#talking with: impaledlotus

[magic-is-something-we-create]

i'm curious, ember for the blorbo bingo? :eyes:

HI hello i got back from my weekend break maybe 20 seconds ago and ill have u know i have filled out this bingo card for 6 characters at LEAST already. but anyway heres embers <3

at least one woman that fears ember is actaea and the fish that love them are the deepfolk. no i will not explain further

[angsty-prompt-hole]

i saw you mention some ocs in that tag-the-oc that’s always on your mind. i’d love to hear a little bit about them!

Oooo yes I believe I mentioned Haven in that one. She is one of my favorite OCs and she lives rent free in my head constantly.

There's an old ask where i rambled about her on my blog somewhere but I'm banished to mobile and can't search for it right now, so I'll just ramble away again lmao. One day she'll get a proper character introduction, but I'm waiting to do that for Reasons.

The short version is that she got involved in some crazy stuff when she was in her mid-20's because her dad had gone missing, and when his body was found, there was a bunch of weird stuff with him. It all ended with Haven being tormented by an eldritch monstrosity that turned her into something less than human, an immortal being with black scleras and fractured sanity.

After that, she became a bit of an interdimensional bounty hunter and started hunting down people associated with the entity. She didn't want them to continue to harm people.

Along the way, she ended up accidentally adopting two different children (moreso she tried to get them to someone who could actually take care of them but they got extremely attached to her and refused to leave) and she befriended a phoenix named Fenris. She also had a significant other named Liam at one point, but tragic circumstances left him permanently incapacitated, which really did not help her fragile mental state.

Haven isn't her real name and is just one in a long line of aliases she's used over the centuries, and by the time she started using that name she'd almost completely forgotten her real name.

She's a very grumpy and sarcastic person and tends to come off as excessively violent, aggressive, and hard to work with, but she does have a softer side. It's hard to get to, but it's there.

She appears in a lot of my WIPs (Rot and Ruin and Kiriska's Story being the main ones, but she cameos in a lot of other places) and she does have her own thing I'm planning that isn't really a writing thing so it's never really talked about here, but it goes through her backstory and what happened to her that led to her being turned.

This is what she looks like (art by @birdy-the-artist ):

Her metal hand is a prosthetic, and the heterochromia was also a physical side effect of being turned. Originally, both of her eyes were hazel. The dog tags she's wearing belonged to Liam.

[magic-is-something-we-create]

oh my god i only just saw this

THANK U MIDNIGHT this is so very sweet <3<3<3

Well, it's probably VERY late for this...

But here's the August / Writeblr roundup and overview?

Through this writeblr, I have managed to reach 1000 posts!! (half of them being reblogs, but that's no matter LOL)

I have managed to reach 74 followers, and I am glad that I captivated a lot of people with my world, the Melodiverse!!

MY FAVORITE MUTUALS THAT I'VE MADE THROUGH WRITEBLR, a list:

@impaledlotus - We met through me liking his many WIPs (for example, The Chronicles of Lathsbury or TCoL for short! I'm planning to make an appreciation post for that WIP later today hehe)

@athenixrose - I met Athena through being utterly captivated by the "ARBU", or the Athena Rose Book Universe, and the many WIPs that exist inside it!! (looking at Terraclaw, and Wildlands, specifically!)

@carefulpyro - I met lovely Cassius through this single message in my Tumblr DMs (hope he doesn't mind me sharing a screenshot of this message):

And little did I know that this first message, would bring me to discover Chronicles of Avalon (the chosen one WIP mentioned in Cass's first message), and fall in love with the many characters, like: Castien, Jami, Kit, and Tallesin thus far!)

4. That brings us to Natsume, or @365runesofpassion! A lovely positive person, with a wonderfully weaved world, called the Storyverse!

5. @blind-the-winds - Also known as Jax, I first met him through discovering The Nameless Song, a fantasy WIP whose vibes are that of: Final Fantasy, Dungeons & Dragons and Art Nouveau! It was through his writeblr blog that I discovered a thing he calls "Witching Hours" where he spends exactly 2 hours on Tumblr answering any asks and posting things in his queue, that's what I've been told anyway LOL

6. @circa-specturgia - I discovered their blog through their amazingly described dark fantasy WIP, Circa Specturgia!

7. @mel-writes-with-her-dragons - I discovered her blog through the absolutely adorable URL and was instantly intrigued by many of her WIPs!

8. And finally, the amazing Locke (@lockejhaven!) - I discovered his blog through the North Haven Discord Server (which is a discord server where people can set up "realms" by subscribing to different categories on the server!)

WHAT'S UP NEXT FOR THIS WRITEBLR BLOG?

Well, since school is starting up for me on Tuesday next week, just a warning that I may NOT be as active as I was during summer. But other than that, in the background, I'll try to work as much as I can on whichever WIP strikes my fancy on that day!

More WIP Intros

Posting more of the worldbuilding in the Melodiverse

AND that's my late overview for this writeblr and a wrap up of August!

[fearofahumanplanet]

Jane Talks Publishing, and Some Other Things-

I've had quite a few people mention this to me and that's honestly the only reason I'm bringing this up- However!

