I woke up three times today.

The first time was slow, almost deliberate, as if my body was surfacing through syrup.

The sun had already begun its quiet trespass, slipping around the curtains as it etched thin, sharp blades onto the bedroom walls.

As the light gathered, the room seemed to wake with me.

My head felt clear, my thoughts felt grounded.

Only one thing, really, to wish you a good day, maybe take you in to work.

I made my way downstairs,

The cardboard walls and metal staircase echoed under my feet in a way that felt strangely normal

I reached for the stair rail, barely registering the coarse, sandpaper texture.

Even when it scraped my palm, I pushed the irritation aside and kept going.

The kitchen door was open, so you shouldn’t have left

And you were there.

But the kitchen

It was empty.

Not just tidy but stripped.

As if a removal crew had come in the night and taken everything: the sink, the table, cupboards, the hum of the fridge, the smell of yesterday’s coffee.

Bare walls. No utility. A kitchen that wasn’t ours.

And somehow none of us reacted. None of us seemed to notice the absence, the wrongness, the way the room had been hollowed out.

We just stood there, silent in the space where our life should have been.

Then, without knowing how it started, we began to argue.

In each other’s faces, our misplaced passion tearing chunks from each other.

We argued until the words no longer mattered; only their intent to wound.

The screaming woke me bolt upright — the molasses gone.

The room was dark, as if the morning sun had somehow missed it.

I rushed this time, reaching the stairs.

The walls were carpeted, soft to the touch, but the wooden floorboards beneath me were cold and sticky… each step pulling at me, stretching thin before releasing, as if the floor itself refused to let go.

I grabbed the handrail as it softened to my grip, twisting around my arm, while the sticky floorboards clung to my feet.

Somehow, through the push and pull, I kept moving.

The kitchen door stood open. I stepped inside

And you were there.

The kitchen was still bare,

but this time warmer, the morning light managing to reach every crevice. Deliberate, almost gentle,

as if it were trying to reassure us despite the strangeness.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, both of us aware of the changes around us. The missing furniture. The carpeted walls. The way the house kept rewriting itself between breaths.

Only here could we ever understand the strange world in which we found ourselves wrapped.

It was a calm realisation, an understanding presence, something neither of us had felt for a decade.

Instead of arguing, instead of letting the wrongness pull us apart again,

you stepped toward me.

I felt your arms wrap around my shoulders, steady and certain, and I folded into you without hesitation.

We held each other in the middle of that empty, sun‑washed room. No shouting. No confusion. Just the quiet understanding that something was shifting,

that we were both scared.

That we were both sorry.

The house still felt different, but in that moment, your heartbeat didn’t.

And for the first time since waking, I felt anchored.

My eyes opened to a stillness.

Sun shards broke through the curtain edges, illuminating the dust as it hung in the air’s quiet turbulence.

The same thought hit me for the third time: to wish you a good day, maybe take you into work.

But this time, I craved the good, and I dreaded the bad,

and I remembered how I just sleepwalked between the two.

Slow now, I reached the stairs, hesitation following every step.

I felt the carpet on my bare feet.

I made my way downstairs, the handrail solid, stable, smooth, guiding me on.

I knew when I saw the kitchen door — closed.

You always closed it when you left.

I stepped into the kitchen as the dishwasher hummed me an indifferent good morning.

The smell of coffee hung in the air; everything seemed there.

Everything in its place, normality reminding me:

The emptiness now was you

Two mirrors reflecting eachother

frozen in time, fragile yet rougher

Never meeting, inches apart

A kaleidoscope of drifting hearts

Cracks in one fractures the other

In darkness both fail to recover

Shards of broken silver strings

A melody splintered before it begins

They feel and know but never speak

one hopes that the other seeks

Thus, one awakens with thoughts deranged

Pleads a song for things to change

"I wait for your words that never land

A thesis that you wrote in sand

I glance through lines and memories old

Searching for relics and glittering gold

This game we play with dance and rhythm

Moving through this heart shaped prism

Scattering into ribbons of light

Colliding and bouncing, restrained by fright

You pull me from my self imprison

Baited by your seductive glisten

Pushed me with your silence still

Mind erupting, spineless chill

Now I wait to meet your gaze

Hold your hand and read your face

Sunset of this year awaits

Time stands still to meet my fate."

