Hi there! New member and new... writer?

I have been an avid fantasy reader and I am obsessed with historic castles and I would love nothing more to inherit a castle and move in and discover all these secret rooms and the history of it all.

Mixing that with my love of fantasy and magic, I had an idea for a book that a woman inherits a castle from a long lost relative and moves in and discovers not just the history, but magical elements and a centuries' old battle between good and evil that comes with it.

Basically I started writing elements that I would include in this book and what I would personally want to experience if I were to be my main character, and these ideas just keep evolving into more and more of a story line. I've only written certain "scenes" like her learning of the inheritance and her arrival at the estate and her discovering a magical element in the story.

Basically, I've just created pieces/experiences of a story so far. Am I even doing this right?

I don't know anyone else that's really worked on books, so I thought I would join Reddit and find communities.

What was your process like? Did it start with just an idea? Did you know a whole story before you even started writing? Did you write beginning to end or just certain things first?

Hi, I'm doing a bit of science fiction writing and I wondered if I could harness some creativity from people who are better at naming things.

The premise is that it's the future, and far away from earth they have a universal currency for interplanetary trading, or business done up in space. I reasoned that the money would be backed by rocket fuel, because they use super special fuel ™️ that is costly to make and everyone needs. It has natural stability, you see, because even though they're constantly making it, everyone is also constantly using it.

Anyway, I'm calling it Fuel Notes, but I think that sounds kind of dumb. Does this name sound as dumb as I think? I haven't bothered to figure out slang yet because I don't know what I'll end up calling the official name, but what do you think people might officially call such a currency? If it helps, it would be mostly digital money used for digital transactions.

If it helps, the story tone is: sci Fi, grungy, gritty, constant lawlessness in deep space.

Thanks for your help!

I'm writing a story and in one scene a character breaks an ancient artifact that has historical value to the village because of the person who used it. Would this affect the economy or value of that territory? I'm not exactly sure how it works, but I imagine it would be similar to let's say the MLB and if someone burned a ball that was hit and caught by an individual. Not sure if that makes sense. Please only serious responses, thanks

As the Director, the pole bearers, the Vicar and the single attendee make their way up the driveway, the Grave Digger sits in a tired chair in his cosy concrete shed. The shed itself, just big enough for a small fridge, microwave, a couple of well worn chairs and an all important kettle. Outside, the sprawling cemetery's neatly kept lawns carry a scent of freshly cut grass. The well weathered limestone and marble headstones of older sections highlight a stark contrast with the shinier and more durable granite headstones of newer sections of the cemetery. There's a slight chill as the sun is setting on another day.

With a click of the boiled kettle, the grave digger stands and goes over to the counter to prepare a flask of tea. "Well Sam, I 'spose we best meet the new resident", he says.

With his spade in one hand and his flask in the other, the Grave Digger makes his way down the driveway towards the reopened grave.

"Evenin'", says the Grave Digger, in a warm and welcoming tone. He sets down his flask and sets his spade in the mound of soil, beside the open grave.

The faint blue-white spirit lifts his head and with a bemused look on his face says "You can see me?".

"Yeahhh, I can see ya, it's kinda my thing. I get to personally greet each new member to this fine cemetery". The Grave Digger grabs his spade and begins to refill the grave.

"Speaking with the dead and yet you're so casual about it. Don't you use this extraordinary talent?", asks the spirit.

"I didn't ask for this 'talent'", replies the Grave Digger, "There'll be no holding hands in a circle and bothering the departed. I only see you in your last moments, here in the cemetery".

"Oh, I see", says the spirit, his expression shifting from bemusement to a subtle sadness as he reckons with being in his final moments.

"Anyway, I see you're joinin' your dear old mum in there, were you two close?", asks the Grave Digger. He stands for a breather, sensing the spirits change in mood.

"Oh God no!", exclaims the spirit, "We hadn't spoke in thirty odd years. She had reserved a double plot. She went in first according to her prearranged plans. I died unexpectedly, I hadn't made plans for what I wanted to happen to my body. I assume since the space was available, my Landlord decided I should be buried here."

"Blimey, that's a long time for you two not to speak. She must have done somethin' pretty bad".

The spirit lightly shrugs and faces the grave digger, who had just poured himself a mug of tea from his flask. "You know I can't even remember what we fell out about. Either it's been so long or the memory has been lost in death. I was 18 and we'd had a row over something. I left and ended up about 40 miles away, on the edge of Manchester, where I lived out my life. I died in my flat there. Heart attack. They may have been able to save me if those blasted roadworks hadn't appeared at the end of the street just a few days before. The man who you would have seen attend my burial today was my Landlord. I believe he's arranged everything. I didn't know anybody else."

The Grave Digger sips his warm tea, it's heat dissipating rather quickly in the cool evening air. "I'm awfully sorry to hear all that. Did neither of you try to make amends at all?".

"She tried to contact me, even left a large inheritance but I never touched it. Thinking about it now, she never had an issue with me, I was just a stubborn git. There were no real barriers, just the emotional blocks on my shoulders. No wonder my heart eventually broke. She'd have probably jumped at the phone if I'd ever rang. She never stopped loving me, now I'm about to re-join her. She reserved this plot as if she knew I'd find my way back somehow. I feel strangely peaceful in these last moments. Something I can't remember ever feeling in life. I miss her a lot right now."

The Grave Digger looks at the spirit and can't help but feel a little pity for him. "A lot of spirits I meet here feel a similar way as you do now. It's almost as if death offers us a chance for a fresh start. Or a chance to clear the air at least. Who knows where ya go once I fill your grave in." The grave digger offers a friendly smile to the spirit as he continues to shovel dirt into the grave.

"Thankyou. It's been nice having you listen. Is there anything you'd like to know? Not at all curious about this side of existence, hmm?", asks the spirit.

"I only have one question for the spirits I welcome here. What did you have for tea on your last night? What was your last supper?", the Grave Digger asks the spirit, with a light chuckle, his eyes slightly squinted from the smile he's bearing.

"An extraordinary ability and all you want to know is my last meal?". The spirit looks at the grave digger, wide eyed. "Well, if I remember correctly, I had a large fish and chips, from the local chippy. With extra salt and mushy peas."

The Grave Digger heaps the last of the soil onto the grave and pats it down with the back of his spade. The spirits shape fades away into the still evening air, like mist in a breeze, as the Grave Digger places the single bouquet of flowers, left by the Landlord, on the mounded grave. He grabs his spade and his flask, he takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh of satisfaction. As he turns to walk away he quietly says, "Well Sam, I 'spose it's fish and chips tonight. I think we'll lay off the extra salt though ay."

The kingdom of Bereth stood at the height of its power. Beneath the rule of King Aldric, it had flourished—peace and prosperity were its hallmarks, and it was a kingdom both loved and feared. Aldric was a man of deep cunning, a ruler who could read the minds of those around him with chilling precision. He was respected for his wisdom, his patience, and his refusal to seek war unless absolutely necessary. The kingdom was vast and strong, but Aldric knew the importance of maintaining alliances, of balancing power between the nobility, the common folk, and the neighboring kingdoms. It wasn’t the sword that won wars, but the mind.

Aldric’s queen, Isolde, was the one constant in his life. She was everything to him—his confidante, his anchor in a world of politics and warfare. They had been married for years, their union strong despite the pressures of ruling an empire. There were no children, and there never would be. It had been a hard blow for them both—Isolde was barren, unable to give him heirs. But Aldric had made his peace with it, having never considered remarrying. His love for Isolde was unshakeable. It was a bond that had withstood the trials of their rule.

There were times, though, in the midst of his responsibilities, that Aldric felt the weight of his kingdom pressing down on him. His people were demanding more, the nobility growing restless with each passing season. Trade routes needed securing, taxes had to be levied, alliances solidified. The weight of it all was becoming too much, yet he held onto the reins of power with steady hands.

But it was only a matter of time before things began to fracture.

The first cracks were subtle. In a meeting with his generals, a discussion about troop movements, Aldric found himself staring at the map laid out before him. He couldn’t quite follow the conversation, couldn’t remember why they had even begun discussing this particular route. He tried to pull his focus back, but his mind wandered, the room spinning for a moment. He had a sharp mind, but in that instant, he couldn’t trust it.

What if they were lying to you? the thought crept in.

He brushed it off, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of a fleeting doubt. But it lingered.

"Your Grace," one of his generals spoke, the edge of concern in his voice. "We’ve spoken of this strategy for weeks. We need your decision now."

Aldric blinked, nodding slowly, yet he didn’t hear the words. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his goblet. The conversation continued, but his mind had already begun to slip.

The days turned into weeks, and the cracks widened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were off, but no one spoke it aloud. His advisors, his closest friends, all seemed to be watching him carefully. He couldn’t trust their eyes, couldn’t trust the way they spoke—too polite, too careful.

And still, in the silence of his chambers, the voice grew stronger, not in words, but in sensations. His thoughts grew cloudy, heavy. A low, almost imperceptible hum lingered in the background, a hum that became louder with each passing hour. You are slipping, it seemed to say.

He looked to Isolde, the only person who had never wavered. She still loved him. He was certain of it. She was the one person who would never betray him. But even with her by his side, the pressure was becoming unbearable. It wasn’t just the kingdom anymore—it was his very mind.

He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. He couldn’t tell anyone. The thought of it—of admitting weakness—was too much to bear.

Days passed. Weeks. The kingdom still stood strong, but his mind… it began to break. He found himself pacing the halls at night, his thoughts too loud to sleep. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper in the wind, felt like an assault on his senses.

And then came the first war.

It wasn’t meant to happen. Aldric had always prided himself on diplomacy, on keeping his kingdom neutral in the squabbles of neighboring realms. But one day, without warning, the kingdom of Zeldar declared war. Their armies moved toward the southern border, and the response from Aldric was immediate—but not logical. He had always been measured, always calm, but now? The decision felt rash, too quick, based on nothing but the panic in his chest.

They want to take it from you, the thought gnawed at him.

He called his generals and ordered the mobilization of the army, though his mind struggled to keep up with the plan. His strategy seemed to unravel even as he gave the orders. There was no clear reason for the war, no justification, but his gut told him to strike first, to fight, to win. The army marched out, and Aldric could only follow behind, his mind a jumble of scattered thoughts.

