Keep Writing

When asked this, my first answer is "because I can", which usually ends the conversation but it's an escape, not an answer, I'll admit to that.

I started writing because I wanted to make real and concrete all the stories in my mind. I wanted to write what I wanted to read. And I still keep some of my very early writing amd smile when I go back to them.

After some time, I started focusing on the stories that somehow explored an interest of mine. Then I learned I could explore not only what interested me but write about what I think reality should be like.

I don't have a favoured genre.

I have romances, sci-fi and fantasy stories in my writings, in several degrees of development. I've wet my toes on dystopias, zombie apocalypse, hollow utopias, time travel, war...

But somehow, and this is something I see as a flaw, even when I want to paint a world in broad strokes, make it twisted, gratuitously violent or corrupt, non-sensically irreal, I always fall down to characters and how they act, think and speak. About what they do, what was or what should be.

I criticize reality in my writings. I write to show what should be. What can be. How I see what being human means. The suffering we inflict upon ourselves and others. And often try to be the devil's advocate, see and tell the story from the other side. I don't feel the need to picture the world.

If any of what I write ever reaches the hands of readers, I want to gift people with a moment of peace and, hopefully, insert small, rebellious ideas in their minds.

Enough about me.

What is your answer?

A dark, fantastical tale that is intended to unfold a paragraph, or thereabouts, at a time.

On Publish0x:

https://www.publish0x.com/storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions/fragment-118-xplpdlp?a=X7axkJW3ey

On Wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/1592023116-storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions-fragment-118

On Minkly:

https://www.minkly.io/series/chapters/1053

cross-posted from: https://literature.cafe/post/26326872

so lately I have been wondering what I would do while waiting for chapter releases of some of my favorite novels(and I swear to the amighty God this is really difficult) like: SS

So in the mean time i decided why not write my own novel and thats when I knew this sht demands talent. its not easy to read and reread your own crap while revising it hoping that maybe just maybe someone will find it good enough.

anyways enough of that, so the novel i started is called "The Crimson Eclipse"

its both on royalroad and webnovel, it's an isekai novel about a serial killer who gets reincarnated into the Kingdom of Aurelia there he is forced to join the law enforcement going on the side that he fought against the most.

it explore themes of morality and redemption.

personally i think i did an ok enough job since its my first, for anyone interested the links are:

royalroad: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/138698/the-crimson-eclipse

webnovel: https://www.webnovel.com/book/the-crimson-eclipse_34395164100604905

The story takes place in Salem, MA, during the Witch Trials. This is some dialogue I just wrote today, so likely not final. It is a 100% fictional inquisition by the non-fictional Reverend Parris of Salem Village.

As you may gather, I like to have some fun with the dialogue here and there. Link is below.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wPs0s5cTi-fqXq7Ql6jEGecHyvplj1yd/view?usp=sharing

A dark, fantastical tale that is intended to unfold a paragraph, or thereabouts, at a time.

On Publish0x:

https://www.publish0x.com/storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions/fragment-117-xgnlvwv?a=X7axkJW3ey

On Wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/1585642408-storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions-fragment-117

On Minkly:

https://www.minkly.io/series/chapters/697

Tuesday.

Carla Evans enjoyed her simple life. After retiring four years ago, she spent most of her time in her little garden or visiting with old friends. She had moved into a quaint cottage only 3 years ago, so naturally had yet to finish unpacking. Today was the day, she was finally going to tackle the last unopened box. She had a spot all prepared for it, a rosewood cabinet with clear glass doors. Perfect to display and organize the letters and postcards she had received over her life. She always liked letters, they were like little birthday presents. Little stories written by those who may otherwise never write. As she got older, she received fewer and fewer letters, which made each one all the more precious.

The box had been placed somewhat awkwardly during the move, as she had made the decision to downsize after moving in. Perhaps not her wisest decision, but she was determined to take life as slow as possible now that she no longer had a schedule to keep. She retrieved her favourite stool, and placed it firmly at the bottom of her dressing room shelves. Bracing herself with both hands on the sturdy wood, she hoisted herself up. Rather pleased with her impressive vigor despite her age, she reached up to collect the box of memories. It was heavier than she expected. She wondered briefly if perhaps they had multiplied, as the alternative explanation, that she had gotten older, was clearly impossible. Still filled with the pride of success, she gingerly stepped off the stool. Her foot met solid ground. Just one more step, and she could start. However, as her trailing foot left the safety of the stool, it collided ever so gently with her other leg. A silly mistake. Someone as agile and healthy as her should have been more careful.

Carla dropped the box as she tipped backwards. “Oh drat, now I’ll have to gather them before I can sort them,” she thought to herself. She did manage to find a step. Unfortunately, the one that followed was not quite fast enough to find its place.

She landed on something soft, albeit a little lumpy. Her heart sank, as the worried realization that she might have just damaged some of her memories dawned on her. Finding her bearings and sitting upright, she pivoted to see the consequences of her choices. To her great surprise, she hadn’t damaged a single letter. Or, more accurately, she had no idea where the letters were. She reached down to take one of the Tuesdays in her hands. It was a strange thing. Small, shriveled, smelling slightly sweet and of forgotten memories. She stole a closer look, and saw a little boy lying in bed. His mother sat beside him, replacing the ice bag on his head. Carla smiled at the little boy’s memory. For surely, this was not a Tuesday his mother would have forgotten.

She delicately placed the Tuesday beside her before absently reaching for another. This one felt quite a bit heavier in her hands. A girl was walking through a school hallway as she overheard some classmates talking about her. The gossip was not kind. Carla gave the little day an empathetic smile, tinged with second-hand melancholy. She hoped the girl was okay and had grown up to be happy. She laid the Tuesday aside, apart from the previous. They were both from children, but they didn't seem similar enough to place together. She reached for another. This one felt familiar. Without looking at it, she was certain she had held this Tuesday before. Somewhere warm. Eyes closed, she brought it up to her nose and breathed deep. The aroma of fresh coffee with a hint of cardamom greeted her like an old friend. Toasted sesame seeds, dried spices, and fresh bread. This was her own forgotten memory. It seemed to shrink in size as she breathed it in. Her eyes weren't necessary to see this one. It had been the fourth day of her trip to Istanbul. She had spent most of it, sipping coffee on the rooftop cafe. Eventually, wandering through a market to browse. A deep sense of satisfaction washed through her. It had been a lovely Tuesday. She was almost surprised that she had forgotten it at all. Although, she supposed that with so many days lived, it was inevitable that some would slip through the gaps. And, seemingly, all the Tuesdays at least, ended up here.

Carla pushed herself to her feet and pulled out the small length of red string she always kept in her pocket. A quick bow to tie up her hair, and she set her determination to organize and catalogue every single one. After all, if her own forgotten date could give her such a deep sense of contentment, surely others might find use for these too.