I've had quite a few people (before today but especially today thanks to my supply seeking positivity ask game) ask about wanting to get my books when they're published!

Well, I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately, so let's talk about that for a moment

I have been spending a couple months trying to get Karma Killer queried to agents. It has not gone well thus far - lot of rejections. This is normal, but I'm also not 100% if I'm gonna nail anyone with it, or my other works (maybe Serpents, but that's nowhere near a publishable state). There's reasons for that - for one, I haven't been able to afford a professional editor to go over my work, that's all been done by me.

For another, I have no publishing history whatsoever - I haven't been published anywhere, haven't self-published anything, don't have a large online platform, etc. They say everyone likes an underdog, but I think that quote needs to be revised, bc I've learned agents don't. Thirdly, my work in general is not what a lot of agents want to see - the market is really aimed towards romances and fluff and literally every single agent that I've seen that wants horror says they want the next fucking "Mexican Gothic". I have never learned such hatred for a single book. My work is not like Mexican Gothic. I didn't like Mexican Gothic, actually, so it's REALLY not like Mexican Gothic. But the few agents that want horror all want Mexican Gothic.

(I'm sorry if that rant seemed to come out of nowhere, but seriously, it's a real problem right now, I'm not exaggerating-)

ANYWAY. So this is all a long-winded way of saying I'm trying?? But I'm not 100% positive I'll manage to get trad-published, and I absolutely cannot afford to self-publish - I cannot work, I am too disabled to do so, which is. Lovely.

HOWEVER!!!

ALL THIS POSITIVITY AND SUPPORT HAS MADE ME REALIZE THAT I MAY HAVE WAY MORE OF AN AUDIENCE THAN I THOUGHT. LIKE, SERIOUSLY. A LOT OF YOU CAME OUT OF THE WOODWORK THAT I DON'T REGULARLY TALK TO, EVEN, AND I WAS JUST. POSITIVELY DUMBFOUNDED!! REALLY.

So, yeah, I'm not going to make a habit of this (without being prompted), bc I hate feeling like I'm begging for attention or whatever. HOWEVER. If y'all want those books on your shelves and I am unable to get an agent, there is one thing you can do right now with no cost!

Just spread the word, tell people about my stuff maybe if you think they'd enjoy it?? By no means feel obligated, you're not marketing agents and you're people with your own lives, but yeah - if I get something of a "fanbase" (I cannot fathom it), I might be able to fundraise some money to self-publish in the event I can't find an agent - and then we can some print copies of my books :D

But, again, that's all up to you lovely folks. I just figured I might as well write about that whole process, bc hardly anybody does address the monolith that is publishing.

(If y'all do spread the word a bit though, actually let me know and I will get a cookie or something. A writing snippet I haven't shared publicly or something. This is, again, not me wanting to beg. I just don't have many options as an indie author and I figured I might as well talk about what I'm planning to do in the future to get these books out to you guys.)

Also, Karma Killer (finished) and Miasma (first draft) are available as PDFs - I can't put them publicly on Wattpad or anything, bc then agents will want them even less, but I can share them in private channels. So feel free to ask for those if you want, get an idea of what I'm trying to get published right now :)

Alright, that's all, I'll let you get back to your lives now :) Thanks for all the support, I have never felt this motivated and... empowered, I guess? in my life. Gotta be a better word for it than "empowered". But y'all are the best <3

General Taglist: @aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @carefulpyro, @marinesocks, @writingpotato07

[kudzucataclysm]

Hello! I am here to ask about S!E :]

I don't know more than I do know, so here's a recap of the things I do know:

There was an apocalypse thingie and martians are now a thing

Francis is part martian, full of rage and used as a weapon consistently

There's a tiny little guy that's full of love, anger and trauma. Somebody help him please

Francis has Martian relatives/cousins that are assholes

Little guy (you may have caught on to the fact that I keep forgetting his name) is also very abused

Martian age is weird. They age more quickly if needed but sometimes not (?)

The US is even more fucked than it usually is, given the apocalypse and all

I would be absolutely delighted to know more about any of these points! Sorry for forgetting the little guy's name, my memory is just like that. I have adopted him though he's my little guy

HIIII i absolutely love this question!! and dw we are all forgetful here but im afraid you'll have to fight @impaledlotus for custody of the little guy v-v my bad

HERE WE GO

There was an apocalypse thingie and martians are now a thing

There were TWO APOCALYPSES ACTUALLY!! Yes indeed, you heard right; the 1962 nuclear exchange AND the 1962 yellowstone supervolcano eruption that Lupe Altena managed to kiiiind of stop from happening. Then Martians invaded in the 80s and basically went “damn bitch you live like this???” to humanity and colonized earth with the goal of 'wildlife management'. You cant just let your new food source kill itself off through dumb decisions!! Thatd be very…counterproductive lol

but i suppose Gabriel's Arrow was also considered an apocalyptic event of sorts? when theres a global outbreak of superpowers that affected 40% of the population (800,000,000 people YEESH), there was significant societal upheaval for a solid decade or so, with the cold war on top of everything..i think it'd depend on the historian! and trust me the history textbook no the 20th century in SE is 30 pounds and historians are required to undergo annual psychological evaluations :D a LOT happened in a century or so

