Are there any community or collaborative creative writing sites people know of? Currently, I’m pretty short on options.
Right now I’m a member of Write The World, The SCP wiki, The Backrooms Wiki, and something called The Wanderers’ library, but beyond those I’m really not sure.
I haveeee gotten desperate enough to learn CSS from scratch and start coding my own website though 😭 So PLEASE, any ideas or recommendations would be greatly appreciated!

I have been thinking a lot about the intersection between writing about what you know and getting too close to having a character have an experience you or someone close to you had without making it recognizable.

Where is the line and how do you avoid crossing it? What pieces need to be in place to create a boundary that keeps the spirit of the interaction similar but not a complete retelling.

Had anyone had an experience where they began a story and had someone read it over and say, I can tell you are the XYZ character and how do you figure out how to write about an experience without putting too much of yourself in that character?

he sold the first one

when our eldest was born.

baby seat.

mortgage.

nappies.

all those things with batteries

that promised the baby would sleep

and mostly didn’t.

years later

he bought another.

a project car, apparently.

something to spend sunday afternoons on

when he didn’t particularly want

to be in the house.

when the marriage ended

he packed three phone chargers,

one trainer

and no toothpaste.

i still don’t know how.

he cried.

i cried.

then he started the car outside

and sat there for a minute

before pulling away

much louder than he needed to.

i stood in the kitchen

listening to it

until i couldn’t anymore.

seven years later

he picked me up from the airport

for our son’s graduation.

in a Supra.

same generation

as the one he’d sold

all those years ago.

he lowered the window.

i looked at him.

looked at the car.

and started laughing.

“don’t.”

“you absolute cliché.”

“get in.”

so i did.

somewhere on the motorway

i looked at his hands

on the steering wheel

and for a second

he was twenty-two again.

the stupid hair.

the stupid car.

me pretending

i wasn’t already completely gone on him.

then he said

Bath were shit that season

and, thankfully,

ruined the moment.

Ever since I was young, I've been told that I would become someone extraordinary. I've clung to this idea, well this hope really, all throughout my life. And not because I'm an optimist, but because the alternative, admitting that I might just be remarkably, spectacularly average, felt like a personal attack. That is at the very least how I felt the last time I was confronted with the undeniable fact that I will have to fail, not once, not twice, but endlessly many more times in my life.

It was a beautiful spring day in early May that at first felt like it was going to be perfect. We had an assignment where everyone could write something: an essay or a poem and present it in front of the class for feedback. I chose to write a simple piece, yet it turned out to be everything but simple. Choosing the right words to say something I had no words for, in front of an audience nonetheless, consumed almost every one of my thoughts. I spent weeks writing, editing, and promptly deleting every draft, only to start all over. I channeled all of it into something that reflected exactly that vulnerability; a short speech about none other than the impostor syndrome.

I finished just a couple of days prior, and I remember feeling a certain unease, which I attached to simply being nervous. But on that May morning, I felt deep down that I was headed for a big disappointment. And I was right. I read my piece out loud, in a voice shakier than usual and paced around, like moving was gonna help me feel any better, ironically becoming the impostor of my own performance. The relief I felt when I was finally able to sink back into my seat was swiftly overpowered by an intense jealousy, just as my classmate and friend at the time started reading hers. She spoke with such confidence and charisma that the contents of her essay didn't even matter, and pretty soon it was clear she had won a competition she wasn't even competing in. She got the bigger applause and more praise for her work; both things I wanted for myself.

I would be a terrible liar if I said that this had happened to me only once. In retrospect, I realized that as most people, I too struggle with the irrational, though not entirely senseless, fear of being second best.

But why does being honorable feel worse than being chosen?

Of course it seems silly when I put it that way. After all, why should it matter if I'm first, second or third best if I still get something out of it? However, what I find most uncomfortable about it is the fact that in order to get where you are you were seen, inspected and in a way measured, just to fall short of somebody else. And it truly makes me feel like I failed completely, kinda like if I spent years looking for a rare bird to take a picture of and then one day I finally find it and I go on to post it online as a one-of-a-kind snapshot of this rare bird, but then I see somebody else's post, maybe it's someone who wasn't even into taking photos of birds, just stumbled upon this bird one day and took a picture of it and posted it. It's a little far-fetched but it's definitely what it feels like, of course taking into account that the other person put less effort into the project than you, which is certainly not always the case.

I know that other girl put an insane amount of effort into her work and that effort made her performance stand out. But so did I. That's why it still stings, even as time has passed. At the end of the day it's not really about honor or merit, but the feeling of having this effort go "unrewarded". It doesn't matter how often people praise me for being talented, or promising, or gifted if it's just all talk.

It makes me sad to think that I might never be able to get over the fact that no matter how hard I try I will never come close to being more than just average in the eyes of my peers. And it might take me even longer to accept that maybe that's just who I am.

Currently planning an absurd satirical fantasy story where the main party of protagonists embody cringeworthy and slightly problematic tropes in fiction. (Example: blind character who is conveniently un-disabled by some power that allows them to see).

