#i just think creative writing is neat

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[quatregats]

I'm rereading Master and Commander and I'm deeply in danger of just posting every single passage from it ever but I did love the way that the capture of the prize in Chapter 6 was framed on either side by the logbook's entry, and also the way he transitions out of it to set the scene and tone:

Sunday, July 1 … Mustered the ship’s company by divisions read the Articles of War performed Divine Service and committed the body of Henry Gouges to the deep. At noon dº weather. Ditto weather: but the sun sank towards a livid, purple, tumescent cloud-bank piled deep on the western horizon, and it was clear to every seaman aboard that it was not going to remain ditto much longer. The seamen, sprawling abroad on the fo’c’sle and combing out their long hair or plaiting it up again for one another, kindly explained to the landmen that this long swell from the south and east, this strange sticky heat that came both from the sky and the glassy surface of the heaving sea, and this horribly threatening appearance of the sun, meant that there was to be a coming dissolution of all natural bonds, an apocalyptic upheaval, a right dirty night ahead. The sailormen had plenty of time to depress their hearers, already low in their spirits because of the unnatural death of Henry Gouges (had said, ‘Ha, ha, mates, I am fifty years old this day. Oh dear,’ and had died sitting there, still holding his untasted grog) – they had plenty of time, for this was Sunday afternoon, when in the course of nature the fo’c’sle was covered with sailors at their ease, their pigtails undone. Some of the more gifted had queues they could tuck into their belts; and now that these ornaments were loosened and combed out, lank when still wet, or bushy when dry and as yet ungreased, they gave their owners a strangely awful and foreboding look, like oracles; which added to the landmen’s uneasiness.

[...]

Jack leant back against the curved run of the stern-window and let Killick’s version of coffee down by gulps into his grateful stomach; and at the same time that its warmth spread through him, so there ran a lively tide of settled, pure, unfevered happiness – a happiness that another commander (remembering his own first prize) might have discerned from the log-entry, although it was not specifically mentioned there: 1/2 past 10 tacked, 11 in courses, reefed topsail. AM cloudy and rain. 1/2 past 4 chase observed E by S, distance 1/2 mile. Bore up and took possession of dº, which proved to be L’Aimable Louise, French polacre laden with corn and general merchandise for Cette, of about 200 tons, 6 guns and 19 men. Sent her with an officer and eight men to Mahon.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I know this isn't part of the prompts thing technically, but I was wondering about your opinion on this:

Ordonian Folktales: The Tale of the Stáblad & the Twisted Capaill

It's just a folktale I thought up to try & flesh out the culture of Ordon a bit is all.

I'd really like to see something on Twilight telling the story to the other Links, but again I understand if you don't. Perhaps with Twilight as the blorbo & horseshoes as the item if you're willing to stretch the prompt a bit?

If all I can get is your opinion/critique on it or even just a polite, "sorry, not doing it." Then, I'm more than okay with that.

So, yeah. If you're not feeling up for it, that's fine.

Twilight watched Warriors take an all too eager swig from his flask. He ignored it once, twice, thrice as he scraped some caked in mud out of his Epona's horseshoes. Then he noted, "You know, there's a tale in Ordon about a stable boy who liked to drink too much."

Warriors glanced at him in profile, eyes simultaneously teasing and curious. "Oh? Are you going to impart some country wisdom on me?"

Sky burst out laughing, his cheeks far too flushed. "But you two only got Courage from the Triforce!"

Twilight gingerly reached over and plucked the bottle out of Sky's hands. "That's definitely enough for you."

Time sipped his own flask slowly. "Go on, rancher."

Watching Warriors in particular, Twilight explained, "A stable boy used to steal moonshine from his boss. Never owned up to it, always enjoying getting drunk and having fun. One day he had to hide the stash from his boss, and he panicked, dunking it into the water trough. The boss' prized horse drank it and started to dance."

"Dancing horses is fun!" Wind piped in.

"Yeah, but she fell and broke her legs. They had to put her down to end her suffering." Twilight continued.

Wild's head shot up. "I don't like this story."