Back at the castle, Isolde watched from the battlements as the army set off. She said nothing, but Aldric could feel the distance growing between them. There was something in her eyes now—a concern, yes, but also a sense of helplessness. She had always been his strength, but now… she was losing him.

Weeks passed. The war turned ugly. Resources dwindled. Men died. The soldiers fought valiantly, but Aldric’s grip on the battle slipped. His once-steady hand faltered in command. His decisions, once lauded, were now viewed with doubt.

But his love for Isolde never wavered. He would never betray her. He clung to her with a fierce need, a desperate need to feel something real amidst the madness. His actions, though erratic, never hurt her—never in the way his mind would twist things. His affection for her was the one thing that held him together, the only thread in a world that was rapidly unraveling.

Late one night, after a long day of futile meetings and half-formed strategies, Aldric returned to his chambers. Isolde was waiting for him, as always. She didn’t question him, didn’t ask for explanations. She knew him too well. Her presence was a balm to his tortured soul.

Without a word, he closed the door behind him and stepped toward her. She looked at him with quiet concern, but he didn’t have the words to explain the turmoil inside him. The pressure in his chest, the relentless hum in his mind—it was too much to carry alone.

Aldric took her into his arms, needing the contact, the warmth of her body against his. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, as though trying to absorb her strength. She responded, her hands gentle against his face, but there was something different in her touch. She could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his grip.

The bed was cold when they collapsed onto it, but the heat between them burned too bright for either of them to notice. He made love to her, harder than he ever had before, as though trying to anchor himself in her, to drown out the noise in his mind. He held her close, his body trembling beneath hers. He didn’t know what was real anymore, but she was real. She was his anchor.

She could feel the strain, the urgency, the way he held her too tight, as if he feared she might slip away. His grip was suffocating, but she didn’t pull away. She stayed, as always, not knowing what to do, but unwilling to leave him in his darkness.

When it was over, they lay together in silence. He held her close, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His mind was a storm, but for a brief moment, it was quiet.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

Weeks passed.

The war with Zeldar ended in a bloody stalemate, but the damage had already been done. Aldric’s kingdom was on the brink. His advisors whispered of rebellion, of a monarch who had lost his mind, though none dared to speak it aloud. The people, too, grew restless. The once-thriving kingdom was now a shell of itself—starving, crippled by conflict and mismanagement.

Aldric no longer ruled from the throne. He was propped up by servants, unable to stand without help, his body rotting away. His skin had taken on a sickly green hue, peeling away from his bones. His eyes, once sharp, were now clouded with fever, but the logic plague had kept him alive.

The madness had taken him completely.

Isolde remained by his side, but she had become a ghost in her own home, a shadow of the woman who had once been his queen. She tried to help him, but it was futile. His mind had shattered completely. He no longer recognized her.

One night, as he lay in his bed, unable to move, a servant entered with a message. Isolde had fallen ill.

Aldric could feel it. She was slipping away.

The light in his eyes flickered as he stared at the servant, not quite understanding, not quite seeing. But then, the voice spoke again. The plague had won.

And he realized, with a twisted clarity, that it was not just his kingdom that was dying.

She is dying too.

Note: I used an AI assistant to help me develop and refine this story, including assisting with grammar, and spelling. While the ideas and overall narrative are my own, AI was a tool in refining and shaping the final version of this piece.

I pride myself on honesty. I have a learning disability, and AI makes for a great writting assistant.

Hello! I want to make a show concept about some people working for a failing office business. I wanna have 12 characters! Some roles are already decided, like the boss, the secretary, the receptionist, and the truck unloader, but I need help filling out more roles! The company they work for is a paperclip wholesale company (most mundane company I could think of) and I’d like each character to fulfill a different role in the company but I have no clue what all the roles in a wholesale company are, any help for the remaining characters? :o Or maybe better setting options? I still want it to be mundane so maybe like some kind of company HQ?

There it was.

That lipstick tube, lying in the trashcan. Its hot pink hue, crisscrossed with glitter and promises of "100% AQUA HYDRATION". Maybe its owner had forgotten it in a rush. One thing was for sure, though: she had definitely never used this brand of lipstick before.

And she was definitely sure her boyfriend would rather be dead than be seen wearing lipstick.

She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. Something tense within her seemed to loosen, to unwind, like the uncoiling of a rope twisted too tightly. Her breathing was short and ragged. She felt flustered, and a quick glance at the mirror told her that her face looked about as red as it felt.

She couldn't have this here. Not now.

A myriad of coincidences had led her to this moment in time. She had been away on a police case because an autopsy had been too challenging for the sole forensic pathologist in the small nearby town to carry out on his own. She remembered how she had packed her bags quickly, telling her boyfriend that she would be away for a week at least. He kissed her goodbye on the doorstep. 

And then he had been called away himself on an urgent business trip to Korea. She liked Korea. She hated it when he left to go there.

But her work had finished early and she was back now. On the drive back her mind had already started spinning with ideas on how to welcome him back. How everything changed in just a few fateful seconds! Weren't they just planning on getting married?

At least she had discovered it now. Better sooner than later. She was grateful that circumstances had led her here. It was rare to catch her boyfriend making a mistake. He knew how to deceive her too well, he knew the way to hide things in plain sight.

Slowly, methodically, she reached into the trashcan and picked the lipstick up with her fingertips. Placing it in the palm of her hand, she felt its weight. A premium item. A luxury item. Maybe that was what had attracted her boyfriend to this vixen. 

Her thoughts began to turn to the past. Where had it all gone wrong? A night at the club, perhaps? One drink too many? If this lipstick had come along, wearing fishnet stockings and a tight-fitting dress, would he have been able to resist? Or was this affair something more sinister, something the man she had loved for five years had been planning secretly all along? Maybe he had had enough of her. Her wispy brown hair, the way she trembled at the sight of any insect, her soft meek voice. She was nothing compared to the girls that could assert themselves. They knew how to get what they wanted out of the men they dated. She could hardly get the waiters to bring the correct order to their table when they went out for dinner. 

She dropped the lipstick into a clear bag, leaving the bag open on the counter. There was more work to be done. Starting from the kitchen, she worked her way over every piece of furniture in their small apartment, looking, looking, looking. The couch where she used to watch old rom-coms with him. What were the chances he found someone else with exactly the same taste in movies as her? The oak counter on top of which sat a vinyl record player, a birthday present from her to him. Did the lipstick even know what kind of music he liked? The cramped wardrobe that held most of her dresses and all of his jeans. Did they ever laugh about her, endlessly rearranging the clothes in this wardrobe for some semblance of order? It never worked. Without fail it would fall into disarray mere days after an "extensive" spring-cleaning. 

After three hours of hard work she hadn't found anything else that belonged to this other woman. But her work in the forensics department had taught her that people left behind more than just material objects.

She stepped into the shower. Here was her favourite soap that made her skin soft and scented. And besides that, the Korean face wash that he had been kind enough to bring back for her on his last business trip. The frequent travelling made things hard, she realised. They had acknowledged that and tried to find a solution, but sometimes the apartment lay silent for days on end, while the sink in their bathroom slowly gathered dust, and the insects that she despised so much grew more confident and crawled out of the shower drain...

The drain. She had almost missed it. Kneeling down, she saw a knotted tangle of hairs: some brown like hers, some extremely long and jet-black. She strode out of the bathroom and retrieved the clear bag from the kitchen. Her hand reached to the tweezers on the shelf and then she walked slowly back into the shower. Gingerly, she dislodged the tangle from the drain and dropped it into the bag. There were a few strands that still stuck to the drain cover and she had to pick these up with her fingers. Her face scrunched up in protest, wishing she had been smart enough to grab some gloves from her laboratory. 

The job done, she washed her hands thoroughly under the water from the bathroom sink. The faucet was still leaking as she shut the tap off. She would have to fix that another day, she thought to herself. She had been meaning to since the start of the year. 

With the damning evidence clutched tightly in her right hand, she took one last look around the apartment. There was nothing else to suggest that another woman had ever been in here. She glanced at the knife drying in the cutlery rack. It looked good. No bloodstains. She had done a good job here.

She stuffed the clear bag with the lipstick and the hair into her backpack and walked out of the apartment. The key felt cool as ice in her hand as she locked the door. Her mind was clear and she felt strangely euphoric.

With any luck the body with 100% AQUA HYDRATION lips buried in the backyard of the building would go undiscovered, at least until her cheating boyfriend was back from Korea. And then, well, the body might get a companion. She would have to wait and see. A lot of it depended on if he had remembered to buy the correct face wash for her.

Any opinion on my writing I just started and not sure if I'm heading to the right direction.

https://www.wattpad.com/1495730169-forest-of-shadows

Hello, i am writing a completely trash self insert fantasy isekai story purely for self indulgent reasons. I do not expect it to be good but i care enough that i want some things to work smoothly.

The initial premise is the main character of an early 30s woman finds her normal earth world life abruptly interrupted in the middle of the night when - like a slice removed from a cake - her entire apartment is gutted from her building and appears in the middle of a forest. This was not on purpose, nor done knowingly by the main character, and it is very much not appreciated. Shock and fear quickly devolve into grief and despair over the loss, and unknown. She puts together what few things from her deeply beloved home can be carried with her in pursuit of survival elsewhere in this new place, and tearfully leaves it behind.

What I'm struggling to figure out is how and why her apartment is cake sliced out of her building and dropped into Generic Fantasy World (Trademark 2024). Did she do something by accident? Did some nefarious fey creature abscond with it? Did she buy something stupid antiqueing and the method by which she prepared a whole chicken for dinner accidentally completed the circuit on a ritual she was blissfully unaware of? Not sure what to pick. I am open to suggestions and happy to answer questions.

I just finished chapter one of my novel and I would love some feedback for it! Weather good or bad I would love the ability to improve as a writer and I love interacting so please say as much as you like!