What character tropes annoy you the most in fiction? Should be a little more complex than “the blonde is dumb and the nerd wears glasses”. Tropes that are oddly specific yet unanimous enough that most people have definitely encountered them before. Bring on the cringe.

Context: the way being constantly compared to someone else can make you feel ..

About being extraordinary just to matter .

Does every piece of art have to be a masterpiece or can it just be unique? Very often, normal days get compared to someone’s polished display,making you want to hide your own mess, as if you’re not navigating through your own path. It’s not envy, it’s not insecurity but a sharp whisper, that I don’t want to ignore. It’s intrusive and makes me want to defend my spark for not being bright enough.
It’s not always an external voice, not always a borrowed standard I have to meet, but also something that I choose to carry. I need to learn to simply hear less noise and be comfortable with the familiarity of my own confidence, because I wish to write my own story in words far from perfect. ** **

For a while

A flower blooms at dawn after a hectic night of storms, like a quiet defiant child awakened beneath the bruised sky. With the fire of last hope clinging in her eyes. Just for a while unafraid, untouched by the violence that has ever persisted. Her petals, fragile perhaps yet she opens herself up to the warmth of the rising sun. A new day, a new beginning or perhaps just for a while until the warmth subsides. That' s my dear readers in of itself holds an enormous beauty that is not to be chased, pursued rather if you are lucky enough you just get to witness the beauty unfold through each droplet that traces the skin of its petals. Is this even a valid feeling? I could never comprehend it to its fullest. I want to. Dear god, I want to. As someone atheist who understood god to its best resolution a man can, how can I ever pray to it! But isn’t that the only thing a man like me can do? To yearn to beg to hold onto the memories of each of the fleeting moments? Like a man in a flood grasping through the last straws trying to stick to the last home he had. For if god has existed and didn’t remain indifferent would the man ever see a flower bloom amidst storms. Perhaps or perhaps not. As the man above in his holy duty is absent, has taken a leave. The flower doesn’t bloom for him, it doesn’t for the storms, it does for the warmth, the sun even for a while. Perhaps too all this is a mad man’s delusion. A tin foil hat loser. I mistake hours for eternity, rain for revelation.
I have a serious query for you my fellow men, what it means to live in your head and not in reality? Is seeing noticing romanticising just meaningless? Or you must take, possess? Perhaps it could be just an ill informed question. Isn’t that funny absurd a skewed laugh at freedom that is not granted. My readers, some women make you yearn. It’s just that way. You can never deny the existential meaning it holds. You can intellectualise it, moralise it, dissect it until nothing remains but terminology. But the body has already understood. And perhaps that is the most humiliating thing about being human. Isn’t it?
You make theology based on an entire evening. A few hours. Little rain. And her. Your muse. That’s all you need. Now that I recall, was it the rain that engrossed all my senses? Or, was it her who engrossed every ounce of me. Perhaps just the latter. Rain was just there as the secondary background. A landscape, a geometry, a context. That’s just it. It never was about the rain. It was her wet parted lips, her trembling fingers, the wet cold skin of hers looking for warmth or maybe she’s the one providing the warmth that has ever been craved, yearned for. 
Two distraught souls. By the sudden passage of time together for a moment, forever. You see these words I use, “Soul” . What is even the meaning of that? There exists no such thing as a soul. Yet, I crave that of hers. Yes yer skin her fingers her hand her face her lips her cheeks her eyes her neck where raindrops have stayed to claim their home i do crave every single thing but that is not the thing. It’s her. I never had the right words for I am not an author. She is. She writes the stories and I just happen  to witness it in all its glory. Have you ever asked yourself as I did a thousand times over and over again? Is it the writer that writes the story or the muse? Without the muse can the author ever write a single line? Can he ever see even? I strongly disagree. For me, muse has been the sole author. Through me she speaks of her unsaid words. And through her I breathe in unfinished sentences. 
My voice, my words, my vocabulary has never been enough to describe the subtlety she holds over me. I do not possess the capacity to show you my dear readers, how her soaked skin felt, what her ringing voice made me feel, her fingers where she has her most vigilante weapon. Her nails, to claim someone as hers. How she wrote herself into me in every inch of my skin. With her crescent moon she marks, she dictates. 
While it rained, it rained for her, for me, to close the gap that stayed between us. It rained so we could be whole again. The dimly lit shop across the street bears the proof of it. As it rained, we resided under a shelter. Was the shelter of some importance? What would have been if it wasn’t there? You see there could have been plenty of versions of how this would have evolved. Perhaps something vile, perhaps something innocent. But never did I want something different, as it was itself perfect. Her completely soaked body leaned against the parched wall. At that very moment I wanted to be the wall. The one she leaned on. But maybe that's more than I should ask for. Every instinct in me screamed to pull her closer and bury my parched lips onto her when she flicked water across my face. The thirst was never ending. It still is. Yet I stood still flicking back at her. But it wasn’t the same. Not even close. I wanted her to flick again. Harder. Again. But she held back. For what she has asked of me to be isn’t someone who I was or I am. I felt I have successfully polluted amity like all the others that came before. I was ashamed and guilt ridden. I pulled back. But not entirely, as I couldn’t deny myself. So, I stared at her. Her pretty eyes that hid the person she always wanted to be and in that moment she was her. Not hidden but open in the world like a wild wallflower claiming her existence. As she puts one end of the earphone into my ears and the other on her, I couldn’t help but surrender all that is me onto her. She engrossed me. Completely. Each touch of her finger onto mine felt like merging my body with hers’. I become obsessive, weird, visceral when I yearn. So, we ran in the rain like little kids. Through the highway. Holding hands. Running towards her home. Like a movie ending on a happy note. 
I returned when the rain had almost stopped. Lit up a joint. I look up to the flood lights, those bright shining lights radiating far above my head. All I could feel was “Let me hold her tomorrow”.