Francis is part martian, full of rage and used as a weapon consistently

that is correct! she is a chimera, and one that is half human half martian (with really weird abilities that other chimeras don’t have have hm 🤔). and yes she is EXTREMELY angry becuz her entire life has been absolute shit- she isn’t seen as a person but a weapon and a monster instead, so she doesnt really know how to act like a kid! she also has severe PTSD, possible BPD, anger issues, a bit of sociopathy, SELF INFLICTED AMNESIA, and a plethora of other things going on. every adult in her life has failed her, none more so than her aunt/adoptive ‘parent’ FRIDAY…but that shall be explored more in the story unless u want more info on that

There's a tiny little guy that's full of love, anger and trauma. Somebody help him please

thats Desmond!!! the goodest boy :3 and uh yeah 😔 what kind of monster would hurt a child like this 😶‍🌫️

Francis has Martian relatives/cousins that are assholes

millions of em actually!! or at least several tens of thousands…her dad gets around a lol 😅 and maybe in particular you’re talking about Oz, her twin? yeah he’s an asshole. a bastard even >:D

Little guy (you may have caught on to the fact that I keep forgetting his name) is also very abused

He is 😔 emotionally, verbally and mentally by his dad and older brother ever since his oldest sibling Happy left and his mom had a huge accident that has left her in the hospital almost all the time. he is also neglected. tis all very sad but there IS a lowkey fucked up reason as to why his dad treats him as he does. but thats SECREEEET

Martian age is weird. They age more quickly if needed but sometimes not (?)

it depends on their environment and who’s in it! the average modern Martian is completely matured within 3 years- they used to reach maturity by 4-6 months (back in the Martian STONE AGES). however, both Martians and chimera can age slower if raised by a human or in extremely safe, nurturing conditions (Martians can’t age as slow as chimeras can tho).

francis was raised (for most of her life) by a human, so she’s 15 years old physiologically and mentally. her twin oz, raised by martians, is 30 years old physiologically despite them both coming from the same egg :D

The US is even more fucked than it usually is, given the apocalypse and all

yeeeeaaaah the US is disincorporated. disenfranchised. split up. GONE

well mostly. the west coast was annexed by the political-military alliance of south east asia, and alaska was given to russia/the ussr as ‘compensation’ for uh the weather terrorism that the US did. yay!

las vegas, nevada is now LAS NEVADAS and is it’s own independent city state just like Necropolis. it’s a capitalists wet dream and it’s controls almost the water in the west

the midwest, where most of the nukes fell iiiiis wasteland. the (contains) yellowstone eruption literally blew open the continental shelf under the mainland US and now it’s an irradiated wasteland where WEIRDOS live. that’s where Desmond comes from :D

the south east has been lost to a virulent strain of parasitic KUDZU as well as feral Martians and feral DINOSAURS. yes, we brought em back. yes, you can have them as pets (for a cooool 5$ million). so nobody goes there unless like, you’re going on a safari hunt or something. people live there but they’re extremely isolated and kinda dangerous

the northeast-mid atlantic is all that’s left of “The United States of America” and it’s a corporate police state that’s under constant martial law thats under the rule of a president grown in a lab in the middle of nowhere…who is ALSO under supervision of two major foreign powers. except for NECROPOLIS WOOOO

Necropolis (the N.E.C or ‘The Nec(k)”) is the main setting for Arc 1, and is a GIGANTIC CITY made out of alien “living metal” and other Martian bullshit technology that combines all of the entire New York tri-state metropolitan area. Theres MARTIANS, MUTANTS, ADP MONSTERS!! And ofc, chimera :D so how does everyone manage to not kill each other?? the giant UFO thats constantly hovering over the city, and govt funded/backed 'superheroes'

But yuuup thats the state of the US in SE vv’ its a mess. No one wants to live here tbh (unless youre a criminal mastermind or hypercapitalist or something. weird!)

aaaa i had fun answering these! i hope i answered all your questions just fine, but if theres anything else you wanna know plz dont be afraid to ask :D

[valeffelees]

Get to Know Me Tag

indirectly tagged by @impaledlotus, my very super awesome mutual who has never once bullied me for having a brain made of noodles, even though it is completely within his rights to do so. he is very cool, y'all should follow him. n e way,

rules: answer the questions and tag nine people you want to know better.

favorite colour: - yellow and green. sometimes blue? blue the way flowers are blue.

currently reading: - gone girl, carry on, a court of wings and ruin, heaven official's blessing, and the institute, and i'm gonna be re-reading the invisible life of addie larue because i really enjoyed it. i'm also reading a handful of fanfics (three convin fics, a reed900 fanfic, and a rosella fanfic), but y'all don't need the titles for those.

last song: - line without a hook by ricky montgomery.

last series: - uuuhh... oh, i binge-watched the last season of superstore with my girlfriend a couple days ago. i don't watch a lot of tv/series anymore 'cause i spend so much time reading and writing and shit.

