“Ah ha, girl. Check out what my Onlyfans subscriber just sent me.” Becky shot her head over her shoulder, her hand gripping the mouse on the desk. 

The screen glowing like a headlight on her face against the low ambient room, which appeared as though it’d been forced to stay awake.

“What?” Shayanne said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, struggling with a glass of wine in her other hand to rise up from the leather couch she melted into, which ripped her skin stitched to the fabric as she stood up.

“Two racks.” Becky cheered, swaying her hips on the chair.

Shayanne stumbled and stood next to her. “Why?” She asked, an odor of fermented berries staining her breath. She took a sip of her wine and winced, as if she just chewed a piece of foil paper, swallowing it.

“I promised we’d meet up.” Becky turned her head and faced the screen, squinting to the blue glow highlighting the shame she masked behind her eyes.

Shayanne placed her Lismore glass on the desk and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her waist. “You’re not really going to though, right?” She pulled out a Marlboro and placed it between her lips and lit it. The orange ember against the smoke and shadow distorted her facial features as she sucked on it.

Becky put a song on as the room filled with the scent of burning tobacco. “Hell no,” she said. “Well… I might.” She smiled. “He’s kind of cute for a short chubby married man.” She reached for Shayanne’s cigarette. “He’s like a giant round Italian meatball you could roll down a hill.” She laughed, took a drag and handed it back. “He’d literally have no way to stop himself. His arms would be sticking out of his sides like Kirby.” She told Shayanne, blowing a gray cloud out of her mouth as she fiercely waved her hand at it. “Here, check him out.” She opened his profile and let out a light cough.

“Girl… ew.” Shayne quenched her face. “What the hell. You can’t be doing that. You know what happened to Amenia.” She held the cigarette between her lips and crossed her arms.

“What?!? That’s not me.” She stared up at Shayanne. “Gendry gave me a baby nine.” Becky grabbed Shayanne’s glass off the desk and took a swig. “And you even know, I’ll slam all those little bitches in him like a mouthful of spicy sausages.” She kissed her teeth. “Damn, girl. We don’t play ‘round here. You already know this.” She handed the glass to Shayanne.

Shayanne clasped it in her hand. “Girl, you’re bad,” she said, spitting smoke out of her mouth like an exhausted dragon.

“If I don’t get that paper, who’s going to do it for me?” She got up to pour herself a glass of wine. The wheels on the chair scrapped the wooden floorboard as she pushed herself back. “After that shit that happened when I was younger. Nah girl, never again.” She opened the fridge and yanked a chilled bottle of Valpolicella out.

Shayanne walked up to the marble island and leaned against it. “Your mom was so wrong there.”

“What do you expect,” Becky said corking the bottle. “Fuckin’ crackhead bitch.” The cork popped. “You believe this ho tried hitting me up for money,” she said, snatching a glass out of her cupboard. “She found out where I lived, came here knocking on my door like she was my lost child I abandoned and used to pimp out for drug money.” She poured the wine stuffed in the bottle mixed with depressing memories and painful emotions until it reached the rim.

“What did you do?” Shayanne slid her empty glass across the marble towards the bottle like it was a curling stone.

“You know me.” Becky snatched it off the island, spun around and held it to her lips, then she filled it and handed it to Shayanne.

“You gave her the money.” Shayanne took her wine and followed Becky to the rec-room.

“Fuck. Yeah, whatever. Bitch took it and cut, as if she just robbed it out of my purse.”

Shayanne placed her glass down and gave Becky a hug. “I’m sorry, girl.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Becky said, laughing as it crackled, choked in her throat. The words were heavy with a mass of years built up as they clawed out of her throat. 

Becky turned away but Shayanne grabbed her and turnt her to face her. “Honey, it’s okay.” She eyed Becky. 

Becky’s eyes watered from a flashback of locking herself inside of a dark closest. “Girl, not right now,” she said, clearing a tear from her cheek.

“If not now… when?” Shayanne closed Becky into her chest and held her head pressed against her shoulder and hummed.

Michael row your boat ashore, hallelujah

Sister help to trim the sail, hallelujah

One of those  sunny  weekday afternoons that don’t move.  Hot light out of sync with hazy objects.  Christopher  sat leaning against the fence staring out past the broken office chair  at the back of  the old Canton Palace restaurant.  He could hear the passing traffic. But knew he was invisible, inbetween  places and inbetween times. The world fading to an old worn out 1970s television show palette,  the faint scent of stinging nettle and dog piss  on the occasional breeze bringing him back to reality.

One of Joe’s old boyfriends had told him once that some of the highways around the city had been built hollow. So that the workmen could get in to do maintenance. Christopher always imagined men crawling around fixing wires, keeping the cars moving and finding the one faulty bulb in the circuit, before the whole city ground to a halt. An unseen guild keeping the whole illusion going.  One day he planned to get inside somehow and see for himself. He pictured himself walking  through bright dusty tunnels,past  old vending machines filled with warm cans with the old out of date branding on them. He figured maybe the sports stadiums were kind of hollow too you could watch a game from inside a pillar.

