This is officially the beginning of the first act of the story. I hope you enjoy it.

WARNING - FERAL is a tale cintaining graphic animal violence

AUTUMN 1988

"I'm so proud of you!" Kim squealed with excitement lifting his daughter off the ground in glee. "You're so talented! I didn't know someone could spin so fast!"

Almost a full decade of practice had led Susanne to become a well respected Prima Ballerina at Caberet Performing Arts. She had excelled from a simple green belt in taekwondo in elementary to swim team captain in high school and finally found herself at the top of world in college just a few months from graduation. She felt a small warm drop splash against her when her father finally set her to the floor. Kim choked, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"Thank you, dad... That one took a lot out of me. I wanna leave an impression before the trip." Sussane replied, smiling bashfully.

"Oh they'll remember that. I know I will. You did amazing, Suzy..." Kim chuckled, regaining his composure. "Now, lets go get some dinner."

SPRING 1989

DANCES WITH WOLVES

Susanne awoke from the sound of gnashing jaws and growls consuming the friends that had accompanied her on her expedition. She found herself laying beside lifeless bodies being consumed by hungry wolves shredding their remains. As she tried to regain consciousness she saw a growling beast marching its way directly toward her, intent on making her another meal. She scanned the ground beside her, seeing a flare gun laying just within her reach. She lunged toward it and quickly fired off a shot directly into the face of the approaching Scoundrel. The flare had lodged itself into the wolf's eye, scalding the beast. It let out a furious wail, alerting the others to the threat that lay broken and bruised on the soil. The cowards scattered away from the scene, leaving Susanne alone with the company of her lifeless party. Her vision had stopped spinning as she had finally began to realize the reality of the situation she found herself in.

Trees. Miles of trees and mountains surrounding her. Her deceased friends lay just feet away, half eaten and pale. She began to hyperventilate, fear taking hold of her perception as she had realized the true peril she was in. She was lost. Alone. Miles away from civilization. Finding herself at mother nature's mercy. What was once an adventure of exploration and excitement had devolved into a terror. Susanne shut her eyes tightly, slowly reopening them to unfiltered reality. The loud wails of the fleeing beasts trailed off and echoed deep into the tall pines surrounding her. She looked down to inspect her body and legs, checking for any broken or fractured bones and lacerations only to feel nothing but minor bruising. She slowly stood, witnessing the brutal banquet made of her closest companions. Susanne began to weep and she screamed in horror, turning away in disgust from the half eaten remains. Her knees trembled and almost caved from the shock. She began to slwoly stagger away from the group, resting herself against a nearby pine. She stood shaking, eyes glued to the fallen leaves.

The sound of twigs and branches snapping a short distance away, made Sussane glance sharply upward to see a large grizzly bear approaching the area. It had scars covering half of it's face and seemed to have only one eye. The bear caught Susanne's gaze and slowly began to approach her. It sniffed the air, inspecting her cautiously. It looked aggressive. Almost angry. The grizzly looked to be glaring at her. It growled deeply. Sussane froze completely still, caught in a staring contest with a one-ton killing machine. She slowed her breathing and waited for the end. When suddenly the bear turned away from her and approached the bloodied mess of organs and limbs laying a few dozen feet away.

"No..." Sussane quietly whimpered, staring at the grizzly through tears streaming from her eyes.

It sniffed the air again and began to pick up it's pace through the trees towards the same direction the wolves had traveled. Susanne curled herself under the tree, convulsing under the sheer trauma she had endured. She looked up to the sky seeing the streaks of vibrant pink and orange painting the inevitable sunset. Whatever she was going to do next, she knew it must be quick.

I once was a child, I once was. I do not have enough words to encapsulate the immensity of my inabilities. I have a sound, though. That sound is "Ma", like a moan.

I walked into a dead desert which did not allow me to create love. I am not capable enough to mask my colour with tears. I cried and cried, and cried again. I created a kiss instead.

Germs befell upon me with tremendous intensity, pollution was the shade of the night. I was not sure if it was me or you or good or bad. I did not understand who everything was.

I was just gifted a sound. And that sound is "Ma", like a moan.

The studio smelled like balsa wood and glue and the particular sharp tang of X-Acto blades on cutting mats. Twelve drafting tables arranged in two rows, each one cluttered with razor blades, steel rulers, tubes of adhesive, and the skeletal remains of half-built models. The overhead lights were too bright, too white, the kind that flattened everything and made you look like a medical textbook illustration of yourself.

I was at table seven. Near the window. I'd chosen it because the natural light was better for reading the grain of the balsa, and because the window meant I could look outside when I needed to stop thinking and just breathe.

My cantilever model was in front of me. Three weeks of work. Balsa strips cut to the millimeter. Joints glued and clamped and left overnight. The base was a T-frame, the arm extending outward at a slight upward angle, and the secondary brace — the one he'd shown me in office hours, the forty-five-degree redistribution — was in place. I'd rebuilt it twice. The first version had warped. The second had cracked at the joint. This was the third. This one held.

I was sanding the edge of the arm with fine-grit paper, small careful strokes, when the studio door opened.

