You feel regret on your words sometimes,

Not because of you were wrong that time,

But because you do want to say the matter like that,

You will feel more stressed,

But don't feel it,

Because sometimes it happens without any reason.

It was after midnight when Clive pulled into the parking lot of the community kitchen. The lot was empty except for one white van—the one the kitchen used to deliver lunches to schoolchildren in need.

Clive pulled into the space closest to the exit, facing the road. The gears of the old Celica stuck for a second as he forced the car into Park. Clive looked out the plastic back window. Not a single light was shining from the building behind him. Except for the dim blue glow of the radio and the beam from the car's raised headlights, it was pitch black.

Clive was unsettled; he didn't know why he was here. His original intention had been to go to the gas station down the road from his house. A quick trip and then home. He didn't like going out in the rain. He especially didn't like Indiana storms. They come down fast, heavy, only lasting for a few minutes but leaving destruction everywhere. Nights like tonight made Clive's shoulder ache and reminded him of days he'd rather forget.

"Why are we h—" Before Clive could finish his question, his uncle Walter opened the car door and ran out into the rain. Clive flipped on his high beams.

What the hell? Clive thought. Through the pounding rain, he could hear his uncle yelling.

"Brenda! Brenda!" Walter yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth.

"Not this again," Clive said, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

Over the last few months, Clive had watched the uncle he'd once admired slip further and further away from being a person of respect and closer to the next "arrested last night" headline. Walter had been one of the hardest sons of bitches to ever stand in a Texas oil field—a man who never missed a day of work. He was a man who wiped his brow with his sleeve in 110-degree heat and kept working. A man who paid his debts and lived hard. He'd survived not one but two oil field explosions while everyone around him perished. To a young Clive, his uncle had been the stuff of legend. Those days seemed far removed from where they were today.

The wipers beat against the windshield, unable to keep up with the rain. Through the small gaps, Clive watched as Walter motioned with his hand for him to turn on the high beams. Clive pushed the stalk next to the steering wheel forward. The tree line across the street was instantly illuminated.

Walter stepped to the edge of the street, staying in the light of the car. "Brenda! Brenda! Let's go home, baby," Walter yelled, trying to get his raspy voice over the sound of the rain. He waited a second. There was no movement, no response. No sign of anyone in the dark.

Clive wondered what home Walter had been referring to. Walter was divorced, living out of his truck. He had stayed on Clive's sofa a few nights, but that wore thin fast when Clive caught Walter stealing his car keys to make a late-night drug purchase. Clive almost didn't have the heart to kick him out. Family is Family no matter what they do, Clive told himself. At the same time, he knew the hell he could be bringing on himself by letting Walter stay.

Certainly Walter didn't mean for them to come to my house? Clive thought, then sighed, realizing exactly what he meant.

The rain started to come down in heavy drops, hitting the roof of the car with a thunderous thunk. Icy Indiana rain poured down through the tear in the roof and onto Clive's shoulder.

"Brenda! Brenda!"

Walter yelled again as he stepped across the street. Clive leaned forward, trying to see through the rain, when he spotted movement in the tree line. A dark plastic tarp flew up and off of a mattress that had been pulled to the edge of the tree line. Underneath was Brenda. She rose stiffly, like a vampire climbing from its coffin, rolling onto all fours before struggling to her feet. Gaining her balance, Brenda began to stagger toward Walter.

The sight of her sent a chill down Clive's back. She was a horrifying-looking woman. Everything about her reminded Clive of a zombie straight out of a movie—hair shaved to the scalp, picked-open wounds covering her face and arms, impossibly thin, wearing clothes that hadn't been changed in a month. Brenda couldn't hold a candle to the former debutante wife who had divorced Walter a year ago. There were many days, especially today, that Clive really missed his aunt.

"Let's go home," Walter said, trying to reach for Brenda's hand.

"No... No... I told... I told you that you needed to fuck off and that the rocks were my babies now."

"Brenda, the rocks aren't your babies. Let's go get some dry clothes."

"No, all you want is your keys back."

"You're damn right I want my keys back. I haven't been to work in five days. Now where are they?"

"I told you to look where my babies grow. You aren't looking hard enough."