Warriors sighed. "Yes, yes, slovenly drunkenness is bad. We all can see the lesson here."

"The stable boy didn't own up to it, though," Twilight continued. "So the horse god punished him by turning him into a horse."

Sky hummed, eyes wide with wonder. "I want to turn into a loftwing."

Twilight laughed, reaching over and pulling the younger hero to him in a side hug. "You're a mess."

"Stuck as a horse forever, huh," Legend yawned, laying on his back and stargazing. "Kind of a nice amount of freedom to that."

"Oh, no, it doesn't end there," Twilight continued. "The next stable boy had the same vice and made the same mistake. When the first boy drank out of the trough, he danced and broke his legs as well. But he confessed his crimes before they could put him down, and for that he was transformed back."

Warriors finished off his drink, leaning against a rock. "Well. For starters. I wouldn't steal alcohol. I can just buy it."

Hyrule barked out a laugh. Twilight rolled his eyes.

[liminal-disaster]

The City at the Edge of Dreaming

It's a nice place to live. It exists on the boundary between. Not between realities, or between realms. Or, heavens forbid, universes. Just… between. Between all things and none. Between waking and dreaming. Between dreams and the ephemeral otherland that lies beyond them, ungraspable to human touch.

It defies description, but for my mortal readers, I will do my best. The ground, as much as there can be such a thing in a place like this, is green. White swirls decorate it, and it's as smooth and cool as marble.

The buildings are bluer, dark blue. They are hard to describe, because they don't follow the mortal laws of physics in their design. They are bigger or smaller than they seem (or both) and through each passing moment, their size can change. The light from within their windows, however, is always a warm, inviting yellow.

The sky is blue-ish too, sort of, near the horizon. It soon tapers off into the blackness of the void. The void surrounds this place in totality, it is a beacon of light amidst absolute and total nothingness. It cannot be entered or exited by normal means (those being that of the physical realm). You will never reach this place by foot, by car, by train, or even by plane (but you might catch a glimpse of it from the deck of a ship).

There are no stars. At least, there aren't meant to be. Sometimes the void doesn't listen to what it's supposed to be, though, and stars shine through. They are not stars that you would recognize.

The void is empty, most of the time. The city appears so too, at first. But though its streets may be cold and its buildings impossible, if you stay long enough, you will start to notice that it teems with life.

Nothing your average human would recognize. Nothing that could be codified or quantified. But life, nonetheless. Or even just existence. Not death or undeath, no, they have a different place.

The City is aptly named. Dreams and dreamers flit through like so many minnows. Other things, too, things that can't always be perceived by mortal eyes (but sometimes can). They don't usually have names, because the souls who meet them think they are alone. Sometimes they are Named, anyway. Some have many Names. Do I digress? No, I don't think so. A city is nothing without its citizens, after all.

It's not a city in the usual sense. At least, it wasn't. It wasn't supposed to have dedicated schools, or malls, or hospitals. But they found their way there, anyway. So, too, did the more permanent residents. I won't get into them. Their stories are a bit too complicated for a meandering tale such as this. It would take far too long.

This place isn't physical. Physical Things should not be there. It should not be possible. But the City has never confined itself to what it Should be. And, if you live there long enough, neither will you.

But that's a story for another time.

[oldxenomorph]

before i return to rogue trader, i have to let the slaanesh and great family brainworms out. so they can mingle with the rest of the worms i've accumulated.

slaanesh is nyarlathotep and yhoundeh's consort. (we'll get into that later)

i know slaanesh can look however they want and i know there's been no official updated portrait of them, but i've been thinking of about this fanart every since i saw it, as it's probably the closest to way i envision them in my head.

i've been microwaving this specific idea that lilith is the child of all three of them, the perfect combination of all three in power and physical characteristics.