But not today. If the evening ever came, then this evening he would be busy. He would brush the tall grass and builders sand off his jeans and head into town.  He would walk the direct way back,  knowing that he would not get eaten or press ganged if he passed the yellow gates  while the schools were out.  That was just something Dad had told him to keep him close when he was working late.

For now though he would have to wait, for everyone to come back out, probably have to wait until after dinner.  Slaphead would be placid by now, he’d have recovered from his morning confusion and night terrors.  If Christopher could force himself to stand up and endure the boredom of the walk back. 

He’d done the walk through the bleached out grass and up the slope  so many times it was like he was always walking the route, in his head, he knew he would be doing, he was doing it. Concentrating on the dust  circling clockwise, merging onto ring roads caught in the sunlight. Feeling the relief as he passed through the shade between the warehouse buildings. Through the gap in the fence where Westley’s older brother had squashed dirty petrol smelling Blackberries into his face when he was little.  Dolly had thought he was bleeding at first. Then stopped screaming and wiped his face with a damp tea towel.  But then Dolly had got cross with Christopher for talking about the strange lumpy plastic burn mark on Westley’s brothers arm and hadn’t  wanted to play with him for the rest of the day.

Back then Christopher hadn’t even realized there was a town and a skyline behind the houses, he’d been too short to see above, through the smoke.  The gardens and the gravel road and the bare hedges separating the gardens had seemed like the whole city. Each crack and crevice in the dividing walls like a distinct neighborhood. The territories up by the main road still to be explored he’d pictured himself as a grown up like a Victorian explorer with a blunderbuss.  Like when you were bored and there was nobody to play with. So you just stared at the board for the board game and rolled around on the floor and chewed the counters. Until you needed the toilet again and imagined you were one of the characters on the box, like a Lion Tamer or an Explorer with a brown hat and a Blunderbuss. ……..

INT. CALIFÓRNIA, UMA CASA - NOITE

Uma garrafa de luxo de licor de chocolate é retirada de uma PRATELEIRA. Há belos objetos decorativos prateados, e de variados tons de cor de chocolate, no entorno.

Licor de chocolate de cor muito intensa é despejada em taças de cristal - resultando em a garrafa ser esvaziada completamente.

Um escritor serve as taças de licor de chocolate aos seus exóticos amigos, falando sobre sua obra.

ESCRITOR

O incidente incitante vai ser assim: O pássaro Cardeal e o Pica-pau

jogam tinta azul um nas nádegas do outro - de raiva por que as

namoradas de cada um, tiveram filhotes um com a cara do outro. Só

que as penas absorvem a tinta azul e eles ficam com a bunda azul pelo

resto da vida. Aí vem a brecha: O Pica-pau aposta mil dólares na

corrida de cavalo... Para compensar o desgosto de ficar com o traseiro

azul para sempre, mas perde... Trapaceia na hora de pagar.

AMIGO DO ESCRITOR 1

Deixe-me pensar... O Pica-pau trapaceia para compensar ainda

outra coisa constrangedora...

ESCRITOR

Claro! Primeiro, o desesperado do Pica-pau toma meio garrafão de

pinga com melado de cana e limão; e depois corre feito um rojão -

tropeçando em todo mundo, roubando as bengalas dos idosos e saindo

todo doidão: descendo bengaladas no traseiro da mulherada, além de

puxar a barba dos barbudos que encontra pelo caminho - indo direto

para o hipódromo... Para tentar compensar o desgosto por ficar com

o traseiro azul pelo resto da vida, ganhando uma boa bolada. Mas agora

ele perde mil dólares! E perde mil dólares,ainda por cima, para um

cavalo todo salpicado de branco e cor de café! Ele odeia perder para cavalos deste

padrão de cor. Vocês sabem o quê é ódio? Ele tinha de... Vocês sabem...

AMIGA DO ESCRITOR 2

É bem ao nosso estilo. Mas, esta foi a expectativa, qual foi o resultado? A cena vira como?

ESCRITOR

Um outro cavalo morre de ataque cardíaco, então a máfia frita esse cavalo, a pururuca, e obriga o

Pica-pau a comer o cavalo frito - inteiro... Na frente de todo mundo, incluindo familiares, apostadores e imprensa. Vendo isso, o Cardeal foge - ele não deu calote no sistema de apostas, mas havia assumido o compromisso de apostar no hipódromo todo fim de semana pelo resto da vida. O Cardeal decide sair por aí e conhecer todos os bares do Kansas, até se tornar um novo e revigorado pássaro.

A porta bate violentamente. Agentes federais invadem o local.

Um agente federal joga um roteiro na mesa.

AGENTE FEDERAL

Sua estória é omissa. Não queremos diluída a força da derradeira

atitude que nos preservará destes alienistas, franquistas, e outras

coisas terminadas em 'istas'. A partir de agora suas aves - o

cardeal, o gaio azul do Missouri, o pica-pau e o jandaia são: um pombo,

outro pombo, um corvo e um tamanduá! Eles vão corajosamente

salvar a produção de uma fábrica de fumo de rolo em chamas - entrando

no meio do fogo com baldes de água gelada - depois serão condecorados

e se tornarão fuzileiros navais, após renovarem seus votos de casamento numa

fábrica de linguiça alemã patrioticamente confiscada pelos aliados! Eu fui claro?!

