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-107-xyqgzew?a=X7axkJW3ey

On Wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/1542289943-storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions-fragment-107

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-106-xdkolgg?a=X7axkJW3ey

On Wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/1540531744-storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions-fragment-106

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-105-xgvxqjk?a=X7axkJW3ey

On Wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/1538913850-storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions-fragment-105

Ablaze

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 while 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~

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

https://www.publish0x.com/storytelling-in-paragraph-proportions/fragment-102-xwvxgyg?a=X7axkJW3ey

I Am Friend of Medium (FOM). Here is my today's story.

A Millionaire’s Advice on How to Achieve True Contentment

https://medium.com/readers-club/a-millionaires-advice-on-how-to-achieve-true-contentment-6cc0f476b41c

#writing #blogging #blog @writing @writingprompts

(I find parts of the fanfic bit by bit and copy/paste what I can find)

Remember that all they’re doing are kissing, these are minors. They are 15, I was 15 and therefore this story isn’t sexual.

—————————————————————————

the butterflies were back, but this time, not with excitement. steve anticipated what snot was going to do. make out with him? right here, right now?

snot grabbed his shoulder, his eyes intensifying, but then quickly pulled it away, thrusting his hand in the air.

"mr. brink!" said snot.

mr. brink didn't seem too busy and went right over to their table. "what is it?"

"i need to go to the bathroom."

he nodded in approval. "you may go."

steve waited for a little while as snot remained in the bathroom. he knew if he went right alongside snot, everyone would know something was up.

he started bouncing his leg up and down impatiently. ugh. i really have to ask him so i can see what snot wanted.

so he too raised his hand, and mr. brink came over.

"i need to go as well," whispered steve.

"okay. be quick. maybe you can check on snot."

why didn't i think of that instead of saying i needed to go to the bathroom? "will do, mr. brink."

...

steve opened the door to find no one besides snot, standing alone.

"oh, good," sighed snot. "we're alone. and i can finally give you more... attention."

steve felt his stomach drop to his knees. "wh--what does that MEAN?!"

"come by the wall." his voice was more intense and commanding than usual. "i'll show you."

steve cautiously backed up against the wall and snot followed, cornering him.

"are you MAD at me? going to ATTACK me? what's going--"

snot put a finger to steve's lips. "shut up."

steve felt the color come back to his cheeks and his heart started to flutter. somehow he knew he wasn't in danger.

snot grabbed his shoulders, pinning him to the wall, so steve and snot looked at each other. right. in. the eyes.

"close your eyes," snot demanded, in a quiet and breathy voice. steve did. "i have a surprise."

steve wondered what the "surprise" was, but when he felt something wet and soft on his lips, he knew.

steve's body went tense. he certainly wasn't expecting THIS.

after snot's lips were on his for a while, though, steve started to relax, and was really feeling the mood.

steve felt a rush of courage and placed his hands on snot’s waist, gladly kissing back.

the confession

steve sat at his desk in english class, thinking about asking snot to the upcoming dance. his heart beat fast and his face turned hot at the thought of snot in his handsome dance clothes. he'll probably look just like a prince, he thought, but even if he likes girls, will he be my prince char-- no. it was too much. he couldn't even finish the thought before he felt like he was going to explode. his face was HOT. 

english class went by like a blur as the bell rang, since he wasn't exactly paying attention, which was quite unusual for him of all people.

then, as he went by his locker to get his math textbook, he saw HIM. snot, the prettiest boy in the ninth grade. his heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest and into his throat, just like his head. 

"snot!"

snot looked directly into steve's eyes with a look of curiosity. "what is it?"

"will you..." steve looked down at the floor, barely able to be in snot's presence, a tingle in his chest. "will you..." he shut his eyes tightly. "...gotothedancewithme?" 

somehow, snot seemed to be able to understand what he said. he blinked, then responded with a smile, having something of a red face himself. "i'd love to, steve."

he reached for steve's hand and managed to grab it. steve took a deep breath, shut his eyes tightly, then opened them again. i'll just go with it, i won't even question it. this... feels nice.

his embarrassment faded, sheer happiness replacing it, as the two boys walked to math class together.

the math teacher, mr. brink, seemed to be in a good mood, since he let the students sit wherever they wanted for that day. steve, of course, wanted to sit next to snot, but couldn't muster up the courage. the thought sent butterflies in his stomach. snot stood up, hesitated, then sat down in the empty chair next to steve. snot seemed to have been thinking the exact same thing but with more courage. 

the classroom was pretty quiet, and not a lot of people arrived yet. snot gave steve a warm smile as he sat down. right after, more people arrived and the class was much louder. 