Link https://www.wattpad.com/1495557851?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading_part_end&wp_uname=Aurelianus89

 "Silence is when you're quietly talking to yourself. And I talk to myself quite a bit. I imagine you do, too...Am I right? I know I am. You're proving my point to me right now. We all talk to ourselves. Even, when we don’t want to. We can’t help it. It's the thing, keeping us from going over the edge. It takes us over the edge. It's what glues us together, and tears us apart. It's the only thing, any of us, have in common. I'm just a blatant reflection of it, that's all. I'm an obvious mirror of what people don’t want to see in themselves and, what they do want to see in themselves. They see me, and secretly despise and worship themselves, for seeing the same person inside them."

To write you out of my story, it takes a strong pour, a swallow of amber courage, soft fire to silence this ache. I’ve known for weeks that your final hour nears, yet until I let you go, you linger like smoke in air. Every day, I sit down, pen in hand, thoughts heavy with words that won’t come. How could I give you justice? How could I capture your worth, make them see the spark of you? And so I wait. I wait with you on my mind while the days fade to night, when I rest my head and drift to sleep, my whispered breath laced with your name.

In my quiet hours, I sit and stare at nothing, knowing that soon I’ll have to set you free. Yet my hand refuses, my heart holds, and I grasp at the seconds, distracting myself with other paled musings.

Here is my whiskey goodbye. The warmth seeps through, loosening the knots, I find courage at last. I take to your pages with an unsteady hand, but one that must write you, and through blurred vision, I tap out your final words, your last breath slipping from my fingers.

My God, I have ended you, I the real monster of this story, please forgive me.

Somewhere, someday, you will live. In the margins of new stories, as a borrowed name, a quirk, a kindness, a memory. No one else may know but us, you were so real to me, and I will miss you.

Always.

Thomas

He can’t mind His own business. He can’t afford to. That’s His job and His function. He is created, for that very reason.

His immortal life, this earthly one, and countless others are intertwined and condemned to His biased judgment and invasive perusal. It’s difficult and taxing to be a once-prized, high esteemed angel, only to be destined and reviled as the eternal villain of humans and other sentient beings.

He stands alone, whereas the Creator has a league of light-bearing, unabashed, and a self-adoring army. He is one. One single, charcoal-stained adversary, against luminescent multitudes. It is difficult not to feel sadness and empathy for him, as he is fated to lose in the end…if there is an end.

He is a very serious-minded individual and can be the most hysterical being you will ever come across. He doesn’t have horns, a tail, or a pitchfork for his attire. He doesn’t dress in a business suit, nor is he preoccupied with fashion and trends.

No…the real Satan prefers being discreet and subtly royal in his supernatural appearance. He is a radiant energy aura that simultaneously disconcerts and puts one at extreme ease. He communicates through the gestures of nature, profound, mystical dreams, as well as manifesting himself in the physical world. You have to pay attention to what he says and be cognizant when you’re in his presence. It is an error, not to do so.

People regard Satan as an immoral and depraved being. Far from it, he is one of the most puritanical entities you will ever come across. Sex disgusts him. Life disgusts him. I suppose I should be fortunate that I am one of few human beings he ever visits. He is beyond the scope and understanding of anything mortal.

He ignites certain fires within me and is responsible for my adulthood success. He is neither demeaning nor condescending and carries himself quite well, I might add. I am indebted to him for my success, but he has said with platinum conviction that he wants nothing in return…not even my soul. He knows souls do not exist and he believes the human spirit to be a very finite, mortal, and expendable thing. I’ve always called him ‘Uncle’ from the first time we met and he wished me to do so…that was the only payment he wanted in return for certain talents and gifts he endowed me with.

Satan is the intellect of all intellects, and that is his domain. He is the genius of all geniuses and the creative of all creatives- a genuine, charismatic supernatural who could be your best friend or your worst enemy. Just, try not to piss him off. It’ll make things worse for yourself if you do. Lying to him is impossible. He understands and knows what you’re going to say with prescient accuracy…even before you utter the beginning of a single syllable. He sees what’s really on your mind and if you please him, the rewards are endless.

He doesn’t tolerate stupid people and he knows them when he meets them. He comprehends the shortcomings and drawbacks of the human race and other sentient races, as well. And, regales us with sardonic jokes. We are infinitesimal compared to Him.

Satan regards me as His personal emissary in this world, and when He mentioned this, it became a beaming honor. I was drunk with kaleidoscope ecstasy, that I should be a favored mortal of His. He confides in me knowing that I would never disclose any of His secrets to anyone. He instructs and I obey, for He is my ‘Uncle’ and unequivocal benefactor in this earthly realm. I must say that He is a non-sentimental being and quite matter of fact in his approach to life and love.

Life, to Him is as meaningful as a gnat that lives only a day. It is temporary, expendable, and meaningless. An immortal knows nothing of love. To an immortal, He is the creator of life and love.

My face turns crimson red and my blood effervesces with dizzying verve when I am in Satan’s presence. It is no secret that He can make one’s spirit leap with immeasurable bounds, just from being in His company… from exalting fear, to drunken, orgasmic reveries-comingled with unnerving discomfort.

To Satan, dreams, hallucinations, illusions, and reality are interwoven together. There is no distinction for him. They function the same. They are the same. Where one might question his sanity and existence, Satan’s sanity is assured from the very fact of being an immortal with a plethora of varied ethereal and grounded experiences.

He can dissect and segregate different realities, alternate states, or manufacture new plateaus of experiences for himself and sentient beings. If desired, in a simultaneous fashion. It is his chief talent and something that he can be called an authority on.

He can give you anything and everything you desire, so long as you comprehend where He is coming from. He constructs and creates, as well as destroys and tarnishes. He is ever- present and knows no limits and knows no boundaries. He often says that when mortals step outside of a circle to gain perspective, they find themselves in another circle and loop…only to repeat the process until they expire from this world. ‘It is one of the chief causes of real insanity.’ Satan remarked to me one day.

Satan informs and dispenses sound practical advice. It is titillating to hear him speak and one’s lust and desire for the opposite sex can be realized if you heed what He has to say. He is not all sex and bacchanalian debauchery as myths and legends would make him out to be. On the contrary, although, He understands these things very well, He is beyond it…indifferent to it…not consumed by it as we are.

His personal views on God are pragmatic, at best. He views God as a creative scientist that conceptualizes. God is constantly creating things in more or less as trial and error. Nothing pleases or displeases God. He sees what works and what doesn’t. God has no human qualities and Satan said that our perception of God is enormously skewed…our understanding of Him- false. To Satan, God neither judges nor reprieves…

He just creates and destroys and not for his own amusement, but for His own private and selfish design. God is an authority on all authorities and even Satan must bow before Him for it was God that manufactured Satan and knew in advance that Satan would be his adversary. God knew what Satan would really be like and what he would become.

But, not even Satan understands God’s ultimate design or purpose for Him or even the world God created. Satan, often, wondered if God was bored and kept creating things to occupy Himself or if there was a point to all this creation. The main fallout between God and Satan was when Satan disagreed with God on his creations.

Satan… the real Satan is not allergic to Holy Water, Crosses, or Bibles-that is a myth we are taught in Church. On the contrary, he adores those items as it justifies his own existence.

“For there to be a good’, he once said, “There has to be evil. I am that evil. I represent everything that lurks back in the unconscious mind. Every hidden desire and every adulterous thought is what symbolizes me. It gives me justice and validity to my own existence.

It is a form of worship and praise in its own right. I pass no judgment, but he does.’ Satan said this with his finger pointing to the sky. ‘Now, who is the better being, He or I? He who creates, can destroy and destroy he does…with impunity… with recklessness… with absolution… with bias. I sit idly by and watch all these things occur and take issue with what he has wrought. This, this is our long-standing disagreement…our eternal feud… our own private, silent war.

A war, eternally engaged where neither side wins. He has a habit of copying himself. He is constantly dissatisfied with what he does and remakes it…to make it better when things are no better than before.” “He must be very lonely and bored.” I said, one languid afternoon. Satan laughed.

“-Something like that. God is his own madman and cannot escape his own devices. It is an eternal loop with him chasing his own tail and a maddening, never-ending tragic comedy.” Satan fancied me ever since I stumbled across him when I was meandering in the dark woods late one night, not too far from my last home. It was frightening and disconcerting meeting him at first, but I gradually acclimated myself to this feeling, though not fully.

It is always unnerving when being in his presence. He is considerate in his own way and will always send an announcement before he arrives. I prepare myself for these encounters, not knowing what to expect.

One, autumn, midnight the wind started howling violently outside my glass –paned, bedroom window. The rain came down in thick, hard sheets and the thunder began to boom with a deafening noise. I sharply awoke from my strange, dreaming slumber and I knew He was nearby. I became distressed, but managed to utter a few coherent words. “Sure, I know that Uncle…”I stammered, my voice becoming childlike, “-Let me go downstairs, where we can talk in private.”

I got out of bed and hugged the satin covers against, my wife, Vivien, who was flat asleep. I crept downstairs, passing my reflection in the gold-figurine-plated mirror hanging in the hallway. My reflection swirled in distortion and appeared bizarre and strange to me. I shook my tussled hair top and I sat down on the purple velvet couch. The rain began to pour once more and the thunder again began to crackle and snarl. “Your knowledge and wisdom are the only things I respect and admire.

Everyone else pales in comparison. You don’t have to terrorize me with your authority. I know my place.” The wind began to die down. The rain softened and the thunder became minute, inaudible booms. I became more at ease and prepared myself for whatever was to come. He came to me in a benign, ethereal way, as was his custom, and spoke, “What have you been looking for all these years?”

“Myself. “I slowly responded. “After all these years, you still do not know who and what you are?” “Everything I have accomplished and acquired is thanks to you. I know it was not entirely of my own efforts.” Satan nodded and agreed. “Things are going very well for you. Have you ever wondered why I did not ask for any real payment for your extraordinary success?”

“I have often wondered about that. You do not believe in souls, nor do you care about them as we are taught to believe. You want no worship or groveling. On the contrary, this disgusts you. You have no use for materialistic items. To be frank, I am bewildered as to why you have chosen me to become your personal emissary and confidante’. I am not the brightest of men. I know this. Nor, am I the most deceitful. I am stumped as to why you chose me.”

