Voting has closed for this week's topic.

The prompt is...

The Road Trip

Some questions to help you get started:

Who is the traveler?
Why are they traveling?
Where are they going? Are they going anywhere?

The questions are only meant to help you get started. Make it happy or sad, adventure or horror, romance or tragedy. Go where your imagination takes you. Don't feel constrained by what may seem to be the obvious response to the prompt.

Please keep your submissions between 1000-2000 words (for reference, this topic section is about 200 words), make sure to properly format to Tildes when submitting to the submission thread.

Submission thread will be created on Wednesday, Aug 29, EST.

Please feel free to use this thread to brainstorm or share ideas or post any other comments you have about the writing prompt group.

Have fun everyone! I can't want to see what you create!

Things I may change:

I may do away with topic voting if/until the group gets big enough, and I'll just post a weekly prompt.

Depending on the number of submissions, I may increase the max length.

nowadays i dont
really feel alive
just blending day to day
fuck around to pass the time
sitting on my hands, eating
snacks watching tv.
waiting for a change
pray an angel comes to lift me
maybe this is penance
yeah, the cost of all the sinning
all pointing to the night
when you did some heavy drinking.
bottle to your lips
knife at the wrist
her essence in your head
you can't recall her voice
but you recant the promises

chant them like a cultist
while you watch the silver dance
and your press to the beat
of your alcoholic pants
sweat fills your hair
haze fills the mind
love, pain, and anger
made your soul unwind
now it lays there,
exposed to open air
only to be trampled on
by those who should be there
in a spot of rage you
threw the knife into the floor
rose from your chair and
opened up the closet door
only to write in red upon the white
"STOP ME" in bold, what foresight

you whip your head around
try to shake the thoughts out
you can't recall her face,
now an obscure grey cloud
that radiates depression
makes you feel alone
spent years with a person
they can't once pick up the phone
spent years with a person
yet you can't recall her voice
we said we loved us to death
i'm finding truth in that choice
you've suffered spring and summer
now you're heading for the fall
you look about your broken mind
god-damn it all
you thought you'd built a home
you were in it for the haul
appalled it's all dissolved
your heart it calls for more resolve
you miss her love, your home, your dog
you drove your car into a wall.

.

.

.

.

bones fractured top to bottom
are the mind manifest
codeine sponsored dreams of
laying your head on her chest
instead you feel a tightness on your neck
and this ringing in your head
you've got a neck brace, your mom's here,
you're in a hospital bed.
what's your name, and your birthday,
perfect sir, where are you at?
another nurse coming through
to make sure my mind is still intact
rib cracked, pelvic fracture, hooked
up to an iv and a piss-bag
you wore a seat belt and dont know
if that's something to thank god for
or be pissed at
isn't this the kind of story
that you wanted after all?
just to be so down and broken
hope someone saved you from the fall
have someone to hold you, stroke your hair
and tell you you can beat it all
needing that, having a lack thereof
you drove your car into a wall.

I came up with the following dialogue for a scene in a novella that I'm working on, and thought that if I stripped out the extraneous details it might make a decent writing prompt. What can you do with the following dialogue?

"How could you keep this from me?"

"You weren't ready --"

"What gave you the right to decide I wasn't ready to know?"

"You weren't ready to ask until now."

What's the secret? Who's keeping what from whom? Why wasn't the first person ready to ask until now? That's for you to decide if you decide to use this.

I've finally finished writing something. It's been about four years since I actually finished something nicely.

I'm entering the editing phase, which generally takes longer... But I'm a bit excited.

Hopefully this is an acceptable thing to talk about, and I'm going about things the right way.

So... To spin off into discussion, here's two things:

A part of the story:

The ground rose up and struck Raul in the face.

He blinked, stumbling backwards, seeing his master standing nearby.

The old man was glaring, his hands clutched around a brightly coloured stone.

Raul opened his mouth to question, but the old man was whisked away to a distance hillside, and the boy found himself tumbling head over heals backwards down a hillside.

He scrambled onto his knees, staring as he found himself on the shore of the lighthouse.

His master placed a solid hand on his shoulder, and muttered gibberish.

Raul glanced up, but found himself staring at the light of the lighthouse.

Spinning.

A bright light, round and round.

Lightning struck him, and Raul screamed, stumbling backwards.

The rod lay in front of him.

He tore his gaze away with effort, and saw his master, hands outstretched, the stone of red, gold and silver floating between them.

Almost as astonishing, the stone was clean.

A hammer hit him between the eyes.

Raul found himself stumbling behind his father, watching as the old man struck stone, separated it, revealing the river of solid copper within it.

"Boy!"

I'm hoping I've got the grammar at least semi-right. My illness means I can forget words, or my brain can replace words at random with others that it thinks are related.

Any guidance or critique is welcome. (I'd give a bigger quote... But this is probably more than enough to discuss.)

The build script I'm using:

#!/bin/sh

set -e

if [ -z "$1" ]; then
  echo 'Please provide an output file name.' >&2
  exit 1
fi

tmp=$(mktemp)

echo 'Building...'

cat title.txt > "$tmp"
echo '' >> "$tmp"
cat LICENSE.md >> "$tmp"
echo '' >> "$tmp"
cat Prologue.md >> "$tmp"

for file in 0*.md; do
  echo '' >> "$tmp"
  cat "$file" >> "$tmp"
done

for file in 1*.md; do
  echo '' >> "$tmp"
  cat "$file" >> "$tmp"
done

echo 'Converting...'

pandoc --toc "$tmp" -o "$1" 2>/dev/null

rm "$tmp"

echo 'Done'

title.txt is basically just YAML markup for pandoc. The other files should be fairly obvious.