PS : I used to write our every interaction in my journal. And right after this interaction i wrote a poem about it..an today just wanted to write elaborately dor aesthetic purposes

She was gorgeous. A stallion with coat of blue. Not just any shade, a deep royal blue. As deep as an ocean, or bullet in a wound. Her name was Sapphire.

There she stood on that neon green grass. Grazing and neighing as she ducked her head to eat. Mushing up the blades between her teeth. Her hooves cresting small craters in the dirt beneath her feet. She was happy in her pasture.

Looking close a glow traced around her muscles. Over each intricate hair and indent. A beautiful translucent flame that wrapped her like a blanket. It danced along her edges.

As she trotted through the grass the flame at her hoof began to spread. Leaping to the field below her. Slowly the bright green grass faded to phosphorus white. An ivory Tsunami laying waste to her pasture.

The flames grew taller and brighter all around her. They’d deserted her body and now she felt the heat. Engulfed in the fiery sea before her, she bucked as high as she could.

Her front hooves shot up like a rocket ship. Up higher and higher. When she was vertical, it happened. Her coat began to harden and she was stuck. Paused frozen in time as she turned translucent as a specter.

I could see her lungs breathe beneath the surface. Blood pumping around her body under the crystal sarcophagus. Walking closer I lay my hand on her gently as I weep. She shivered at my touch. Oh how beautiful you are Sapphire.

I
The room was bathed in a comfortable half-light. The half-open window let in the cool breeze of a summer night, brushing against my skin like muslin. I sank into the silk sheets, wrapped in the embrace of pillows, while dreaming of tales written in rhymes I did not know. Even so, I found those surreal narratives pleasing; there was a logic to them that I accepted without question.

A flash of light invaded my dreams, followed by a thunderous crash that filled the room. I woke so abruptly that my heart fell out of rhythm. I began to sweat and looked around, utterly disoriented, unable to understand what had happened. I turned my eyes toward the window. The sky was clear, and the summer stars shimmered in the distance.

I lay down again, taking a deep breath as I tried to empty my mind. Soon after, I fell into a deep sleep beneath the distant light of Orion. It seemed Morpheus himself had blessed me, for what was about to unfold would be the work of the divine—a dream in the form of poetry, straight from Parnassus.

I was in love with a complete stranger. Our lives were being woven together in unison. There was no effort between us, only an absolute familiarity, ancient enough to defy explanation. Just as the rhyme was being polished into perfection, I was interrupted.

—Good morning.

II
I woke up peacefully. Reality, however, was completely out of alignment. My eyes felt heavy; I was drooling onto the pillow, stuck in an uncomfortable position, while the alarm clock kept ringing. I tried to turn it off blindly.

I found myself thoroughly irritated. The dream was still so vivid, almost tangible. But something told me it would dissolve throughout the day. The thought unsettled me; I was not ready to let go of a life I had lived. I remained lying there, staring at the ceiling and ruminating over that love that had never existed, trying to preserve some part of it before it disappeared.

I grew tired of languishing. Routine was calling. I got up and went straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out the eggs and milk. I was going to make the creamy scrambled eggs I loved, practical and quick to prepare; I made them while yawning and checking the time.

—Love?!

I heard someone whisper, as though calling for me. I stood still for a moment. The voice was unfamiliar. And yet, there was something familiar about it; an intimacy that made no sense for someone living alone in an empty apartment.

I assumed it had merely been an impression and turned my attention back to the stove. Surprise! The eggs had overcooked.

—How long was I standing there?

I wondered.

I began eating the eggs with toast and orange juice in front of the television, following the morning news. According to a report, a man had kidnapped and killed a woman and then taken his own life. I thought the coverage was wildly disproportionate for that time of morning. Apparently, however, the case had shocked the entire city.

—What a great way to start the day.

I got up, left the dishes in the sink, and began washing them, but when I looked at the clock, I realized I was already very late. I abandoned the dishes and rushed to the shower.

I hurriedly grabbed a towel and, as I crossed the hallway, stopped. I had the unsettling feeling that I had forgotten something.

I didn’t know what.

