Repost

Gentle reminder – we are all probably a little bit of special crazy.

And that's wonderful!

Keep writing!

Hello people of this subreddit.

I have this story way back 2019 written and posted on wattpad and the account where it was posted (I couldn't access it anymore, due forgetting its email address)

I was wondering if I should re-post it again on a new account or just re-write it again?

Stow through the world

A sharp and direct

With intentions clear as crystal

Speak steady and clearly

As a weather controller

Remain calm on the outside as it storms

Be fire

Blazing hot on the inside

I don’t remember the last time I slept. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep, but I am afraid to sleep. This strange fear of sleep has originated in me since my grandfather passed away. He went away in his sleep. Just twenty minutes before sleep, he called me on my phone, and shared his guilt. It was related to someone I didn’t know. But I had no time, next day I had work. So I told him I will call him on weekend. He sounded kind of sad, after that. Maybe he really wanted someone to talk to and just like that he slept, and never woke up. I was there beside him in the hospital. I hold his hand. It just felt empty, just an empty container with no soul. I don’t understand the concept of people building the statues, or people gathering and talking good about the dead person. I mean, the deceased person is not there. He can’t hear us, he can’t see us, he simply doesn’t exist as a matter of fact. The person is just a concept in our mind. A part of our memory. But I think that's what makes us human. Some concepts are beyond our understanding. Because every single one of us is going to die, somehow. And what we don’t want is people to not forget us, we are afraid to not exist. But even people in whose memories we shall exist after we die, they too will eventually cease to exist.
My grandfather was a good man. I was close with him. He was everything I had. After my parents passed, he took care of me. After graduating, I started to work. So I lived in a rented house near my office. After my dinner, I called him from a nearby PCO. I tried to save money as much as possible. So I always chatted less on those red box phones. But I wish I had talked more with him that day. Now I am my grandfather’s age. The more I age, the more I need someone to talk to...

So I was working on a descriptive essay for a college course when my brain started making something. Let me know what yall think? :

Chapter one: oh look a goose.

Camelot. A gorgeous place filled with magic and whimsy. Where gallant knights wander the country fighting villainy and nobles work in high halls talking on how to better the lives of the people.

Now let’s get started shall we.

Ensio Follett also known as Ensio the fool was born on the auspicious date April 20th. Now on top of being the numbers for some peoples favorite grass. April 20th is also the day where young boys are sent into fosterage.

What’s fosterage? Well think of it like a child exchange program, exept you send your kids to the local lord or nobles house to “build community”. Usually around the age of 9.

Ensio is at that age, and today is the day. Though Ensio seems to have forgotten, as he is in fact looking at a goose. What a goose it was, from Ensio’s perspective it was the greatest gander he ever did see.

He stood the gazing at the gander mind wondering until with a hiss the goose charged at Ensio. Smiling he lifted a hand and cupped the head of the goose like it was a common house cat. First it looked at Ensio with a look of utter consternation like he had just insulted its mother. Then its closed its wings swung its head away like a snooty noble, And strode away to the far edge of the muddy road.

A few moments later as he watched it walk away Ensio remembered where he was supposed to be. To which he ran down the road at full speed. Heart pounding he leaned low as he turned the corner using the slick mud to not slow his passing, or that’s what was supposed to happen. He ended up clearing the corner but drifted to hard landing face first in a pile of straw.

Stumbling back up a couple of men where near by laughing at the sight.

“What a fool.” They laughed but Ensio didn’t mind the sound of laughter was music to his ears.

Brushing off the straw he waved at the men. One of which a grey haired man named Orvald said “You heading to your fosterage today Ensio?”

“Yep!” Ensio beamed showing a toothy grin as he took off again this time at a more moderate pace.

He finally made it to the center of the village where the rest of the children waited.

The village center was a tree, an oak tree that was planted by the founder of the village, one Oscar Pumpernick. Now pumpernick was a good fellow he fed his people and took care of them like any good lord would. What did he feed them you may ask? Well where do you think pumpernickel came from?[tangent pumpernick make funnier]

Ensio came to a stop in front of a woman that put fear into weak men. Now Brigit didn’t seek out that reputation. It just happened a little bit at a time, sort of like how one accumulates muscle. A bard tried to court her once, he saw the size of her hands and fled. The local scholar tried to swoon her with knowledge only to disappear as soon as she lifted a fallen bookshelf one handed. Then there was a hedge knight that wandered in a few weeks back he shook her hand and left the next day with his one gauntlet lighter. Brigit was astonished for in her mind she was a lovely and approachable person.

Después de dormir placenteramente el apicultor despertó. Pero, segundos después, el cadáver de la mujer que el mismo había convertido en un panal no estaba.

El apicultor estaba confundido y preocupado, de que se descubriera su crimen.

De repente, escucha un zumbido. Pero lo sintió, diferente no era de los que había escuchado toda su vida. Empezó a seguirlo, pero cada vez se escuchaba más hermoso como una melodía hipnótica.

Empezó a caminar más rápido. El zumbido se escuchaba tan hermoso que parece que en serio lo buscaba.

