them more than me. They have been badly hurt and I wasn’t there to see it, to live it. The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. I start feeling the tightness in my chest again. The future is bleak and there is no hope in sight. The pain becomes unbearable, and the tears are starting to form at the back of my eyes, so I stop scrolling. I leave the application, lock my phone, and place it back on the kitchen countertop.  

I look at her again. She is now pouring the pretend tea into tiny teacups. I let her world draw me in. I leave my phone on the kitchen countertop and walk over and sit on the carpet beside them.  

He looks over at me, and his wide grin softens as his eyes meet mine. He reads me well; and even though I am smiling, he sees it in my eyes; and I don’t need to explain. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it softly as she walks over and hands me a tiny teacup, letting me know it’s time for tea. I glance back at my phone as it lights up again, but I let it fade, turning my attention instead to the tiny teacup in my hands and her animated face as she explains her plans for our tea party.

Hi everyone, I recently wrote my first flash fiction story about human finiteness. I'm in high school and I want to know if my story is good enough for submission/ competition for writing contests like scholastic or young arts. Please give honest opinions and feedback!

Earth to a beautiful mind

“Time for breakfast!” Mother hollers from the level below. I lied. I don’t actually have a mother, she’s just a figment of my design. I go downstairs and crawl into my favorite faux silk chair. It tells me it cares about me as it cradles my fragile frame, that’s why I like it so much. Today I will eat the store bought cereal I took out to dry on the balcony yesterday—dense, cold, and limp—they lay like discarded rags on my porcelain plate. Delicious. After breakfast, I leave my suffocating abode and wander, like I always do. Today, the skies are translucent, and in the distance you can still see the swirling specks of white that the Earthlings call ‘stars’. The nice day puzzles me. It gives me an unshakeable feeling that each step brings me closer to something inescapable and inevitable. As I walk through this banal track, I can’t help but to think what a paradox this all is- the limits of human capability make them all the more intense yet I, unscathed by time, am full of stagnation. I watch as humans live, their lives fleeting, full of passion and longing. Like a candle flame- they burn intensely for just a moment and then: nothing. I observe their lives with a detached fascination. Even though I am infinitely bigger they have something I can never have: the intensity of experience. They contain the beauty of impermanence- the urgency, the passion that comes with it. My state contains no bounds- how strange it is to be eternal and yet so distant from what it means to live. In the distance I hear a faint thudding. The pattern of rhythmic footfalls coming from behind gradually loudens. I turn slightly to catch a glimpse of a lean jogger; his breaths coming in small, energetic bursts “Man, I love running,” he starts, his voice warm and comforting, something I have almost long forgotten “Great way to feel alive!.” he adds between pants “Oh, I don’t feel alive, really. I don’t need to.” I joke, but I know I’m serious. My lips curve slightly into a half-baked smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “You seem stuck… Ever thought of just moving?” He says casually. “Move? Move…” I repeat under my breath, my tone tinged with skepticism. His figure and footsteps become more distant each step he takes. Soon, I can’t even see him as he dissolves into the mist. I am left with the echo of his lingering words. They stab me, hard. I crouch down, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation. Sharp and biting. I draw a breathy sigh—It is the ache of my infinite expanse confined in this meager, mortal vessel. Like all human constructs, my pain subsides and melts into nothingness. I hope he notices the weight of his words. It’s simple for him to move but it’s not so easy with infinity pressing against you! Before I can think about anything else, a glimmer of red floods my peripheral vision. It is too bright for this dull world: little pebbles with streaks of red. I pick up a handful with caution, scrutinizing them closely. They feel smooth and cold. I hesitate, look left and right and then lift one to my mouth- I think about truth. What is it anyways? It’s been stripped of meaning all my life, so it doesn’t even matter. I wonder how the rock would taste, feel, maybe give me an epiphany. I bite down on the shard — as certain as god. Confusion riddles my Earthling brain when I hear a piercing crack. The taste of iron fills my mouth. Sharp. I run my tongue through the empty shell of a broken tooth. It is grotesque and real. Blood dribbles down my chin, and I lap at it, savoring the odd yet human sensation. I look into my eyes through the reflection of the rest of the stones—dark pools of infinite nothingness. I ask them who I am, but they don’t answer. They never do, for I am a question without an answer so I must live with all of its consequences.