last movie: - a documentary about mushrooms. *shrugs*

sweet/savory/spicy: - i dunno. i only really like vegetables, but i cook them in vinegar and add a shitload of black pepper, so like. i think that's savory?

currently working on: - we're not gonna talk about the fanfic i'm working on because i was supposed to have it finished almost a month ago, but writer's block had me in a chokehold the entirety of july and august so now i'm playing catch up. *pained smile*

tagging: - ugh, i hate this part. the absolute audacity (/lh) in assuming i know nine people. NINE PEOPLE? bruh, 60% of the people i follow haven't been inactive on this hellsite since 2015, eat ass. n e way, @marvelmerlinao3 @ashterblaster @loverofbumblebees @fragmentedblacksoul @veilder @sheyshocked @sweetmaple @cptjh-arts @sobcato if y'all feelin' up to it, and anyone else who feels like doing this.

[primroseprime2019]

Incorrect Quotes Tag

Thanks for the tag, @talesofsorrowandofruin

Rules: use this quote generator & list as many quotes as you like using characters from your WIPs, then tag as many people as quotes you listed.

These are from Transcendants.

Paige: Not trying to brag or anything, but I can wake up without an alarm clock now simply due to my crippling and overwhelming anxiety, so...

————

Pandora: This is such a bad idea.

Molly: Then why are you coming along?

Pandora: One of us need to be able to talk the cops out of arresting us when this inevitably goes wrong.

————

Paige: What's a word thats a mix between 'sad' and 'mad'?

Keith: Disgruntled, miserable, desolated-

Elizabeth: Smad.

————

Astrid: Have you seen a person named Linus around here?

Natalia: Ugh, yes. He made a horrible mess of the blood fountain.

Harry: It looks fine to me?

Natalia: IT USED TO BE WATER!!!

————

Troy: I’ve done a lot of dumb stuff.

Silas: I witnessed the dumb stuff.

Dante: I recorded the dumb stuff.

Roxy: I joined in on the dumb stuff.

Felix: I TRIED TO STOP YOU FROM DOING THE DUMB STUFF!!!

————

Paige: Hewwo.

Morgan: Hihiiiiii!

Hudson: Greetings, Humans.

Eric: Three kinds of people.

Marley: I want pudding.

Eric: Four kinds of people.

Margaret: WHAT’S UP FUCKERS?

Eric: Five kinds of people.

———

Tagging: @movieexpert1978 @overlookedfile @randomfandomtrash28 @impaledlotus-archive @wingsy-keeper-of-songs @ryns-ramblings @spuddlespud @droid-shipping and anyone who wants to do this

[magic-is-something-we-create]

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool)🎶✨

<3<3<3 thank u ren!!

in terms of writing music ive been listening to lately:

- Lit Fuse by Audiomachine - Daydream by Marika Takeuchi - Pathway by Kevin Penkin - Ezio's Family by Jesper Kyd - Third Deviation by Audiomachine

[magic-is-something-we-create]

Find the Word tag IX

I was tagged by @impaledlotus!! Thank <3

My words are lost, sigh, sing, & angel!

Lost (Echoseers, Ember POV):

“You want to talk, Ember?”

He looks directly at my hiding spot, and I have to fight the instinct to deflate, because this is far from the first time I’ve lost a match of hide-and-seek to my scrawny, too-smart little brother.

Instead, I slip out of the alcove and take him up on his offer.

Sigh (Goddess-Touched, Annie POV; Content warning: Description of corpses, allusions to drowning):

“Bad.” She purses her lips, muffles another cough in cloth. “Handful of people in the Commune said they saw monsters in the water. Two up and walked into the ocean last night with ‘bout a dozen others, like they were sleeping and couldn’t wake. Haven’t washed up yet.”

I hear Ember’s strangled sobs, their description of [REDACTED]’s bloated corpse, and have to set the teacup down for fear of breaking it.

“What...” I sigh, swiping stray hair out of my eyes. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

Sing (Echoseers, Ember POV):

He nods, somber. “What do you remember of her?”

“I was born in the small orchard she kept. The fruit always tasted the sweetest of anything, but that might just be nostalgia.” My eyes drift to the flames, and then to the stars. “She gave the best hugs, and she taught me and Nimbus how to read before we even started school. And she liked to sing while she cooked, so we knew she was right there if we got hurt in the living room.”

Typha’s smile is soft, when I find him again as my few memories fade back into the periphery of my mind.

“She sounds like someone I knew, once.”

Angel - never used! Angels don't exist in the Ehlverse, and I'm even working on removing references to hell and devilish/demonic in favor of things that make more sense for their religion! Especially since there's not really a concept of "sin", at least not anything the Goddesses themselves will ever punish someone for. Hurting others is more likely to make them upset, but only because it's, like, their own creation self-destructing, in a way.

And I haven't written enough non-Ehlverse stuff to have ever referenced angels either 😅

I'll tag, in return: @blind-the-winds, @writeblrfantasy, @lanawritesalittle, @faithfire, and @space-cadead! As always, absolutely 0 pressure, and feel free to treat this like an open tag if you like the word list I give ya!

Your words are hide, cup, break, memory, and monster!