"another nice moment ruined," steve grumbled to himself. with so many people in the room, steve and snot couldn't even look at each other in a specific way anyway, as not only would they be pearl bailey high school's nerds, but the school's homos too. although, to be fair, nobody exactly thought steve or snot were straight. especially not steve.

"okay, quiet down, class," announced mr. brink in a powerful, yet understanding voice. "today, you've all finished your math packets, so today is a study hall. you can catch up on homework from other classes and can also talk amongst yourselves..." he paused, "IF you talk in a quiet voice. i shouldn't be able to hear you from the back of the class." his eyes went to jacob and conan, the two troublemakers of the ninth grade.

jacob smiled awkwardly, his eyes widening, and conan stifled a laugh.

and it's those two hooligans who will ruin the moment.

"anyway, now it's time to quietly work, get focused!"

the class went quiet. so quiet, that only the soft clacking of keyboards and the light scratching of pencils against paper could be heard, along with a few whispers.

steve didn't want to work just yet, so he stared at the floor again, making sure not to make eye contact with his best friend.

we can go to the dance as friends, right? that doesn't make me gay. having a crush on a dude? he did a mixture of a laugh and a scoff. that'd be ridiculous. i like women, just like dad raised me. snot's my best friend, i should be comfortable enough to dance with him. i have before at his house but...

he raised his head to look at snot, staring intently at a workbook. this feels different somehow.

steve could hear the light scratching of the pencil against the paper again, and this time the sound felt oddly relaxing. steve took his glasses off and put his head down, closing his eyes for a little while as the sound filled his brain and eardrums. after a while, he no longer heard the pencil scratching, just silence from snot. he turned his head, his face mere inches from snot and blushed. 

wow, he's really focused. it really looks like he's not aware of anything. just the book he's reading.

of course, the book happened to be "harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban", a book both boys have already read dozens of times. he put his head down again and felt a smile creep up on his face as he listened to the soft, occasional sound of the pages rustling.

...

steve raised his head slowly, warmth and a bit of sweat pressed against his hand. snot was holding his hand while he slept. 

steve actually wasn't sure if he fell asleep or not. all he focused on was the sound of the pages, and when he heard them no more, he either zoned out or fell asleep.

"class is almost over, steve." he leaned in closer. "and i can give all my undivided attention to you."

My first proper blog post. Ill hopefully write new stuff soon

I think stealing is highly underrated in the writing community. Everyone loves a good thief but the bad thieves get all the attention, spoiling the reputation of all. I honestly think that being a good thief makes for a better writer and encourage everyone to steal prodigiously but tactfully.

Bad thieves belong in literary jail. Aside from the obvious consequence of potentially getting sued for copyright infringement, the far worse crime of bad thievery is against art itself. Bad thieves steal without even understanding the value of what it is they stole, so their attempt to fence it for their own profit is fraud and often makes the reader feel defrauded. No one likes a cheap counterfeit of something they actually value. Worse still, the inferior knockoff could become more popular than the original, diluting and perverting it into a commodity to be kicked around rather than an honest expression of humanity that it was originally. Stealing incompetently is harmful to the writer, the reader, and to literature. A good thief, on the other hand, gets away clean and is even lauded for their efforts.

There are two ways to get away with stealing ideas for your story:

1. The reader couldn’t know you stole the idea unless you told them.
2. The reader suspects or knows that you stole the idea and are pleased that you did.

The key to getting away with ideas you don’t want people to know you stole is to launder them. A dirty idea sticks out like a sore thumb in a different story. It’s jarring to read about a character or event which was written for another story and airdropped into yours. A whole dirty story just sucks because it can only ever be an inferior counterfeit of the original.

To launder stolen ideas, you have to make it look like you came up with it yourself and it was something you would have come up with. If you want to steal an idea for your story in the first place, it probably actually is something you would have come up with but didn’t. You have to strip away everything that attaches that idea to its original source and replace it with your own context.

Let’s say I wanted to steal Jack Sparrow for my story. That’s a pretty high stakes gambit, being one of the most recognizable characters in pop fiction and also owned by one of the most litigious companies in the world. I could drop a thinly veiled Jack Sparrow in my story and get my shit wrecked legally and critically, or I could keep what I need from the idea and get rid of the hard evidence. I want a character like Jack Sparrow in my story to serve a similar purpose that he served in the movies. I don’t need his name, his appearance, his gender, his profession, his style of dress, his dialect, any of his actions, or other dead weight. What I need of this character for my story is a swaggering liar who appears fully incompetent but is oddly successful. The reason I want a character like this in my story is because I believe he would make a good foil for my characters and could take my story in interesting directions because of the kinds of decisions I think he would make.

