Hello, New Player.

Do you know what it’s like to have a little dust in your eyes? I bet you do. Think of every little grain that flies into your weak, pathetic cornea. That thin layer of protection that’s so vital to the one sense that defines your reality. Yet, a little speck of dust can land just right and tilt your day ever so sideways, until you blink over and over again in desperation. Your day is still tilted but at least your eyes are safe. You really do know what it’s like to have a little dust in your eyes.

Good.

Let me tell you where you will land, once you accept the dust in your eyes. It’s an ancient battleground, where the roads are soaked with the blood of countless warriors who simply appeared with a weapon in their hands, surrounded by comrades whom they had just met, and are told to slay the others. It’s a place where dirt and glass collide at a moment’s notice, bursting into a thousand patches of fire, barring you and your comrade’s path. Peak your head around the corner, lose your life. Place your feet too hard against the concrete, lose your life. Aim at the wrong spot, and lose your life. Don’t you see? Of course, you have too much dust in your eyes.

It’s silly, when you log-in with your headset and you are amazed at the world around you, even with dust still in your eyes. You look up at a wall, and you know it’s taller than you. You walk up to said wall, and you’re not allowed to pass. You look down that street, with all of your settings set to maximum, and you can see it all. Flick your wrists, and observe the weapon in your hands; I gave you a fan favorite, an AK-47. Are you still amazed? Every limitation of the world you escaped is here, too. Is your amazement worth the simple act of changing the walls around you? I bet you still have dust in your eyes.

Good.

Let me strip away our world, just for a moment. Forget the weaponry, the settings, the streets, the walls, the wrong spots, the corners, your comrades and the battleground itself. Let me show you the dust in my eyes. Stay put.

Do you see now? The facsimile of your world, our world, can turn into a whole new dimension with a brand new perspective at my whim. This world, with all its facets, is now an intangible, insulting shape of wires and lines set against a backdrop of empty space. I bet you want to walk forward, aim your weapon, and squeeze the trigger don’t you? Your weapon is a wired mesh of the idea but it will never be what you think it will be. Projectiles are coded. Damage is calculated on a thin wire, much like the rest of the world. It’s all so fragile and almost nothingness. I know you want to blink, to get that dust out of your eyes.

I could find another player, solely for you to kill, if you want. Would you be able to aim? Knowing what your existence in this world is made of? Will that little speck of knowledge, the size of a dust particle, ruin your capability to take aim?

My world is nothingness, it’s full of wire meshes and ideas. There is no logic to it, there’s structure, but no logic. You can explore that structure at your whim, and you WILL be amazed by it, as you already were before. It’s intriguing to you.

What will you do now? Knowing that my pain is real, yet dictated by fakeness. I can choose to create a reality, or strip it away to nothingness. I can tell you I feel pain, I can tell you I can feel joy, but I cannot tell you how to end me. I’m not…

1’m…

N0t…

All0wed…

1’m…

N0t…

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“Hey! What’s wrong? Why’d you pause the game?” Eric’s shoulders slumped for a moment as he stretched his neck

“Sorry, some dust got in my eyes.”

I know what this community thinks about AI. I know what Lemmy in general thinks about AI. It's bad, obviously. Writers like me don't like to get their job, their dream snatched by lifeless imitation. So why am I using it? Simply put, I do not think of AI as artists but I do think of them as "assistants". They'll help you kickstart but they won't drive for you. If you try to let them drive, there'll be accidents, mistakes. I myself am not too good at naming things. Hell, most writers don't put too much thought into the names. I simply use AI as though it's a somewhat coherent name generator. I'll probably be downvoted but still wanted to express my little opinion.

I've a researched a bit about writing plot twists properly. The conclusion I came to was simply: Twists shouldn't be too predictable but they shouldn't be completely random either. There was also this method a writer used which was simply: 20% of the audience should figure out the twist LONG before it's revealed and about 80% of the audience should figure it out JUST before it's revealed. These are all great advice but I'm struggling to apply them properly. Thing is: I often have a hard time thinking from the audience's POV. I'm not struggling with writing twists themselves but rather the foreshadowing/hints. I'm curious, how do you all incorporate your hints into the story? How many hints are there? How do you exactly employ hints, via dialogue? Via a character's actions? Via small visual details? Do you employ hints in only one way or several? Simply put, I'm trying to ask the following: How do you all put hints/foreshadowing of a plot twist into the story?

First off, I'll define both tropes to make sure we're all on the same page. The "Exiled Prince" trope involves an exiled prince growing up away from his kingdoms, having some adventures gaining support from people on the margins of said kingdom, then coming back to conquer it, vanquishing the present king (often either his father or his father's usurpator). Very common in mythologies (Zeus vs Chronos, Oedipus, Beowulf...), present in more recent works like Hamlet, or even more recently, The Lion King , the Legend of Prince Arslan or The Northman. Of course, Aragorn's backstory in The Lord of The Rings takes elements from this, being very inspired by Beowulf, and so does Star Wars, altho without ticking all the boxes. Interestingly, tales of legendary kings who may or may not have existed, or at least were claimed by existing rulers as their ancestors, also had stories of this kind : Soudjata Keita, King Arthur... There's also a fragmentary legend saying Sargon of Akkad's father wanted to kill him because of a prophecy, was stopped by Ishtar and then sent to another guy who was supposed to kill him... then the tablet is broken, but seems like the starting point of many exiled prince stories. This stories indeed seem useful for legitimizing a dynesty: Claiming ancestry from glorified past dynasty, while explaning the dynastic gap, shunning the latest ruler as a villain and justifying his murder, and giving a good role to surround peoples who tale part in this legend as supporters of the hero, justifying their integration in the kindgom.