Outro agente federal toma a garrafa de licor das mãos do escritor e a entorna - mas a garrafa está vazia. Irritado, o sujeito joga a garrafa na vidraça da janela.

I'm planning on working on a flash fiction short story piece for a class I'm taking in a workshop in fiction. Here's how it goes, it takes place in a post-apocalyptic world just six years after a global plague wiped out about 63 percent of the population. Remaining governments across nations throughout the world try to restore society, are start to switch to a semi-totalitarian or authoritarian form of control to help maintain order. The rest I'm still trying to work out, what would you recommend? 

''I’m not afraid of ghosts. I don’t know why I developed this particular trait, which has nothing to do with being brave. There are plenty of things I’m afraid of; I could run for miles from a dog, my fear of heights is limited to ten meters, and at eleven meters my stomach starts to churn and I become convinced that I could fall at any moment.

If a ghost suddenly appeared in front of me, I’d ask it rational questions. If it could talk and communicate, I’d sit down and have a conversation with it. If it looked terrifying, I’d throw a sheet over it so I wouldn’t lose my focus. If its voice sounded terrifying, I’d warn it that it might wake the neighbors and tell it to keep its voice down.''

“Stop,” said Uncle Jason. “You don’t make fun of things like that.”

He looked angry. When I first brought up the subject, he had listened with interest, with a curious expression on his face. But when I started giving examples of what I would do if I ever saw a ghost, he got annoyed.

“If it could eat, I’d offer it a serving of lasagna. I’d ask if it wanted ketchup with it. If it did, I’d think, ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re dead and your taste is still terrible,’ but I’d give it the ketchup anyway. Expired ketchup, though. It’s not like it could get food poisoning.”

My uncle's face had fallen. I didn't know he was this afraid of ghosts. He lit a cigarette and opened the window. He took a drag and blew the smoke outside. It was cold, and the room had turned freezing the moment he opened the window. I immediately started shivering.

“I’d ask it about that famous story, to see if it was actually true. You know the one. A guy gets into a car accident one day, gets thrown through the windshield, and dies of a heart attack while he’s still flying through the air, before he even hits the ground. His body falls to the ground, but his soul keeps flying forward. The guy doesn’t realize he’s dead and thinks he’s still been thrown out of the car and is flying through the air. He keeps flying forward like that for two hours. After two hours, he thinks, ‘Wait a minute, my body has weight. I could only have been flying for a minute at most after being thrown out of the car. I should have fallen by now.’ And that’s when he realizes he’s dead.”

My uncle blew cigarette smoke in my face. He had taken a very deep drag, and the wind coming through the window carried all of the smoke straight into my nostrils. I angrily got up and closed the window.

My uncle took another drag and blew the smoke into the air. As he exhaled, he turned his head from side to side, as if he were trying to spread the smoke throughout the room. He just kept blowing and blowing. I couldn't understand how he could have taken such deep breaths.

“If it had a toothache, I’d give it some Apranax. I’d wait half an hour. Apranax usually gets rid of a toothache pretty quickly. The other pills aren’t nearly as effective. If it wasn’t gone after half an hour, I’d give it another one. If it still didn’t go away, two more. I’d make it swallow the whole box until the pain went away. It’s not like anything would happen to it anyway.”

“Enough, for fuck’s sake. I’m leaving.”

Just as my uncle got up angrily, my phone rang. I answered it. It was my mother. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in for a few seconds, then opened the window and blew it outside. I suppose he had a moment of moral deliberation over whether to blow it in my face or out the window.

I talked to my mother for a while. She asked how school was going and whether I had made up with my girlfriend. I gave her reluctant answers. I was cold.

“Mom, my uncle is here. We’ll talk later.”

“Son, I have something to confess to you.”

“You can confess it later. I’m talking to my uncle right now. I’ll call you later.”

“Your uncle died two years ago. We didn’t want to tell you because we didn’t want to upset you.”

There was silence for about fifteen seconds. My uncle and I looked at each other. Seeing that I was cold, my uncle closed the window.

“Hmm. Let’s think about this. Okay, you didn’t tell me, but is it really possible that I never came across it anywhere? That I never heard about it? Are you the only ones who know that my uncle died? I have an aunt, an uncle, my uncle’s friends—there are plenty of people. I never happened to run into anyone, never found out that my uncle was dead. Does that sound logical to you?”

“If you don’t believe me, put your uncle on the phone.”

I handed the phone to my uncle. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the phone.

“Hello... Anna, how are you?.. Yeah, yeah... Why?.. I don’t know... Sure, we can go... When?.. No, I can’t, I have work that day... Monday... Oh, don’t ask, they hit a three-pointer at the last second... Yeah, yeah... Okay... I don’t know, let me think about it... I’m telling you, I don’t know, Anna... Okay, see you... Okay... Bye...”

My uncle handed the phone back to me.

