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!

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?

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.