(there is something about having a being made from you, an offspring, a child, a daughter. nothing is more beautiful than a daughter. slaanesh nursed lilith alongside yhoundeh. she was raised in both the red pyramid and the palace of pleasure. slaanesh taught her and gifted her everything within them, shaping her alongside chaos and flesh. even if they think lilith is a too Serious, they love her nonetheless, as a parent would their child.)

when the reaper emperor was born and this universe was new, slaanesh joined the rest of the great family in welcoming her. this new and final sibling of azathoth and shai-hulud. the universe, the world, the family complete as it should be: chaos, eternity, and extinction.

unto the little reaper emperor, slaanesh fed her the old worm's water of life from its glass vessel, watching as her mouth turned blue from the nutrient dense material. they gifted her an everlasting and perfect love (nyx), undying and perfect instruments of power (the reapers), and beauty beyond compare (her two forms). and then slaanesh said to her as they gently caressed her pale cheeks, "we are the youngest of our families. i will look out for you, o precious extinction."

(the great family really takes no interest in the other ruinous powers, finding them to be boring. maybe tzeentch is the only other one that nyarlathotep finds useful, but slaanesh is the one the family likes and wants. when the end of comes for that universe, slaanesh and their legions will have already comfortably with the great family.)

the palace of pleasure is connected to the oceanview motel. the symbol on its door is the mark of slaanesh.

slaanesh adores the xenomorphs, loves them and allows them into the palace so they can be they their side. they think the reaper emperor's daughters are the embodiment of perfection and beauty and power.

the reaper emperor gifted slaanesh a clutch of ovomorphs, a sign of her love for her relative. xenomorphs born in slaanesh's realm have a slight magenta coloration. the birth of a new xenomorph is always a source of great joy and slaanesh always presents them to the reaper emperor to connect with her and be named before returning with them back to the palace.

(i've been obsessed with this fanart of slaanesh and now i just imagine their chambers/sanctum as this hot fuchsia-magenta slaaneshi botticelli-esque opulence complete with an eldritch scallop bed. the xenomorphs like to sleep on the bed, its very comfortable.)

(also, slaanesh always keeping a couple of the xenomorphs close by so they can admire them and hold them.)

i'd like to think that slaanesh holds nyx in especially high regard not just as the goddess wife of the reaper emperor, the eternal beloved of extinction, but primarily as the night incarnate. for it is during the night when slaanesh's influence thrives. followers of slaanesh extend their prayers also to the night herself.

nyx will bring a couple of celestial xenomorphs with her whenever she visits the palace of pleasure. keepers of secrets escort her, ask her to veil herself and her daughters, for slaanesh demands that none may look upon the night incarnate and her daughters until they do.

(i think the reason why the great family so readily accepts and protects slaanesh is because they recognize the power in slaanesh's influence and how it affects all things. where the other ruinous powers either mistrust or are hostile to slaanesh, the great family has already welcomed the prince of pleasure into their ranks.)

🌶️🌶️🌶️ under the cut.

nyarlathotep has taken countless of lovers and has sired countless of children with them, but none compare to yhoundeh and slaanesh. he hoards them, claims them, has made them his wife and his consort. flesh and pleasure in the arms and tentacles of the crawling chaos.

nothing satisfies slaanesh more than having both nyarlathotep and yhoundeh at the same time. such intense sessions can last for nights upon nights, each of them taking on more extreme forms as they are each consumed by ecstasy. slaanesh fully satisfied when they have given the two great entities their perfect, toxic hot fuchsia material. slaanesh is fully satisfied when they feel the pitch black material of the great family deep within them, in their core, in their veins.

as much as slaanesh enjoys having them both, they also enjoy having them separately all to themself. nyarlathotep drenching his consort in dark adorations as he completely succumbs to pleasures and sensations that only the dark prince can provide. yhoundeh being tended to, melting away all her thoughts until she only thinks about slaanesh, until she only wants them, until she has them in all their forms. (especially lately. something about waking up an avatar and growing a herald of flesh? sounds like a lot.)

nyx has been amassing quite a collection of special accessories and dresses that she desires to see the reaper emperor in. so it's only logical that she ask slaanesh if they can contribute to this pursuit. slaanesh does not need to be asked twice, they support nyx's endeavor enthusiastically.

after a while, slaanesh presents nyx a full set of eldritch collars, tight dresses, restraints, and instruments just for nyx to dress the reaper emperor in. they also present matching jewelry sets for both nyx and the reaper emperor.

slaanesh knows nyx's desires, knows that she wants thousands more daughters from her wife, knows how deep her love is and that she enjoys how submissive the reaper emperor is in her hands. night and extinction exploring new sensations and achieving ultimate forms of pleasure honors and sustains the dark prince.