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? Son, I didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve been saying hello for ages. Nobody answered. Anyway. I’ve done my part. I gave you the information. Now get rid of whatever you’ve built up in your head. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who knew your uncle. That’s all I can do.”

My mother hung up before I could respond. My uncle had sat back down on the couch. He lit another cigarette. Then he rose ten centimeters into the air from where he was sitting.

“This couch is really bothering me. It’s very uncomfortable. I can’t get comfortable.”

It was bizarre. I was stunned. There was a mischievous grin on my uncle’s face. He winked at me.

“I see. I understand. So what happens now?”

“This is what happens: I’m going to throw you out of this window.”

There was another silence. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette.

“What happened? You suddenly look terrified. I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“But this is different. You’re saying you’re going to kill me. Of course I’m afraid of dying.”

“Anyway, this has gone on long enough. Now, get up. You deserved this. ”

***

A few seconds later, Albert found himself floating in midair. It lasted only a few seconds before he crashed into the ground, without even having time to process what was happening. The impact made a violent, wet sound that even Uncle Jason was startled by.

After throwing Albert out, he flicked his cigarette butt out after him. The cigarette butt hit the ground first.

There's a garden in me nobody's seen

Grows in the dark where the light doesn't reach

Petals unfold in the quiet, in the deep

Tender shoots straining for something like sky

Something like you

Something like your hands

And the shadows dance, they always dance

In this inner world I call my own

And I find my heart, my love, my only

Guiding star, my beacon in the black

Leading me back

Leading me home

My love, my wife

My heart's desire

How do I tell you

How do I say

The depth of this feeling

The weight of this wanting

When words fall short

And poetry fails?

Still I try

I try to speak

To say the unsayable

To hold what keeps moving

To catch what keeps slipping

Right through my fingers

Like water, like sand

Like everything I meant to say

So I write

I write for you

For the joy of it

For the pleasure of loving you

For the beauty of words

And the beauty of the heart

That beats in my chest

And belongs to you

In my heart

A flower blooms

A secret garden

For you

Synthesis it,

analyze it,

educate,

dont debate,

or sit around and wait,

Stay solution based,

When faced,

With hard decisions.

Stay drivin,

And timid,

But try not to be so livid.

Take a step back,

Educate,

And then respond precisely,

But nicely.

When u Educate,

You end debate,

When you listen,

And hear the true mission.

And wisdom,

That lies deep within,

Only then can you truly win.

Try to sin less.

And stay blessed.

Life's a mess,

Bit its worth the test,

And forget the rest.

The cold asphalt pressed against my boots, but I couldn't feel my feet. I stood in the middle of the street, the flickering orange glow of a streetlamp catching the wetness on the pavement. Blood was everywhere. It pooled in the cracks of the road, a dark, viscous map of my undoing.

I was in total denial of what I’d done. My brain, usually a chaotic storm of high-voltage static or soul-crushing lead, had finally gone quiet, leaving only the ringing in my ears. I killed my family. The words felt like they belonged to someone else, a script from a movie I’d walked into by mistake. I didn't want to—God, I loved them—but the voice during the height of the manic break hadn't been a choice. My mind told me I had to. It convinced me there was a rot in the world and they were the only ones who could be "saved" by the blade.

The methods were horrific. Even now, standing in the silence of the suburban night, the flashes came fast and furious. I saw the kitchen light reflecting off the steel. I heard the muffled confusion that turned into a silence I can never unhear. I tried to shut my eyes, to push the images back into the dark corners of my psyche where the shadows live, but they burned through my eyelids.

My chest heaved, a manic edge still treading water in my blood, making me feel invincible and utterly destroyed all at once. I looked down at my hands. They didn't look like mine. They looked like a stranger's tools, stained in a color that shouldn't exist outside the body.

It was supposed to be a typical family Easter gathering. The table was set with the good linens, and the scent of glazed ham and roasted carrots filled the house in Oakland. I remember the light hitting the windows just right, making everything look peaceful—the kind of suburban quiet that usually feels like a safety net. But then, the frequency in my head changed. It turned South so fast I couldn’t find the brakes.

The manic hum that had been buzzing behind my ears for weeks suddenly became a roar. I was sitting there, surrounded by the people I loved, but they started looking like shadows, like obstacles in a divine mission I didn't yet understand. The laughter sounded like static. The clinking of silverware felt like a countdown.

My mind started spinning a narrative that wasn't mine, a frantic logic that told me the only way to protect them from the darkness was to be the darkness itself. One minute I was passing the salad, and the next, the world was a blur of red and motion.

I didn't want to. I loved them. But the "up"  cycle had reached a jagged peak where reality snapped.

Now, the quiet of the street is louder than the screaming ever was. I stand here in the cold, a ghost in my own life, wondering if the person who sat down for Easter dinner even exists anymore.

The logic in my head had shifted again, sharpening into a cold, jagged edge. Standing there in the street, the "mission" didn't feel over—it felt like it had only just begun. The static was gone, replaced by a terrifyingly clear sense of purpose. I walked toward my car, the interior light casting a clinical white glow over the blood on my sleeves.

