#journal prompt are stifling

[remembertheplunge]

"Greenlights: Your Journal. Your Journey" a review

2/27/2024

I bought a copy of Matthew McConaughey’s book on journaling last Saturday. It’s called “Greenlights” Your Journal, Your Journey”. The book consists of a number of pages that are largely blank but that contain a writing prompt. Although Mr. McConaughey begins with an explanation with how reviewing his journals in preparation to write a book from them was inspiring, the book results in a resounding thud.  Mr. McConaughey begins by saying that he has been keeping journals for 37 years.  He states in the book’s introduction that the value of journaling is that we get to know ourselves. “When we put pen to paper and share our feelings, thoughts, and opinions with the page, we begin to understand ourselves more clearly, and then begin to customize our lives around who we truly are."

Writing prompts are stifling. That’s what I meant by “thud” above. The true writing prompts are the burns in the day. The insults. The fury over embarrassment . The outrage that has no voice in the avenues of the day, but that must be expressed. I save them to the end of the day. Just before bed. I can hardly wait some nights to let them out onto the page.

So, what I do is open to a blank page in the note book—journal��I date it, and I might start out with some of the details of the day. This can be even writing about the howl of a distant train whistle as I begin writing. And, then I’’ll dive into what was burning from the day. I’ll use the energy from the event to fuel and inform my writing. The writing itself then becomes cathartic. Healing. But, it also leaves a record of the day. A foot print. 

If you do use a writing prompt, trying writing it in the center of a large piece of butcher paper. Draw a circle around the prompt and quickly, draw lines like spokes from a wheel coming out from the circled prompt. As you draw each line, at its end write whatever comes to your head that the prompt invoked. In this way, you can escape the editor in your head and get down a true expression of where you are at with the prompt.

Then , take these prompt insights and weave them into a journal entry.

[sun-snatcher]

could you write "i know i'm a monster, but you treat me like a man." from your prompts with shay cormac/f! reader? I discovered your profile recently and been loving your writing🫶🏻

( all credits to @bankaizen for this delicious gifset! )

✠ | of monsters & men ; shay cormac

summ. Your secret is revealed. The Captain of the Morrigan doesn't seem to mind. w.count. 2k. a/n.  f!reader , but reader is pretending to be a man , james kidd who? , slow-burn , mutual pining , friends-to-lovers , just reader & Shay being love-struck idiots . (I also understand that traditional sloop-of-war’s much like the Morrigan wouldn’t’ve had a crow’s nest due to her size, but for the sake of the fic, allow me to wave a magic wand over canon!)

       ST. ANTHONY’S RECEIVES the Morrigan with loving arms. 

With the ship lain to, and half the crew offboard, the Northern squalls billowing downwind into the dank, creaky port does little to stifle the riots of songs livening taverns and inns. All this, yet—

“Birdie!” calls a voice, floating high somewhere by where the topsails have been furled secure. “Haven’t frozen y’toes off there, have you, lad? Be a shame if I lost the finest Navigator the seas have yet to offer.”

Sitting slouched in the crow’s nest, you let out a snort. “Aye, lost ‘em all to scurvy just yesterday, I fear,” you lament, voice timbre. "Go away!"

Shay’s delighted laugh fills the air—

And you quickly tamp down that flutter you feel in your chest before it could get too treacherous.

“Also,” you note, once he hauls himself from the mainmast and lands with a perfect perch at the nest’s guardrails, “I’m the finest Navigator the seas will ever offer you, Captain, thank you very much.”

“Aye, that y’are. Dare I say the finest Mariner there is—”

“Oh-ho?”

“—right after me, ofcourse—”

“Little Irish bastard,” you scowl, failing miserably at hiding your grin, and swatting childishly at him when he scoots to settle into a comfortable seat next to you. “So. St. Anthony’s women not t’your fancy? What’re you doing all the way up here, Captain?”

“Funny that. Was going to ask y’the same thing after I saw y'run off. An’ Christ, call me Shay. I’m beginning to forget my name after all these months sailin’.” 

“Well, I was drawing, Captain,” you deflect, easily. Better than confessing you don’t want to be stuck in a stuffy room brushing shoulders with rowdy drunkards, and feeling your own heart bleed out watching pretty ladies bat their lashes and sidle up freely next to Shay.

Your answer is hardly a lie, anyway. The only reason the crew had taken to calling you Birdie in the first place is because you bide your time up in the nest scratching away in your papers (or dozing off one too many times, as Gist so likes to point out). That, and the fact it proves easier with your slightly build to pull your weight in the lines or riggings up above.

“Rum?” he offers, and sets it by you. It feels alot like a peace offering, even if it's unintentional.

Shay’s gaze falls on your tattered, leatherbound journal. A curious trinket; he’s never seen you an arm’s length from it, nor the pencil you keep tucked on your ear. He’s seen you sketching away into its water-logged pages more oft than not, cheeks stained with graphite and a furrow between your brows. “S’that your woman, birdie?” he says, glimpsing the unfinished markings of a face. “Now I see why you're not tasting the local cuisine. She’s a beauty.”

You can't help but break into a knowing, private smile. “Aye… Something like that.”

"How mysterious."

"She's my sister," you lie, if only to chase him off your scent.

"Oh? Well, does she have a man?"

"Fuck off," you bite, though without heat. The chance compliment settles nicely in your cheeks. "She’ll only be a trouble t’you. She's not your type, anyway, Shay.“

"Isn't she?" he hums cannily, but doesn’t broach the topic further. He’d never dared to ask to look in the book— isn’t exactly his business, after all— but you shrug and trade it for his drink. “Y’sure, birdie? I don't pry.”

“Go on, then, 'fore I change my mind.” There isn’t anything damning written about you in there; You know better than to risk that.

“So?” you take a swig, just as Shay begins parsing hrough the pages. "What is it? Surely you didn't climb up here t'keep warm. Come t'bother me?"

“Is it a crime for a Captain to want to spend time alone with his good friend?” he muses, distracted by the drawings— nay, Masterpieces, these are masterpieces, birdie. Y’ve a future in this, y’know?— of intricate horizons, coasts, constellations and isles on the weathered pages. 

Shay recognises them all: Asian archipelagos and spits of the lesser Antilles or the Caribbean reefs you’ve both voyaged to, dated and signed; alongside notes of headings and longitudes penciled under stipplings of navigational celestials like the North Star, the Dipper. 

“If the Captain is you, Shay,” you answer, “Then any man with sense.”

“Oh, I mean the Morrigan, birdie,” he teases, only to earn a sharp smack at his knee. 

“Ha-ha. I reckon all your good friends are women, aye?”

“So it seems,” he agrees absent-mindedly, and you wonder if the sideways glance at you had been your imagination.

Shay turns to the still-lifes. Breaching humpback whales and dolphin pods arcing over whitecaps; a bird’s-eye-perspective of the crew on a sunny day aboard the Morrigan, and countless, bustling ports across the world you’ve visited. There are portraits of the crew too: of deckhands, gunners, or of Gist, and even a stern profile of Haytham Kenway looking portside in the distance. 

And in-between it all—

Him. Captain Shay Cormac. Immortalised in blink-and-you-miss-it moments: manning the steer while holding conversation, or perched at the bow afore the setting sun, or peering through his spyglass from the sail riggings. “I ought to commission’ you. These are bloody incredible.” He traces a finger over one of the more detailed portraits of him, looking serene despite the menacing scar splitting his face. “Y’ve done me a justice, lass.”

You choke on the rum.

“—Aye,” you cough, willfully ignoring his mistake. Or had you misheard? “Perhaps, ah, one day.”

(Regardless. He couldn’t possibly know, surely. You’ve been careful for this long.) 

You clear your throat. Shake your head. “You haven’t properly answered my question, Captain.” 

“Right,” he relents, and closed the journal before handing it back to you. “I was just curious—”

You steel yourself for the worst.

“—why’ve y’stuck around for so long?”

Oh. “You mean, aboard the Morrigan? With you?”

“Aye,” he nods, levelling your curious, critical look. “I’m sure y’ve heard rumors an’ chatter about me, birdie. Isn’t hard t’miss. Master Kenway, Gist, an’ I’s line’a work, that is. I’m here to confess it isn’t all hearsay, that what I do isn’t a pretty thing.”

“Didn’t fancy you the type t'care about what other people think, Shay.” No one needs to earwig that to know it’s true. It’s quite known that Captain Cormac is an unflappable creature who’s earned his place in the world both on and off-land, to toe the thin line between confidence and arrogance wherever he goes. Though you suppose he’s just a man, at the end of the day, if he’s this consumed over a little mud-slinging to his reputation. 

“I don’t,” he agrees, truthfully. “But I do care what you think.”

Something soft curls in your heart. Damn you, Shay Cormac, you curse. You handsome, quick-witted—

“I know it isn’t pretty. And fortunately for you, I’m no priest, and we’re not in a confessional, so,” you sniff. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

He huffs out a polite laugh. “Well said.”

“Listen,” you sigh, more serious now. “Other men may have come and gone with the tide, but I’ve voyaged with you the longest because I wanted t'stay, Captain.”

“Exactly. You’ve seen what I can do. I know I’m a monster, birdie, but y’treat me like a man, an’ noble men don’t— do what I do.”