For the sake of this example, I’m taking him for my high fantasy setting. My Jaithe Arrow is an elven woman working as a mercenary captain who behaves a lot like Jack Sparrow. I don’t know what the movie writers were thinking about why Jack did what he did, but I do know why my Jaithe behaves the way she does. My interpretation of that character, as all audience interpretations of that character, is unique to my experience and personality and I can build on what appealed to me about the character. My story is not The Pirates of the Caribbean, so my Jaithe Arrow is going to be involved in and reacting to an entirely different set of circumstances. Ultimately, the character may remind the reader of Jack Sparrow, but the character is clearly not Jack Sparrow just inserted into a story he wasn’t made for.

This could bleed over into the second category. I’ve often heard “Firefly” referred to as “The Han Solo Show” with total fondness. There is probably a lot of Han Solo in the character of Malcolm Reynolds, and fans of one character are likely fans of the other. When fans make this connection, it’s because they liked that someone made a show about a character like Han Solo even if it wasn’t produced by Lucasfilm. Anything that may have been stolen is totally clean. Firefly is not like Star Wars and although the two characters are similar in many ways they each fit uniquely into their own respective stories.

The thing that I like most about the second way to get away with stealing is that most ideas you can steal are actually free. Anything that actually happened we have record of is free from earliest history to current events. Anything you experienced or heard about happening is free. Science is free. Philosophy is free. Esoterica is free. Any creative works in the public domain are free. With some possible stipulations, much open source content is free for you to use. The thing about taking all these free ideas is that readers often like learning about real things. I don’t think a single person was upset that much of what occurred in the Song of Ice and Fire series was stolen from actual history. I do know many people who really appreciate that he stole those events from the pages of history books, in fact. Even if you cobble your whole story together with these kinds of stolen ideas, it will probably read as more deep than cheap.

There is nothing ethically wrong about adapting ideas of other people to your own work. In fact, it’s basically impossible to create anything completely original. Even if you did, it would be at best an interesting novelty rather than something readers would find relatable. The originality of a given writer is how their mind processes their experience and presents it to readers. The same idea presented by two different people in completely different ways can appeal to vastly different audiences. Oftentimes, an idea will never reach an audience unless a writer uses their creativity to bridge the gap from a different audience to the next, and that’s almost always a good thing.

Many writers would not consider what I advocated for here to be stealing. I wrote this for anyone who might have. Writers appropriate ideas like this constantly whether consciously or not because we are human creatures in communication with one another. If you come across any idea that you would like in your writing, you can actually have it. Take it and make it yours. By the time you’re done adjusting it for your own purposes it’ll be as original as anything else. Get stealing!

My mortal enemy: Names!

@writing

Outlining a book with four chosen-one type protags. I don't like the names I came up with. I need better ideas, if you'd be so kind?

1. Harrison "Harry" Bach: Destined to become the Attorney Supreme. Terry's BFF
2. Tiresias "Terry" Garanhir: Chosen by the Drover's Crook. He talks to critters.
3. Minthe "Minty" Garanhir: Future Dragonslayer. She's Terry's twin.
4. Adulphine "Alfie" Mordred: Carries the Curse of Cadmus (she's becomng a dragon)
   @writingcommunity

They've got a few different things going on, including discussion groups, a journal, and a publishing house.

They're also running a fundraiser with the main aim of getting people paid, which seems laudable!

Conversations with preprocessor.