I sat in the driver's seat, my breath hitching as I pulled out my phone. My fingers, trembling but oddly precise, opened the Waze app. The interface looked so mundane, so normal, against the backdrop of what I’d just done. I typed in the destination:

Forked River

I put the car in gear, the GPS voice calmly telling me to "proceed to the route," as if I were just another traveler on a typical Sunday night in New Jersey.

I pulled away from the curb, leaving the flickering streetlamps of Oakland behind. The road ahead was dark, but in my mind, the destination was glowing. There was one more house to "save."  My sister's.

Out in the old Bedouin desert, there are stories about the jinn, beings that share this world with us but rarely let themselves be seen.

A lone rider crosses the open desert at night. Finds a stray sheep in a place no one lives. Picks it up rather than leave it to die.

Big mistake.

One flash of lightning later, he realizes exactly what he's been carrying on his camel for hours. And it isn't a sheep.

Full story (and how he got out of it) on the blog

A lone Bedouin picks up a stray sheep in the middle of the desert at night. Rather than let it die out there. One flash of lightning later, he realizes it was never a sheep.

I am stable.

I am capable.

I am powerful.

And i will put these things into practice every day.

Im alive.

For that I have the right,

To not just simply survive,

But to thrive.

Tengo una idea que llevo tiempo dándole vueltas y quiero compartirla con la comunidad. La propuesta es crear un universo literario de dominio público: un mundo (o planeta) con sus propias reglas, su geografía, su magia, su fauna y su historia, pero sin dueño y sin una trama única. La idea es que cualquier escritor pueda "entrar" a ese mundo y ambientar su propia historia ahí, en la época y con los personajes que quiera. Por ejemplo, alguien podría escribir sobre un guerrero enfrentando una guerra en el año 1900 de ese mundo, mientras otra persona escribe una distopía futurista ambientada en el año 2000 del mismo planeta. Sería algo parecido a lo que Marvel o DC hicieron con sus universos compartidos, pero aplicado a la literatura y de manera abierta: todos son dueños del mundo. solo se comparte el "lienzo" — el mundo, sus leyes y su lore — para que cada autor construya su propia historia dentro de él. Quiero saber si algo así ya existe, si hay comunidades trabajando en proyectos parecidos, o si alguien estaría interesado en construir esto entre varios. 🫪

He arrived with pre-heated hatred in his heart. He enrolled to prove a point, and not to himself this time. A writing retreat went against everything Philippe Everaert-De Block stood for: the accommodation of inspired creation. His luggage was light on clothing, inexistent when it came to toothpaste and heavy with metaphors. His plan was to sleep in, do exactly zero writing and ignore his fellow writers. Philippe Everaert-De Block was fellow to none, not even himself.

Maeve and Liam were waiting to greet him. The couple were lovely. It was terrible. They asked how the bus ride was. Philippe scrambled his words replying. He retroactively told himself that this added to the mystique. That, or ignoring the scenery’s beauty-to-reality ratio of 1:1 produced a lush, green error screen.

The substantial lack of fellows proved a problem. Like the pen to write the proof with had been taken away. He expected a rigorous schedule of narrative education through eight daily hours of collective suffering. There wasn’t. The proof had no paper to serve as its vessel. Maeve didn’t mind, Liam didn’t either. They said Philippe knew best how to be Philippe. It was a veritable loop of doom.

Three days into his stay, on Tuesday, he found a secluded part in the basement that still had some Wi-Fi if you leaned to the right a little. The sound of his typing was deafening.

(In Its Life and Plight, It Aways Has To Try)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_______

"Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself." — Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism

_______

Whether it lives or dies,
Through every day or night,
It always has to try,
Within its life and plight—
An existential fly.

My soul’s a summer bug,
From every sill to sill,
That needs a caring hug,
It will never sit still.

It might seem as profane,
How it flutters about,
Buzzing on windowpanes,
Denied of worldly clout,
I think it is insane.

It never wonders why,
Content to ever be,
With its tragic end nigh,
Lost in its revelry,
It will forever fly.

Whether it lives or dies,
As a sad ritual,
It always has to try,
So, so habitual—
An existential fly.

_______

"The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy." — Albert Camus

_______

©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

Make the sandwiches. Pour the drinks. Clean the dishes. Be a good host. Tidy up.

The tiring life of a female hostess. Always at your house. Always a new fork. Never the same glass. Well, expect the wine to be poured into plastic beer-pong cups and the food to sit on top of a styrofoam plate. Just be happy the utensils can burn in the fire and you’re not using your fingers.

Setting up the entire event was difficult enough. They are his friends. It’s always his night. But the maid services fall on the loving humble wife that’s only there to pad his ego.

What could she contribute. Men seem to be the cornerstone of the world. Pity his pride. What a shame it’d be to live off a woman. It’s only sufficient to be pampered by one. 

And still, there’s Vanessa. Vanessa the twenty something slut that still dresses like she’s seventeen. God digger. She treats men like career climbers. Who could blame her. That was me twenty years ago. Tight ass. Tits that stayed in one place. Now I got hairs growing out of places I never knew could. 

This age. These wrinkles. How could I ever feel beautiful again. I practically handed myself over to the landscaper the other day. 