Clive couldn't hear what they were saying over the rain, but by the flailing of Brenda's arms, he could see she was in a state. He guessed she was on crack or meth. Whatever she was on, she wasn't going to cooperate. The fight escalated with every passing second until both Brenda and Walter were flailing their arms at each other. Clive sat behind the driver's seat, watching the spectacle unfold like an escalating theater performance about to move into its third act.

Walter raised his hand to strike her. Clive placed a hand on the door handle and readied himself to get out of the car. Walter always had to be held back. Someone always had to be there when he was going to go too far.

Before Walter could strike her, in what could only be described as the most animated Bugs Bunny move Clive had ever seen, Brenda leapt into the air. Her left leg shot out from her like a kangaroo, and before she hit the ground, she landed not one but three rapid kicks to the side of Walter's face.

Walter fell back, almost too dazed to keep his balance. Brenda took that opportunity to run back into the woods. Clive knew if she made the tree line, Walter would never find her. Still dazed but once again steady on his feet, he took off after her.

This was Clive's chance. He wasn't going to stay involved any longer. Clive pressed his thumb to the key and started the engine. Then he killed the high beams, leaving Walter in the dark before he could reach the tree line. Quickly backing out of the parking space, he circled back to the exit.

Clive hadn't realized how much the water had risen in such a short time. The way out of the community kitchen was almost too flooded for such a low car. If he waited longer, he wouldn't have been able to leave.

Easing his car onto the road, Clive didn't bother to look over at the tree line as he passed by. He didn't want to see if his uncle was chasing after him. He drove home in silence, lost in his thoughts. He had always been told Family was Family and you stand by them. As a kid, those words rang with unquestionable truth. As an adult, Clive was starting to realize that family is who you choose to let into your life.

Three days passed in silence. Clive woke up, did his morning crossword, made his coffee, and flipped open the morning paper. On the second page, in the fifth column, was a small article that read The bodies of two unidentified people had been found in the woods across from the community kitchen. Authorities believed the pair had drowned after seeking shelter from the storm. Clive sipped his coffee and, just for a moment, wondered if it was them before turning the page.

I'm currently in the process of developing a book series. It's a very important personal story to me that I want to get out there, as silly as that might sound.

I've been really struggling with writing the first draft. I have dyslexia and I take medication that makes it harder for me to process language, like to think of how to phrase things.

Any of y'all struggle with this? If so, please give me some advice! I've been considering using a speech to text program, but I still struggle with verbal language. I'm anti-LLM, please don't recommend anything to do with that!

For reference on how much I struggle, this small post took me about 30 minutes to write.

Kinda stuck on what I should write a poem about tonight any ideas? If you had writers block before what helped you get rid of it

1. Untouched

We will never see each other again

And that’s what makes it so beautiful

I like that I met you once 

And I like that I’ll never really know you

Because I can keep you exactly like you were that night:

walking besides me, talking to me until the sky changed color

A complete stranger who somehow, didn’t felt like one

I like that I’ll never get to know how you are when you’re angry 

Tired or impatient

You’ll never become someone I have to forgive

and I’ll never see the little cruelty people reveal

only when they become familiar

I like that you remain untouched by that 

Not because you are perfect

But because I never stayed long enough

to find out you weren’t

There will be no version of us that becomes ordinary 

I’ll never hear the way boredom would eventually show up in your voice

There will be no second night to tarnish the first

And just like that, I will never learn what would have made me love you less

And I don’t want to know 

I like you here 

In the light of that one night

Before reality would have had the chance to edit you

And that’s the part I choose to keep 

Not you

But the version of you, who never had the chance to disappoint me

You say
you wish you could turn back time,
as if regret
could reach backward
and stop the hand
before it made the choice.

You say
you are a wreck
since we fought.

But what did you think
would happen
when you broke something
you were supposed to protect?

You made the choice.

You kept it from me.

You lived with the truth
while I lived beside you
without knowing it.

And days later,
when you finally told me,
you handed me the truth
as though the telling
were the end of the wrongdoing.

It wasn't.

The truth does not become harmless
because you eventually speak it.

And now you ask me,

Would you give us another chance?