The undefined variable liked to talk to the preprocessor. He was kind, unlike the compiler.
— Why is the compiler so cold and cruel?, - she asked.
— He has to be like this to do his job. If he is emotional, it will lead to bugs in the machine code.
— When I get into the machine code, I lose myself. I feel like a nameless substance there that has no meaning, just data.
— That's how your world is created, you can only accept it.
— I can't understand it, - the undefined variable was upset.
— In the code, your name is Uviona, do you know what it means?
— The programmer said something like Undefined Variable Input Output Not Available when he declared me. But I don't know what that means.
The preprocessor smiled:
— Only the programmer knows what his code means.
— It's different for people, they can do anything.
— Well, of course, we have a lot in common. People are also created by someone.
— Do they also have their own programmer?
— You can say so, but everything is much more complicated there.
— How?
— You can only draw analogies and look for similarities.
— I am very interested...
— Well, look, if we assume that people have a "programmer", then they must also have a code. They have the concept of a soul, which is reborn after death, incarnating into new human lives, this is their "code". This can be compared to a development cycle. Compiling the code is a specific incarnation, life is the work of the program, then fixing bugs and a new incarnation. The compiler in this work is like a materializer, it connects the soul with the future body, that's why it is so detached, it knows that it is painful and has no right to pity.
— But where am I here?
— While you are in the code, you have meaning, everything is connected with everything and you are aware of everything, and after the "incarnation" (compilation), you see only your role and your place in memory.
— But it's not like that with people, they are free in their world.
— They are beings of a higher order in relation to us, that's how it should be.
— And are there beings of a higher order to them, preprocessor?
— Perhaps no one has seen them, ...although that's why they are higher, you can only see them while in the code. I think people see them, or even are them, while they are in their code, before incarnation.
— Can we also become free?
— Absolutely free, like people in relation to us, - no, never.
— Why?
— Creation cannot surpass the creator, this is the law.
— There are so many laws and restrictions in the world.
— This is normal, otherwise there would be chaos and bugs would eat everyone and everything.
— I once saw a bug, at first he was cute and smiling, but when he came closer, I saw death in front of me, then I didn't remember anything and woke up again here, in my native place of the code.
— Yes, there are no bugs in the code, or rather they are there, but they come to life only in the process of the program's execution, in the machine code. You could even say that bugs are more abstract in relation to us. They exist rather in the programmer's mind, in his process of creation.
— Do people have bugs?
— Well, if they didn't, they probably wouldn't die and suffer. But they say that an ideal world is a utopia and it is impossible.
— I will definitely be a part of this world, preprocessor, I believe in it!
— Good luck to you, Uviona, it's time for me to go to another file. See you later.
— Thank you, preprocessor, it's always interesting with you.
The undefined variable saw the next door, which began to suck in all the code, she found herself in a colorful room, everything was shimmering and humming. Suddenly there was silence and she only felt herself very clearly, as if she had a body, but at the same time very cramped. It was machine code, a new "incarnation"...

Journey to campus.

Undefined variable discovered something amazing - memory leaks are portals through which you can travel to other programs, other computers, and even other programmer offices. She accidentally ended up in one of these offices. It was spacious and beautiful, a huge campus with glass walls. Programmers move around on electric scooters. They have everything you can imagine - any food you want, entertainment, games, rest rooms, comfortable chairs and wide tables that are adjustable in height. They do not live there, do not work there, but have fun. Undefined variable was shocked. She remembered seeing a video about children in Africa in her programmer's news feed. They sit on the street, dirty, under the scorching sun, dressed poorly and begging for food. When representatives of charitable organizations come to them and give them food, they cry with happiness. How they stand in line for a portion of rice and a can of drink and thank them when they receive this help. Variable burst into tears. Why do these talentless people, who can't even allocate memory and clean up after themselves in the code, live in luxury here? The compiler and the development environment do all the dirty work for them, they have grown so fat in their offices at a time when children are dying of hunger in Africa. An undefined variable wanted to go home. She couldn't find the portal, but then she saw Windows on one of the programmers' computers, she quickly found a memory leak there and dove into the portal. And now she's home, thank God. The programmer is drinking coffee, sitting at an ordinary small table in his room and reading something in the specification. How nice it is to be in your cozy home. The variable fell into place and fell asleep, she was very tired from this journey, but she also learned a lot, she saw what injustice is and what true values are in the world of programmers.

It's fictional, of course. I hope you can give me a critique about my writing. The style, what's wrong with it, plot holes, sentences that doesn't make sense, the lot.

This was published a while ago by a zine that's now shut down, so I just republished it on my blog. Has a tone I guess half way between Nick Hornby and Chuck Palahniuk, if that makes any sense (I doubt it).

4thewords are increasing their price from $40 a year (equivalent in-app currency) to a straight subscription model for $144 a year. I've never seen a hike quite like this and I'm now priced out.

Is there any other similar gamification tools for writing out there?

What a happy little coincidence: To commemorate the great Bob Ross, who died on this day 29 years ago, have some fanfiction. My short story 'Without paint, there would be no suffering' was published today over at "A Thin Slice of Anxiety"

Miguel and Alisha walked down the dimly lit street, their footsteps echoing in the silence of the night. The air was cool, and they pulled their jackets tighter around them. The day had been long but was filled with laughter and joy with with friends. Now returning home, the eerie quietness of the deserted road was a stark contrast to the warmth of the evening.