I'm silencing pandoc's output, because I make use of a self-reference to add comments to the Markdown, that get killed by the parser and never make it to the output:

[//]: # (This is a Markdown comment. Isn't that cool?)

However, as all the references point to themselves, pandoc warns.

I'm using pandoc this time around, because it produces fairly clean files. I've used GitBook and Calibre in the past, and though the ebooks they produce work and look okay, the amount of crazy markup they produce means the books lag on some ereaders.

However, that does make a lot of back and forth. Building, checking output, rebuilding, etc.

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

• W.B. Yeats, 1919

I'm starting a new phase in my life and with that, quite a few shifts in personality/hobbies. The big hobby that I've started to get into is filmmaking. I feel really comfortable and confident in the technical aspect, such as cameras and all the equipment used to make good films.

The huge part that I've struggled with and continue to struggle with though is writing and creativity in general. I feel like I'm in some sort of restraint when it comes to my personal creativity since I suppressed a lot of my emotions when I was younger and now that's coming back to haunt me. I don't know how to "break free" from said restraints to become more creative again. Sometimes there have been little bursts of creativity that I've had sometimes after waking up as a remnant from dreams or potentially just the recovery of sleep but I don't know how to capitalize on it.

Do y'all have any recommendations on how to become more creative or just to be able to come up with ideas more easily?

I'm a terrible writer, in part because I've got that epistemophiliac adoration for obscure, archaic or onomatopoeic words, word-play, and more pedantry than most audiences can bear.

That being said, I think it would be a fun exercise to create and justify new words. A broad range of examples can be found here.

I'm suggesting this both to give serious writers new tools, and as a light-hearted lower-but-not-low effort community-building exercise to include those who don't consider themselves writers yet.

Rules:

1. Any subject matter, though I'd prefer we kept this SFW.
2. The "logos", or rationale, of the neologism should need little explanation, or be presented in the context of usage, e.g. "asshat", "we're not leaving town, we're staycationing this year."
3. English language is not required - if you can make a logical creole word and provide English justification, that's fine.
4. Please Google to ensure originality.
5. Puns are going to happen. If that's a problem for you, please refrain from complaint unless you feel there's unnecessary cruelty outside the bounds of Tildes' terms of use.

Here's a starter:

mortlifting - abusing the occasion of a celebrity's death to make an unrelated political point.

This is week 0 of the Weekly Writing Prompt Group (WWPG). After asking about interest, I've decided to try running this. This is week 0, so I'm trying to see what works and what doesn't. Feel free to make suggestions!

Vote for the prompt you like most by adding a 'vote' to the prompt in the comments. Writers and non-writers, are encouraged to vote:

The Necronaut:
Who is the traveler in the after life? What do they see? Why are they there? Are they alone or part of a team? Was this an accident? or an organized, international endeavor?

An Audience of None:
Who is the performer? What are they performing? Are they truly alone? Is there a watcher after all?

The Road Trip:
Are they going towards or away from something? How are they getting there? What happens if they arrive? What happens if they return?

Vote closes tomorrow, Tuesday, Aug 21, 10AM EST.
Submissions will be accepted on Wednesday, Aug 29, EST (~9 days).

The questions are only meant to help you get started. Make it happy or sad, adventure or horror, romance or tragedy. Go where you want. Don't feel constrained by what may seem to be the obvious response to the prompt.

This will be different from other writing prompts in three ways:

1. You are encouraged to take your time with the prompt. After a prompt has been chosen, I will post another thread after a week for submissions to that week's prompt.

2. I will personally read and provide feedback to every submission in the submission thread. It will be more than just a "good job" or acknowledgement. I will highlight things I liked, didn't like, how I think things could be improved etc.

3. Selection of the prompt is open to everyone, even non-participants. I hope this will encourage the greater tildes community to follow the WWPG and to participate by reading and commenting on the creative works of the writers.

What I feel separates this style of prompt from others is that it encourages writers to let their ideas breathe and it provides a creative outlet for writers who may be intimidated by the faster nature of other writing prompts.

Another aspect that I feel makes this unique is the promise of feedback. I believe that if you take the time to really work on something, you should get something back. To make this possible, there are some things that I need from you:

1. The submission must be completely original. In the future I may post more fan-fictiony prompts, but I want to encourage brand new ideas from the writers.

2. Keep the length of your submissions between 1000 and 2000 words. This is to make it easier for me to read (as we continue I may extend the length). This should also keep you well within the 50,000 character limit.

3. Avoid shopping large tracts of your writing as the goal is provide new works on the submission date. However, feel free to brainstorm ideas.

4. Make sure to properly format to tildes. Feel free to also post your stories to your personal blogs etc., but I will only provide feedback for work posted in tildes.

One aspect of the Writing Prompts subreddit that frustrated me the most was that the submission that got the most responses was often the one that was submitted first. I found that in order to ensure that I got feedback and criticism, I often found myself rushing or submitting sloppy work so that I could submit first. Often times I would ignore prompts I liked because other posts had already taken off.

I’d like to try something here that addresses some of those issues. I imagine it working like this:

1. The first post would be a number of prompts that participants would choose from to be that week’s prompt.

2. After a prompt is chosen, I wouldn’t accept submissions for one/two weeks to give people time to develop their ideas and submissions.

3. A new post would be created for submissions for the past week’s prompt and providing a new list of potential prompts for the following week.

4. Go to 2...

So long as it is practical, I will read and provide feedback and constructive criticisms for every submission.