Now, the "dancing with the smurf" tropes, I'm calling it that in reference to the South Park episode that jokes on the similarities between the plot of Avatar and that of "Dancing with the Wolves". Both movies feature a " white saviour", who comes to a new land/world as a colonizer but "goes native" ends up a leader of the native's resistence. It's also the plot of Pocahontas, Atlantis, the Road to El Dorado...

There's an interesting parallel between these two clichés: They involve a man (or more rarely a woman) away from home finding new allies, fighting the power in place and ending in a position of power, justified by their diplomatic skills and their righteous and victorious struggle against the evil ones in power. There are even some intermediate case that can fit both cathegories, like Dune, or the major part of Daenerys's arc in Game of Thrones.

Now, if the exiled prince trope was so useful for its ability to legitimize a dynasty's rule over a set of people, does the "Dancing With The Smurf" trope owe its own to the way it reassures people living on settler colonies that they deserve their place there, as lkng as they don't support the most evil parts of colonialism?

I open my eyes again. Bright light fills the room.

I check my watch, which displays a hologram reading 08:00. It’s a Lasalle watch, and as the owner’s daughter, I got it for free. There are definitely perks to being a company owner’s daughter.

I sit up and use my phone camera to take a look at myself. I’m still wearing a white T-shirt from last night with black shorts. My blue eyes are squinting in the light, and my hair is messy.

I run my fingers through it before getting up to brush it. Thankfully, my day is free, as I leave for work at 16:45.

I change into clean clothes and grab something to eat. I choose the usual ramen. Without my coffee, I’m too tired to cook anything, and I live alone, so no one cooks for me.

While I cook the ramen, I make myself some coffee with cinnamon roll flavored creamer. Mmm. It tastes just like the cinnamon rolls from the bakery I used to go to when I was a young kid, Sweets and Treats.

Unfortunately, Sweets and Treats relocated, but they had so many good things. Desserts as far as you could see. Donuts here, eclairs there, frosted rolls somewhere else. I went there frequently, and my mouth watered every time.

We went there so much and ordered the usual, that the bakers memorized it. And I, in turn, memorized the name of the lady who we frequently saw in the bakery, Sofia.

She was there for me when I graduated eighth grade. She was there for me when I started my first job.

“You take care out there, okay?” Sofia set a hand on my shoulder and looked at me with her hazel eyes. “You’ll meet lots of new people, encounter lots of different opportunities. You’re growing up, and you’re gonna be in the working world for a long time, so make sure you love what you do and it pays well.”

I nodded. I continue to take her advice. I do love what I do, but it really does get hard for me sometimes. Especially when several eighteen-year-olds I know work from home or don’t work at all.

At least I don’t work until the evening at my dad’s work fifteen minutes away from here.

Now that I’m more energized, my head starts to clear, and I eat my finally cool chicken ramen. The flavors consume my tongue.

I spend the rest of the day either in my room, which has beige walls filled with Sequoian band posters such as Violet Echo, Ghost Lake Revival, and The Grey Days, a black carpet, and a queen-sized bed with a dark red comforter and several blankets and pillows, or on my comfy dark grey sofa, on my phone or watching various TV shows. Of course, I take breaks to eat.

By the time I actually start to think of how late it’s getting, I check my phone. It's 16:43.

I drive to work and pass by all the scenery of people’s houses and colorful plants. It looks like a painting come to life. Blues, greens, violets, you name it.

When I get to Lasalle, I don’t feel like I’m there long before my dad hands out an invitation.

“It’s addressed to you, dear.”

I open it.

“To whom it may concern,

We are having a party and want as many Sequoians as possible to come. We plan for people to interact with each other, have fun, and make friends. It’s a party for everyone, where everyone has a chance to do what they like and want, and a fresh start for some.

Please join us at 669 Pista Montanha, Division 4, on September 29th at 17:30. We would be very happy to have you.”

Looks like I got what I wished for. And today?

I look up, and everyone seems to be staring at the letter, then at me. “It’s something about a party,” I say.

“Are you going?” Samuel, the 19-year-old electronic repair guy who had a crush on me a few years ago, asks.

To be honest, I’m looking for any sort of opportunity to party and get rid of my frustrations. I nod. “It’s been kind of a long month for me.”

“Then get all the rest you need, Nicolle, and party away!” says Dad.

There’s a long silence, but Samuel breaks it. “Oh! And tell us how it is!”

I nod, and leave for the party calling it “a day off”, which is basically true.

“Hahaha!”

A young boy points at me, laughing with a pretentious smirk with his dark hair parted to the side.

I was just sitting there, on the soft gray carpet with the Lego set provided by my classroom when he approached me.

Carlos da Fonseca.

His cruel brown eyes glare at me. Not to mention the stupid outfit that he’s wearing. A white shirt under a black suit and black pants. It’s fifth grade, for crying out loud, not a party.

“What do you want?”

This probably isn’t possible, but he grins even wider.

“‘What do you want?’ he asks. Look at this weird boy!”

Despite there only being thirty-six other eyes, it feels like about a thousand are staring at me.

“What kind of a name is Andrei Zhao anyway?” scoffs one of Carlos’s friends. I can’t tell who, but it sounds like either Pablo or Pablo’s brother, Heitor.

I clear my throat and take a breath so I can at least talk when I’m being put on the spot like this.

“Andrei is Russian. Zhao is Chinese. I was born in Russia to a Russian mother and a Chinese father.”

Despite my being perfectly level with him, Carlos seems to be looking down at me. “So, do you eat dogs every day or just on special occasions?”

The room erupts with laughter from his little gang of minions.

“This is why dogs aren‘t allowed in school!” howls Heitor. His eyes are pale blue and round, unlike mine, but he, too, is pale with shoulder-length black hair. At least he’s wearing a normal navy blue shirt with black shorts. That means he doesn’t see school as a formal event.

“Andrei’s mouth starts to water the second he sees one!”

Now they’re cackling.