And so it bargains with the divine

"Keep her frozen, give me time

Yes or no it matters not

Just a chance to cry my thoughts"

A quest imposed for polished perfection

To shine so bright, worthy of her reflection

With bated breath it gathers it's shards

Mending them with gilded scars

"When I am complete, you will be mine

Please wait for me just one last time"

But it never realized

It need not turn into a prize.

I’m a 19 year old lesbian writer who’d like to write a story that’s somewhat unique and interesting (that’s kind of based off of my favorite stories “Cinderella” and “Tangled/Rapunzel”)

The main character would be the classic Cinderella/Rapunzel character. Forced to live in a home that doesn’t love her back. But instead of being angry and taking it out on others, she remains gentle and kind. She doesn’t want to go to the ball/leave her tower just to meet the prince, she wants to do something to get out and be herself without the pressure of her “family.” Eventually her kindness and bravery wins her the love of her life and the much needed happy ending.

Obviously I’d change it to my own style and aesthetic.

Maybe add fairies, unicorns, mages, witches, elves, etc etc. And the story would have way more than just the og plot. (Ykwim, it’s just the outline!)

I’m heavily against ai.

Therefore, since I’ve been on a writers block and I’m lacking inspiration; I came here hoping for fellow writers and readers to give me some brainstorming ideas, tips, and tricks.

I wanted to know what you guys would like to see in a story?

- Tropes you’ve rarely seen/heard in media but you’d love to see more of.

- Your favorite tropes are in Sapphic Stories and obviously Fantasy Romance Novels.

- Or even what you hate in fantasy romance novels My examples: (The fem treats the butch like a guy, the girl is the damsel in distress yet the strongest character (ykwim), main character loosing powers in the end,)

Extra: I’ve realized that there’s almost little to no fantasy/lesbian stories that have poc characters (at least from what I’ve seen) so I’m wondering if you guys would like to see more of your cultures being represented??? I want to make everyone feel included!

Maybe adding mythology creatures from beyond the classic Celtic/Medieval fantasy stories???

Any thoughts????

Why is it, I suddenly feel compelled to create something? And yet, there's a block. A twisting, coiling smoke in my mind that prevents it. Words do not wrap around my pen as I write, nor through my hands as my fingers grace the keyboard, they are now clunky and roughened. Dull around the once acute edges, like a sword cleaved in half. Sitting densely, trite with rust. Overused, unmended, then unused and atrophied. And I sit. And I shatter, not like glass, slowly. Like a burning tree, and the ashen bark flakes off, burnt, lacking density. Adrift on the wind, at the command of every stray beeze. And smoking, that stump. Polluting the air, but dead in itself. Alive, but dead. Soon to be gone. Vital enough to feel pain. Vital enough to percieve the agony. Clinging to that feeling, for what but that is left? What but the fragments, glittering. It glitters compared to what else is there. It glitters, even if dully, in the fire's wake. And that is all...

The Maid of Orleans Part 1

I said nothing.

She was already flustered, drenched with that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Words wouldn’t land right now

Whatever I offered would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however cowardly it looked, was sometimes the least dangerous option.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

She turned anyway, the way storms always do when they’ve run out of sky.

Her face was red, her voice sharp and unanchored.

“Useless,” she spat, close enough that I could feel it. “You never help. Never.”

It wasn’t shouting so much as screaming— unfiltered, banshee-loud—meant not to be heard but to wound.

Something in me folded.

I left the hotel room before I could say anything unforgivable, before the bitterness grew.

The door closed behind me, and alone in the corridor, I broke, tears blurring the patterned carpet as I walked. My chest burned. My head rang.

And under my breath, through sobs I barely recognised as my own, the words came out ugly and desperate.