[magic-is-something-we-create]

Pass the happy! When you receive this, list 5 things that make you happy and send this to 10 of the last people in your notifications ✨

hold on im about to expose myself with this list

- my dogs - Empires SMP - watching anime with my sibling - minecraft - my hoard of pillows

[fearofahumanplanet]

Concrete Riven Excerpt (10/11/2022)

This is a little excerpt of my WIP Predator: Concrete Riven, a fanfiction novella set in Skid Row, Los Angeles, following an Irish mob enforcer, a homeless war veteran, and the Bad Blood that stalks them. You can read more about it here!

CW: Torture/physical abuse, fascists that are sadly still alive (for now...)

Excerpt Word Count: 387

Overall Word Count: 2,374

Clío's gotten herself into a spot of torture and interrogation, but luckily, her assailants seem to suck at their job...

Concrete Riven Taglist (ask to be added!)

@aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @creepypyromancer, @marinesocks, @writingpotato07, @hey-its-quill, @dogmomwrites, @andromedatalksaboutstuff, @bpdgotmelike

Please reblog and share your thoughts, it makes my day and motivates me to continue posting :)

“She’s awake,” one of her swastika-inked assailants remarks, but she isn’t quite able to pick him out through the sack over her head. She feels at the ropes that bind her to her chair – first her wrists, then her feet. The ones around her wrists are quite good, she must admit, but the bindings that tie down her ankles are far too low, and Clío will be quite capable of slipping out of them in good time.

“Make sure of that,” somebody barks, and Clío grits her teeth in preparation for the first blow.

She needn’t have worried. It’s a weak punch. Her head snaps to the side as he barely bruises her cheek, her teeth grinding together. Her priority, she already knows, is to make sure they don’t get her to bite off her fucking tongue.

Her head throbs, which is unavoidable in this sort of situation, but she thinks the music is doing more for that then the man’s flimsy fucking punch did. Clío cracks her neck and straightens up in her designated seat, picking out the chatter from the pounding music. “You know, lads, if you really want to drive me mad, you’ve gotta put on something heavier than Metallica. That’s pathetic shite.”

The white supremacists around her don’t seem quite sure how to respond to that. “What the fuck are you talking about?” one manages.

Clío shakes her head. “Have you never tortured someone before? Look, it’s – Metallica, really? I know fifth graders who listen to fucking Metallica. My goddamned father’s third wife listens to Metallica, bless her, and she’s convinced he operates a legitimate casino without any shady dealings whatsoever. You can’t even offend a conservative with Metallica anymore, and you think hearing it is going to drive me to madness and apology?”

The silence stretches on, and Clío gives the rope around her feet the slightest of tugs, unsure who’s watching. “Do you have any recommendations?” one of her wannabe torturers snidely fires back.

“Harsh noise loops,” Clío says earnestly. “Strap some headphones to a poor bastard, full volume noise loops. Leave him like that for a few hours, no deviation, no respite. He’ll be crying. It makes for a good first round.”

“First round?”

“Are you suggesting this was your whole plan?” Clío laughs, letting her pitch fly high for once.

[fearofahumanplanet]

Concrete Riven Excerpt (10/25/2022)

This is a little excerpt of my WIP Predator: Concrete Riven, a long-fic set in Skid Row, Los Angeles, following an Irish mob enforcer, a homeless war veteran, and the Bad Blood that stalks them. You can catch up here!

CW: References to offscreen violence and death

Excerpt Word Count: 433

Overall Word Count: 9,086

Hello, PTSD!

Concrete Riven Taglist (ask to be added!)

@aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @creepypyromancer, @marinesocks, @writingpotato07, @hey-its-quill, @dogmomwrites, @andromedatalksaboutstuff, @bpdgotmelike

Please reblog and share your thoughts, it makes my day and motivates me to continue posting :)

It rains and it pours as they make their way back, the storm getting fiercer to such a degree that even Henri seems surprised. On one occasion Clío has to catch them as one of their crutches slip halfway through a crosswalk, and on another occasion Henri smacks Clío in the back of the leg when they nearly step right into a muddy gutter. The air grows thicker with fog and the sky blurs away, the clouded darkness betraying the fact that it’s barely noon.

And all along the way, Clío keeps seeing hulking, wristbladed demons in the dark.

All walk long, she falls out of conversation with her newfound companion, constantly thinking back to the events of that morning, and she has to concede that they most likely didn’t happen. She had fallen out of a window, that much was certain, and with the pain in her head and the sluggishness of her body, she imagines she can’t have escaped such a tumble without earning a nasty concussion.

And concussions could do a hell of a lot, couldn’t they?

She’s sure seen a lot of shitty B-movies, horror flicks she’s found for a dollar or two apiece in the bottom of bargain bins. The lizard-like thing she recollects, that clicking stalker that seems to be around every corner and at the end of every road? She can only imagine she’s probably dragged some rubber-suited fiend into her memories for whatever godforsaken reason, and that’s the end of the whole deal.

Gods, Pa really wasn’t kidding when he said he could see the cracks forming at the end of it all. She really was slipping.

She could’ve killed those guys herself. She certainly has the ability, and she’s survived worse before. What Clío didn’t understand was why she was concocting a boogeyman now.