Ah. So there’s the root to all of this banter, then. A crisis in faith, somewhere. “Shay,” you narrow. “I’ve never met someone who’s a stout heart as you; Kept every word like bond, and never traded honour for prestige. Now, most monsters are men, and it’s all the same to the likes of me—”

(To the likes of me, Shay catches the slip.)

“—but I think you need to ask yourself: do you kill without cause?”

“No,” he says, affronted. “I fight for the people.”

“Then you’re twice the noblest man any could ever dream to be.”

A beat. 

Shay drops his head back to the mast with a glittering look in his eyes you can only describe as fond. (Perhaps, if you dared to indulge, affectionate—) “You’re a bloody gem, birdie, y’know that?”

The cuff of his sleeves brush against your pinky, and you can feel the toe of his boot against your own. You try not to focus on either of it, try not to focus on the proximity. “Aye, most women call me a diamond in the rough.”

He doesn’t laugh and take the bait this time, much to your surprise. “My Da once told me, birdie: It’s not enough to give people what they need to survive, you need to give them what they need to live.”

“Aye,” you nod, after a subdued moment. “I’ve stayed because you’ve given me that, Shay: purpose. Sailing the seas on the Morrigan is the freest I’ve ever been.”

“Y’ought to sail with your true self, birdie.”

You seize. Feel your blood run ice cold. “My… truest self is by your side.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” you bristle, and you are cutting now, Shay can see, because you’re frightened. “Captain, how much have you had to drink—?”

“I’d make a poor Irishman if half a bottle’a rum is all it takes to end me. Now take it easy, lass—”

You scowl, and move to sit up. “I’m not a—”

“It isn’t a fret to me at all, birdie,” he says, firmly, the back of his hand nudging your shoulders to lean back. “At ease. I’ve known you’re a woman for ages, now.”

This time you can’t school the look on your face.

“How long’ve you known?” you swallow, after you gathered your wits.

Shay cocks his head in thought. The confirmation now only pieces together what he’d always had a sneaking suspicion of, sensed even beyond his own second sight. Your gear, your mild stature, your peculiar mannerisms; nimble-handed at the riggings, fleet-footed in every brawl. But, if he’s to put a time on it—

“Singapore. When y’knocked that Portuguese sap’s teeth right out his head an’ put the heart crossways in him after he fretted the poor barmaid. Looked right personal t’you. I gathered then.”

A pause. Careful calculation. You’re trying to piece your reality back now that it's been shattered: the moonlit hush, the whistle of the winds, the lap of the tide against the Morrigan. Finally:

“Pretty sure he was Peranakan,” you correct, uselessly. Your hackles aren’t raised anymore. Shay would’ve acknowledged the look of defeat in your eyes had he not been so captivated by hearing your voice— real voice— for the first time.

(It’s gentle. Beautiful. If he’d been any more loose-lipped he might’ve pleaded you sing for him.)

“Captain, Singapore was… a long time ago.” It’s a loaded sentence, and had he not known you well enough he might’ve missed it: Why didn't you say anything?

“Aye. Like y’said earlier,” he waves, dismissively, “Doesn’t change a damn thing. Only, what’s your real name, lass?” 

You tell him. It’s been unspoken for so long, that for a moment it sounds near foreign to your own ears when he rolls the syllables back to you in his accented tongue. “Lovely name. I’m guessin’ the woman in your journal is you, aye?”

“To be a dame in a boatful of men is a death sentence, Shay,” you laugh, distant. It isn’t pleasant. “Ill omen to have a woman onboard, you know? Or so they say.”

He knows what you really mean.

“An’ yet here we are, after all these years, alive an’ well,” he challenges, raising his and your shared rum to the pale moon. “Besides, y’know I make my own luck, lass. So don’t think of leavin’ the Morrigan now, aye? Would be a right shame if I lost a sailor fierce as you.”

Another stumble in your heart. You bite your tongue. Shay’s trying to get a laugh out of you, you realise. To lift your spirit.

“Your secret’s safe with me, birdie. The Morrigan doesn’t discriminate, an’ you’ve earned your place on this ship a long time ago. Tell y’what, if anyone lays a hand on my finest Navigator, y’have my word to unman them yourself.”

That does it. Now you do laugh. Bell-like. Bright and sunny and warm—

And it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

Aye, you'll be trouble indeed, birdie.

[dhampling]

the tailor's smock (astarion x reader)

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!” - inspired by the prompt 'let’s get you out of those clothes' from this list sent to me by @kikistarstuff! thank you - i took a slightly different direction with it but I hope you enjoy! w/c: 1,023

Eventide ripples through the Upper City.

Church bells - scintillant, joyful. A provincial hum weaves amongst lavender-laden window boxes and bread left on cooling sills for the evening air to swallow. In places the sky still blushes through a deep crimson pink but nightfall quickly arrives as it always does.

You’re awake early, by all counts.

Astarion bristles as he works. His leg bounces, and the chair doesn’t quite sit even on the board flooring of your townhouse. The little knocks form a steady rhythm.

You stand astride his tailor’s podium in an almost-complete garment. He’ll lift his eyes to survey you every few moments as he sketches.

“Coffee?” You mumble. 

He stays frozen for a moment - deep in thought elsewhere - before quickly collecting the tankard from his desk and delivering it into your chilled hands.

“Sorry, my sweet. I’m just-’ 

A sigh

‘I’m a little lost with how to finish it.”

His pallid hands drag over a now-long face. He spins slowly in place and lets out a long groan.

“You had a plan at the beginning, no? What happened to it?”

What began as a routine addition to your everyday wardrobe - an overall-style frock, nothing grand - now hangs as a genuine blockade between Astarion and doing anything remotely useful. Stitching seams only to later rip through them, selecting which buttons would best compliment the straps of fabric over your shoulders then switching at the last moment, drawing vague silhouettes in a heavy journal and showing them to you in flustered breaks. Torn pages balled in the corner of the room.

He looks at you with an incredulous tut. A fiery flick of his lashes.

“It clearly wasn’t a very good one, was it?!’

You’re tired of the garment now. Any want to wear it was discarded alongside the first five iterations of the dress; and you’d rather simply go and sit among the blankets in the den with a book. Maybe a fresh cup of coffee.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m doing this for you!”

His arms gesture wildly to the dress, eyes frantic. He looks insane.

You meet his gaze in a tired standoff. The energy from both of you runs wholly parallel, and in entirely different directions. 

You refuse to meet his angst with anything remotely similar. Your brain can’t compel itself to make this an argument, no matter how much you might want to.

“What is the problem here? Really?”

You remove the few remaining pins from the garment. He sighs once more.

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!”

In all seriousness he flounces to his chair and sits pensively, leaning over the desk with elbows resting; head in hands. You stifle a snort.

“What are you on about?!”

A sip of coffee. A frustrated borderline-yowl. The bells continue to chime on beyond the window. The bristle of a late wind.

“I can’t even make an overall! An overall!”

You draw the corners of your lips cheekward in a closed grimace.

“Love. With the best of intentions, please do not let the fact you can’t make a smock get you this upset.”

He looks up at you. Rolls his eyes.

“So you do know I can’t make it. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” 

“That is categorically not what I meant.” You chide, putting your tankard on his desk and tapping him on the arm lightly.

“I’m completely and utterly useless then, I suppose. 

Astarion drawls. A child seeking attention. 

���A basic smock. Beyond the ability of my wretched spinster hands.” 

“I suppose you are.’ 

He looks up.

‘Useless, that is.’

Gormless. Too tired to be witty, just a blank stare. 

‘I suppose I’ll just have to find another prospect who can make me my own personal smock collection. It is my greatest wish, after all.”

It takes a couple of minutes of nothing for him to respond. You watch the streetlamps glower in the new dusk, the stray cat pottering onto nearby roofs; one of your neighbours collecting their washing for the night. 

“Hah!’

He smacks the desk lazily and rests his head on the wood for a moment. When he lifts his eyes are heavy-lidded. A roguish daze. The quirk of a smile.

‘I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

The grimace returns. You nod. 

“Really, properly stupid.”

The clientele Astarion desires in his new business venture aren’t the kind who are buying regular overall-type garments. They visit the tailors for their finery; not middling homewear.

“I was doing it for you. I really was.’

He pushes his chair back and stands, crossing the few steps to where you stand adjacent.

‘You look so homely in this kind of thing. It’s-’

He pauses. Tilts his head from side to side. Errs.

‘- sweet -’

With another step forward his hand moves to your cheek in a soft, revering touch. All tension melts from his face

‘And I thought it’d make you happy. Being able to bustle about our little house in something so mundane, knowing I’d made it just for you, to be able to do so in comfort.”

His forehead meets yours in a worn stupor. 

“You’re silly. I hope you know that.’

You meet him in a tired coffee-stained kiss; his own relinquishing their well-worn mirth. 

‘Plenty of time for that. For you to make me all kinds of beautiful things. A whole lifetime, even.’

Another kiss. He gives a fanged grin against your lips. Bliss.

‘But right now, I am desperate to go back to bed.”

His arms snake around your waist, hands grabbing your sides in a weighty adoration.