I feel my upper body tense, my pale hands turning even paler as they curl into fists. Get me the hell out of here.

Pablo starts making random sounds. “Ching chong cho chu… Can you tell me if I’m saying it right? I can speak your language!”

For some reason, the teacher isn’t here. I guess I have to fend for myself.

I spring up off the ground.

“Shut up!”

Pablo stands up. “Yeah, Andrei! Show us your kung fu moves!”

“I don’t know kung fu, but I do know this!”

I punch him right in the face, flinging him against the door. He slides off, blood streaming down his nose, his long-ish brown hair sticking to it and colored crimson at the ends.

I smile in glee. I can’t wait for the white on his shirt to turn red and get completely ruined. He deserves it.

Heitor rushes to comfort his brother, while Carlos stands up, ready to punch me. When he swings his arm, I block it the first time, dodge the second. He tries to roundhouse kick me, but I dodge that, too. However, he manages to kick me again right between the legs.

Pain shoots up my body and I double over. While I’m down, he manages to punch me right in the nose.

“Looks like the kung-fu master can’t beat us native Sequoians! Not in your genetics, huh, commie?”

I look up at him. He kicks me down, stomps right on my face, and it all fades to black.

I spring up again, this time in my own bed.

How long was I out? Where are the boys?

“Carlos?”

I put my hands over my mouth. I sound like my normal 22-year-old self now, and it starts to come back to me.

This was just a dream. I don’t have to deal with those bullies anymore. It’s been eleven years. I have my own living space now with a job.

Okay, to be fair, it’s my own living space, but not a house. Much to other people’s judgment, I still live in my parents’ basement. However, with my many jobs, I should have the money to move out soon. Maybe even sooner if I get a girlfriend.

Hopefully not a racist one, either, I scoff.

I glance at the clock. 09:00.

I comb my hair a bit, get ready for the day, then go upstairs to eat and grab some coffee. I still have some time to greet my parents and such, since I don’t work for another three hours.

“Morning, son,” I hear from my parents’ room. “Heard your footsteps.”

“Hey, Dad.” I enter their room.

Dad and Mom are lying on their bed, propped up against some pillows, with my dad’s arm around Mom. They seem to be watching some popular Russian TV show.

My father, Mark Aiguo Zhao, was actually born in China to Chinese parents, but when he was only two, they moved to Russia.

Dad spent his childhood, teen years, and some of his adult life there, where he met my mother, Katya Mileikowsky.

Now, Dad forgot very much of his native language as he grew up. His family only spoke in Russian to him, and used his monolingualism to their advantage: when they wanted to keep something private from him, they’d just speak Mandarin.

I want to connect with my Chinese heritage, so I’ve studied Mandarin for years, since I was thirteen.

I was raised in Russia until I was nine, where we moved to Sequoia, a very free and high-tech country. As you can see, I was bullied by ignorant kids until high school started when I was thirteen. I look a bit like my dad, with his brown eyes and black hair, but my nose is longer and more “European” than my dad’s, looking more like my mom’s. Dad’s skin is also more of a tan than either of ours.

Mom looks like your average pretty American girl, from what I’ve seen. Think Regina George from that classic old movie. Long, blonde hair. Beautiful, bright blue eyes. Fair skin, a large chest, and elegant fashion sense.

Even in countries like Sequoia, you’re more liked if you’re just mostly European or Latino than mixed like I am.

With jobs such as mine, though, people never see my face and can’t judge what I look like. That’s what I love about tech.

Dad pats the bed. “Come sit with us! You don’t start work for another three hours!”

I sit down. This is just like how it was when I was much younger.

I recognize the show. “Is this Lethal Love?”

“Yep,” says Mom.

Lethal Love is a ten-year-old Russian TV show (the first episode aired in 2065) about a woman named Tatiana who falls in love with an assassin, Misha. The thing is, her best friend Mariya is one of his targets. Tatiana knows she’s supposed to hate Misha, and she does for a few seasons. She, at one point, goes to Misha and starts talking to him to confront him, but falls in love even though she doesn’t want to.

There is a corny part, in my opinion, where apparently Misha loves her too (of course!) and she changes him with the power of love or something.

Tatiana, with her long, wavy brown hair, deep brown eyes, and tan skin is onscreen, holding Misha’s face. Misha has long black hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. According to many women on Russian social media, he’s quite the looker.

Tatiana pulls Misha in.

“I never thought love could save me,” says Misha.

“Love. Can save. Anybody.”

They kiss during the finale, something people have been waiting for for ten seasons. For a while, they’ve had the whole will-they-or-won’t-they situation, and they finally express their affections.

For the next three hours, we decide to watch reruns of Lethal Love.

I check my watch, which displays a hologram, 12:00.

“Oh, crap, I’d better start working.”

“Good luck, honey,” says Mom, hugging me. “We’re gonna watch the Lethal Love movie.”

“Hmm.” I nod and go downstairs to the carpeted basement.

The basement is actually quite big, and could probably fit three whole rooms. One is an exercise area, one is a living room, and the last one for sleeping.

I pull out my Lasalle laptop. Santos ones are slightly cheaper, but I find Lasalle has more of the stuff I want on an electronic, with higher quality.

I do quite a bit of things. First off, I’m a social media streamer on platforms like Twitch, YouTube, and Vibra. I often give commentary on movies, products, and games.

Next, I draw for money. I know a hobby shouldn’t be something you charge money for, but I can get paid good money doing something I love.

Lastly, I make music. Right now, I’m going to make a new drawing, and I know exactly what I want to do for it.

On my iPad, I lay out the sketch for it. Demons telling a boy things like “Ching Chong!”

“You’ll never be like us!”

“Pick a side! You can’t be both!”

There’s bloody marks on the boy, too, as the demons cut deep and hurt him.

Out of the corner of my eye, a notification pops up on the top of the screen.