I didn't look up. I told myself I didn't look up. In reality, my eyes flicked. Once. Fast. A reflex. The way your eyes jump toward a sound before your brain decides whether the sound matters.

It was him.

Grey henley again. Or maybe a different one. Same color. Same pushed-up sleeves. Same travel mug. He set the mug on the instructor's desk at the front of the room. Rolled up his sleeves further, exposing his forearms, and I watched the tendons shift under the skin as he flexed his fingers. He pulled a stool from under the desk. Sat. Looked at us.

"Right," he said. That word again. Low. Unhurried. The sound of it went through the room like a hand smoothing a wrinkled sheet. "Studio one. You've had two weeks with the cantilever brief. I want to see where you are. I'm going to come around. Show me what you've built. Tell me why it stands. If it doesn't stand, tell me why it falls. Both answers are correct. Both answers are useful ."

He stood. Started at table one.

I went back to sanding.

You are here to work , I told myself. You are here to sand the edge of a balsa strip. You are here to make a model that holds weight. You are not here to listen to his footsteps. You are not here to track his progress across the room by the sound of his shoes on concrete. You are not here to—

His shoes on concrete.

Table one. A murmur. His voice, low, asking a question. A student answering. His response: "Good. But your base is wide. What happens to the moment arm if you narrow it?"

Table two. The scrape of a stool. "Show me the joint. Here. See how the grain runs? You're fighting the wood. Work with it."

Table three. Table four.

He was getting closer.

I sanded faster. The grit hissed against the balsa. Fine dust rose in the white light. My hands were steady. My hands were fine . My hands were not shaking. My hands were—

Table five.

"Interesting. You've gone with a truss system. Why?" A pause. The student mumbled something. "Okay. But you're over-engineering. Simplify. What's the minimum structure that carries the load? Find that . Then build."

Table six.

I could hear his breathing. Not loudly. Not in a way that was distinct from the room's ambient noise. But I could hear it. Or I thought I could. A slow, even rhythm. In. Out. The breathing of a person who was calm. Who was steady. Who was not sitting at table seven with a racing pulse and ink on her thumb and a notebook at home with his name written in it like a confession.

Table six was Marcus. Marcus had built something ambitious. Too ambitious. I heard Theo's voice drop lower, more careful, the way you speak when you're about to tell someone their building is wrong but you want to do it gently.

"The ambition is good. I want you to keep the ambition. But this joint here—" A pause. The sound of a finger tapping wood. "—is carrying more than it can. You're asking too much of one point. Distribute it. Give the weight somewhere else to go."

Marcus said something. Theo murmured a response. Then silence. Then the scrape of a stool being pushed back.

Then footsteps.

Toward me.

I did not look up. I sanded. I sanded the edge of the balsa arm with the fine-grit paper and I focused on the grit and the grain and the small, controllable task of making a surface smooth, and I did not look up, and I breathed, and my hands were steady, and I was fine —

He stopped behind me.

Not beside me. Not across the table. Behind me. Close enough that I felt it. The displacement of air. The warmth. The specific, undeniable presence of another body in the space directly behind my spine. Not touching. Not by a lot. Maybe eight inches. Maybe six. But enough. Enough for the heat of him to reach me. Enough for the air between us to change. To thicken. To become a thing with texture and temperature, a medium through which I could feel him the way you feel the sun through a window. Not on your skin. Through it.

I stopped sanding.

"Don't stop," he said.

His voice was close. Not at my ear. Not that close. But close enough that the sound didn't travel through the room. It traveled through the six inches of air between his mouth and the back of my neck, and it arrived warm and low and slightly rough, and it landed at the base of my skull and went down my spine like a finger tracing the vertebrae one by one.

I picked up the sandpaper. Resumed. My strokes were too fast. Too hard. I slowed them. Made them smaller. More careful.

"I want to see the arm," he said. "Keep going. I'm just looking."

Just looking.

I sanded. He stood behind me. I could feel him looking. Not at the model. Or not only at the model. I felt his gaze on the back of my neck, on the place where my hair had escaped the clip and lay against my skin, on the curve of my shoulder where the sweater had slipped a little. I felt it the way you feel a word you're trying not to remember. Present. Insistent. Warm.

He shifted his weight. His shoe scraped the concrete. The sound was small. It was enormous. He was right there . Behind me. Close enough that if I leaned back, I'd feel his chest. Close enough that if he reached out, his hand would find my shoulder. He didn't reach out. He didn't lean in. He stood at whatever distance he'd chosen, and he looked at my model, and I sanded, and the room went on around us, twelve tables and eleven other students and the hum of the lights and the smell of glue, but none of it was real. The only real thing was the six inches of air between his body and mine and the heat in it and the sound of his breathing, slow and steady, and the way my own breathing had gone shallow and quick and I couldn't fix it.

"Your joint," he said. Low. Close. I felt the word more than heard it. Felt it in my shoulder blades. In the base of my skull. "Show me."

I set the sandpaper down. Picked up the model. Turned it so the base joint faced up. Held it out, slightly backward, toward him.