Words I didn’t mean, words born only from pain.

The hallway swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 2

He said nothing

I was already flustered. The heat of menopause consumed me, leaving me drenched in that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

But he just lay there, seemingly uninterested.

Whatever I tried, whatever I demanded, would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however unfair it felt, was sometimes the sharpest weapon I had.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

He turned to leave.

His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes darting away. His silence cut as sharply as any word I could have thrown.

“The storm inside me broke; as if it had run out of sky, I could no longer hold it.”

“Useless,” I shouted, letting the syllables hit where they would. “You never help. Never.”

“You never say the words I need. You never hear me. You never see me.

Shouting turned to screaming as I wielded my truth—meant not to be heard but to mark the space, to assert the weight of what I carried alone.

I saw him fold. I saw the hesitation in the shoulders that always tried to seem strong.

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to speak, to ground me, to fix what I knew he could not. But he left the room before the words could harden into anything permanent.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with only the echoes of my own voice. Chest burning. Pulse thundering in my ears.

I whispered the words now, words I didn’t recognise, ugly, desperate—but not meaningless. They were the only words left that belonged to me.

The hotel room swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The rain got heavier as I raced towards the Tesco Express, my legs carrying me as fast as they could without tipping into a sprint.

At first, leaving the Jockey, I only felt the occasional tap… tap… of raindrops on my hat. But only a few steps into the journey home, they grew in both size and frequency. Each tap felt like pennies now, the brim of my hat slowly filling with water.

Milk. Blackberries. Chocolate.
I repeated the list as the automatic doors opened for me,

unknowingly, at the worst possible time.

The in-store background music was harder to ignore tonight.

Not loud — just present.

The percussion hit me first: patient, deliberate, unrushed. It opened a space to settle into.

Then the synths — warm and suspended — hanging unresolved in the air above the freezer aisles.

Before a word was sung, I knew this was going to be an emotional milk run.

That intro — all space and restraint — It carries you somewhere distant, somewhere reflective, before you have a chance to defend yourself.

A song I had always loved,

but avoided for years, as I let it become, quietly, something else.

Goodbyes.
Eulogies.
For people loved and lost.

Blackberry prices have shot up recently.

My thoughts already redundant, noticing the crate was devoid of blackberries.

The lyrics kicked in as I took the raspberries — cheaper, not as zingy.

I flashed back to when we were discussing what to play for her funeral.

I didn’t recall her ever showing a particular liking for the song; in fact, I don’t recall her mentioning it at all.

But knowing her was knowing where her heart lay.

We knew it was the only song that could ever really tell her story.

>

The shift from drums to whispers of quiet conversation is subtle but powerful. It sets up isolation as the narration turns mythic, as she remains grounded in the mundane.

Two people, same moment, different realities.

My life echoed back to me before the freezer hum cut through, gently pulling me towards the dairy section.

Two pints of whole milk.

I repeated my mental shopping list as my mind multitasked, fighting with the lyrics.

>

The song opens fully; the suspended intro drops, the key changes, as the music reaches out of Africa and into your heart.

You can no longer ignore it now.

The emotion takes you.

Blackberries. Milk. Chocolate.

You try to get back on track.

It’s only Tesco.
It’s only shopping.

But it’s in your head now.

Any chocolate really…

I like Mint Aero or Bounty.

My mind foggy now.

I came to buy snacks and end up navigating my own head as it fights for space with the meal-deal offerings.

>

The first two lines of the second chorus.

The music pushes my decision — that, and Clubcard discounts on Yorkie bars.

It’s late now. Tesco closes at eleven. I glance at my watch.

The chorus rises again, hitting harder than it had any right to in a Tesco Express at 10:50 pm.

>

I race towards the self-serve machines,

thankful that they exist, for fear of having to deal with the cashier

lest they catch the tears building in my eyes.

>

The “cry” — a stand-in for something uncontained,

calling from the shopping aisles, heard at the edges of my consciousness,

while the wild dogs echo my inner distress…

>

The contradiction lingers with me, reminding me of the emotional truth of grief.

