#Realistic Fiction

[aloof-cold-hands]

Angelo "Hitman" Ramsey (short story- Gene)

A short story from Gene's childhood in which a trip with his father becomes more difficult than expected

Just behind the house, during the summer, Gene had decided to fell the ponderosa pine tree that had developed wood rot. It once held up the hammock, but after the bark where the rope was tied turned from red to black, Gene decided to chop it down. 

With each thunk of Gene’s axe the tree would sway and needles would speckle the ground. Cicadas buzzed and the chug of a kid’s scooter echoed from the front of the house. Gene was sick with a fever, and had been since he woke up two hours ago.

The back of Gene’s neck was glossy with sweat. There was a pinch behind his temples that would sting briefly, then mellow, the sting again. He could feel it pressing against the back of his eyes and against the top of his skull. 

He breathed deep and heavy through his nose, pulling his axe back behind his head then sinking it into the bark again. He kept the axe head in the wood and let go of the handle. He then swayed, then placed his calloused palm against the tree to steady himself with a hand on his hip. He spit on the ground, grunted, then ran a hand through his hair.

And as he stood there, sick, he pictured his father sinking a chainsaw into the body of a spruce tree.

Sometime in the morning, during the early fall- if Gene remembered correctly- his father brought him into the garage to prepare for tree felling. The garage was always hot and thick, and smelt like corn chips. On one wall, the wooden bones of the house were exposed with black construction paper stabled between the planks. On another wall hung small framed newspapers in black and white. They read; “Angelo Hitman Ramsey” or “The Big Bull in Chicago”.

Cardboard boxes stacked atop one another crowded a corner, and dumbbells laid abandoned beside a bench. Below a hanging lightbulb was Ramsey’s work table which was powdered with wood shavings. 

The steps beneath Ramsey creaked as he stepped down to the concrete garage flooring. He breathed very slowly and heavily through his nose, and he grunted to clear his throat. 

He motioned to the garage door.

“Open,” he said.

Gene hopped down the steps and jogged to the front of the garage. Robin’s paws clicked against the ground as she followed him. Gene squatted, took hold of the metal knob attached to the garage door, and began to lift. It chugged as it began to raise, running on a track in the ceiling.

Gene paused halfway through, adjusted the heel of his palms against the knob, then pushed to send the rest of the door up. The outside air was cool against his face and the tall pine trees outside were swaying from a calm wind. Their dirt driveway was scattered with needles and pine cones.

Across the road Aiden was outside with his mom and brother pulling weeds. Aiden looked up and waved with a gloved hand, and Gene waved back. 

Robin trotted out from the garage to Ramsey’s light blue truck, which had rusted at each corners. She stared at the door, then looked back at Gene with round black eyes. Her tail began to wag.

“Can Robin come?” Gene asked.

Ramsey walked past Gene, holding two brown paper bags. Ramsey moved Robin aside with his boot, then opened the truck door to toss the bags into the front seat. 

“Dad,” Gene said.

“Mmh?”

“Can Robin come?”

Ramsey scratched his stubbled jaw and walked past Gene back into the garage. He knelt down and reached under his workbench, and when he stood he was holding the orange handle of a chainsaw.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Alright,” Gene said, and followed Ramsey to the car.

While Ramsey loaded the chainsaw into the back, Gene scooped an arm under Robin’s white belly and lifted her. Her legs flailed while he maneuvered her to hold her in a cradle then looked down at her face. He blew a small puff at her, and she bit the air. He blew again, she bit again, then she sneezed.

“M’alright, cmon.” Ramsey said, and Gene put Robin down

“Inside,” Gene said to her, pointing to the house.

She stared at him and wagged her tail.

“Inside,” he said again.

Robin hesitated, then trotted away to the back of the house where the dog door was.

It was a forty minute drive from home to get to land available for lumberjacking. The trees grew dense and tall, and even when Gene leaned forward to look out of the front window he could not see their tops. Beside him, Ramsey was smoking a big cigar which made the hairs of his thick mustache bristle.

Ramsey slowed the truck and pulled it off the road, and the car wheels began to crackle over gravel and twigs. The car stopped, the hum of the engine shut off, and Ramsey pressed the grayed end of his cigar into the ashtray on the dashboard. Gene watched him.

“M’alright,” he said, cranking back the emergency break.

He opened his door, and so did Gene.