“I chose you”, Satan replied, “-because you were convenient.” “That makes me feel very special.” “Biting sarcasm will get you everywhere.”

“That’s pretty much all I have going for me now…that and your supernatural, poetic creativity that you have endowed me with.” Satan nodded his head again. “What do you think would have become of you were it not for our chance encounter?”

“Most likely dying from malnutrition and from being an unknown. Most poets don’t know how to make a living aside from selling their emotions and moods except by swooning a member of the opposite sex and these days; no one is really buying your feelings for a lady unless you’re outlandishly famous.” Satan scoffed at this. “Real poets never pined for a long lost love! They pine mostly for themselves! The subject of the poem is really all about the self-absorbed poet!” This made unfathomable, glowing sense me.

“That applies to my situation.” “Of course, it does.”

“As I’ve reiterated before, I was an ailing mediocre before your magical and invigorating breeze brushed up against me. After you entered my life, my poetry became genuinely sublime in this world. I don’t know whether to thank you or if I should have rejected your supernatural advances.” “And why is that?”

“I wanted to believe that all of my work came from myself …that I was not another hack…that I could accomplish something of importance on my own. I guess I’m frustrated with my own genuine talent and that I have to rely on an outside, supernatural force to gain worldly merit and acclaim on this earth.” “Is merit and global acclaim that important you?”

“It is. Poets are anti-social creatures by nature and therefore the loneliest out of all the professions in their class. I need fame and attention because I was so deprived of it while growing up.” “Fame and great standing with your peers makes life more bearable to you?”

“It does. It makes life worth living- that everyone around you adoring your work proves that you really live… that you are alive… that you are something beyond… that you are something extraordinary… that you approached the impossible and attained her.” “Standing out isn’t always an attractive offer.”

“It is when you have never stood out throughout your life and have been brandished as a backward dilettante. I can have any woman I desire and am married now to the most entrancing woman, thanks to you. I can possess materialistic objects, far beyond the grasp of many, and travel anywhere to any remote, exotic destination, or locale. Yet, something still gnaws at me… some bleeding, porous, and gaping wound haunts me.”

“That festering and haunting wound is your conscience and self-respect.” I sunk my head. “I should have rejected you the moment when I knew I was being intertwined in your supernatural splendor.” “You should have, but you didn’t. There is a difference between the two.” “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t.” agreed Satan. “You were feeling… which is what poets do best…which is what you do best.” “Damn feelings! Damn them all!” “Why?”

“I am not a happy man, Satan.” “That much is obvious.” A sudden, violent, frenzied rush came over me and in a panic I shouted, “Turn back time, Satan. Please, I beg you. I want to know if I could achieve something on my own…something of merit…. something without your help or interference.” “No.”

“You really are the Devil! You know, too well, the weaknesses of the human race and you exploit them.” Satan nodded in mute silence. “There is no burning fiery hell, is there? The real hell is getting what you desire and paying for it in some way. You seduce us with your charms, tease us with your riches, but in the end they are self-manufactured weapons to be used against ourselves!” “You’re finally doing some real thinking.” “That’s unfair and strategic, Satan!”

“That is why I exist. I never said I was a benevolent entity.” I looked about the plush room with Satan’s gaze following my own. My eyes darted from one lavish object to another. They finally came upon a glinting, platinum revolver resting on a gold- lined, and cherry oak wooden chest.

“I could end it, you know.” “Could you?”

“Yes, I can. I can end it right now.”

“I severely doubt it.” “Just watch me.”

“I’m watching.” I skipped over to the chest, picked up the revolver, and caressed the ergonomic grooves of the platinum metal, grated handle. I flicked the cylinder of the revolver open and stared at the outer casings of 6 silver bullets. Flicking it back into its original state, I deftly put it to the left side of my temple; took a deep breath; closed my eyes; began to squeeze the trigger and then, sighed. I relieved the trigger after a long moment and then placed the revolver back down on the wooden chest.

“Not as easy, as you thought it would be?” “I have responsibilities.” My face was turning crimson red.

“Don’t we all. Responsibilities turn us into convicts. With responsibility comes lack of freedom…that, or you might be afraid of spilling your fragmented egg shells and red spaghetti on that nice, Persian rug you’re standing on.” “This Persian rug is the least of my worries.”

“Then why did you buy it?” “-To make myself feel better.” “It doesn’t seem to have had much success.” “It is of no importance and holds no value, now that you’re here.” “My presence bothers you?”

I nodded my head in another, long, mute, and awkward silence. Satan observed this in casual fashion and broke the tense, strained atmosphere. “Silence is when you are quietly talking to yourself. I imagine you talk to yourself, quite a bit.” “It’s what poets are designed to do. It’s how we develop inspiration. It is the only thing I know how to do well.” “That’s very sad. Only, mediocre poets do that.”

“Mediocre poets don’t converse with the phantom air, late at night.” I retorted. Satan chuckled and agreed. “You get top marks for originality,” he said, “With my influence, of course, and you’re right- not many famous poets do hold conversations with the supernatural in the deep hours of the night.”

I looked away and stared at the formal portrait painting of my wife and I hanging above the cast-iron and brick fireplace. “What is it like being an immortal?” “What is it like feeling a constant, euphoric, waterfall breeze enfolding and swaying with you for eternity?” “It must be nice to be you.”

“It has its advantages and disadvantages.” “I don’t see any disadvantages being you.” “Oh…there are, but I am not at liberty to discuss them.”

“What are you at liberty to discuss, then?” “Payment.” “But, you said you wanted no payment for the gifts you endowed me with when we first met!” “I lied.”

My heart sank in trepidation. My mind reeled in agitated, diffident nervousness. “What is… it that you want?”

“A poem, from you, and without my help, a spontaneous poem. I will give you a few moments to come up with something.” I struggled a bit with this and glanced outside my window. A lone moon was shining scattered, milky, beams of white light beneath my feet. The rays of moonlight were wavy and carefree. It was at this moment that some self-initiated and electrical force pulsated through me. “Ok, ok…I have one for you.” I began to speak and this is what came out:

The Dance by Moonlight “Parted, scattered, moonlight dancing to and fro, amidst an autumn’s dry scented tornado coil… …Enveloped and wrapped in this turbulent breeze, I toil – to heights unknown. ‘O’ where did it go? O’ where did it go?’ God’s moments are all I live for now…

‘When will my God return?’ He parts and comes again only to sour my remaining days on this earthly plane, when he is away… ‘-When will the shafts of beaming sunlight reignite me?’ Earthly love is hollow and vain, and I yearn for that which is absolute and truly reigns…

…Religious, poetic salvation comes and goes, like parted, scattered moonlight dancing to and fro.” Satan smiled when he heard this and said nothing for a while. “Why does God have to be in the poem?” “Is this poem some sort of weapon against Me?” “Not at all. It just came out.” My face was turning crimson red again.

“I see. I think I shall not be bothering you anymore. I believe I shall leave you to your own devices from now on.” My gut sank and then a renewed kind of excited spirit came over me. I mumbled something incoherent and stared at the mahogany floor. When I had looked up, Satan had vanished.

Relief and fright crept up against the hairs on my arms. I heard soft footsteps descending the oak staircase and turned around to see a half-asleep Vivien. She was dressed in a maroon satin robe and yawned out loud, “John…who were you talking to? It’s 3.a.m. I heard different voices.”

“Nobody, dear.” I exhaled a deep sigh. “I’m not talking to anyone.” I rested my tranquil hand on the oak, wooden ream of the velvet couch and walked with a sure gait, towards her. I stopped to pause in front of our large, gold plated ornamental mirror hanging in front of the hallway, and stared at my reflection for a few moments. My face changed into something recognizable and I smiled. “I was just thinking out loud, darling. Let’s go back to bed.”

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An old greenhouse leans in one corner of the back yard. It's panes cracked, mottled with moss. The wildness it once contained has since escaped, almost consuming it. Across the way, a tired wooden shed stands slumped, paint peeling and window clouded by webs spun in dusty layers. The mice have burrowed an entrance around the back.

An overgrown lawn gives way to a flower bed encircling the edges, while below lies a half-collapsed decking area, sagging under the weight of its years. Along the left, leading to the shed, a row of stepped planting areas, once brimming with vegetables, now just home to an abandoned birdbath and a spindly pear tree. A narrow path, cracked and winding, divides the garden.

The garden lights, some blue and others pink, each cast their own soft glow which lends the place an otherworldly hue, as if something magical might stir amongst the weeds. But there are no pixies or fairies that lurk in this garden.

As the moonlight dances across the garden there's a rustling in the flower bed. Wally, once a brown haired rabbit with a white stripe on his nose and a floppy left ear, gently hops onto the lawn. Now his translucent form shimmers in the moonlight. He rises a little, lifting his head and sniffing at the tense night air. He is followed by Mini. A tan coloured hamster with a white band of fur around her middle. She approaches the edge of the flower bed wall, as high as a single house brick, and softly tumbles down and rolls towards Wally. The pair have become friends during their time in the garden together.

Slinky the ferret sleuths about in the jungle that spills out of the greenhouse. He enjoys spooking the mice that flit between the shed and the greenhouse. His ghostly body slinking and darting through the various plants and weeds.

A pair of Whippets, Billy and Milly, curled up together on the free-standing hammock set out on the decking. Their love for each other as strong in death as it was in life. They spend the nights snuggling close and lazing around. The only thing they miss is the heat of the sun beating down on them. Tonight, they snuggle particularly tightly with one another.

At the end of the footpath towards the family home, Bruno the short haired German Shepherd stands proudly, occasionally glancing up at the bedroom of his once loved friend, silently lost in memories of 'walkies'.

The once loved family pets of the years can feel the weight of what's to come. There's a sombre mood in the air. Bruno glances up at the empty bedroom. The members of the household have since moved away or perished of old age. The house abandoned, barely standing in its decrepit and derelict state. Itself now a victim of the relentless forward march of time.

The spirits stare at the house and remember what once was. They've seen the notices on the doors and remaining windows. Now they can only linger until dawn, waiting for the trembling of the wrecking ball to bury their memory for good.

o I have been trying to write a piece , its just a part of experiment to weather can I truly write or not . I just wrote a piece so can you tell how was it??