[bluebelliedrolling]

it’s been really fascinating diving into the hermitcraft obsession (again), but more than that diving into the fandom aspect of it — by which I mean the grian watcher lore

It’s incredible that a lot of the lore seems to be fanmade, like, this is usually how I learn about new fandoms, but knowing that a lot of the interpretation is fanon makes it cooler somehow. If I could try to summarise it all from a player’s perspective:

Do you know about the Watchers? No? Oh, surely you’ve heard of them. Maybe not by that name, but you must know a version of them.

Of course there are different versions! Some stories say the Watchers bring gifts to us, some say they’re tricksters, and some people think they’ve stopped interacting with the world entirely.

Name one Watcher? That’s not nearly as hard as you make it sound. Let’s see…

Have you heard of Xelqua? Woah, careful there! I need that glass!

So you do know the Watchers! Xelqua’s story? Well, I heard it’s about a deserter. Xelqua is a Watcher who decided to leave them. Or so I think. I’ve heard others say that the Watchers tossed him out, but based on what Xelqua is known for, I’m inclined to believe the former.

You really don’t know a thing about these stories, do you? Xelqua is the Watcher prayed to by the lost, wanderers and… well, and hermits. You could probably ask Xisuma more about it all, really. I know he favours Xelqua, not sure about the others.

Me? I mean, I’m not sure about the Watchers at all. Xelqua seems alright, to me. I don’t know how I feel about the extra eyes and the divine powers, but if Xisuma thinks Xelqua’s good enough to pray to, that has to count for something.

Don’t you think so, Grian?

[honey-writes]

Comparing the writing I’ve made in the last few weeks to the things I made a year ago is so crazy cause the difference is so palpable. It’s so fascinating watching my style evolve in real time and it feels so rewarding to look back at old works and think: “I could do that better now.” The stark contrast from the writings I make now in comparison to the writings I made last year is such a great reminder of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve learned, how I’ve evolved into a writer I like so much better now (:

If you compare the things you’ve written recently to the things you’ve written a few months or even a few years ago, you’ll probably see a difference. And that’s cool as hell! We’re changing and learning and growing alongside our art! How wonderful! Be proud of yourself!

[wreckedhoney]

it might be the hormones talking but i am like in some throes of discouragement

[tankshaw]

unedited sneak peak of the secretly physically affectionate darlin fic im writing

“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” David grumbled. He sounded less upset than he typically did when he was scolding them and more concerned. Darlin shrugged, “It wasn’t really important, ya know. Didn’t wanna make a big deal out of nothing.”

David rolled his eyes, closing the distance between them with purpose. His hand reached up to rest at the back of their neck, drawing their head closer to bump his forehead to theirs. His hand tightened, protecting their ever vulnerable spine. It was something Darlin had always seen the other pack members do, but never allowed themselves to partake in.

Something in their instincts melted and a gentle haze settled in their mind. “Oh,” the said breathlessly.

David scoffed with a fond smile. “Yeah, ‘oh.’ We wanted to respect your boundaries. Or what we thought were your boundaries. But this kind of stuff is important for shifters, more than other humans. You should know that.”

“I guess I just didn’t know how to ask and it’s not like my relationship with the back at the time was the best,” they replied. 

Their own hand carefully drifted up to David’s own neck, waiting for any sign that it was unwanted. The moment their hand covered the weak point, both of the shifters let out a breath. 

“Well now you do and now you know that we’ll answer when you call,” David said gently. “We’re your pack. Anything you need or want, you can ask us for. Now come here.”

And with that, he drew them into a tight, warm hug.