You want someone with you, but you also want to be alone.
You want connection, but you can’t bear it.

I scan the milk, the raspberries, the Yorkie bar.

“Unexpected item in the baggage area.”

Not now.

“Please wait for assistance.”

Not tonight.

Trapped in Tesco while Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti.

“Let me sort that for you,” a member of staff says at my shoulder.

They clear the error.

I hold my breath, fearing small talk that fortunately never arrives.

Relieved, I scan my Clubcard. The machine seems happy to inform me it has been accepted.

And then that line hits — the hardest line of all:

>

And a single tear runs down my right cheek….

It’s only a few short steps towards the door,

but it feels like forever as the closing lines shift from reflection to urgency.

>

The reprise builds as the longing increases.

You feel the regret.

You remember the missed chances,

and your soul aches for all the things left undone.

Seeing the exit, escape imminent, I stop resisting, and I bless the rains,

as a fragile dam of held-back memories finally bursts its banks.

The doors slide open and the rain meets me head-on, two tears running in unison down my cheeks as my hat once more feels the tap-tap of pennies.

Milk in my bag, Africa still echoing in my heart.

A few yards from home, a strange kind of victory.

>

If you want my apologies, here, my dear, they are all yours.

They’ve steadily grown to the point they only weigh me down,

collected over decades,
hoarded like old newspapers.

They have little meaning now,
but they are yours to take.

If you want my regret, then here, my dear, it’s yours to keep.

It only burdens me now,
collected like football cards
long after the market died.

It’s grown heavy,
like clutter I never meant to keep.

If you want my sorrow, then here, my dear, take that as well.

Frayed at the edges now,
overworn and worn down,

folded and unfolded
until the creases become permanent.

It no longer fits,
like a coat I’ve outgrown,
kept only out of habit.

If you want my guilt, then here, my dear, it’s yours to claim.

I’ve carried it like loose change in my pockets,
jingling with every step,

reminding me of debts I never owed.

It’s worthless currency now,
but still — you may have it.

If you want my shame, then here, my dear — take it freely.

It’s a shadow that’s followed me through too many seasons,

stretching long in winter,
shrinking in summer,

never quite disappearing,
never quite belonging to me.

And if you want the last of what I’ve hoarded

the quiet fears,
the unspoken worries,
the midnight thoughts.

Stacked like boxes in a room I never dared to tidy.

Then here, my dear, take them all.

For I have nothing left to carry

but the space they leave behind.

They were packed so carefully.

I almost believed.

That they were mine.

Hi folks,

I just came across this community and wanted to share the first “ timed “ writing competition.

It’s not perfect yet I tried. I would be grateful for your support and if you don’t like it let me know here how I can improve. I’ll share the link for you to decide

Ps : I was forced into this but what I wrote was genuine

It’s in the club account : mcbs.english.club ( last post )

“ This action has consequences “

https://www.instagram.com/p/DWoYh3LDTSe/?igsh=YWJ1NXQ2ZTk5MGJn

Here’s an article I wrote in April of last year on a pretty interesting watch.

Energy- is the main basis for everything in the world. It's what started the big bang. It's matter and antimatter. And when the world was formed metals with extraordinary properties to control this energy also came about. Those metals were originally not found by the early humans but as civilization came into existence and hierarchical differences were born the rich and powerful found these metals and made them into tools they could use. These metals were quite scarce and very non renewable so it quickly was concentrated with the powerful. They became kings and used their new found powers to be either saviors or tyrants. These metals often took the form of weapons. And slowly these energy filled metals learned to bond with the first person who touched it until they die.

Basically Red- emotions- hook blade. Orange- gravity- war hammer. Yellow- electricity- whip. Green- plants- spear. Blue- super strength- sword. Indigo- illusions- stilettos. Violet- force field- bow and arrow. Pink- sublimation- dagger.