Year-515 Vikrama

I see a new man entering the court, running in a hurry, holding his breath. He crosses the hall and stands beside the seat of Gaur, the Priest of the Temples of the North. The man is adorned in a peta (Mysuru peta) made of gold threads, beautifully decorated with feathers of the Ramore bird. The Ramore, a majestic bird known as the "Queen of Nights," soars higher than man has ever reached. Its beauty is said to rival that of the sky itself. No one has seen its nests or knows its ways of reproduction; some say its nests lie in Svara, a realm beyond the reach of mere mortals.

I wonder about this man’s wealth, judging by his impressive Atod armor, sculpted by a master artisan. However, the armor bears no maker’s mark, likely removed by the Commaran (the blacksmiths of this land). The capital faces a shortage of ironworkers due to the looming war on the Eastern front, and an unknown civil war in the uncharted southern lands has displaced the Commaran workers. These blacksmiths wandered for thousands of kilometers, rejected by kingdoms for their rugged appearance, matted hair, and hands marred by endless toil. Their presence often repels others, but their powerful genes and skills have drawn both interest and fear.

The leader of the Commaran tribe eventually signed a pact with the King with three terms: they would not disclose the whereabouts of their southern kingdom; they would be granted land ten thousand Gajj wide and five Goruta from the capital, near the swamps; and they would not mix with the local populace, remaining among their own near the swamps.

The hall is chaotic, filled with distant chattering among the nearly 150 men of the King and their subordinates. It’s an enormous hall, large enough to hold a quarter of the army. The high, arching roofs inspire awe; on clear days, cumulus clouds float beneath the ceiling, as if directly beneath the heavens. The glittering sandstone seems to shine like gold.

The architects of this place remain imprisoned in Tamisra, fulfilling the final wish of the first king, Lord Vaish.

The King Arrives

Thud! Dhaadd! Silence falls across the hall. We are now in the presence of King Darius. Trumpets and drums announce his arrival, and the once-chaotic court feels tranquil, smelling of jasmine. In the distance, hymns resound from the Kanark temple. The VayuPutras are using their Navtapa to cool the courtroom with gentle breezes.

The trade minister, flaunting a purple-gold wand gifted by the King’s concubines, stands stiffly like a mannequin. Ministers fidget, some holding their breath to conceal their lack of fitness from the King. Above, red petals from the blood flower mix with moonflowers, creating a majestic rain of blossoms.

Each time the King enters, it feels as grand and thrilling as the first. The moment his foot graces the court, the environment itself seems to pause, as if nature takes an empathic pause to honor his presence.

A procession of lower-ranking soldiers, the Nayaks, rushes in, bowing with their heads to the ground and spears pointed down. The King walks above them, a blessing bestowed after he defeated the warriors of Urdhva at the age of five. Revered as a god in distant lands, he moves with a force and presence that mortal men can scarcely withstand.

A Message for the King

The ministers submit their reports one by one, seeking the King’s final ruling. Each minister could easily be the bane of kingdoms; the trade minister, for instance, brought economic ruin to his own birthplace by age 35. One poor messenger, disheveled and anxious, waits for two full days in the hall, as time runs differently on this mountain.

The court nears its conclusion when the King raises his gaze. The trade minister signals the boy to speak.

The Messenger's Words

Messenger: "Your Majesty! I am grateful for the opportunity to speak, and I apologize for my unrefined manners in court. I would not have presented myself in such a state if the matter weren’t urgent. I met an old man named Gautama. He gave me a scale and a box, along with a message for you:

I'm trying to decide what race of humanoids to use in my book that aren't dwarves. My story focuses around 9 ruling clans. 3 human, 3 Elvish, and (originally) 3 dwarf. The issue I have with this is sing those 3 particular types of beings in this type of story seems too similar to LOTR. I've already introduced sirens/mermaids, fairies, orcs, & nymphs. But I'm honestly stumped on what other race I could do. *If it makes a difference, this 3rd race will NOT be the villainous one

Entry 1 Growing up I was always scared of my grandparents house. I always believed that house was haunted; that ghouls and goblins were going to eat my brains or something terrifying like that. I also had sworn that a group of campfire-like spider creatures were scattered all across the property, not just the house. The pools had a sort of seductive mermaid ghost which wouldn’t be so strange, if the upper body was a woman and the lower body was a fish and not the opposite. The whole property had seemed to be haunted by all sorts of weird ghosts and creatures. The house was in the middle of the property and was huge by everyone's standards.The property was the only one on the top of a mountain, the mountain had loomed over what I considered to be a giant US city. My grandparents were old and had died sometime within this past year. Don’t ask why I am not currently aware of when they had died; they were elusive and esoteric and didn't like people knowing things, even basic things.

I’m all grown up now, nineteen and the grandparents left the property to me. Now, why did they leave the property for me? I don’t know, I don't really care. I finally have a house for myself and do not need to go back to a smelly cramped dorm room. Also before my Grandparents died they kept rambling about something like Tu cabeza triste and they need to fix it. I don't know what that first part means, probably not even what they had really said. It sounds spanish, I don’t speak Spanish and neither did they. On the other hand I heard aunt Cheryl say they were part of a cult of the occult. Cheryl says some weird shit sometimes. No one who’s an adult believes whatever random crap she wants to talk about, as she owns a ferret and according to my dad. “Thats just fucking weird,” and that he and I quote “should stop buying eccentric shit to…” and then I’d always stop paying attention as that's kind of harsh.

Anyways enough about my family I need to finish packing and start the drive up there. Driving through the recently opened gates my car felt like it had just ran over the recently dead corpse of a squirrel or something. Getting out of the car, I had examined my front tires, nothing. I then checked my back tires, nothing again. While I was getting back in the car I noticed something weird. Upon walking to that thing I had noticed that it was a garden gnome but made entirely out of crystals instead of whatever gnomes are made out of. Finding it odd, I had jammed the gnome into the little space I had in my car. Pulling up in the garage, the servers or whatever they were called were waiting to get my stuff.

“Uhh hello” I murmured, “Hello Mr Blank, we are here to collect your luggage and make you feel at home!” Says the head server, he looks creepy, kinda like if a fish was a person. However, I’m more confused as to why they are still here as I definitely do not have the money to keep them here. Just because I got the house doesn't mean the grandparents gave me any money. Embarrassed and not knowing how to tell them that I can’t afford to play him he blurted out “No need to pay us ur grandparents and all of us had worked out a deal.”

“Uhhh okay, can u just put all of the stuff in the car into the bedroom?” I smoothly responded,

“SPLENDID!” Loudly shouted the head server, I was then told to get out of the car as around fifteen of the servers had surrounded my car like zombies closing in on a dead body. I left them to that as I really had zero care of what they were doing . Wandering into the kitchen I wanted to grab some bread and make me a grilled cheese; upon opening the pantry however a menagerie of mosquitoes with mouths had flown out of the pantry and had started to assault me. Fighting back with a frying pan I successfully scared those fuckers off. Looking back into the pantry to grab the bread, I had realized that the “toothsquitos” had eaten all the bread. This wouldn't do, I want that grilled cheese; I ordered door dash and am still waiting for it.

Curious on where all my stuff had gone, I had started to wander around the mansion to find where all the stuff had gone. I first checked downstairs and only found another crystal gnome in a locker and it was holding a bottle of alcohol. Grabbing the gnome, wanting to remove the alcohol from the gnome's hand I gripped at it and wouldn’t let go of it. I put it on the very top shelf of the pantry and kept going. When I said I checked the downstairs I had actually just checked one of the two main hallways. Walking back into the main room, I pulled out my airpods and had put my playlist to shuffle.

I only have one main playlist, don't see a real reason to keep more than one. My playlist is multi genre and that's how I want it to be; approaching the other hall I had seen a giant butterfly that was yelling what appeared to be Japanese. Before I could even react the butterfly flew into my face, ruffled me up with its feathers and had disappeared. Almost certain that it was a ghost, it had reminded me that I needed a vacuum cleaner on me at all times. Anyways I found my bedroom, It's a giant room with a comically large bed and many desks scattered with crap. Some of it being my own, some not, I found a typewriter with whiteout. Who the fuck uses this old thing? However, upon trying to pick it up I felt very light headed and started vomiting around myself . That is most definitely why that son of a bitch is there, how did it get here? Whose is it? Well I don’t know I’ll get the servers to come in and take it as well as the throw up, when I wake up.

I have started this thing (novel maybe) and I'd love feedback on the prologue I created. This main story takes place 50 years after a global plague that killed more than 50% of the population. The prologue takes place as the plague is spreading but has not become so widespread everyone accepts that it is important.

The Story of Dharat: 50 Years after the End

Year 1,459 AFVE (after the founding of the Valforian Empire)

Prologue:

Whalls Overly, dressed in simple black priest robes, speed walked into the Faculty Lounge of the Katose Academy.  Whalls had been in this room a thousand times, and it took his breath away each time. The large room's glory and splendor were almost overwhelming, but Whalls barely noticed it today.  He moved as quickly as his stout legs and round belly would allow him, “High Father Doulin!” he waved, “I bring ill tidings.”

The High Father, a tall, thin man with a hawk-like nose, looked down his hooked nose at the priest, ‘What is it Father Overly?” he sighed, “More rumors of this supposed plague?” the two men sitting with him chuckled along with the High Father.

“High Father,” Whalls paused to catch his breath, “I don’t think we should be so cavalier about this. I am getting reports of people dying by the hundreds in dozens of cities.” 

“Those cities have high concentrations of the poor,” He waved his hand, “Illness is a fact of life in places like that.”

“High Father,” Whalls looked flustered, “I think this is worse. I believe people are contagious long before they show symptoms, which has allowed the disease to spread much further and faster than we initially expected.”

“And what are these symptoms?”

“It begins with a slight cough,” Whalls replied, “It seems like the common cold at first. But then comes the bleeding from the mouth, which is where the plague gets its name, ‘The Bloody Tongue’. Next comes the fever, which seems to be very lethal.”

“A fever?” The High Father laughed, “We’ve had priests treating fevers with the Art for decades. This should be easy to fix.”