[cloudyswritings]

Do you think crabs dream? I’ve come to the conclusion that they do. Their dreams are a window to the future as seen through crystal and roiling waves, and they fortell one form that eclipses all others. The future is not the domain of man, or those whose forms we’ve twisted to our own ends. No, instead of the soft peal of chorale music, the energetic yips and yaps of dogs, or the soft churning rumble of cats, the future belongs to the sharp staccato of crab claws. You see, crabs dream, and they dream of domination.

[gaydryad]

accidentally getting a little too into my pedagogy class and starting to wonder if I should pivot and go into education (academic field)

[sithbelle]

Ok my fellow writers, who's also an analytics nerd? One of the things that kept me motivated while writing my book was seeing all the little numbers continually going up. It also helps me to see where I was mentally during the time I was writing each chapter (not shown are the little explanations for the larger gaps in time off to the right of this screen). I also have 5 different spreadsheets with a billion tabs each tracking all the different worldbuilding aspects of the story. Does anyone else do this? If so, what kind of tools do you use? If you just rawdog the story without notes, you are an absolute superhuman in my eyes!

[quatregats]

Went back and reread some of Master and Commander again and goddamn is that book rich with detail...truly I did not know how to appreciate it on the first (or second) read-through...

[eternally-tired-cryptid]

You don't magically become a good writer. No one starts as an objectively good writer. Sure some people may have a natural talent for bits and pieces of it, but even they work to hone their craft and study masters and develop the skills to tell their unique stories in the way only they can.

Guess how you build these skills? You write. You write things that are too ambitious for your current skills. You write things that are simple and fun. You write a story you want to read. You write a story you want to tell. And then the more you write the more you'll learn about how to write, and you'll be able to look back at your own work and figure out what you did effectively and what you didnt do effectively.

Then as you get more into writing and reading and reading your own writing you build on that. You build on that and you find your tone and your humor and your story.

If you're looking to develop a specific skill (often the ones I see are dialogue, character personality, overall plot, or the backstory/worldbuilding), look to media you enjoy that does that well. Does your favorite show have natural dialogue? Copy it down yourself, study the way the characters talk, why do they talk that way? Does you favorite book have wonderful worldbuilding without just info dumping all at once (or if it does, how does the author make it interesting and appealing to the reader)? How do they do that? How can you work this into your own story?

The world is so full of examples, and the beauty of writing is you can learn from whichever ones you want. It's your writing, you can add and throw out whatever you want.

[makosinnergy]

A ONE-SIDED CONVERSATION ABOUT THE PIT IN OUR LIVES

If you go down the alley, past the goat, you’ll find it. That thing you’re looking for.

…What? You didn’t ask me anything? Don’t play dumb. There’s only one reason anyone comes around here. Nowadays, I mean.

Did you think we wanted that thing here? Maybe someone did, but we sure didn’t. Just like you, we didn’t ask for anything. It just came to us.

“For us”? Fuck off. You think anyone wants this place? The only people who give a damn about us are the taxman and idiots like you.

You can expect nothing. There’s nothing here. Like I tell each one of you, the Pit isn’t an answer to anything. Drop all the dolls you want down there, they’ll never hit the bottom. She ain’t coming back.

…Like I said. I’m not an idiot.

You look tired, mate. Why not rest here a while? Go see it tomorrow. It isn’t going anywhere, but this beer is – to my stomach, hah.

Good head you’ve got there. Here, lemme get you a glass.

Alright. Now tell me – how’d it happen?

Yeah, that sounds about right. You get a lot of stories like that ‘round here.

…I was there when it opened, y’know. The Pit.

It was just another day. I was cooking when I heard it, actually. Or—felt it, more like. This sudden sense of wrong, like I wasn’t in my home anymore. Like—the paint was the same, the floor was the same, but it wasn’t. As if someone had moved my entire house a centimetre to the left.

And then I—I heard it. This awful wail, a high-pitched thing, like a fucking kettle. That’s what I thought – “did I turn the kettle on?” Fucking idiot.