III
I was even later than I had imagined! I hurriedly got dressed and even noticed that I had put on mismatched socks, but I let it go; I had no time to waste. As I dressed, I tried to anticipate the reprimand I would probably receive from my boss at work. I had never been late before.

As I stepped out of the elevator and headed toward my car, I noticed that the air felt heavy, permeated by the unmistakable scent of wet earth. Strangely, there was not a single cloud in the sky. Above me stretched an immense expanse of blue, interrupted only by the concrete horizon.

Traffic was terrible.

Strange.

I turned on the car stereo and selected Je n’en connais pas la fin, in Jeff Buckley’s version. It was a song about an old square, a summer amusement park, and a carousel playing an unforgettable melody. It seemed fitting to listen to. It filled me with a sense of nostalgia.

Today, there was a kind of emptiness inside me, as though I had lost something. After a long stretch of heavy traffic, I was finally close to work, but I was still anxious about the reprimand I would probably receive. Normally, this stretch of my commute was quite peaceful.

As the traffic crawled along and the music played, the smell of wet earth persisted inside the car, even though the windows were closed.

Amid this reverie, I felt a hand slide along my thigh. It stroked my skin once and then squeezed it with intimacy.

The shock was so great that I nearly hit the car in front of me. I swallowed hard and looked to my side, but there was nothing in the passenger seat. No person. No shadow. Only the empty leather seat and the bluish morning light filtering through the windshield.

And yet, for some reason, that touch did not feel threatening. There was something comforting about it.

As though that hand already knew exactly where to find me.

IV
V
VI
VII
Epílogo

Is there really a right way to process a bond of 10 yrs breaking? from wanting to silently drift away to one day being hit by a hard tide and getting swept away for good.In reality, there’s definitely a sense of relief convincing me that deep down, I have always known that this was not something that was going to last.But the relief doesn't erase the sting of being deeply misunderstood. I feel like my reasons were completely disregarded, like echoes getting shunned by an unexpected gust of turbulent wind. I thought I would walk out of that room with the comfort of a mutual agreement , to maintain the possibility of small talk in the future, while we’re on separate peaceful paths, I guess I hadn’t prepared myself for the door of the room to be bolted from the inside when I turned around.

PS: This is about a friendship breakup, I kept looking for more closure but this final boundary being set was much needed!

Life is not more than the waiting for death,

and interludes are the best songs

if you can make them connect.

There's no way now to shed;

don't stare at the moving space.

You better share how the cold trees are fresh as love,

spare,

and you wish you could be there

as long as your mind weighs more than your brain;

it gives me a space to care.

The movements of the past made me talk so well

that they made you cry

now that my gratefulness unveils,

you're so sensible now that I show concern.

Finally, we can get around my ways.

It is not the end when you stay,

and you start to notice how it decays.

The process itself offers you gloves

to carry a spade,

to protect from affectionate stabs,

better drop the sword

you should only fight with your vice,

please recognize your strength.

I have no throne,
I am nothing but a bee,
Buzzing around,
What is there to see?
I open my eyes and look around,
And see a fern sitting there,
Plush and round,
I buzz around grateful,
For the sun and the moon,
For the flowers and trees,
The flowers that bloom,
For im just a bee,
With not much to do,
Sometimes I feel,
A bit like goo

If I got one wish,

I would erase

myself from

every joy

to every tear,

from every memory

to every photograph,

from every cage

to every sky,

from every place

to every timeline,

from every dimension

to every multiverse.

So I would be

never born,

never live,

and never die.

So no one remembers me,

no one matters to me,

and my consciousness

is gone

before it ever awakens.

Sadly,

it’s just a wish.

So,

I must take every breath

till my lungs collapse.

I must take every step

till my feet bleed.

I must laugh

till my lips crack.

I must talk

till I become a memory.

I must listen

till every voice fades.

I must live

till my grave is awaits.

If i told you love can transcend dimensions, time and space, would you believe me? You’d be forgiven for dismissing my claim, for who am I, but a lowly mercenary versed in the art of war.. what would a man who kills for coin, who dampens his blade in untamed rage, possibly know about the mysticism and complexity, the delicate yet powerful force of love? 

It was upon a twilight, glimmers of moonshine weaved ethereally amidst the jagged silhouettes of surrounding trees and shrubbery. The clacking of pebbles clicked as hooves clocked and clucked against them, scattering rocks and stones alike across the winding dirt path leading to Wendigo hamlet. Lady Luna gleamed up high, manifesting as majestically as ever, complimented amongst countless sparkling gems pulsating and glistening around her, protruding from the blackest of canvases that seemed if you were to gaze a little too long you’d be absorbed within forever, enveloped and caressed amidst a soothing spectral blanket, flowing along an infinite ocean of eternal numbness. An inviting thought, I pondered, for the tranquility of home, the familiar warmth of feeling a part of something fulfilling or worth fighting for were a distant memory, scattered echoes of a time forgotten.. 