“Now then treasure - that’s something I can get behind.’

He gently moves his kisses down to your neck, pressing against your weary frame with an intentional rut of his hips. Every part of him emanates a sleepy desire and you can’t help but feel heady at the thought of returning to your shared bed. Your lover.

‘Come now. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I fear we have new plans this night.”

[bookpublisher1]

Overcoming Writer's Block

Overcoming Writer's Block: Strategies and Inspiration from Fellow Authors

Writer's block is the dreaded nemesis of authors, a seemingly insurmountable barrier that can strike at any stage of the creative process. It's the moments when inspiration feels elusive, words refuse to flow, and the blank page taunts you. Every writer, from beginners to seasoned professionals, has experienced it. But the good news is that it's not an unbeatable foe. In this blog, we'll explore strategies and find inspiration from fellow authors to overcome writer's block and reignite your creative spark.

Understanding Writer's Block

Writer's block is often misunderstood as a singular, monolithic entity. In reality, it comes in various forms and can be triggered by different factors. Some common manifestations of writer's block include:

1. Blank Page Syndrome: You sit down to write, but the blank page stares back at you, devoid of words or ideas.

2. Self-Doubt: Insecurities about your writing abilities can paralyze your creativity. You second-guess every word you put on paper.

3. Stagnation: You feel stuck in your story, unable to progress or find a way forward.

4. Lack of Ideas: You may have a concept or outline, but the well of ideas has run dry, leaving you without a clear direction.

5. Perfectionism: The quest for perfection in your writing can lead to an overwhelming fear of making mistakes, stifling your progress. Here are few tips on How To Overcome The Fear Of Rejection As A Writer

Strategies to Overcome Writer's Block

1. Start Writing, Any Writing: The most important step to overcome writer's block is to write. Anything. It could be a journal entry, a random thought, or a few lines of unrelated text. The act of writing, regardless of the content, can help break the mental barriers.

2. Set Realistic Goals: Instead of aiming to write a thousand words in one sitting, set achievable, smaller goals. Tell yourself you'll write for 15 minutes or just one paragraph. The sense of accomplishment when you meet these goals can motivate you to continue.

3. Change Your Writing Environment: Sometimes, a change in scenery can do wonders. If you usually write at your desk, try writing outdoors, in a café, or even in a different room. New surroundings can stimulate creativity.

4. Writing Prompts: Writing prompts are a fantastic way to jumpstart your creative thinking. They provide a topic or a starting point to get your creative juices flowing. Many websites and books offer an array of writing prompts to choose from.

5. Exercise and Mindfulness: Physical activity and mindfulness practices, such as meditation or yoga, can help clear your mind and reduce stress. A fresh, relaxed mind is more likely to overcome writer's block.

6. Read and Research: Sometimes, reading a book, article, or research related to your topic can reignite your passion and ideas. It exposes you to new perspectives and can provide the spark you need to continue writing. Few more tips on becoming Productive Writer

Inspiration from Fellow Authors

One of the most reassuring aspects of writer's block is that you're not alone. Fellow authors have been there, struggled through it, and emerged victorious. Let's take inspiration from their experiences and advice:

1. Margaret Atwood: The renowned author of "The Handmaid's Tale" suggests that writer's block often stems from a lack of motivation, which can be solved by setting and meeting small, manageable goals. She says, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word."

2. J.K. Rowling: The creator of the "Harry Potter" series acknowledges that writer's block is a common issue even for prolific authors. She advises writers to avoid self-criticism during the first draft and just get the words on paper.

3. Ernest Hemingway: Hemingway believed in stopping at a point where you still know what will happen next in your writing, so you can easily pick up where you left off. This tactic can prevent the feeling of stagnation and fear of the unknown.

4. Stephen King: The author of numerous bestsellers advocates for consistency. He says, "Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration; the rest of us just get up and go to work." Establishing a daily writing routine can be a powerful weapon against writer's block.

5. Maya Angelou: The late poet and author emphasized the importance of showing up to write regularly. She advised, "What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks 'the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat,' ... I must write it down."

Seek Support from Writing Communities

If you're still battling writer's block despite trying various strategies, consider reaching out to writing communities. Fellow authors can provide encouragement, feedback, and inspiration. Joining writing groups, participating in writing challenges, or attending workshops can connect you with like-minded individuals who understand your struggles.

Moreover, sharing your experiences with fellow authors can be liberating. It reminds you that writer's block is a common affliction and not a testament to your abilities. It's a temporary roadblock, not an insurmountable obstacle.

In Conclusion

Writer's block is a formidable adversary, but it can be defeated with determination and the right strategies. Understanding its different forms, setting realistic goals, changing your writing environment, using prompts, and practicing mindfulness are effective tactics to overcome it.

Draw inspiration from accomplished authors who have faced writer's block and emerged victorious. Their experiences and advice can serve as beacons of hope during your own writing struggles.

Remember, writing communities are there to support you. Sharing your challenges and triumphs with fellow authors can provide the motivation and encouragement needed to break through writer's block and continue on your creative journey. Writer's block is not the end of your story; it's just one more obstacle to overcome on your path to becoming a successful writer.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hi folks, it’s Mint.

I’m on a mini-vacation this week so I’m going to be releasing some recommendation posts for things that aren’t related to requests (easy to queue), and I’ll be back to doing regular rec posts when I get back!

THEME: Cryptids

Whether you’re tracking them down in order to give them your heart or running as fast as you can in the opposite direction, these games are all about mysterious creatures (that usually live in the woods).

OKCryptid, by Tadhg Lyon.

You’ll never forget that night.

You had heard the legends before, of course, everyone had.  Now that you know the creature is real, one thought keeps playing through your mind:

Their eyes were… beautiful. You want to see them again.

Okcryptid is a tarot-based, GMless roleplaying game about finding mysterious, secretive, beautiful creatures, and hopefully, dating them. It can be played by 2-5 players, or as a solo journaling experience.

Regardless of whether you play this game solo or in a group, you will be investigating a single creature or cryptid. You can create a cryptid of your own, or roll from a provided table to make a completely new cryptid. You use a deck of tarot cards to represent facts about the Creature, bring you closer to the final Meeting, or provide prompts for each investigative scene of the game. Characters also have personal scales that will measure how much the Creature either wants to kiss them or kill them, which will affect how the final Meeting goes. If you want a game with a mix of romance and creepy thrills, you might want to check out OKCryptid!

Cryptid TV, by yanahn.

A plague of Reality TV stars has descended upon the sleepy town of Mountain Lake ready to hunt down (and capture on camera) anything that looks even remotely like a cryptid - your crew is among them to cause drama, fake hoaxes, and enact sabotage beyond all reckoning.

The catch? You have only a passing familiarity with eldritch world of Showbiz, also you are all SPOOKY CRYPTIDS.

Cryptid TV is a truly charming hack of Honey Heist that pits your characters against the world of reality TV. You can choose whatever Cryptid you like, although there are six recommended cryptos that come with special powers to make situations really interesting. Will you unveil yourself as a Cryptid and lose all sense of peace and quiet? Will you sell out and move to Hollywood to seek out fame and fortune? Or will you succeed in driving the producers away without blowing your cover?

If you like goofy situations and you want a chill one-shot for the cryptid - lovers in your life, you’ll want to check out Cryptid TV.

Cryptid Rescue, by Renasdoodles.

One of your own has been captured and you’ve taken it upon yourselves to rescue them! One problem: you’re all cryptids and need to keep from being discovered or you too will be captured!

Cryptid Rescue is a one-page RPG that can be played through within a few hours. 

This is a cute little game with two main stats: Stealth and Fright. Each cryptid also has an Attention bar that leads to your capture should you fill it all the way. You fill this bar a little when you successfully frighten someone or fail at stealth, and you empty it a little when you fail to frighten someone or successfully sneak somewhere. The game also comes with a few small roll-tables for the GM to figure out who was captured, where they are now, and what kinds of obstacles will stand in the way between our adventurous little monsters and their friend. If you want a cute, free game with a simple premise, you might want to check out Cryptid Rescue.

The Mystery Creature of Claytonsville, PA, by Nick Wedig.

That summer, our small town deep in rural Pennsylvania was abuzz with strange tales of the supernatural creature.  No two stories of the creature entirely agreed with each other. Everyone who encountered the creature seemed to see what they needed to see. 

Some who found the creature were terrified. Others were spurred out of their stifling, mundane lives. In the end, the creature left the town with more questions than answers. But the lives of the each witness would each be changed forever.

Once the stories started, they came in more and more frequently throughout the year. Then just as they reached a crescendo, the encounters suddenly stopped.

This game can be played in a group as large as 7, or as small as one - just by yourself. You use a deck of playing cards as an oracle for answering questions, both about the town that you live in and the protagonist that the group will be telling the story about. No matter the group size, there will only be one protagonist! After you set the scene and define your main character, the deck of cards is used to determine what obstacles show up, whether the character succeeds or fails, and what aspects of the story come to the forefront in each scene.

This game feels like a cross between a narrative storytelling exercise and a card game, so if you want to introduce storytelling to a group that likes that tactile sensations of board-games, you might find some luck with The Mystery Creature of Claytonsville, PA.

Expedition: Incredizoology, by Imagined Chaos Games.