It was the neighbour’s kid. Richard Jr., Little Dick. Hey, don’t laugh, it’s a perfectly respectable name. Why, Old Molly has been eating Senior Dick’s products for generations!

…Ahhh… yeah, Richard Sr. was a funny bloke. He was always actin’ serious, but he never meant it. Most important man in the room, he was, just ‘cause he acted like it. Y’know the type—stone-faced motherfuckers who act like they’re in, I dunno—

Yeah, investment banking, shit like that. Like he’s got some pedigree. But he’s just workin’ the counter at a chain bookstore.

It’s not oddly specific, it’s where he worked! What, you think franchise chains don’t wanna risk comin’ down here? You kiddin’? Places like this are where their money’s at. Snap up an old property, make it up like new ‘nd all minimalist ‘nd shit, hire some sixteen-year-old to man the counter and an immigrant to man the shelves, sell shit for cheap and pay ‘em cheaper. Coles killed your mum-and-pop, customer satisfaction guaranteed.

Oi, I’m not a communist, I’m a realist. Besides, what’s someone your age doing throwin’ terms like that around? Did your grandpa get Facebook or somethin’?

…Yeah, all right, fine. I guarantee, though, you’re gonna wish we were talkin’ ‘bout politics by the time we’re through. Fuck, I need another drink. Want a refill?

Hooookay, so, Richie Jr. is howlin’ outside, I’m staring into a pot of Bolognese sauce. Then I heard somethin’ like thunder coming from the ground, this awful clap-bang, like… fuck, like nothing I’d heard before.

So then I realise something is wrong, but I don’t panic. I don’t know why. Everyone else was the same, though – like our bodies knew there was nothing to worry about. I didn’t know that then, though, ‘cause I was alone in the house. So I was stumbling to the front door, taking big steps, trying to panic. Like if I was panicking, it’d make everything…

Yeah. That’s it. I wanted to be validated. I wanted—I wanted there to be no danger, but I knew there was, even if my body didn’t. If I were scared, it meant… it meant I wanted to survive this. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t scared.

Mm. So I go to the front door and open it—we never locked it back then, ‘cause we trusted everyone. We treated thy neighbour like fuckin’ family.

…So I go outside, and it’s dark. I can’t see shit. Which was weird, ‘cause it was lunchtime. I walked onto the street and felt the dirt become gravel become road beneath my feet. The air was wet, but it was a cold wet, like it was storming. That chill cut right through to your fucking bones.

Then I realise I can’t hear the screaming anymore—the wailing was in my ears, ringing out from behind me. Like my shadow was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand what it was saying.

And the moment I realised that, I opened my eyes. That’s right – I’d had ‘em closed the whole time. ‘Cause I wasn’t scared, but I still didn’t wanna look. Just stared at the back of my eyelids like a kid hiding from a monster.

That right? Well, I’ve never been the squeamish type, but I can understand that. I don’t think anybody likes looking at people’s guts – doctors are the exception, it’s why they get paid so fuckin’ much. They get their hands dirty so we can close our eyes and pretend we don’t see monsters.

Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I get political when I get tipsy.

So, yeah, I’m out there, on the street, ears ringing, feelin’ the vibrations of this Thing through my feet. Like the foundation of my whole world was shifting, and I had no say in it.

Yeah, sure, call it a fuckin’ earthquake. My story, my descriptions, smartass. Besides, nothin’ was actually moving. It’s why all those scientists were confused – nothing had happened, but everything changed anyway.

When I open my eyes, I see my street. Quaint place, got some trees, lots of weeds, road lines all chipped and faded, you’ve seen a fuckin’ town before. Except across the street from me, there was nothing. Just a big black void of Empty.

And I see Little Dick also standing on the road, closer to it than me. And we both look at each other, but his eyes were closed. All scrunched up, even as he bawled his eyes out.

And I want to open my mouth and say something, tell him to open his eyes, that I’m here, that doesn’t have to be scared. He was just a kid, barely thirteen. I should have said something. But I didn’t. It was like my tongue was a gag, and all I could do was choke on it.