Beautiful death

We try to catch you

Before your slow fall

No fragment can save you

From your fiery death

The crisp cold comes and takes you all

To the beautiful death that is fall

https://preview.redd.it/ow916oeqh44e1.png?width=662&format=png&auto=webp&s=53202a3b9bf98bf8d4cc1e8b4d9edff9d15d9817

https://preview.redd.it/z0599octh44e1.png?width=427&format=png&auto=webp&s=eafe4d5a6dbdb03ea659321e21c3e723536c9dbf

PS. This is a personal challenge, to write in a language different from my own. I hope it's going well :)

Heyo folks, been inspired lately and started a writing project set in a semi-fantasy world where magic and some fantasy aspects exist in a technologically advancing fictional world. So far only have part of the first chapter but would love some feedback on whether or not I have a sufficiently interesting hook and if my writing style is fun. Thoughts and criticism welcome!

What Comes Before Draft Version

Chapter I

Silence. Complete silence. It radiates outward, the silence becoming a void all consuming. It spreads infinitely, societies and civilizations crying out in pain and suffering in a thousand voices before they all fade to nothing. Fire. Fire on the horizon. A dim red glow growing ever closer. Smoke and ash fall from above, blanketing the cobblestone and pavement with a sickly gray tone. The streets are quiet now, the citizens of this town entombed in sooty graves. The silence is broken by the soft wind, the falling ash trickling down softly fluttering leaves. The leaves are gray too. The soft wind grows as a wave crashes into the town. Not from the ocean, no, a wave of air powerful enough to shatter glass rocks the town. The quiet is not just disturbed, but is shattered as shards like crystals twinkle in the red twilight as they crash into the ground. The soft blanket of ash was once like snow. Now it bleeds red.
Aleksander shoots up in his bed, sitting directly upright. He’s panting loudly, trying to make sense of the nightmare he just awoke from. Aleksander glances around his room. Jakub is in his bed on the other side of the room. His messy desk is covered in notebooks and scratch paper as he sleeps soundly on the lofted bed above it. He doesn’t appear to have woken up from Aleksander’s sudden start. Good, thinks Alek, don’t want to explain that to him. After a couple of moments, Alek heaves himself out of bed and throws on some clothes. He looks outside to see the sky is overcast, his dorm looking out over a small street that runs through his university. It’s chilly in the dorm, despite the radiator turned to its highest. Sylmore always seems to be chilly. It makes sense, being this far south, but even during summer it feels like the sun barely warms the surface. Alek steps outside, the gentle wind blowing his hood off his head. He’s dressed in a long coat, the hood now fluttering slightly behind his head, with a green sweater and black slacks. Alek’s friends always joke with him that it seems he’s infatuated with green, but it’s not without truth. Not a day goes by when Alek isn’t wearing something green.
Alek has nowhere to be, really. It’s the weekend, he doesn’t have any classes today. Not that gives him any relief, though. Next week is filled with quizzes, tests, and exams. Sylmore is home to the Borathian National University. In his childhood, it was all Alek wanted to go here. He’d heard his whole life about how prestigious and amazing it was to attend National, but now that he’s actually here, Alek just found the entire experience a little like buying a candy and realizing too late it’s the wrong flavor. It’s not like it wasn’t what he expected, it’s just the novelty of a new place and new people has worn off. He’s become used to the cobbled streets lined with poplars, the strange frost-resistant palms out front of the administration, and monotonous lecture halls and auditoriums filled with professors that seem to have had the life drained out of them forty years ago. The wind briefly picked up, sending leaves flying down the street. It was definitely getting colder, Alek thought. Fall was slowly beginning to turn to winter. Passing by Verspal Hall, Alek entered into the central square of National, lovingly called the Hex. The streets gave way to paths carving through the grassy area with oaks and birch dotting the scene. In the center was a large fountain they called Spirit. Water shoots up and into a central bowl out of a dozen jets, each one activating randomly. Supposedly it represents the coming and going of mana, and each of the various disciplines of Arcana contributing to the whole. To Alek, it looked like a broken fountain.
Alek sat down at a bench facing the fountain and looked past it, the school administration building looming across the park. It was the tallest building on campus, six floors tall roughly, with large columns lining the entrance to the brick building. He’d only been there a couple of times, just to submit his acceptance letter as proof of admission and to pay the year’s tuition. Something about the building just felt wrong, like something about it didn’t quite fit. He decided to pull out his small sketchbook from his coat’s pocket, along with a small pencil. It took a second to get the perspective right, but after a little while he had the rough outline of the administration building and the Hex in front of it. Alek sat there for a couple of hours, he had a nice rough sketch of the building. He was about to go in for finer detail before he heard a shout come from his side.
“Hey Alek!” He heard much more clearly now. Alek looked off to his right to see his friend Frank running towards him. “Hey! Hello?”