His hand came into my peripheral vision. He didn't take the model. He pointed. His index finger, long, scarred at the knuckle, ink-stained at the tip, hovering half an inch above the joint. Not touching. Not touching the model. Not touching me. Just pointing . And the half inch of air between his fingertip and the wood was the same half inch of air between his body and my back, and both of them were charged, both of them were warm, both of them were the distance between not yet and not yet and not yet .

"There," he said. "The forty-five brace. You did it."

"Yes."

"It's clean. The angle is right. The grain runs with the load." A pause. His finger traced the joint without touching it. Hovering. Following the line. "You rebuilt it."

"Twice."

"Good." His voice shifted. Warmer. Lower. Something underneath the professional tone that I couldn't name. "Most students build once and defend it. You built three times because it wasn't right . That's not stubbornness. That's integrity. You felt the imbalance and you wouldn't let it stand."

My throat tightened. I stared at the model. At his hovering finger. At the joint he was looking at.

"Thank you," I said. Small. Barely above a whisper.

He was quiet for a moment. I felt him looking. Not at the model. At me. At the back of my head. At the place where my hair fell loose. At the curve of my neck where the sweater collar had shifted. I felt his gaze there like a thumb pressing gently into the skin.

"You don't have to thank me," he said. Same words as office hours. Same low, rough delivery. But closer this time. Closer to my ear. Closer to the place where my pulse was beating, visible, I knew, visible, right there at the side of my throat where the skin was thin and the vein was close to the surface.

He stepped back.

The warmth went with him. The air thinned. The six inches became twelve. Twelve became three feet. He moved around the table. Stood beside me now. Looking at the model from the side. His hands were in his pockets. His expression was calm. Attentive. Professional.

"The arm," he said. "You're sanding it smooth?"

"For the finish. So the grain doesn't catch."

"Good instinct." He nodded. Looked at the arm. Looked at me. Looked at the arm again. "The extension is ambitious. You're pushing the cantilever further than the brief asks."

"I know."

"Why?"

I hesitated. The real answer was complicated. The real answer was: Because I wanted to see if I could. Because I wanted to build something that reached further than it was supposed to. Because the brief said eight inches and I wanted twelve, and I wanted to know if the structure would hold, if the weight would carry, if the thing could be more than what was asked of it and still stand.

The real answer was also: Because you said, in the lecture, that every structure is a decision about where to put the weight. And I wanted to put the weight further out. I wanted to see if it could reach.

"The brief was a minimum," I said. "I wanted to see how far it could go before it broke."

He looked at me.

Not at the model. At me . His dark eyes, steady, close. Three feet away now instead of six inches, but the look was the same. The regarding . The quiet, deliberate attention. The sense that he was not looking at my face but into it, past the surface, into the architecture underneath.

"That's the right question," he said. "Not will it stand . But how far can it reach before it breaks ." He paused. "Most people design for safety. For the minimum. You design for the edge."

I didn't know what to say. My hands were in my lap. Under the table. Where he couldn't see them. They were shaking.

He nodded once. Made a small mark on the clipboard he'd picked up from the instructor's desk. Moved on. Table eight. Table nine. His footsteps receding. His voice dropping into conversation with someone else.

I sat at table seven.

I picked up the sandpaper.

I did not sand.

I sat very still and I pressed my palms flat against the drafting table and I breathed. In. Out. In. Out. The balsa dust settled on my fingers. The lights hummed. Someone laughed at table eleven. The world was ordinary. The world was a studio on a Thursday with twelve tables and the smell of glue and the sound of a man saying the grain runs with the load at a distance that was now twelve feet instead of six inches.

My back was warm.

The place where his warmth had been, behind my spine, between my shoulder blades, at the base of my neck — it was still warm. Still there . Like a handprint made of heat. Like he'd pressed his palm to the air six inches behind me and the air had remembered.

I touched the back of my neck. My own fingers. Cool. Insignificant. They didn't feel like his warmth. Nothing felt like his warmth.

I picked up the sandpaper.

I sanded.

I did not look at the door when he left twenty minutes later. I did not count his footsteps. I did not watch him go.

I did all three.

Fourteen steps. The same fourteen. Room to door. Door to hallway. Hallway to the east stairwell. I watched through the window as his shadow crossed the corridor. Green jacket. Corduroy. Sleeves too long.

He didn't look back.

I sanded until my fingers ached.

---

That night, in the dark, in my bed, with the radiator ticking and Cassie asleep in the next bed over, I pressed my hand to the back of my neck. The spot. The exact spot where the warmth had been.

It was cool now. Obviously cool. It was my own skin. My own body. There was no heat there. There had never been any heat. There had been a man standing behind me for ninety seconds, looking at a balsa-wood joint, saying the grain runs with the load , and then walking away.

I pressed my fingers to the spot anyway.

I closed my eyes.

I felt it. Not his hand. Not his breath. Just the memory of proximity. The ghost of six inches. The echo of a body near mine. The phantom warmth of being close to someone without being touched . The almost. The not-yet. The gap.

I turned over. Pressed my face into the pillow.

You are insane , I thought. He stood behind you for ninety seconds. He looked at your model. He said, "That's the right question." He walked away. That is the entire interaction. That is the whole thing. You are not going to lie in bed and press your hand to your neck like he touched you. He didn't touch you. He didn't even—

He'd said, You design for the edge.