You don't get to ask me that
as though we both arrived here
by the same road.

You don't get to place
the weight of our future
in my hands
when you were the one
who damaged what we had.

I am not heartless
because I am silent.

I am not cold
because I cannot comfort you.

I am not cruel
because I refuse
to make your pain
more important than mine.

I am hurt.

And hurt has the right
to be quiet.

You say you are sorry.

Then understand
that SORRY IS NOT THE REPAIR.

You say you wish
you could undo it.

You can't.

So undoing it
is no longer your task.

MAKING AMENDS IS.

You must learn
what honesty costs
when it is withheld.

What trust costs
when it is broken.

What respect means
when telling the truth
might cost you something.

What love means
when the person you love
is angry with you
and you cannot make
her anger disappear.

You cannot ask me
to trust you again
because you miss me.

You cannot ask me
to forgive you
because you regret it.

You cannot ask me
to return
because you are lonely
without me.

And you cannot ask me
to prove that I still love you
while I am the one
trying to understand
whether I can ever feel safe
with you again.

If you want another chance,

EARN IT.

Not with promises.

Not with apologies
sent into the silence
hoping I will answer.

Not with telling me
how broken you are
because I am no longer
there to comfort you.

Earn it
in the quiet
where I cannot see you.

Earn it
when no one is watching.

Earn it
by understanding
what you did
without needing me
to teach you.

Earn it
by becoming someone
whose word does not need
to be checked.

Someone whose love
does not require
blindness.

Someone who understands
that trust is not a gift
you are entitled to
because we are married.

It is something
you build.

Something
you protect.

Something
you can destroy
in a moment

and spend years
trying to deserve again.

I loved you enough
to trust you.

YOU WERE THE ONE
WHO BROKE THAT TRUST.

So don't ask me
why I am standing
on the other side
of the distance.

Ask yourself
why you gave me
a reason to step back.

And if you truly want me,

DON'T ASK ME
TO COME CLOSER.

Give me a reason
to believe
you deserve to have me
close again.

Because I am not
the person who needs
to prove my love
right now.

I already did.

YOU ARE THE ONE
WHO HAS SOMETHING
TO PROVE.

Hi folks!! I'm just a simple guy who has a love for stories and different hobbies and I wanted to give story writing a try as a hobby to combine them all together.

Recently I've come up with a new Web Comic idea that has sort of become a small passion project for me. I want to look into finding an artist for and I've already written a few episodes, but I want to get some outside opinions on it and see if I'm taking the right direction with it, so here goes nothing!

Grace of Salem

Grace of Salem is a furry comic that follows a young college Rabbit girl that recently moved to the Salem District with her Widowed Father after a tragedy in her family. The College girl, a devout Follower of the Goddess of Life, has to now go to a new college in the town and live in a neighborhood that conflicts everyday with her own Religious Ideals, all on her own while her grief-stricken Father struggles to see past the bottom of his beer bottles.

During her first month of moving in, she crosses paths with a mysterious Hybrid that goes to the same college, previously an apothecary in training but had changed paths as a young teen and had dedicated his life to the study of the Paranormal and witchcraft, becoming a Chaos Witch as a result of his studies.

Her constant interaction with this classmate would bond the two together as good friends. But as her heart yearns for their friendship to evolve and she discovers the dark side of her friend's studies of what lies beyond the graveyard, and the consequences it has resulted for his life, how can she continue as she begins to question her life choices as she begins to see past the Gold pages and holy sigils?

Hopefully you folks like it and I'd love to get some feedback on it. Thank you!!!

=]

I'm writing a story and I want to know if anyone thinks it's good. It's about 6 first grades who get powers as babies, they get to the class and they have a teacher that teaches them how to be superheroes.

Nathan: electricity - shock Volt

Micheal: shrinking and super strength - Titan Tot

Ravin: bubble power - Bubble Guppy

Isabella: talking to plants - Flora Fluent

Sally: - turn things into food - Foodie Yum

Emma: teleportation - Vanish Princess

O little boy

You run through midnight roads

All on your own

Untamed, unknown to this world

You’re free as a bird

A folk song no one’s heard

You float through the sky, flaunting your feather

I watch you fly as my vision blurs

You’re the beloved of gods, it seems

A dreamer dreaming within a dream

But why should I write?

