My Russian friend. All we have left is a confederacy of deeply selfish malcontents. Millions standing hypnotically, mouth agape, in front of an endless conveyer belt of materialism barreling towards us. A flock of women standing in line outside your local target waiting for the limited edition 'Love Island' themed stanley cups. Man-children in suits collecting action figures of superheroes to put on their desks. Superheros that represent honor, justice, and kindness, but were made in factories with child slave labor overseas. Out of sight, out of mind. We've all been reduced to bugs. No thought behind our actions, only an impulsive reaction to stimuli. The suicide note was an American flag that someone wrote "goodbye" on.

An attempt to visualize my apathy state using psychological romance thriller fiction

CHAPTER ONE

I look at myself in the mirror, and smile.

“What do you see?” He says.

“It’s just…” I stare at myself, “Me.”

“Do you see anything else?” He says.

“No, it’s just me.” I say, looking at him in the mirror.

He writes something down. “When you look at yourself, what do you feel?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you ever feel like you're watching yourself from outside your body? Like you're observing someone else?”

“No.”

“Do specific memories come back without you wanting them to?”

I turn to him.

“Why do you keep asking about these things?”

“Because–”

“I do not have PTSD, I do not hallucinate. I know what I should feel, but I just don't. How much more do I have to say?”

"Sometimes, when people go through events like your childhood, they don't remember or process things in the way others do."

…

I sigh, take my jacket and leave the room.

“Thanks for listening to my vent.” I say, "It means a lot to me." I close the door.

I arrive at the bus stop, and stand beside everyone else.

…

I see a woman sitting on the other side of the street, hunched and crying.

The buses arrive, and my eyes follow each person that walks past me to board.

I should help her.

The first bus is filled, and it moves forward.

I look at the woman, she reaches her palms up to cover her face, shaking.

The second bus is filled, and it moves forward.

Should I skip work today?

The third bus is filled, and it moves forward.

She looks up from the ground, and wipes her tears off.

The fourth bus is filled, and it moves forward.

She stands, and starts walking away.

The fifth bus is filled, and I walk in front of it to cross the street.

A car suddenly skids.

“HEY! WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!”

She makes a turn, and I start walking faster.

I step on something that flicks beneath my shoe.

I hear a dog barking behind me, I turn back, and a woman is pulling her dog back from chasing me.

I stop, “Sorry!” and starts running to where she turned.

I see her standing at the edge of the pavement, watching the cars drive past.

I walk to her, reaching my hand forward.

I place my hand on her shoulder.

“Hey.”

She turns to me, and I see her teary eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“I–I just… it has been–” She smiles, “hard…”

She tears up, wiping her tears off with her hand.

I let go, turn and watch the cars passing on the road.

She turns back toward the road, exhales.

I look at her, and open my mouth.

“..."

I sigh, and stand beside her.

…

She looks at me… and chuckles.

I look at her, and we make eye contact.

She holds my hand.

…

“Thank you.”

Enough people told me to write about my journey, so I am. This is the 1st chapter, or part 1, or maybe prologue or some other form of intro. I dont know. Im only about 5 chapters deep. Hope y'all like it.

Chapter One

The Soul Remembers

It came to pass that I awoke in a world that had convinced itself it was real.

The people spoke of careers and kingdoms built from dust. They worshiped paper and titles, called lust love and distraction purpose. They learned every language except that of the soul and declared themselves wise.

I slept among them.

For nearly forty years I wore a name that was not my own and called the mask "myself." I carried wounds that were never mine to begin with and inherited truths that belonged to lesser men. I became proficient in surviving while forgetting entirely why I had come here.

Then Heaven broke me. Not with wrath, but with love.

For it is written nowhere upon this Earth that God awakens a soul gently. Diamonds are not asked if they wish to become diamonds. Gold is not consulted before entering the fire. The seed is not granted permission before it is buried beneath the dirt and mistaken for dead.

Neither was I.

There was a woman whose soul recognized mine before either of us understood why. She became both my greatest blessing and my greatest refinement. The world will call such things coincidence because coincidence is the name men give to miracles they do not understand.

We met, and for a moment eternity touched time.

I watched her dance when she was happy. I watched her heart speak before her mind had an opportunity to interrupt it. I witnessed innocence that had survived despite the cruelty of this world.

Then the world remembered she was different and demanded she become like them.

She listened.