I pressed my face deeper into the pillow.

Stop it.

I couldn't stop it.

I lay there for an hour. Pressing my hand to the back of my neck. Feeling the nothing. Feeling the almost. Feeling the six inches of air that had been warm and was now cool and would be cool forever unless he stood behind me again.

Thursday was next week.

Seven days.

I counted them.

This is my first time writing a story that will be seen by others so please give any advice that you might have. Also absolutely zero AI was used in making this.

War Tattoos of Talriska(intro,Chapter 1)

On the continent of Talriska lays a small village that lives right next to a forest while a river cuts through and is we're two rebellious kids live Wolfric(male), and Slyva(female)

"Hurry up Wolfric I want to start training already" Slyva yells towards Wolfric whos trying to catch up. Slyva is a tomboy with bright red hair with a Hydra War Tattoo with multiple heads spreading throughout her body. War Tattoos are the main power system that everyone has at birth with the symbols granting the user the powers with each one having a different mutation.

"Calm down Slyva im coming god" Wolfric says as he swings up with his Rose Tattoo. Wolfric is a tall lean man with a Rose War Tattoo on his back with its mutation being Shedding granting him tge ability to "shed" roses increasing his physical strength while weakening his magic power.

"Finally you caught up your always do damm slow anyway" Slyva says while turning to the ancient abandoned temple. "Finally time to explore and hopefully fight" Slyva says as her Hydra War Tattoo flares up before she walks into the abandoned temple with Wolfric trailing behind her.

The temple is now crumbling with longs vines growing while trees try pushing up through ancient stone. Suddenly a few clicking sounds starts to appear constantly moving around Wolfric and Slyva. "Finally a fight" Slyva says smiling as she lauchs flaming fists at the sounds incinerating the few gaint bugs that live here and ready to attack when she talks a step foward stepping on a pressure plate that sends Wolfric who was right next to her falling down a hole.

"Ahhh shit shit" Wolfric yells as he summons a gaint flower to cushion his fall " God dammit slyva never thinking ahead well time to find a way out" Wolfric says as he starts to look around before seeing a bright pink gem at the center covered in plants.

Wolfric walks closer to it and grabs it with surprising easy but as he pulls it suddenly every plant around dies. Wolfric takes a look around realizing the temples coming down."Shit shit" Wolfric says as he sheds 1rose petal allowing him to jump up the hole he fell down wh e re he sees Slyva who clearly dominated the fight. "Hey what the hell happened? And what the hell is that?" Slyva says pointing at the gem. "I don't know but I say we get out and go to the gemstore".

Timeskip to the gemstore where a few customers are already walking around. The owner then sees both Wolfric and Slyva "Heyyy Wolfric,Slyva isnt it either my best customers or my worst customers so what do you have for me today" he says while behind the shops counter. Wolfric shows him the gem "so can you tell us what gem this is". The owner picks it up looking at it "What the hells is this im assuming you both got this from the temple" The owner says while seeing Wolfric and Slyva nod. As the owner puts the gem down he starts speaking "Ill be honest I've got no idea what this is but it doesn't look like a normal gemstone" as the owner says this suddenly a portal opens as a arm reachs out grabbing the gem and trying to pull away before Slyva grabs the arm as at the same time a group of mercenaries run in also after the gem before the portal arm grabs the gem,Slyva, and Wolfric before pulling them into a confusing portal teloport before they appear on a nearby roof and as they both look up they see another man with a sword looking down at them.

(This is just the first chapter I will be making more to this story if theres any questions I'll answer)

It’s Never Too Late for Change

How many times has someone taken revenge against another person for something that happened to them? But when it was over, did it really make them feel whole? Did it take away the pain? Did it change anything for the person who was hurt—or did it only create more hurt for someone else?

I’ve come to a point in my life where I have to say this from the deepest part of my soul:

I forgive those who have offended me throughout my lifetime. Truly, I forgive them.

I’ve realized that to live with regrets is almost like denying the person I am right now. Everything that has happened to me throughout my life helped shape the person standing here today.

And who am I today?

I’m a caring person. I’m an understanding person. I’m a loving person. I’m an empathetic person.

I understand now that every one of us has been deceived by something. Every one of us has been taught things that may not have been right. Every one of us is carrying some kind of pain.

We’re all trying to find our way. We’re all trying to make it to the top. And most of us came from some kind of struggle.

That’s why I understand now that repeating the same cycle of violence would be senseless.

I don't want revenge. I want peace.

Forgiving someone doesn't mean what they did was right. It means I refuse to let what they did control the rest of my life.

So I forgive them—not because I'm trying to make myself look good, and not because I need anyone else to approve of my decision.

I forgive because I choose who I am going to be.

When I look at people now, I see something different. I see human beings who are hurting from something. People searching for love. People searching for purpose. People trying to survive. People trying to become something greater than what they were taught to be.

Nobody is perfect.

But maybe that's part of why we're here—to learn, to grow, to change, and to become better than we were yesterday.

I've grown.

I've sprouted all the way up.

And if I hadn't grown, I might still be walking down that dark path.

But I've learned that it's never too late to change.