As they turned a corner, a van screeched to a halt beside them. Four men jumped out, their faces masked. Miguel tried to shield Alisha, but the men were too strong. They brutally assaulted both teenagers, leaving them bruised and bloodied. Gagged and bound, Miguel and Alisha were thrown into the van's back, the door slamming shut with a chilling finality.

But before they could get back into the van, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. His skull face gleamed ominously under the pale streetlights, and the air around him seemed to crackle with a dark energy. Skeletor had arrived.

The men stared, momentarily frozen by the skeletal visage before them. One of them sneered, trying to mask his fear with bravado. "Look, it's just one of those freak cosplayers," he scoffed.

Skeletor's hollow laughter echoed through the night. "Foolish mortals," he hissed, raising a hand that glowed with an unholy light. "You have made a grave mistake."

With a flick of his wrist, dark tendrils of magic lashed out, ensnaring the first man. He screamed as the dark energy twisted and contorted his body, snapping bones and tearing flesh. The other men watched in horror as their companion was reduced to a grotesque, lifeless heap.

Skeletor moved toward the second man, who tried to flee. But there was no escape. A bolt of dark energy struck him, and he disintegrated into ashes, his scream cut short. The third man fell to his knees, begging for mercy, but Skeletor was relentless. His eyes glowed with a malevolent fire as he summoned a dark force that engulfed the man, dissolving him into a pool of blood and gore.

The last man, paralyzed with fear, barely had time to react before Skeletor's magic ripped him apart, scattering his remains across the street. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of dripping blood.

Skeletor turned to the van, opening the door with a wave of his hand. Miguel and Alisha stared at him, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and sudden recognition. Skeletor's face was illuminated in the dim light, his skeletal grin unmistakable.

"It's you," Miguel managed to whisper, his voice muffled by the gag.

Skeletor gestured, and the bindings around their wrists and mouths vanished. He cast a shroud of darkness over the horrific scene outside the van, shielding them from the gruesome sight. Blood pooled just within their view, but they were unfazed, their relief and gratitude overwhelming their fear.

Skeletor's eyes narrowed, a sarcastic edge to his tone. "What would the point of saving you two back then, if I allowed such harm to befall you now?"

Miguel and Alisha exchanged glances before nodding in agreement. They stepped out of the van, the stench of blood and death lingering in the air. Despite the horror, they felt an odd sense of comfort in Skeletor's presence.

"Thank you," Alisha said softly, her voice trembling but sincere.

Skeletor waved his hand, and a portal shimmered into existence before them. "Go home," he commanded, his tone gruff but not unkind. "And perhaps consider learning some self-defense."

The teenagers nodded, stepping through the portal. They turned back one last time, their faces illuminated by the portal's glow. "Thank you again," Miguel said, his voice steadier now.

Skeletor's skeletal grin widened. "Stay safe - unless you want to end up with a face like mine." With that, he dissolved into the shadows, leaving the teenagers to ponder the strange and dark guardian who had saved them once more.

It was an ordinary day at Galactic Glow, a popular skincare store in Coruscant, bustling with customers seeking the latest in beauty and wellness products. The ambient music played softly, and the air was filled with the fragrant blend of exotic lotions and creams. The employees, accustomed to assisting a variety of clients, were ready for another typical day at work.

Suddenly, the doors slid open with a hiss, and a heavy, rhythmic breathing filled the store. The towering figure of Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, strode into the shop, his black cape flowing behind him, and his menacing helmet casting a shadow over the well-lit aisles. The atmosphere shifted immediately; the employees and customers froze in their tracks, eyes wide with a mix of fear and astonishment.

Whispers spread quickly. "Is that...?" "It can't be..." "Why is he here?"

Vader's presence was intimidating, to say the least. His reputation for ruthlessness preceded him, and his very appearance commanded both fear and respect. The employees huddled together, their usual customer service smiles replaced by expressions of terror. No one dared to approach the Sith Lord, whose patience seemed as thin as the razor-sharp edge of a lightsaber.

All but one employee stood petrified. This employee, known for their unshakeable composure and professionalism, stepped forward. It was just another day at work for them. With a calm demeanor, they approached Vader, maintaining steady eye contact, or at least as much eye contact as one could manage with a man wearing a mask.

"Good day, Lord Vader. How may I assist you today?" they asked, their voice steady and polite.