As they walked Ramsey held his chain saw in one hand with his other sunk into his back jean pocket. And when Ramsey looked up at the trees, so did Gene. 

Ramsey placed his palm against the wood of a thin but tall pine tree. Gene could fully wrap his arms around it if he wanted.

“M’okay,” Ramsey said, placing the chainsaw down. He knelt then looked at Gene. “We’re gonna cut here,” he motioned a horizontal chop across the wood, then raised his hand and angled it. “Then here.” And he motioned another chop. He then began to stand and his left knee popped. 

“Okay,” Gene said, but he didn’t understand.

Ramsey picked up the chainsaw and pinched the pull cord between his thumb and pointer knuckle. The cord chugged when he yanked it back once, then twice, and on the third pull the engine inside the chainsaw kicked and began to rumble. Ramsey motioned Gene to step back.

Gloveless, and without ear muffs, Ramsey turned the saw blade and sunk it into the tree. The razors began to catch and rip into the wood, and birds in the trees above them took flight. Gene reached up and plugged his ears. 

Shavings spewed from the base of the saw and dusted the forest floor in white. And after coming nearly to the center of the tree, Ramsey pulled the blade back.

Ramsey made three cuts into the tree, a horizontal, an angled, and another horizontal on the opposite end of the tree. This left uncut wood in the very middle, and when he pressed his palm into the bark the center began to snap. The tree came free, tipped, then hit the ground with a cloud of dust. 

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and rolled his shoulders back.

With the engine still humming, he held out the handle of the chainsaw for Gene.

Gene looked at his father, and his father looked back down at him. Ramsey shook the chainsaw once, then Gene reached for the handle with both hands. When Ramsey let go Gene’s arms dropped from the weight.

Ramsey moved Gene to another tree with a clear line to fall, then stood back and crossed his arms. Gene raised the chainsaw with a grunt and turned it sideways. He stood with his legs generously far apart and his knees bent. After turning the saw to see where the switch was, he clamped his hand on it and the blades began to race. He immediately unclamped.

“Hold it firm or it’ll kick back on the bark” Ramsey said. 

“Okay,” Gene said.

He pictured the chainsaw hitting the bark, rebounding off, then ripping into his stomach. His arms felt light under the skin, and his palms made a layer of sweat between the handle and his hands. But, like his father, he rolled his shoulders back and clamped the switch again.

The chainsaw sunk into the wood, stopped, sunk again, then stopped.

Ramsey said nothing.

Gene shimmied the blade out of the crack, then raised it with shaky arms for the next cut.

He followed the steps his father took, slicing three jagged cuts into the tree. When he finished and pressed his hand against the bark, it did not fall. He looked at Ramsey, who motioned to the wedge Gene sawed.

“Too shallow,” he said.

Gene had only cut the wedge a quarter into the tree rather than half way. Ramsey crossed his arms and stepped back, and Gene ran the blades again.

It took Gene twenty minutes to fell his tree, and even when it began to snap and fall, the base broke off and kicked back at Gene. Ramsey took him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back.

Ramsey then placed a hand on the back of Gene’s head. Gene looked up at him.

“Good,” Ramsey said.

Ramsey cut down the last tree while Gene stood on a big flat-topped rock and watched. Ramsey then showed Gene how to run the saw across the tree to slice the branches off, then how to turn the tree, then slice again. After that, they stopped to sit down on the back of the truck and eat lunch, and neither of them said a word to one another.

After lunch, Ramsey began to slice the trunks into sections. Gene would pick up the thick round chunks and walk them back to the truck, then stack them in the back.

And on the very last tree- which still had its branches- Ramsey had begun to slow. Gene watched his flannel come off, his white wife beater go transparent around the collar from sweat, and his breathing become labored. Despite this, Ramsey continued to press the blade against the branches of the tree.

Gene watched how Ramsey held the saw and how he planted his feet. His arms had veins running from his biceps to his wrists. His knuckles were rounded and defined, and his fingers were thick. Gene pictured his father with a brown leather hat and a lasso, riding atop a stallion. He then looked down at his own arms which hung loose.

The razors on the blade glided across the tree as Ramsey sliced the branches off. The saw hooked and ripped the wood, outlining the tree with white shavings.

And when the saw hit a thick knot at the base of a branch, it kicked back and tapped against Ramsey’s right thigh.