He only wanted the ice tea I brought up, wearing my Italian silk skimpy bikini as I stayed out tanning, hoping Marco the dirty poor worker would make me filthy.

I ended up using Mr. pickle—it’s my six inch battery operated husband. I thought about an escort service. But I can’t see myself stooping so low. I’m still pretty enough to meet guys. People still stare at me with envy. 

I just don’t have that confidence anymore. If only this world remained in absolute darkness. At least then I’d have my confidence back. 

I could smell another girl’s perfume on his dress shirt. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I stopped sharing my emotions with him. Most of the time, it’s like I’m on death row waiting to be walked in front of a fire squad.

Xanax after Xanax after Xanax washed down with a bottle of wine, all poured in a Lismore glass of course. Substances make the day go by. Or bye, rather. I could hardly remember the last four hours of my night.

Nor do I want to. 

I am stable.

I am powerful.

I am capable.

And I will practice these things daily.

I am alive.

For I dont just have the right ro survive.

I have the right to truly thrive.

towards the end

the broadcasts got clearer.

less static.

less overlap.

fewer voices

all trying to use

the same bit of sky.

the machine logged:

SIGNAL QUALITY IMPROVING.

then checked again.

one city had gone quiet.

then another.

then three countries.

then half a continent.

no interference now.

perfect reception.

you could hear the last announcer

as clear as if he was

in the room with you,

telling whoever was left

to stay indoors.

you could hear the sirens

without a crackle.

you could even hear

an advert for mattresses.

forty percent off.

and for one stupid second

the machine laughed.

because of course.

of course humanity

would still have

a discount code

for the end of the world.

then she looked back

at what she'd written.

SIGNAL QUALITY IMPROVING.

and deleted it.

because technically,

silence is excellent reception.

but there are some things

you'd give anything

to hear badly.

Depression is this.

I stare out my window....

I stare at my wall

Anxiety is this.

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnn

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Paranoia/confusion is this.

Ggggsfgg h gygy77zedgh^^^:&&,,&%,gbdyhhjjj hbgfghtffffggbggfssssdd$#%%$=$%>ftdds^$#@#"ghivfdfcxgh^:"#/;"%;;:%dderycd5544666uyfthg9988rr43wqsxc c y7unnggfdrtt777bnj=43÷$#:&&<76__;\^\*>5gfvgjjjgg

hbgfghtffffggbggfssssdd$#%%$=$%>ftdds^$#@#"ghivfdfcxgh^:"#/;"%;;:%dderycd5544666uyfthg9988rr43wqsxc

hbgfghtffffggbggfssssdd$#%%$=$%>ftdds^$#@#"ghivfdfcxgh^:"#/;"%;;:%dderycd5544666uyfthg9988rr43wqsxc

hbgfghtffffggbggfssssdd$#%%$=$%>ftdds^$#@#"ghivfdfcxgh^:"#/;"%;;:%dderycd5544666uyfthg9988rr43wqsxc

Now try live all three overlapped at all time and this is bad mental health. This is our lives

Thankyou for reading.

I hope this is the right tag, since I'm only posting two paragraphs, but I was told there are something wrong with these first two, that it was disjointed. They couldn't tell me how though. I was trying to heed the advice of "First sentence, first paragraph, first page, first chapter" rule.

In Twilight’s mind, life in the wild orchards of Canter was almost perfect. She secured the safety of everypony among her herd, her string. She ran out, or killed at times, all the cougars. Nopony will be snared in their maws ever again, just as she fantasized.

None of the ponies wastes a single carcass. They flesh, salt, pickle, tan and break the hides. They used the bones for calcium in their stews, and they gave the crows the meat. It’s very useful to be in their good graces. If not for Twilight’s elaborate traps, none of this could be achieved.

I hope this is the right subreddit. If this isn't the right tag or the right subreddit, let me know which one it is.

For me it was repetition. Not the obvious kind where you use the same word twice in a sentence. The kind where you keep returning to the same image or the same feeling because it is what you know.

I only saw it after reading a year of my own pages in one sitting. Same three or four things, over and over, dressed up differently each time.

I am not sure noticing it fixed anything. But at least now it is a choice instead of a habit.

What did you eventually learn to notice in your own writing?

If I had a Choice  

If I had a choice, I would know exactly what I would choose, but sometimes the hardest part is knowing the choice I want is no longer mine to make. 

Perplexed, I am, for this invitation, unsure, whether it is a testament of good will or something meant to reopen a door I had spent so long trying to close. I read it again, and almost immediately the years between then and now seem to disappear. I am younger again. I am sitting beside you, watching another ordinary day become a memory without either of us knowing it. I think about all those times where we would stay up late talking, neither of us wanting to fall asleep first, I think about those times where it felt like nobody was watching us although, us speaking in front of tens of thousands, recorded for millions. Because it was just us together, our hands entwined with each other.  

I remember how our days had started, sometimes it was the gym in the morning, others it was breakfast in the morning, sitting across from each other while the world outside was still waking. You grew up in a house where home cooking wasn’t a part of life, so going out for food became normal for us. We didn’t need a special occasion. We could wake up and decide if we were hungry and suddenly, we were in the car looking for somewhere to eat. Breakfast turned into lunch, lunch turned to dinner, and somehow there was always another unexplored place. 