“Morning Frank, what’s got you in a rush?” Alek was a little annoyed as he began to sketch again. “Nothing really, just got bored and figured I’d come find you. Wanna grab a cup of joe?” Alek closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Sure.”

Hi all! So this is the first thing I've written. Based on the true murders of the Victorian era.

I would love for your guys opinions. What's the good bits & what should I improve?

-Sarah Jane Roberts was brutally murdered by an attacker whose identity remains in the gloomy shadows of the Victorian Era. Sarah was born in 1862 in Pembroke, Wales, a beautiful historic town filled with ancient buildings and town walls.

As a young adult, she sought better opportunities, just like her brother had done previously when he moved to Manchester—a bustling industrial city, home to numerous cotton mills and factories, even gaining the title ‘Cottonopolis,’ having had such an impact on the thriving trade.

Following in her brother’s footsteps, she moved in with him while adjusting to the new environment. Encompassed by sounds of horses hooves clattering against cobbled streets and the smog from burning coals smothering her nose, she was soon immersed in the restless streets of Victorian Manchester.

Among the busyness and ample opportunities, Sarah soon found herself working as a servant, just as many young girls of the time did. She was now under the employment of Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood, an elderly couple, requiring help with the upkeep of their semi-detached home. Their home, situated on Westbourne Grove in Harpurhey, was a highly desirable neighbourhood—a huge contrast to the slums that populated inner-city areas.

Mr. Greenwood received a letter on the 7th of January, 1879, shortly after the New Year's festivities. Mysteriously, the name ‘W. Wilson’ etched neatly at the bottom wasn’t one he was familiar with. The sender was enquiring about buying some land he owned, as well as requesting that they should meet at the Three Tuns Hotel for further discussions. Mr. Greenwood patiently waited at the spot set out in the letter, but no one ever arrived.

Back at home, Sarah was washing up downstairs. A knock at the door alerted her, to which she answered and allowed the unknown person in, passing through the lobby and to the kitchen, utterly blindsided by their ill intentions. Meanwhile, Mrs. Greenwood was restricted to her bed after a period of ill health, blissfully unaware of the harrowing scene that would soon follow.

Suddenly, deafening screams echoed throughout, prompting Mrs. Greenwood to call "Jane," while standing at the top of the stairs. After receiving no answer, she hurried to the front door and bellowed "murder," by this point still unaware of what awaited her.

The violent attacker had made a hasty escape, leaving Sarah lying senselessly on the freezing kitchen floor with her head doused in blood. At that moment, Sarah was still alive but "was breathing her last." Soon after, a final exhale of air forced its way through Sarah's lips, never to be awoken again.

One of my newer poems I’ve been holding onto

People are damaged, he is damaged , she is damaged, I am damaged.. really damaged. really need to love myself. That's probably the answer. I think the hardest part is realizing and accepting being hurt. no one likes to be vulnerable. I felt like I need to put all my trust into myself though. If I want to be my best self, I need to heal. It's incredibly hard to ask for help. Even harder to receive it. I put all of my trust in God. Every ounce. I believe that no one will love me like I will love me.

I don't know about you but I've experienced many situations are that damaging, with short and long-term effects. Everybody goes through that, the harm comes from just bottling pain up. You're just collecting hurt.