Deeply. Red- controls internal energy. Orange- controls intensity of external energy. Yellow- controls flow of external energy. Green- controls other's internal energy. Blue- controls the flow of internal energy. Indigo- controls nature of external energy. Violet- controls external energy. Pink- controls intensity of internal energy.

I’m working on the first chapter of a historical fiction novel set in an alternate WWI where the Fleischman Plan succeeds, so trench warfare isn’t a thing and the front moves quickly.

The chapter follows Klaus Stahl, a young draftee adjusting to barracks life and receiving his draft notice. It’s a rough draft, so punctuation, spelling, and sentence structure are messy—please focus on story flow, pacing, character voice, and world-building rather than grammar. all criticism is welcome this is my first time trying something like this so it's probably kinda shit but I figured I'd get some outside opinions it's just over 2000 words

“get up you useless swine”!! Klaus snapped awake like a wire under tension as Corporal Meyer's voice bounced around the barracks room as if it was coming from the very walls itself.

Slowly his stiff body barely obeyed as he hurried to stand at attention, the springs of his rock hard bed letting out an agonizing screech as he lifted his weight. The overwhelming stench of sweat and soiled clothes filled his nose “are we men or pigs in a sty” klaus mused. 50 men snapped to attention before they'd even rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

Klaus had been in Dusseldorf for 6 weeks. Under normal circumstances he would've enjoyed it, he'd always wanted to travel to Dusseldorf to see the beauty of the rhine. It's blue-hue shimmering in the summer sun as storks and mallards took flight above the morning dew.

But these were anything but normal circumstances. Just 6 weeks ago he had just got home from a long night at the shop, the sulphurous smell of diesel clinging to his oil stained clothes. To think he turned down his chance for higher education for the life of a grease monkey. And yet he couldn't be happier with his choice, klaus lived for the hum and buzz of the machines. Getting up long before the sun for his walk to work every step like a familiar friend on a well trodden path.5 years now he had worked and still the daily rhythm was all he lived for . The grinding of a file against a buhr, the crackle and flash from the new welding machine fixing a plow were all well accustomed sights.

He shut down the lights in the shop as he made his way to the door. Once again he was the last one to leave, but he wouldn't trade his late evening walks through geising, the earthy smell of roasted barley and the pungent smell of brewing hops drifting through the air in an intoxicating malaise.

The heavy and rhythmic beat of hammers coming from the krauss-maffei building just down the way where his father used to work. The soft and familiar scuff of his boots across the smooth cobbles remind him of walks with his father when he was a boy, as they sat on the banks of the Isar watching the Flöber skim weightless across those glacial blue waters as the last beams of sunlight glinted on the waters surface.

Tonight as he looked at the river he saw men so small at this distance they looked like scurrying ants hastily framing the duetsches on its solitary island. But as he got closer to his cottage on the outskirts of town and away from the bustle of the city he came into the country where his heart truly resided, the deep earthy smell of freshly tilled dirt, the whicker of a horse in a stall or the squealing of a fresh litter of piglets.

He passed Agnes’ house who sold him honey and always threw in a little extra and Fritz’ who was always ready to lend a helping hand. And yet he had a deep feeling of foreboding, he wasn't sure why but the tension in the air felt palpable like you could cut it with a knife. At first he thought it was just his imagination, “was that a truck? He asked himself,Surely not at this hour” but no there it was again he was sure it was a truck, and he knew it couldn't be anything good.

And yet nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he got home. 2 men standing like grim omens, outside of his small cottage in the grey fatigues and well polished look that could only mean they were military. One was old, the lines in his face etched like a rock weathered by the tides. “Too old for the military” was his first thought, but he didn't stop to think what that might mean until much later. The other a wisp of a boy, maybe 18 if he was a day the tiny whiskers the only inkling of facial hair. The words they spoke next would stick with him the rest of his life. “ Report to the recruitment office in 24 hours or be hanged for a traitor” said the older man in a voice gruff as gravel. And with little more than a word they snapped around and left Klaus standing there shaking like a leaf. The smooth feeling of the envelope, still warm from the soldier's hand is the only thing grounding him to where he stood.