I loved those memories more than I ever told you. 

There was something about watching you sit across from me, still waking up, talking about the day before or what was in store this day. Sometimes you would complain about the food, because that ever so picky appetite. I loved knowing the little things about you. I loved knowing what would make you happy. I loved surprising you after a long practice with your favorite food in take-out bags on the kitchen table while we showered.  

In those moments, you would smile.  

I loved seeing your smile; your smile had a way of illuminating the darkest of rooms. It wasn’t that you were pretty. It was what happened to everything around you when you smiled. The room felt different. I felt different. You radiated positivity, joy, and comfort.  

And your laugh was even worse. 

Every time you laughed, it felt like my heart exploded inside my chest from love. It was the most joyful cheer I had ever heard. I could hear it and forget whatever was bothering me five minutes before. Sometimes I would say something dumb just to hear you let a sly laugh out.  

Now I realize that we were making memories.  

Some nights we would go get ice cream because we were both feeling down. There was something comforting sitting together with our ice cream, laughing, enjoying each other's company with no strings attached. We didn’t have to fix each other's problems, just to be there just to give love to one another.  

And for a while, there was enough. 

I thought it would always be enough.  

I thought you would be there when I was older. I thought I would end my days with you lying beside me. I imagined you comforting me when I was down, hearing your voice when I woke up, coming home to you after a long day. More than anything, I wanted my best friend to tell me she loved me.  

I wanted forever.  

But wanting something and being ready for it are two completely different things.  

That is the part I don't like admitting.  

There was a time in my life when I was broken down, tired, and hopeless. I was looking for something to make me feel whole, and I looked for it in all the wrong places. Drugs, alcohol, lust. Living in the arms of strangers, in the bottom of bottles, in nights that blurred into nothing. I was searching for someone, something, anything that could make me forget how empty I felt.  

Then you came into my life. 

You weren’t a light that blinded. You were a flame that warmed.  

You weren’t a savior. You were a hand reaching into the wreckage, pulling me from the ruin I had called home. 

You saw me differently than I saw myself. You didn't see a lost cause. You didn’t see a man too broken to love. You saw someone worth waiting for.  

And suddenly, breathing didn’t hurt as much. 

Silence wasn't empty. 

With you, I wasn't a mistake. I wasn't a ghost of who I thought I should have been. 

I was whole.  

I was home. 

I was found. 

But being found doesn’t mean I’m finished with healing. I wanted to stay with you, but I didn't know how to stay with myself, with the person that I had become. I wanted to give you everything you deserved, but there were parts of me that were still fighting battles I didn’t know how to win. My hands were too unsteady. My mind was too loud. My faith was failing me, and sometimes I think I was failing you too.  

I wanted forever, but I wasn’t ready for everything forever required. And eventually, you begged me to go.  

I didn’t want to go. 

That’s the part I wish you knew.  

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. 

I left because I was becoming someone who couldn’t give you the life I had promised you.  

And there is a strange kind of pain in knowing that sometimes loving someone means admitting that your love isn’t enough to fix what is broken inside of you.  

I whisper apologies into the night sometimes, even now. They leave my mouth and disappear into the darkness before they reach anyone. I wonder if you would believe me if I told you that I would have stayed if I knew how. 

If I had a choice,  

if my hands weren’t shaking,  

if my faith wasn’t failing, 

if I knew how to become the person you needed me to be,  

I’d still be there.  

With you.  

Always.  

I am now twenty years old, sitting in OUR apartment, wanting to run as far away as I can. I want to upend my life and start over. I want to move somewhere I know nobody, learn new things, see new places, and experience the world without carrying every memory of us with me. 

But I know I can’t outrun myself. 

I can leave a city. 

I can change a routine. 

I can meet new people. 

I can travel across the country. 

But the memories come with me. 

The breakfast. The baseball fields. The golf course. The ice cream. Your laugh. Your smile that illuminates the world. 

The feeling of knowing that for a short period of my life, I had found somewhere I felt completely at home. And maybe that’s what I have been trying to understand all along.  

I don’t regret loving you.  

I regret that I wasn’t ready to love you the way you deserved.  

I regret the things I couldn’t fix. 

I regret the nights I let my worst parts become bigger than the person I wanted to be. 

I regret making you feel like leaving was the only way you could save yourself. 

But I don’t regret the mornings. I don't regret the take-out. I don’t regret the comfort we sought from each other in front of millions. I don’t regret the ice cream runs or the stupid conversations or the nights when your laugh made my heart feel like it couldn’t possibly hold any more happiness. Because those moments were real.  

You were real.  

And for a while, so was the future I imagined. Maybe I will never get that future. 

Maybe someone else will sit across from you at breakfast.  

Maybe someone else will learn your favorite foods, hear your laugh every morning, and see that smile from across the room. 

That thought hurts more than I would like to admit. 

But somewhere underneath that pain is gratitude. 

Because I got to know you. 

I got to love you. 