Do you truly understand the impact that trauma has on your life? It holds you back tremendously from being your best you. Now if you're anything like me you've got no clue where to start. So here is where we start. Start by accepting that you're damaged with me.

I wake up in a cold sweat, a dull knot of pain throbs in my head. Immediately, I realize something is off; the nutty smell of my room has been replaced by a bland, sterilized scent. My bed no longer feels like a plush cradle swatling my body; instead, it feels like a plastic sheet filled with cheap cotton and rusted springs. Lastly, and most notably, my furnace of a room now chills me to the bone; I hate it. As my discomfort causes me to stir, I realize I am, in fact, no longer in my room, but instead a whitewashed version of it. However, my friend Daisy, who slept over the night prior, is still asleep at my bedside; yet she slowly wakes as my consciousness returns to me. When she fully awakes, she does what she does best, stare at me in silence with piercing green eyes. 

If I’m being honest, I never really liked Daisy, she unsettles me. Maybe it’s because she looks exactly like my little sister? Or maybe it’s the fact that she makes weird faces and says mean things? Or even because she gets me into a lot of trouble, and makes me do bad things…. But, like her namesake, Daisy is a weed that won’t go away, no matter how many times I try to yank her out or how many methods I try to silence her presence. Therefore, I’ve grown to live with this parasite, and accept her as a part of my life. 

My anxiousness grows as I feel Daisy’s eyes scorn my skin, though she isn’t in my vision. 

“Is this your new way of torturing me!?!”I scream at her as I feel the frigid pressure of her gaze enclose me in rage and paranoia. Yet, she stays silent, I scream again, still silent; my throat burns, but I scream at her one last time, long and hard. Still, silence. A tornado engulfs my body, frustration takes over my emotions and I fall into a heap on the bitter floor and shiver violently as cold tears fill my eyes. And I swear, I swear I hear Daisy laughing at me. Her shrewdish and impudent cackling begins to ring louder and louder in my ears; I can’t take it anymore. I let out a guttural scream, and charge toward her, wherever she is. My haphazard attack leads me straight into a wall *BANG*: my head hurts, but I don’t care. I hate Daisy; I hate her for taking the form of my sister, I hate her for making me think and do things I don’t want to, I hate her for making my parents hate me. Most importantly, I hate her for that one October night, when she was still just a shadow under my bed; everything went up in flames. I see her now, in the corner of the blank room, I charge at her again but she’s no longer there, but instead on the white bed. Again, I aim for her. Again, nothing, I stay kneeling at the bed, barring my face in the itchy blanket that’s worthless when providing warmth. I stay there for a bit, I don’t want to see her. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. I take the thin blanket and tie it into a loop, mark my target, and plan my attack. Steadily, I creep up on Daisy, who has her back turned on me; I see an opening to attack, so I lunge, swiftly and carefully wrapping the blanket around her neck. She falls to the floor, yes!, she falls to the floor. I pull the blanket completely taunt against her neck, a delightful squeal of pain comes from her as she gags for air. It’s a glorious feeling, so glorious I didn’t realize the dreariness taking over my body. I look over my shoulder, I see Daisy, I see her driving a hypodermic needle into my neck. Confusion and shock seize me as I look over my shoulder and back to where, well…Daisy is supposed to be. However, Daisy is no longer under my choke hold, but a man in a white robe. Defeated, I let my exhaustion take over, I pass out.

When I wake up, my body hurts more than it did before, and I realize my body has been constrained. At first I didn’t mind, “This is what I deserve” I thought; but when coming to my senses I realize she is still here. Daisy is still here. Her agonizing laugh fills the room, fills it with flame. I scream, but all attempts are futile; I just have to sit there and watch as my sister’s face begins to melt. I cry; I genuinely try to cry, but what can I do when everything is burning? Burning house, burning sister, burning life. Daisy was the gasoline, but I— I am the match stick. I want the growing flames in the room to scorn me, torture me, bring me back to ash, make me pay for my wrongdoings. 

Alas, they don’t, they never do.

Daisy has won again, she always does.