Was she reaching the end of the road? She remembered a great-uncle of hers talking about how often he saw the damned dullahan in the weeks before he was shot up on the side of the road by some vengeful Italians – the Irish grim reaper, the headless driver of a carriage stacked high with bodies. He came calling your name, and that’s when you knew it was all over, and down to Hell with your soul.

That was the thing with the mob, really. Disturbing devotion to the Church they may display, but they all knew they were going to Hell at the end of the day.

Clío can’t help but think that if this predator is her personal dullahan, then they certainly don’t look the way she had imagined.

[fearofahumanplanet]

D.N.R. (short story by me)

I've been just venting with this blog lately and that's kinda cringe so I'm going to compensate by venting with a story instead, something I wrote a long time ago to help cope with my BPD and process it. I hope it can help someone understand people with this condition or help those with this condition find something to relate to or smth.

I'm okay right now, I'm just really proud of this story and wanted to actually share some of my work to maybe cope with how I've been feeling today better. I wrote this story a year or two ago and I'm doing a lot better now - I have a therapist, treatment, a small support system, etc. I don't want this story to prompt worry, I just want to share for anyone who needs it. It's dark, but it's how I heal.

TW: Suicide references/suicidal thoughts, self-harm, BPD symptoms & references to unstable relationships, light blood, self-hatred (lmk if I should add any more). If you're in a bad place, I would not advise reading this (unless raw emotion like this helps you personally).

General Taglist: @aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @carefulpyro

I live my life in a waiting room.

I wait, they wait, we all wait. It’s supposed to bring us together. It’s supposed to make some sort of fucking team out of us. That’s the funny thing about people, really. You could glue us together, and we’d tear ourselves in half just to get away.

Don’t take that as a criticism free of hypocrisy.

With that thought in mind, I can only thank the heartless gods above for sentencing me solace, over and over and over, and I’ve never been so compliant and happy with a decision I loathe and regret.

My name doesn’t matter, never has. I’m a therapist of sorts. Real funny, I know – People can always tell, even past the pessimism that drenches every word, the agoraphobic misanthrope at my core.

You wouldn’t think I’d manage it, but it’s fascinating, how far you can get with a broken smile.

I mean, it’s a broken smile – Of course it’s a lie. Of course it’s a fallacy, of course it’s forced, fit for a fiend. But no one’s noticed yet. That’s the strength of a well-timed joke, one calculated mask. You hide everything you are, and you find something that’s real likeable. A real people person, someone sent to save.

And I save. Some days, I don’t feel I can manage that, but they tell me so. In this room of four walls, of a blank floor and ceiling, of nothing but a clean, inviting chair – I find the writings on the walls, the notes in the margins, little hopes from the haughty heavens.

You’re not alone. You are loved. You are valuable. You save so many. You are funny. You never run out of things to say. You are loved. You have saved lives. You have redeemed every sin. You are loved. You know how to bring a smile. You aren’t going to die alone. You won’t ever be alone again.

The angels of my idyllic fantasies surround me, chanting, touching, holding.

You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved.

And every day, I remember to stop slamming my head into the wall with every recitation. Every day, I lean down low, where all is familiar. I soak the blood in my fingers, let it run down the skin, let it fill out the cracks in my psyche. And when it’s all buried, when it’s all swept out of sight…

I slap on my broken smile, and greet the droves devouring.

It’s another broken woman, meek behind a mismatched mask. Her smile is broken, and I’m the only one who sees. They never mean to find their way to me, but they do.

It’s the same game every bloody time. I say hello. They say hello. They wonder how I got here. I just tell them I have a knack for showing where I’m needed. They don’t think about it. They never think. They don’t even know who I really am, my mask a memorable masterpiece. It’s always small talk at first. Music, video games. They tell me they don’t understand, my compassion, my kindness, my understandings. I shrug, and flash another humble, hollow smile.

Why wouldn’t I be this way, I say. Every damn time. I never need to adjust the script. There are no plot holes to cover, no rusted gears. The system grinds on without deviation.

I try not to let them in. I try to keep them above surface level, make sure they only meet the mask. It never works, but I’m going to try again. Spin the hamster wheel.

It’s not that I wish to keep them away, you see. I’m only an isolationist by incident, a misanthrope by mistake, a pariah by punishment. I’m sick, hopelessly sick. It seeps out from beneath my skin, hiding behind my sunken eyes, lurking under my serpent tongue. I try to swallow it down, treasure the venom. No one needs to know, no one that doesn’t already. No one I’ve yet to fail.

And this woman, like every one before her, she doesn’t know a thing about me. But the venom is alluring, and I know everything about her. I see it in her lying eyes, and she breaks down and spills her guts out on the floor. I just mop them up and listen, cradle her when she cries, pet her hair when she can’t spit out any more. And I just smile and embody the angels.

It will be all right. You are loved. You are not alone. There is someone out there for you. You will not die alone. You are loved. No one is beyond redemption. No one is without hope.

And I can say every word with absolute belief, every scene in my script without error. I have had thousands of years to practice, and I will have thousands more.