Gene stilled. The blades of the saw stopped and Ramsey raised the machine to look down at his thigh. There was an open split in the fabric of his jeans, and it began to blossom with dark red. A weight dropped in Gene’s chest, and he looked up at his father’s face.

Ramsey wiped his glossy forehead with the back of his wrist. Then, the chainsaw started again, and Ramsey continued cutting the trunk into sections. Gene stood very still and watched him. He felt a balloon expanding in his chest, pressing against his heart and ribs, and welling up into his throat. He felt like he should cry, but he didn’t.

As Ramsey continued, so did Gene. He picked up the next round chunk of wood, then he walked back to the truck.

When he returned, Ramsey had finished sectioning the trunk and the continuous hum of the chainsaw’s engine finally died. The forest was very quiet. Without limping, Ramsey walked to a nearby rock and sat down, then began to undo his belt.

Gene bent over and wrapped his arms around the next piece of wood. He stared down at the forest floor as he adjusted his arms. It was scattered with thin twigs and yellowed pine needles, which were speckled with red dots. He looked up at Ramsey.

Ramsey’s jeans now pooled at his ankles, revealing a baggy pair of plaid boxers. From where Gene watched -with his chest resting atop the wood- he couldn’t see the top of Ramsey’s thigh. But as Ramsey studied it, a line of red slid down the side of his calf down to his ankle. Gene looked away.

Gene finished loading the truck, and Ramsey tossed the saw into the back before walking away to the treeline.

Gene opened the car door and stepped up into the cream colored seat. He leaned over to watch his dad through the driver’s seat window. Ramsey had one hand placed against a tree and each foot planted apart. His shoulders raised and lowered with big breaths, and beads of sweat dripped from his chin. He was taking a leak while Gene was in the car waiting, and the balloon in Gene’s chest swelled again. The stream was black.

Gene laid his head against the chilled window and watched the towering trees glide past the car. The sky had gone from amber to black, and the weather turned frigid. Gene watched a fog spread against the window each time he exhaled through his nose, forming a rounded shape.

Then, just as Gene laid his head back against the headrest, something outside popped. The truck jerked, and then swayed as it balanced itself. Gene looked at the road, then at his father, who stared straight ahead and rolled the truck to a stop at the side of the dirt road.

“What was that?” Gene asked.

Ramsey pulled the gear into park and opened the door, leaving the key in the ignition. Gene turned around in his seat and watched him walk behind the truck, then squat out of eyesight. Gene then looked down at Ramsey’s seat cushion where red blood had followed the cracks in the white leather.

Gene wondered if Ramsey had cried when he was a kid. Gene recalled that just a month ago Aiden fell off his bike and busted his cheekbone into the curb which split the skin open. When Gene’s mom took him to get stitches, he cried the entire time. He wondered if his father had ever gotten stitches, and if he cried.

Ramsey’s boots neared the car, and his long arm reached in to take the key. The headlights that stretched into the woods shut off.

“Nail on the road,” he said. “Popped tire.”

“Alright,” Gene said.

Ramsey leaned in and opened the glove box in front of Gene, and he blindly felt for a flashlight. 

Gene’s brows furrowed as he opened his own door, and he wondered if they were going to walk the rest of the way home. He then wondered when the last time was that he saw another car come down the road. 

“Get your coat,” Ramsey said to him.

“Don’t have it,” Gene said, walking to meet his dad in front of the car. “I didn’t bring it.”

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and he turned on the flashlight.

It shot down the road into the darkness with no defined circle.

Without limping, Ramsey began to walk down the side of the road. Gene followed behind him, and their boots crackled against gravel and twigs. Warm fog wafted from their noses, and after ten minutes Gene’s jaw began to shiver. His walking slowed.

Gene looked up at the moon that was only a curved slit, then looked at the back of his father’s head. Ramsey was breathing heavy, and he too had slowed. He did not shiver, and he did not roll the sleeves of his flannel down. Gene pictured a rotund bull with forward pointed horns pressing against a boulder. He imagined the boulder moving bit by bit, and the bull’s hooves digging into the ground.

Gene clenched his jaw and pretended that he wasn’t cold either.

After twenty minutes of walking, Ramsey stopped and dropped the arm holding the flashlight up. He placed his hand on his hip and let his head tip back. Gene saw in his father’s black silhouette that he was shaking. He stood there, panting, and Gene watched him. Then, Ramsey’s body swayed, he tipped back, and he caught himself then straightened again.