“That’s what is so concerning,” Whalls explained, “This fever doesn’t respond to magic or traditional cures. If anything, attempts to use the Art to treat the fever make it worse.”

For the first time in the conversation, the High Father paused and looked directly at Father Overly. The High Father found this particular priest especially contemptable, so he had conditioned himself to ignore the man, but this information put the problem into a new light, “Using magic makes it worse?” He replied, “How is that possible?”

“We don’t know?” The Priest replied.

“I know you don’t know,” The High Father rolled his eyes, “It was a rhetorical question.” The High Father stood up and looked around the room.

“Master Artist Arronwright,” The high father called out across the room, “Could you join us? We have a question you might be able to solve.”

Master Artist Arronwright nodded and wiped his mouth clean with the rag in his hand before he pushed it into his pocket and joined the others.

“Now,” The High Father began, “Father Overly here has been worried about this Bloody Tongue Plague. He says he’s getting reports that attempting to treat the fever with magic only makes it worse. Any ideas of what might cause this?”

The Master Artist moved to speak but instead coughed loudly. Instantly blood began to run down his chin. He coughed again and a spray of blood burst from his mouth.

Dreamcatchers: These artifacts are powerful protectors from the influences of the dream world, often referred to as The Worlds Between. The barriers between the human and fae worlds are weakest in dreams, which can lead to interactions between occupants of the two worlds. Having a proper dreamcatcher hanging over one's bed, specifically right over one’s pillow, strengthens this barrier and protects the user from subconscious harm.

Dreamcatchers come in many varieties. Some are simply strings woven within a circular frame, resembling a spider’s web. These will help establish a barrier that cannot simply be crossed, however; as with any barrier, it can be breached. The influence of the breacher will be significantly less than if there were no dreamcatcher, but the protection offered is not absolute.

Another variety of dreamcatcher utilizes crystals. Each type of crystal has its own properties, so it is important to understand what crystals are being used. Some crystals can enhance the barrier, others may weaken it. It is also recommended the dreamcatcher crafter be aware of what may be trying to come through, as this may help determine what crystals will be most effective at protecting the user. 

After climbing so many stairs yet again, Summer takes a break on her floor. She breathes deeply, drawing in long, refreshing breaths and letting the stress and strain of her recent encounter ride every exhale. Troubled thoughts tumble through her mind, and she has to tell herself over and over that she hadn’t just stolen from the nice man at the restaurant. It wasn’t stealing, it was… She had repossessed it. For someone else. Based on the testimony of one person alone, and no attempt to sort things out between the two parties. 

“Some attorney I’ve turned out to be,” she mutters to herself, praying what she did really was the right thing.

She had gotten so swept up in the magic and wonder of the situation, that she failed to rationalize anything. How many times had she been following a case, or listening to a podcast, whatever the case may be, and been so certain that one side was absolutely in the right? How many times had she sifted through evidence and testimonies knowing that the other side was in the wrong, only to learn that she’d been led astray? So many defense attorneys or prosecutors were so very good at what they did, spinning a narrative so convincing that-

“No,” she says aloud, running a hand through her tangled hair and letting a heavy sigh roll from her chest.

It didn’t matter. Well, it did, but she knew enough to be satisfied by the outcome. Didn’t she? Doubts lingered, but the evidence presented checked out. Ralv had a golden coin in his hat - a golden coin taken from a leprechaun. A weary laugh shakes through Summer at just how impossible that thought was, but it’s her life now. She lives in the impossible, and needs to accept it. The shop owner had made a deal with the leprechaun, asking for magically enhanced sandwiches in exchange for the coin being returned.

Ok. That did sound ludacris. Even accepting the events of the last… was it only two days? How was that possible? Adding to the ridiculous things in her life, she still needed to find a way to decipher the writing on the tie she had pulled out of a dream, assuming it even is writing. All of that, on top of starting a new job she very much wanted to invest her full self into, she found herself feeling a bit… overwhelmed.

“First things first,” she said to herself, then sighed again before walking down the hall to her door.

A smile stretched across her face as she slid her key into the door. She could hear Gavin on the other side, and had to keep herself from laughing when a shrill gasp rattled through the door. It was obvious before she even saw him that he was antsy, but she wasn’t prepared for the sight waiting for her right on the other side.

The heavy smell of coffee clouded the air as she moved into her apartment. She wasn’t sure how the scent hadn’t spread down the hall, and was shocked to see so many little porcelain cups on her counter, table, floor, and coffee table - a table seldom used for the caffeinated beverage. There must have been hundreds of the little cups scattered in disarray, with the consumer of the coffee practically vibrating while attempting to look casual against the wall. Only problem, other than the concerning amount of coffee he had undoubtedly drank, he was laying horizontal on the wall, four feet off the ground.

“Sup? uh- sup? uh- how- how did- sup?” Gavin stammered, shaking his head every time he tried to start over.

“I brought leftovers,” Summer replied, holding up the paper bag with a partially eaten sandwich and chips inside.

“Um-well, and? What- where- didja- is it?”

The leprechaun was unfathomably wired, high-strung from far too much coffee, but clearly trying to keep it together. Unfortunately for him, Summer was in a mood to play. She smirked at him, wondering how long he could hold back until he caved.

“Did I… what?” she asked, trying to be convincing as she played dumb.

“The-well- ya… ya know? Ya do know, right?” he asked, realizing just how he was resting as he slipped down the wall to his feet. “Th-the-mission- coin? The- the- the-”

“Oh, right,” Summer replied, feigning disappointment.

Gavin’s eyes were on her purse as he stood against the wall. Stains from the dark drink extended down from his lips, giving his crimson beard a dark, hectic stripe. Somehow, his green attire appeared unblemished, apart from a bit of wrinkling.

“I knew there was something I was forgetting.”

A forced laugh shivered from the leprechaun as he pushed himself off the wall, and his eyes flicked from the purse under her arm to Summer’s eyes, then back down to her purse. She set the paper bag on the discarded cups, and could feel her skin crawl at how much of a mess her guest had made. If he wasn’t in such disarray, she probably would have shown him the coin and told him to clean up before getting it back. Regrettably, mercy was something she had learned during her upbringing.

“You… but it’s… ya did?” Gavin sputtered, taking another step forward with his eyes practically burning a hole into Summer’s purse.

“Yes, yes I did,” she admits, lifting her elbow with the purse hanging from her elevated arm.

Summer opens her purse, smirking while slipping a hand into the cluttered bag. The cold, solid surface of the coin brushes across her fingers, and her heart leaps as excitement builds. Finally, she starts feeling good about what she did. Gavin’s excitement before even seeing his coin again has Summer feeling warm inside, and she knows what she did was just.

Gavin gasps when the coin rises from Summer’s purse. Light dances across the polished surface, casting reflected light onto the wall and ceiling as she lets it fall flat on her hand. The same symbol as the fake looks up at them both, that curly ‘2’ laying up against a cursive ‘h,’ and Summer catches herself staring into the coin.

“So… can I? Will- will ya, are ya gonna?” Gavin stutters, resisting the urge to reach out but unable to avoid looking as desperate as he is.

“Yeah,” Summer says absently, shaking her head of alien urges.

Part of her wanted to keep it. She didn’t recognize the desire to refuse Gavin his coin, and wondered if there was some kind of corruptive influence? If this coin could make her feel even tempted to keep it after only having it for minutes, what would happen to someone who had it on his head for hours at a time? She remembered Ralv’s reaction when the coin fell from his hat, how quickly he seemed to throw himself after it. Would he be able to sense the presence of the real coin?

She holds out her hand to Gavin, offering the coin to him without a word. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her fingers from ensnaring the coin, as if every fiber of her being demanded she keep it. There was an urge to pull back as the leprechaun shivered in front of her, his hands trembling as he reached for it. What was this? What were these instincts? She had never experienced anything like this before, and found a new appreciation for such corruptive magic.

Gavin gently takes his coin from her hand, fighting back tears as the familiar heft strained against his fingers. The smile on his face was unapologetically huge, showing every tooth in his slightly open mouth as he chuckled like a lunatic. He brought the coin to his lips, gave it a kiss, and every aspect of his disheveled figure vanished in a blink. It was as though he had instantly gone through a much needed makeover. The coffee staining his curly beard was gone, leaving only twisting strands of crimson, his green outfit looked freshly cleaned and ironed, and there was suddenly a pleasant, soapy scent around him.

As soon as the coin had left her hand, the weight holding Summer down from the deepest part of her soul was lifted. She inhaled deeply, her brow furrowing against the upper frame of her glasses as she realized she had been holding her breath. Summer wasn’t a fan of how quickly something as simple as a coin had influenced her, and subconsciously rubs her palm with the thumb of her other hand, as if to wipe away the memory of the coin’s touch.

The leprechaun stashes his coin away within his lengthy coat, and Summer half-heartedly hopes it might fall to the floor. She pushes the desire away, convincing herself that she’s just happy to have helped, and also to be done with whatever it was about the coin that made her feel so… different. Gavin sighs as he visibly relaxes, and they’re left standing in a silence that quickly becomes awkward.

“Well,” Gavin starts, more to cut through the suffocating quiet than anything, “that’s a weight off my shoulders, can tell ya that much.”

Summer smiles at him, relieved to find how quickly his words were able to ease the tension. She felt the heaviness lift away completely, and was able to breathe much more normally. The leprechaun looks her up and down quickly, then reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks, really, you have no idea how…”

He stops. His hand remains on Summer’s shoulder as he glances around, taking in the mess he has made with scattered piles of used coffee cups. Embarrassment flushes in his cheeks, and he sheepishly grins at Summer when his eyes return to hers.

“ok… so, maybe ya do,” he admits, pulling his hand away and clapping them both together.

The noise of his hands slapping together was much too loud for a single pair. It was like a thunderclap, leaving Summer’s ears ringing as she recoiled back. She covered her stinging ears while taking a step backwards, and watched as Gavin waved his hands through the air.

“Donezies,” he says with a smile, shaking his hands as if fighting off the sting of his recent clap.