Explore the Wyldes, pockets of our World where fantastical and mythical creatures roam freely. Trap, train, hunt and co-exist with these creatures and explore the incredible lands they inhabit. 

Incredizoology can be played solo, cooperative or with an 'Expedition Leader' leading the expedition. The Imagined Chaos System utilises the full gamut of your polyhedral dice, moment cards to resolve combat and encounters as well as extensive roll tables for exploration. 

I don’t think this necessarily needs to be focused on cryptids, but there certainly seems to be room for it. The focus is not just on the creatures that you’re exploring, but also the environment they live in: you’ll have to navigate the natural environment, account for the weather, and interact with strange plants as well! There’s also room to explore how people make themselves at home in wild places, although the fact that the default setting is in a colonial period may be a bit of a downside for some players.

I wonder if you could alter the setting to allow for expeditions in different times and places. For example, if you are explorers in a sci-fi setting or a space setting, what changes might you make to make exploration challenging? I’m also curious if you could combine this game with a creature creation game, such as Exquisite Biome, a creature generator that also considers the ecosystems of various fantastic creatures.

You can download free character sheets if you want to take a look at a few bits and pieces, and look at a review for this game on The Gaming Table’s Youtube channel!

MOTH//MAN, by Witch & Craft Games.

A night in the woods…a light in the darkness…an unearthly transformation…

Can you survive the MOTHMAN?

Armed with nothing but your wits, tools, and the clothes on your back, you must brave the forest that this mysterious creature calls home. Your reasons for walking this perilous path are your own…as are those of everyone around you. Every bump in the road is a potential danger, an irresistible call drawing the beast ever closer. One wrong move, and you might find that it had been lurking closer than you ever thought possible.

When the monster finally reveals itself, the night really begins, and only one question remains:

Who is MOTH, and who is MAN?

This game looks to be more suited for fans who like to mix a bit more horror into their Cryptid mix. Moth-Man is likely a real threat - especially since it looks like some party members might actually turn into a MothMan! If you want a game of suspense, surprise, and perhaps even a little PVP, you might like MOTH//MAN.

Loveland, by JD.

Hundreds of years after climate change killed humanity, the cryptids inherited the Earth. Living in the area once known as Loveland, Ohio are the Frogfolk. Not as strong or sophisticated as other new societies, their success can be attributed to their teamwork. Within their village each Frog is a member of a guild. Some are craftsmen, others provide services, but all are equally important in the survival of the village.

You are a member of the Gatherers Guild. It’s your job to venture out of the village, gather supplies, explore ancient ruins, and communicate with other factions.

I find the idea of playing Frogfolk very charming, and I also like the fact that there are various Cryptid factions in this world, including goat-men, moth-men, and green-furred Grasskin. The game seems to revolve around gathering items that various guild factions can use to craft items for you, which will in turn help you venture farther and farther afield. Magic exists in items called Wands, and can only be used once per day before it needs to re-charge. The game is very well suited for dungeon-crawls, pointcrawls, hex-crawls… name a crawl and you can probably do it in this game. If you’re a bit of an OSR fan and you like exploration, you might be interested in Loveland.

Other Games You Might Want To Check Out

Sleepaway, by Jay Dragon.

Apocalypse Roadtrip, by Mina Lenahan.

Cryptozoologist by riseofpanic.

Camp Cryptid, by Certified Milkboy Games.

[anjelicawrites]

prompt:  i can’t wait to be alone with you. (tom bennett)

Title: Blue eyed menace

Pairing: Tom Bennett x reader

Warning: Tom is incapable of keeping his hands for himself, fingering in public, teasing, talk of spanking

A/N 1: AFAB reader, no 3rd person pronouns used

A/N 2: Prompt requested from this list

NSFW AND 18+ ONLY PLEASE

Having to switch from war journalism to small city stories hadn’t be the easiest thing for you to accept at the start, now having to cover various Community Meetings feels far more entertaining than following armies throughout Europe. The hatred in those elderly people’s voices, the polite insults they spew at one another and the fact that they seem to be incapable of not referring to old issues, makes for a fun night.

Usually you’d be scribbling down notes on your pad, while stifling your laughter, not tonight though. Tonight you are desperately trying to focus on the matter ahead, after having made the worst mistake in your career: having bought Tom Bennett with you.

You know Tom hates these kinds of gathering, he abhors having to sit still and not chirp in with his, sarcastic, two cents.

He’s pestered you to come all morning because, between your two jobs and your on going novel, you haven’t had the chance to see one another in a while.

Truth to be told, he had tried to convince you to bounce this assignment to go out with him and then have sex at your place; you’ve been tempted, you’ve missed his wicked tongue and impressive cock, still you had held fast to your work ethics and here you are, bored Tom in tow, who is getting dangerously close to the point where, you know, he’s going to say something just to ruffle some feathers and, maybe, cause some mayhem.

“Shh!” you angrily try to shush him, his constant stream of comments is getting on your nerves

“I’m bored"

“I told you to wait for me at home!” you silent scream

“But I wanted to be with you” fake saccharine in his voice

“Then shut up and find something to do!”.

You don’t think he’d do anything but smoke or maybe tell you he’s going to wait for you at the local pub, his silence doesn’t alarm you, happy as you are that you can follow the speeches easily now that he’s shut up.

You are focusing deeply on your notes, when you feel two fingers tickling the sensitive skin on the back of your knee, causing goosebumps to erupt everywhere.

“Tom stop it!”

“Why?” he asks, feigning ignorance

“You know I am ticklish!”

“That sounds like a you problem – he answers nonchalantly, one arm over your shoulder – you told me to find something to do”

“Not me you idiot!”.

With a huff you pop his arm off your shoulder and pry your fingers from your knee; you should have known Tom is not someone who would give up so easily.

With the same indifference he held before, his hand finds the way up your thigh, fingers hooking on the sliver of skin between your stockings and you under gown, nails scratching there gently, unhurriedly making their way to your knickers.

Discreetly you try to pry them and Tom just whispers into your ear

“You should pay attention to what that old man is saying”

Before pulling your two coats on your legs, to hide the fact that he’s moved your right one over his left, to have more maneuvering space; by the time you realize what he’s done, he’s locked you in position and you trying to move would expose you two to the whole assembly.

If your Tom is one stubborn prick, you are as well and set to focus on the new topic with all the attention you can spare. Willingly you try to ignore his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns on the sensitive skin between your stockings and knickers, his digits focusing on the crease of your thigh and the frillies of your underwear.

“Is this lace? Oh you naughty girl” he whispers hotly in your ear, you hold the pen so tight you might break it.

Gently, his fingers slide under the lace, to find your cunt already wet for him and his tomfoolery. You bite your lower lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing your breathy moans and in fear you two will be discovered and, potentially, arrested.

The pads of his fingers are deliciously rough against your drenched lips and engorged clit, their touch featherlike enough to steal your concentration, but not to bring you to orgasm.

“Why aren’t you taking notes? They’re discussing the new park, the chap in the blue jacket is ready to explode” he says calmly, as if his erection isn’t straining in his trousers.

You have to close your eyes and fold yourself a bit, when he applies more pressure on your clit, your hips this close to start pumping following his rhythm.

You are torn between grabbing his arm and stabbing it with your pen, the grip of your teeth on your lower lip almost tearing into the delicate skin to draw blood, your other arm shooting forward to wound your hand around the chair in front of you.

“I can’t wait to be alone with you” he murmurs in your ear, teeth grazing your lobe

"You are in for a spanking, as soon as we arrive home” you growl deep in your throat and he moans.

Oh yeah, he’s going to have issues with sitting down for a while, after you’re done with him.

When are these old geezers going to finish? You have a lovely arse to spank!

Everythig taglist: @ilikeitbetterangsty

[starlightfireflies]

Stories

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF252; spill the tea warnings: none word count: 731

The attic was old, dusty, stifling. Pale pink insulation fluffed against the walls, looking as soft as cotton candy. When she found herself reaching out a delicate finger, Luna reminded herself of her grandmother’s words: It may look poofy, but you will be wishing you never touched it once you did.

So, she steeled herself and returned to her task. 

Sometimes she hated old houses. 

Clouds of ancient dust puffed up in her face as she moved boxes. She needed black heels—the old kind—for her theater production. Her grandmother had offered her the heels. She hadn’t offered to help look for them.

“How much stuff is even in here?” Luna grumbled, as moving away what she thought was the final box only revealed more. She’d never thought of her grandmother as a hoarder, but that was exactly what she was.

Arms straining with the motion, Luna lifted the actual final box. This was the heaviest. And as she tried to move it away, her arms decided to give up. The box dropped to the ground, spilling its contents all over the place.

Luna’s attention was instantly drawn to a small scrapbook. When it crashed to the floor, it had opened to a page of sage green. Pictures of what must have been Luna’s grandmother as a teenager adorned the pages, along with various others. On one side was a piece of paper—wow!—torn up and stuck to the page.

Today something terrible happened, read the scrawling writing, I’m afraid June has betrayed me. 

Luna’s mind screeched to a halt. Without really processing what she was doing, she tore the letter out of the scrapbook and raced down the attic ladder.