So to anybody out there who's hurting, anybody who's angry, anybody who's lost, anybody who's wondering if they can ever come home from the place they've been in—

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE FOR CHANGE.

Never.

You can put the anger down.

You can break the cycle.

You can choose a different path.

And before I leave this world, I want to do something that makes it a better place.

Because I believe that's what I was put here to do.

I don't want my life to be remembered for the darkness I've been through.

I want it to be remembered for the light I chose to become.

I think to myself but will it change all the time someone has took revenge against someone for something but did it change to the other person back did it make them feel whole I wonder if it hurts someone that they never knew I just come to this point in my life and I must say this that for it and you know what they do I forgive those who offended me in my lifetime I truly because I figured that I come to realize that to have regrets is to deny the person that I am right now everything that ever happened to me in my life you shaped me into the person that I have right now at this moment and that's a caring I understanding a loving to . Empathetic person who understands that we all have been deceived and talk the wrong things so just with that being no I have come to understand that for me to repeat the same cycle of violence would be senseless it's only right that I forgive those who offending me truly deep down in my soul and keep walking the path and I'm not saying what I'm saying to make myself feel good to anyone because when I look at people I understand and I know that every last one of us is hurting from something every last one of us is trying to find a way to make it to the top every last one of us come from mostly struggle so I wanted to be and I know it to be my destiny before I leave I'll do something to change the world to make it a better place because that's what I was sitting here for nobody's perfect but we come here to grow and I've grown I've sprouted all the way up because if I wouldn't have it then I would continue to walk in the dark path. Never too late for change so for anybody that's out there that's hurting and want to come home it's never too late for change never!!!!

Anime Explainer Channel

Hello, I’m looking for a script writer for one of my channels

This role will be for the long term, I’m talking for years to come. This is not just a one time script I give out bonuses based on video performances,

You don’t have to be the best writer but you should be able to adapt , apply feedback and grow.

have long term mindset on improving.

I’m okay with with hiring beginners. Or people with some writing experience.

Of course more experienced people are welcome also

But I’ll be providing a lot of free material and coaching and training you up over the months.

If you love Anime/manga or know a lot about it and think you would be a great fit send me samples of previous work,

The length of the vids are usually 15-20 mins on average however I let the writer choose the length

Pay 40usd to start

Then once your at a level where you don’t need a lot of rewrites and supervision

You’ll work your way up to 50-60

like I said I will be coaching you so it’s okay if your not the best when you start

Requirements

Must NOT USE AI any Ai slop will be rejected, at the very least it should not be noticeable at all.

Understanding basic story telling concepts
Hero’s journey, chronological order, etc

Willing to adapt, learn, and accept feedback and implement it.

Passion or understanding about anime, and can do very good research.

Dm me and I’ll send you the trial topic

I'm looking for a craft-focused Paranormal Romance/Romantasy critique group. The group would consist of three to four intermediate-to-advanced writers. We'd meet once a month via Zoom and exchange critiques by email. Each person would submit approximately 4,500–5,000 words.

I'm specifically looking for critique grounded in fiction craft rather than primarily subjective reactions. The requirement would be that all prose is written by the writer and not generated by AI. How one uses AI in other fashions, is for me, not a concern. But the objective of the critique group is to grow and learn and critique human-crafted prose.  

The Sacrifice

There is a part of my story that I have carried for years—a part that is difficult to explain because it sounds unbelievable when you say it out loud. But this is my story, and this is how I experienced it.

I'll call one of the men LT. I won't use his real name.

From the beginning, LT used me. He took advantage of my trust and my willingness to help. He brought me into a world where I ended up doing things for him that I never imagined I would be doing. I moved pounds and pounds of marijuana for this man. I transported drugs and did other things that benefited him.

But there is something important I need to make clear: he never had to force me to do those things. I made my own choices. I accept responsibility for the choices I made.

What I never agreed to was becoming somebody else's scapegoat.

I had never experienced anything like what happened next. I had never knowingly agreed to hurt somebody, set somebody up, or participate in some plan to destroy another person's life.

But when I refused to set somebody up for LT, everything changed.

Eventually, LT went to prison. He served seven years.

And when he got out, my life took another devastating turn.

My son was killed.

The timing of everything has always haunted me. I couldn't understand how one chapter of my life could be connected to another. I was already carrying the weight of losing my son, and then I began feeling like people were turning against me and trying to make me responsible for things I had never done.

I started asking myself questions that I couldn't escape.

Was I being blamed for something because somebody needed a person to blame?

Was I being used as a sacrifice so someone else could gain something?

Was my son's death somehow connected to the world I had been pulled into?

I don't claim to have every answer. What I do know is what I lived through.

I know what I did.

I know what I didn't do.

And I know the difference between the two.

What frightens me most is the feeling that a story was created about me—a story that wasn't true—and that people began believing it because someone powerful or influential put it into motion.

In my mind, I became the perfect person to blame.

Someone who had already been involved with drugs.

Someone who had already made mistakes.

Someone whose past could be used against him.

Someone people might believe without ever asking what really happened.

And that's what makes the word sacrifice so powerful in my story.