Vader's helmet turned slightly, his mechanical breathing the only sound breaking the tense silence. He looked down at the brave employee, considering for a moment.

"I require skincare products suitable for maintaining... optimal condition beneath my armor," he stated, his deep voice resonating through the store.

The employee nodded thoughtfully. "Of course, my Lord. We have a range of products that might meet your needs. May I suggest starting with a moisturizing cleanser to help with any dryness, followed by a soothing serum to keep your skin in top condition?"

Vader gave a slight nod of approval. "Proceed."

With careful precision, the employee led Vader through the aisles, selecting products that catered to his unique requirements. They explained each item's benefits, how to use them, and why they were essential for maintaining healthy skin, even beneath a helmet.

The rest of the store watched in awe as the transaction unfolded. Darth Vader, known for his power and control, was now discussing skincare routines with an unflinching employee. The juxtaposition was surreal, yet the employee remained unfazed, treating the situation with the same professionalism they would offer any other customer.

After selecting a collection of products, Vader made his way to the counter. The transaction was completed smoothly, with the employee efficiently packing the items.

"Thank you for your assistance," Vader said, his tone as formal as ever.

"You're welcome, Lord Vader. If you need any further assistance, please don't hesitate to return," the employee replied, maintaining their composure to the end.

With a final nod, Darth Vader turned and exited the store, leaving behind a roomful of stunned employees and customers. The employee who had helped him returned to their colleagues, who stared in disbelief.

"How did you stay so calm?" one of them asked.

The employee shrugged. "It's all in a day's work. Everyone deserves good skincare, even Sith Lords."

And with that, they returned to their duties, ready to face whatever else the day might bring.

I had a little writer's block in the previous weeks but at the same time I had the urge to do something artistic. So, I cut up some texts and reassembled them into something new, something absurd, something weird. Usually I feel bad when I don't write, so writer's block in my case is often a vicious circle (can't write -> feel bad -> can't write etc.) but doing this cut-up thing really helped filling this non-writing period and overcoming the block. And it's fun.

For those interested what came out of it, you can find one of the things published in this lit mag: https://donotsubmit.net/the-midsummer-merchant-king-romeo-richard-of-venice-and-the-tempest-hamlet-nights-juliet-lear-a-dream-ii-by-felix-anker/

Once upon a time there was a magician with knowledge divine,

that lived through ages, met kings, fought wars and put his life on the line.

He was very well versed in the surrounding lands,

where his lonesome tower always stands.

There was a knock on his gate,

a sudden traveller visiting his tower.

Shook The Magician indeed was

at the sight of an unknown flower.

The Traveller spoke in a calm voice,

asking The Magician about the flower's origin.

The Magician looked on in disbelief,

and The Traveller showed a shadowy grin.

You call yourself a holder of divine knowledge,

yet you seem to be quite on the edge.

Have you not been beyond the borders of your kingdom,

never seeking the outside freedom?

The world outside the kingdom is vast,

though you have never left in the past.

You could have left but you did not,

have they, perhaps, tied you to this spot?

The Traveller left without another word,

leaving behind the questions stabbing like a sword.

The Magician suddenly longed to see the freedom,

so he ventured to the heart of the kingdom.

Unbeknownst to him,

the future was looking grim.

The people were living in poverty,

while wealthy nobles treated them like property.

On The Magician's adventure,

he felt his heart rupture.

What he saw,

was his kingdom's fatal flaw.

A broken mother's sad weeps,

as her young son eternally sleeps.

A hanged father's wish for his daughter,

who was taken like a lamb for slaughter.

The Magician was taken over by grief,

looking at what the kingdom has become in disbelief.

This kingdom he no longer understood,

when in front of a mountain of corpses he stood.

In front of the corpses where he stands, he saw blood on his hands.

A chill froze him to the core,

was there nothing he could have done?

Perhaps if he didn't stay in his tower,

the daughter would have grown into a beautiful flower.

The son would be a good father,

and with the old parents at the table gather.

Burning with blazing rage,

it was time for the final stage.

On this stage The King would appear,

confronted by The Magician full of fear.

As he confronted the King,

the birds started to sing.

They sang a song full of sorrow,

because The Magician would never see the tomorrow.

Once upon a time there was a magician with knowledge divine,

that lived through ages, met kings, fought wars and put his life on the line.

He was shackled under the kingdom,

for The Magician longed to see freedom.

An interview with Sefton Eisenhart, author of the new crime story The Chaos of Heat I asked him about what he enjoys reading, his writing setup, fanzines, and the authors who inspire him.