Pulling up a seat, she began looking at each and every Tuesday laid before her. One by one, she sorted each into piles that grew steadily larger. She started simple. Tuesdays forgotten because they were sad. Tuesdays forgotten even though they were happy. Tuesdays forgotten during sickness. Tuesdays that felt like they were trying to be remembered, but weren't. The piles eventually proved to be insufficient. Temporarily abandoning the unsorted pile, she placed each Tuesday trying to be remembered on the table, spreading them out past the horizon. She tried sorting them alphabetically, but quickly realized the T section may become unwieldy. Finally, she settled on sorting them by importance. She wasn't entirely sure how to rank the importance of each Tuesday, but she was content to try her best and see how it turned out.

At some point, she realized there was a man standing on the other side of the window. Curious, she put down the Tuesday spent shopping and gestured towards him. He responded with a smile, put down his own project, and opened the window. "Hello. Lovely day isn't it?" Carla stopped to think about an answer. She hadn't really considered the weather. But as she looked around, she had to agree. "Why yes, it is actually. Nice to meet you by the way, my name is Carla Evans. Sorry to bother you, but might I ask what you're building in there?" The man beamed, clearly excited to talk about his work. "Oh, it's quite fascinating. I'm building consensus. You see, this one is shaped a little strange, almost like it's incomplete. So it's my job to decide if it's part of a larger structure, or if it needs to be trimmed back to fit. It's quite tricky though! I can't go around trimming parts that are meant to be there!" Carla was immediately intrigued. "That seems quite difficult! What do you do once you decide whether to trim them, or keep them as is?" "Ah, well that's the most challenging part! You see, these come in batches, and they all have to fit together. Occasionally, it looks impossible! But more often than not, I just need to look closely at their shape. What initially seems conflicting, may just be angled strangely." Eventually, both realized they had become so engrossed in their conversation that Simon had forgotten to introduce himself. Carla poured them both tea and laid out some little cakes. They sat for a while, discussing organization techniques, interesting observations, and favourite foods. Carla remarked on the many simple yet interesting days she had watched, while Simon told her about some of the stranger beliefs he had come across. Many of which seemed all but impervious to his attempts at trimming them.

As the conversation quieted, the pair bid each other a warm farewell, both expressing a genuine desire to meet again. Carla turned to face her task, filled with a renewed sense of satisfaction and purpose. She had learned some tricks from Simon that she was eager to try. First off, rather than using a filing cabinet and table, she brought out a large canvas. The Tuesdays worked wonderfully, spreading smooth. They weren't as distinct from each other as she had originally thought. Speaking with Simon had allowed her to see a bigger picture. Slowly, each painting took shape, populated and coloured by innumerable forgotten Tuesdays. Whenever she thought a canvas was full, she would set it aside. Only to find another day whose absence made it incomplete. On and on Carla painted, her home becoming a gallery of life's lost moments.

Finally, Carla sat down for a rest. Her field of view filled with an endless sea of brush strokes and memories. She wiped the sweat from her brow, satisfied with a job well done, and took a deep breath. Just as she was thinking about having a little snack, a knock came from the door. She hadn't been expecting visitors, but certainly wasn't opposed to sharing a meal with another stranger. The woman on the other side, however, was not a stranger.

Carla welcomed her Grandmother into her home, with a heart overflowing. They embraced. A deep familiar warmth filled Carla's bones, touching places she hadn't realized were in need of it. She looked wonderful. Healthy, happy, almost glowing. Carla offered her a seat, and the conversation flowed like wine. Which, in Carla's home, meant generously. They spoke on every subject, the words sprawling and spiraling in every direction, to every topic. They talked about memories, family, friends, loves, fears, desires. Carla couldn't remember when last she felt such a deep, safe, contentment, and hoped it was on a Tuesday.

She eventually showed her Grandmother through her little home gallery. Thousands upon thousands of paintings. Each one a masterpiece. Each one a collection of human nature in all its quirks and strangeties. Even those that displayed pain, or sadness, had their own beautiful dignity. Not to be glorified, or celebrated. Just to be witnessed. Carla believed it was important that even the less pleasant work had its place in her gallery. Excluding them would make it feel unbalanced. She had to admit, she didn't particularly enjoy making them, or even viewing them, but she knew deep down it was important.

Carla and her Grandmother walked unhurriedly through the gallery, stopping at every single painting to talk about it. Until, at last, they had viewed every single piece, spoken at length about every single topic, and finally felt as though they had properly caught up. Before her grandmother bid her farewell, she asked, "Would you like to see my garden?"

Carla was taken aback. They had managed to speak about everything, and yet there was somehow more to talk about. "I would absolutely love that, yes please!" Her grandmother led the way through the front door, just a few steps down the street, to a familiar little home. She walked through a familiar living room, with the smell of roses and perfume calling back several Tuesdays. Out through the back door, lay row upon row of flowers of every colour, shape, and scent. Her grandmother placed a wide brimmed hat on her golden hair, and slipped on a pair of gardening gloves.

"Would you like to help me? It's been a while since I've tended it." Carla beamed. Many of her fondest memories were of helping her grandmother tend her flower garden. Her grandmother, who seemed somewhat taller now, placed an identical hat on Carla's head. They worked through the fields, the sun felt warm against her face, with the gentle breeze keeping her cool. They worked in silence. Having already spoken, there was no space between them needing to be filled. Her grandmother trimmed the fears, doubts, and anxieties off the budding flowers. Carla followed behind, pulling up any lies and deceits that attempted to take root, then collecting all the discards to add to the compost pile. After finishing one row, the pair stood tall and looked back at their work. It was at this point, Carla noticed something. "They're all so young, just starting out."

Her grandmother nodded, carefully removing a withered suspicion from an otherwise healthy bud. "That's right. This soil is wonderful for budding flowers, but many of them don't last long. And once they reach a certain age, I bring them to my neighbor. He makes lovely little vases for them." She pulled a trowel from her gardening apron and gestured towards a flower in an adjacent row. "In fact, I think that one is just about ready. We can deliver it now if you'd like." Carla nodded gleefully, nearly giving herself over to bouncing on her toes. Her grandmother carefully inspected the blooming flower, before gingerly lifting its patch of soil out of the ground. It looked perfect, Carla couldn't see a single blemish or weed. "Would you like to carry it for me?" Carla extended her cupped hands, intensely focused on the extremely important task she had been given. The soil was warm between her fingers, and rather than feeling heavy, it made her lighter than she had felt without it. It smelled lovely, and made her feel giddy and light-headed in the most wonderful way.