He fumbled with the latch, his grease-stained fingers slipping twice before the heavy oak door swung inward. The cottage, usually his sanctuary of cedar-smoke and quiet, felt like a cage. Klaus didn't look for a letter opener; he grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen block, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches that whistled in his throat.

He caught his reflection in the darkened window—wide eyes, a smear of black soot across a pale forehead—and for a second, he didn't recognize the man staring back. With a jagged motion, he sliced the top of the envelope. The paper was thick, embossed with the Imperial Eagle that seemed to glare at him.

There it was. Not a request, but a command. The ink was a deep, merciless black. Klaus Stahl. Seeing his name in that rigid, military script made the room tilt. It wasn't just a letter; it was an obituary for the life he had built.

His mind snapped back to the present as he raised his arm in a clumsy salute, thankful that corporal meyer didn't notice his slugged and feeble attempt. There was one thing you learned quickly, under corporal meyer there was no room for laziness. Franz learned that lesson all too quickly when he spent a day in the stocks for not making his bed. Peter flashed Klaus a smirk that said “I saw that” as he quickly snapped his head back around.

They were the only barracks who had to salute first thing everyone else just stood at attention. But that isn't good enough for corporal meyer. Nothing is.

Meyer steps into the room and slams the door behind him with gusto the very sight of him is menacing 6’3 with a grizzled look like the veteran of a hundred battles,he was the kind of man whose presence commanded respect.

The heel plates on his Marschstiefel glinting In the morning light coming in through the window the tap,tap of the hobnail hitting the hardwood floor as he walked with deadly precision, and cat like determination like he was ready to go at a moments notice, doing his morning rounds looking for anything out of line, a loose button or a smudge on the bedspread would mean a day of hard drilling.

The scent of stale tobacco,stale sweat and mildew wafted past him as he made his way inch by inch, bed by bed to Franz. The button in his collar was missing a thread. I watched as Meyer got an inch from his face And screamed pulled the thread, the snap as it broke like a gunshot on a quiet day. I retreated into my head trying to focus on whether pressurized or pneumatic tires were better for the bikes “ Pneumatics were smoother, but a single Belgian thorn could end a march. Solid rubber was reliable, but it vibrated through a man’s teeth until his jaw ached”. He fixated on the alder 3 speeds nearly in their rack at the end of the room. It hurt him to see how badly they were taken care of but Meyer allowed no maintenance unless necessary. So they slogged on with chains caked with cemented grease and fenders speckled with rust powerless to fix it. As he sat there he thought of how he'd maintain them if he was in charge, to drown out the booming noise as Meyer yelled Abt destroying government property and threatened to hang him by his ankles, or have him do a ten mile uphill ruck. Meyers breath frosting in the chill morning air.franz stood there shaking like a bicycle tire right before the chain popped off. It felt like hours but finally klaus heard the words he had been dreading. It was time to drill on the bicycles.

He moved to his bicycle as quick as he could noticing the loose chain and hoping he could fix it quickly without meyer seeing. But no luck, he was watching them like a hawk and made sure to remind them as always that he valued those bikes more than their lives.

50 men wheeling bikes through a narrow doorway is a disaster by the end we all have bruised shins from pedals and the door frame lost a little more paint.

The sky was overcast and grey, the ground frozen solid by any early frost that all to soon would thaw and turn into the greedy black mud that normally surrounded them, a lair of frost was on the grass twinkling like thousands of little diamonds, a small glimmer in the darkness As he wheeled his bike into the yard behind the rest he couldn't help but cringe as chains scraped and groaned for need of oil and tires squeaked with loose and broken spokes, but there was nothing he could do. Once he got here he was no longer human, just another cog in the machine.