“Dad?” Gene said.

Ramsey did not reply. He stood, panting, and for a very long time Gene watched him. And then, two yellow headlights came around a curve in the road.

Both boys stood and stared as the two dim lights came closer. The wheels crackled as they slowed to a stop, and the drive cranked down the window. A thin older man with a fishing hat and sun spots on his cheeks smiled at them. He had white whiskers around his jaw, and smile lines beside the corners of his eyes.

“It's a real cold night for a walk, aint it?” he asked. Ramsey said nothing, and the old man leaned forward to look at Gene. “You fellas get lost?”

“Popped tired,” Ramsey said.

“Ah, that's too bad,”

Gene eyed the red truck the old man drove. In the trunk had a wooden dining table and three chairs. They were strapped down with rope.

“I’m about four miles from my place, we’ll have you phone someone,” said the old man.

“Alright,” said Ramsey.

Ramsey reached back and placed his hand on the back of Gene’s head, and they went around the front of the truck to the passengers side. 

Ramsey sat in the middle, and Gene sat beside him. Then, the man began to drive again, and trees glided past them in the opposite direction they had been going before.

The cream colored bench they sat on had no cracks or tears like Ramsey’s truck, and the ashtray on the dashboard was empty.

“You fellas out chopping wood?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Ramsey said, gripping his thigh.

“Yea, me and my boys used to come out here too. I’m Donald,” Donald said.

“I’m Angelo,” Ramsey said.

Donald looked at Ramsey, then at the road. Then, he reached up for the ceiling light and pressed it on. It flickered a dim yellow, and he leaned forward to look at Ramsey’s face. Gene watched them.

“Well shoot. Shoot, you’re Angelo Ramsey, aren't you.”

Ramsey said nothing.

“Hitman Ramsey, I used to watch you with my kids. Haha, what are the chances- You really have six fingers on your left hand?”

Ramsey raised his left hand, palm up, and showed Donald.

“Wow, look at that,” Donald said. “When you took that man out in the ring, I mean wow. I was sitting with my wife and uh, I think she was holding our youngest. Well, I woke the boys to bring em down so they could see it, and I mean, it's all we talked about the rest of that day. Hah, what else can you talk about?”

Gene’s brows raised, and he looked at his father’s face. Ramsey’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing deep through his nose.

“One hit, and wham- gone. Completely gone, that's a hell of an arm you’ve gotta have. Not even a chance. The hell are you doing in Twin Falls?” Donald asked.

“Retiring,” Ramsey replied.

Donald chuckled, then, for a while, no one said anything.

Gene looked back out of the front window.

“You like dogs?” Donald asked, leaning forward to look at Gene.

Gene nodded.

Donald’s home was a part of a small neighborhood in an open, flat, green field. The porch lights were lit and the front door was propped open with a chunk of wood. On the first step laid a very fat chocolate lab who’s stiff tail began to wag when the car drove into the driveway.

When they first came into the home, Ramsey asked for antiseptic. He soon sat at the kitchen table and tipped the bottle carefully over the split on his thigh. Gene did not watch, and instead scratched under the chin of the lab named Big Bertha. And as he watched her face, he heard sizzling, and a low grunt.

While Ramsey phoned Abigail in the kitchen, Gene sat on the living room couch and stared at the television, but he didn’t watch.

Instead, he pictured his father in red boxer shorts and round gloves. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead from the lights in the indoor stadium. He imagined an announcer’s voice crackling through speakers, booming over an audience. He saw a swing of his father’s left arm, then a man’s head turning from the hit. The man went completely still, tipped, and fell on the mat. His father stood tall- face sore- and he put a fist in the air.

Angelo hitman Ramsey. 

“How old were you when you started boxing?” Gene asked.

He and Ramsey drove back down the road in Ramsey’s blue rusted truck. Donald and Ramsey used a spare from Donalds garage to change the tire. Ramsey held the steering wheel tight with one hand, and gripped his thigh with the other. Gene sat curled up against the door with his forehead against the cold window.

“Huh?” Ramsey replied.

“When did you start boxing?”

“Don’t know,” Ramsey said. “Seventeen.”

Gene thought about that for a while, then he said;

“I wanna be a boxer.”