Her Grandmother led the way back through her home, and across the street. There was no door, just a curtain of shells and beads. Carla was greeted with the musical sounds of a rain stick as she passed through it. The inside of the home was messy, disorganized, and beautiful. Every wall lined with windows, shelves, and potted flowers. In the center of the room sat a man at a pottery wheel. He looked up to the tinkle of music, and offered a warm smile to the pair. "Hello Eleanor, how are you doing?" Carla's Grandmother responded with a radiant smile that made Carla want to giggle. "I'm quite wonderful Jacob, thank you for asking! I'm here with my Grand Daughter today, and she's been kind enough to help carry this for me." Jacob approached them. He smelled like earth and charcoal. Carla liked him. He reached out to take the flower from her, hands still covered in wet clay. "Oh beautiful! I think this one is going to be especially hearty!" He brought it back to the wet vase still on his pottery wheel, and gently placed it inside the still-soft clay. Carla looked on, somewhat confused, and asked, "Doesn't it have to dry first?"

Jacob gave her a wide grin. "Clever girl! Yes, I imagine that most pottery should be dried, or fired, before being used. But these feel a little different. The vase needs a chance to understand the flower in order to hold it best. It will eventually harden into something that keeps it safe." Carla looked around the studio. She couldn't count how many flowers in pots there were. Many had long since hardened, and shone brilliantly in the sun. Their vases old, weathered, but beautiful. Others seemed to be withering before the clay had started to dry. She approached one flower, it was beginning to wilt, despite the clay having already set. A crack had begun to form in it, and was slowly spreading.

"Can't you fix it?" She desperately wanted to make it whole again. It felt unfair that such a beautiful thing should fail over such a little crack. He comforted her with a wistful smile, and a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Occasionally. Often all it takes is a little bit of extra attention and they can regain their strength. But that doesn’t help the ones planted with weeds in their roots, which eventually spread and form cracks." Carla felt a momentary pang of guilt. "Does that mean, maybe we did a bad job of helping them grow?" "No, I don't think so." He responded with reassuring kindness. "You can't always see problems from the surface. All you can do is your best."

Carla frowned. This was such a little crack, it seemed unfair that such a beautiful thing should break over such a little problem. Surely there was a way to fix it. She stared at the minor flaw, demanding it reveal the solution. And to Carla's delight, she emerged the victor. The realization took her quickly, and without ceremony. She begged their pardon, exclaimed she would be back soon, before turning on her heels and running full speed through the musical beads. She dashed through her front door, and searched her gallery for a specific painting. It only took a moment to find it, familiar as she was with her own work. A large, ornate painting of quiet moments shared. She gently removed it from its hanging, and lifted one of the Tuesdays off the canvas. Cradling it in her arms, she walked back to Jacob's studio. Once inside, she approached the cracked vase, and tenderly applied her precious cargo across the surface and in the cracks. There was no immediate change, although it felt sturdier now. "Do you think that will fix it?" Carla asked Jacob. "I don't know, but it definitely helped."

The three spoke only briefly, before Carla finally decided to return home. She was starting to miss her gallery, and her paintings. And now she could see the usefulness of her task. The trio bade each other farewell, and returned to their respective homes. Carla continued her paintings in her ever expanding gallery. Occasionally visiting her Grandmother, Jacob, or Simon. It didn't take long for her to meet more people from her little community. One of her closest neighbours was a young man named Christopher, who balanced when to speak hard truths against silence. And a red-haired woman who liked to weave cultures and communities. She formed a special bond with the man who braided conversations between old friends, as he was always looking for more forgotten Tuesdays. And as Carla painted, and her community grew, she slowly began seeing some of her old letters appearing in her pile. One after another, finding their way to a canvas, or a vase, or a braid. And although it was a strange sensation painting others memories of herself, it was, after all, the nature of all Tuesdays to eventually be forgotten.

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/38009007

In Defiance to the Lion

Dear Elzie.

I’m terribly sorry, that I have not written to you in quite some time. I hope you’re still employed in the factory, and that your occupation has not yet become eligible for drafting. Because the life in the trenches is not a life I wish upon anyone. We have about three or four days out of them and eight or nine in them. When we are out supposed to be resting, we have to go on working parties, digging graves or trenches, build fortifications, and any work needed. And no matter were we are, we are always under shell fire, so not much of rest anyway. Every day we can see more of their ships descending from the sky. If the other fronts are anything like ours, I fear that if the flowers of peace will ever be planted, it will be in soil spoiled by sulphur and blood. Lately the fighting has been incessant , the dead lay beyond our trenches, their extremities convulsively raised and contorted towards the sky like a dead forest. We wear our respirators almost constantly because of the awful smell of the dead. I’ll never get these sights out of my eyes, it will be an everlasting nightmare. If I live to come home, I’ll try to tell you all about it, because I cannot possibly express it in writing as words fail me. The things are indescribable.

Your loving Brother Vurian

Carsius Prime, (Centarus Arm Sge Vul Quadrant).

Field Marshal Johannes Thorsson stood at the edge of the battle map, its flickering display painting him in shades of zircon and crimson. The lines of the front carved out of the landscape like scars. Sinuous and irregular their bulwarks extending seemingly without end in all directions but one, marking the frontline across the blasted terrain. The Cereus 62nd army group had bled to hold their current ground, but the time for stalemate had passed. Now, the order had come the 62nd had to pierce through to Lankensorn, force a spear through the ramparts and give the northern and eastern circumvallating forces a window to reconstitute and hopefully create their own breaches into the invaders lines. And tighten the noose further around the enemy forces bridgehead near Vergemler Steep. Captain Astrid Falkenholm of J Company, 105th Ranger Battalion, approached with a brisk salute. She bore the drawn look of an officer who had spent weeks in the rain and mud, her once pristine uniform torn and stained with the grime of the trenches. Yet her eyes, still sharp as a predator’s, met the Field Marshal’s, with resolve.

-“My lord Thorsson,” she began, her voice steady but taut with restrained frustration.

-“Our scouts report the enemies have taken up additional positions on the Turmund Ridge and dug them self in deep. fortifications, earthworks, and heavy mortar positions. Our preliminary bombardments barely scratched them.”

Thorsson nodded, his expression as immovable as a stubborn ox.

-“Ja. They are resourceful, got to give them that Falkenholm. And damn hard to dislodge once they manage to get them self's a footing. But we have to take the ridge!”

Astrid hesitated, her hands clenching behind her back.

-“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

-“You may.”

-”The dead and wounded from yesterdays assault are still trickling down through our trenches towards the surgical FOB’s, I estimate about 35 000 casualities, I had to send parts of my company to assist with prioritisations and first aid ”

-“We cannot repeat the failure at Harald’s Gate. If we march up that ridge head-on, the men will die in droves. Their forces have stood stalwart against all our attacks and they quickly adapt. Their incursions more precise and their counter attacks more ferocious. If we commit to yet a another massive direct assault, I fear we will lose more than men, we will lose hope in our ranks”

Thorsson raised a hand, silencing her without ire.