This next bit always happens. Actually, I could say that about everything here, but this I resent the most. She thanks me, and tells me she’ll be back tomorrow. I smile and tell her I’d love that. She says she will never abandon me.

I keep the smile on, let loose no levity. And I tell her, like I told all the others. These things never last. She will grow to hate me, and I tell her so. She will grow to loathe the mere thought of me, and I tell her so. She will grow to rue my name, to curse the ground I walk on, to panic and stab and burn until there is nothing left of me before her.

And I tell her so.

And without a waver, taking no time for hesitation, she just says she’s not like the others. That she isn’t going anywhere, this time. That there is hope this time. And not once she wonders why the theoretical therapist is the one breaking down every fucking night. Why would she? It’s all out of sight.

And she’s gone, away from me, and I know she will spend every minute thinking about me. And I know I will spend every one of those minutes regretting them.

This pariah paces her pen, praying for a pale horse.

The silence overwhelms. The silence snuffs, the silence sneaks in when you think you’ve found a sure fate.

I contemplate, turn and roll over in mud and dirt. The day slips away, and night nuzzles in. I think about my newest woman. I have seen it happen so many times, over thousands of years, hundreds and hundreds of times.

But I am naught but a full circle, and I allow myself hope again. I allow myself one more forsaken breath.

The silence slips down low, rejuvenating my venom, strengthening my sickness. I try to eat, and I vomit it up, hoping my heart will come up with it. The thought is fast and sudden, just like that. It no longer shocks, no longer ignites alarm. I cannot fathom concern.

I rock back and forth in the dark, empty room. I put on one of countless records, watch movies of malicious murder and horrific hatred, write another story no one will ever read. I pace the room, I kick the walls, I scream my lungs out to the tune of my favourite song. With every meaningless minute, I forget myself. With every severed second, I lose track.

And it always hits me, every night, the same sudden thought, the same onset of dread. Isn’t that funny?

Every night, I feel I’ve lost my mind.

I can’t lose it over and over, of course. It must have left me long ago. But if I’m going to lose my mind, couldn’t it take all of its malignant maladies with it?

The second thought is always the same too. This fate feels like forever.

And that’s even sillier than the first. Of course it’s forever. It will always be forever. There is no escape.

There is a third thought. Don’t worry, this is the last one, and it too, happens every night.

It’s that this thought should be the last one.

So, I make it so. I take the knife, and I try to find out what makes me tick, scout out a new avenue, plot out some new elaborate method I have yet to attempt. Every night, that is how I go, cradling the knife like a stuffed teddy, showering myself in a bottle of vodka, popping my pills like candy.

I find every way to numb my nagging nuisance of a mind, and it still keeps coming. Because I know, deep down, this new hope is nothing new. It is a resurgence, a repetition of centuries past. It is a false flare, a lost lighthouse. And I swim and I swim, even as I tell myself to sink. And every night, I do. I sink, drenched in my own blood, seeping out through freshly torn slits, the aroma of alcohol affecting every word I regret. I spend minutes debating, searching, no inch of skin untarnished.

It comes to something when you run out of room for scars.

I’ll say not a word, not to the aiding angels, not to the compassionate client. I am alone, I have always been and always will be. I was born and thrown away without the aid of another, abandoned with abject apathy, and I am content with my lot.

I am not content because I am happy, but I am content for I know there is nothing better.

Sometimes, if I’m particularly unlucky, the angels will hover in, finding my bloodstained, drunken corpse stretched out across the floor. They will tug the bottles from my hands, hide the knife somewhere else, knowing I will find it again. I am determined, I am without limit, waning in this war simply for a will without want.

If they’re there, they always tell me. I am loved. I am wanted. I am needed. I am of worth. I am of benefit. I have saved. I have redeemed. I am not alone.

The angels smile around me, fading with every flicker of the candle. They are real, but they don’t know a thing. They are so far away, holding me to their chests.

They are scared. I am loved. They are scared. I am loved. They are scared. I am loved.

They need me. They can’t live without me. They can’t. They can’t imagine a world without me.

It’s a shame I have proven to be so uselessly useful. It is a shame I have found a way to chain worthy souls to my empty body. It is a shame I always manage to find a new person to save, when I can’t even save myself.

It is a shame they can’t imagine a world without me, because I no longer want to imagine a world with me.

Every time I die, I fear at the fall. Not for my soul, for the promise of hell is a welcome relief. Not for the ones left behind, because I know they’re better off without.

And every night, I write it on my neck, over a thousand purple scars.

D.N.R.

Instructions no one will abide by. I hope they do this time. I hope they abide. I hope they forget. I hope they respect.

Tonight is like every night. I pass away and fall, embrace the empty, find there is nothing beyond the void, realize the devil below or the salvation above are simply manufactured dreams.

There is nothing, and I am nothing.

Every morning, air ambushes my ambivalence. I remember to live again, remember I have a job to do. I roll out of bed, stitch the wounds, pry shattered glass loose of skin. I feel for my heart without hope, and see with no amount of surprise that beats once more.

I loom over the mirror, and search the dirtied floor for my abandoned broken smile.

I stitch on my savior’s smile.