I hope this encourages people to develop fledgling ideas as they have the time to let their ideas breathe and they have the promise of feedback at the end of it.

Of course this isn’t meant to replace other casual writing prompts.

Edit:

For those interested a few questions:

1. Is one week enough time to write?

2. Would it be better for the writing time to include the weekend?

3. Would you be okay with certain restrictions like 1,500 words? Is that too many words? Too few?

Edit2:

Okay, I'll try to set this up!

Over the weekend I'll think up some prompts. Here's how I see it rolling out right now. Feel free to suggest other things as it's all fluid right now. I'm open to any and all suggestions.

1. Monday, Aug 20, I'll post three or four prompts. I'll leave voting up to participants? Or maybe allow the whole Tildes community to vote on the kind of story or theme they would like to read (hopefully to bring writers more feedback)?

2. Tuesday, Aug 21, I'll announce the weekly prompt. Remaining prompts with good support will be carried over to the following week? Remaining prompts with little support will be removed from the pool?

3. The following Wednesday, Aug 29, I'll open a thread for the past week's submissions and post a pool of three or four prompts to choose from.

Not sure how voting for prompts will work, I'm thinking of posting the possible prompts in the comments and using Tilde's voting system.

I just finished writing the first draft of a short story called "Thirteen Cuts", weighing in at 4,493 words.

Dr. Gilbert Porter is a psychiatrist who must weigh his own conscience after a patient has hasn't seen in months admits to having participated in the judicial murder of an person who was not guilty of the charges against him. Does Dr. Porter have what it takes to help see justice done?

It's going to take some revision before it's ready for publication, though. I know shouldn't be this stoked about finishing a first draft, but it's the first time I've finished any sort of written fiction since I finished Silent Clarion in 2016. I just wanted to celebrate a little, and my wife's out of town.

This was the first expedition of the Heroic Age, organized by Adrian de Gerlache, and funded by King Leopold's image problems. de Gerlache was a restless man of thirty, his life oscillating between breathtaking daring and breathtaking mundanity --- a man of the Belgian Navy, working on the fishery protection detail, then a seaman on an English vessel, failing to round Cape Horn and ending up on a scrapyard in Montevideo; an officer on a ferry between the prosaic Ostend and the boring Dover; then writing a flurry of letters, petitioning for a chance to go to Africa with Stanley, to the Arctic with Nordenskiöld, to anywhere with the Royal Geographic Society of Britain. Finally, a plea to the Geographic Society of his native land drew flame, a ship was purchased (MV Belgica), and funding was secured from the king. de Gerlache's crew included more than just Belgians; among others, the Norwegian 25-year-old first mate Roald Amundsen, destined for later fame, and the 26-year-old Pole Henryk Arctowski, a later authority on meteorology, who was much teased for his overappropriate name.

Belgica sailed south by the way of South America, where their reception was warm, the local scientists were enthused, all seemed well.

In truth, they were sailing into a world they knew very little of, into an implacably hostile world, and they were ill equipped for it. They reached Graham Land --- the northern part of the Antarctic Peninsula --- in the January of 1898, skirting west between the peninsula and the islands flanking it --- not knowing if what they took for the farthest tip of the continent was just another archipelago, kitted together with glaciers and pack ice. The same month a sailor was washed overboard and lost.

In February they crossed the Antarctic Circle --- they sailed down the western side of the Peninsula, mapping and observing the flora and the fauna and for the lack of them, the stars and the moon. They tried to find a peninsula-breaching passage to the east side, the Weddell Sea, for their return --- and on the 28th of February, 1898, towards the end of the Antarctic summer, they got stuck in ice.

Some say this was an accident; some say this was on purpose: a ploy of de Gerlache or (say) the first mate Amundsen, to gain additional glory or experience.

If it was done on purpose, it nearly killed them all.

They would be stuck for over ten months, including two months of total darkness --- when Belgium sees the middle of summer, the Antarctic sinks to polar night.

They were unprepared: they piled on all their clothing, and it still wasn't enough to shelter them outside the ship. They had nothing to do: there was nothing but cold, darkness and death outside the ship; inside, the same hateful faces, the same ``three books and four issues of a magazine, a Bible and the mandolin that Amundsen tossed onto the ice by mid-March''. They did not have enough food: it was necessary to supplement it, but the choices were low. An officer by the name of Danco fell ill and died in June, raving that the others should promise to not eat him. A Belgian sailor went mad and walked out, shouting he was going to return to Belgium by foot --- he was not seen again, though several others claimed, for months, to hear him shouting outside, inviting them to join him. One more sailor did.

There weren't breaks in the ice to allow fishing; the nearest open water was (they thought) tens of miles away.

They had prepared, as best as they could, before all the horrors of the winter set in. In February, when the ship was still sailing, they had killed dozens of penguins, and harvested their meat for eating, storing it in the cold of the ship's open deck.

The meat might have been better fresh, but de Gerlache tasted it, and ordered the cook to not serve a gram of the disgusting slop to anyone. He didn't know the superstitious cook had adulterated the meat with soap and sand, spurred to this deception by the dream he had had of the birds talking like men, no doubt disturbed by how they already walked like men.

By midwinter, the men were ill of scurvy --- the lack of vitamin C, which first manifests as lassitude, weakness and soreness of limbs, and then goes to bleeding gums, falling teeth and other terrifyingly general symptoms. What's worse, at the time ``vitamin'' was an uninvented word; the two easy sources of it, vegetables and fresh meat, were not widely understood. de Gerlache was seriously ill by this point, writing his will, staring out his frost-encrusted window for hours at a time, willing the mountains of ice to move, at times twitching as if they did, and then shaking his head, knowing better.