-”I know, that you know, just as well as I do ,that our ongoing efforts and relentless attacks are not solely to try and gain ground and push their lines further back. We can give them no respite, no room to concentrate their forces. ”

Astrid felt a sharp cold wave of embarrassment and shame wash over her, she tensed her jaw as she fought back a blush creeping up her neck.

The Field marshal walked over to one of the reinforced viewing ports of the command bunker and stared up at the low thick cloud cover that concealed the sky.

-“I hope you don’t think, I do not see, Falkenhom? That you believe I would throw away our sons and daughters in a fool’s gambit?” His voice, though calm, carried the unmistakable reverb of a commander who mourn every soldier lost under their command.

-“Do not mistake necessary orders for callousness or blindness.”

Astrid’s hands fell to her sides and she slightly leaned forward as she, with a hint remorse in her tone, interjected.

-”Forgive me My Lord, I choose my words poorly if they led you to believe, that the intent behind them was to convey any doubt in the motivations behind your orders and decisions. I only”

Thorsson turned and faced Astrid, his expression harbouring signs of a smile

-”Any one of sane mind would question the fact that so many are sacrificed for so seemingly little ground. I can not fault you for this ”

-”However we should count the stars for our luck, that we managed to force this conflict into one of static warfare and containment for as long as we have.”

-“The Turmund Ridge will not fall to brute strength alone.”

-”What I’m about to tell you is a warning order, I trust you with this information because you and your men will be asked to play a crucial role in the coming weeks, and you will need time to prepare.”

He gestured to the map, where new symbols flickered into place, markers of hidden mine entrances and forgotten tunnels revealed by scouting parties.

-“Our forward engineers have found remnants of an ancient mining network beneath the ridge. The Lions men , for all their ingenuity, seem to be unaware of what lies below them. We shall use these tunnels to place charges beneath them.”

Astrids’s brow furrowed.

-“A calculated risk, my lord. If the enemy discovers us?”

-“They will not,” Torsson interrupted, his voice ironclad. -”I have personally overseen the selection of the men for the saboteur groups, once the charges are detonated we will unleash a cavalcade of violence, sung in by the roar of a million artillery shells! ”

Thorsson’s eyes rested for a moment on the piercing gaze of Falkenholm.

-”I need J Company to, get across no man's land, unseen. Lay in wait, just out of range of our artillery, just beyond Hill 275. Once our artillery barrage begins, there will be a 5 minutes countdown, then Hill 275 will be excluded form the barrage. This will be your window to seize or destroy the mortars and machine gun positions on that hill. If J company manages to hold Hill 275 during the main assault, you will create a thin gap beyond Stumblers Hill and along Bloods Creek, for the 15th Asanders Brigade and the 6th Mechanised Division to approach and assault Turmund Ridge from, with significantly reduced estimated casualties.”

He paused for a moment placed his hands on the edge of the strategical planning table and lowered his head.

-”Once you have taken the hill; Your main objective is to hold it and restrict the enemies ability to pin down the 6th Mechanised and the 15th Asanders Brigade. And if you do manage to capture any offensive equipment, I want you to try and create as much havoc within their lines as possible. But, and I mean this, Do not proceed any further or join the rest of the assault. There will be 2 Mechanised Divisions and 12 infantry brigades participating in this operation. You are my surgical instruments don’t let the tide of violence dull your edges. I have plenty of hammers and rocks, but few sharp knifes.”

She raised her right hand to her right eyebrow and in an almost mechanical movement, and saluted.

-“I will see to the men”, Astrid exclaimed with a stringent voice

Thorsson nodded and haphazardly saluted back and added,

-”Let me know if there is anything you will need.” Astrid turned, and with rejuvenated seal left the command bunker.

Field Marshal Johannes Thorsson sat down to review the latest situation reports from the other theatres. He had been there, when the envoy had addressed the planetary council. The Envoy had spoken about unification, threat of human annihilation from aliens, and the divinity of their king, the Lion. All lies he was sure of it. When subjugation had been refused, their planetfall had been almost immediate. Johannes remembered being surprised at how the worlds regions, seemingly in a single breath, had managed forget all past squabbles and scramble their forces in a united effort try to contain the invaders. That was four years ago, an still no end to the war in sight. He did not want to admit it to himself but deep down, a kernel of doubt had sprung root. At this point it was impossible that the forces and resupplies making daily planetfall would not be reinforcements from a main force. Even so, how the expeditionary contingent could have sustained such warfare for such an extended period eluded his comprehension.

Was there any validity to the claims the envoy had made? , he thought to himself. Before quickly suppressing his doubts.

-”They might have pushed this dog in to a corner, but they will soon become acutely aware of just how hard it can bite.” Thorsson said under his breath.

As Astrid made her way through the meandering trenches she was halted by a procession of wounded, slowly making their way back towards the forward surgical field hospital solemnly she moved through the swaying and limping mass, it’s repeating ebbs and flows agitated only by the the occasional stretcher bearer teams frantic movements. On her way though the procession towards one of the non arterial trench systems, she came a upon a small statued figure sitting towards the mud wall of the trench. His arm and hand stretched out as if he was waiting on someone to grab it.

Astrid’s purposivety normally unwavering, yielded. She took the grasping hand in hers, letting it rest as if it was a wounded dove in the palm of her hand. Slowly the head of the small statued figure rose. Revealing the mutilated face of a very young man. Both his eyes shot through, their torn remains now mixed with eyelashes and skin

-”I’ lost my way, can you help me?” The boy asked calmly

Astrid could see the markings left by the medic, “why had he been deemed ‘will not survive’ ”she thought to her self.

-“ it’ts alright, son”

-“I… I can’t see, Ma’am, Wi wi will, I need an operation”

-”Poor boy, he doesn’t know he never will” she thought to her self.

From the far end of the trench section a large soldier carrying two large ammunition cases hastily rounded the corner , his steps teetering on running and leaning forward as if each step stopped him from falling over.

Astrid threw out her free arm and grabbed him by his shoulder.

His momentum almost pulling Astrid with him, as he tried to stop without losing his balance. The soldier turned towards Astrid with an exasperate expression, that slowly turned into one of surprise.

-“Take this man to the forward surgical field hospital, and make sure he gets treated!”

The large soldier looked at the wounded man, then back at Astrid. His gaze began rapidly shifting in an erratic pattern betraying the struggle between the thoughts in his head. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, Astrid cut him off.

-”I understand, you already have orders. That's self evident, unless you are running around with ammunition cases for fun. If the field hospital is further away than where ever you are going with those boxes, then drop them of on the way.”

-”Yes ma’am, ” the soldier replied sheepishly.

The soldier moved the Ammunition box from his left hand to under his right arm, and leaned down towards the wounded young man.