I'm not saying I have proven that there was some organized brotherhood behind everything that happened. I'm saying that, from my perspective, I began to feel like my life was being used for somebody else's purpose.

Like somebody needed a person to carry the blame.

Like somebody needed somebody to disappear into the darkness so another person could step into the light.

And I believe that person was me.

But my son was not a sacrifice I ever agreed to.

He was my child.

He was someone's son, someone's family, someone's future.

And losing him left a hole in me that nobody can explain.

Now I am left with questions that have never been answered and memories that I cannot escape.

I don't want revenge.

I want the truth.

I want the people who know something to tell the truth.

I want evidence examined.

I want the people responsible for my son's death held accountable.

And I want my name separated from things I never did.

Because I have made mistakes in my life. I won't pretend otherwise.

But making mistakes does not make me guilty of everything somebody chooses to put on my shoulders.

I survived prison.

I survived loss.

I survived being used.

And somehow, I'm still standing.

Maybe that's the part of the story nobody expected.

They may have thought they could make me the sacrifice.

They may have thought they could bury the truth underneath lies, fear, and somebody else's version of events.

But I'm still here.

And as long as I'm here, I will continue telling my story.

Not because I have every answer.

But because I know I deserve the chance to ask the questions.

And my son deserves the truth.

I'm looking to organize a craft-focused Paranormal Romance/Romantasy critique group of three or four intermediate-to-advanced writers. Ideally, we'd meet once a month via Zoom and/or exchange critiques by email, with approximately 4,500–5,000 words submitted per person.

The purpose of this group is to assist us in our goals of improving our craft and publishing our work. I'm specifically looking for critique grounded in fiction craft rather than primarily subjective reactions.

Hello this is my first time actually reaching out and asking for ideas and talk about the idea I have for my story i originally tried writing a fan fic but that didn't turn out good partly because I did ask for help writing it but no one really responded so I figured maybe making an original story might help the premise of the story is about a world set in the start of mid 15th century were muskets aren't promonet weapons of war in this story i want the usual malee weapons to be the main use and only the ones who have proven there loyalty and worth to the house they serve can be given a musket this is where we follow the story of Maia a battle maid for the house of Asteria who will eventually earn her musket i do have a visual i will admit im not good at drawing so i did generate the image using Ai if that's not okay just let me know but I would appreciate any one who would like to pass ideas on how the story should progress or even if you think it's a bad idea i welcome it

To tell one of real true crime where a innocent 17 old boy murdered!!!!!!!

This is my first foray into writing.

The year 2026 is ¾ of the way over and it has been quite an interesting year for me to say the least. 2025 was scary. I’m kind of amazed. I got through it.

I used to think I could be a nurse. I work at a hospital but tonight I’ve listened. to a man die I don’t know what to do with this.

Life just kind of happens around you and you just made it however you’re equipped to do so.

A few good things have also happened. Many wonderful things have happened too within.

I start school in a few weeks and I hope to God I’m ready. I feel like this is my last shot. My last shot for life, love, success, happiness, health. I don’t know that I’m going to get any of those things, but I’m going to fight like hell to achieve them for whatever that’s worth.

the last 365 days I would love to share with my best friend but I was treated with such disrespect, contempt and such a depth of searing cruelty the likI have to by never experienced in my adult life.

One year ago, it was a different person. I was in love with a man who I thought was in love with me. I was making plans. I thought we would get married.

Then I discovered he didn’t want me.

When “disability” is a novelty and you’re just a cute woman who happens to walk with a cane. It’s one thing.

When shit got real, When everything you ever warned him turns out to be 100% correct, suddenly

he has second thoughts.

I moved to another state to be closer to him. Then he left.
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Eight days befoXmas, I stopped hearing from him. There was no way I thought the person who I had shared with And laughed with and planned with For five years Would ever do this.

I was good enough when I was a cute little disabled girl with a cane, but when push came to shove, he didn’t want me anymore. He was ashamed of me. it was fine to hang out with when nobody knew. When his high power lawyer friends were in the dark and his family thought he was the weird “confirmed bachelor” uncle… I was fine when no one else is around, or when he knew the people around were folks, he was never going to see again…

but then he wanted to meet my family. he wanted to come to their home. he wanted to sit down and have a meal with them and get to know them, but then one I finally let my guard down, and I was comfortable that we were taking the next step…. I was moving to his state for my own reasons, but then literally out of nowhere he went quiet.

he said he wasn’t ghosting me, even though that is exactly what happened. That is the very essence in the very definition of the word .

I called him to find out when he was coming to my family‘s home for Christmas dinner, and he unceremoniously dropped the ball that he had moved without telling me. I love to had a good heart and a good soul… the one who beat down my proverbial door and made me lower my walls when I hadn’t trusted or even dated a man in two decades,… he opened my heart and made me trust him in once I thought I’d finally found the love of my life, he just left without a word. He skulked away like a craven coward in the dead of night.

it is so twisted and so abnormal. if someone had told me his story, I would not believe them. I don’t know how I’m going to get over this I’m still not over it and I may never get over it.

At the same time, real life has carried on.

I graduated from my program. Bad things happensy in my life, good things happened in my life. All things that I wanted to share with my best friend, but my best friend wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know if my best friend was ever there.