Georges Lecointe, the ship's captain, was similarly ill; on his orders, the penguin meat had been dumped off the ship, and only its encasement in ice had kept it from being thrown in the waters. Lecointe stalked the ship, asking the crew strange questions --- later accounts have said he suspected some had been substituted with treasonous penguins, intent on sabotage, but this is likely nothing but malign rumors.

With de Gerlache and Lecointe so distracted, the first mate Roald Amundsen and the ship's doctor, Frederick Cook, acted. Cook had been with Peary in the Arctic,(footnote) and so knew fresh meat was the key against scurvy --- there weren't too many vegetables to be found in the Arctic --- so they walked round the ship, cracking piles of snow to find the piles and bundles of penguin meat.

(footnote: Indeed, Cook had claimed to have reached the North Pole with Peary (1909) and by himself (1908); neither claim stood against the scrutiny of outsiders. To read Cook's account of the Belgian Expedition is to come away thinking Amundsen hardly did anything; this is a constant pattern in Cook's accounts of his life and supposed deeds.)

This meat was of course no longer fresh --- it had been frozen for months. But it was good enough for a while.

With the cook now abandoning superstition in the face of survival, the meat was cooked and proved if not tasty, then at least edible. When it was served to de Gerlache, he did not ask what it was; when it was served to Lecointe, he said ``Is this penguin?'', and on being said so, cried out, made the sign of the Cross, muttered a few confused words on the state of his soul, and ate.

Thus empowered and restored, the crew organized a hunting party, with de Gerlache taking the lead. They marched thirty terrifying miles over the hills and valleys of creaking midwinter ice, in full darkness, the sun gone for weeks (and to be gone for still more weeks), until they found the edge of open water, and a small colony of penguins.

They fell among the birds with rifles, pistols, swords, cudgels, nets, gloved fists. In a fury of survival and hunger they slaughtered the birds, clubbing and striking them one after another, their beards stiff with frozen drool. The snow acquired a crimson hue; their cries were as harsh, bestial and varied as those of the doomed birds.

Adrien de Gerlache, the man of ups and downs, the noble-featured and mild-mannered Belgian officer, was the first among them, a demon with a saber and a pistol, his face and chest caked with diamonds of red frozen blood and penguin gore.

After the massacre was done, they tied the dead birds together into lines, fifteen to each, and then dragged, through the moaning winds of the unceasing darkness, them back to the ship.

de Gerlache himself fainted after the killing; the blood on his face and down it was from a copious nosebleed occasioned by the harsh environment and the monstrous occasion. Before falling down --- to be dragged back to the ship, just like his prey --- he raised his saber at the even deeper blackness of the open waters, and cried: ``Come, beast! We killed these --- we will kill you too! No matter how big --- we will kill mountains!''

The expedition lived on penguin meat and their official provisions for the rest of the winter. Boredom and the stresses of the alien environment continued to haunt them, and many felt guilty for their slaughter of the penguins --- or rather, haunted by it. Many mention in their memoirs the odd noiselessness of the battle, the utter surrender of the enemy, the terrible frenzy that overcame the men, as they ran from bird to bird, striking them down, crippling, stopping, slashing and crushing, then finally eliciting the discordant caws and croaks and cries the birds made --- the way they killed so many, and the way the rest slipped, like shadows, into the waters without as much as a ripple. One memoir, no doubt inspired by de Gerlache's ravings, mentions seeing a vast shape out in the water, a black iceberg that slipped underwater as the last bird quorked its last. But most of the memoir-writers wrote nothing of this all, choosing to imply a much more sanitized narrative of fresh meat.

Eventually spring came; the season of autumn in the northern world.

By January 1899 the ship was still stuck.

The ice was over two meters thick. There was open water, half a mile away, but it was not getting any closer --- and January was the height of Antarctic summer, meaning the halfway point!

Desperate to escape another winter in the ice --- and another war in search of meat --- they took to the ship's tools, and laid dynamite on the ice with drills and axes. The first explosions but warped the ice, and nearly crushed the ship's hull. The men attacked the ice with mattocks and hammers; some of the tools broke, their frozen nature no match for the native ice. A hammer's head famously shattered on the first blow, and a flying iron shard cut a line in Amundsen's cheek.

de Gerlache fell into a deep depression, and retreated to his cabin; around this time he covered its window with bootblack, and kept it so closed for the remainder of the expedition, referring to the view as ``the black mountain''.

In the meanwhile, Amundsen took control of the crew, and laid explosives right in front of the ship's keel. The blast rocked the ship and had the incensed captain Lecointe nearly shoot the first mate; but it had made for open water at the front, and with the ship's weight and the endless application of manual tools, the crew was ever so slowly able to move the ship forward. After two weeks of nonstop day-and-night work, they were in open water, the ice closing after them as if nothing had ever been there, and nothing had passed through.

It took them another month --- the last half of February and the first of March --- to navigate another six miles of the iceberg- and ice floe-choked water. By then the summer was over; the floes were knitting together into the impassable dead plateau of lengthy winter. But by the 14th of March, they were out of the ice, onto open water, and they immediately headed north, away.

The Belgian Expedition reached 71 degrees 30 seconds south. One degree of longitude is approximately 69 miles, and as the Pole is full 90 degrees south, the Pole was still some 1280 miles away.

Despite its name, the Belgian Expedition was the most multinational and, in a way, least greedy of the expeditions of the Heroic Age. Those that followed de Gerlache were much more conscious of the double glory they sought --- not just for themselves, but for their country.