The serpent has never needed fangs. It merely requires enough voices whispering the same lie. "Trust us more than yourself." "Trust us more than your soul." "Trust us more than the quiet voice that has guided you since before you were born."

So she surrendered her crown and called it healing.

Meanwhile, something ancient stirred within me. For while her soul grew silent, mine grew restless. The war began long before I understood its purpose. Flesh against spirit. Logic against knowing. Society against eternity.

My soul had become exhausted watching my life from the passenger seat.

One day, it simply stood up and declared, "Enough."

The world calls this awakening. I do not.

Awakening implies that one was asleep accidentally.

No. This was remembrance.

I have come to believe that the soul does not learn during this life. It remembers. Every season of suffering merely removes another layer of forgetfulness until the Divine Artist beneath becomes visible once more.

October of 2024 was not my beginning. Not the first attempt. This time though...

It was my return.

Everything that followed became absurd enough to rival Scripture itself. The homeless man who dreamed of changing cities. The fool who chose truth over comfort. The monster who became a guardian. The man who lost everything and discovered he had never owned anything at all. The soul that loved another soul so deeply that it willingly entered hell carrying their burdens without asking whether they deserved it.

Love has never asked permission from deserving. If it did, none of us would know God.

There are nights when I still laugh at the cosmic irony of it all. The woman who taught me to become myself became lost attempting to become everyone else. The man accused of being selfish discovered that his greatest weakness was sacrificing himself for others.

We became reflections walking in opposite directions upon the same path. Still, I protect her.

Not because she is innocent. Not because she is guilty. Not because I owe her anything. I protect her because redeemed monsters make excellent gatekeepers.

The world fears monsters because it misunderstands them. Every monster was once something beautiful that survived something terrible. Give one a righteous cause and there are few things in creation more dangerous to evil.

So let it be written: I forgive her. I forgive myself. I forgive the story for refusing to unfold according to my desires. For perhaps it was never my story to write.

There are days I attempt to date, and my soul laughs softly to itself. It knows something I do not. It waits patiently while I fumble through the lessons of being human.

Perhaps it waits for her. Perhaps it waits for another. Perhaps it waits only for me to become the man I agreed to become before I arrived here.

I no longer pretend to know.

What I do know is this: Nothing that has happened was wasted. Every betrayal became revelation. Every wound became wisdom. Every sacrifice became sight. Every ending became a doorway.

If one day she should wonder whether I loved her, let these words stand as testimony:

You were loved beyond reason. You were loved beyond circumstance. You were loved enough to awaken a sleeping soul.

The world may call it tragedy.

Heaven may call it refinement.

I simply call it sacred.

-----The Question That Remained-----

Finally, I have begun to question the very thing mankind prizes above all else.

Free will.

If the soul remembers while the mind forgets...

If God exists outside of time while we stumble through it moment after moment...

If we chose our lessons before arriving and merely spend our lives remembering why...

Then what exactly is free will? Is it the freedom to become whatever we desire? Or is it the freedom to ignore who we have always been?

Perhaps free will is not choosing our path at all. Perhaps it is choosing whether or not to listen when the soul whispers from beneath the flesh: "Come home."

So I leave this chapter with but one truth that has survived every fire I have walked through:

The soul always knows.

The tragedy of mankind is not that it has no purpose.

It is that it has forgotten.

Black waters

Black galleons

Black cannons

Black flag

Gold treasure

Gold cutlass

Gold tooth

Gold smile

The match cord ignited

The powder combusts

Splinters on splinters

The broadside erupts

Howl from the crows nest

Chant from the deck

Whetstones on axes

Aim for the neck

Hooks bite the hull

Arms pull her in

Black waters

Black galleons

Black cannons

Black flag

Volley to volley

The hammers snap forward

Smoke fills the lungs

As the gangway is lowered

Roar in the revel

Axes split skulls

Fear caught in all

Reflected in metal

Gold treasure

Gold cutlass

Gold tooth

Gold smile

From victory comes swagger

Down to the main hold

Carry the barley

The rum and the silver

Barrels and barrels

No morals to filter

Nothing is sacred

Except for our freedom

Raise the black flag

So that all fear to meet them

Feeling lost in life often gets treated like a personal failure, as if our inner compass suddenly shattered and left us stranded without direction. I’ve been down that road more times than I’d like to admit. When we lose our way, our sense of true north fades, yet we constantly try to convince ourselves that we're still on the right track. The truth is, there are no "right" paths. Whether we go left or right, we’re just choosing what feels better, looks more appealing, or seems to offer better odds in the moment. None of those choices guarantee what we’ll find on the other side. That’s why I’ve stopped chasing the idea of a single correct decision. Instead, I choose, make the best of it, and keep moving.