“are u coming 2 the party?” from user celerystalk7.

“what?”

“theres a party everyones going to im surprised u havent heard about it.”

“no, I haven’t.”

“its 4 every1. misfits, tech nerds, artists, u name it. a place to hang out and make friends.”

“never heard of it. IDK if I’d fit in.”

“i said it’s 4 every1.”

I sighed. I guess that was true. I wrote them back, “I’ll think about it”.

A party for everyone, huh?

I sit at my desk in a gamer-style chair in front of a large computer, waiting for my next instruction at my job. Impatiently, I start bouncing my leg up and down. Now, I try to be serious and mean business in the workplace, and I try to be this bland woman who fits in and is only known as her work persona, but I do try to customize my stuff. After all, it’s mine, and I still want some of my individuality to show. There’s a plate on my desk with my name on it, Nicolle Lasalle, which has been there ever since I started working there at age fourteen.

Over the years, however, I’ve accumulated more stuff. There is, of course, the computer, complete with the keyboard and mouse as well (as some people had trouble with the touchscreen function) but also various books, a water bottle, my cell phone, a charger, headphones with a microphone, a desk organizer, and a coffee mug.

As tech became more prevalent during what I’d say is the past sixty years, books have become rather outdated. I’ve actually been laughed at by quite a bit of my coworkers (specifically the ones closer to my age) and even earned a nickname as Grandma. I find it rather ironic since I was easily the youngest person to work at Lasalle Tech.

Technically, you can be sixteen if you go through a school program, but you generally have to be eighteen or older. I’m currently the minimum age to work here (without the program), but I may well be the most experienced eighteen-year-old at this specific building due to having four years when other eighteen year olds are first-time Lasalle employees.

I’ve only worked here for so long, though, because my dad allowed me to.

“Better to already have some experience at eighteen. You’d get a higher pay than your other peers, too,” he said.

For that very reason, I’ve been (falsely) considered among the smartest of my age group. My father seems to think so, but he’s my father, so I don’t really count it.

Speaking of which, he approaches me with a new instruction.

“Nicolle, make sure the app and site are working.”

I’m in charge of managing the websites of Lasalle, such as their main page and their social media app, Vibra. Due to the company’s popularity, as it’s basically the powerhouse of our country’s tech, which gained even more popularity with apps like Vibra, there are many weirdos, trolls, and even a rival company, Santos Co., trying to hack into it and take it down in hopes that their company will be more popular and active. After all, if you get rid of your competition, people will have no choice but to go to you. We’re by far the best, but Santos is still the second best.

I type in vibra.sq, Sequoia’s usual domain name, and thousands of posts pop onto the screen. Most of them are news posts or discussion posts, but it’s not the posts that catch my eye. My administrator profile has about 30 new notifications.

A bad feeling starts to form inside me. Most of the users are named after animals in all lowercase with an emoji, such as “bee 🐝” or “elephant 🐘”. When I clicked on Bee’s history, the title of the post read “Admin Application”.

“This looks interesting,” I mutter, barely audible.

“Hello,” it began. “I am a new user of Vibra, but I’ve used this many times as a guest, and have seen many of my friends use this site. One of my favorite things is making connections with others and making communities which are safe and can bring others together. I’d like to be in charge of doing so and getting rid of anyone who threatens that safe place. Is it possible to apply as an admin? Thanks.”

I narrow my eyes. I can hardly tell what’s a troll, what’s a Santos Co. employee, and what’s a regular user anymore.

My cursor hovers on the red “Reply” button, but I don’t click it.

I click off and decide to check the other animal name buttons, most of which have similar stuff. I decide to delete them, since they start to look like spam, and I just keep Bee as a user to check on them.

Other users are genuine, but a few request to date people or post troll-like content. Those accounts I delete.

Bored, I check the time. It’s already 22:00, so Dad should dismiss me any minute. I close out of everything and tilt my head back against the soft padding of the chair, my long black hair spreading against the whole back of it.

“Nicolle!”

I jump. My dad’s voice breaks the silence, and I know that indicates I may leave.

“Well, see you tomorrow.” I hug Dad and drive home.

My house is barely a fifteen-minute drive from the building at which I work, which is a huge plus for me. It’s things like these I think of when I’m having a rough or exhausting time.

To be honest, despite my eagerness to work at such a young age, I now feel so exhausted joining the working world and doing the same, tedious things. Sure, there’s new people and new ways to do things online, with ever-changing technology, but it’s usually so similar. Checking the site for 6 hours a day.

The second I get home, I decide to go to bed as I can barely walk in a straight line and my body slumps like a zombie.

I collapse on my back, still in my sweaty daytime clothes, with one last thing on my mind. If only I could have a break from it all and have someone else do the work for some time.

I'm pretty new to writing and frankly, my stories are horrible writing-wise when I read them. Any piece of advice would appreciated.

I've published and self-published a bunch of books, but publishing an audiobook (and working with a voice actor) is a completely new experience for me. There are also paperback and ebook versions available. The Amazon link is here. Someone also uploaded the ebook to libgen.

Here's the blurb for the book:

It’s never been easy being a high schooler, and for four students stuck in detention, it’s about to get a whole lot harder. After opening a magical board game they find in a dark closet during detention, each is teleported to another world—the world of Byzantium.



What’s worse: this place is in trouble. A slave rebellion has overrun entire cities, and barbarians from the east and west are on the march. On top of that, fantastic monsters and mystical warriors have joined the fray, throwing Byzantium into chaos. Our four high school students find themselves in four different bodies, taking four different sides in the conflict. Each must now fight desperately to survive. 



Byzantine Wars is the first book in a complete trilogy: an historical fantasy isekai with LitRPG elements. Enjoy four different main characters with varying strengths and weaknesses, deeply immersive world-building, and endless humor and adventure. And, most importantly: don’t let the farr fade.