-“I’m Thomas, you want to come with me? I’ll take you to the medics , and they can get you patched up. ” He asked with a soft voice.

The wounded soldier nodded. And as and Astrid and Thomas helped him up he said:

-“I’m Bernard, but my buddies call me Nard.”

The two men slowly made their along the trench.

-”Why do they call you Nard?” Thomas asked.

-”One time our Sergeant, got so mad at me, he forgot the first part of my name when he yelled at me. I guess it sort of stuck.”

-”What did you do to get your sarge so mad?”

The two rounded the corner of the south end of the trench, Astrid stood still for a moment longer trying to hear the reply, but they were now to far away for her to hear much more than the melody of their speech on top of the wind, distant rumbling of engines and artillery.

There was an aura of unease in the company command post. They were all waiting, waiting on a specific date and time. But no one knew which time or day they where waiting on. J Company had now gone over their battle plans multiple times a day. They had made contingency plans for seemingly every possible situation and drilled every last scenario almost to the point of absurdity.

Astrid observed the member of her staff, some where pacing the room, or continually shifting in their chairs, others picked their nails or at some small piece of scab on their hands. Every one showed signs of being anxious, all except Private Julian Baumhauer. Built like an Oak and often just as stoic, that man could fall a sleep just about anytime, anywhere. Astrid would be lying if she didn’t say she was at least a little jealous of him. An hour earlier Astrid had been given the final order, in about 34 hours they were expected to be in position just beneath Hill 275. She had not told the rest of the company or her subordinates, she wanted them to get the opportunity to have tonight's supper with relative piece of mind. Astrid got up, and walked over to the small stove in the corner of the room to refill her coffee mug. She slowly turned towards the room, while blowing on the coffee and carefully testing the heat with her lips.

Between her breaths as she continued blowing on the coffee, she announced to the room;

-”In 15 minutes I want every Platoon and squad leader in here for orders, and before you ask. Yes! we’re doing this thing.”

The previous feeling of unease filling the room was quickly replaced by a sense of duty, and the commotion people moving with purpose.

Astrid stood still, slowly drinking her coffee as the chaos around her slowly settled into order. Eventually the only movement in the room was her arm as she moved the mug to and from her lips, in front of her stood 35 officers in silent anticipation. She sat the mug aside and pulled back the sleeve on her left arm with her middle- and ring finger, revealing her watch. Astrid’s eyes focused on the watch face for a moment before her eyes started trailing the second hand.

-”The time is 17:32.15 now…… 17.32. 25 …….. now ”

Everyone in the room quickly turned their gaze from Astrid to their respective watches, as they continued to listen to her declaring the time.

Astrid Continued;

-“17:32. 40 …… now, 17:33. 00 ……. Now. Does any one need additional time giving or are we all synced?”

-”Good!”

-” As you all know, we have been tasked with taking Hill 275, Our assault plays crucial part for the success of Operation Spetum. I was informed that our Field Marshal decided on that name earlier this week, quite fitting in my opinion”

The listeners nodded in agreement.

-”Now, The enemy holds Hill 275, from now referred to as THE HILL, They are entrenched and have multiple fortified, short range artillery positions and Machine gun nests. Enemy strength is estimated to be company sized. Possibly a dedicated communications platoon as well, either on, or in very close proximity to THE HILL. It’s imperative that we cut any communication lines and capture any radio equipment. The trench systems just to the North and south of THE HILL are fortunately for us not directly connected with the entrenchments on THE HILL due to the steepness of its sides. There are however two Trenches leading up the hill from the east, or from behind THE HILL. These will be referred to as INDEX and MIDDLE, and we need to get a vantage point over these as soon as possible, once we have established our presence. Our Company’s main objective is to open up a safe gap along Bloods Creek for the forces storming Turmund Ridge to approach through. Us holding THE HILL will not completely remove the enemies ability to fire down Bloods Creek, but it will no longer be a shooting gallery. This means we will need to engage down into the trench systems and other firing positions, from our position. Hopefully with captured artillery. Once the main spearhead of our forces, that will be barrelling right into the centre of the enemy frontlines, has breached the second line of trenches. We will change our focus to give them supporting fire. If we are unable to hold The HILL ,we are to destroy as much of their equipment as possible and hinder their ability to utilize the position.”

-”Now for some specifics. We depart tomorrow evening once the sun has set”

-“Our approach will be veiled by the storm that is expected to hit tomorrow evening, with a little luck it will begin just after dark, giving us extra time to move slowly and hidden through the night. Then at 4:30 we have to be in position just beneath THE HILL. Once the first salvo of our artillery barrage is fired, the countdown begins. FIVE minutes, then our objective will be excluded from the barrage.

The rest of the barrage will continue for another 35 minutes, before switching over to a creeping barrage, marking the start of the main assault. This will give us a 35 minute window take the THE HILL. The quicker and quieter we can seize it, the greater the chance that we can await the approach of the main assault in relative peace.”

-”Questions?”

A single hand rose form the group.

-”Yes!”, Astrid said while nodding in the direction lieutenant with the raised hand.

-” Will there be radio silence through out the, entirety of the operation?”, the lieutenant asked with a short brisk tone.

-”Until we can be sure that they are aware of our presence, we will hold radio silence. Any communication between platoons will have to be done with runners in the meantime, if absolutely necessary. Any communication back to HQ will be done with RCP-Drones.”

Astrid scanned the room looking for any other raised hands or facial expressions that conveyed confusion.

-”If there are no other questions, You are all dismissed. Now go and make sure the men are ready for tomorrow.”

A loud CLACK rang out as every pair of boots in the room smacked together in unison. Then the crowd of officers dispersed and left the room, synchronized like a flock of swimming ducks entering a lake from a narrow stream.

The next day evening, there was a bustling through out the trench systems. Every soldier, platoon and company seemed to have very pressing orders to attend to, and preparations to make. J Company however stood as a cohesive unit, just waiting. For the last half hour the wind had been steadily picking up, and even thicker and darker clouds slowly moved in over the battlefield. The winds were blowing perpendicular to the trench in which, J Company was waiting, insulating them from the biting chill of the wind. But it howled at them as it passed over the trench. As every shadow grew with the setting of the sun, so did they dim. The cloud cover was so thick, that as the horizon still shifted through the colours of fire and blood. The ground had already been painted with the darkest of ink. A hand was raised, and the Company proceeded to exit the trench in six columns. Through the night they battled the biting wind and occasional hail as they slowly made their way over the ravaged landscape, filled with wreckages, deep craters, pieces of barbed wire, and the torn bodies of those who had found their final resting place violently and sudden. Some craters were so deep that they had to climb up their edges in pairs. The closer they got to the hill the slower they had to move, eventually resorting to crawling. Because the temperature had crept so low that the mud began to freeze making the ground crackle under their boots. Although the wind was still blowing so ferociously that all but the loudest of screams would be drowned out. They did not dare, risk a sudden lull in the storm betraying their approach.