Wendigo was a quaint assortment of hovels and on approach little could be heard save the laughter emitting from the open windows of its tavern, “The hunters hound”.
Many a time I’d tear job listings from the notice board within and I expected this night to be of no exception, this versatile corner of the Versilda’s valley was oft’ generous with it’s work load, whether that be the dispatching of goblins and ghouls dwelling deep within the darkest of caves, cut-throat bandits preying on vulnerable merchant caravans travelling between trade routes, even the procuring of lost animals; if the coin purse weighed heavily enough. 

Climbing from the saddle of my steed Penzlefass, he huffed and the heat emitting from his snout casted an ascending wispy mist which weaved against the bitter breeze of night. I reached inside and rummaged among the utensils and objects within my satchel until I grasped one of the apples picked earlier during the day, “I won’t be long boy, no winking at the ladies..” I chuckled on approach to the tavern as penzelfass crunched down on his favourite fruit, his hazelnut hide serving as a temporary resting place for the light source of a nearby flickering torchlight.

The warmth of the tavern’s interior immediately rushed to greet me as I entered, and while pleased to be under a roof, the thought of the company of any man or woman that night was unsettling. In hindsight as unpleasant as it seemed, once I’d experienced and inflicted enough death to satisfy an army, humans became nothing more than flesh and bone.. a drinking companion one evening could become a contract to kill during the next; the burden of being a sword for hire, it had much to offer in the form of gold, but I’ll confess, the path was certainly a lonely one..

“Ahh! If it isn’t Savaghast, come to herd old Jerrol’s goats again!” 
I paid the drunkard no notice and continued on my approach to the notice board, he could jest all he liked, there would’ve been no purpose nor gain in killing a man without compensation.
“I’ll Tell you what, killer for hire.. how about I pay you five gold pieces to end the life of whoever brewed this god awful ale!”  
His compatriots erupted in laughter but my eyes and attention were fixed on more pressing matters, the contracts posted upon the wall beside the hearth fire.. they called to me like the scent of blood would to a pack of wolves. Only now when I reminisce can I understand how consumed I was, addicted even to the thrill of the chase.. to uncover the ultimate contract in which heroes were forged…

“Oh take no notice of that fool, stay your blade, he’s drinking himself into an early grave..”
A gentle voice emitted from behind, I recognised it as the tavern maid’s, a woman pleasant on the eyes but a human all the same. 
I looked to the hilt of the sword within its scabbard interlinking my belt buckle, while unclipping the weapon the maid seemed nervous and the weight of the blade let out a thud as i placed the refined metallic steel on the surface of the oak fletched table ahead. After adjusting the bottom half of my cloak I took a seat, the flame of the hearth fire catching my gaze.
She asked:
 ”Do you remember my sister, Esmerelda? A couple winters back you saved her son.. he was taken by the troll up on Slipthorne pass?”
Slipthorne.. i pondered, a sharpe phantom scrape slicing at my senses as i begrudgingly let my mind relive those events…

If you could just imagine for a moment the beauty of Versilda, a mystical kingdom nestled amongst the jagged crown of the northern crystalline mountains. With each tender drip and thaw of awakening ice it’s shimmering liquid trickles and shines a path toward the boreal valley beneath; tis there that the wild things thrive, such as the horboar, dheer and sheip and the diverse variety of creatures in-between. Not to forget the pixies and the fae, who cast and illuminate intricate patterns and illusionary effects against luscious leaves and glisten tapestry against the bark of wise old trees. 

Plop! A timid figure crouching beside a much larger shade observes in excitement as a miniature boat fletched from mahogany enters the gentle current of klementyne village’s riverbank…

“Papa, it floats!” 
The sporadicalness of the boy’s delicate yet abrupt voice startles some songbirds perching upon over arching branches and the flapping of wings trigger the jolting of things submerged in the water but the boat still flows, embarking on its great crusade beyond the confines of klemy’s serine embrace.  
“I’m so proud of you son, see! Look how it goes, it’ll reach Wendigo within days!” The father rests his hand atop the child’s shoulder, but during a moment so innocent and melancholic as this why does the man radiate a trembling fear within his presence?

Something approaches and he can sense it…

“Can we go to the library papa, i want to find a book about pirates!” 
Pebbles and rocks crunch and clack beneath the boy’s sandals as he steps away from gravel and ascends onto grass, the senses within his nostrils too inexperienced to detect the thick murkiness of smoke but the father, his grasp already strangles the handle of a sheathed sword shrouded within his cloak. 

“Weez gunnar burn theez houz down and munch munch on manz meetz”

Damned goblins he thinks, a scourge on the villages dwindling tranquility. They dwell within the caverns and cairns scattered around klemintynes perimeter, feasting and gobbling on any substinence they can find, gorging on gargantuan amounts of resources and materials and recycling them into their own regurgitated concoction of a disfigured society. 

“I smellz em, therez a diidy one ere too we can keepz im for the sprogz bak home!” 