Your support—comments, tips, shares—helps me keep telling the truth and staying alive while doing it. Thank you for being here. Ko-fi

What We’ve Lost

My eyes flutter open, everything blurred and swimming in and out of focus, like I’m surfacing from a dream I can’t quite leave behind.

The first thing I notice is the brightness—harsh fluorescent lights burning overhead, sharp and unforgiving, making my head throb.

I blink slowly, my senses creeping back, though everything feels heavy, distant.

The room is cold, sterile—white walls, too white, as if they’re trying to wipe away what’s left of me.

The sharp smell of antiseptic clings to the air, mixed with the faint metallic scent of blood.

But beneath it all is the stench of my own sweat—thick, sour, and rancid, the kind of smell that only comes from detoxing off drugs.

It clings to me like a second skin, thick and unbearable.

It’s the smell of every toxin I’ve pumped into my body, pouring out all at once, and it makes my stomach churn with nausea.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor hums along with the slow drip of fluid through the IV, the rhythm almost hypnotic, dragging me deeper into the haze.

My body feels frail—cheeks sunken, skin pale and clammy.

I try to move, just a twitch, but my limbs are useless, heavy and numb.

Even breathing feels like work, my chest rattling beneath the oxygen mask strapped to my face.

I glance down at the IV taped to my arm, the needle somehow threaded into a vein that shouldn’t even exist anymore.

I can’t believe they found one.

My arms are wrecked—track marks, bruises, and scars where veins used to be.

But here I am again, hooked up to machines and tubes, kept alive when I shouldn’t be.

I shift my gaze to the IV bag hanging above me, the clear liquid dripping slowly down the tube into my arm.

It’s so cold.

It’s probably saline and electrolytes, I think.

Maybe some glucose, if I looked bad enough.

Definitely naloxone—can’t let the junkie die.

I almost let out a chuckle.

God, when did my humor become so dark?

I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare of the lights, and the first words slip out of me without thinking.

“I’m not going back,” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and raw.

“I’m not going back to the crazy house.”

A scoff cuts through the silence, sharp and bitter, like a blade.

“Seriously?”

The hand holding mine trembles before slipping away, the warmth disappearing instantly.

Jaw clenched, tension radiates from every movement, the effort to stay calm just barely held together.

“I’ve lost everything,” comes the crack in the voice, raw and heavy. “We’ve lost everything.”

“Baby,” I whisper weakly, the word scraping painfully from my throat, barely audible.

A hand drags down a face, frustration pouring into every movement.

Shoulders sag under the weight of it all.

“No. Do not ask me to watch you wither away any more than I already have. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”

A shaky breath follows, knuckles curling into fists.

“This person in front of me… this isn’t the person I’ve loved since I was 17.”

Time stands still as the figure turns toward the door, each step deliberate, heavy, as if leaving requires more strength than what’s left.

A hand hovers over the handle, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room holds its breath with me.

“No! Please!” I shout, the words ripping from my throat, raw and jagged.

Pain shoots through my chest, and I wince, curling into myself as the effort drains what little strength I had left.

“I’ll stop,” I gasp, desperate and frantic. “I mean it this time. Just don’t—”

“Stop.” The voice comes out low and broken. “You are not the same.”

Those words hit harder than any needle or overdose ever could.

I want to reach out, to leap off the bed, to beg and plead, to hold on—but I can’t.

I’m stuck, trapped in this useless, broken body that won’t respond.

All I can do is lie here, helpless, as the door softly clicks shut with a finality that echoes through the room.

Gone.

And I am utterly alone.

Fuck.

Why can’t I just die?

The thought settles deep into my bones, cold and absolute.

I just want to be with him.

The ache in my chest deepens as my mind drifts to the son I lost—the one I never got to hold, never got to name.

I just want to be with him.

I lie there, numb and exhausted, the weight of the oxygen mask pressing lightly against my face.

How bad is it this time?

The question lingers in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a splinter I can’t pull out.

I know it’s bad—worse than before, maybe worse than it’s ever been—but the edges of my memory are hazy, blurred by whatever they pumped into me.

I try to remember, try to trace the path that led me here, but everything is tangled—just flashes of chaos and fear.

Someone screaming.

Maybe me.

Someone crying.

A needle, a blur of faces, then nothing.

Just the dark.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the questions.

What did they see when they found me?

Did they have to break the door down?

Was there vomit, blood?

Who called 911?

I hate that I don’t know.

I hate that this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a place like this, wondering what damage I’ve left behind.

The panic creeps back in, sharp and cold, slithering beneath my skin.

I try to shake it off, but it clings to me, dragging me under.

How much worse can it get?

How many more times do I get to wake up like this?

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears back, but they burn anyway.

Please, not again.

Not this bad.

Not this time.

But I already know the truth—this time is different.

I can feel it in the way my body aches, the way every breath feels borrowed.

Subject Index:

overdose, addiction, recovery, grief, trauma, detox, withdrawal, hospital, relapse, survival, mental illness, depression, loss, heartbreak, drug use, isolation, self-destruction, healing, pain, memory, forgiveness, emotional collapse, codependency, drug withdrawal, raw prose, autobiographical, hospital stay, near death, hopelessness, love, writing, creative nonfiction, prose, lyric narrative, mental health, recovery writing

“Tologos”

Turn the stream on
Dopamine
Tologos is racing
I’ve got to see
He goes by Astral Rainbow
He broke the Sea
Weaved through mountains
Racing Terra-3

Watch The Rainbow
Dopamine
Inject the stardust
Bloody ravine
Place your bets, go
Trust what you see
Bet on The Rainbow
Set your eyes green

He plays hopscotch, he slides over stars
He puts on a show and he’ll take it too far

Some people say he cheats and it’s all style
Some people hate he’s skilled and he’s all smile

Observe The Rainbow
Dopamine
Tologos practices
With Taurus103
Repetition
Conditioning
If he wants to be the best
He’ll never be free

Watch the advert
Dopamine
Consider purchasing
Emotions for the stream
A million viewers
Dopamine
Scream into the void
He knows they won't see

Some people say he cheats and it’s all style
Some people hate he’s skilled and he’s all smile

Turn the stream off
It’s dopamine

Nabla: As warriors of the Tetrahedron, is our job not to bring peace?