I wake up in a cold sweat, a dull knot of pain throbs in my head. Immediately, I realize something is off; the nutty smell of my room has been replaced by a bland, sterilized scent. My bed no longer feels like a plush cradle swatling my body; instead, it feels like a plastic sheet filled with cheap cotton and rusted springs. Lastly, and most notably, my furnace of a room now chills me to the bone; I hate it. As my discomfort causes me to stir, I realize I am, in fact, no longer in my room, but instead a whitewashed version of it. However, my friend Daisy, who slept over the night prior, is still asleep at my bedside; yet she slowly wakes as my consciousness returns to me. When she fully awakes, she does what she does best, stare at me in silence with piercing green eyes. 

If I’m being honest, I never really liked Daisy, she unsettles me. Maybe it’s because she looks exactly like my little sister? Or maybe it’s the fact that she makes weird faces and says mean things? Or even because she gets me into a lot of trouble, and makes me do bad things…. But, like her namesake, Daisy is a weed that won’t go away, no matter how many times I try to yank her out or how many methods I try to silence her presence. Therefore, I’ve grown to live with this parasite, and accept her as a part of my life. 

My anxiousness grows as I feel Daisy’s eyes scorn my skin, though she isn’t in my vision. 

“Is this your new way of torturing me!?!”I scream at her as I feel the frigid pressure of her gaze enclose me in rage and paranoia. Yet, she stays silent, I scream again, still silent; my throat burns, but I scream at her one last time, long and hard. Still, silence. A tornado engulfs my body, frustration takes over my emotions and I fall into a heap on the bitter floor and shiver violently as cold tears fill my eyes. And I swear, I swear I hear Daisy laughing at me. Her shrewdish and impudent cackling begins to ring louder and louder in my ears; I can’t take it anymore. I let out a guttural scream, and charge toward her, wherever she is. My haphazard attack leads me straight into a wall *BANG*: my head hurts, but I don’t care. I hate Daisy; I hate her for taking the form of my sister, I hate her for making me think and do things I don’t want to, I hate her for making my parents hate me. Most importantly, I hate her for that one October night, when she was still just a shadow under my bed; everything went up in flames. I see her now, in the corner of the blank room, I charge at her again but she’s no longer there, but instead on the white bed. Again, I aim for her. Again, nothing, I stay kneeling at the bed, barring my face in the itchy blanket that’s worthless when providing warmth. I stay there for a bit, I don’t want to see her. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. I take the thin blanket and tie it into a loop, mark my target, and plan my attack. Steadily, I creep up on Daisy, who has her back turned on me; I see an opening to attack, so I lunge, swiftly and carefully wrapping the blanket around her neck. She falls to the floor, yes!, she falls to the floor. I pull the blanket completely taunt against her neck, a delightful squeal of pain comes from her as she gags for air. It’s a glorious feeling, so glorious I didn’t realize the dreariness taking over my body. I look over my shoulder, I see Daisy, I see her driving a hypodermic needle into my neck. Confusion and shock seize me as I look over my shoulder and back to where, well…Daisy is supposed to be. However, Daisy is no longer under my choke hold, but a man in a white robe. Defeated, I let my exhaustion take over, I pass out.

When I wake up, my body hurts more than it did before, and I realize my body has been constrained. At first I didn’t mind, “This is what I deserve” I thought; but when coming to my senses I realize she is still here. Daisy is still here. Her agonizing laugh fills the room, fills it with flame. I scream, but all attempts are futile; I just have to sit there and watch as my sister’s face begins to melt. I cry; I genuinely try to cry, but what can I do when everything is burning? Burning house, burning sister, burning life. Daisy was the gasoline, but I— I am the match stick. I want the growing flames in the room to scorn me, torture me, bring me back to ash, make me pay for my wrongdoings. 

Alas, they don’t, they never do.

Daisy has won again, she always does.

I have a problem with writing, it's very difficult for me to get down to it.

I once tried to start writing books for myself, but while writing I had the impression that my text was bland, boring, worthless, and what really stood out was that I felt lonely.

Later, I started a role play with someone, and writing was exciting then — the uncertainty of their input made the story feel alive. However, after months, we ended it due to mutual lack of inspiration, and this event left a big trauma in me, because the rp ment a lot to me. Since then, writing alone or starting a new rp became stressful too, as I feared "It won't be like it used to be".