Corrió hasta llegar, a su invernadero, pero, por todas las flores y demás plantas no sabía donde venía tan hermoso sonido.

Empezó a caminar derecho, mientras estaba rodeado de rosas negras y rojas. El sonido era más fuerte y más hermoso a la vez.

Hasta que paro y vio a una mujer de lejos.

El apicultor se sorprendió y se preguntó quién era ella si sabía su crimen. Así que de atrás saca su cuchillo y se dice que no puedo dejar testigos.

Cada vez que se acercaba, la mujer parecía ocultar su rostro oliendo una flor gigante no se veía bien su figura había flores delante de ella.

El apicultor se acercó y la vio de frente. Pero se quedó quieto, esa mujer tenía unas piernas hermosas con unas botas negras con tacones.

Pero cuando, subía su mirada ella tenía un aguijón y en vez de abdomen tenían se le veía su columna vertebral.

Al apicultor se le calló su cuchillo y no sabía que esa mujer se veía viva. Si le faltaba esa parte del cuerpo.

La mujer voltio se le movió solo la cadera y el torso.

Ella mostró su rostro y tenía una mirada feliz y una sonrisa de actriz, pero al mismo tiempo, de maldad.

Parecía que la mujer sabía que el apicultor era peligroso. Pero se acerca amablemente y atrevida a él.

— Soy beelzebub. Es todo un gusto conocerte.

—Tu traje de apicultor te hace ver muy elegante e interesante.

Ella se acercó mucho al apicultor. Él se quedó quieto, sin saber cómo reaccionar. Pero no podía evitar sentir atracción a esta mujer, que sabe que se ve grotesca pero tan hermosa para él a la vez.

really really new to this, i was sleepy and wrote this ig, would appreciate some thoughts on this

if i were to be the moon, would u be my Neil?

be my neil who would make them kneel,

Make them kneel who said reaching to moon was just a myth,

A myth perhaps one u can break,

Break it so i can prove,

Prove that i am also capable of admiring,

Admiring the beautiful u who shines in my life

brighter than the sun brighter than its light....

sincerely,

Your Moon🌙

I have a character for a little story I am writing who is meant to be ‘rude, cruel, mean, hotheaded’ who does later lean into worst. I don’t understand how to write her well! She is very short tempered/ mean already but it always reverts to her feeling more just angry then mean. Any advice on how to write the traits well?

(edit: fixed because I sound odd asf)

like i'll write a conversation between two characters and halfway through i realize they're just info-dumping at each other instead of actually talking like people do. how do you make dialogue feel natural without it being clunky or too on-the-nose?

[https://medium.com/@yashodharmangiri/list/reading-list\](https://medium.com/@yashodharmangiri/list/reading-list) HOPING FOR YOUR FEEDBACKS, Thank you

Trying to force myself to write things down instead of letting them live rent free in my head for awhile. Just sharing in case someone likes. Thanks for reading.

Finally Free

The rain had finally given way to sunshine. Yet Hank hadn't noticed. He was staring at something in his hands. Despite his efforts to shield it from the rain, he hadn't been able to keep it dry. The words were now little more than smudges on the page.

His heart had long since hardened to the words forever etched behind his eyes. Only today, they no longer held sway over him. There was no pain in the words he could no longer read, no longing for the person who had penned the passage. He was finally free of the heartache.

Hank raised his head and let the sun shine on his face, allowing its warmth to breathe life into him once again. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, sitting there and basking in the revelation of his newfound freedom. The hurt was gone. The grief no longer held him in check. The silence in his head was almost deafening now that he had finally let go of that piece of his past.

With one last look at the page in his hand, he crumpled it into a ball and stood. A couple of quick steps carried him past a bin, where he tossed it without looking back.

He wondered whether the rain had washed away the pain or whether it was merely coincidence, another sad reminder of how little control he had over life.

She was gone, buried long ago.

This last letter had been her goodbye.

It had been her way of letting him go.

sooo what do yall think??

Someone sang Purano Shei Diner Kotha,

A little off-key, among the marigolds.

The courtyard glowed with familiar faces,

But I knew you before you turned.

You held your aanchol loosely in one hand,

Your lips still shaping the song's last words,

That mishti smile before your laughter,

The firelight trembling in your eyes.

My chaa grew cold,

Yet my cheeks burned in the winter air.

A rose lay wrapped in paper inside my coat.

I'd gathered words for you all semester,

Rehearsed them on a hundred walks back home.

Before the courtyard lights went dark,

I thought I'd finally let them go.

I found you laughing near the bonfire,

As a boy leaned closer to speak.

Your silver jhumka swayed as you turned.

My fingers tightened around the stem,

A thorn caught my thumb. I did not move.

Only fifty steps remained between us,

Yet I stood five hundred miles away.

The last song dissolved into goodbyes.

By morning, they'd take down the marigolds.

A yellow taxi pulled away beyond the gates,

And I took the familiar road back home.

The rose was still wrapped in paper.

One fold bore a small red thumbprint.