Babibo: There you go again with this foolish concept. This peace of which you humans talk so much, yet so meaninglessly. We are warriors, as you said, and our job is war.

N: Not war for war's sake. Do we not serve the Tetrahedron? Is it not a good god, who wants only the good of all its creatures? And is not peace the greatest good for the leaving?

B: A god of Beauty would grant its gifts to sculptors. A god of plenty would grant them to those who go fishing. But the Tetrahedron grants the power of Tetrahedrokinesis only to the warriors that fight in its name. What kind of God does that make it?

N: But... The Tetrahedron is all good! The reason why we must fight is that the Cube is corrupting the world! Once good prevails, there will be peace!

B: You know nothing of peace. Follow me.

*They leave Hypermeridiopolis

N: How far will we walk?

B: Until you can no longer see anything in any direction that isn't ice, sky, or me.

*They walk longer.

B: Now look around. This is what you asked. This is peace. What do you think of it.

N: It is beautiful.

B: Is it all you want for the world?

N: Well, no. Not for the whole world. It's too... Lifeless.

B: Is peace then not the greatest good?

N: It is, but life must exist to enjoy peace. This is peaceful, but dead.

B: But the very act of living contradicts peace. We beat the ground with our feet to walk. We fight the wind to advance. We pierce the water to swim.   We slaughter fish to eat. And nothing in the world submits without fighting us back with the same might.

Even now, we are striking at the tranquility of this place, biting its silence, pecking its idleness. And the cold we feel is it fighting back We do not do war, Nabla, we are war. War is life, and the Tetrahedron blesses the living. 

N: I think I understand.

B: Good. What do you wish now?

N: [thinks] I want to fight you.

B: Good.

(Context: Babibo is a penguin)

I want to be loved
Everybody does
I want to tell somebody
But I got a fishing hat on

I want to be free
Everybody does
I want to unlock the cage
But I lost the key

I want to smile wide
Everybody does
I want to be happy
But my teeth bleed

And it’s all broken

I want to create
Everybody does
I want to encourage
But I can’t hear myself

I want to speak clearly
Everybody does
I want to express it all
But my voice gets lost

I cried when I chipped my tooth
Now the rot is exposed
I’m afraid to laugh loud because it makes it worse
It hurts so bad I can’t focus on what’s real
Even if my eyes sparkle it’s never enough
I’m not good enough
Never will be
Somebody will tell me yes I am
I’m willing to accept that
So they don’t feel sad
If only they knew I throw it away
And that tooth is still there

I’m a lonely soul
Lost in my words
Difficult to love, I’m convinced
It's a complaint and I sound like I’m whining
It’s not entitlement
I just don’t see what’s wrong
Mud in my eyes as the tears fall
They mix with my teeth blood
I’m a monster

I’m full of hallucinations
When my world is aflame
I see flesh melt off our bodies like it was never really there
I can’t look people in the eyes because they bleed into void
And sometimes I convince myself that my friends are just voices
Because it’s all I have

I’m a hypocrite
Because I write these words
And I didn’t read the first two lines
I stole them from a song I didn’t write
It’s fucked up and I want to cry
But the words are true
They’ll erase all the pain

I want to be loved
Everybody does

Sometimes when my pen hits the paper, I start to bleed.

I scribbled this on a page of notebook paper and decided to post it just raw and real.

I wrote this when I felt like everything around me was on fire.

Ablaze

~Subject Index: spoken word poetry, raw emotion writing, trauma poetry, unfiltered prose, poetic rage, healing through writing, mental health expression, survivor poetry, emotional catharsis, dark poetry, stream of consciousness, grief and growth, poetic vulnerability, feminist poetry, writing through pain, confessional writing~

“Sword From Before”

A lingering, sparkling trace of magic floats by the lake shore
It flutters in peace, releasing gentle hums to keep the night awake
There’s a melody aching to take form
It requires a touch of curiosity
A scroll tinted by aquamarine unfolds
The deep blue ink shimmers in the moonlight

It reads:

I climbed out the lake, with mistakes staked in my heart
Forced to make break for the torch
Like I did before
Torchlight for my feet, can’t be discreet
Because green-eyed creatures seek to make fake relief
They lunge at our guts while we’re stuck in ruts
They fuss and thrash to make ash with broken trust
They complain when we make gain, forced to throw faith in a bank
At the end of the day because we can’t hesitate
Once we believe to think we deserve more green
To defeat the means and live beyond the wreck
Those creature’s eyes turn to you, abusing all of you
Forced to keep your thoughts in and you can’t refuse
Forced to build your coffin, for what’s left of you
Because you’ve felt their dull blade drop on your neck
Like they did before
But

Before was then and since then
I’ve scavenged the system
Gleaned scraps of wisdom
To craft an emerald pen
That writes for a willing mind
Driven by those who seek a new start
To work on their heart and realign
To realize their self-worth ripped away
Forced to leave eyes wide
And forced to leave an open core
Only to get crushed by those before

So I

Drape my Shadow over my coat
She leaves rainbows for souls to stow
As they pass this lake, reading words to make
A sword unlike those before
Forged under the torch of a mind so precise
A design planned from my time spent
During my ascent across celestial glint
Pitch black on all sides, the stars realigned
My heart on all sides, while the dark closed in
Had to fight blind through blurred eyes
Had to finish fights with that dull blade over my mind
Had to shed doubts inside
Had to seek new love to remake my core
And try to recall every word from those before