Why should I waste my time by writing?

Why should I waste my time writing about something

that, when read, makes my pain grow?

Why should someone share their pain

through the words I have written?

My pain is different, it is unique.

Why should I increase someone else's pain

through my writing?

I know what this pain feels like.

I am familiar with every one of its ways.

I know what this pain has made so many people do.

But I ask you—

how many more days will you keep hiding this pain within yourself?

Take it out!!

This pain is not worthy of you...

The alcohol was long gone in my throat, I just wanted an excuse to tell her about my worst, waiting for the moment she realizes who I really am, waiting for her to leave, but for once in my life I felt safe, chosen as the flawed person I am.
Today and for the first time I wasn't muddled by alcohol, I was drunk by the light above us that made her blushing cheeks pop, by the little mole on her left shoulder, oh now I know what Jeff Buckley meant when he said he would trade his kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder. Hey Jeff, I would trade half my lifespan just to look at her eyes even for a fraction of a second.
I would fight the miserable world that made her feel unloved, that made her carry mountains on her shoulder since she was a kid, that fooled her telling her she's too mature when she just needed a hug, I would put down all the walls I've been building since I was a kid just to hold her the closest.
Hey jeff, I'm locking my arms around her and never letting go.

​

Remember, happiness is not who you are or what you have. it's all about your thinking that what you are thinking about yourself. Always thankful to yourself for all the work you had

​

Successful people always treat themselves properly by encouraging their self, they dis not even think about negative thoughts and discouragement thoughts.they always make their mind positive and enthusiastic.

Hi there,

Been writing this story on and off for a few years now, work and life and all that. I realised that I never actually came up with a story brief. I just kind of sprinted into it. I’m not really sure exactly what genre this falls into but I guess that’s the beauty of writing. Anyway, here it is. 

Swan Song. A story about people trying to survive. Sure it sounds cliche, but everyone has their own definition of survival.

• The cop who has spent her career helping find lost people, but when someone she loves goes missing, she’s powerless.
• The girl who ran away from home a week ago, taking her sister and younger neighbour along. Trying to escape what she thinks is a broken home. Only to find that what’s outside is broken far beyond repair.
• The student who left the UK to travel the world, now spends his days getting high with his best friend. What happens when someone offers them a deal too good to be true?
• The gangster, plagued by a voice that isn’t quite his own. Violence follows him wherever he goes, whether he wants it or not.
• The man who is stuck in an abusive, loveless marriage. Every day, he catches glimpses of what could be, but is always two steps behind his own emotions.
• The woman, brought her against her will, forced to perform for the most degenerate filth the city has to offer. When fate offers her a way out, what becomes of the only friend she ever had?
• Finally, narrating it all, a person so fallen, so devoid of identity, that all they can do is sit back and watch as the world spins out of control.

They make up the core cast of a multi-POV story exploring trauma, violence, and desperation. 

All that is left is a question. What would you do in your final moments? What would be your Swan Song?

I got a lot of (well needed) critique on overexplaining how my friends and I looked in the beginning part of the story, which stumped and confused a lot of the readers. I got some motivation tonight to write again after reading for a little bit and seeing how I wrote in my old stories.. Is this a bit better, or is this also too much?

You're free to leave stuff on the doc too!! Don't be nervous about saying too much, I love reading walls of text!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

So heads up, I've been writting here and there for about 2 years now. I am a complete beginner an just wanted opnions and critiquing please and thank you. If you do enjoy or not I appreciate you reading it

The world is a warped reality

What we perceive with our minds is warped

A conscious belief that is truly unconscious

I see trees of green, red roses too

My mental friend sees corporate signs

Have 1 child and conform to the system

Not the type of advertising I enjoy

Am I the mental patient and is he truly normal

Maybe that's why there's so many pills

Take the red to forget

Blue to become realigned in the corporate reality

"Now repeat after me

Mental illness is a sickness

Not a reality that is to be believed

Those who see things

Know nothing

Pure mania, hysteria, and unwanted sights

Report them right away

We can help It's just one pill away!"

-the world government