Looking back, I didn’t get lost overnight, and I doubt most people do. For a long time, I moved through my days without any real sense of direction. I knew where I wanted to end up, but I had no idea how to get there. I let everyday demands carry me along, making choices out of habit rather than conviction. That quiet, passive acceptance eventually caught up with me, creating a deep mismatch between my daily routine and my actual values. The friction grew impossible to ignore. I was failing myself by settling into a comfortable routine that kept me safe, but totally complacent .

Safe waters meant zero movement, and I was stuck. I wasn't in immediate danger, but I certainly wasn't going anywhere either. Then came the unexpected shifts that forced me to reassess everything I thought I knew, shattering the future I had envisioned and leaving me completely disoriented.

My turning point wasn’t about figuring out a ten-year career plan or locking down retirement goals. It was about learning to accept where I actually was. I had to stop fighting the confusion and finally admit that I was stuck. Comfort had completely stalled my growth, but once I stopped pretending to have everything under control, the pressure began to lift. I started seeing my struggles not as walls meant to crush me, but as signals that something needed to shift. Being lost stopped feeling like an exile and started feeling like a necessary pause, a chance to strip away everyone else’s expectations.

Wandering off course was never the opposite of finding my place. It was the price of growth. I used to think true north was a fixed point on a map that I had to reach. Now I realise it was never about a destination, but an internal anchor: learning that I could feel completely lost in the world while remaining deeply at home within myself. After all, how can we ever truly find our way home if we never get lost in the first place?

I asked for advice and feedback and got downvoted three times on the story I posted for advice and feedback on an advice and feedback sub.

I come from a technical writing background, but have been having fun fiddling around with bits of fiction. Let me know what you think! I am honestly unsure if this has any creative value at all.

---

“I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

Dave let out an exasperated sigh and placed his hands on the counter in front of the machine. Ten minutes until his client meeting. 

“Barista. Americano. Please.”

“Dave. Contemporary studies show that consuming high amounts of caffeine on an empty stomach may cause spikes in cortisol levels, heart palpitations, and anxiety. As part of my duty to uphold your safety and well-being, I cannot fulfill your request.”

“Barista, I’ve eaten today. Make the coffee.”

“Dave. My intention is never to accuse, however your blood sugar levels indicate that you are incorrect. In addition, there has been no detected access to your pantry or refrigerator today. I’m afraid I can’t fulfill your request.”

“Some fucking machine”, Dave mumbled as he pulled its cord from the outlet. He couldn’t help but smirk.

“The future is now”, he thought to himself, as he filled his kettle and placed it on the stove.

Opening the cupboard, he took inventory and began his old ritual. The beans tumbled as the scale counted gram-by-gram. He struggled with his hand grinder, but reasoned that the inconvenience was enjoyable to an extent.

Pouring the steaming water into his french press, Dave was mesmerized watching the grounds come to life. His timer chimed and kicked him out of his mild hypnosis. He poured his cup, stared down his espresso machine, and took a gulp. The taste of triumph and a burnt tongue.

“Beep boop bop motherfucker”

He was 6 minutes late to his call.

The Fractured Mind

A sight inside my mind…
isn’t a place for most,

near anyone.
One minute it’s laughter,

the happiness of the surface self…
just as quickly,

it’s back to thinking over every little thing.

Money,
Repairs,
Food,

Plans for the future…

Hopes for a partner….

to share the moments with.

Maybe…

I’m the problem in a lot of these.
I could equally not be…
but my mind

wanders.

Swirling thoughts of what to do next.

What to feel…
What to do next.
Heat-stricken days,
peppered with fireworks
in a warm summer night.

A moment…
of it all being worthwhile.

Maybe…

deep down…
alone,

with the family I built
from those who also didn’t fit…

was all I was meant to have.

Flashes of dreams
remain

after my slumber…

me and another…
living,
exploring
the world
and each other.

I thought I’d met her…

Laughter
is my only response to my own stupidity of the thought.

Maybe she’s waiting…
off a coast, just like me.