Astrid’s entire body ached from the strain and cold. The cold steel on her rifle burning her chin as she tried resting her neck in between shuffles, as she crawled under a group of fallen logs. As she cleared the last log and looked up, their objective suddenly loomed over her barely visible in the dim light from the enemy encampments scattered and reflected against the low clouds and thin fog.

She looked back and quietly said to her platoon deputy.

-”We’re here, tell the men to get them self in to position and ready. We are quite early so if they need some rest, now would be the time to try and get some.”

Grouped together in their platoons all of J Company, laid pressed against a half frozen mudbank, concealed from the Lion’s forces and shielded from the worst of the weather.

In an instance the horizon behind them lit up as if the clouds had ignited. Then came the roar, indescribably loud the hail of artillery fire came raining down all along the frontline. Plumes of mud, stone and fire spewed up like erupting volcanos. The explosions ripping apart the ground and and setting fortifications a blaze. In between the near constant and deafening explosions the screams of the next incoming shells was all that could be heard.

Private Wilkes, adjusted the strap of his helmet and clutched his rifle. He could feel his heart pounding, the thump in his chest almost visible through his uniform jacket. Just Beside him, Sergeant Lewis checked his wristwatch. The older man’s expression of grim determination, reinforced by his heavily scarred face.

-”Two minutes ” Lewis growled, his voice rough like gravel.

Wilkes looked down along the mudbank most of the platoons were sporadically visible to as the fire raining down, illuminated the landscape. He could see their Company commander Capitan Falkenholm crouched down and looking just as intently at her wristwatch as his Sergeant.

-”Thirty Seconds”

Everyone shifted around and secured their footing, leaned up towards the edge of the bank and stood in a stance reminiscent of a predator ready to pounce.

-”Ten seconds.. seven, six ……. four, three, two”

”Move! Move! Move!” Astrid barked as the barrage crept away from the THE HILL. The men leaped over the edge of the bank, weapons ready. The climb was brutal from the outset. The ground was a morass of half frozen mud, jagged rocks and boulders . And the wind carried flakes of razor sharp snow, that cut in to their faces. The first obstacle was the barbed wire, stretched in stacked lines across the slope. Explosions from the barrage had torn gaps in some places, but in others, the wire remained intact, a deadly barrier. ”Wire cutters, up front!” Sergeant Lewis shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. Corporal Larsen darted forward, his hands working frantically as he snipped at the wire. The sharp twang of severed strands was drowned out by the barrage still hammering all along the front. As Lewis and the men of his platoon made their way through the rows of barbed wire, other parts of the company had, had better luck with the artillery clearing their paths. And some of them where already half way up the slope and had began fanning out. Just as Lewis got clear of the barbed wire, he could see that Falkenholm had stopped about half way up The Hill and was frantically signalling with her hands. A runner came stumbling down towards them, sliding and hopping down the muddy hill side.

-”There are firing positions in the hill side! They have dug out, the whole hill might have tunnels,Captain wants your and 5th platoon to breach and clear from the inside while the rest of us continue clear THE HILL from the top! ”. The runner exclaimed while trying to catch his breath

Sergeant Lewis nodded and turned to his platoon.

-”Alright boys, looks like we are going caving, on me!” Sergeant Lewis said with his raspy voice.

Just as Astrid turned to continue the ascend there was a crack followed by the zip of bullets as a machine guns opened fire. ”Down! Find cover!” Astrid bellowed. She threw herself into a shell crater as a burst of fire kicked up dirt near her face. She dared a glance over the edge, spotting the muzzle flashes from a machine gun nest partially concealed behind sandbags.

-”Baumhauer!” Astrid yelled. “Take it out!”

Private Julian Baumhauer, nodded grimly. Clutching a grenade, he dashed forward , darting between cover, the machine gun crackling as it tracked him. A round clipped his thigh, and he stumbled but didn’t stop. With a roar, he hurled the grenade into the nest before collapsing behind a boulder. The explosion sent debris and bodies flying, silencing the gun.

-”Push on!” Astrid screamed.

As they advanced, they encountered the first artillery position: a pair of short-barreled howitzers nestled together in a concrete emplacement. The gunners, stunned by the barrage and the sudden appearance of infantry, reached for their rifles too late. On top of the Hill there was obvious signs of confusion among the enemy. Some were running to re-man their positions, while others frantically tried to get in side of their bunker entrances again to respond to the fighting now raging inside their tunnels. In the chaos and confusion a moment of respite appeared for Astrid, to survey the situation.

-”Fuck. Matthews! Where’s Baumhauer?” Astrid shouted while hastily looking back and forth over the parapet surrounding the artillery position.

-”He got hit while clearing the machine gun position Ma’am, Forseti is tending to him they’re still on the hill side.” Mathews replied.

-”This is taking to long, we need to cut off those who have managed to get them self into defensible positions from reinforcements. And force the rest of them into the bunker system. By the sounds of it 2nd and 5th are wreaking havoc down there. Any one trying to escape we can cut down by setting up firing positions there and there. Two machine gun groups would be able to hold those entrances. That will free up most of 3rd ,4th and 6th can set up defensive positions looking over INDEX and MIDDLE.”

-”Yes Ma’am ”

-”Wilkes, On me! Get this thing loaded!”

Wilkes scrambled to help Lewis in the dimly lit corridor, his hands trembling as he armed and shoved a shell into the breech of the Sergeants shoulder fired grenade rifle. The gun roared, its shell slamming a hole through the wall as the round obliterated the hastily constructed machine gun position, at the far en of the corridor, in a spray of smoke and shrapnel. The defenders firing desperately to hold the line. Machine guns roaring, rifle fire snapped and ricochets bouncing of walls with high pitched tangs, around the advancing men. The final push was a bloody and grueling melee. Eventually the intensity of the fighting gradually died down, the further up the bunker system they came. The sustained adrenaline secretion and stress had Wilkes in tears as he forced his trembling body past yet another corner. A bullet whizzed past his head and he threw him self on the ground. A familiar voice shouted in the distance

-”Wilkes! Is that you?”

-”Yes! It’s me. Hold your fire”, he replied with a trembling voice.

-”You bastards, you made it!”, the voice replied

-”Now get up here, The main act is about to begin.”

Wilkes collected him self and got up of the bloodstained concrete floor. His Sergeant, Sergeant Lewis padded him on his shoulder as the remainder of 2nd Platoon made their way up the stairs.

Hill 275 was now firmly in the hands of J Company, yet the battle was just about to begin.

