post-mortem: holy actual beans dudes this is my most popular post by far! what'd you cats like about it so much?

i swear to god my brain and body work in tandom to make sure i never actually do anything productive.

i came to starbucks exclusively to work on some backend stuff for a project i've got, and i've spent the last hour sipping coffee, watching Joji music videos, and writing this lmao.

i wish there was something like cocaine that wasn't, well, cocaine, that you could take and then you'd be like "hey maybe i should clean my room. hey it's a nice day out i should take a walk. ya know if i get work done now, i can actually take a break without feeling like lazy trash later on!"

actually

that sounds like weed.

i need to move to a legal state lmao.

but in order to do that i gotta get better at programming so i can actually get a car (ya fucked up, bishop) and get a new place.

catch-22's are like so literally my favorite thing (:

anyway this isn't even the poem lmao i'm just sober ranting at the internet.

esskeetiiiiiit

there's this
black hole lingers
'round every corner.

obscure sounds
dark haze,
and no borders

it looms near,
strikes fear
when it's closer

heart runs,
hands shake,
i get colder.

/

sometimes
i get close
take a peek in

low growl
sounds loud
gotta feed it

audrey
she's hungry
when you're bleeding

jumped in-
to my blood
i'm her beacon

/

now i can't shake
this damned desire, god
i think i gotta call her

am i safer when she's
gone? she's in my dreams
do i still love her?

my best friend is
mad, the shit i do
only appalls her.

the pit, it's in my
stomach, god i
feel it getting stronger.

/

audrey

audrey

keep the peace, please.

audrey

audrey

play my heart strings.

you told me to

obey you baby,

you control me.

audrey

lay me

to rest in peace

bishop

(p.s. i noticed that there always seems to be a vote on my post like the second after i post my poetry shit. whoever you are you're cute af and i love you ok)

my head is aching,
day four in sobriety.
is it the drugs or every-
thing that runs about my dreams
all the people in my night-
mares never let me sleep.
my angry father, my old
lover, or my mother's screams.

i go to bed at noon
and i wake up at three.
no power left, make some coffee
just whatever's cheap.
folgers tastes like cigarettes,
a cup of apathy.
wanna sleep inside a noose
on a dramatic tree.*

eyes on gucci cus
they're catching bags
they're getting dark, like the
stones came, painted them black
i wanna move to where the dems are at.
to the palm trees and the medicine.

i fantasize about a booked flight,
goodbyes, and a packed bag.
fresh check, laptop,
in my backpack
new friends, new home,
and a black lab.
but that's all in the clouds
and my drugs are a jetpack.

but now i'm sober
and i'm jetlagged.
and now she's back
turning my dreams bad
woke up, aching head,
and a hurting back.
dig in my closet
for a white bag.

if i'm lucky it's a heart attack.

• this line isn't mine, wish it was though, i love how self-aware it is when it comes to the hyperdramatic bullshit i always write. would love to write some more stuff in this style.

oddly enough, it's from a game grumps episode of super mario galaxy lmao

maybe adding that and fixing the meter in these. i feel like the meter in my sober stuff is really jumpy - i can hear the different parts in my head but i don't think im piecing them together well.

have i ever done post-drunken poetry before?

i've got to be breaking some sort of rule with the amount i've been spamming this site over the last four hours.

I'm gonna go make breakfast and take a few days away to compensate.

sorry. thanks for listening.

much love

i woke up after
three hours of sleep
took a look around my room
and everything was tinted green
had a sobering reminder about
why i shouldn't drink
i get caught up in the moment
and try too hard not to think.

i'd do anything to go numb,
i'm afraid of that side of me.
it's hard, i hate myself
when in the middle of sobriety.
the room is tinted yellow as
the sunlight slips in quietly
i'm at a fork in the road,
man, i gotta choose carefully.

to the left a road of headaches,
heartache, a masochistic fantasy
take everything the hard way.
drunken, spinning memories
thinking of the good days,
accepting they're behind you
and your options won't change.
you're numb but somehow bitter
life is shorter, and it starts to fade.

off right a path of effort and torment,
pushing through the years of shit
that you drink just to forget.
the subtle kisses on your forehead
are bullets of a war chest
you're naked and afraid and
your perspective's all distorted
tryna shake your obsession with the morbid
it's been about a year since you last felt worth it.

and say you choose the better
of the two, here's the evil thing.
the second road is always there,
quiet, calm, and glistening.
internal scars and all the
hurt will start to dissipate
just share another secret,
close your eyes, and disintegrate

you're still quite young,
there's time to do the right thing.
maybe depression in aesthetic
isn't really worth you dying
and you won't find steady love
by telling everyone you're crying
that just attracts the broken, you
need something solid and inspiring
to all of you who noticed,
heard my wishes and my wailing

i'll switch to water, hope
that better starts prevailing

idgaf we going two in one day. ban me if my shit's annoying, just give me my posts first. 's all i ask.

i know a lot of the shit i write is blunt.

i know a lot of it is too straight-forward for people to be comfortable with.

i honestly don't care.

i don't write for them.

i write for my sanity.

i want my words to be your drug.

more drunken poetry.

god bless those who support. you keep me here. i'm glad you enjoy my works and i hope, at the very least, i help you find catharsis or explore a morbid curiosity into the lives of the damned.

i am here for you. i am an example.

from dust we're built,
and to ash we fall
wanna get so high, that
i can't move at all.
turns out her secret
was xan all along
i need some harder shit
just to push me along

never thought that love
was really a drug
that was just some dumb
shit they'd say in the songs
but now it's done, you're
gone, and i'm having withdrawals
i'm getting into drugs and
i'm carving my arms

and you couldn't give a fuck,
you never call
guess all of those years
didn't matter at all
all the shit we went through
can suffer the fall
so why am i even here,
or breathing at all.

had me in a trance, girl
i was under your spell
every command, on
my knees i knelt
really suicidal, that's the
hand i was dealt.
kiss me on my scars, i
think it's sexy as hell

the only thing that turns
me on - facades of real love
so if you're tryna lure me
in, give me a real hug.
pull me close, give a kiss,
that's the best drugs
need you to take the
breath out of my lungs

fuck. i want to die.

"i'd still blow my brains out just for you"

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
---By John Gillespie Magee Jr

hey you, reading the text sample on the homepage. open this. read the whole thing.

god i remember why i write when im drunk. i'm back
#bishop babyyyyyyyyyy

i've got a little friend
with an even smaller secret
she entrusted it in me
and i don't know if i can keep it.
i've got a little friend
who told me a little secret
it's the best i've ever heard
my god i wish i could relive it

she asked me
do you trust me?
as rain poured down on the window

.

i replied honey
would you hurt me?
'course not, i didn't think so.