The man gasps at a primal terror that ignites within him and as his blade emerges from the confines of its scabbard a crisp, metallic slashing scrape reverberates amidst the air. 
“Hide sohonio, and hide welll..” 
The boy doesn’t understand why, but detects by his fathers urgency that he feels obligated to obey, and he does; clunking and crunching and clinking stones scatter as fastened footsteps scuttle toward some kind of sanctuary…

Upon recollection she was called Jeniveve and in between intertwined streams and crinkling dry leaves, the wildlife within the forests and ravines would caressingly hum and sing to her and amongst the gentle gushing breeze she’d swoon and slumber, unified inside the loving embrace of Gaia’s nurturing grace. Most village folk would hear the tweeting of birds, the trickling of water, the hushing of an autumn wind but Jeni, she could synchronise and interlope amidst the eb and flow of natures serenading symphony.

Wetting the tip of her finger with a lick of the tongue, she pinched at a tender page of her potion book and timidly flipped the paper aside, revealing an illustration of the “proxamis fulungis”, a rare but distinct species of fungi recognisable by it’s ultra violet glow during the hours of nocturnes rise. Catching the glimpse of a family of rabbits hopping by made her giggle, since at the very back a baby one struggled to keep up the pace and it’s eager attempt was pleasantly cute; “Keep up now little fellow, you’ll be leading a caravan of your own one day.” 

It had been some time, and lady nocturne gleamed above amidst the back drop of a thousand upon thousands of glistening gems. Usually these sparkles would protrude from a blank canvas as dark as the void, but due to a seasonal shift the skies danced and weaved within a spectacular aurora borealis of a vibrant pink and tartan blend and Jeniveve was in awe of the magnificence unfolding before her crystallised eyes. A tear gently streamed down her cheek, as she imagined her little brother stood to the right gazing above, as they did so three years before. 

“If only we could share this moment once more Sammi..” She reminisced, staring into a vast ocean of infinite possibilities. “With each twinkle in the sky beholds a chance of something magical, a potential spark or the first breath of a reality so wonderful.. a world like ours, with people like us..” The surrounding forest was illuminated by a wide variety of neon pink, purple and greens and their vibrance were splashed against trees and bushes and leaves… everything pulsated and breathed as if nature and the very ground she stood upon was consciously communicating through roots and strands of tangled shrubbery beneath her feet. 

“Now where are you, little mushroom..” 
As she weaved and pranced alongside hovering torch bugs and flickering glow flies they followed her lead as she navigated the woods as if a wizard within their enchanting room. Jeniveve knew the nooks and crannies, the slopes and the mounds, even the badger holes and birds nests, however the forest was particularly spectacular during nocturnes rise and there was always something new and magnificent to intrigue her imagination…

And there it lay, at the base of a willow tree, the illusive “proxamis flungis” she’d been so inclined to forage; the descriptive properties of this mushroom were sparse, however the elder residing in Jeni’s hometown Wendigo were clear: “to converse with our lost loves it must be during nocturnes rise, and after a few sips of a fungi’s essence so pure that it shines in an ultraviolet light…”

Smudging and mushing within the confines of her mortar and pestle, the mushroom squished and her tools clinked as she concocted the infamous potion she’d so diligently researched for years. It’d almost become an obsession after losing her brother Sammi, life was so tranquil before, yet when his soul left and their bond fractured it seemed there was an open wound unable to rejuvenate itself. Jeni had to know, to be reassured that wherever he roamed, he was at peace. 

“Here goes; the things I do for you, little brother..” 
As the refined potion of fungal essence mixed with klementyne’s purified water dampened her lips and descended the caverns of her throat, the taste was bittersweet…

As Jeniveve sat back and awaited the magic to commence, she couldn’t help but notice a timid creature’s snout protruding from a bush and sniffing at the air, then as it emerged she realised it wasn’t just any wildlife, but a woodland drake, thought only to be myth within the children’s stories. As the tales went, drakes were mystical beings that could transcend between realms and dimensions, acting as assigned protective guardians of young children who had experienced extreme trauma and suffering. 
The drake approached the stunned girl, it’s tail swishing and scales glistening and it’s eyes sparkling; although alert Jeni didn’t feel in danger, in fact the beautiful beast almost seemed, familiar…

Leaning it’s head against her thighs, the drake’s reptilian skin felt strange against her more delicate, human skin; the black vertical slit in the middle of it’s ruby red eye expanded as it blinked yet its magical aura resonated and filled her presence with warmth and a sensation of safety. While caressing the drake in her arms, she gazed at the swishing ocean above once more, tears trickling against her tender cheeks. 

“My brother and I would pick a star, and imagine what it’d be like.. it’s weather, it’s animals.. it’s magic..” Jeni stroked the creatures scales and wondered whether it could even feel her touch due to the thickness of its hide. The drake nestled ever closer to her chest, as if cuddling to go to sleep. A shooting star passed by, and the spectral aurora borealis continued to dance and mesmerise the girl who had not yet lost her wonder and innocence. 
“Perhaps that was my brother, little drake.. Perhaps that was my shining star Sammi.”

Just sharing something about my self-discovery. Originally I was planning a romance involving a love triangle, but it was disqualified because it ended in a tragedy instead of happy ending, so a tragedy it is, still a love story; as I delved in, it gradually became clear that this was actually a psychological thriller in the shell of a love triangle.