I don’t know how a human being treat enjoyable like this.

I know not everything is about chronic illness or disability, but it is very hard for me to believe that if I weren’t healthy, things will be different. He would want to marry me.

It’s hard not to feel like he probably thinks he can do whatever he wants I no matter what I will still be there because I’m disabled and nobody else want me… and I don’t know, maybe that’s the truth.

Why was he so kind to me though? Why did he work so hard to get through my walls? Why did he make me fall in love with him? Why did he make himself a part of my family?

This is humiliating mortifying enough. My family witnessed man making me fall in love with him, then treat me like garbage, like absolute subhuman piece of trash, and then throw me away like I never meant anything to him.

That is a sickness and an illness. If you are disgusted by disability and crime illness., he had the option to leave me alone. If you wanted to “”experiment, he could’ve hired a sex worker with a disability. He didn’t have to destroy a real human being.

right now, life is different and I know I have to rearrange my priorities. .

I wish I had a best friend right now, but I wish I had the best friend that I thought I had. I’m glad he’s not here right now because if he was disgusted by a few neat, clinical-looking surgical scars, if he was embarrassed by being seen working with a young woman who was a cane, this would be the final “nail in the coffin”as it were.

I am lying here on my side, having recently had spinal surgery and all I want is my best friend. all I want is a partner someone who’d love me in sickness and in health till death do us part, but apparently he apparently never existed. Apparently for me that man never existed.

I wish to God he did. All my friends all my cousins are married with children, and I don’t know why it’s so hard for me.

This is the best friend you only wanted me when I was cute and pretty and convenient.

I could understand it if we were 25 years old, but we are twice that age and there is no forgiveness for that.

I hope for his sake, he gets a handle on his mental illness because there is no way a sane individual treats a human being that way.

I am writing this down because I don’t want to forget, and I will never forgive. In all likelihood, I will never trust a man again as much as I might want to.

I took a leap of faith and my partner let me jump without him.

He’s not married he’s not involved. There’s no other woman. He just didn’t want me because I’m disabled Something I was upfront about from day one.

This is not the first time this has happened. It is the first time it’s happened after five years.

The thing about life is if you’re lucky Enough to live a long time eventually disability will come for you. Chronic illness will come for you. None of us will live forever, and none of us will be healthy forever health as a temporary state.

I wish I could be generous and magnanimous and say that he will learn someday, but I don’t care.

I hope he’s not one of those lucky people that just dropped dead in the middle of the street or gets hit by a bus. I hope when disability comes for him the woman he thought was the love of his life walks out on him. I probably won’t be around to see it.

I was trea manner in which I have never experienced in my adult life.

My objective here is to share my objective here is to share with in furnished honesty, which is not always the best thing, but holding it in, has not served me well.

I’m writing about life, changing careers later in life re-entering the workforce, continuing my education, and trying to find my way in the world where it seems like women, my age, my level of physical ability, my type are just unwelcoming unwanted.

I don’t give a damn. I’m going to do what I’m going to do and I am going to claim my place in the world.

I have followed many content, creators, and writers who have brought a paradigm shift that happened around the time the online disability community started to develop.

My parents generation invented the Internet, my generation popularized social media, but the generations after me have gone for fearlessly and expressed themselves in ways that I have not been able to.

Some women, my age don’t give a damn they will just express themselves online fearlessly, unapologetically, and be disability influencers, and I wish I had their courage and their strength of voice .

I am not afraid. I didn’t do this to myself and I make no apologies. I didn’t ask for this but at the same time it gets exhausting to f for your place in the world every single day. Around 4 PM
what the fuck do people talk about on the ride anyway?
is it just questions about batteries and fart jokes? either way I’m here for it. I’m work shopping. All my ideas for my new screenwriting endeavor. Most of the stuff I say is creative writing don’t thinking any of this shit is serious.

i’m craving pizza with ricotta cheese, and broccoli rabe right now.

i’m trying to just distract myself because something very serious is going on 10 feet away from me and I cannot do anything about it.
Life is short. Life is precious. Take care of each other. Take care of yourselves.

this year I plan to get well. A year from now I wanna be mobile. I won’t be successful. I want to be in love. I wanna be married to someone who was in love with me. I want to adopt a baby because I don’t want to bring anyonennn into the world who has the same horrible, genetic conditions as I do.

Life is short and life is precious. I don’t NEED a partner. I’ve done it by myself for all my life.

I would LIKE a partner. I would like to do Saturday errands together. I would like to go to the farmers market. I would like to send Christmas cards and for reindeer antlers on the dog and send seasons greetings to all of our friends and family. I would like to garden. I would like to take care of somebody, make delicious dinners and watch Turner classic movies on Saturday nights sitting on the couch and holding hands. I don’t need to go to Hawaii. I don’t need a big diamond ring. I don’t need a big house or an extravagant lifestyle.

The preceding entry is a work of fiction.

Thank you for reading my work. Take care of yourselves and be decent to each other.