As for de Gerlache, he did not return to the Antarctic. He joined Charcot's 1903 expedition, but left before it reached the Antarctic; he cited quarrels within the expedition, and others let understand he had suffered a major breakdown at seeing something vast and dark out in the ocean.

So lately I've been working on a chatty, digressive pseudo-non-fiction book that's 80% true facts about Antarctica, suggestively arranged, 15% amazingly truth-like lies about Antarctica, and couched in those two, 5% increasingly loopy lies about the sleeping penguin-faced menace that's waking up from beneath the Antarctic ice, any day now, because we made forbidden pacts with the quorking, cawing, tux-clad guardians of the Last Continent.

Ahem yeah high-quality discussion. What's the strangest creative project you've stumbled into, or thought of?

grüße - i bins.

it's bishop.

its german.

enjoy.

i blut
jo i blut
seit i hab was
vermutet
sie hat mi
verlassen
nach wi teilten
like two years
zusammen
i rauch ja
fach um zu
verbringen
die zeit so
dass ich wer-
de ni mi
zerstören

vleicht kreig
i ein paare
face tats
oder bath bombs
weil i kan ni
mehr lebn
ohne dich
nebn meiner seit
i will einfach
kiffen bis
meiner lunge
sterben
seit du bis
ni mehr hier
i kampfe
to find purpose

im not worth it.

so viele leude
habn ihr probleme,
auf deiner sorg'
im not worth it
i wunsch nach'm
tag wrauf
i sterb i'm
in a hurry

i hofe

i hofe.

i hofe
die tagen
komn gleich und
du zruckkomst
die rinnerung'n
leben noch ja
in mei'm kopf von
when i knew you
i höft dass
du würdst ni
vegessen
alles we been through
aber i hab's
gefunden
's machst di
keine sorgn nach
what i go through.

nowadays it all me
no you

im not worth it

im not worth it.

hey all!

i'm a fan of keeping an idea journal. little snippets of poems or hastily written descriptions of d.i.y. projects that you can go back and pick up once you get some free time.

how do you keep an idea journal for visual projects? like if i have this visualisation in my head of a bit of video, or a sculpture, or a painting i want to create, what's the best way to write that down and still be able to come back to it later?

cheers,

bishop

bishop.

mi odii

out of habit moaned your
name out like an addict
and the shock went through
my body got me feeling
like i had it
and i guess that's all i needed
just to keep a baby feeling
any will to keep on breathing
in this world without you in it
all of these abandoned memories
our hot, deviant fantasies
the shit you'd say on top of me
the only thing that's stopping me
could keep the knife away from me
i'd do some things unsavory
if you could come over and bring
a little bit more pain to me

wore my heart upon my arm
you wore me upon your chest
i been wishin on the stars
to hear you say under your breath
"honey come lay next to mama,
you could use a little rest.
take your shirt off baby boy,
and i'll take care of all the rest."
wrap your hands around my neck
always took away my breath
wanna hurt me when youre angry
and i love when youre upset
i miss when we were crazy
drank the koolaid, diving in
tell me that you lust for blood
i'll carve your name into my skin

this is bloodlust
black metal loving out in public
you're a drug
and this is real love

tell me that you hate me
wear me down until you break me
this is real love

scars on my back
a little makeup on my neck
and that's your soft touch

say you never loved me
make me beg for you to hold me
this is real love.
this is bloodlust

i guess youre never coming home
got me feeling all depressed
you made me feel some shit
that i take drugs just to forget
but all the dagga in the world
cannot compare to how your lips
send a wave throughout my body
tear my heart up into strips
girl you can be my queen
and i'll just be your little pawn
you can pull my puppet strings
give me a reason to go on.
i can give you full control
babe i dont wanna be in charge
give you everything i am
if i can only have your heart

i just need somebody there
i hate waking up alone
i have no idea why i
try to check my phone
like somebody gonna text me
talkin "babe you wanna go?
you been on my mind
and now im thinking we could roll
a little blunt, and maybe cuddle up
in my bed if you want"
just want somebody to act like
maybe imma prize for once
tired of working every day and
always planning nights for one
if i just knew you didnt hate me
id stop staring at my gun
how'm i meant to walk
when the ground i knew is gone
id so much rather wake up by your
side than write these songs

but this is bloodlust

this is bloodlust
black metal loving out in public
you're a drug
and this is real love

tell me that you hate me
wear me down until you break me
this is real love

scars on my back
a little makeup on my neck
and that's your soft touch

say you never loved me
make me beg for you to hold me
this is real love.
this is bloodlust

bishop.

tw: death

i remember the day that they died.
you called me at work in the
middle of my shift shooken up,
you wailed and cried
you were hours away
divorce was on the horizon
your mother
she went to get the last of her things
brothers in tow, each under her wings
wanting to grab their toys, their cars,
living in an apartment, left the trampoline

the pool's mostly empty now, and green.

i was always taught that ghosts scream
that any haunted house is a broken record
out of a low-budget horror scene
blood on the walls, ripped at the seams,
what they never tell you in the movies
is that the real scare is going to the house
six months later and finding it empty

and silent.

all that's left is the memory of the violent
no one left to water the yard
grass is yellow, in the garden
wilted violets
and the paintings still hang on the walls.
the lamp is still there on the nightstand
the pots and pans are still in the kitchen
the paper is still on the desk
everything is still where it should be
every item right where it was left
except this sudden void in your soul
and the unending feeling of being depressed
and lost,

scared

a lost lamb in a land once shared
a home where you would draw or write
and now all that's left is light
flittering in through the windows
that just feels so out of place
paintings on the floor covering up
the holes where the bullets laid
open casket you broke down
at the sight of his little face

god what a fucking monster

two years now since the day you lost her
and i have no idea how you are.
i took it upon myself to watch over you, a foster
and hoped to show you real love after this imposter
came into your life and ripped it in pieces
with this targeted hatred and ceaseless screaming
god if i could go back in time.

even still now i wish to trade their lives for mine

even if it just meant another day,
maybe one last time for you to
share a smile or say goodbye
to make peace and hug your mom
or read harry potter to your brothers here
in person and not occasionally from beyond
the grave that plays that same god-fucking-forsaken
song as the house does when you visit.

silence.

why dont they play music in the graveyards.

why dont they play music in the graveyards.