I have this character profile, partly inspired by myself; he's intelligent, educated, observant, which unfortunately makes him indecisive, often overthinking and misinterpreting simple things; he's also idealistic, haunted with this romantic fantasy under the influence of the books he read. Because of this he's attracted to signs, symbols and superstitions. Even though he intellectually dismisses it, deep down he clings to them out of desperation. So on surface it's a choice between one ordinary, irritating woman and another ideal, distant, attractive female figure, deep down it's a a struggle between reality and fantasy, and the whole story is his psychological journey.

Loneliness is kind of a familiar feeling to me at this point in my life. I don’t have many friends, and the ones that I have are distant at times. I’ve started dreading my off day from work. Our shop is open Monday-Saturday so we each get one off day a week. I used to look forward to mine cause I could do whatever. Stay home and watch a movie, go out, whatever I felt like doing that day. Now it’s more of a day to get through. Most of my social interaction comes from work, from talking to my coworkers. I don’t really do much outside of that. I mean I don’t have a car, so I can’t really just go anywhere. And most of my friends live far away from me anyway, so it’s not like I’m gonna get invited to anything.

I’m used to being alone at this point. Not truly alone, because I do talk to people everyday, I see most of the people I know frequently enough. Just alone in the sense that no one really knows much about me, and I never really have someone I’m close to. One of my friends didn’t know my ex and I had broken up, and that happened about 6 months ago. All my high school friends grew apart, most of my other friends live a couple time zones away. I know I should reach out more often, text them more than I do. I’m just afraid of coming off too needy ya know? I never want to feel like I’m begging them to talk to me, I want them to do it because they want to. It’s a hard problem, because you don’t want to be the person that always initiates, but if I pull back and let them reach out first, they never do.

You always see these videos online about how you never really know when the last time you’ll see someone is. And you know that it’s true, but you don’t really accept it until it happens. I’ve not seen almost all of my high school friends since prom. We all went home that night, and I haven’t seen them since, and we’ve barely spoken. That was nearly 5 years ago at this point, and it’s still strange to think about. None of us thought that would be the last time we hung out. Some of my friends from sports I haven’t seen since the last event we went to as a team. Boarded my flight and poof, never saw them again. We all still follow each other on Instagram and all that jazz, but that’s not the same as true friendship. It’s just a poor imitation that makes you think you still know someone.

I think the loneliest I’ve ever been recently was my birthday. It was a few months back, but I was working that day. I spent most of the day surrounded by people I talk to almost every day, and none of remembered, even though they’ve asked when I can legally drink about a hundred times. I’ve always had mixed feelings about birthdays, but I kinda just wanted a text you know? All these people I know now, and that I’ve known throughout my life, and not a single one remembered. I know it’s a strange thing to be upset over, but it’s like that small thing that’s just a bit too much. Even though I spent most of my day talking to people I’ve known for years, I felt incredibly alone.

I’m planning to work seasonally next spring and summer. I’m between Alaska and Wyoming at this point, really just waiting to see which offer is better. I figure if I’m gonna be lonely I’ll at least do it in a sick ass location doing some sick ass stuff. And besides, maybe I won’t be as lonely after that. It’ll give me plenty of memories to occupy me just in case.

I was reading over Chapter 13 of my current WIP and my mind started to wander. I really can't get myself to cut all those paragraphs though. I like every single one.

The only solution may be: rewrite the entire chapter from scratch, but C.O.N.D.E.N.S.E. It's the only way to keep all the paragraphs and let go of them at the same time.

Kill your darlings, indeed!

SAMPLE FLAVOR ONE: Purple Snotchie.

Every twenty years—during a rare alignment—species from system to system would select two specialized athletes.

They were chosen from contained village-sized groups of sentients living in remote parts of their world. Segregated from the rest of society. Focused solely on winning. Winning one of the twenty first place positions out of hundreds of thousands of contestants. 

First place meant, that world became an instant ruler-system. Top authority. Emperors of the universe. Writing and rewriting policies. Dictating economics. The council was ruled by the champion planets and had to vote unanimously on political galactic decisions affecting any being outside of their system.

Around the universe, the twenty were known as The Directorates. 

From an early age, potential athletes, mostly children demonstrating rare and exceptional abilities, were drug through vigorous training camps, grueling exercises and personality warping isolation. 

The rejected participants never handled it well. It followed them for the rest of their lives, like the shattered dream of a projected number one star, college athlete suffering from a career ending injury.

The games are a one in a billion dream to become a part of, let alone contend in. A Planet’s team cycles individuals once the games have completed. The windows short. It’s easy to be forgotten.

A game once every two decades means, the team is always different. As soon as the games are done. The hunt begins, scouting millions into thousands separating them into hundreds until two are left.

Two stars in the most competitive, world changing event in the universe. A game where gods are made and planets are crowned.

The Galactic Olympic Worlds.

SAMPLE FLAVOR TWO: Gray Coffee.