She skidded to a stop right in front of her grandmother’s room. It was an old-fashioned door, made of wood and not steel. Most of Grandmother’s things were old. 

Like the scrapbook.

Luna lifted her hand to knock. One of the things her grandmother had taught her from the good old days was that you had to knock before entering a room. There was no alert system to notify a room’s occupant of a visitor.

“Come in!” came Grandmother’s voice, creaky but strong.

Luna pushed open the door. Her grandmother was propped up against the headboard of her bed, pillows as a buffer between the wood—still odd—and her back. 

At the sight of Luna, Grandmother’s face broke out into a smile. “Ah, Luna.” She gestured to a seat by the bed. “It’s nice to see you.”

 “Nice to see you as well, Grandmother.” Luna took a delicate seat on the chair, a hardbacked black one made of wood. She hesitated, then passed the letter from the scrapbook over. “I was looking for your heels, and I found this. I was wondering…”

Grandmother’s expression flickered between dark and light. She stared down at the letter. “You wish to know what June did to me, yes?” At Luna’s nod, she sighed. “This will require some knowledge of the past. You see, Luna, one of the most popular phrases back then was spill the tea.”

“Spill the tea?” Luna echoed. 

“Spill the tea,” Grandmother said. “It meant gossip, essentially, and poor June was entranced by it. She spilled too much of my tea and didn’t have enough napkins to sop it up.”

The train of thought confused Luna, but she stayed silent.

“Therefore, I wrote in this journal. We liked to text a lot, but if you wanted to really express your hate, you wrote about them in your diary.”

“Journaling,” Luna breathed. She couldn’t remember the last time Grandmother brought out her old pencil to demonstrate what writing was like when she was a young girl. “So, June betrayed you by gossiping?”

“Pretty much,” Grandmother said. There was a glint in her eye. “But that wasn’t the last of my adventures with June…”

Luna leaned in. 

[autisticempathydaemon]

Redacted-tober 2023 Day Twenty-Three

Prompt: William & Haunting

Pairing: William/Original Listener Character

cw: discussion of the Surge accident, William calls his listener Cher (French for “dear”)

Summary: Yet another human goes traipsing into Worldworld at night… Fifth time’s the charm.

Read on AO3 here!

<- Previous Day

“Now, let me tell you why this isn’t like your typical haunting,” you say excitedly to the camera, traipsing through the abandoned amusement park with the joy and gracelessness of the toddlers of its glory days. “In addition to the lives lost in the Surge tragedy and the slew of mysterious incidents that plagued park goers beforehand, Wonderworld has been a hotbed of suspicious, supernatural activity the whole twenty years that it’s been closed. Disappearances, attacks, and unexplained, nightly wailing are just a few of the phenom- phennem- phenomenee? Fuck.”

You jam your thumb on the pause button and stomp your boots in the dirt and debris, thwacking yourself on the forehead with the selfie stick. The cheery, onscreen persona falls, and you groan in frustration. Again, you wonder how an ambitious skeptic with a masters degree in journalism and a bachelor’s in history ended up ghost hunting in the muck and cold and dark. Then you remember the state of the job market and the experience required for an entry level position and paste the wide smile back on your face.

‘Another eight months-’ you think to yourself, checking your ring light and positioning yourself with your back to the overgrowth of dark, rustling trees. ‘-then we can go apply to better places, places that won’t send you to dilapidated, condemned sites alone. Then there won’t be anymore shitty cell phone footage or sound quality or weird shadows behind me in the shape of a creature… wait, what?’ You whip your whole body around, your heel spinning and slipping on fallen, rotting leaves, and your sight shimmers black and red and white as you hit your head and look up at the man standing over you.

“Are you alright, cher?” he asks, a soft French lilt to his words a complement to his sweet, gentle voice. If he wants to laugh at the mortifying spill you just took, you think he hides it well, though you can’t see his face because of the moon looming behind him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Didn’t mean to- are you fucking serious? Why else would you be lurking like fucking Dracula if not to fucking frighten?” The figure above you makes a sound akin to a sputter, a stifled laugh, and your face burns red hot at the humiliation, at how idiotic you must look splayed spread eagle on the ground with mud in your hair.

“Because I own this land,” he says, coughing delicately to cover his amusement. “And I was alerted to an intruder with a camera and ungainly gait. You wouldn’t happen to know where they’d be, would you, dear?” You pray to some sort of god you’re also shrouded in shadow because you can feel heat in your face spread from your cheeks to your ears and neck, and the realization this dulcet, charming gentleman might see that just makes it worse.

“I was told this was public property,” you sputter, lying through your teeth. Your boss had informed you the land was owned by some eccentric millionaire but also that security was few and far between. You try to get up and head out before he calls the police, but your ankle gives out from under you, dropping you back in the mud to add insult to injury.

“You were told wrong. Thankfully, I quite pride myself on being a good host, and I refuse to let any guest, invited or not, leave my care worse than they came into it.” The still anonymous man shifts his body weight, offering you a hand, and you worry you may have concussion when the refracting light makes his eyes gleam a hypnotizing swirl of silver and red, when the shadows make his teeth seem impossibly long. Despite these tricks of the light, he is irresistibly beautiful, and you place your hand in his and your trust in him. “My name is William Solaire. Let’s see how my family and I might help you.”

[barbieb0y]

forged in a bonfire.

day 4 of scrunkly week already woah

the theme is autumn! i went with both sitting by a cosy fire + cold hands, warm drinks for the prompts! i dont celebrate halloween so i feel detached from prompts related to that haha

as usual, i wrote a scenario for my selfship, uppercut (my oc, paper cut x joe reverse 1999) BUT i did add mercuria reverse 1999 into the mix bc idk i just like the (potential) dynamic between her and joe, although idk her that well (the wiki doesnt have her info either so...) and this isnt explicitly romantic but there is so-called tension. so

Paper Cut has grown accustomed to the sound of foreign yet warm laughter. The flames that occupy the bonfire in front of him could only hope to rival such warmth. But the best thing about this kind of laughter is that sometimes, it would include his own. It’d make for a great journal entry and an even greater bandage.

“Leave it to J to get Dr. Cut of all people to leave his lil’ man cave.”

Another wave of laughter ensues, this time he joins in. He can’t deny the person’s claim - J’s siren call was the straw that broke the camel’s back. But he has no regrets; even with all the unfamiliar faces and voices, he feels like he’s finally home.

“Not that hard really. The dude just needed a little push.”

J  frequently shrugs off any mention of his effort to bring Paper Cut out of his shell easily. He’s a strong believer in the efforts Paper Cut himself made to get out there. It’s just a coincidence that the biker was there for him and his journey.

“A ‘little push’ is an understatement of the century.”

Mercuria’s comment prompts another round of unashamed laughter. At this point, Paper Cut has chosen to watch this little drama about him silently, metaphorical popcorn in hand. The next scene starts with J rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t need to visit him every single day but–”

“And the fact that you’d pretend to be hurt specifically on Thursdays.”

“Thursdays are unlucky days for me! It’s not even pretend sometimes!”

“Pfft, sometimes.”

The laughter never seems to die down. That observation can be attributed to the fact that J being the center of attention – but he almost always is the center of attention, just how he likes his social interactions to be. But the best part is that he doesn’t even have to try. Paper Cut supposes that’s just how it is when everyone in the neighborhood knows your name and your game. But in a way, Paper Cut himself also garnered such a reputation.

Paper Cut’s job is to heal paper cuts and beyond. Even if he doesn’t believe it, his fame has been the consequence of his own choices. Not charging patients cash for medical services was and will always be what makes him infamous. It’d be abnormal if it was simply free but the strange charging fee of a piece of paper for every session would’ve been enough for people to call him crazy.

You can call him a quack all you want but at the end of the day, he gets the job done – this is what Joe thinks of his work ethics. Joe was more concerned that he wasn’t taking care of his own health. After all, the doctor can’t heal if he himself is sick, right?

“We got some hot cocoa, folks! J, help me pass it around.”

One of the unfamiliar faces announces and with his best service smile (which is his usual, ‘I-love-my-friends’ smile), J gives out warm mugs full of comfort.

Paper Cut mumbles a thank you and manages a small smile for J, which is reciprocated almost immediately. Just as quickly, Mercuria has to stifle the voice of the person sitting beside her before they could make things awkward for the two. That moment was enough to make her feel like she’s thirdwheeling so there’s certainly no need to add fuel to that fire.

Everyone there knows that there’s some kind of tension between the two (or at least, almost everyone - one guy insists that they’re simply “very close friends”). They’d rather not assume but they’ve grown somewhat impatient waiting for their friendship to eventually transform into a romance. And they have to admit, the two men make good in-group gossip material.

As soon as J is done with his arduous task, he plops down next to Paper Cut with a mug of his own, which he extends towards his seatmate. Paper Cut chuckles and clinks his mug with J’s to humor him. It works, as J lets out a satisfied laugh. But J is pleasantly surprised when Paper Cut moves to imitate him but with his own other seatmate, Mercuria, instead. And she also humors him.

Before long, the air is filled with that warm, foreign laughter again as people clink their mugs affectionately. Paper Cut closes his eyes, submerging himself in an orchestra of delight.

On that night, eternal bonds were forged.