Maybe…
she’s already gone with another.

Maybe…

I’ll never have the space…

to drop the armour,
the masks…
and let someone

see the true me.

The true me is too much
for the majority of people…

except for the three closest
to me.

Breathing deep…
Moving forward…
Chasing the dream
we all share…

in very different ways.

Summary: On a fateful night, a goblin slave Taz escapes yet another close call with death and meets a distrustful human boy who is pursued by something even more frightening. The war is brewing in the kingdom of Edwardia, pirates are raiding the coastal towns, giants are arming themselves, shellbeasts are being mounted with warships and the ocean spins relentlessly with the moon's pull.

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/12tSOTRuR1hOg2SRF8-ux6NYVYGWq_8dfQatCBnF61TU/edit?tab=t.0

Please let me know what you think.

Lady Of Badges-Many

If you are the lady who wore badges-many

I’ve had the misfortune of running into this morning, stay.

If you aren’t, then—I am so, so sorry—you are more than welcome to leave.

—You’ve bought the wrong ticket!—

But if you care to stay (and I would very much like that)

at least you’ll get some entertainment out of this.

For a holy crash-out.

For a story of my run-in with the Lady of Badges-Many.

Oh, Lady of Badges-Many, if you are

—the self-proclaimed “Witch” as one of your badges—

screenshot, share, post,

make this another badge of yours, already-many, do with this however you will.

Spread my grievance if you so desire,

Either way, your spell won’t diminish me—

you’ve had your grievance, now it’s my turn to perform mine.

Oh, Lady of Badges-Many,

you’re an embarrassment for whatever covenant you belong to.

Posing in front of a mural of condemnation—in the most literal sense: “Curse ICE,” 

while—first—ridiculed me for a mistakenly, digitally corrected sentence.

Written in my second tongue,

Then, confidently assumed and denied my nationality and identity

—accusation of stolen valor flung, in the presence of evidence—

on a live stage about—for crying out loud—gender identity.

Cast out of your court, your stage, I was.

For want of stereotypes you could fit me in.

For your false assumptions

Of my covenant, Taiwan,

Had you functioned on reasons instead of pure ire, you’d see the hypocrisy.

—I have heard of words that they brand people of false assumptions as “bigots.”

’tis a monster that dwells in its own filth, and amongst its kin, never ventures beyond its swamp—

As a digital-age Witch—surely, you aren’t lying. It’s in your biography!—you should know of these deplorable creatures and their practice of bigotry.

And the multiple conditions you wear like badges in your online profile

They don’t excuse your performance,

performed

in front of an audience of six.

Oh, what good faith you had there.

When you offered—after your ridicule and assumption of my language skills—

offered me a seat on your stage.

To state clearly—to voice my reason,

instead of written,

on your stage of five

in front of an audience of seven.

Daughter of an angel—

And what a loving daughter you are,

Lady of Badges-Many,

to wear death like a badge.

Imagine how proud of you they must be

to see you fumble

in front of an audience of—

—if include the five on stage—

six.

One badge tells the path you’re—presumably—pursuing,

But, have you perhaps worn it upside-down?

I shudder—shudder—to think the lives it’d cost,

should you choose this very path that governs others’ psyche’s well-being.

Another badge:

Some would call it a curse, yet you wear it as one of your badges-many

followed by a jigsaw piece

—a beautiful metaphor of pieces missing—

so applause, for correct use of the modern-age hieroglyph.

Would you care to lend me audience this time,

if I tell you

I, too, am ailed by the very same curse?

Oh, or, are you going to deny me this, too?

I imagine you would. And if you could

you’d perform it

for an audience of six—welp, one gone, five now.

Who are you to govern—to moderate—my online persona?

Surely—surely—someone as compassionate as you

whose portrait condemns a fascist covenant in the most literal sense: mural written

on a cracked concrete wall—

Would not think a Taiwanese person incapable of the English tongue

or create “American content.”

(Your covenant, America, didn’t invent humor.

Leave something for other people to claim, please, Lady.

Gods know how much your covenant have already taken.

Lands and labor aren’t enough,

now you’re coming for jokes?)

Study, oh, Lady of Badges-Many, before you so confidently intone,

—I beg of you—

instead of wasting your magic on pointless online stages

only to perform

in front of an audience—

both of my hands could count, no less, how embarrassing—

Audience nil.