Eventually, we began a new role play that was even better, but we took a break due to some complications in our relationship, what caused us to stop writing the role play. We managed to renew our contact after a while, but our story remained untouched. I deadly wanted to continue it but my partner didn't seem interested. Luckily I realized I don’t really need their input and I want to rework the story on my own. I have plenty ideas, but the stress and loneliness of writing alone make it hard to enjoy.

Now, our relationship is likely ending, so I'll be left alone and I don't want what we wrote to go to hell. I want to develop it further, but writing solo doesn’t feel the same.

That's why I have a question, has anyone here had similar feelings about writing? That is, a lack of getting involved in the story, barrenness of the text, stress, or a sense of loneliness while writing? Or maybe, what I'm counting on the most, someone here had similar experiences to me; someone once wrote a role play and after it was interrupted, they decided to continue writing on their own? If yes, how did you cope then?

I'm desperate to find someone with a similar experience, because I feel seriously shitty about my inability to write.

Hey, writers! I created a voice over/audio experience for the first chapter in my story, "The North's Shadow." I have around 24 chapters so far, so I'm wondering if it's a good idea to create an audio experience for readers in case they want to listen vs. read. I'm thinking of including a link to the YouTube playlist where chapters will be uploaded for ease of viewing/listening. Is that a good idea? What are your thoughts, and what do you think of the quality of the audio (if it's easy to listen to/follow)?

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iy9F2brGdmE

words,
give birth,
our worth,
our thirst,
gentle bird,
flutter upwards,
innocent flirt,
angel in skirt,
heart bleds,
virginal red.

Innocence of the flirt - a poem

I was feeling like i needed to reunite my two mcs, so I wrote a very short scene where they reunite (and Silas gets to argue with someone)

--

"What is it?" I ask in a bored tone, barely registering the excitement in his tone. "There's a group of diplomats, one of whom may interest you." My heart leaps into my throat, but I manage to keep a lid on my emotions.

"Show me at once." I'm already sweeping down the flight of stairs, the attendant hurrying in my wake, shooting me a bemused look.

Could it really be?

The diplomats are arranged in a huddle, shooting venemous glances at the guards encircling them. The fold parts like a field of wheat, and I almost don't recognise the person standing at its centre. Tall, lanky and somewhat awkard, but dressed in the ceremonial robes of the Recorder of Dunyn. "Oh." My voice is tinged with disappointment. "Lord." The boy, for that is all he is, respectfully inclines his head in greeting. "And what is the meaning of this visit? Surely you didn't travel all the way from... Dunyn just to exchange pleasantries?"

A slight draft from the door ruffles his immaculately pleated robes. "As a matter of fact, I didn't come here to merely exchange pleasantries, Silas of Eleriad-"

"It's Lord Silas of Daerion, son of Rodrik. You cannot presume that you can just walk in here and begin to disrespect me. You are not in your own lands, and therefore you must abide by Elerian customs." I correct him, albeit hastily, but with the precise amount of decorum necessary to make him squirm.

"I did not come in here to bandy words with an uncompromising boy who is barely out of childhood." "And so? Deliver your message and be done. You disgrace the house of my forefathers, owing to your own father's cowardly acts-"

"They were not cowardly!" His voice rises to a crescendo, and his eyes bore into mine, in such an unpleasant way that I avert my gaze. Confident that he's won this confrontation, he continues. "As I was saying, I came here for another reason. I came to escort the heir apparent of Maldréa back home."

As his words sink in, I let out a half-strangled cry. "So she's been alive all this time?"

"You were being so uncompromising I was forced to bring her here." I scoff at his statement, and then I truly see her.

Ariana Mairé. Truly deserving of that title now more than ever.

I had just dismissed her as another court lady, all ruffles and no substance whatsoever. A heavy smattering of freckles - enough to rival mine - are now prevalent across the bridge of her nose, and her face has grown sharper. And then I don't reflect on her new appearance any more, because she's already hurtling across to me, sweeping me up in a fierce hug, which is enough to raise a few eyebrows. She removes herself from the embrace, if only to introduce the boy.