I’m thinking about writing an 18+ superhero story about a young adult superhero who is 21 to 23 at the start of the story. He comes from a millionaire or billionaire family. His parents are alive, his siblings are alive, but the main character’s significant other, who also comes from a wealthy family, is murdered. That motivates my character to become a superhero. His two best friends, a 24 to 26 year old man and a 24 to 26 year old woman, come from wealthy families too, and they help him with superhero stuff.

The reason they come from wealthy families is so they can drive around in nice cars, take yachts out, and go on private jets without having to explain how young people in their early 20s are doing stuff like this. They live in penthouses or nice apartments, and we don’t have to explain their jobs at all.

My superhero could own a nightclub, and his base of operations is under the nightclub. We can just say his friends work for their families or something. The story is really about a superhero and his two friends getting into things, and it’s also a way for me to draw exotic locations.

There can be drama with my main character’s rich parents, who maybe don’t like or support the superhero life. I was also thinking of having my main character be mixed race, so he doesn’t come from a billionaire white family. Maybe his dad is Black and his mom is white, or his mom is Hispanic.

Maybe they come from a wealthy family of color, which can be a source of drama or reflection for the characters. Basically, I’m not gonna lie, the story is basically kind of Spider-Man meets Daredevil, but what if Spider-Man was rich or came from a rich family. Could that be interesting?

I'm writing a story about a masked vigilante. This woman is a 21-year-old stripper who's dating a 31-year-old man. She eventually gets powers through an accident, and her boyfriend is murdered. She was originally going to kill the killer but decided to let the police arrest him after she beat him up.

Despite him being 10 years older than her, the theme of the story is justice and how she decides to become a vigilante and protect innocent people like her boyfriend.

Does the theme of "justice" and "protecting the innocent" work if he's 10 years older than her?

I’m writing a story about a 21-year-old man dating a 31-year-old woman whose 35-year-old ex-boyfriend was abusive. Her ex brutally tortures, rapes and kills her new boyfriend, and she kills him out of revenge.

But before I write it, I want to know if it’s realistic for a 31-year-old whose ex was abusive to date a 21-year-old.

Fleeting feelings of a canvas so full of color and so full of life being drained away. Its source, the artist who once called that canvas their home. Dried paint brushes dot the easel not used for some time, not because of a lack of an artist who has a desire to create, but rather, a lack of continued connection to the once bright light of creativity. Those colors once carefully planned are now being replaced with the nothingness that the artist needs to exchange in order to continue coloring their own life. A temporary measure, one with a time limit, where once exhausted - leads to a life with a lack of the thing that once brought joy. This crutch on its last legs, waiting for the revival and return of the confidence of an artist inspired with new creativity. To add color back and exchange their dull, blunted, sense of self into a vibrant new creation. To once again build back up a new canvas - saving it to be a crutch for their future downfall. Cyclical in nature, the ebb and flow of creativity and complacency constantly at odds - fighting for absolute control, neither side giving up in its pursuit of dominance. Such is the life of one who inevitably reaches the end of their ability to push the limits of what they once thought was an endless pit of new ideas and combinations. Such is the life of our artist working in that dark pit, breaking new ground in search of new caverns to tap into and aid with a wealth of new colors. New colors they never thought possible to see, new colors that fill up their new sense of self, and finally - new colors that brings back the joy they once felt.

This is the first two chapters (2 pages each) of a story or short story I'm working on. I am fairly new at this, but I am very much looking for some feedback.

It's a historical fiction story, taking place during the Salem Witch Trials, but these first two chapters don't reveal much of the plot yet. I hope you enjoy.

Filebin link for the PDF or a quick and dirty Audio Book-style narration.

https://speechify.app.link/e/0FuwHngwjXb

I’m writing an 18+ superhero story. My main character is a young man/woman (I don’t know their gender yet). They are a stripper and get powers from overdosing on a street drug that gives you superpowers. After that, their 31-year-old boyfriend dies (he’s older than my main character). My character decides to find his killer and originally plans to kill them but chooses justice over revenge and hands them over to the police, and then they decide to become a superhero vigilante.

How old do you think my character is?

I’m writing an R-rated superhero story. My main character gets his powers from chemicals. His boyfriend, who’s older than him (maybe 6-14 years older), is murdered, and he brings his killers to justice. My main character is bisexual, and most of his love interests are 6 to 14 years older than him—maybe some even older. His best friends are in their 20s and slightly older than him too.

Should he be 21 at his “year one” start and 23 be the “year two” part of the story? That way he’s an adult, but he’s still young enough to have that youthful “young” vibe.

If he were 15-16, it wouldn’t work, mainly because, like I said, his friends and love interests are adults who are older than him, and he’s a vigilante whose whole thing is “justice”. That line would get skewed if his love interests were, you know, committing a crime just by being with him, and his adult friends would look complicit and not heroic for allowing it to happen.

If my character is 21-23, while it might be “weird” for him to date older men and women, the older partners don’t deserve to die for being with him, and they aren’t committing a crime because he is a consenting adult, and consenting adults have free will, so him fighting for “justice” won’t get blurry. What do you think?

I'm very slowly coming back around to having a desire to write more. Procrastination gets the best of me at times, my ADHD other times, and my Depression has its moments. But I keep a desire to write a few stories of my own nevertheless.

Right now, I'm working on my first novella that feels like it's gonna become a novel. But we shall see. Especially since I'm thinking most of this up in the moments I have and haven't gotten the things I like written down hardly enough. That being said, I'm learning continually to allow myself to have this Zero Draft and come back weeks later and declutter the passages, spruce it up, and expand on it in my First Rough Draft.

It's taken me quite some time to pin down the bigger elements of the story, but this is what I've got as a WIP summary.

What if plants were weaponized by a group of people that wanted to 'restart' civilization and bring a better balance of nature and humanoids? Would these people be considered bio-terrorists? Are they all bad people? Why go to such great lengths of destruction and elimination of a large group of people? Was there a better way to approach this 'rebalancing '?

Some Moral Reasoning for the 'deranged' bio-scientist and those who follow him.

He sees the nation (and perhaps the world) full of corruption, deceit, separation from nature, and sterilization of what once was in regards of living side by side with nature. Discontentment with the benefits of nature and the animals that live within it. And so he has reasoned that his cursing or mutation of the plants and animals to do his bidding more or less, as a way of cleansing the world. A cleansing of the horrific, (….))) . With the hopes that this will bring nature back to a higher or equal positioning of power of domain that of its counterpart, the humanoid.

@keepwriting

Hi!
just checking to see how posting to your sub, from mastodon, works

The light began as a pinprick through the blackout curtains that had been forced over me. Like a lead blanket being gradually removed, the weight holding me down began to lift. The light, at first far and dim, became closer and more brilliant. I became aware of the dryness in my mouth, and how hard it was to breathe and to swallow. The light had now completely surrounded me, a cold, white light. I began to shiver. I could smell the smell of chemicals and medicine, and yes, the smell of blood, though it was now much more subdued. There was also the smell of a man. It was a familiar smell, I recognized it, but couldn’t place where I knew it from. There were sounds, though unintelligible.