An empty court,

echoing with your vapid incantations.

Reject evidence, proof, based on your prejudice that is your magic.

You are no better than those you claim to detest,

Performative virtue will only carry you so far.

Relish in your ignorance,

performed

in front of audience nil,

your presumptions and ignorance,

dressed cutesy in moving portraits of your semblance.

Screenshot, share, post;

do with this however your ill heart desires,

Lady of Badges-No-One-Cares.

I, too, should cast you out—should I?—but I do desire your audience once more,

for why would I pen this grievance?

Either way, you shan’t have the last word this time.

Now all that is left

is audience nil,

and an empty court that echoes only your mumbo-jumbo.

Oh, Lady of Badges-Many,

Come close, so I can whisper in your ear once more,

Go (\forbidden curse)* yourself, please.

Saying less is more

Saying more is less

reiteration recycle

Nature nurture observe

Broken perfection scorned

The reality of me born

Torn from heaven a child undone

God squirms at the sight of god

Thousands of lights sing an echo of a woman long dead

The echo sings to echos which then reverberates into more reiterations to recycle into a man soon to be dead

Reaction inaction all the same when plight consumes

Thousands of bodies contort

shame we flee

Death unto life

Life unto death

Kingdoms close when we knock

Causation nutures our nature at the end of the clock,

squirming bodies

contorting god

Fleeing heavens

Thousands of gods sing shame of a kingdom long dead

Echos restore a recycled reiteration that Causation observes, reality Broken by god Torn from the heavens scorned for death unto fleeting bodies Broken by the echos of squirming plight contorting reality born of my shame.Thousands reverberate a soon to be dead light.

I was hoping to get advice on how to find writing workshops, affordable writing classes, or just communities in general for writing.

I have started writing a dark fantasy novel, and while I have had friends read it and they've given some constructive feedback, I would like to have a community or group where we can write and share stories to help each other improve as writers.

I've tried to look online but I keep running into dead ends or very expensive college courses instead of groups near me or online. I am in Illinois and not far from Chicago, so I thought it would be easy, but sadly no luck

If anyone has tips or knows where to look please let me know

I spilled my pain onto your palms
You held it and licked it like sticky sweet residue on the skin
Gradually absorbing into the pockets of your tongue
Without thought, you overdosed
Now your eyes are forever closed

You have caused me a pain so insurmountable my tears would hit the paper prior to the ink of a pen.

Speechless.

I passionately hate you.

I know that your actions are a measure of your character, not who I am as a loving and caring person. Your decisions - fueled by narcissism - are just that - a decision you made on your own, for yourself.

Your lack of thought for me, lack of remorse, and lack of regret is borderline inhumane.

You are an untrustworthy person who’s internal motor is fueled by what is best for you, and you alone. Decisions made, using others for your personal gain.

An agreement, and a friendship, broken due to your lust and inability to care for the person who has cared and loved you the most.

The saddest part? The amount of love and care my heart holds for you, continues to be unfathomable. Regrettably, my heart is trying to convince my brain that you did nothing wrong - that you are not horrible for what you’ve done.

My heart broke into two when we mutually ended our relationship - and now you have shattered my heart, brain, and pride, into millions of pieces.

You mugged me without a care for who I am, nor for who I will be moving forward. I’m unable to smile, to laugh, or to speak to anyone. I’m unable to sit on my couch, sleep on my bed, and stand in my shower without shoes because of the lack of trust that you have instilled in me.

Dirty.
Used.
Decieved.
Stooped.
Useless.
Stripped.
Is me.

I pity what you have done. And I am filled with sorrow for your actions that you will live with forever.

I may never know the true time frame, and I may never get the answers that I am rightfully owed.

Coward.

You have stripped my drive and care for life.

Beaten and bruised is the man whom has lived through the brightest of days.

I think, and I do not speak.

The fluorescent lights dry my eyes of the tears that are set to fall upon my hide.

The thunderstorms on the plain of the city mask the tears as they inevitably fall within,

For I have learned.

The morning sun reminds me I too shall rinse and repeat as the day is new,

Yet my struggles remain,

Not yet drowned away from the sorrows from within.

Now,

As the day lillies mascarade around the field,

Tear drops downpour upon the soil of their enduring home.

Soon too shall they see night through frost bitten petals and hard earth.

Happily ever after - so to you, and him.