.

and we laid back
here it fades black
a few things i can't tell you.

.

you'd be angry
try to stop me
don't wanna know what things came to

.

but we laid there
sipping night air
as the rain fell, room was candlelit

.

she felt a little-bittle afraid.
are you okay?
i promise you i can handle it.

.

she laid back, she said alright
i hope that you're right
don't wanna send you scrambling

.

then she got close,
told me a secret
my god i felt outstanding

i've got a little friend
with an even smaller secret
she entrusted it in me
and i don't know if i can keep it.
i've got a little friend
who told me a little secret
it's the best i've ever heard
my god i wish i could relive it

(oh my god)

i've got a little friend
with an even smaller secret
she trusted me with it, by-
god i can barely believe it
i've got a little friend
with an itty-bitty secret
god i never knew that
i would come to need it

then she made me promise
that i wouldn't go and spread
the word about my findings

.

said she'd be upset with me
and told me all these nasty things
about what she would do to me

.

i gotta tan baby with
a little white secret
......can you believe it

....
....
..my god i can't believe it

.

.

WHISPERS IN THE DARK

WERE NEVER MEANT TO BE A PLAYGROUND

NOW YOU WENT AND GOT IT BAD

WENT POKEMON AND WHITED OUT

YOU GOT A GOOD FRIEND

SHE GAVE YOU A SECRET

I'VE NEVER MET SOMEBODY WEAKER

HOW THE HELL COULDN'T YOU KEEP IT

i've got a little friend
with an even smaller secret
she entrusted it in me
and i don't know if i can keep it.
i've got a little friend
who told me a little secret
it's the best i've ever heard
my god i wish i could relive it

.

i dont know why i even try to write sober lmao.i cant wait to move to a legal state and just stay crossfaded 24/7.

imagine the shit i'll come up with.

making my own music. putting my heart in the lyivs, actually being able to record.

you lot might actually be able to hear one of these "peoms" put to music

I've seen the occasional poetry thread, but I thought I would post some more traditional writing. This short story is background lore for my ongoing web serial, Codex, which takes place a thousand years after these events.

The research team looked like ants in the scry-screen, crawling around the laboratory as they completed the ritual’s final steps. When the spell was powered on, it let out a brief flash of brilliant orange light that made Tarrel wince and shade his eyes. The ants milled about as if their hill had just been kicked over, swarming this way and that, huddling over the piece of enchanted metal.

Tarrel stood up and left the viewing room. Renna looked up as he entered the laboratory and waved him over, a broad smile on her face. She held out her hand, offering him a bracelet made from some shiny metal; it looked like two flat chains had been woven together into a thin, knotted band. “Is that the eternium?” Tarrel asked. “Why a bracelet, and not a sword or spear?”

Renna stepped away from the five other people as an argument developed over one of the experimental readings. “It’s a gift.” She gave him an impish grin. “You’re allowed to enjoy the fruits of your labor, you know.”

The eternium was slick against his skin, as if it had been greased, and it had a mirror-perfect reflective surface that threw the bright overhead lights back into his eyes. He angled it away from him and stared at the gleaming metal, trying to dredge up the appropriate emotion, as if he could summon it into being by sheer willpower.

Logically, it should have been easy -- he had all the pieces: a beautiful girlfriend (if occasionally annoying), a prestigious research position, and a talent for magic that made most other wizards look like fumbling idiots. And of course, he was a Raal, entitled to all the benefits that came with higher civilization: immortality (or a very long life anyway), near-absolute freedom to do as he pleased (as long as that didn’t impinge on others’ freedoms), safety (from physical harm). Any non-Raal would kill to be where he was, and it was a safe bet that most Raal who knew him were at least a little envious of his status. But happiness, like an improperly drawn ritual, refused to manifest… and all Tarrel could feel was a bleak sense of anticlimactic fatigue as he looked into the shiny mirrored surface.

Renna moved closer and touched his arm. “Hey. What is it?”

He forced a smile onto his face and slid the bracelet onto his wrist. “Nothing.” The rest of the team was gathered around an Aether screen. Part of Tarrel wanted to join them, plunge back into the soothing distraction of work, but all at once he couldn’t stand the thought of doing so. He turned back to Renna, forcing the words through numb lips. “Let’s go out together.”

They could have taken a teleportation circle or a flier, but Tarrel wanted to walk so they strolled the floating streets of Ur-Dormoth together. It was nighttime, but the walkways were all lit with bright white mage-bulbs. Aircraft hummed overhead, like gigantic wingless insects, disappearing into the night as they left the city.

“Ever been to a mite city?” Tarrel asked as they walked.

“No.”

“I have,” Tarrel said. He brooded for a moment, staring out at Ur-Dormoth, sprawled across the clouds like a tangled pile of glittering lace. “They’re cramped, and squalid, and they stink of death. It’s like being in a corpse.”

Renna shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the fate of however many millions of less fortunate people lived on the land below them. “Why do you bring it up?”

“I don’t know,” Tarrel said. “Have you ever wanted something and really worked for it, only to find that once you had it, you didn’t want it anymore?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Renna said. “Why would you work for something you don’t want?”

Tarrel sighed. “Never mind.”

They went to the Eyrie, where Tarrel tried to look interested in the menu before giving up and ordering at random. The food arrived a few minutes later, looking decadent and delicious: creamy soup, flower-shaped pastries, a platter of fried onions. Tarrel ate mechanically, doing his best to appear as if he was enjoying it, but all he could think about was the emptiness he felt inside.

“How’s the food?” Renna asked.

Tarrel glanced at the pale white soup he was eating and tried to decide what to say. “It’s good.”

Renna leaned back in her chair. “I knew you would like it.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before we can start mass-producing the eternium?”

Renna blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “A few more weeks? Once we do, the applications are immense.” Her eyes were practically glowing with excitement. “What would it be like to live in a tower taller than the highest mountain?”

Tarrel stirred his soup, wishing he could share her energetic happiness. “That’s a long way to fall.”

Renna chuckled, a delicate sound like tinkling crystal chimes, and tossed her sleek white hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll have protective enchantments. It would be quite the scandal, to be the architect responsible for the first death in centuries.”

“They don’t let you Merge,” Tarrel said, only half paying attention to the conversation.

“What?”

“Murder. If it’s deliberate, your thread is cut. No children.” Tarrel made a snipping motion with his free hand. “But if they think you meant to kill, then it’s a life for a life.”