In honor of starving artists everywhere, the topic for this thread is "scant".

• Feel free to open it up to interpretation as literal or loose as you'd like
• Whatever medium works best for you! Even though I labelled the thread as "visual", it would be great to see work from any writers or musicians if any would like to participate as well.
• Entry should be your own work
• Multiple entries are great if you feel inclined

@userexec won the last round of the Visual Weekly Activity. I don't want to steal the glory, but I also got ants in my pants. So this is an unofficial thread and hopefully userexec will chime in with a new official thread when they have time.

Edit: moved the user tag down so the main topic is more visible.

This is just a fun little part of a story I put together a little while ago. Might go somewhere later, but probably not.

The symbols looking like: [^1] are footnote links. (Pandoc's format, a kind of extended Markdown).

Edit: It may be easy to read as rendered html

A leaf was slowly falling towards their face.

It was golden, three-tongued, and burning with fire.

Last one wasn't hyperbole.

Unfortunately.

It was all sort of their fault.

But then, everything always was.

That's why everyone called them Slag.

The trees hadn't always been on fire, but they had been on fire before.

That had been their fault too.

Being the smallest Ork in a tiny Orkin village, reporting to a tiny Orkin warlord who somehow believed he had the brass balls of a god, Slag wasn't exactly well cared for.

Their name was their job. They were an Ork, after all.

The blacksmith beat the metal, made the weapons. Tossed the slag in a pile.

Molten metal twisted and smouldered, and Slag would grab it by the handful, and toss it into a cauldron of water, and when that was full, kick it down the hill into the dumpsite.

When the dumpsite was full, Slag would summon the demon, who would demand some strange price, then vanish with the lot.

The demon's prices weren't helping their standing with the rest of the tribe.

Like today.

Slag craned their neck, looking up at the red fiery, and rather horned creature, "Say again?"

The deep earth-rumbling voice laughed, "I want you to sing! Sing like a girl! Like a tiny little human girl!"

Slag winced, "I am a girl, demon." [^1]

The creature blinked in surprise, "You? Little squelchling?"

Slag shrugged, "I'm a girl. I don't got tits... I ain't pretty. But I am."

The demon winced, "Figure out which god cursed you little girl... After you sing."

Singing? An Ork?

Orkcakes.

The demon would go, and she'd be blamed there was no room in the dump, and then the Orklord would be in her face. Again.

Then threaten to marry her to his son. Again.

She blanched.

The demon laughed, "Last chance, little orkling."

She coughed nervously, and then a squeaking voice emerged, singing a quiet rhyme she'd overheard one day.

Something about stars and diamonds. Humans were weird. [^2]

Unfortunately, her voice was less like a starlet, and more like diamonds scraping across sandglass.

The demon shreiked and disappeared back into their realm.

Without the slag.

She winced, glancing towards the village, "Orkcakes."

A hand like iron clasped her head, "Slag."

She smiled weakly up at her father, and at his one eyes staring out from a bushy grey beard. [^3]

The warrior released her and spoke gruffly, "Was that you singing, again?" [^4]

She blushed, looking down in shame, "The demon's price."

The old man groaned and reached for a whip on the wall, "Please tell me he took the slag."

"I don't lie, father." She answered. [^5]

He winced and glared at the doorway, unravelling the whip, preparing to hit the next person who came in. "Go to you room, Slag."

"It's my honour." She crossed her arms, pretending not to notice that her chest didn't show any bigger, "I want to defend it."

"Now, Slag." He growled through his tusks.

She turned and moped away into her bedroom.

She couldn't fight, all she could do was listen to the glorious blood-curling screams as the emissaries dies. [^6]

Slag picked some metal from beneath her fingernails and flung it into the wall, pinning a fly by one wing. [^7]

It wasn't fair.

She wanted a real fight.

Why did boys get all the fun?

The guts and the murder?

All she got was... Slag.

An axe blade broke through her wall briefly, before being pulled back quickly, followed by a strangled sound.

She rolled her eyes and flopped onto her straw bed, staring at the ceiling tiredly.

Humans made life look so simple.

Find a man, get pregnant, take care of the litter until you died.

Just cooking, singing and cleaning.

She licked the edge of her tusk, yawning. This was going to be another, she must get married because she's useless argument with the Orklord. Which would inevitable lead to my son is too stupid, fat and ugly to possibly get married, and then... Ew.

She didn't want the bastard.

He certainly wanted her though, all drooling and slurping.

She wanted to be a Knight. [^8]

That was it. All of it. Her only dream.

A glorious warrior, protecting the weak, hunting the monsters that pray on people in the dark. [^9]

Her sword would have a name, and glow with power when evil was near. [^10]

She would yell out it's name, and light up the dark.