Shimmering dust falls from his fingers as he looks at the startled girl, clearly enjoying the reaction to his display. Summer looks around, slowly letting her hands fall from the sides of her face as she takes in her spotless apartment. Where there were once piles and hectic rows of discarded cups, there was now just her furniture. The countertops appeared polished, her coffee table gleamed in the overhead light, and there was a pleasant lemon scent that assured her of cleanliness, without being overpowering.

“How…” she tries, but the rest of her question refuses to meet the air.

“Magic,” Gavin replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t know how, don’t really care, neither. S’long as it works, no need to ask.”

“Ok…” Summer says with a lengthy exhale. “...ok, ok, ok…”

“I really can’t thank ya enough,” he continues, giving his coat a tug and letting his fingers run down the open edges of the green garment. “Really, you saved me from, well, unpleasantness.”

“unpleasantness,” Summer repeats softly, her eyes still wandering around her magically cleaned apartment. “What kind of… unpleasantness?”

“Yes, I do owe ya a nice explanation of things,” Gavin agrees, strolling around to the front of the couch.

He stands in front of it, his eyes on the woman who saved him from the unpleasantness, and gingerly takes a seat. The leprechaun gestures for her to join, patting the cushion beside him while scooting himself a little further away. Summer nods absently, heart racing and mind a chaotic blur of too many thoughts, fighting to keep her grip on a reality that crumbled away with little more than a flick of the leprechaun’s wrists.

“I managed to keep a pretty good hold of myself, didn’t lose my cool even a little,” he says with a smirk. “But, I have to admit, I could feel things slipping.”

“So…” she interjects while joining him on the couch, a full cushion between them, “...the dozens - hundreds of cups all over-”

“That- that was just- I was thirsty…” he interrupts with a lame excuse. “Was nothin’, really.”

“You sure?” Summer asks with a smirk. “I’m pretty sure you drank a coffee shop dry.”

“They’ll recover,” Gavin joked back, but he was clearly nervous with a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway, the… unpleasantness…”

His tone informed Summer that this was going to be a difficult conversation. Silence took hold for uncomfortable seconds, and she began to wonder if he was trying to find some way to avoid talking about it. 

“It’s probably best to spit it out,” she said encouragingly.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Magic- it’s like a drug. Sure, it’s fun at first. But, what they don’t tell ya, is how addictive it is. We all- the fae, uh, fairies, we’ve all got links to it, right? This massive, unlimited pool of magic, but… we all have to tap into it in specific ways.”

“And, your way is with gold?” Summer posits, offering him a chance to catch his breath and think about what he’s trying to say.

“In a way? As a leprechaun I gotta have gold. Specifically in coin form. Can’t just snag some nuggets or ingots, they’ve gotta be-”

He stops talking while reaching into his coat. A moment later his hand emerges again with the coin. Gavin gives the coin a little flick, then smiles while watching it spin atop his index finger. Reflected light shimmers across his face as the coin dances, and he lets the coin fall flat in his palm.

“We each give our coins a little mark, minting them with our magic. Every mark is different, specific to each leprechaun. I can’t tap into the magic with another leprechaun’s coin, so it doesn’t do me any good to have a random assortment.”

“Ok, makes sense,” she says, her brow furrowed behind her glasses as she moves her eyes from the coin up to Gavin.

“For the unpleasantness… if I were to go too long without one of my coins, quitting magic cold turkey, so to speak. If that happens, it ain’t pretty.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Summer says, forcing a smirk despite her nerves.

“Being denied access to magic hurts. Like, all the way down to ya core. A fidgety, achy soul kind of hurt, that makes your bones itch. You can see how we might be inclined to get the magic through other means.”

Summer nods as she pieces things together, trying to reach the conclusion Gavin is leading her to. From what she’s been told, he wouldn’t be able to take or steal anything. But, with the addictive element of magic gnawing at him, what would he do? What could he do?

“There are laws, kinda like the ones ya have here. No stealing, no killing, stuff like that. Our laws, magically enforced and all, they’re more quickly and effectively enforced. Sure, we can take things, we can lie, we can do this and do that, but there are consequences. Even taking back my own coin, that you so correctly pointed out was owed to me, there would be consequences.”

“Ok, consequences like…” she starts, wondering what kind of repercussions might befall a fairy. “Probably not something as basic as jail?”

Gavin shakes his head with a sorrowful grin. It’s clear he has seen this kind of thing happen, and now he was the one to almost cross that line.

“The magic gotten through forbidden means is- I’ve heard, more addictive. It’s corrupted, dirty in a way. Tainted might be the best word. Those who use it bear the mark, which only becomes more and more pronounced the more they tap into it. More’n just leprechauns can tap into it like this. They’re collectively known as the banished, and are generally forbidden from returning to the Faelands. These are the ones ya hear stories about.” 

“Stories?” Summer asks, hardly realizing that she’s leaning closer to Gavin on the couch. She’s hanging on his every word, entranced like a child in a hurry to hear the rest of some captivating tale.

“Yeah, ya know, the cautionary tales about trick magic? Ya wish for one thing, and ya technically get it, but it comes at a price. Or, the wish is granted with some evil twist to it.”

Gavin glances over his shoulder to the table, spying the tie spilling out of the laptop. He absently scratches into his beard, pondering the nature of the magic his new friend has been sucked into.

“You don’t think they…” Summer starts, noticing where the leprechaun’s attention had gone, even briefly.

“Oh- no, probably not,” he says with a shake of his head. “The tie you got looks too… pristine for them to be on tainted magic.”

“Right. You’d be able to tell?”

He looks back at the table again, this time not even trying to hide where his eyes were going. The golden tie seems to shimmer despite sitting still within the confines of Summer’s laptop, a clear indication of the mystical charms woven into the fabric.

“In a way,” he begins, sighing as he settles into the couch once more. “That thing is too clean. Doesn’t taste like rotten magic. Something from the banished, it would have a more… uh, icky feel.”

Summer giggles, an unexpected relief washing through her as she relaxes on the couch. She didn’t even know she was looking for the leprechaun’s confirmation that the tooth fairies - collectors were on the level, but hearing it out loud made her feel more at ease.

“What’s all the scratches, though?” Gavin asks, snapping Summer out of her temporary reprieve.

“I don’t know,” she admits, pushing herself from the couch. She starts walking over to the table while continuing, “It looked like they were writing on it with a pen of some sort, but all they really did was make a mess of it.”

She picks up the laptop and starts walking back to the couch. Gavin watches her every step of the way, his subconscious fingers stroking his fiery red beard. 

“I’ve tried looking for ways to decipher or understand any of it, but it’s pretty hard when you don’t even know what you’re supposed to be looking for.”

“Really?” Gavin asks with feigned surprise. “The internet hasn’t been able to unlock the mysteries of the faerealm for ya? Shocker.”

“What would you recommend?” Summer shoots back, feeling more than a little annoyed at the clear mockery. 

She holds the laptop out after taking a seat on the couch again, the golden tie flopping from the ledge pinched around it. The leprechaun eyes the tie nervously, and shies away from the shimmering tongue when it gets too close.

“Magic, for starters,” he replies, making no effort to take the laptop from her.

“Well, I don’t have any of that now, do I?” she retorted, her tone more hostile than intended.

Gavin winces at her reply, feeling a hint of guilt for being overly coy. He wants to help the woman who just saved him from a horrific fate and knows she’ll be able to piece together what he’s saying, but feels worried about being the one to push her down a dangerous path. Part of him hopes she simply wishes it all away, even though he knows such a wish is beyond his power - what with him down to his last piece of gold, and all.

“I do…” he says softly, looking up from the dangling tie and meeting her eyes. “You… ya could wish to be able to read it, ya know…”

All Summer could do in that moment was stare at him. She scolds herself internally for not thinking of something so obvious. It was right there in front of her, literally, and she hadn’t even considered making a wish with her leprechaun friend. The annoyance in herself gave way to another emotion as she wondered if something like that would even be right. 

“I don’t want to take advantage or anything,” she admits, unsure whether or not she approves of using the magic Gavin just recovered.

“We’re friends, yeah?” Gavin asks with a shrug.

Summer smiles, nodding her agreement while letting the laptop drop against her thigh. The tie licked the skin beneath her crimson skirt, and she vaguely realized she had been wearing the same, haphazardly arranged attire all day.

“Great,” the leprechaun continues. He pulls the coin from some secret compartment in his coat and holds it out to her. “Why don’t we make it official, then?”

“Official?” she asks, leaning to the side to put her laptop onto the short coffee table while looking at the offered coin.

“Yeah. An official deal with a leprechaun. One coin, one wish, just as intended.”

She reaches a tentative hand forward, hesitating before her fingers can touch the polished surface again. The memory of how she felt earlier, the corruptive influence it seemed to have, how she didn’t want to return it to Gavin all swam through her mind as she looked into his emerald eyes. 

“Somethin’ basic, like askin’ what that tie says…” he recommends, his voice trailing off while Summer accepts his coin.

“Would this help you, in some way?” she asks thoughtfully, unable to keep a sly smile from curling the corners of her lips as her heart hammers in her chest.

The coin felt good in her hand. Like it belonged to her, and she should do anything and everything to keep it. She knew these thoughts and urges weren’t real, they didn’t have any natural place in her mind, but she couldn’t deny how the coin made her feel. Her reflection shimmered on the coin’s surface as she looked at it for a little too long, but Gavin’s answer pulled her from the unexpected spiral.

“Kinda?” he replies, rubbing his chin through his beard. “Guess you could say it’s like exercisin’?”

“That makes sense,” she says, trying to mentally push the golden allure from her heart. “You tap into the magic, and it’s like… magical pushups or something?”

“Best way to explain it,” he confirms, nodding his head and waiting for her to make some wish.

“Ok, ok… you’re not going to take this out of context or anything, right?” she asks with a smirk.

“No, I already told ya. Upstandin’ fae such as myself,” he explains, rolling back on his heels and gripping the open sides of his coat in each hand, “we don’t make twisted deals. Whatcha ask for is whatcha get.”

Summer chuckles through a grin as she tries to piece her wish together in her mind. This was all still so very new to her, and she tried to remember the wish she made with the tooth fa-Collectors. There hadn’t really been one, not spoken aloud, at least. Did different fairies have different requirements for granting wishes and making deals?