Renna stared at him. “How do you even know that?”

Tarrel shrugged, already losing interest in the topic. “Memory spell.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s too difficult to cast for most people,” Tarrel said. Though that would change, if he ever got the framework functioning.

“What’s the framework?” Renna asked.

Tarrel realized he had spoken out loud. “Just a project I’ve been working on. You speak a command, and the framework casts the appropriate spell for you. All the power of a ritual, none of the difficulty.”

“That seems pretty useful. How’s it going?”

Tarrel blinked, not sure if he had heard her correctly. “Useful?” His lips twisted. “Nobody else seems to think it would be.”

“Are you serious? The applications for research alone would be immense. Imagine never having to cast another scrying spell.”

“They said it would be too inconvenient, or that the magic would lack power, or any of a hundred other excuses.”

Renna reached across the table and put her hand on his. “It sounds amazing to me.” Tarrel met her eyes, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all he found was honest admiration. “Can I see it?”

Tarrel shifted in his seat and looked away. “I, uh, sort of abandoned it. Nobody seemed to want it and I ran into some thorny problems, so it seemed like I was just wasting my time.”

“Well take it out of storage! Don’t worry about them, once they see what it can do they’ll all change their mind. Your legacy would be etched in the stone of history, right up there with Elmar the Great and the Risen Kings.”

Renna frowned and held up a hand to forestall his reply. “One moment. Someone’s trying to talk to me on the Way.”

Tarrel watched, but Renna’s expression gave away little. Half a minute passed before she finished. “What was it?” Tarrel asked.

“The research lab.” Renna’s face twisted in disgust. “Apparently they decided to run another batch of eternium, but someone messed up one of the protective spells.”

“Oh,” Tarrel said. He knew he ought to say something more, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care about the fate of the researchers. If they couldn’t even cast a simple set of wards, they deserved what they got.

“They’ll be fine,” Renna said, apparently mistaking his silence for concern. “At least as long as nobody screws up their healing magic too.” She hesitated, then stood up. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really ought to be there.”

“It’s fine,” Tarrel said. “I’ll head back to my house. Maybe work on the framework some.”

Renna smiled. “I still want to see it.”

She walked over to the teleportation circle in the corner and activated it, vanishing with a soft pop. Tarrel was left in the deserted restaurant -- or not quite deserted. There was a man, washing the tables with a cloth. Tarrel watched him as he worked his way across the room, until he was near enough to talk to.

“Why do you do that?” Tarrel asked.

The man looked up. He had a rough, honest face. “Why not?”

“You could let the golems do it. Or, if you wanted to make sure it was done properly, you could use magic. Why do it by hand?”

“Sure. The golems would probably do it better than me, and a spell could do it faster and better. But that’s not the point. Haven’t you ever found pleasure in work?”

Tarrel was on the point of saying no when he reconsidered, remembering all the times he had thrown himself head-on into inventing a new ritual or improving an old. “I suppose so. But my work isn’t something a golem can do and, when I’m done, I have something at the end.”

The man chuckled. “And when I’m done wiping a table, I have a clean table.”

“Only until someone comes in here and dirties it again,” Tarrel pointed out. He paused, struck by a sudden thought. Was that the problem, the reason for the hollowness all his achievements seemed to have? Even as one of the brightest researchers of the century, his name would inevitably be forgotten, in a hundred years, or a thousand, or ten thousand. But if he was able to create a new paradigm for magic… then he would be remembered.

“If I’m still around, I’ll get to enjoy cleaning it again. If I’m not, well, like you said: the golems can do it better anyways.”

Tarrel blinked, startled by the man’s voice. “Uh, right,” he said. He stood up. “I need to go.”

He took the teleporter back to his house and went down to his private laboratory. White mage-bulbs flared on as he entered the spacious room, illuminating the Aether screen set into one wall and the stone floor, still etched with an old circle. He cleared it, resetting the solid granite slab to its original, perfectly smooth, state.

Tarrel spent the rest of the night hunched over the Aether’s display, tweaking and changing the framework. Every so often, he would stand up and etch it into the granite floor with an eye-searing burst of brilliant orange light. Each time, the spell failed in a new, unexpected way, and Tarrel was sent back to the Aether to try to find the source of the problem.

The days merged into weeks, which flowed into months. Tarrel enchanted himself with restorative spells so he didn’t have to eat or sleep. Such behavior was considered unhealthy by most people, but it wasn’t the first time Tarrel had lost himself to the grip of work, and he no longer cared if his friends whispered behind his back or shook his head when he wasn’t looking. Like Renna had said, they would change their mind soon enough.

Renna knew enough to recognize the signs of Tarrel’s obsession, but she didn’t stop coming over to visit him. The door chimed regularly at noon every third day. They sat on one of Tarrel’s couches for ten or twenty minutes, talking until Tarrel could no longer keep himself away from the laboratory and made his excuses. For him, the time seemed one long hazy blur, interspersed only by slight, inching progress as obstacle after obstacle rose up to meet him and was defeated.

Eight months later, Tarrel stood before the granite slab and powered up the latest spell. “Fire,” he said, envisioning the unlit torch in the corner igniting. He didn’t really expect anything to happen and was thus shocked when it erupted into orange flame. His hands trembled with excitement as he stood up and approached the crackling brand. Magic! By talking! At last, it was working.

“Freeze,” Tarrel said. A chill swept over him as the torch’s flames guttered out. Water condensed on the blackened stump, then froze solid into a glittering sheen. A smile spread across his face and something warm and… happy rose inside him, like winter ice cracking and melting as summer approached. Renna’s words came back to him: Your legacy would be etched in the stone of history and he threw his head back, laughing.

Further experimentation revealed that the framework had exceeded his wildest expectations. He refined the spell, reducing the energy it consumed and increasing its potency until at last, it was fit for use in a globalization ritual. Everyone in the world, if they had the basic training necessary to use magic at all, could now access the framework.

Tarrel reached into the Way, calling for Renna. She responded at once, as if she had been waiting for him. What is it?

Come to my house, Tarrel sent back. I have something to show you.

He severed the telepathic link and stood up, unable to stop grinning. The eternium bracelet gleamed in the corner of the laboratory where he had tossed it and he went over and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. General Yenja had been excited about the eternium project. What would she think of the framework? But that was a matter for another time -- right now, he wanted to see Renna’s face when she saw what he had built. Tarrel slipped the bracelet onto his wrist and hurried up the stairs. Behind him, the mage-bulbs blinked out and the laboratory plunged into darkness.