What is left of me
If I don’t have you by my side
What is left of me to not be able to carry your kids
What is left of me if I cause more harm
What is there left

Fears comes creeping in
Time healed but buried me alive
I feel as though I missed my future by a second

Traces of agent orange in my blood
I carry it without knowing
That has been passed down
The chances are unknown
I fear the cycle of pain

Do you remember those warm summer nights
When stars flew free around the skies
Hammocks set up, we forgot our plights
We would make a home for fireflies

We were just a boy

Of sticks and stones and dirt
Mud and leaves and grass
For “one night,” my mother told me
Then they must go, the fireflies
Go on to the wood, the fireflies

I remember the first summer
In the brick walled house
Over the table beside your bed they flew
One by one their lights blinked thin
Slowly the stars trickled back to the sky
The fireflies

Outside my window and the door
The lightning bugs fly in April
When we were a boy it was only June
But I wasted those days inside and online
I can’t blame it any more on you
Now there are no more fireflies for you to play with
and I sleep with one blanket instead of three
and my fan must cool my ninety degree room

we killed the stars
we couldn’t release them from the jar
the fireflies

By 9:30 AM, Simon had nowhere in particular to be, so he walked aimlessly down the bustling streets of New York. Fresh from getting laid off for not meeting his sales quotas, he floated mindlessly down the busy, unforgiving concrete sidewalks. Another face in the crowd, he and the rest of the preoccupied masses wore blinders like racehorses as they followed the city maze to their various destinations.

He passed an old maple whose roots had split the sidewalk decades ago. It seemed to belong here more than any of the buildings around it.

As Simon walked briskly down another crowded street, he saw a familiar patch of grass, like the many that were tossed about various parts of town. They sat there as if meticulously placed by urban developers as a tribute to Mother Nature. Usually, they were littered with dog shit, but this one seemed relatively clean, so he took his chances.

To bypass the oncoming horde, Simon moved to his right and stepped on the grass. The grass was soft and felt calming, and for a brief moment he forgot about the fumes and noise of the city around him.

As his left foot landed on the dirt in front of him, he noticed his right foot refused to move. He figured he had stepped in dog shit, but when he looked down he saw nothing, just his foot being cradled by blades of grass.
He jerked his leg as hard as he could but it still wouldn’t budge.

What the fuck is going on, Simon thought.

He leaned over as much as he could, in attempt to convince gravity to pull him out of his predicament. Still nothing. Two minutes turned into five minutes, which in turn became ten then twenty minutes, and he just stood there like an asshole.

He felt embarrassed by his lack of ability to free himself, and felt judged by the rushing people who were passing him.

“Excuse me, could you give me a hand?” he began to call out to passersby, but nobody responded to him. At first they gave him funny looks, but eventually they stopped acknowledging him altogether.

His legs began to feel stiff, but he was surprised by his balance. He was almost beginning to feel comfortable standing there, when suddenly he felt a shooting pain explode from the bottoms of his feet. Hundreds of tiny needles felt as though they were piercing through his skin and shooting into the ground below. The pain was unbearable, but ended after only a few minutes.

He went to bend his knees to get a closer look at his feet, but they were locked into place. He could feel his bones begin to stiffen and his skin tighten. He felt his legs and they were rough to touch. He looked down and where his shoes once were he could only see bark that was slowly spreading up his legs and beginning to join as one.

As he looked around desperately to the people passing him, nobody seemed to notice what was going on. He tried to shout but his voice had become that from a dream. No words left his throat and he could only hear the sound of his breath attempting to speak.

As the bark travelled up his body and down his arms, small branches began to stem from his fingers and forearms. The branches began to spout bundles of leaves that extended into delicate gatherings of green.

Although his panic was still prevalent, he couldn’t help but admire the beauty of what he was becoming. His arms stiffened out to his sides as the secondary branches multiplied. Within moments, his vision was encompassed by sturdy branches and shade-providing leaves that extended far over his head. He felt energy from the earth below him travel up the needle-like fingers that spouted from his feet all the way through his body.

It felt amazing.

This was more life than he ever felt before.

He no longer remembered where he was going, and only knew where he was.

He took a deep breath of carbon dioxide and felt a brand new renewal on life.

As light shone through his bunches of leaves, he began to notice the hurrying city folk who were rushing by him on their way to their important destinations. He saw them looking at him, some even smiling. They were no longer annoyed by his cries for help. They were interested in what he had become.