Ramsey said nothing. 

“Did you always win in one hit?” Gene asked.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Oh. Did you knock that one man out with one hit?” he asked.

“I killed him,” Ramsey said.

Gene raised his head and stared at his father. Ramsey took a deep inhale of his cigar, and the glow of the butt lit his aged face with orange.

Gene pictured his father hitting the man, the man’s head turning, his body going still, then tipping and hitting the boxing cage floor. He pictured his father staring down at him.

He laid his head back against the window.

I put this story together a few months ago for my patron members! If you're interested in more writing, consider supporting me through patreon :)

[promantis]

How Autistic are you?

I'm "Create a fictional nation with multiple languages, cultures, architecture, and companies" Autistic.

[xxrrisxx]

Wrong does not cease to be wrong because the majority share in it.

Leo Tolstoy

[ak-harper-loves-fiction]

"After he cooled down from his fit of rage, he acted like my best friend. I forgave him. Somehow, I forgave him."

-A.K. Harper

[captainkathi394]

Airforce aircraft

Aircraft for my fictional country Kobocha

Fun fact Kobocha is real is is a type of pumpkin 🎃

bullets go pew and uh uhm bombs are awesome because i uhm big firework uhm erm

Make peace not war !!!!!! Make fanfics not war !!1!!1

[chronicfatalist]

yall know about that novel im writing?

if not: im writing a novel! its very much still in the works but ive been working on it for a while now. i realized i have free will to draw what i think the characters look like so; here they are

Meg Vasques

Soren Harbor(not based off me.)

Charlie Tsuma

if you have questions please send me an ask! im willing to answer any questions about my novel ❤️

[odysseywritings]

Out of curiosity, would readers here be interested in me talking about Appalachian life? Either a very amateur memoir or a fictional story (of any tone but leaning towards a dramedy).

[middlegradeeveryday]

Just Roll with It by Veronica Agarwal

Summary: As long as Maggie rolls the right number, nothing can go wrong...right?   Maggie just wants to get through her first year of middle school. But between finding the best after-school clubs, trying to make friends, and avoiding the rumored monster on school grounds, she’s having a tough time...so she might need a little help from her twenty-sided dice. But what happens if Maggie rolls the wrong number?   A touching middle-grade graphic novel that explores the complexity of anxiety, OCD, and learning to trust yourself and the world around you.

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Book Type: Graphic Novel

[cozmicnymph]

Hot Take: Dark Romance is Unhealthy, and No One Wants to Admit It

Okay, I’m about to drop what’s probably the hottest take right now, but I hate dark romance—at least, the vast majority of it. Yeah, sure, we all have guilty pleasures, and an occasional dark romance here and there isn’t the end of the world. But overall? It’s incredibly unhealthy, and I’m tired of people brushing that fact under the rug just because it’s a book instead of a movie or a website.

Like, why are we all just okay with fantasizing about literal crimes being committed against us, as long as the abuser has a sexy nickname? How is that not ungodly unhealthy? It reminds me of people writing love letters to serial killers on death row—like, these men murdered people in horrific ways, and yet women still fall in love with them.

And honestly, it’s not that different from the studies showing that kids who start watching p*** at 12 or 13 end up desensitized by adulthood, seeking out increasingly extreme content. But somehow, we recognize that as a problem when it comes to video content, yet turn a blind eye to books. We judge p***, we judge excessive masturbation, but dark romance is the same thing—just in written form. You’re still consuming explicit content, still absorbing all the details, and arguably, it’s even worse because the author has to make you imagine it vividly without a screen.

And when I bring this up, people hit me with the classic, "It’s not real, so it’s different!" And like... sure, I can kind of track the logic—if it’s just the occasional guilty pleasure, like a Twilight-era he snuck into my room to watch me sleep kind of thing, fine. But let’s be real: these books depict literal crimes, and people are actively bragging about getting off to them. That’s not normal.

If I turned around and said, "Oh, this drawing of a 5-year-old in explicit art is fine because she’s just an anime character," people would rightfully lose their minds. Because that’s f*ed up. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not—it’s still messed up. But because dark romance is popular, profitable, and in words instead of visuals, people defend it and call me crazy for saying minors shouldn’t be touching this stuff.