Renna knocked on the door several minutes later. Tarrel glanced at it. “Open the door,” he said.

It swung aside, revealing a harried-looking Renna. “What is it?” she asked as she came inside.

Tarrel grinned and pointed at a glass of water sitting on the table. “Watch this,” he said. “Freeze the water in that cup.”

The surface of the water turned frosty and opaque, spreading downwards with a deep cracking sound. All at once, the glass shattered, spraying shards and chips everywhere. Tarrel jerked, surprised, then broke out into a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have been more specific in my wording.”

Renna touched the solid cylinder of ice, setting it off into a lazy spin. It twirled across the table until Tarrel caught it with one hand. “How do you like it?” he said.

“Impressive. Can I try?”

“Sure. I put it in the Way, so you should be able to access it just by thinking about it.”

Renna gestured at the ice in Tarrel’s hand. “Melt.”

Nothing happened and Tarrel chuckled. “It takes some getting used to. Try starting to cast the spell normally, then use the framework.”

“Melt.”

This time, the frozen water turned warm and started to dissolve, gushing all over Tarrel’s hands. He tossed it back onto the table before it could soak his clothes. “Freeze.”

Nothing happened and he gave Renna a rueful smile. “My mana cache is empty. I didn't even notice but I've been using the same one for all my research.”

“Here.” Renna withdrew a fat diamond pendant from beneath her shirt and held it out to him. “Take mine.”

“No,” Tarrel said. “I have a better idea.”

He reached out with his mind, drawing on the inert mana present all around and concentrating a small amount of it, refining it into the potent stuff that was normally used for spells. Only a drop, just enough to kickstart the spell he had in mind. “Refine one nex’s worth of mana. Put it into my cache, then cast two copies of this spell, using mana from the cache.”

It was the longest framework-boosted spell he had cast, but it went off without so much as a tug of mental effort. A thin trickle of mana pulsed through him, then died off as the spell became self-sustaining.

“Did you just -- ”

“That’s right,” Tarrel said. “I just revolutionized the mana collection industry.”

Renna frowned. “Maybe you ought to slow down.”

“Slow down? Why? I feel great.”

“That’s because you’re using those invigoration spells.” Renna looked around. “Do you feel that?”

It was an tingle, like an electric wind brushing over Tarrel’s skin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the diamond cache, shielding his eyes as it began to glow an intense white. “Behold,” he said. “The future of the Raal.”

Renna stared at the diamond. “That doesn’t look right. Your new spell -- ”

“Not a new spell -- a new paradigm. For centuries, we have cast magic in essentially the same way. Spells have gotten better, thanks in large part to the tireless efforts of researchers like you, but it’s time for something different. Instead of engaging in a mental wrestling match, we shall simply give an order as if the magic is a servant.”

“Your refinement spell has a -- ”

Tarrel slammed his fist on the table. “Shut up!” The framework turned his order from wish into reality and he felt a sudden spike of shame. Using magic on a fellow Raal? What was he doing? But she wouldn’t see. He continued in a calmer voice. “It’s people like you who delayed this project by almost fifteen years. All that time, wasted.”

He felt the pulse of magic as Renna broke through the framework’s silencing spell. “Listen to me,” she said. The urgency in her tone gave Tarrel pause. “That diamond is about to overload. It’s the same mistake you made with the ice.”

Tarrel glanced at the incandescent diamond cube, mentally going over the wording he had used with the super-refinement spell. The same mistake he had made with the ice? The air around him felt… thin and weak, while the space around the cube seemed to shimmer and warp. What was going on? And then he got it.

He stared at Renna, horrified. “Quick. Give me your cache.”

He began the transfer spell, reverting to the more familiar mental casting in the moment of crisis. It was still incomplete when the cube exploded with a chiming sound that reverberated through his bones. Pain stabbed up Tarrel’s hand and he screamed, flailing around and spraying blood from his two missing fingers. Threads of orange refined mana flickered all around him like a hazy fog and the room dissolved into panic as the magic ran wild.

Renna’s hair stood straight up. She had time for a single terrified scream before lightning discharged from her body. Bolts radiated out in every direction, crackling and splitting the air apart, disintegrating her body into hot black flakes. Some of them landed on Tarrel’s face and he stumbled back, staring at the black scorch marks on the floor.

Tarrel’s weight vanished all at once and he floated off the ground, crashing into the ceiling before gravity reasserted itself and threw him back to the floor. The awful ringing of the broken cube continued to echo through the room, growing in strength instead of fading. It tore through his head as he wrapped his ruined hand in his shirt and sprinted for the door -- only to have the space in front of him warp and elongate. The door receded away, until it was like he was looking down a long corridor.

The first rips began to appear, fuelled by the still-continuing refinement spell as it pumped refined mana into the shards of the diamond cube. It was as if reality was a sheet of glass, fracturing and splitting. Black cracks shot through the room as the chiming hammered through Tarrel’s body. They began to glow, dim white at first, then growing in strength. They pulsed. Flickered. And as Tarrel’s hand reached for the door handle, they exploded.

Pure, white light surged out into the city, spilling from the research laboratory where Tarrel had conducted his fatal experiments. People screamed and fled. Some tried to cast spells, only to have their magic go awry in a wash of strange effects. Teleportation spells transported heads without their bodies. Flight enchantments sent their users hurtling into buildings. Wards imploded, crushing that which they were meant to protect.

Ur-Dormoth was just one city out of hundreds, but the Way, a global telepathic link which united all Raal, was irreversibly tainted. Less than a year passed before Tarrel’s name was forgotten, but in the end he got his wish: an eternal, undying legacy -- in the form of a vast, magical wasteland sprawling across a quarter of the continent.

cool to see i'm not the only person writing poetry on here anymore. shoutout to @precise and @zoec for sharing their works recently. def looking forward to more in the future.

bishop.

do you think i'm pretty?
do you think of me at all?
i've been laying here and shrinking
oh my god i'm feeling small
every bit of stock that i had
in myself, i auctioned off
invested it in you, hoping
you'd return my calls.

mama i just need a hug
baby need a little love
miss how every day you'd tell me
"baby you look cute as fuck"
now you're gone i'm feeling rough
wonder if i'm good enough
used to be so confident
now i'm into hella drugs
every time i look into the mirror
i start pouring up
yeah she was your better half
you're the worse, and quartered up.
your nose is too big, hair thin
need a tummy tuck
need someone to show you love
warm kisses and tummy rubs

you were my rock and now i sniff rocks.
we had a ball, and now i pop bars.
suicidal thoughts, and crashed cars.
i'm not good enough for any heart.
catch a bag, catch a nose job.
dark eyes, need to nod off.
5'6 never get tall.
take my brain with a sawed-off.