The shrill officers whistle that dictates their movement sounds as they mount their bicycles in the required procedure left foot on the rear peg, hop-hop-swing the leg over. From an outside view it would have looked humourous 50 men trying to perform such an intricate maneuver in stiff woolen great coats, but it was worth your life to have meyer catch you doing it any other way. The clatter as 50 kickstands scraped against gravel and the squeal of neglected pedals as we made our slow journey across camp to the armory. At first the hustle and bustle of the military camp was exciting, the sound of trucks starting up, men leading horses and the sound of distant gun shots from the firing range, but now they were nothing but a backdrop to our misery. Meyer signalled the 2 whistle,toots that signalled them to stop as they signed out their rifles. Every gun and bullet was meticulously accounted for, every piece of the weapon had its own unique serial number which made any kind of swaps or repairs a deadly risk. As soon as the last man had his mauser the whistle sounded once more and it was back to our usual trek. The sling of his mauser digging into his shoulder with a cold but only made worse by the chill in the air. The sound of 100 tires crunching on the rough gravel of the path and the mausers bouncing off mudguards making metallic clangs like some kind of discordant orchestra. If it weren't for the circumstances this would be a beautiful trip the sun finally poking out from the clouds and shining through the branches of beech and oak splitting into rays of sunshine. In the fair distance the rhine was glinting in the sun in all her glory. The lifeblood of a people flowing ever constant. It was one of the few things Klaus clung onto, one of the few things that had remained constant in the chaos of the last 6 weeks.

A few hours after the drill started klaus noticed hans trying to get his attention. Talking during drill was strictly forbidden but they had become quick friends from the beginning when they met in the recruitment hall. And peter looking like a stick in his uniform. As they began up a steep hill klaus moved closer to hand knowing it was important, but not realizing it would change his life forever.

Hans leans in his face red with effort from the exertion of pedaling his rusty bike.

“Klaus,” Hans hissed, the word barely audible over the clatter of the mudguards. “Did you hear? The 1st and 2nd companies... they moved out at midnight. Rail cars. Heading West.”

Klaus doesn't answer. He can't. But he looks at the Rhine, then at the grease on his hands, and realizes the "drilling" is over. The "War" is starting.

I used to think education

would make me better.

Like cleaner.

Smarter.

More whole.

I didn’t know

it would make me hard to come home.

Where I grew up,

nobody said things straight,

but everybody knew the rules.

You don’t question your parents.

You don’t talk about what happens in the house.

You don’t come back different

and expect people to be happy for you.

Then I left

and started learning words

for things I had felt my whole life

but never knew how to name.

Control.

Shame.

Fear.

Silence.

The way love can get twisted

into something that looks holy from the outside

but feels bad in your body.

That was the first real crack.

Not in my family.

In me.

Because once you can name a thing,

you can’t really pretend it’s not there anymore.

And I came home different.

Not better.

That’s not even the right word.

Just different enough

that the house noticed.

I talked different.

I asked questions.

I paused too long before agreeing.

I didn’t laugh at the same parts anymore.

And nobody said,

wow, you’ve grown.

It was more like

who do you think you are?

Which, honestly,

is a brutal question

when you’re in the middle of finding out.

I think that’s the part people don’t say enough:

sometimes learning doesn’t feel inspiring.

Sometimes it feels gross.

Like betrayal.

Like peeling your own skin back

and then having to sit at dinner

and pass the potatoes

like you didn’t just realize

half your childhood was built on things

nobody wanted named.

I used to think becoming yourself

would feel powerful.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes it feels like

you ruined your own life

by noticing too much.

Because the people who loved me

also taught me things

I had to unlearn to survive.

And that is such an ugly thing to admit.

I still hate saying it.

I still love them.

That’s the problem.

It would be easier

if I didn’t.

But I do.

I love them,

and I can see them clearly now,

and those two things do not sit well together.

Education gave me a way out.

It also gave me

a new kind of loneliness.

The loneliness of sitting in the same kitchen

with the same people

and realizing

you don’t know how to be small enough anymore

to make everybody comfortable.

I thought learning would open doors.

It did.

I just didn’t know

some of them would close behind me.

Anyway.