Then she'd kill the bad guy, cut off his head, and ride home with it, and stake it to her wall. [^11]

[^1]: Really? Wow. Never would have guessed... But orks are always hard to apply gender to.

[^2]: Understatement. What other species looks around themselves in wonder and decides blowing stuff up is the best way to get something out of the ground?

[^3]: Stories on exactly how he lost his eye vary. Most involve a dragon, a bet, and a gallon ale. And perhaps a wet, old sock.

[^4]: Oh gods. She'd tried to sing before? Had birds died?

[^5]: Not strictly true. She did lie, but only about unimportant stuff. Like what she wanted for dinner. Or what job she wished she had. Or who she wanted to marry. Nothing big.

[^6]: It's an Orkin thing. Send some messenger to die when your upset with your opponent, and then turn up when their bloodlust was sated. Good way to not die.

[^7]: She was a practiced hand at this now. Sociopath, or bored teenager? Let the public decide! Blast her in this week's Orks magazine!

[^8]: ... Should someone tell her human knights usually hunt down orks?

[^9]: So... Hungry orks. Seriously. Someone should tell her.

[^10]: So, it would always be lit up. Because you're on Ork, girl.

[^11]: Oh geeze. Are you the hero, or the villain, Slag?

alright so much to my dismay, no, not currently day drunk (though a mimosa does not sound half bad right now!)

so in place of my standard late-night drunk poetry, have some mid-morning-havent-slept-in-36-hours-poetry.

cheers

bishop

remember wanting what i got now
didn't think it'd be a let down
guess back then i wasnt thinking sound
deadly quiet with you not around

got me so down im
making lots of pillows
taking heavy shots and smoking
off a lot of rillos
now my mind is gone, am i okay
i cannot think so
falling down from heaven hitting
every branch like plinko

like you're yoko ono and
i'm every single beatle.
warring with myself and every
general's in fetal
got my world all fucked but
i lay here with no libido
sorry if i fucked it up, i
swear i did not mean to

but at least i saw a palm tree
caught a little of the ocean breeze
heavy sand where you buried me
for the forest couldn't hear the screams.

got me so down im
making lots of pillows
taking heavy shots and smoking
off a lot of rillos
think my mind is gone, am i okay
i cannot think so
falling down from heaven hitting
every branch like plinko

no quiero recordar nada
que ella ha dicho
Como el tiempo cuando
ella me ha prometido
que nosotros siempre
quedaríamos amigos
He querido solo estar
perfecto contigo.

loved our movie, but you said
you didn't want a sequel
got my head up in the clouds
now i cannot see through
if you were perfection,
how can i trust other people
to take my hand and guide me
past all of the shit we been through

(beat.)

got me so down im
making lots of pillows
taking heavy shots and smoking
off a lot of rillos
think my mind is gone, am i okay
i cannot think so
falling down from heaven hitting
every branch like plinko

You're home alone and watching TV. Yawning, you tilt your head to loosen up the knots in your neck and out of the corner of your eye see a dark, fast, blur. When you focus on that spot, you can't see anything, so you turn back and continue watching. It happens again during a blink, but as you turn your head you almost catch it. Another round of this and you are positive you aren't going crazy, so you blink but turn your head as you open your eyes.

Shout-out to Mozzribo for the idea. I hope this is inspiring enough to the writers out there! If anyone is interested in doing a prompt next week just say so in the comments. Thanks everyone!

Dans la vie intérieure, le temps tient lieu d'espace.
(In the inner life, time takes the place of space.)
Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (Gravity and Grace)

Inside [the black hole's event horizon]… [what used to be a spatial
coordinate] is the time. … The singularity… is not a place in space; it
is a moment in time.
James B. Hartle, Gravity: An Introduction to Einstein's General Relativity

In my old poems I saw
the sentimental one
scenting sighs,    seeing scars
everywhere, twisting them
into words, arranging words
so they fit in a grid,
regular,    repeating.

Preoccupied, she wanted the answer
to the only question: What had made her
like this? An effect that sought the cause and
nothing else. Her city caught in a verdant
early summer day, light abounded; she
felt time had been running out silently.

How much has really changed ever since?

I now have an answer, and more.
She made me; cause, effect. Questions!
How will I be? What will I be?
What am I?

I am a tiny bit of what she wasn't:
the all-embracing space and time beyond
her self, her fear of being forgotten,
solitude unwitnessed, and pain futile.

I am not just her descendant either.
Holding her precious gift of exposed self,
I too am exposed to what I am not,
asking how much has changed, what I'm changing.

This is a new one I wrote today.

Edit: replaced one "the" with "an".

ive had this idea in the back of my head for awhile, roll with me.

sad parties.

so much emphasis on things being perfect, people being perfect, work being perfect, life being perfect. so many people caught up in social media subconsciously at battle to live a filter-perfect lifestyle.

sad parties.

a bunch of people youre close to get together at a comfortable apartment, good food, lots of drinks, lots of drugs. everyones free to indulge as they wish. all the lights go off except for a fireplace or some low-impact nightlights by an easel, and theres just a stream of sad music in the background. no words spoken unless you directly enter a conversation with someone. no forced interaction. just lots of pillows, blankets, and vibes.

really want one of these. might make it a regular thing once i head out west.

anyways, back to the reason we're all here. more sad drunk poetry<3

thank you for all those who leave the comments. i honestly wouldnt keep posting if it werent for you all giving me that little nudge of support. it means a lot.

much love.

bishop.