god i wish somebody told me
that the world was gonna roll me
up into a piece of paper
light my ass on fire - smoking.
laying in the dark and dosing
tryna keep my eyes from closing
took you to my favorite cities
love was in St. Louis, growing.
boy you're getting kinda fat,
acne's bad, already know it.
chipped a tooth back in the crash
people cannot help but notice
looking down at my whole world eroded
can't seem to control it
guess this is the life i've chosen
getting high and never coping

mama i just need a hug
baby need a little love
girl what happened to the old
days of us not giving up
you gave me euphoria
fuck, i never needed drugs
i know we had some hard times
i guess i didn't love enough
i know that we would argue, we
would yell, and i would wanna cry
but at least i had someone
to hold and didn't wanna die
hope you have a better life,
peacing out for now cus i'm
gonna take a couple drugs and
pray to god i die tonight

They know
Of their inevitable demise
Those less fortunate
They despise
The politics that are destroying their lives
Inquisition, conquest
It was all a political contest
War torn, occupied
Exploited for all they had
Abandoned, left for dead
No political discourse, fragmented
Left to wither, to their demise
All at the whim of some rich guys

They are neck deep
The desires of the ivory tower
Are now the problems of those with no power
Mass consumption, transportation
All at the cost of their civilization
They scramble, they climb
The pleas for help are heard loud and wide
No answer
The problem is not mine
Engulfed, they weep

A man in his chair
On a balcony, willfully blind
Overlooking all this despair
A storm builds on the horizon
It is close, provokes fear
Storms have come before
They have never gotten so near
Perhaps if he had listened
He shed a tear

A very short poem in 28 words, originally written on the fly for personal reasons, and shown to another audience. Revised for metrical harmony.

O night and secret morning, come to me
Invade this body, use my strange desire
To reenact the birth of midday sun
Contained in cold, recurring, starless nights

hello.

so all of my works have been on here thus far. either existing as posts on tildes if it's something new, or on my desktop if it's a piece from earlier in the year.

i've not gotten the chance to head into a studio yet, thought i'm curious. would anyone care to hear any of these pieces put to music?

if so, which one? i imagine myself being on limited funds for the first few months once i get the fuck out of texas - furnishing a new apartment from the ground up is gonna be money, so i'm limited on how much studio time i'll be able to get but it's definitely going to be a priority.

also - what'd you have for breakfast?

-bishop

how can creativity
be so void of itself
writing poetry is grabbing
beats from off the shelf
finding other words to
talk about the shit you felt
and repeating endlessly
that you want to kill yourself
you turned into a druggie
after mommy up and left
you did the best you could
and now you're feeling all depressed
no money, think you're ugly
and you're wanting to regress
dreaming of the days you'd
lay your head upon her chest

it's the same shit.
ain't shit changed
in the last 90 days
with your lame quips.
hit the drain switch.
catch a liquor wave
write about wanting a grave
in a krater.
baby face it -
your mind is going numb
because you're never number one
in your focus.
but you chose it.
saw the flags, you were blind.
joy in second to the grind
man it's hopeless.

hope we find some other shit now.
find some new words to write down.
otherwise i'm going down.
otherwise i'm going down.

crawl into a corner, fade
into obscurity
never did i think my love
would be the death of me
conflicted, wanting peace,
but i also want to scream
wicca bloody sacrifice
when you show on my screen
tired of this fucking state
i really wanna leave
head out to the west
spend all my money on some weed
maybe in stay in Texas
do some harder shit for free
they say be yourself but
even i'm tired of me.

and i'm solo.
friends don't understand
family do what they can
but they don't know
i feel so alone.
try to play it safe
but the xan's a call away
i could go numb.
is it good though?
maybe shit's laced,
put me in a better place
never come home.
am i done now?
have i said all i can say?
will these ever go your way?
i feel dumb now.

hope we find some other shit now.
find some new words to write down.
otherwise i'm going down.
otherwise i'm going down.

doing it again, i keep
on repeating myself
telling everyone that every-
day's like i'm in hell
never new ideas, why
am i always compelled
to write all of these poems
that are copies of themselves
is this all cathartic,
or at all good for my health?
nowhere else to turn, i
guess i'm feeling overwhelmed
maybe i should call it quits
and keep it to myself
and pray to god that i
will not see november twelfth.

Grey sky
not so high
crushing my soul
it is full
dark thoughts, cynicism
seeing all these whataboutisms.

Grey scale
looking like the silver screen
can’t inhale
makes me wanna scream
no voice, representation
guess they’re all on vacation.

Grey paper
thrown to the stoop
next to the phone book
a tattering of what was
accountability
reduced to tabloid scoops,
fake news.

Grey matter
on the wall
in its place after all
silence, finally silence
no more dealing with all the violence
the vitriol, all that was left
control, I finally have control.

howdy there. had a good day today, landed a new contract! but of course i can't close out the week on a happy post, where's the fun in that?

so i put some drugs in my tea and wrote a thing.

jouissez.

manny couldn't stand in his corner
for his last fight
wilbur turned around, downwind
on his last flight
osipova sat down, and rolled
off her tights
big sigh
tongue-tied
tryna get their words right
don't cry big guy
i know you'll be alright
life builds character out
of all the bad times
why do my characters
always end up bad guys
even james evans is
falling in some bad times

had a pet, but she
left and took it with
every time he close his eyes,
her visions dance around his head
doesn't want to sleep, so
he's turning to the cigarettes
kinda hard to cuddle up
next to a slilhouette
he craved depth, but
he had nowhere to lay his head
so he grabbed a shovel, headed
out and dug a grave instead
no more confidence, put
some holes in his esophagus
crossed his arms and fell back
into his own sarcophagus

blind optimists start
to make his stomach sick
you say he'll be fine,
how are you so sure of it

(beat.)

how are you so sure of it

times are hard, sui-
cide epidemic
one heated moment,
rash decisions
one year feeling this shit
i can't live with
remember when you made
me liberated

used to be a loverboy
now i'm all jaded
look at myself in the mirror
and i hate it
wonder if i'm thought about
well, or i'm hated
tryna forget, get
numb in this krater
wondering now if
you were a sadist
otherwise how could you
lie to their faces?
tell em that you'd be
there when they need it?
i'm not the only body
you left bleeding

he craved depth, but
he had nowhere to lay his head
so he grabbed a shovel, headed
out and dug a grave instead
no more confidence, put
some holes in his esophagus
crossed his arms and fell back
into his own sarcophagus
"FUK LUV" blood-etched,
tatted on his chest
eyes closed, smile wide, now
that he can get some rest.
high hopes that there's
life in the next.
what he wouldn't give,
just to start over again.