"Silas, this is Jonas of Dunyn."

Here are some examples of mine:

https://preview.redd.it/izd9cdnoxv3e1.png?width=816&format=png&auto=webp&s=967e5629aede3f78f34aaf081a4ab95b52371cd6

https://preview.redd.it/znscbuutxv3e1.png?width=872&format=png&auto=webp&s=fed0d30d04dc741cb41a93669264995317e4dade

https://preview.redd.it/t4lakzewxv3e1.png?width=821&format=png&auto=webp&s=854ea19caf7fc62926c2bfdabc16546bcca8b271

You: [Handing her two roses] "Here, these are for you."

Her: [Smiling] "Thank you! But why only two? Why not more?"

You: [Smiling back] "Because it took exactly two roses to fill the space between us."

Her: [Curious and playful] "Hmm, but wouldn't three roses work just as well?"

You: [Gently] "Three would be too much, one too little. Two is perfect—just enough to bridge the distance without overwhelming the moment. Like us, it's balanced."

Her: [Blushing slightly] "That's... really sweet. You have a way with words."

You: [Grinning] "Only when I'm inspired by someone special."

chapter 1.

A bad nightmare

What happened? I asked myself as I groggily opened my eyes. Pain throbbed through my entire body, leaving me numb as I lay on the ground. A strange liquid trickled into my mouth, its taste metallic and unpleasant. But then, suddenly, memories surged forward, snapping me out of my haze. Fear and despair replaced my disoriented state.

“Aahhh!” I screamed, pushing myself up so violently that I fell back onto my rear.

“How am I alive?” I muttered, as a flash of memory struck me: just before the fatal blow, the pendant around my neck had shone brightly, wrapping me in a transparent protective barrier. “So it was you?” I asked aloud, clutching the pendant tightly in my hand.

Looking around, I froze. The sight before me was one I had never wished to see. Blood and lifeless bodies littered the ground as far as my eyes could see. Many were so disfigured they were unrecognizable. Crows cawed as they pecked at the corpses, the sound chilling against the heavy silence. The metallic taste in my mouth and the gruesome scene around me churned my stomach, and I retched violently.

As I emptied my stomach, another memory surfaced. My team, alongside two other adventurer groups, stood frozen in terror before a creature. The mere thought of it sent sweat dripping down my back, and I trembled uncontrollably—both body and soul. I would never forget that creature. It had emerged from a rift, its form somewhat resembling a dragon but unmistakably otherworldly. Its body appeared both solid and liquid, radiating power that made the air itself seem heavy.

My thoughts turned to my beloved teammates: Leonis, my best friend, and Aria, my wife. My heart raced with an overwhelming sense of dread. I forced myself to stand and began to stumble forward, each step bringing a fresh wave of agony. But the pain no longer mattered. It couldn’t compare to the fear of losing them. Slowly, step by painful step, I pressed on through the blood-soaked ground.

As I walked, I noticed Jareth, the leader of the Night Wolves adventuring group. A large, bearded man likely in his forties, Jareth had earned everyone’s respect through his experience and knowledge. He was always smiling—but not now. His face was frozen in an expression of pure terror. His wide, lifeless eyes stared ahead, empty and devoid of light.

The stench of blood surrounded me, an ever-present reminder of how futile my hopes were. Yet, like a man grasping at the last straw, I kept moving. The deeper I went, the more bodies I found. Many were so mangled they were beyond recognition. At one point, I came across a corpse holding a well-maintained sword adorned with a lion motif on its hilt. I bent down, picked it up, and lifted it slowly. As I did, a memory washed over me.

“Why do you keep using that sword? Wouldn’t it be better to get a new one? George could forge you a better one,” I asked a blond-haired young man who was polishing the blade.

“This sword was my father’s,” he replied with a gentle smile. “As long as it exists, so does his will. One day, when I die, it will carry my will too. And as it’s forged through battle, it will eventually break free of its shell and become the strongest sword.”

Tears fell onto the sword as I held it, one drop after another. “Leonis,” I whispered, my voice heavy with sorrow as tears streamed down my face. He had been Leonis, leader of the Lionhearted and my closest friend. The sword evoked countless memories, but one in particular rose to the forefront.