metal must be the best flavor of ice cream.
take a double scoop, hope i dont see the morning
leaded kiss orgasm, baby send me out moaning
dropped my puppet strings, guess im not worth controlling.
metal must be the best flavor of ice cream.
must be in a coma, two years been a bad dream.
poor lost lamb caught up with a black sheep
just another sad white kid, rest in peace Peep.

maybe some lives werent meant for the living
maybe some dreams were meant to go missing
kinda miss the way you would scream like a banshee
kinda miss the way you would threaten to leave me
wanna go back to the days when you need me
always liked how youd cut me deep, and then heal me
if it makes you smile when i cry, then abuse me.
really wouldnt mind if you came back to use me,

cant feel good enough on the nicotine therapy
oxygen coming through airily, barely
slaps on my face were a heavenly remedy
soft pink lace was a beautiful heresy.
pain, drugs, suicidal tendencies, obscurity
wanna fade to black, tell God roll the credit scene
another funeral in the wake of our legacy
metal must be the best flavor of ice cream

(beat.)

metal must be the best flavor of ice cream.
take a double scoop, hope i dont see the morning
leaded kiss orgasm, baby send me out moaning
dropped my puppet strings, guess im not worth controlling.
metal must be the best flavor of ice cream.
must be in a coma, two years been a bad dream.
poor lost lamb caught up with a black sheep
knocking back four different drugs just to get sleep

metal is the only thing i feel around me
liquor by the half cup never stops pouring
you held me down, now i feel like im falling
up to the sky, sunshine in the mourning.

With my left hand I embrace and repel.
With my right hand I create and destroy.
I stand before you, both hands free.
We remember past hopes and joy.

Listen to this moment, presence of silence.
Nothing divides and nothing draws us close.
Attention is all we exchange,
Attention in the shape of rose.

I longed for witness. Before whom? No one.
Is my heart pure? No. But she insisted.
We give; and what are we but gifts?
Gifts we forgot we'd accepted.

To doubt is to attempt holding back time,
Lifting time's illusion by illusion.
I may trust, knowing that I trust.
At times we feel with precision.

We part our ways like rose petals in wind.
We will return when time again is still,
For no more delight but to see,
With no more longing to fulfil.

It rains
It pours
It is a mile tall and never speaks
Just carries our water on leaden feet
Blinking powerlight moon-sun eyes
Peer blindly, feet step on millennial pits
From here to the forbidden lake, and back

It washes down
It pulls down
It is a god of rust and roaring waterfalls
Just and merciful, we were told
As old as us, or ours as old as it
Sinners earn places in its footsteps
Its feet red with rust so blest

It is bitter
It is foul
It is what it is, mark my word: a machine
Just! just! juddering footsteps rappelling ropes
Past red veils we see the flesh of god
Trace copyright prayers on a boxed brain
My hands on the conduit --- behold your new god!

My wrath rains
My anger pours
It is the vessel of my cunning, this old god
Just! just! dance new steps on old enemies
Kicked castles and soldier ants, crawling in
Head homunculus locked in the iron skull
Feet heavy, leads done, dead god gone dry.

Inspirations: the god warrior in Nausica of the Valley of the Wind, Unicron at the end of the G1 Transformers comic (poor old Scorponok*), rereading Girl Genius, casual flipping through Attack on Titan, awareness that there's some movie called the Wicker Man, and realization that I should go back to the classics and watch all of Mobile Suit Gundam and Zeta Gundam; and "Naught but the Leg remaining to disclose the site of this forgotten Babylon".

*: Well, real Transformers poetry would end with "It is over --- finished!"

You are a legendary warrior, with a several decades-long reputation of tirelessly prevailing over hordes of monstrosities. In a sudden moment of clarity, you come to your senses in a psychiatric ward – a miraculous medication has been tested on you to counter your schizophrenia. As time passes, you begin to recognize the people and other things from your former psychosis.

[This is the first attempt at having a writing prompt at Tildes. It is too long to wholly fit in the title (only 200 characters permitted – nailed it exactly), so it had to be expanded in the text field.]

Edit: as per a suggestion in another thread, please feel free to be inspired only by the title text and use the additional info here only if You feel like it helps. I believe that if a prompt sparkles something that ultimately doesn't have much to do with the prompt itself, the goal of the prompt is still accomplished.

for those keeping track, this title's in italian, not afrikaans.

normally don't "summer" kind of stuff, but as always, i just write what's on my mind once the liquor hits.

hope you all enjoy.<3

much love

bishop

sometimes I need a bubble bath.
ginger ale, vodka splash
couple friends, a couple grams
electronic cigarettes.
bath bomb with the glitter in
free pass to commit a sin
babygirl let's dive in.
bet we won't even remember it.

standing at the precipice
not a lot of trust to give
broken down, a sad kid
you're steady in the madness
babygirl I feel it happening
tension slipping kinda rapid
cold beers and a hot kiss
forbidden peach, like genesis

i write music
to sin to.
baby let me
sing with you
sigh the notes, we
can sing tunes
you're the nectar
the gods knew
i write music
to sin to.
baby let me
sing with you
sigh the notes, we
can sing tunes
you're the nectar
the gods knew

(beat.)

nicotine and a lotta weed
open up a new side of me
one that wanna see you smiling
fuck what your other man think
two friends in a summer fling
you bite your lip when you kiss me
's why you always invite me,
when you're home and feel lonely.

Want my music to go hard,
Sing for my friends in the dark,
Get to drunk to remember,
The bullshit feeling sad part

sometimes I need a bubble bath.
ginger ale, vodka splash
couple friends, a couple grams
electronic cigarettes.
bath bomb with the glitter in
free pass to commit a sin
babygirl let's dive in.
bet we won't even remember it.