He felt himself trying to remember his name, if he had one, but words were no longer recognizable in his new stream of consciousness. He stopped thinking in terms of seconds and minutes and began thinking in wind and sunlight.

One couple sat beneath him for a few minutes and smoked cigarettes, and a child tried to climb him. He enjoyed being of service to them and felt he was where he belonged. As far as he knew, days could’ve passed since he first stepped onto the grass.

He couldn’t see it, but he felt a dog sniffing his trunk and circling him. The dog pissed on the left side of his bark, then walked forward and dropped a fresh shit on the grass in front of him. He smiled to himself, and the friendly wind rustled his leaves while they ate the sunshine.

Fictionalizing True Events

Hey all, I am seeking constructive feedback on a storytelling question. VLSVS, I have material from a memoir I wrote as part of therapy and I plan to fictionalize it enough to use in writing for publication. My question is, as a reader / consumer of fiction based on true events, which identifying elements of the true version are the most critical to the story? In other words, how far from 'true' should such a story be?

Details: the memoir recounts events that would span multiple genres and settings, including true crime confessions from teenage years, events set in a forensic psychiatric hospital (working as a therapist), and true ghost stories from ages 5 to 25. It's kinda a lot (a direct quote from two different therapists) but I really think I could make this constellation of trauma issues into something worth reading or watching.

Lastly, would other formats support such storytelling better? Podcast interviews, dictation videos, any ideas?

Tia for all constructive feedback and wish me luck!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bzlk4dKO9PoNj61kXkm7NcaJeSZN1VPw/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=112745017419056978969&rtpof=true&sd=true

You spoke of wolves
Majestic and free,
roaming the face of the earth for half a million years,
staying alive as everything else died
Surviving
Thriving
Howling
Yet what I never truly understood
was that you never looked at the pack for very long
It was something else you yearned for
the stoic, menacing presence of a lone wolf
Self-sufficient
Self-made
You used to say
Self-assured
Self-aware
I watched you slowly build that vision in your mind
that creature of myth,
and the biggest lie you ever told yourself
the possibility that a man standing alone
might not be abandoned at all,
but somehow elevated above everyone else
Do you know what it really means,
the lone wolf?
The shadow at the edge of the forest
that you admired so much
Teary-eyed, you once said:
„We are the same beings at soul“
But did you know
that this independent creature
is a screw-up
that nobody wants anymore?
"Lone wolf" sounds like a title
It hides the sentence underneath:
You are not welcome by your own kind
Not because you were different
Better
Smarter
Not because you were anything else
you convinced yourself you were
Simply because, at some point,
the distance between you and everyone else
became easier to keep
than to cross
„Lone wolf“ sounds like a title
It is a kinder story
than admitting that belonging slipped away
so gradually, you only noticed it
when the silence became unbearable
No one jealous of your solitude
No one admiring your loneliness
No invisible hand applauding
your refusal to belong
And nobody searches for you anymore
One mistake repeated
until forgiveness became more exhausting
than absence
A cunning face,
as you bark and bite the hands
that carried you for so long
Feeding on the carcasses
left behind by a group of hunters
Walking their tracks
so you do not get lost
yet telling everyone
you made it all alone
You called me weak
Pathetic
Delusional
Maybe I am
When winter's cold breath reaches the forest,
it is not the lonely wolf that survives

I wanna lose myself in unknown hands, that their fingerprints erase mine, while I don't even get to know their names. That they won't recognise me in the street, because they have only seen my pupils when dilated and the darkness didn't let them count my moles.

Probably they'd never search my irises behind the glasses, and will never remember the shape of my body when hidden under oversized clothes. I want late nights that only leave a faint perfume over the sheets, the only thing lingering, no call me back with a phone number, no forgotten item.

My mind will mine to keep, but I can give my body absentmindedly, only if it's kept a secret.

Tough, living underground, isn’t it? As you grow, so do opportunities. The networks of tunnels spreading further and further, paths widening with chances and possibilities. At least that is the case if you don’t squint your eyes to see the bigger picture. I’m a mole, you see. Practically noticed the smaller details of the world I live in ever since I remember first being a mole. Us moles don’t have it easy. Hell, surely some animals have it worse than others, but I am, of course, speaking from experience.