i mean come on how often do i write something upbeat eh?

bishop.

esskeetit.

takin off
rocketship
falling in a krater
look around
supernova
feeling upgraded
on the moon
turned into rocks
i'm integrated
i'm goin up never
coming home don't
lose your patience
takin off
rocketship
falling in a krater
look around
supernova
feeling upgraded
on the moon
turned into rocks
i'm integrated
i'm goin up never
coming home don't
lose your patience

baby mama trauma
got me all
dilapidated
only ever feel
myself when i
get sedated
on some tony
robbins shit my
giant awakened
hope we're
witnessing another
legend in the making

keep the dream alive
i'll make a home
out of chicago
get a new girl
some better friends
and pop some bottles
tryna climb this
fucking mountain and
i cannot let go
thank god i
got my heart broken
by that model.

you called me a snake
and then you took my
heart to battle
grab my neck and threw
my body down
into the gravel
buried me, in
the dirt found
oil and fossils
didn't think i'd
build a rocket and
then have a blastoff

takin off
rocketship
falling in a krater
look around
supernova
feeling upgraded
on the moon
turned into rocks
i'm integrated
i'm goin up never
coming home don't
lose your patience
takin off
rocketship
falling in a krater
look around
supernova
feeling upgraded
on the moon
turned into rocks
i'm integrated
i'm goin up never
coming home don't
lose your patience

I don’t know about you, but I’d always been taught one of 2 things about death. Either
You die and that’s that, nothing else happens and you slowly turn to unthinking dust or
You die and get transported to some mystical outside realm, either a heaven, hell, or purgatory where your immortal soul spends an infinite amount of time

Now, these aren’t nearly the only interpretations in this wide world, but if you grew up as a middle class white kid in suburban America, this is likely all you heard.

It took until my 30th year for one of these to be the official accepted scientific theory on the afterlife. Finally, after all these years, science had an answer for what happened after death, and it was-

Well

Actually, it’s not really what happens after, per se. No, this perception could not occur after death. There simply was no way any living thing could continue to perceive after death, either any way of defining life we have would be thrown out the window. Instead, this was an explanation for those pernicious near-death experiences that pop up every now and again. Rather than being dead and having moved on, these were all visions people have in the moments prior to death.

Essentially, the afterlife was all a dream put on by the brain in a vain attempt to keep itself happy and alive.

This led to a thought. What was the limits of these dreams? Would they continue forever? Would the occupant of the dream believe they could still die in the dream, or would they be an immortal thought, a ghost of firing neurons? Is the brain capable of nesting time ad infinitum, or is the clock speed of the brain too slow for that?

All signs seemed to point towards the brain giving the occupant infinite joy. Citing coma patients who believed they lived millenia in only a few weeks, the majour scientists of the day claimed a way to cheat death. After all, the only limiting factor here was how fast a bolt of electricity could move across, and since that was basically light speed, time didn’t really matter.

It didn’t really matter.

This of course led to a massive increase in suicides throughout the globe. It seemed the main limiting factor for many was whether suicide may lead to a unpleasant scenario. Even those who hadn’t, prior to the discovery, had a single suicidal thought cross their mind jumped at the chance of eternal joy. It wasn’t until much later any sense came into people.

See, it seems most people are born without a fear of the infinite. I won’t assume, of course, but would you truly find an infinite heaven scary? I would. Infinite time leads to infinite scenarios leads to infinite amounts of both joy and pain. Any amount of fun, after a sufficiently long time, gets boring.

So, the world was whipped into a global frenzy of life. Wars ended as neither side could really justify it anymore. People finally began to help each other.

And then, just as quickly as this afterlife frenzy started, it was announced the initial findings were incorrect. Perhaps a decimal slipped, so the official story was death was finite and there was no afterlife.

That was the official story, of course. The unofficial story…

Well,

Imagine you’re trying to do infinite things in two seconds. If you could split your time infinitely, you could complete all infinite things in two seconds. But all the same, everything would be done in two seconds.

Imagine now you’re trying to do those infinite things in two seconds again, but you have to work against your hands slowly disappearing. Much more difficult, and now you’re less likely to complete those infinite things, but a more finite set. If you think this whole scenario is ridiculous, it’s all based off an account by a Survivor.

The Survivors were a test group who were used to poke and prod at their afterlives until it could be fully explored. They’re who first discovered the effects of cell death on the afterlife.

As a body dies, the cells begin to die at a rate of 10 millimeters every second. The initial researchers thought this irrelevant, as the speed of the brain was too fast for it too matter. What they didn’t factor in was that he brain is one of the first parts of the body to die. Sure, electricity moving across perfectly kempt brain cells moved near light speed, but add in broken highways of neurons and suddenly it grew much, much slower.

The first Survivor to discover this recounted the sky slowly darkening and a void suddenly appearing on the horizon. They were lucky, as the test was ended prior to any majour brain damage. One less so had their memories scanned to reveal their perfect paradise being reduced to a one by one meter square and their representation writhing on the floor in apparent pain. They were not recovered.

Of course, the researchers were horrified. Only weeks prior had they stressed how painless death should now be, and here was a gauntlet thrown at their feet. So they did the only sensible thing: Lie to prevent a mass hysteria ending in the death of all humans.

And so it’s seemed to work. Just remember, if you see an empty horizon, this is the explanation:
Death has always been with us.
Nobody cheats Death.
Death will always win in a cosmic tug of war.
And, most importantly, It’s already too late It's already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late
It’s already too late

so i know nobody asks for my shit poetry lmao.

i just wanna take a second to thank tildes for being a place for me to get shit off my chest.

i wrote a comment on another site earlier today about catharsis, artistic expression, and depression. and it really made me appreciate the little community we've got going here.

i have a feeling it's the same 5-6 people who upvote my posts whenever they come through, and i love you six to hell and back.

i doubt i'd even get that kinda traction anywhere else.

thank you for the support.

thank you for letting me vent.

much love.

bishop.

it's 3:11 like
the band you like
remember dancing
under flashing lights
ripped off your bra
threw it up high
heading home, arm in arm
what a night
i couldn't see it i
guess i was blind
fetish for pain meant
you loved a fight
you came the loudest
when you held the knife
and drove deep into
my chest that night.