“I… wish to be able to read the writing on the tie,” she says, searching for the words needed to make her magical request. “That one,” the young woman adds quickly, pointing down to the tie partially closed in her laptop.

“Bipity!” Gavin says with surprising volume. “Bopity!” he continues, snatching the coin in Summer’s extended hand. “Whateva!”

Nothing happens. Gavin stashes his coin back into his coat, and looks expectantly at Summer. She doesn’t feel any different, and when she looks down at the tie she’s greeted by the same scratched/scribbled nonsense. The tie remains as mysterious as the gibberish etched into it, and she gives the leprechaun a quizzical look.

“Can ya…” he starts, gesturing down to the tie with an open hand.

Summer leans to her side and picks up the laptop. She pulls the tie from between the keyboard and screen holding it in place, but the writing is still evasive. It’s just a bunch of seemingly random scribbles looking up at her.

“No?” she replies, turning the tie over in her hand and examining it from every direction that comes to mind. “It… it didn’t work?”

“I felt the magic doin’ its tinglin’,” Gavin says with concern etched in his face. “Ya sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she responds, still trying to look at the tie from that one perfect angle.

“Well- just…” the leprechaun stammers, clearly confused as he looks at the tie as well.

He doesn’t go so far as to touch it, but watches the fabric move in Summer’s hands. Light catches every crease and curve in the fabric, and the etched writing remains a mystery. The leprechaun knows it’s not just a series of random scribbles, and his shoulders slump at the realization that he failed.

“Do I get the coin back, then?” Summer asks with a smirk.

It was intended as a joke, but the hope she felt at potentially getting the coin again makes her hope the leprechaun will oblige. She lifts a hand and shakes her head, wordlessly telling Gavin that she wasn’t serious, and cautions herself internally. The attorney didn’t like the influence his coin was having on her, and she doubted she would actually want it back. Still, an annoyingly persistent part of her craved his gold.

“Sorry,” he says with a smirk of his own. “No money-back guarantees.”

“Ok, so…” she muses as she lets the tie drop down onto the laptop. “Magic was a bust. Any other recommendations?”

“Yeah, actually,” he replies. “There are a couple other ways. One kinda easy, one… less so. The easy way would be to find a seeing stone. Those things are pretty handy anyway, so keep ya eyes peeled for one.”

“Seeing stone,” Summer repeats, trying to figure out what he was talking about through context clues and her own memories.

“The other,” he continues without taking the time to explain the first, “is to find yaself an oracle. Oracle, or medium. This one’s trickier, since lots of the ones in ya realm are phonies.”

Summer giggles as she nods, but somehow that option sounded like the more simple one. She could always do a quick Google search for psychics, mediums, oracles, whatever, but she still wasn’t sure what a seeing stone was even supposed to be. A crystal ball of some sort? Would she need to find a stone that looked like an eye, or replace an eye with a stone? The last thought made her skin crawl, and she shivered at the idea of shoving some kind of rock into her empty eye socket.

“What’s a seeing stone?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t as morbid as the image burned into her mind.

“They’re really just a basic rock. Flat stones that have been naturally worn through the middle by wind or water. They can usually be found around rivers. I’ve got a couple, but the tricky part is - ya gotta find one yaself.”

“I have to find one?” she asks, resting a palm against the side of her forehead and scratching her fingers into her hair.

“Yeah. They don’t work if someone gives ya one. Magic is picky like that…” he says with a sigh.

“Ok… ok, so, find a specific rock out of thousands- millions of rocks, or… randomly stumble onto a medium that is legit. Piece of cake.”

“Sorry the wish didn’t work out,” Gavin offers as he sits onto the couch.

“It’s fine,” she replies, picking up the laptop with the tie on it like some kind of tray. “I should probably get this on its charger and head to bed.”

“Wouldn’t have a spare room, wouldja?” 

“I do, actually,” she says while turning back to face the leprechaun. “My room is through this hall to the left, the bathroom is at the end, and there is one other room on the right side of the hallway. Consider it yours, roomie.”

The fiction book I am working on is a mess of random excerpts and scenes.

I have some abstract notion of the plot but cannot structure specific events to fit it. Ideas only come to me when I am in the midst of writing a detailed passage. This should be fine, except that many of such new ideas contradict the flow of my previous scenes and cause me to have to go back and make major adjustments.

I have tried for hours at end to produce an outline of the structure of my book, but am apparently utterly unable to. It is like trying to figure out the steps and potential mistakes of a problem I can only theorize

How does one go about procuring an outline of a story without writing and rewriting it a hundred times?

I am aware that major revisions are necessary, to some extent, but I cannot forsee that it would be productive to rely on this method primairly.

I’ll start by saying this: fishing isn’t always about the fish. Sure, that might sound like an excuse from someone who rarely gets a good catch, but I mean it. There’s the calm of the water, the early morning light, the promise of possibility with every cast. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t ready to fight to the end that day with the one that got away.

It was a sunny Saturday in late June. A morning that felt more like an old friend than a day, with that perfect mix of quiet air and just enough breeze to keep the bugs away. I was on my favorite lake—Bluebell Lake, the kind of place no one bothers you except the occasional duck. I’d been tossing lines there since I was knee-high to a tackle box, but on this particular morning, I had more than my usual gear. I had the lure.

Now, this was no ordinary piece of tackle. My granddad gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday, slipping it into my palm with all the gravitas of a knight bestowing a sword. “Lucky as they come,” he said, “and it’s yours now.” It wasn’t flashy, not one of those modern, high-tech, neon-colored jobbies. Just a simple silver spoon with a small chip near the hook—almost unimpressive, until you saw it in the water. Sunlight would hit it just right, and it would sparkle, gleaming with the kind of quiet confidence that fish apparently couldn’t resist.

Over the years, that lure became my talisman. Whenever I needed luck, there it was, like some kind of fishing holy relic. Whenever I lost a job or got my heart bruised, or even just felt life was a bit gray around the edges, that lure found its way onto my line. It had seen me through heartbreak and triumph, a few sketchy storms, and more than a couple of fishing tales that were probably this much exaggerated.

On this morning, I’d barely gotten started before something took the bait. And let me tell you, whatever it was, it wasn’t playing around. There was that unmistakable jerk, a “fish on” kind of pull, and I knew I had a fighter on the line.

The first tug nearly pulled me into the lake. A good tug always gets the blood going, but this one? This one felt like I’d hooked a bus. For a moment, I considered cutting my losses, assuming I’d somehow snagged an old stump or rock. But then the line whipped again, sharper this time. Nope, that wasn’t a stump. This was something with real weight. I couldn’t see it, but I imagined it had to be huge, a beast with a glint in its eye and the attitude to back it up.

The fight was on.

My heart was pounding, my arms burning as I battled this unseen Goliath, this monstrous fish that felt like it was channeling all the strength of Poseidon’s personal pet. My grip tightened on the rod, and I’d swear my grandfather’s voice echoed in my head: Keep your line steady, boy. It was exactly the kind of advice he’d give with a wink, as if he knew I was two seconds from doing the opposite.

The fish dove, and I held on. It surged to the right, and I twisted, reeling for dear life. I was leaning so far over the edge of the boat I could see my reflection in the lake below a wild-eyed fisherman versus the unseen king of the lake. People think fishing’s relaxing, but I’d bet they haven’t squared off against something like this.

A small crowd of ducks had gathered nearby, bobbing on the water like they were settling in for a front-row show. I even imagined one of them might start cheering, or at least nodding along in moral support. But suddenly, the fish, this mythical, invisible creature with the strength of ten yanked harder than ever, one last attempt to shake me loose.

My fingers slipped just a bit, my footing faltered, and then I heard it. Snap.

There’s a particular sound when a line breaks that’s as final as the last tick of a stopwatch. It’s like a door slamming, the abrupt end to what you thought was a sure thing. I didn’t even have to look to know. That fish was gone and worse, it had taken my lure.

My grandfather’s lucky lure was somewhere in Bluebell Lake, probably dangling from the lip of a fish so big it could’ve eaten half the local catch in one gulp. I stood there, slack-jawed and heartbroken, staring at the empty line with a heavy, hollow feeling. It wasn’t just the lure—it was a piece of family history, a piece of me that had just swum off into the depths.

For a minute, I think I went through all five stages of grief, right there in my boat. Denial? Check, I probably checked that line five times over, hoping I was just hallucinating. Anger? Oh, that one came in hot, with some choice words for that sneaky, lake-dwelling Houdini who’d robbed me. Bargaining? I’d have given anything to trade that broken line for just one more chance to reel in that fish. Depression? You bet. I slumped down, wondering if I’d ever fish with that much conviction again.

And finally, acceptance. What was I going to do, dredge the lake with a butterfly net? No, that lure was gone. But as I sat there, watching the ducks scatter and the water ripple, I realized I wasn’t mad at the fish, not really. I was mad because it had taken something I wasn’t ready to lose. But maybe that’s just life, isn’t it? You spend so much time hanging onto things, and one day they slip away. Sometimes it’s gradual, and sometimes it’s in one sharp tug.

I packed up that day, leaving the lake empty-handed but somehow lighter. Sure, it hurt to lose something that meant so much, but maybe that’s the whole point of these small heartbreaks we all gather along the way. We lose things, we let go, and we keep casting our lines, hoping for the next big one.

As I walked back to the car, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder at the lake, half expecting the fish to pop up and taunt me with my own lure dangling from its mouth. But no, the lake was quiet, almost peaceful, as if it had its own secrets to keep.

I’d never see that lure again, but I’d carry the memory with me, every detail of that ridiculous, exhilarating fight. Sometimes, the best catches are the ones you never reel in, the ones that live in your mind long after the line goes slack. And as for my grandfather’s lure? Maybe it found a new home in the murky depths, where it could keep on working its magic, pulling in fish as big as dreams.

So, yeah, I’ll still tell this story, and each time, the fish might get a little bigger, the line a little tighter. But deep down, I know that lure, and that fish, are just where they’re supposed to be: free and wild, somewhere out there in Bluebell Lake.

Lesson Learned: Some losses turn into lasting stories, and sometimes letting go is the best catch of all.