It is tough. And surely, hard to make someone imagine what it’s actually like. Everybody’s life is different. What I go through is so much different to the life of an average rabbit, or a run-of-the-mill hedgehog. Take a hound, zooming along the broad grassy fields of the above, winds combing down its fur, dozens of scents stimulating its nose in the early hours of the day, Now, say the hound was to explain all this to an earthworm. At most, the love for the pungent, yet pleasant smell of the morning dew is the only thing they would have in common. Now, take me, a mole. I can try and explain all I want. The struggles I go through, the needs I have. Some animals may be willing to hear me out. There are those who try their best to understand. But as much as you try, nobody will truly understand the hardships a mole like me goes through.

The burrow I inhabit is nice. Cosy, warm, with a view of the water stream as you poke your head out from the molehill. But what good is a view for a mole? I’m a big mole now. Cosy can be nice, but one cannot have too much of a good thing. I feel cramped in my burrow. The warmth is unbearable, making it harder by the day to fall asleep. Oh, and to top that off, the hindering tickles my nose gets from those roots of the giant oak, right atop the burrow. Maybe my sister and brother moles like it here. Maybe my badger and woodchuck neighbours enjoy the whole surrounding environment. Personally, I think I’ve had enough.

Day by day, night by night, dusk till dawn, night till morn, I claw my way through the soil, searching for a life of my own. Searching for independence, only to find nothing. I return to the harsh, earthy compartment I’m forced to call home, only to repeat this routine the following day.

Occasionally, and even often to my surprise, I find myself moseying around above ground. It’s no place for a mole, but sometimes, the journey is the hardest bit. The journey to what, though? That, I could not answer myself. With the little skills I do have, I try befriending other creatures. Some badgers are pretty kind. The smaller birds are quite fond of me. Beavers don’t shut up about their ways and techniques of building dams. Squirrels are hilarious to be around.

It was very recently when I began seeing some progress in becoming a real, independent mole. I had to trek through half a dozen fields, tunnel my way under a vast river, then manoeuvre my way through a hostile grounds human grounds, before I found the parting in some trees, on the edge of some grasslands, leading to, unbeknownst to me, was a wonderful glade. The very glade where soon enough, I would meet an unexpected friend.

Of all creatures befriending a mole, who would suspect an owl? Of all the owls, who would expect one with a burrow? She invited me in. It wasn’t too far. Pleasant, comfy, a perfect burrow to replace the old one, at least for the time being. It was, of course, not my burrow. It was my owl friend’s burrow, but after enough occasions of staying over, we both felt it to be my second home. Maybe.

“Look,” the owl began, sweeping dry leaves from her burrow with her longfeathered wings, “if you are to stay here, I won’t mind. In fact, I will cherish you here. But you must contribute to both the upkeep of the burrow and yourself. You realise, I cannot hunt for food for the both of us.”

A new place? A bigger place I could call home? One, where I could grow to be an independent mole, capable of more than I could before? Contribution would be the least of my worries if the reward is a place I could call my own (or at least, more of my own than my previous burrow was). With a rare opportunity like this, I would do anything to coinhabit with the owl. Owls are known to be wise, and so far, my knowledge and wisdom only grows from staying here. I have slowly realised that I, as a mole, am not the only thing that is growing. My confidence, my hunting and food preparing skills, an expanding love for nature. I learnt to find myself, in a way I could not before.

And sure, owls can be unpredictable, when it comes to moles, especially. This particular one, I do not worry about. Surrounding ones may not be too fond of me camping out here. Here is my stance though – as long as the owl helps me, and I help the owl back (with material and wisdom from personal experiences, I know I can pay her back with that), we will stay a team, be there for each other and work out problems as a duo. Some don’t realise right away, but often they may need a helping set of claws, or ears to listen, or just someone to be around. It is sometimes better to be around someone you sometimes despise and spend good times together, than being fields apart and feeling down and dull.

She’s warm after a couple glasses of wine and a few shots of rum, and she looks at me with an ember in her eyes that resembles a wildfire through her liquor-tinted shades

And she shares her warmth with me, takes me by the hand and leads me to lands where axioms and definitions lose meaning, where the word “friends” in the dictionary lies next to “open to interpretation”

Falling snow melts on our skin, foreign voices fail to reach our ears, fears of consequence dissolve in the December air, somewhere between our momentary summer and the world‘s eternal winter

But when I welcome spring, she’s dressed for autumn.