you held me close
and kissed me soft
sat in your lap
and gently rocked
empathic smile and
a lying tongue
you made a promise
that we'd still talk.
behind your back you
held a loaded gun
pulled the trigger took
off in a run
into his arms
into the sun
things are getting dark
in our garage.

dysthymia
is in my blood
and i cant end
it soon enough
but i just do not
have the guts
yet.
water my tongue
with shitty rum
and pray that i
will find the one
and she'll still love
me when i'm drunk
and
dysthymia
i'm getting high
and i don't really
wanna die
it's just i never
feel alive
man
dripping knife
a sacrifice
mr. sandman
please be nice
i don't wanna
see her face
now

it's 3:11 and
i'm home alone
asking questions
that nobody knows
should i buy
some xans
buy
some coke
would i be upset
if i overdose
it's been some months
and still here i am
hooded sweater, scarred
arms, kicking cans
a black sheep,
a lost lamb
still in the kiln -
shell of a man

dysthymia
is in my blood
and i cant end
it soon enough
but i just do not
have the guts
yet.
water my tongue
with shitty rum
and pray that i
will find the one
and she'll still love
me when i'm drunk
and
dysthymia
i'm getting high
and i don't really
wanna die
it's just i never
feel alive
man
dripping knife
a sacrifice
mr. sandman
please be nice
i don't wanna
see her face
now

There's no more sound, not anymore.

Just the thudding of my own heart, deafening in the silence.

Erratic, the bassline pounds out, slowing. Stopping.

Just like everything else.

Behind the visor, I raise my eyes, and see the warships, the victors.

Alone in this dark space, as fragments of what had been my planet race past, I breathe my last.

I close my eyes, conceding defeat.

They had dropped out the sky, and killed and maimed.

They destroyed our way of life, our beliefs, and all the knowledge we had in a day.

Then the raped our planet, stealing her life and resources.

Every crop failed, or was stolen.

The water was siphoned up and into the sky.

They drained our oceans, leaving nothing but rotting carcasses and a new desert.

Our forests were pulped and taken away.

The barren roads of our world were lined with the dead, dying and confused creatures. Some predators survived for a time, hunting... But then they took them as well.

Everything was taken, leaving nothing but sand and us.

I was sent, a final desperate weapon, against our enemies...

Sabateur.

Desperate plans rarely work.

Instead, I found myself suspended in the vaccuum of the world... As the world was ripped apart for her final resources.

They harvested, as I lay in this lonely space, my air running out, unable to do anything.

There was no one left to save.

Tears fell from my closed eyes, as I waited for the last moment.

I know the story is a bit cliche, but it came when I was exploring Elegy for a Dead World, looking to get my creative side going a bit.

I find tiny stories like this helpful to set a mood, or get out of one, especially when my writing is blocked.

I'm hoping to see some inspired short stories, so you guys can serve as my selfish want of inspiration, or some critique of how terribly I've used this meme.

admittedly i got really high a few days ago and watched Scott Pilgrim vs The World for the first time and i haven't been able to get the whole ramona flowers archetype out of my mind so here we are.

comme d'hab - l'enjoi

Oh Ramona
Black tie, pink hair
converse
geeked on the soda
high heels
tight dress
choker
got my focus
Don't have
insta, if
you did
you'd blow up
that's all hype shit
you don't
vibe with
though, yeah?

Oh Ramona,
spinnin for some days
life on the skates
out of control, yeah.
(beat)
caught in the waves
getting thrown every way
drowned and washed up
(beat)
tryin to see
better life on the beach
getting tired
(beat)
praying that you'll
come and save me,
drop me a line, girl.

Seven evil exes lurking
in and out of Texas
searching for the
next to come and
make me
high.
Two fits of depression,
dragon-chasing some regression
and you come and tell
me it'll be all-
right.
Love you with a passion,
till you burn me down to ashes
drive away and leave my
house alight with
fire.
they want you to join em,
'Mona begging you be stoic,
i can give you love and
you'll keep me a-
live.

Oh Ramona,
Blue eyes, white lies
sharks lie
deep in the waters.
High hopes,
good dope,
cutthroat,
raise my dosage.
So far, this
de-
pression,
magnum opus.
You're my 1-Up
new lifeline
my hope,
love.

Oh Ramona,

Bishop

it's unfinished because i cant finish ayytjomgm but i have to post something

i would rather do coke
than go to bed
have these visions of you
dancing in my head
i don't really want to die
go numb instead
reminiscing on our home
in DTX
now i'm all alone, vibing
on some emo shit
now i'm lost and i'm drowning
in these emoceans
everybody looking at me, saying
i'm full of shit
maybe that's why i phase out
and stay quiet
people always asking me
how'm i doing?
they're just lucky i got plans
i haven't gone through with
i don't really wanna be on
suicidal shit
but fantasizing about dying
helps me get through it.

.....

on some goth shit
meditating in the graveyard
tarring up my lungs while
i'm walking down the boulevard
sad little white boy
crying, thinks his life's hard
you don't know pain,
there's a genocide in Myanmar
people get their throats slit
believing in the "wrong" god
you had a girl make you high
and you fell hard
families are dying
and you want to be a rockstar
so why you taking drugs?
what you trying to get numb for?

i just want a life that
might be worth waking up for
share my music with my
friends and maybe do an encore
invite some people over, get
some liquor that forever pours
their lessons or their lesions,
ask them all about their open sores
sixtysevenhundred people
either shot or burned alive
you're dreaming of a good girl
that you could probably call a wife
this is how real loss looks
this is real strife
you drew a bath of henny
and you want to take a deep dive

on some goth shit
looking out through your red eyes
shades always on like
a blanket to hide behind
bleeding out, wounded
at the first try at real life
how does this shit balance,
do you think you deserve to cry?
praying for a goddess, "i
pray you'll come and cleanse me"
a nation full of people
down the barrel of a cleansing
Jekyll and I'm hiding in
and out of all my draining
should i even feel like this?
there's no way it's the same thing.

hey everyone!

i was sitting down to write some today, and i kept coming up with lines and lyrics that were great, but for absolute vapid-type songs (gucci gang type stuff hahaha).

i thought it would make for a fun challenge. whether you want to write a short story, a poem, maybe a little stageplay script - what's the largest amount of words you can use to express absolutely nothing?

whether it be something like the lyrics for lil pump's "D Rose" or something like the internet-famous article "The Rumor Come Out: Does Bruno Mars is Gay?"

how long of a piece of writing can you make, whilst saying absolutely nothing?

this world is so full of energy
constantly amazed by
the shit i see in front of me
all my wishes all my demons
parade in circles surrounding me
it's just the vibe that i keep
it's just the air that i breathe
i guess it's masochistic tendencies
i don't want your positivity
if you have to force it into me
i let it hit me gracefully
got nothing against smiling.