[and-then-there-were-n0ne]

For more than 70 years, a slender volume written by a dockworker who died in 1983 has been handed around by presidents, would-be presidents, journalists, students, and more as a guide—decade after decade—to epochal and baffling events. 

Published in 1951 in the shadow of World War II and the rise of the Soviet Union, Eric Hoffer’s The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements became one of President Dwight Eisenhower’s favorite books. As the former Supreme Allied Commander of European forces during World War II, Eisenhower saw firsthand the rise of mass movements and how they turn destructive. During one of the nation’s first televised presidential press conferences, he cited the book, turning it into a bestseller. 

Hoffer, often called “the longshoreman philosopher,” was admired across the political aisle. In 1967 he was an overnight guest of President Lyndon Johnson at the White House. In 1983, President Ronald Reagan awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Years after Hoffer’s death, his book was rushed back into print and sold briskly when, in the new millennium, people turned to The True Believer to explain the attacks of 9/11. Decades before the terrorists commandeered the planes, Hoffer wrote: 

All the true believers of our time declaimed volubly. . . on the decadence of the Western democracies. The burden of their talk is that in the democracies people are too soft, too pleasure-loving, and too selfish to die for a nation, a God, or a holy cause. This lack of a readiness to die, we are told, is indicative of an inner rot—a moral and biological decay.

Since then, journalists have cited the book as a source to explain both the creation of the Tea Party on the right and the Occupy Wall Street movement on the left. 

In 2016, presidential candidate Hillary Clinton, to better understand her opponent Donald Trump and his followers, read what she later wrote was Hoffer’s “exploration of the psychology behind fanaticism and mass movements, and I shared it with my senior staff.”

For readers today, Hoffer’s descriptions of the nature of these movements and the people who join them are timelier and more trenchant than ever. The book—the paperback edition is fewer than 170 pages—is divided into 125 “chapters” ranging from a few sentences to several pages. These are mostly epigrammatic observations that build into a portrait of the personalities and forces that create mass movements.

As The Wall Street Journal wrote: “If you want concise insights into what drives the mind of the fanatic and the dynamics of a mass movement at their most primal level, may I suggest an evening with Eric Hoffer.”

I first learned of The True Believer in the summer of 2020. I was out of the U.S. getting my PhD in psychology at the University of Cambridge. I had already begun publishing my own social observations, which led to an interview with a Dutch media outlet on cancel culture. The interview was posted and got a lot of views, which prompted the head of the outlet to take it down because he felt I was too sympathetic to the canceled.

I wrote a piece in Quillette on the irony of being canceled for expressing my thoughts on the canceled, and noted, “The U.S. used to export Coca-Cola, television shows, and music. Today, we export outrage, deplatforming, and social mobbing.”

A fellow student in my program saw the piece and told me I had to read The True Believer. I did, and like Eisenhower, it quickly became one of my favorite books. There were passages—published in 1951!—that seemed to describe how the rise of intellectual and social orthodoxy on campus, and across a growing number of institutions, stifles debate and free expression. More than that, Hoffer captured how in the age of smartphones and social media, people fear the consequences of uttering a single wrong word. He wrote:

[I]n a mass movement, the air is heavy-laden with suspicion. There is prying and spying, tense watching, and a tense awareness of being watched. The surprising thing is that this pathological mistrust within the ranks leads not to dissension but to strict conformity. Knowing themselves continually watched, the faithful strive to escape suspicion by adhering zealously to prescribed behavior and opinion. Strict orthodoxy is as much the result of mutual suspicion as of ardent faith. 

[...] Hoffer also described how language gets enlisted as a marker of who really is a true believer:

Simple words are made pregnant with meaning and made to look like symbols in a secret message. There is thus an illiterate air about the most literate true believer. He seems to use words as if he were ignorant of their true meaning. Hence, too, his taste for quibbling, hair-splitting, and scholastic tortuousness.

I wonder what Hoffer would make of a world in which some words are so pregnant with meaning that the phrase “pregnant women” has become verboten. […]

One of the key and enduring insights of The True Believer is that frustration is the fuel of mass movements. Frustration, though, doesn’t arise solely from bleak material conditions. Hoffer argued, “Our frustration is greater when we have much and want more than when we have nothing and want some.”

He points out in the years leading up to both the French and Russian Revolutions, life had in fact been gradually improving for the masses. He concludes, “The intensity of discontent seems to be in inverse proportion to the distance from the object fervently desired.” […]

In a passage in The True Believer that is reminiscent of today’s idea of the “horseshoe theory”—that is, political extremes have more in common with one another than with moderates—Hoffer wrote, “When people are ripe for a mass movement, they are usually ripe for any movement. . . . In pre–Hitlerian Germany, it was often a toss-up whether a restless youth would join the Communists or the Nazis.” One of his most famous aphorisms is this:

“Hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all unifying agents. . . . Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a god, but never without belief in a devil.”

[cosmictapestry]

I meant A17 31 whoops

A17. "can you cum like this?"

and

A31. lucienne remote toy

teehee <3 <3 <3 <3 i accidentally love this one so much <3 <3 <3 <3

prompt list here

Before she leaves that morning, Lord Morpheus slips it inside of her. It's a warm, living tendril of dreamstuff, slick and throbbing, and it nestles inside of her, curls there and pulses in undulating rhythm. The base is thicker, and her lord toys with it for a moment, feels the way her clenching muscles restrict its movement.

"Can you feel it?" Lucienne asks, shivering when the tendril moves, strokes inside of her.

Her lord hums, and he pulls her knickers back up, does up her trousers by hand with lingering touches, his lips pressed to her neck. "I can, to some extent." His lips brush up her skin and stop at the tip of her ear. "I can feel how you respond. What makes you squirm."

Lucienne grins, tips her head back on his shoulder to kiss him. His voice makes her hot, makes her shiver, makes her burn in dread and in anticipation for the next few hours.

When she first asked for this, several days ago, he had frowned in response, and he had appeared troubled, and he had said, stilted, "Might I—I would ask for more clarity. Regarding what you want. Before I agree," and he had looked at her, sidelong, nervously seeking approval, and Lucienne had been so overcome with fondness she grabbed his face and kissed him senseless.

When she pulled back and looked at his flushed, bewildered face, she had said, "I want you to make me regret asking, sweet thing."

Now Lucienne goes about her day, the toy a hot living beat inside of her. She organizes dream journals into their respective places, researches the rise in appearances of several key Nightmares, settles down to catalogue new dreamers and remove the deceased from her active rotation. Her one condition was that she remain in the library for the day, so as to avoid any unsavory situations.

Sometimes she forgets the toy's presence, wrapped up in her work as she tend to become, and then it will writhe and pulse and vibrate and Lucienne will hunch over herself, bite at the meat of her thumb to stifle her gasps, shift her thighs in an attempt to—give her clit some stimulation, perhaps, or to dispel the building pressure, or to amuse her lord wherever he is, whatever he's doing.

She is not to touch herself, as per their agreement. She is, however, free to remove the toy at any time. Lord Morpheus had been insistent about that. She's only tempted to do so once, when she sits down at her desk, and the vibrations ramp up and the toy begins to thrust, and it does not stop, and Lucienne lays her head down on her arms and screams a little bit. This goes on for several minutes, and Lucienne breaks a pen in her hand, and slowly the movement ceases, and she slumps all at once with a breathless laugh.

Twice she produces a cloth to mop up the mess between her legs, and she drinks an exorbitant amount of water, another thing her lord had insisted on, even though walking the distance to a lounge area is practically torture. This whole thing is practically torture. She loves it.

Finally, finally, the end of the day comes, and Lucienne sits at her desk yet again, and she finds it more and more difficult to stay calm as it all winds down and the toy thrums relentlessly, makes her rock in place and breathe hard, and she startles when she feels her lord's hand rest on her shoulder. She looks up at him, finds him staring at her, pupils blown wide, sweat on his brow. "Stand up."

Lucienne hesitates for all of two seconds before she does as she's told, standing on shaky knees, her hands braced on her desk. Her lord moves the chair away and comes to stand behind her, his hand never leaving her shoulder. His other comes up to wander possessively across her chest, grope at her breasts over her waistcoat. His breath is hot on her ear. "Have you been good?"

She leans back into his chest. "I have."

A pleased hum, and he steps back all at once, leaves her to catch her balance. "Bend over," he says abruptly, and when she blinks at him he raises his brows in expectation. The playful quirk on his lips is dangerous, not so boyish as she's used to, and it thrills her. "Palms flat on the desk, Lucienne."

She does as he says, and he hums again, all smug and appreciative. He runs one hand down her back, caresses her arse, makes her jolt with a sharp tap on one cheek. Lucienne groans, and she rocks forward, biting the inside of her lip. He doesn't say anything while he reaches around her waist, undoes her trousers, eases them down her legs only to disappear them entirely. His hands run back up her skin, pause again at her arse to palm her over her knickers. He holds one cheek still while the other spreads her. "This is the wettest I've ever seen you," he says. "Your undergarments are ruined, I'm afraid."

Lucienne laughs, and her face is so hot she might burst into flames, and her breath stalls out entirely when her knickers melt away. Looking down, she sees his boot nudging between her feet. "Spread your legs," he says. She does, and she rests her head down on the desk, pillowed on her arms, her back arched to press her arse into his hands. "Good girl."