Like, first of all—it’s literally illegal to distribute explicit material to minors. I don’t care if teenagers are already having sex; that’s not the point. There’s a difference between doing something and consuming harmful, exaggerated depictions of it for pleasure. And don’t even get me started on the "his d** was bigger than her forearm"* nonsense—like, that’s not normal, it’s not healthy, and in most cases, it’s not even physically possible. That kind of unrealistic portrayal screws up expectations about sex and romance.

Oh, and one more thing—can we talk about how the cutesy art on some of these smut books is misleading as hell? Yes, parents should research what they buy for their kids, but when a book has pastel, soft aesthetics and gets mixed in with general romance in bookstores (looking at you, BAM), parents are unknowingly buying straight-up smut for their kids. Even if it’s not dark romance, there needs to be clear labeling. A tiny "18+" sticker isn’t enough—put it on the back, put it in bold, something. I shouldn’t have to flip through the first ten pages to figure out if a book is safe to read.

This Is NOT About Purity Culture

Before anyone comes at me—no, this has nothing to do with purity culture, or anti-sex rhetoric, or anti-masturbation, or any of that. I’m not some 30-year-old suburban mom telling my kids the stork brings babies. This isn’t about hating sex; it’s about how we, as a society, are actively normalizing and enforcing deeply harmful ideals under the guise of "it’s just fiction."

Even if you walk into dark romance knowing it’s fictional, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s wildly popular, actively pushed, and people will pressure you to read it. I’ve even had people hide the fact that the books they were giving me were dark romance. Now, does that mean every dark romance reader does that? No. But it’s happened to me enough times to raise a red flag.

The human psyche is fragile. And it’s insane to me that we, as a society, are just collectively desensitizing ourselves to some deeply traumatic content. Generations today are already dealing with so much trauma, and instead of breaking that cycle, we’re just adding more to it by constantly consuming and glorifying content that romanticizes harm. That’s not healthy.

And before someone tries to twist my words—I am not talking about people who use dark romance as a coping mechanism for past trauma. If that’s how you work through things, that’s your business. I don’t relate to it as a survivor, but I’m not here to judge how people heal.

I am talking about straight-laced readers who don’t have trauma tied to this but still actively enjoy dark romance because they’ve desensitized themselves so much. The people who started with soft, fade-to-black romances, then needed a little more spice, then needed explicit scenes, then straight-up p***, and now they’re reading about graphic abuse and calling it hot. That’s what I have a problem with.

So if you’re reading this and dark romance is your coping mechanism, this isn’t aimed at you. You’re not my target audience. But if you’re one of those people who mindlessly consumes and glorifies it just because it’s trendy, I am side-eyeing you hard.

[overwhelmedfernfrond]

Wroting prompt: hibiscus tea

I had so much fun writing this. Here we go!!

-

“Nora, I’m really sorry about this.”

“Isi…”

“No, stop laughing at me,” Isi choked out. “I’m being so serious right now.”

Nora grinned at her, near-black eyes sparkling. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“You so are.”

“Okay, fine, I’m laughing at you. What are you apologizing for? It’s not your fault you’re wracked with nausea. Positively riddled. Weird.”

Isi flinched. It kind of was her fault, but Nora didn’t need to know about that. Yet. Maybe ever.

She held the mug of rosehip-coloured tea Nora had brought her in both hands, grateful for its warmth. She took a sip and made a face. Nora’s eyes traced her expression brightly.

“Good, right? It’s hibiscus.”

Doing her best to look appreciative, Isi took another few sips of tea. She felt the heat of it snake its way down her throat, and felt a slight lurch in her chest as she swallowed.

“Bitter,” she laughed.

“Right, like cranberries.” Nora was holding Isi’s hand now as it trembled slightly. They had held hands many times before, casually, cried on each others’ shoulders, hugged and danced together vivaciously like two winds. Still, Isi blushed, shifting to sit cross-legged and setting the mug of tea down in the middle of her lap.

They were sitting together on a cool cement stoop, surrounded by warming spring air and the twit of cheerful birdsong. It was still morning, dappled sunlight shining down on them through the trees’ canopy. Inside the apartment building, their friends were still in the midst of a heated game of Scrabble, but Isi had needed some air. Nora had insisted on coming down with her, citing something about ‘not letting you pass out and fall down the stairs, you dolt’.

Nora’s eyes were still on Isi’s, black as a doe’s, so focused, yet gentle and caring. Isi, in her compactness, wished she could embody the open radiance that Nora seemed to so easily possess.