I’m grateful.

I’m angry.

I’m still figuring out what I owe

to the person I used to be

and the people who only know that version of me.

Education saved me.

I believe that.

But it also cost me

the simple version of love.

And I miss that sometimes,

even knowing it wasn’t really freedom.

It’s a one-shot and I’m looking for what you think about pacing, characters and overall mood hope you enjoy

“God, I wish I never had spoke…” Calyx managed to choke out to himself. The lump in his throat was killing him silently, threatening to push out despite the deep breathing Calyx tried time and time over. He spiraled, Why did I do that? They probably think I’m insane— what is wrong with me?! He thought— no— he accused himself. And-a-and they saw that… Didn’t they? He stared down at his hands and sleeves soaked crimson to his elbows, some places dry and crusted. The metallic taste of iron broke fresh in his mouth as he but down on his tongue like a lifeline. The smell of iron and copper was even more choking to his already knotted throat. The only noise was the exhaust fan in the bathroom and his now quickening breathing. It hurt to breath, it hurt like inhaling glass shards, splitting and sharp in his lungs and throat. His heart pounded like it was going to come out and the body’s solution? Breathing like he’d ran miles and so fast, it was less than the time it took to blink. Calyx knew he had to slow down but that was impossible with the questions and flashbacks:

Yuri’s gentleness twisted to anger, his eyes hardening from the pale green to a green so dark, it strived to be called black. His dark brown hair, the milky pale skin going to apple red. Calyx hadn’t managed to register Yuri’s words before storming out.

Why? Why do I always overflow? Why can’t I just have some sense of restaint? Why don’t others’ words bother me? Demon, monster, evil, sinner and whatever else I’d taken pride in but Yuri— god, no. Drag me through hell and back, I’d sell my sanity— let Yuri be the first to understand— please…

Calyx’s knee gave out and he curled up into a ball like a cold kitten on the streets. The bathroom’s tiles were cold, ice cold but a small relief against his fired up skin. Tears rushed out like a waterfall, eyes burning as if lemons had been squirted in and nose stuffy. The edges of his blurred vision started going black, creeping in slow as a sloth. He curled in farther, his hands helplessly clutching his sleeves in a numbing grip, hands white as snow and cold as snow too. The torment was endless until the final, brutally stabbing, breath was taken and his conscious gave out to oblivion on the floor.

This is my testing piece to see how well I can write tension and angst. How did I do?

I feel like I care too much, more than most kids my age. I lean into the trends, I search to see if the product is popular before buying, I change my outfit and then change it again if I feel like it's not acceptable. I feel like I am always mediocre, not popular but I am known. I want to be someone more, but I don't want to be known as peaking in high school. I want to fit in, but I want to stand out and be my own person. When I see someone from my school out in public, instead of saying hello I tend to turn away and hide. I care to the point of no end, if you don't like a shirt I will make sure to never own it. If mom jeans are in style instead of boot cut, trust me you will never see a pair of boot cut jeans in my closet. If you like a moisturizer, I will buy it by the afternoon. I wish I could be myself without worrying about everyone else, but it is easier said than done. Right?

-C

Hello everyone, I’m a new writer (well, new in the sense that I’m finally putting pen to paper after years of procrastinating). Now I’ve been all over Reddit and the rabbit hole of the internet researching tips and tricks to finally begin and I can happily say I’m making steps towards a lifelong passion. Just write. That’s the main takeaway. However, my perfectionist brain is constantly getting in the way. I’ve even started second guessing if this is really for me. Long story short, I’m wondering how you guys determine what format is best for you? I always thought a novel was the way to go for me, but honestly I spend more time reading comics and watching movies than any other media outlet. So I thought maybe that? But scripts never really appealed to me. I’m currently tossing around the idea of a bunch of random short stories to just get my feet wet and then maybe a novel in the future? I know I’m rambling but like I said before my overthinking can sometimes be a curse. Any advice at the start of this journey from like minded individuals will hopefully go a long way. Thanks!