I found I could move my head. As I lolled it from side to side, I could feel that I was on a cold, flat, hard thing. It smelled of metal and chemicals. I heard a muffled voice and felt a gentle caress on my head. I shivered. My heart began to race. My breathing quickened. The hand quickly left and there was suddenly the smell of some dried meat just before my nose. I reached out with my mouth to take it and found a treat to chew. The muffled voice came again, and I could feel, suddenly, a pain on my side, and the feeling of a hand on my hip.

I dropped the treat I had been chewing and yelped and lashed out, biting at the pain. I could not see the cause, for the white light was still blinding all around. But I could smell the smells of latex, of man and of medicine. Then there was another hand, on my neck, holding my head down. I struggled against it, kicked my feet and pawed at the attacker, but I was still too weak. I relaxed when I had no more energy to fight, but each time the hold loosened, I would again struggle against the oppressing hands, trying in vain to get free, to fight or to flee in my blindness and pain. I again smelled the smell of dried meat before my nose, but this time refused to grab it. Instead, I had tried to bite the hand which placed it there, though my bite found no mark.

I could smell another familiar scent, in my moment of fear and rage, faint as it was: the smell of dogs and of blood. The musty smell of the autumn forest, the foul smell of burned gunpowder, of boar. The smell of man. My man. I could smell it for only an instant. I lifted my head to smell the air, but received only the clinical scents of my surroundings, and of the familiar scents of these yet to be identified men around me. I relented in my struggle and the pain in my side subsided. The man’s hands left my neck and my hip. There was another muffled voice, and another dried meat in front of my nose. The muffled voices of the men retreated from the room. Then the light became dim. The brilliant white which blinded me at all sides, had become a soft grey. A soft thud, and there was silence. Shapes appeared in the shadows then, a cupboard here. A chair there. A window with dim light streaming through. I found that I was exhausted in that moment. I had used all of my energy trying in vain to escape, and I dozed.

The door opened after a while. The smells at once hit me: My pack, the hunt, the forest. My blood mixed with the blood of the boar. My man with his muddy boots and his burned gunpowder. My tail slapped the metal I was laying on. I heard the muffled sound of his footsteps approach, could see his vague figure standing before me. I lifted my head, to search for his hand. I yearned for the caress of his rough hand on my head. I yearned for his love, for his acceptance. I yearned for him to tell me it would be okay, that we were going home. That I am a good girl. In my yearning, though, I feared. I feared the smell of that gunpowder. I feared the smell of that boar. I could hear her shrieks and yells again. I could see her charging me. I could again feel the immense hurt in my side as her tusks found their mark, and as her hooves stamped upon me. I felt myself shiver.

My head was still up when I heard a harsh, muffled voice, and the receding footsteps and the door opening and shutting. The scent of my man wafted out of my life, and never again did return.

I was once a warrior, red in tooth and in claw. I was once fearless. The pounding of our relentless feet against our foes still resonates with me. I still remember the scent of blood in the air, I yearn for it and despise it as a sailor yearns for and despises the sea. I remember the baying of the pack. My pack. Us. I remember the fell voices of my comrades, teeth bared. I remember the man’s gun, though I don’t understand it. The boar would always die upon hearing that terrible roar and smelling that foul scent. Sometimes with a cry, sometimes without. But we knew that when the gun again fell silent, the day’s wonderful and terrible battle would be over.

I was once a warrior.

I remember the cold of the moist ground between my toes, the way it would give just a little under my weight as I bounded through the trees. I remember the smell of the wet woods in autumn. I was alone when I found the sow, laying on her side, her young all about her, some suckling, some sleeping. She let out a cry and stood immediately to her feet. The cry was met with a long howling bark from away in the trees. My pack would soon arrive and we would kill the sow and we would go home and get extra dinner and maybe some head pats. The sow, of course, knew of our intentions, knew that we were all killers. But she too, was a warrior, red in tusk and in hoof. The baying approached. The sow bent low her head. My teeth bared, my fur upon my neck and back stood on end. I didn’t want to fight alone. I’d seen what a sow protecting her young could do. But if she had to charged, I would have to fight. She bellowed a guttural, low growl. Her young, blindly rooting at her feet, still searching for a teat. A momentary glance to the squeaker was all it took, one fraction of a second of divided attention, and the sow charged.

The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced. I caught the scent of blood. The shrieks and moans from the sow deafened me, I couldn’t hear my own cries of pain and terror, anger and agony. She had gored me. Kicked me. I hadn’t had time to fight back. I began to feel very tired, I tried and tried to fight. I grabbed some thick fur in my mouth, but didn’t get through to the flesh beneath. It became dark and I became more tired. I had fallen somehow. The sow continued to trample and gore my side as I lay dying. I fell asleep then.

I dreamed of pain, and my pack barking and killing. Of the man’s gun and of a boar’s death cry. I dreamed of my pack, lapping at the blood from my side. I dreamed of being nuzzled by my friend, as if I was sick. I dreamed of my man, the truck and the bumpy road. I dreamed of a white light and of darkness. When I awoke, I was at a place I thought I knew. It was no longer the forest. It was quiet and dark, though the scent of blood and chemicals and medicine permeated through the blackness. My side and my chest hurt. I tried to stand, but my legs could not hold. I fell again. I was vaguely aware of a familiar sound, a man talking. Not my man, though. This was the other man, the one with the treats and medicine.

There was a pinch on my back leg, I yelped, more in surprise than pain. Then the man said something, it sounded good. Like I was a good girl. I couldn’t tell though, the sound was muffled, as if I were submerged beneath meters of thick water. I became heavy and the pain went away. I could have died then. I could have gone quietly away, like the others. I could have accepted death then as my fate: felled in battle.

Fear overtook me then. I tried to stand, to run. But I could not. My muscles all failed. There was another sound by the man, deeper and farther away. In fear, I succumbed to the blackness. A warrior I was no more.

The writer is not the god of their world. At least, I am not. The gods write themselves, and I only keep the record.

Perhaps it is not mastery that guides the best writing, but surrender. To listen more than to command. To accept that the story knows more than I do, and that fear of the unknown is part of the work.

An organization to preserve fan fiction from being lost forever after takedown notices or websites going down, for example.

They run Archive Of Our Own (AO3), a site for posting fanfic; FanLore, a wiki about fanworks and fansites; [OpenDoors], (https://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/en/), a refuge for at-risk fannish content.

They also have legal advocacy for fan works.

Pretty cool project.

This is a short story I wrote, based on something that happened to me as a kid one summer. It's about a boy, his obsession with Pokemon, his dog, and a lot of other stuff.