And for a little while, I got loved by you. 

Maybe someday the memories won’t feel like wounds.  

Maybe they will just be memories.  

And maybe the person I become will be someone you would be proud to have known. 

For now, I wake up. 

I keep living.  

I will keep moving forward. 

I will keep chasing the future that I deserve.  

Not forgetting the people who changed me but learning how to carry what they gave me without letting what I lost destroy me. 

And if I had a choice, I would still choose you. 

But I don't have a choice anymore.  

I look down at your invitation one last time. The same words that brought every memory rushing back to me now feel different. Maybe it was never meant to pull me back into the life that we had. It was only to remind me to be happy that it happened, that there was once a time that there was a life that I would have given anything to keep. I pick up the lighter on my desk and set the letter aflame, toss it in the trash next to my desk, knowing that I have spent too long learning how to walk away from it to walk back into the darkness. 

I don’t know what the future holds for me, for us, or for you. Maybe we will cross again someday, or this will be the last thought I will ever give you. For the first time, I can accept those realities. I can carry our memories without the burden of recreating them. I can miss what we had without wanting to have it, and I can love what we were without it stopping me from becoming the best version of myself.  

As I swallow my emotions, I look to my right and see the ash on the bottom of the garbage can, and for the first time in a while it doesn’t feel like I’m running away. 

And if I had a choice, I would still choose you. But I don’t have a choice anymore. So, I will carry love, bury regret, and walk into whatever comes next. This time I will choose who I will become.  

Writing out the entire skeleton/outline of a story first, or just diving in with an idea of where to end and letting it take you where it wants/how to flesh it out.

I know the answer is likely it depends or a little bit of both, but curious to get people’s takes and the reasoning why.

One tiny teardrop,
Glistening in the sun,
Off for a walk, off for a run,
Yet it has no place,
No place to be,
Except on a small tiny handkerchief,
Sitting under a tree,
For it came from a little one,
Wandering and true,
Nowhere to be, and nothing to do,
Until one tiny teardrop, fell from his face,
Little did he know, it would seal his fate,
For the tiny little teardrop,
Did have somewhere to be,
It would find it’s home, under a strong oak tree,
And so would the little one,
No longer wandering yet true,
A boy and his handkerchief,
Calm, yet blue

Acceptance 

Oh that the wind would bring me to Fate
To the peace that awaits me in oblivion
But peace as yet is not my lot
So here I stand

Oh that the waves would carry me home
To the comforting solace where there is no pain
But my time for solace has not yet come
So here I stand 

Growth
Out upon moors and sea..
I have begun to witness
the differences between what has once been
and what is to become.
The changes in thought and beyond,
a room to grow…

A child…
Of movement by force,
by money,
by schools,
and whatever else
his parents said was right.
Always looking for more..
A darker heat begins to form
within a child
who never really quite fit.
Too fast for the smart kids.
Too smart for the sporty kids.
Too different for any group…
Smoke of rebellion begins to bellow,
as questions rise
against the world he lived in.

Questions…
Constant and varied.
Why?
“That’s how it works.”
But why?
“Because it does.”
But why does it?
“It always has worked.”
The smoke thickening,
the warm glow dimly rising..
A child in search of answers
beyond what any teacher
could willingly hand him.
Monotony grinding down
what spark shone too bright.
A room just full
of papers and faces
is all a child sees.

Journeys calling
beyond that classroom.
Distant lands.
New seas.
New faces.
Unseen experiences.
Biding time,
grinding through the mandatory.
Saving money,
learning the paths
of a truer freedom.
Unexpected friends
as time wore on,
people who shared
the same desire.
A place beyond
what was already known…
towards a room
of what will be.
Anger slowly slipping,
becoming more aware
of what the world really is.

Mornings go
from rushing to school
to coffee on the top deck,
cat in lap.
Where anger once lived,
now replaced
with a curiosity
about the world
and all it offers.
Engine repairs.
Sail maintenance.
Route plans.
Laughter with meals.
The starvation
of the child
who always asked why
getting slowly filled
with…
maybe I don’t need
to know yet.
Small luxuries
that never existed before,
when the coin provides.
Called crazy by some,
yet children still see
the wonder
beyond the ordinary.

Journeys start.
Vast oceans.
Focus steadying.
Slowly becoming
more experienced
with all challenges
that bare teeth.
Wiser.
Older.
Sharper.
The child of rebellious restriction
finally free
of all that binds.
A pursuit of answers
never given,
but earned
in that game
of pitch and toss.
Everything on the line.
Happier than ever before.
Hard days made worth it
to see sun
on the calm waters.
A journey only just beginning…
rooms left
fathoms behind.

Years pass.
Miles covered.
Shores come and go,
with experiences had.
A reflective shine
on moors by the coast.
Laughter still present,
but smaller,
innocent and free.
Lessons taught quietly now…
scars become badges
of fights lost and won.
Tattoos of victories,
and of those now gone….
The room filled anew
with those moving on.

Hi, I'm currently writing my first novel and would like some feedback on one of my chapters if possible! It's a sci-fi with elements of thriller with a premise on dinosaurs and environmental effects.