We were about eight years old, sitting on a clearing at the edge of the forest. Beside each of us lay wooden swords. We were battered, bruised, and panting from exhaustion.

“You pushed yourself even harder than usual today,” I gasped, catching my breath. “Why?”

Leonis, his face etched with pain, turned to me. “How far do you think a person can go?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out at the end of my life.”

“My goal reaches far beyond this village. Beyond even the capital. I want to become the greatest adventurer, someone who inspires people—like the stars in the sky.” He looked up at the heavens, a determined glint in his eyes. “I’ve already decided what to name my future adventuring group: the Lionhearted. Every member’s courage will guide others, and our name will shine forever, unerasable from the world, like the stars in the sky.”

Following his gaze, I looked up at the vast expanse of stars illuminating the darkness. “Then your goal will be my goal too,” I said proudly. “I want to see how far you can go. I want to see the end of your journey. And if you ever stray, I’ll be your star to guide you back.”

“Then it’s a promise. Thank you,” he replied, and we sealed our vow with a fist bump. Overhead, a shooting star streaked across the night sky.

“So, this is as far as we’ve come,” I whispered through tears, my face sagging under the weight of grief. The spark of hope in my heart flickered faintly, but I clung to it as I thought of Aria. Suppressing my sorrow, I pressed on, using the sword as a crutch. After only a few steps, I stopped. My face contorted with despair as the sword slipped from my hand and clattered to the ground. I collapsed to my knees, the last ember of hope extinguished.

My eyes reflected nothing but despair. “WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?” I cried out, my voice breaking as I stared ahead. Just five meters away lay the lifeless body of my wife, Aria. Her delicate features, her serene smile—it was as if she were sleeping peacefully. The ring on her hand, the one we had chosen together, glinted faintly. It was like a cruel, twisted dream.

I pounded my fist into the blood-soaked ground with all my might. The impact shattered my hand, blood oozing and dark bruises spreading rapidly. Pain surged through my body, but it couldn’t pull me from this nightmare. I knelt there, empty and broken, as the sun dipped below the horizon. The darkness of night consumed the remnants of daylight.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, motionless like a statue. Time no longer mattered. In the distance, I heard a rumbling sound. I didn’t care. Monsters, demons, gods—it didn’t matter anymore. I was nothing but an empty shell, a body without a soul.

The rumbling grew louder until a voice broke through. “This is Captain Aleric! What happened here?”

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” I murmured weakly, my lifeless eyes shedding silent tears.

When Aleric reached me, he froze mid-sentence. His expression shifted to one of shame and sorrow as he lowered his gaze. Neither he nor the 20 soldiers with him could meet my eyes. They simply stood there in silence, their faces twisted with pity and confusion.

The only sound was the occasional drip of my tears into the blood below.

In that moment, there was nothing left—only the deep void of pain and emptiness.

I’ve never noticed this impact of religion on people before. I can’t speak for any other religion than Islam though. The already explored and given answers to everything not only stop young minds from questioning the world and themselves but also give them the illusion of already knowing all there is to know—the illusion that, because they conform to what they’re told is the highest level of knowledge, their life, their copy-pasted opinions, and beliefs must also be the highest level known.

Naturally, a belief that big and that strong creates an aura of arrogance. Young minds look down upon those of us who live differently, almost with pity. And when young women, who give so much of their lives and identities, look me up and down with pitiful disapproval, I simply smile at them. Because at this point, they’re already losing so much of themselves and setting their lives so far back that I think—why not let them have the arrogance? In fact, I encourage them to go all in on it, so that they can break out faster. That little arrogant attitude doesn’t harm me, but it may soothe her—she who cannot feel the wind running through her hair, she who cannot wonder.

I wish I could give her a hug to soothe the pain I know she feels but cannot yet identify. I wish my hug could be as soothing as that arrogant need to feel above me. I pray for her and all our sisters and mothers. I pray that they find a peace so large there’s no room for pain in their hearts. I pray that, if they do feel pain, they will be able to identify and soothe it. And I pray that when they need it, there will be an embracing soul willing to hold theirs for a while until they are rid of the unsettling dark.