So we both walk closer to the hole, him a couple steps in front of me. I should be looking at this Thing, this anomaly in my boring-ass life, but all I can do is look at Richie. He was so unlike his father, y’know, ‘cause had his heart on his sleeve and hated fuckin’ jokes. Where Senior liked playing with words, lettin’ you know was human by havin’ a good laugh, Junior wasn’t like that. He was a fun kid, sure, but he wanted things done straight. He cried all the time and never stayed at the house—probably why he was there that day. He’d play in my yard and I’d give him Band-Aids when he skinned his knees.

I suspected. But I never knew for sure. Abuse isn’t exactly a light thing, y’know? Didn’t wanna make too much of a fuss.

When we crossed that street together, me at his back, all I wanted to do was kick up a fuss. But I still didn’t. I’ll regret it until I rot, and then some.

‘Cause, y’see, the Pit started big and got bigger. It’s been eating away at this community for years. But that day, when it started, it wasn’t—it was Empty, but not in a dark way. Like a fucking pit. Instead, it was like… What’s the thing? All those colours and shapes, and they’re all swirly?

Kaleidoscope, yeah, that’s it. It was like if you gave a kaleidoscope LSD and then erased it from existence. It was so dark, it burned to look at, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t hear my own heartbeat over the growling down below. Its presence—it vibrated through you. Until you forgot what it was like to be you, to have a world before the Pit. That’s the kind of thing it was like.

And Junior reaches the edge, the barrier between our reality and its dominion, and he screams something, but I can’t hear it over my own wailing shadow, useless warnin’ that it was. “Something is wrong!” Yeah, so shit. I was watching the Heavens fall from the sky and burn their way to Hell. Nothing was okay.

…He’s there, on the edge, when I hear something. Turn around and there, ‘cross the street, there’s Richard Sr. He’s squinting like he’s in the middle of a storm, but the sky was clear. The fucking firmament cracked open and sent the part of the Universe that never got made down to us, dripping through our homes like—fuck, I don’t know. I still don’t.

But Richard Sr. yells his son’s name, tells him to come back, that he’s not safe where he is. And I don’t know how I heard him crying, but not the kid, but I did. And suddenly, I realised that everything was wrong, and I was terrified and I could hear the world crashing down around me—

‘Cause I’d taken my eyes off the kid. So I look back, I look for him, and—maybe the shouting startled. Maybe he didn’t wanna see his dad. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he meant to.

But turned around and watched him jump. I was so close to him – even if I barely knew the kid – but I couldn’t do anything.

The Pit swallows him up, leaving nothing but his drying teardrops on the cracked earth. And then it took those, too, ‘cause it grew right before my eyes, leaving a gaping hole where his memory was. And I was scared.

Senior grabbed my arm and pulled me away, back to the safety of my house. We just sat there and listened to the silence it left behind. Richie couldn’t laugh anymore, couldn’t cry anymore, couldn’t hurt anymore, couldn’t help anymore. He was gone, and as we looked at that Pit through my window, I watched its colours fade and die. Like the burning sun had washed ‘em all away.

Oh, Richard cared, o’ course. But he didn’t say anything. When the ground finally settled, and we were left in this Junior-less world, he just—left. Didn’t say anything to me. There was just me, my burned pasta, and a Pit where the kids played.

It’s been years since then. And I know what people say—that if you throw your memories down there, they’ll come back. The dead.

But it’s all horseshit. You just throw their memory away, let it be eaten by a thing that doesn’t give a damn about what you’ve had to lose.

If it worked, then all the people who’ve thrown themselves in would’ve—I don’t fuckin’ know, found nirvana.

But instead, we’re getting more and more Pits all over the world. And they’re all getting’ bigger and bigger. Eating more and more lives.

Maybe it’ll be safe to look into ‘em, when they finally put the rails in. But as for me? Well, I just think—

I lost to Richie to that Pit that day. But I’d never found the words I’d been missing. Don’t make me lose you, too.

…It’s on the house. Get home safe, y’hear?