And I meet the woman again, the name of who matters not. They orbit my ouroboros, like every one before her, and they are identical in naught but function.

Like all the others before her, I embody her anchor. She comes to me, day in, day out. She sees the fresh scars and beating bruises, but I tell her to worry not. I reassure her with promises and encourage, and I get closer and closer.

And every time I learn to love again, I forget why I chose to let that knowledge go.

The longer we lay together, the less she’s convinced. As weeks whistle by, I have to let my mask slip, loose my serpent’s tongue. The venom crawls down her skin, and I can see what I am doing, but I am too selfish to care. With every drop, my scars and sins come clearer in view, like blurred photographs rendered in clarity.

And I can see her eyes break with every passing month, but I am too selfish to care, too lonely and lost to let her go.

I tell her of the ocean, of my wistful love for the waves. I tell her of beaches, of abyssal depths only I know. I tell her I will take there, I tell her I will never let her go. And I know I never will.

And with my hand in hers, every longing lie is a cross easier to bear. My will wears away with every passing night. Every moon, I re-iterate my instruction.

D.N.R.

Because maybe they’ll listen.

D.N.R.

Maybe someone above will practice mercy.

D.N.R.

And with all this hate I’ve spread, this venom I’ve made a virus, you’d think one victim would find a way to strike me down.

Tonight, months into this ouroboros, she joins the angels, the hundreds of angels. She is still solid yet, not like them, fading and translucent, hazy and flickering. She has found me with a fallen mask, met me in my correct configuration.

I always want to tell them not to lean on me. Because when they do, I lean on them, and I know the disease will spread.

But she joins the angels, like all the real ones did before, pleading with me, making me promises I know will fade away. She fails to see them around her, crowding, begging.

I am loved. I am wanted. I am needed. I am valuable. I am of worth. I am helpful. I am funny. I am the highlight of your day. I am clever. I am insightful. I am a blessing.

And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying.

And I wish you fucking knew that.

And I beg her not to leave me, as the blood fills my lungs. And she says she never will.

Not like every love before her, not like every ally before her, not like my mother before her, not like my home before her.

And the promise is a cushion, even as I know she’ll change her mind. But I hold onto hope. Because that’s what the angels tell me every day.

There is hope. No one is beyond saving. You still have time.

Time is not a comfort. Time is a sentence. Time is the promise of life. Time is something I do not wish to handle.

And I scream out every one of these words, roar out many more.

Because when the mask falls, I am the venom. I am sick, I am violent, I am overcome, I am lashing out.

And no matter how hard I try, I find no healthy option to shuttle it all away.

How do you help someone hidden away in the waiting room? How do you help someone buried from birth, silenced from the start?

Why do they tell me they want to hear my words, when every single letter leaves a scar?

I am never alone. My shadow hangs over me, and it never leaves me a moment’s peace.

And so I die again, choking on my own poisonous bile.

This is not the first incident the woman sees. It happens again, two weeks later. Again, four days after. Again, two days after. Again, three hours after.

Because once the mask drops, I can never seem to find it again, and I fail to dig up another broken smile.

The sickness wears on her, paling her skin, bags beneath her eyes, cold resignation beneath more and more words. And I have seen it happen a thousand times, and I cannot help but remind her that it is my fault she grows sick. I remind her that I am at fault for my contagious nature.

And it takes so long. It takes months, and months. But she finally lets go.

I hold her all night long, and we talk of the ocean. I hold her, and she tells me of the places we’ll go, and the things we will see. And I dream of broken promises.

I dream of the ocean.

I wake up, and she is gone.

I scream and I thrash, and I drench her side of the bed with my blood.

The sun comes and goes without care, hidden out of sight. I shiver and vomit, cradling my broken body, tracing every well-deserved scar. And I wake up dead that morning, once more, routine inescapable.

I stare my newest angel in the eyes, pale and flickering like the rest, a ghost to the reasonable soul.

A mangled memory.

I am loved. I am needed. I am wanted. I am helpful. I am clever. I am helpful. I am a blessing. I am-

I shoot the angel, knowing she will return, knowing the ghosts of my criminal past are this pariah’s penance. I take another drink, gulp down another pill, come up with another broken smile.

I know not whether this will ever end. But this is my lot in life, and I have learned to welcome my lonely road.

I hear the chime of the bell, another clueless client, the ouroboros coiling anew.

I consider my options, consider the dead woman, staring back at me from the mirror with empty eyes.

And I know I will keep fighting. I know this is a war I will always wage. It is not out of want, nor out of will. Not out of spite. Not out of hope, not out of hate. Not out of love.

I stand up again, and again, and again, because I have nothing left to fear. I continue to fight because there is no terror found in a predictable cycle, no horror in a novel with a spoiled ending. To want to live, to want to die, I’d have to care.

And if I cared, I’d collapse under the weight of every single thing I’ve ever done.

So I stare down these sunken, apathetic eyes, resigned in their duty. I carve the instructions in my forehead once again. Not out of hope, but out of habit.

D.N.R.

Do not resuscitate.

Maybe one of these days, lightning will strike.

If not, I am content with waiting.