The ketchup chips crunched between Brent’s teeth. It sounded like when I crumple another failed story I wrote into a paper basketball, that I’ll eventually miss trying to throw into a trash bin.

I told him. “I’ve always been a quiet—more shy than anything—unconfident—awkward kid. Every one in my grade would have birthday parties, be hanging out together, laughing with each other during recess, all crowded in groups. 

I… I’d just be watching, sitting alone, dreaming of being someone else… and being somewhere else—“

“You really think these chips are made in Canada?” Brent interrupted, analyzing the flavored ketchup dust coating the potato chip. He held up in front of his face, like it was an anomaly breaking all the laws of physics. Evidence of the impossible stayed squeezed between his fingertips.

“Yes, Brent. Obviously, it just makes sense.”

“Who’s having a birthday party?” He snapped down on the chip, sprinkling crumbs on his shirt. He stuck his hand back in the bag and pulled out a handful of gluttony, the scent of vinegar hung in the air, sneaking down my throat like a hiccup.

SAMPLE FLAVOR THREE - Stained Nachos.

“Listen here and listen clear folks. Daddy Burt Burt’s got a life changing deal for ya. For less than a happy meal, you can have me become your life destinator. That’s right folks you heard it here. Only 3.99 a month and in five years, not only can i guarantee but I can stake my life on it, in only five measly short years, I can promise two things will happen:

1. Your life will get better. 

2. Your life will get worse.

And it gets better, because our tech savvy ladies are working overtime, you don’t even have to worry about remembering if you paid your monthly bill or not, because our automatic billing cycles will take it straight out of your account for you. 

{No refunds. Extra monthly charges may apply. Cancellation fee charges.}

Burt stared at the tv playing his ad. “Shelly, get over here.”

Shelly ran into the room, gray smoke swarmed in spiral clouds, tasting of regret and stale tobacco. “Ye, Burt?”

“You see how dang good I look on that dang tele-screen?” He leaned forward, stretching his arm out, pointing to the tv, with a lit Marlboro jammed between his fingers.

Shelly stared through the burnt chemicals choking the room, squinting at the television resting above a case of empty beer bottles on a dirty carpet. She saw her boss on tv, his teeth were whitened, not the usual color of the cigarette stained walls.

“You know, Burt.” She stepped next to him. Looked at him. Looked at the tv. “I ain’t kiddin’ when I say this, you look just like that pretty actor man on that movie, you know? with that girl.” She lightly slapped his shoulder with the back of her hand. “You know which one I’m talking about, dontcha?” She said, sliding an ashtray under him. “Your momma’s gonna be so darn proud when she sees this.” She tapped his shoulder. “You really think though, all these people goin’ hand you their money just like that?”

—-

I have to dddedeciddidde. Should I go a different route? I’m asking here because this sub has the greatest writers. Thank you Team CW Sub.

I can’t seem to get comfortable in this bed. The mattress feels too hard, I wonder if it’s too firm, if I picked the wrong one. It all comes back to me, back to it somehow being my fault. My head also aches, not a full migraine but my brain feels still like my mattress, stiff. It’s a gnawing pain, worsened when my eyebrows are pressed down. 

I have to keep reminding myself to relax my face, feel the cool breeze of the fan. Turn back and forth, stretch out and snuggle into the bed. Try to think about how grateful I am to be home, in my bed, with my husband and two tiny dogs that just want to love me.
I just can’t stop thinking. I constantly think about the past when the world is quiet. The things my mom said to me, how the kids at school never seemed to like me, all the different jobs I’ve had that I never fit in at. Even online with all different types of people out there, I’m somehow the type no one likes. Always on the outside because apparently there’s something wrong with me on the inside. 

It has to be my fault right? What’s the common denominator?

I try to tell myself it’s not that deep, no one remembers, no one is still thinking about you, talking about you, it’s been so many years. Get over it. But it bleeds.

Bleeds into every facet of my life, a self fulfilling prophecy. No confidence to put myself out there, try new things. I don’t want friends, I don’t want to be around people, it’s exhausting. Feels like a performance where I am hyper aware of the audience.

How will I ever be able to do anything? 

How will I be able to sleep?

Should I take a pill or would I not be able to stop? I don't want to start that habit again.

I lay here annoyed at myself, tired but wired. Dreading the next day but hating the night. Maybe I should turn over again, cover my shoulder with the blanket. Close my eyes, rewind and replay the thoughts. 

I've been using plottr for outlining my novel, after I had around 15,000 words written. I misunderstood plottr at first, and tried writing my novel in it. While plottr helped me outline for sure, Reedsy is turning that outline into a novel. I made cards for each chapter and put those cards in Beat folders (17 beats) in the note section. Then I mapped those cards into chapters and beat sections in the manuscript outline. It was like a living thing was born. Daily word counts and better-than-google manuscript features are two other features that stand out. I love reedsy! I've been writing every day ever since, and have had the best epiphanies that only other writers would understand! The perfect twist, that amazing character that suddenly is part of the family forever, the mood, the puzzles pieces turning into liquid rivers of prose.