Isi wondered if Nora was going to kiss her. Nora leaned in close. Their eyes locked, sparkling with mischief.

Then, Nora ducked forward, tapped her forehead against Isi’s, and, as they both giggled, threw her head back and her hands in the air. They suddenly heard the raucous sounds of their friends, now on the apartment balcony four floors above them, booing and whooping and laughing.

“Just kiss already!” One of their friends crowed from above.

Isi rolled her eyes conspiratorially at Nora, and the two held hands and made their way up the stairs and back to their friends.

The hibiscus tea remained, lone on the concrete stoop, left behind and steadily cooling. The two would have to come back to retrieve it.

-

Thanks for reading!! And TYSM for the ask! I hope you enjoyed reading :D

Gotta go study now 😭😭

Any thoughts? :)

✨🫖🌺☀️🍃

[jaybessafespace]

“Oh to be loved is to feel alive”

-lonely people

“I do not fear death for my ego died long ago”

-Jay

[ak-harper-loves-fiction]

"But it doesn’t stop me from feeling like no matter what I do, I have no one. I can’t tell anyone anything. They’ll leave me one day, right? Everyone always does."

-A.K. Harper

[hauntedraggedyanne]

Underused weapons in fiction

(I am not an expert in case you couldn’t tell)

1️⃣ Baton:

These work for pretty much any genre. For realistic fiction they’re just normal bats, but it’ll still hurt a LOT. In fantasy, you can give them some kind of magical property (ex: whatever it hits turns to ice). If you can’t think of anything, just put something sharp on it like nails. Nobody’s walking that off.

2️⃣ lasso:

This might be more of a fantasy thing, but if you can make it work in realistic fiction, great job! If you make one that grows and retracts, its use would be immeasurable for your characters. Think of how easy it would be to just throw the lasso up to the top of a building and boom!💥They get away.

3️⃣ Halberd

Some might say that it’s just a cooler looking spear. They���d be pretty right. BUT if you want a character to get into an argument with someone over the differences between a Halberd and a spear, you get a free scene!

[meimeiherokitten]

I really want to write a dramedy story about an older genderfluid person and a younger genderfluid person going thru their coming of age self-discovery story at the same time and having very similar yet very different experiences. They both have bad attitudes and trauma and drama and hate each other and have nothing in common but this ONE thing and it's a big thing so they go thru it together because community is important. I just don't know how to write such a thing and make it readable because I write fantasy and haven't written anything like this before.

I would also want to write it into a movie and be in it and I know exactly who I would want to cast as the younger gfp. But thats neither here nor there because I don't know how to write realistic fiction!!!

It would be called Drink Me Up because yeah.

Omfg just whack me in the face, muse Thalia.

[pluralprompts]

Prompt #1,562

When System A moves into a new house and finds a dusty, old book in their attic, they're not surprised to find it belongs to a previous owner of the house from many decades ago. But finding recorded conversations between headmates, speculations on why no one else seems to have "[...] as many souls as I do.", and journal entries about the owner's system? Well, that was certainly a surprise!

[odysseywritings]

What Do I Have To Lose?

@flashfictionfridayofficial

I know it will never happen. I've been exhausted by life, wondering what to look forward to as my choices dwindle, as my brain gets frayed by cruelty and clutter.

But when I talk to her, my heart warms and my head cools. She has grown more compassionate and thoughtful compared to my first meetings with her. She's always been beautiful but now I understand what it means to have weakness for her.

But I stop myself from the most intense daydreams. The ones that run rivers into the future and wild instinct. We are worlds apart in the end. Even if we can connect, how can she see me as anything romantic or sexual, knowing how I look compared to her or my station in life?

I try to move on to the reality I know and expect to avoid the heartache. Yet she's in my mind when I'd just be a ghost incapable of touch and connection. The more we're away the stronger the desire stirs in my brain kicking and screaming to break free.

Something clicked in my brain, unshackling my restraint, and I met her again if we could spend time together for a meal. She smiled gently and said she was busy and had something to do for several days. My heart dropped and I felt foolish exposing myself.

She paused and said there may be another time to talk, however, especially about a game we both happened to love. It was small but just knowing what she wanted even a bit about us was a weight off my neck. The relief made me think and breathe in order to live more normally.