She curses, and she stamps her foot, and she sobs with the pulse of the toy inside of her. "Fuck," she says, and, "please, my lord, please."

Lord Morpheus crouches behind her, spreads her open with his thumbs, and Lucienne keens, exposed and on display and glowing with it. "Did you have to clean yourself up at all?" he asks, and he pushes at the base of the toy with one thumb, making Lucienne jolt and whimper her affirmative. "I can tell. You're dripping down your thighs." He straightens up to stand beside her, one hand still fingering the toy. The other grips the back of her neck.

Lucienne shudders, and she presses back into the toy, the resistance he provides her. "Please," she repeats, and she's desperate enough to hear it in her voice.

Her lord, cruel and merciless and so stupidly sweet when he wants to be, bends down to kiss the top of her head. "Can you come like this?" he asks, and he presses the toy in deep, and it fucks her like he does, and she squeals, and she rocks, and she shudders, and the tension ramps to a fever pitch. "Please do, then."

It all bursts at once, a rubber band snapping, tingling through her limbs in heat and ecstasy. She burns and ruts and he braces her through it with the firm heat on the back of her neck. Her knees, already unstable, can barely hold her through it, and she sobs and loses her breath and sobs again, and the toy disappears before it can get to be too much. His fingers dip in instead, circling shallow like he's just interested in feeling her clench, in hearing how wet she is.

Her knees buckle, and he catches her, hefts her effortlessly into his arms. With smooth grace he carries her to her desk chair and he sits, settles her all curled up on his lap and shivering and sweating. His hands are silk on her skin, gripping her thigh, rubbing the back of her neck, and she clings to his shirt. He kisses her temple. "Was that alright?" he asks.

She makes an inarticulate little sound in response and feels the huff of his breath on a tiny laugh.

[lifeinacartoon]

10 Simple Writing Tips to Make Your Life

Hey there, beautiful people! Writing can be a beautiful and therapeutic experience, but it can also be a daunting task. Whether you're a seasoned wordsmith or just dipping your toes into the world of writing, we've got you covered with these 10 simple writing tips to make your life easier.

1. Set realistic goals: Start small. Don't overwhelm yourself with grandiose writing projects. Set achievable goals, like writing a short story or a journal entry each day.

2. Create a Writing Routine: Consistency is key. Find a time and place where you can write without distractions. Establishing a routine will help you stay on track.

3. Read Widely: The more you read, the better you write. Explore different genres, authors, and styles. Reading enriches your vocabulary and exposes you to diverse writing techniques.

4. Edit Later, Write Now: Don't let your inner critic stifle your creativity. Write freely without worrying about perfection. Editing can come later during the revision phase.

5. Write What You Know: Draw inspiration from your own experiences and emotions. Authenticity adds depth to your writing and connects with readers on a personal level.

6. Outline Your Ideas: Before you start writing, outline your thoughts and ideas. It will serve as a roadmap, making the writing process smoother.

7. Embrace feedback: Share your work with others and welcome constructive criticism. Feedback helps you improve and gain new perspectives on your writing.

8. Use Writing Prompts: Stuck in a creative rut? Writing prompts can be your saviour. They ignite your imagination and help you explore new ideas.

9. Avoid Procrastination: Procrastination is a writer's enemy. Break your writing tasks into smaller, manageable steps, and tackle them one at a time.

10. Celebrate Your Achievements: Don't forget to pat yourself on the back. Celebrate your milestones, whether it's finishing a short story, getting published, or simply writing consistently. Acknowledging your achievements boosts motivation.

Remember, writing is a journey, not a destination. Embrace the process, find joy in the words you weave, and share your unique voice with the world. Happy writing, writers! 📝✨

Feel free to customise this blog post to match your personal style and preferences before posting it on your Tumblr blog.

[ennioscorner]

Monday, 28 August 2023

Day 001/365

Hey, Ennio here. I'm using these "self discovery" journal prompts to see if I can stay focused for a whole year and finish something. Hopefully, I can. Stay for the ride. I'll just be venting and answering the prompts. Anonymity is a plus, no? "What are you admired and complimented for the most?"

"What am I admired for and complimented most for?" I have no clue. I would say that it would be my sense of "security". Is that what it's called? I suppose I put up a face that shows that I really don't care to make it seem that nothing gets to me. It's tiring honestly. I feel that everyone sees through my façade and is hoping that I crack. I feel the stares at every moment. At home, in public, at work. Hell, when I was at work because now I'm unemployed. I was so happy when I was told that we would be moving away. I could FINALLY quit that dead-end job I was at. Every day was killing me inside. The inane questions from the general public. A wage that in modern America doesn't let you sleep well at night. The staff who just seemed so incompetent. I was miserable but... happy in a way. I envied my co-workers though. They seemed to have it all together and none of it at the same time. I wanted to have what they had. They knew who they were. But, who was I? The dude who couldn't hold a conversation? The dude who had anger issues? The dude who tried to start every day with a smile and try to be better with people? None of it mattered. I was off-putting, I guess. I was a hard worker? Somewhat. I did what my responsibilities called for. Abrasive? Very much so. I took pills. They didn't help. They caused me to have migraines even more than before. I was having dizzy spells every so often. I tried to change for the better. What was wrong with me? I hate myself. I don't know why I am the way I am. I just want a do-over. I want to be happy. I long for a reset. Why? Why can't I do anything? Why can't I speak out? Even in my dreams, or nightmares, I try to scream. But I can't. It's drowned out in my own fear. I feel like I'm drowning. I slip further and further each day. I had potential. I had promise. I heard it all. Now, I'm a failure. I know I disappoint my family. I was an orphan. Raised by my paternal grandmother. I know she resents me deep down. I see it in every choice that I make. Maybe it's my fault. I was abandoned and she had to take care of me. I resent myself. I loathe every day that I wake up. The same thoughts come back to me. "You know that you don't belong." I long to disappear. I lost my way so long ago that I don't remember what aspirations I had for the future. Part of me has faith. But the other parts stifle it. They hold it down. The days grow darker. They grow more cold. It hurts to breathe. I feel myself dragged down further and further. My own nostalgia blinds me. Were things better before? Well, I guess I strayed off topic enough. I should probably stop it here. Too much self loathing. hahahaha. Till tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe I'll get a call for an interview. Fingers crossed.

Till next time,

Ennio R.

[phantom-whisper]

30 Journal Prompts to Process Divorce

1. A letter to your ex sharing your anger or sadness

C,

Today is our wedding anniversary. Tomorrow, I'm filing for divorce.

I loved you. I love you. I think I will always love you.

It breaks my heart that you couldn't love me back. Not consistently, not in the ways that I asked for, not in the ways that you promised, and not in the ways that I was willing to settle for. You made me feel like I was hard to love and that I was a burden in your life.

I asked for your time. I asked for your company. Your emotional support. A listening ear. A conversation. A hug. A kiss. A look. You called me annoying, told me I was a pest, and you got to the point that you wouldn't even sit near me in the same room.

You have asked me for a divorce on three separate occasions this year. The first of the three was on my birthday. What the fuck was that? What did I ever do to you to deserve that?

Before I finally moved out, you told me that you would let me stay in our home and that you would go. But you didn't go. You never go. Not only would you not go, but you told me the expectation was that we share a home, a bed, bills, a life, and that you would "do whatever the fuck" you wanted when I said that my only ask was that neither of us date until we figure things out. You said that I am a dictator, delusional, and unreasonable for asking such a thing. I left our home two days later, and was still in trouble. Unreasonable. "Not being civil."

We were maybe sometimes kind of almost sort of possibly but not for sure going to reconcile again, until I had the audacity to ask what your plan was. "What are we working toward?" That was it for us. And you know what? There have been so many times where I bit my tongue, didn't ask what I wanted to ask, stifled my feelings, swallowed my tears, felt so alone, because I knew if I dared to be that open and that vulnerable, I would lose you.

I finally tried it, and now you're gone.

I'm mad because you made me believe that you loved me, and I'm mad because I believed it. I should have known. I should have seen it. A lot of times I saw what was there and leaned into it anyway. Obviously I have some things to work on within myself. But I hope that you realize that you do too. I hope that you can set your ego aside and work on some things. I know that you feel equal parts relief and regret. I can tell by the way you talk to me still. I wish that you could understand that I feel no relief, no regret, just confusion, sadness, and anger.

You are a great person, but an absolutely terrible wife.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you.

Forever,

M.

[joncrossofficial]

Jade Malay Top 7 Writing Exercises to Supercharge Your Creativity

Creativity is essential for any writer, fueling fresh ideas, shaping unique narratives, and connecting deeply with readers. But even the most imaginative writers can hit creative blocks. According to Jade Malay, just like physical exercise, your creative muscles need regular training to stay strong. Here are seven of her top writing exercises to help you unlock your creative potential and get those ideas flowing again.