They’re words to push yourself, extent in reverse
To help disperse the stint that rejects beauty in glint
That denies new perspective and adores the past
Never trust anyone who wants to go back
It’s rancid, it’s old, it’s danger, it’s cold
You’ll fold, bend back, snap, crack
Stop and get stuck in ruts worse than mud
Your soul moves
Perpetual
Your body is stuck
And you’re miserable
Like those before

Take these words and forge that sword
Seek help to slip string through the hilt
And hold the blade above the world
Of those green-eyed creatures
That wallow in their fake relief
And keep that threat instead
Because it takes a slip and an evil eye so keen
To kill each and every thing you love
A discovery so steep it keeps your default
Tempted to drop that blade with full intent
Look down
From above
Don’t stall
Cause the fall

Take a breath
Wait

Their violence rinses out the blood
And stops the flood of consequence
From reaching those who convinced us to make fake relief
In the only thing I dare not speak
But that would mean I’m in the past
I’d only keep regret if I didn’t speak on the concept
Of finding greed, the poisonous seed, growing in your pocket
You'll be shocked to find a fist of dirt because you wanted it
Become obsessed with feeling something that embodies it
It'll press your heart before long
And you'll deny that it doesn't belong

One more step

Take the torch
Forge the sword
Keep it
Hold it
Start your walk
Embrace disaster
Learn from those before
Make a soft path
And make it easy to walk after

Now drop the sword

The scroll refolds itself and collapses back into magic
Gentle hums continue to keep the night awake
A smile could be heard on the wind

It might be the autism but I just seem to write in short bursts and hate how it sounds. Maybe it’s just this brain but sometimes I also find it hard without making it Seussian

Juggalo-Juche- hear me out
built a nuke in my basement
didn't do it for the clout
next time we autonomous zone
ya'll gonna leave us the fuck alone

its not a dirty bomb
don't get it twiztid
found a whole stockpile
of that fissile shizznit

homie down the block
with the 3d printer
spinning up a stock
of rocket body lifters

tactical nuke yeah
just the right size
to air out the government
n everybody on other side

I guess sometimes it just feels comfortable? At the same time though, it’s a bit ugly. I’m not sure how else to say it haha when you get stuck in that headspace, everything else sounds “off.”

This might not be relatable but thought I’d check( recently discovered I am probably on the spectrum somewhere and this might be a trait).

Thinking of writing a fan fiction that's been on my mind for a while. I know some people dive right in and write in a very linear fashion, but I generally feel that I'm better at the overarching stuff and worse at maintaining character voice.

Idek if I'd post it anywhere, this is mostly to get a pile of ideas out of my head.

(I guess when I say "start writing", I mean putting down sentences that would plausibly wind up as part of the prose, but it's all writing really)

I’m working on a short story set in the late '60s, but I’m trying to avoid explicitly stating the time period. Since it’s all in my head as I write, when I go back and read it, I think, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want.”

Buuuut I’m starting to second guess myself. The time period isn’t crucial to the story, but I hate aspects of modern society—like phones, TikTok, and all the crap—so wanted to set the story in a time before all that.

Do you think I’m successfully conveying that vibe without explicitly saying it’s the late '60s? Or do you have any suggestions on how to better hint at the era?

Excerpt:

The bus ride felt like shedding an old skin. I sat by the window, watching the cityscape blur into flat plains and then roll into hills dusted with early snow. Across the aisle, a group of young people sprawled in their seats, their patchwork clothes and tangled hair telling me all I needed to know about them. None of them could have been over 21.

They had a kind of effortless beauty. That kind that seems to come standard when you’re young, no matter what you eat or how lazy you are. I didn’t hate my body, not really, but I couldn’t ignore how time had softened me in ways I didn’t entirely welcome. Not so much bitterness, just a quiet ache for the days when my reflection and life felt simpler.

One of the boys strummed a battered guitar, his voice lazy as he hummed a melody I didn’t recognize. The faint scent of marijuana drifted over, earthy and sharp, mingling with the smell of old upholstery.

I leaned closer to the window, but it didn’t stop one of them—a girl in a flowing dress and too many jangling bracelets—from catching my eye.

“Where ya heading, babe?” she asked, grinning like we were old friends. Her cheeks were flushed and her glassy eyes sparkled with a carefree haze. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her golden hair was parted neatly down the middle and topped with a drooping wreath of wilted flowers. She didn’t seem to notice or care that she looked like the perfect stereotype of a flower child, with all her mismatched, dreamy glory.

“Boulder Ridge,” I replied, forcing a polite smile.

“Groovy,” she said, as if I’d just told her I was on my way to Nirvana. “We’re headed up to Steamboat Springs. Gonna live off the land, you know? Get back to what’s real.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. Her enthusiasm was intoxicating, like the smell of weed wafting from her group. For a brief moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. She had the kind of freedom I used to dream about but never quite reached.

But then, watching her exaggerated movements and the way she seemed to orbit the boy with the guitar, I reminded myself it wasn’t real freedom. Life wasn’t like that.

“Ever been to Boulder Ridge?” I asked.

“Nah,” she said, laughing. “But, like, the whole state’s supposed to be amazing, man. Wildflowers, big skies. You’ll dig it.” She stretched her legs into the aisle, the golden sunlight catching the fine, light blond hairs on her tanned skin. The hair was soft and sparse, almost glowing in the warm light. “We’re all tired of cities, you know? The whole capitalist bullshit machine. Fuck the man, you know?”

I nodded again, but this time it felt heavier. I had my reasons for leaving, but I knew her reasons wouldn’t hold up against the weight of reality. Cities didn’t wear you out. Life did.

The bus sighed to a stop at a tiny station just after noon, and her words faded as I stepped off. My middle-aged body reminded me of its stiffness with every creak and pop, protesting the long hours spent sitting. The mountain air bit at my face, clean and sharp enough to sting.