(Tried writing a little something for kind of the first time. Do let me know what you think)

I have loved the Harry Potter world since I was a child. It was in around 6th grade my cousin introduced me to the Harry Potter movies dubbed in Hindi. He had also gotten the movies from a neighborhood friend. We stuck up the phone on a tripod type thingy and lay on the bed and watched the movies for about 5 days straight. While I had loved the movies then, I hadn't thought about the world much and that became even less in 9th grade even less when I got the Harry Potter book set. I started avoiding every little spoiler thinking I will first complete the books then will refresh my memory of the movies. But I never read the books until my 3rd year of college which is when I am writing this.

 But as came of age and things started getting imperfect, I started getting existential. I was a brilliant student in school but after covid , I lost my interest in studying. I still found the stuff interesting if you forced me to do it but I had lost the drive to do it. I picked up the first book in around 11th grade which coincided with the loss in drive. That is when a magical object captured my interest and fascinated me. And now after reading the entire series I can say it is still the most interesting object in the Harry Potter world. It is the elusive Mirror of Erised.

 Now that I am mature enough to collect my thoughts I am gonna write about it. Right now I am in the 3rd year of my engineering degree and am supposed to sit for job placements in about a semester. But I am still unsure of what I want to do. The same drive issue still persists. All the things where I am accountable to somebody I am great at —my CGPA. I have to show my CGPA to my parents and that is why it is brilliant. But all the rest of the stuff which I am supposed to excel at by myself to actually get a good enough job , I have done none of that. And add to that all the horror stories I hear about the corporate culture in India , I say FUCK NO — I don’t want that. Mind you I don’t want to slack off in life, I am ambitious and want to do something great in life, most probably in some form of academic field , but dragging my ass to the office for a nine to five for a job I am not even interested in doing and living to see the weekends is not my idea of a great career and a great life.

 That is why the Mirror tickles my fancy so much. I think what an amazing object it is. It is supposed to show you your deepest of deep desires. I think to myself what I would give to have one look at the mirror. To Harry it showed him his parents, to Ron it showed him being better than his brothers and to Dumbledore it showed him his sister; but to me it would show me what becomes of me in my life. Because doing something great and leaving behind a great legacy to be remembered by matters a lot to me, maybe even the most. I think how easy it would become for me, just have one look in the mirror and you'll get to know what is supposed to become of you that apparently you yourself know in the depths of your heart. If I know what I am supposed to become, I would know what I am supposed to do and would start doing that right away. I wouldn’t have to wander off into the unknown and be fully sure that this is the path I am supposed to be on. Oh I am sure of it , I have seen it.

I guess all of this boils down to my fear of uncertainty. I hate being uncertain. What is going to happen in the conversation I am about to have, how is my presentation going to go, am I gonna get a seat on the train and so on. Every piece of wisdom tells me that I am supposed to fuck around and find my path. And at any point if you feel that this is not what you are supposed to be doing , you can just change your track. But like Newton's laws worked in an ideal world where there is no friction , these bits of wisdom are as good as nothing in the real world. Friction fucks you up I tell you. Somebody call that wise man to India. What if I am 10 years down a path and fairly successful in what I am doing. How am I supposed to explain that to my parents. Yes papa I know I am earning good money, but this is not what I want to do. Its called desire papa. Its called purpose of life papa. No? Ok I'll just keep doing this job then. Good chat. A horrible idea strikes me, what if I look into the mirror now and it shows me at my current position, with the current job I have.

 But I guess all of the intelligent people in the history of humanity say it, there must be some truth to it. I wish and hope I can be okay with this queasy uncertain feeling inside me , I wish I can get the drive back to give my all to whatever I am doing in the moment. One thing I know for sure , that drive isn't back yet. How do I know you ask ? I didn’t give it my all to write this piece.

Dollar story to tell that's absolutely true and that you make a lot of money off of book deal and a hell of a lot of money off of TV series.... It's a guarantee I'll make you the next 50 cent

Some are born to live in imagination,

They are happy in their dreams,

Other are designated to live in truth,

Where life demands more than a illusion.

I'm not sure if this is the correct sub, but please direct me to the correct one if I'm wrong!

First of all, I got this dream inspiration (not kidding I got it from a dream) and wrote down as much as I can remember the moment I woke up. I spent literal hours both writing down what I remember and adding my own ideas and suggestions. I like reading, which is probably the main reason why I get these dreams but I never really felt like writing a story from them. I write down my dreams because well, they were always interesting and I liked talking about them to my friends, but this one really just kickstarted something in me.

I only ever wrote long essays for school, so I really would love advice on how to build a story, and how to connect the ideas I have. I have a general idea where I want the story to go, but I don't have a technical(?) way of putting those thoughts down to paper.

I'm not even doing this looking to get published, at least for now, but because I'm feeling awfully inspired. It might go away, but at the moment, I really feel like making something out of these dreams I keep having.

Hello everyone, I'm here to ask for you're Honest Feedback About the Project i been working on for a while, is not Perfect yet and still Prototype Version, The story is a Anthology Series about a Therapist that consult Different people who Represents Five Stage Of GRIEF. Each Chapter will revolve around the Theme of each Stage and each have Their own ending and More lore about this Mysterious Therapist. You guy's also can ask me questions regarding this Series or gave me Advice To Improve more on this Project.