1. Freewriting: Let Your Thoughts Flow Freely

Freewriting is a fantastic way to clear your mind and allow thoughts to flow naturally. Jade Malay recommends setting a timer for 10 to 15 minutes and writing continuously without worrying about spelling, punctuation, or structure. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s to let your mind wander freely. Often, you’ll stumble upon unexpected ideas or themes that you can develop later. This exercise encourages spontaneity and helps bypass the inner critic that often stifles creativity.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Breaks down mental barriers and allows ideas to emerge.

Stop self-censorship, giving you the freedom to explore new thoughts.

Unlocks hidden ideas and inspiration.

2. Use Writing Prompts to Kickstart New Ideas

Sometimes, all you need to reignite your creativity is a fresh prompt. Jade Malay suggests trying out writing prompts that take you in new directions or challenge you to explore unfamiliar territory. For example, write a story where the laws of gravity no longer exist, or describe a day in the life of an inanimate object. Prompts like these force you to think creatively and break away from routine patterns.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Provides a starting point when you're feeling stuck.

Encourages thinking outside of your usual topics or genres.

Sparks new ideas by presenting unexpected scenarios.

3. Character Development: Build Lifelike Personalities

Strong, well-developed characters are the backbone of any good story. Jade Malay recommends spending time crafting detailed character profiles—explore their physical traits, backstories, motivations, and even their deepest fears. One fun exercise is to write a journal entry or letter from your character’s point of view. This helps you get into their mindset, making them more authentic and relatable in your writing.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Helps create richer, more complex characters.

Generates new plot ideas based on character personalities and actions.

Deepens emotional connection with the characters and the story.

4. Mind Mapping: Visualize Your Ideas

Mind mapping is a helpful exercise if you're a visual thinker. Jade Malay suggests starting with a central theme or idea, then branching out with related ideas, characters, or events. You can continue expanding your map, adding layers of complexity and connections between seemingly unrelated concepts. This method helps you think outside the box and discover new angles for your stories.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Organizes thoughts visually, making it easier to see connections.

Stimulates non-linear thinking, encouraging innovative ideas.

Helps break down complex ideas into manageable parts.

5. Rewrite a Scene from a Different Perspective

One of Jade Malay’s favorite exercises is to take a scene you’ve already written and rewrite it from another character’s point of view. This forces you to rethink the narrative and opens up new interpretations of the same event. It’s a great way to explore different character voices and experiment with how perspective shapes storytelling.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Encourages thinking about the same event in different ways.

Adds depth to the story by offering multiple perspectives.

Helps strengthen your narrative skills by broadening character voices.

6. Limit Your Word Count: Practice Precision

Limiting your word count may sound restrictive, but it actually forces you to think creatively about how to convey your ideas concisely. Jade Malay often advises writers to try crafting a story or scene in a set number of words—say, 300 words or fewer. This exercise teaches you to focus on the essence of the story and cut out anything unnecessary, ultimately strengthening your writing.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Sharpens focus and clarity in your writing.

Encourages careful word choice and tighter narratives.

Helps you learn the art of brevity and precision.

7. Collaborative Writing: Share and Grow

Writing doesn’t always have to be a solitary activity. Jade Malay suggests collaborating with another writer as an excellent way to spark new ideas and stretch your creativity. By sharing ideas, you’re exposed to different perspectives and styles, which can lead to exciting and unpredictable results. Whether you're co-writing a story or simply brainstorming together, collaboration can push you to think outside of your usual habits.

How It Boosts Creativity:

Encourages you to adapt to different writing styles and perspectives.

Exposes you to new ideas and methods.

Leads to unique creative outcomes through collaboration.

Conclusion

Jade Malay’s writing exercises are designed to stretch your imagination, sharpen your skills, and overcome creative blocks. By incorporating freewriting, character development, mind mapping, and other exercises into your writing routine, you’ll develop a deeper well of ideas and a stronger connection to your stories. With regular practice, these techniques will supercharge your creativity, helping you craft more dynamic and engaging narratives.

[queenarahbo]

Mono

"Mono, Dean, really?" Sam struggled to breathe through the laughter "You have mono?" Dean let out a groan as he huddled under the thin, tattered blankets on his dingy motel room bed. In an attempt to stave off the cold, he had even taken the blanket from Sam's bed. "Shut it, Sam," he muttered irritably, his teeth chattering. " ‘S not funny." "No. Sorry, you're right it isn't funny." Sam snickered as he offered the bottle of Tylenol to his brother with a bottle of water "It's freaking hilarious." Sicktember Prompts filled: Day 13: Mono Day 22: "You didn't use my cup, did you?" Day 29: Sick on a road trip

"Mono, Dean, really?" Sam struggled to breathe through the laughter "You have mono?"

Dean let out a groan as he huddled under the thin, tattered blankets on his dingy motel room bed. In an attempt to stave off the cold, he had even taken the blanket from Sam's bed. "Shut it, Sam," he muttered irritably, his teeth chattering. " ‘S not funny."

"No. Sorry, you're right it isn't funny." Sam snickered as he offered the bottle of Tylenol to his brother with a bottle of water "It's freaking hilarious."

"When I can move again I am going to kill you." Dean groaned. He cursed his luck as he coughed into his arm.

"Maybe this will teach you not to stick your tongue down random girl's throats in sketchy bars." Sam offered as he sat back down at the round wooden table. He pulled out their father's journal and flipped to the page he found while Dean had been gone. "Looks like this town has had a problem in the past with this thing." He started as he opened up his laptop "Same kind of killing happening over the course of twenty years. It's looking like a Crocotta."

"Great. Not these again." Dean groaned. He draped his arm over his eyes and coughed again. "I thought they had a longer lifespan than humans?"

"At least it's something we know how to fight. You're not going to be much use right now so I'm on my own. Also, who do we know who moved here around the time the killings started?" Sam started packing up everything he was planning on taking.

"Jason." Dean pushed himself up, regretting it as the world spun around him, and added "But you aren't going alone. I'm going with you."

"Not a chance, Dean. You can barely stand up. You will get both of us killed." Sam said firmly. He wasn't about to let his idiot brother get them killed over his stupid pride.

Dean flopped back on the bed without a fight. He knew Sam was right and didn't have the energy to argue right now. It was something he could trust Sam to handle on his own. Or maybe... "Bobby isn't too far. Call him. I would feel better if you didn't go alone."

"I don't think we need to bother Bobby over this. I can handle it." Sam was already scrolling to find Bobby's number as he said this. He gave Dean one more pointed look before disappearing outside to talk to Bobby.

Dean stifled a groan as he rolled onto his side to grab the TV remote. This was the worst thing that could have happened to him. He hated staying in bed. He hated being sick. Whatever Sam had given him was making his drowsy -definitely not Tylenol- and he was beginning to struggle to keep his eyes open. He heard Sam shuffling around in the room, but his body felt disconnected from his mind. He would have to get revenge on his brother for this one. He drifted off as the click of the lock echoed loudly in his ringing ears.

It was dark out once Dean came to with a start, the fever-induced nightmare leaving anxiety bubbling in his stomach. He blindly reached over and downed the water on the nightstand. The cold water felt heavenly against his scratchy throat. It was only after he had placed the metal bottle back on the nightstand he realized that it was Sam's. Oops. He rolled onto his back before turning on the TV. It made a strange popping noise that couldn't be normal before slowly coming to life. Screw this crappy motel. He let the noise from the TV fade into the background. It was not interesting at all, but there wasn’t anything better on right now. He drifted in and out for countless hours before he thought he heard something move outside the door. Against the protests of his aching body, he grabbed his gun from under his pillow and slowly, ever so slowly, pushed himself into a sitting position. He eyed the door with unease. Sam should have been back by now right? What was the time? No, focus Dean! The lock clicked. Dean raised his gun in shaky hands. The knob turned. Dean moved his finger to the trigger. Would his gun even work on whatever -whoever- was on the other side of the door? The door opened with a slow creak, hinges squealing, and Dean prepared himself to shoot. A figure moved into his line of vision. Tall and looming in the inky blackness. Then the light was flipped on and Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding light.

“Dean? You okay man?”

Sam. Thank God. Dean felt a rush of relief at his brother’s voice. “Dude,” Dean groaned “I almost shot you!”

“I see this. Who did you think it was?” Sam asked amusement in his voice.

"I don’t know! You probably ate whatever ate you!" Dean exclaimed before flopping back onto the bed with another groan. His brother's cluelessness was frustrating at times. This fever must be scrambling his brain, Dean thought to himself before huffing and then breaking off into a fit of coughing.

As he picked up his water bottle from the nightstand, Sam paused in thought. "So I did leave it here. I was wondering about that," he mused, recalling his actions from the night before. He was pretty sure that it was full when he left, but now it seemed lighter. Shrugging it off as fatigue, he made his way into the kitchenette and refilled it before taking a long drink. Just as he turned, he heard Dean making a choked noise, like a suppressed laugh. "Something funny?" Sam inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope. Not a thing." Dean coughed for real. This was unintentional, but the revenge would still be sweet. He could see the gears turning in Sam's brilliant brain as he connected the dots. He felt the corners of his lips slowly inching upward and snickered again.

"Hey, did you use my water bottle?" Sam asked seriously. He swallowed thickly when Dean just grinned at him "Dean? Did. You. Use. My. Water. Bottle?"

"Good luck, Sammy." Dean snickered before plopping back down to the bed.