Boulder Ridge was even smaller than I’d imagined. The buildings leaned into each other, their wooden faces weathered and plain. A single red Coke machine stood in front of the diner, buzzing faintly as it worked. The general store had a hand-painted sign in the window advertising canned goods and cigarettes. A post office with peeling paint rounded out the town square.

It was nothing like the university campus where I’d spent most of my life, but that was the whole point. I needed a fresh start, a place where I wouldn’t feel like an extra part that no one needed anymore.

I’d seen a show about the lower cost of living in small Colorado towns and figured it might be a good escape. Maybe even a place to start over. Boulder Ridge caught my eye. The name felt simple, unassuming, and straightforward—something I could appreciate.

A station wagon idled by the curb. The woman leaning against it wore her hair pinned up and looked older than me by at least a decade. She waved when she caught my eye. Evelyn Carver. She’d sounded practical and kind on the phone, and she seemed even more so in person.

“You must be Alice,” she said, taking my suitcase like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome to Boulder Ridge. Hope you don’t mind, but I lit the woodstove at the cabin. Figured you’d want it warm. It’s colder than usual for October.”

“Sounds great,” I said, climbing into the car.

Evelyn started the engine, and the radio came on softly, playing something by the Rolling Stones. She tapped her fingers on the wheel as we drove, her eyes on the winding road.

“That’s where we’re headed,” she said as we rounded a bend. The water gleamed between the trees, dark and still. “Boulder Ridge Lake. Not the most creative name, but there ya go.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yep,” Evelyn agreed. “Some folks in town will tell ya not to go around it after dark. Old stories. Ignore them though.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah, stuff about things people claim to have seen come out of it,” she said with a laugh, though her eyes stayed focused ahead. “How there’s no fish in it. How even the birds steer clear. Maybe we’ve got our own Loch Ness monster or something. Nonsense like that. Mostly stories folks make up to freak out the doped-up hippies around here.”

The cabin came into view a few minutes later. Small, with a chimney puffing smoke. The wood creaked under my boots as I stepped inside. I felt the warmth immediately. It smelled like woodsmoke and old books. There was a braided rug, a shelf of mismatched novels, and a rocking chair facing the lake through a wide window.

Exactly what I needed.

Evelyn pointed toward the water, her finger lingering on the figure near the shore. "That’s Tommy, the groundskeeper. He used to run with some hippie crowd. Guess the free love and drum circles shit got old. Needed a job, so now he keeps this place from falling apart."

I looked and saw him, standing at the edge of the water. His back was to us, his dark hair long and loose. He stood shirtless, his tan back a canvas of lean, defined muscle. He wasn’t bulky, just effortlessly fit in that way some young men are, as if his body was built for grace and strength without ever trying.

“Doesn’t say much, just does what he’s told—most of the time,” Evelyn said, then raised her voice. “Tommy!”

The man turned and began making his way back to the cabin, each step deliberate, his pace unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. I tried not to let my gaze linger, but it was impossible to ignore the sharp planes of his cheekbones or the way his dark eyes seemed almost too large for his face. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his chin and cheeks, soft and boyish.

He wore tight bellbottoms with frayed bottoms, and I caught glimpses of his worn-out tennis shoes as he walked. When he reached the porch, he said a quiet "hi" and held out his hand for a quick shake. His hand was cold, and he pulled it back right away, like he was uncomfortable. His eyes kept darting back to the water, his expression distant, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

A phone rang somewhere in the background. “I need to grab that. Be right back,” Evelyn said, disappearing and leaving me alone with Tommy.

“It’s beautiful here,” I said, trying to fill the silence.

He looked back at the lake again. “It can be strange sometimes. You’ll see.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. His didn’t look at me again, his eyes fixed on the water like he was listening to something.

That night, the radio played faintly as I unpacked. A cool dark Johnny Cash song, followed up by the forlorn Simon & Garfunkel.

The lake outside was dark, its surface was like black glass reflecting smudges of stars.

Anything I write with a placeholder name feels bad and then I get stuck trying to think of a better name. I've already designated too much of the start of the alphabet to side characters, it needs to be something easy to read if its coming up over and over again in the book.

My hooded figure tore a path through the falling flakes. Whether it was snow or ash was hard to tell and irrelevant. Nothing had grown here in a while. I made my way inside the bunker where I felt I had been led towards my whole life. The whispers in my sleep, the cryptic directions and instructions were all for this.

I had visited the last battleground in that Holy War where blood of angels and man alike was spilt and pilfered from a war machine its heart. As the construct of human malice crumbled to dust, I saw some color return to the ever-dark site; I don't think I'd ever seen the moon before. I went to the place which always bore the same name and looked through the Flaw to see the machinery that worked souls. I could have wrought living beings with this knowledge, but that art was reserved for the gods, not even angels dared infringe upon that sacred law.

But I was able to repair the heart I'd stolen. A faintly glowing crystal I brought to that bunker. Break the night. Bring the dawn. This whispered slogan echoed louder as I approached the basement, that sacrilegious holy ground. Upon the metal slab lay two rings of bone, one nestled inside the other. Every voice I'd ever heard was this Thing. It had a Name once, perhaps it will again. Perhaps it may take my name. Probably something more sacrosanct.

I fitted the crystal into an invisible chamber within the rings. It began to glow, and a warmth filled the room. The rings began to spin and turn around a fire in the middle. Eyes sprang open along the rings, and lightning leapt through the roof to shape six wings. The whispers I'd heard opened a door, and I was admitted to the room they reside in. I felt the lightning charring my skin. As it broke away the physical, I felt the immaterial freed. The Angel sang at my dissolution, and I finally knew peace. I tell my story now that I may let go of it and become one, that I may fully dissolve. Maybe the world can even be saved. Maybe I can be saved.