it's great, don't need to say it.
good day, when the chardonnay hits
good friends, gonna make your sides split
good laughs, gonna bust a lung with
but don't, need to make it seem like
i don't, have times when i cry
i don't, wanna force out a vibe
of hope, when it just don't feel right
Sono, l'atarassia
Voi sie-te i Pagliacci
Why act, like the world is ending
on days, when you find you're frowning

this world is so full of sappy shit
Everyone subsists off
forced happiness, false positives
bloody nails digging for
every causative, we're at odds to live
with the negative - shit's definitive
that's why 1 in 5 on anxiety medicine
sadness the civil sin,
at all costs repent against
grin through chagrin it's sheepskin
insomniac meds for sleeping
forget that though, my heart's leaping
I swear to god
every morning, open eyes
birds chirping, and i'm in awe
don't give a nod at my
curtain facade and try defraud
ridi, ridi, Pagliaccio,
e ognun,

.

applaudirà

bishop

i had a dream,
i saw my body
as i stood watching
outside of it
an open door
i had a guest,
a little blondie
baphomet
she crept quiet
up to my bed
laid her hands
upon my chest
through groggy eyes
i saw an angel.
took her hand,
she made me promises.

i sold my soul
and said lets glo
she passed a blunt
said i dont know
she insists
i took a hit
i felt a burning
at my lips
i let a cough
the fuck is this?
opened my eyes
it was a kiss
a little smirk
she bit my lip
she drew a knife
she slit my wrist

she cut her own
said it's a pact
now we're enslaved
the bond intact
the blood'll flow
beyond the cracks
and trickle down
and leave a path
and when we're old
we can look back
say what a life
and have a laugh
i'll be your wife,
the better half
you'll die, i'll write
your epitaph

i had a dream,
i saw her body
bleeding through a
wedding dress
she smiled still
her face was pale
she fed me love,
i starved depressed
an angel or
a siren who would
sing to me in
soft caress
i never thought
she'd be my death,
my little blondie
baphomet

bishop.

ten months, three kings.

fuck.

things you should know if you're gonna fuck with drugs. [reddit link]

relevant shit:

"Legends" x Juice WRLD
"THE BLACKEST BALLOON" x Denzel Curry

let's get to the piece

death always seemed imminent
every track he wrote it in
real goth shit he'd represent
drugs never put him on the fence
geeked off coke, asleep off xans
ate a couple shrooms he was diving in
two hydros and two oxys blend
had a full pill bottle in his hands
nobody knew he would get so bent
nobody knew it was laced with fent
a message from postmortem breath
everybody stop, get off your shit
message rang, got left on sent
looks like nobody's listening
the saddest case that you could present
never heard a peep about this shit again

just pop another pill
while the house is on fire
just a warm blanket baby boy,
you're gonna be fine.
tryna look around,
but you can't focus your eyes
end up staring down the bottle
tryna see what's inside
looks like you found the
perks of being alive.

next gunned down midsummer
cut across by two gunners
reached their hands in
to grab his things
then bolted off and
let shots ring
they caught his neck
boy couldn't breathe
blood poured onto the
beamer seats
right as this boy began to preach
a brand new message bent on peace
a brand new face for the world to see
his eyes saw love in the future
tryna inspire life out of the dead sea
20 years old, brought to his knees

just pop another pill
while the house is on fire
just a warm blanket baby boy,
you're gonna be fine.
tryna look around,
but you can't focus your eyes
end up staring down the bottle
tryna see what's inside
looks like you found the
perks of being alive.

blue slides on both feet,
just a college kid who loved weed
found himself in a new scene
little more fame, little more green
then he started touring
got hooked off the purp drink
off the cocaine and promethazine
found a swimming pool
poured in the lean
tried to swim out
wouldn't let him leave
pulled him to the deep
wouldn't let him breathe
cinderella, he had a queen
ended, toxic, but they were teamed
now four months later - it's the final scene.

just pop another pill
while the house is on fire
just a warm blanket baby boy,
you're gonna be fine.
tryna look around,
but you can't focus your eyes
end up staring down the bottle
tryna see what's inside
looks like you found the
perks of being alive.

"Star Shopping" x Lil Peep

"Snow" x XXXTentacion

"Self Care" x Mac Miller

rest in power my guys.

Space. Mankind’s last great mystery. Our modern day ‘Wild West’. What a privilege to be born during this golden age of space exploration, to have the chance to strike out and see a universe so full of absolutely nothing.

There is nothing out here, there’s a reason it’s often referred to as a void. Okay, yes, the more astute members of you will point out space isn’t truly empty, planets and nebulas, and even us, the humans and our crafts. But for the sake of the scale upon which we view it, its empty.

Just look at me, stuck out here, stranded, in dark space. For those of you still catching up on your terminology, that’s what we call the space in between galaxies. Yes, those galaxies, the big ones that contain untold numbers of stars. No, I don’t know how I got out here. If I did, I would have done something to reverse it.

All I can tell you is that I’m out here with a busted ship that only has enough power for life support and basic functions. Ugh, I bet you the caravan has already made it to Port Dalle, and Swiv’s drinking that blasted sludge he wouldn’t shut up about. They’re probably raising a ruckus at the bar, starting brawls and revelries alike.

And here I am, alone. Well, I have Ping. That’s what I call that eternal pinging. If you listen closely, you can hear it, every few seconds ever so faintly. Ping, ping. I can’t tell if the universe has given me company or is taunting me. My headache leans towards taunting.

Ping.

I tried turning it off, I really did. But I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It’s almost as if the entire ship resonates with the noise. It’s not a big ship, kinda, cozy. I think that’s the word. I have to duck down to pass through the doors. The bed’s a few inches too short. But I make do, plenty of room in the storage closet if I push the tools to the side. Well, I might have jettisoned them. But, hear me out! It’s not like I’d be able to use them anyway.

‘What are you doing on that blasted ship if you can’t fix it?’ You may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. It wasn’t supposed to break. I was only supposed to be here to press the on and off buttons.

Ping.

They just didn’t include any for that blasted noise. Maybe it’s coming from behind this service panel here, it seems to be louder in the bridge, if you could call this glassed in closet a bridge.

Bang. Ow.

Note to self: pulling on random panels is a bad idea.

Ping.

Yeah yeah, keep on pinging, you stupid pinging, thing, a-lator.

Ping.

That was not a request for you to ping more frequently!

Ping.

...

What did I do to deserve this? All I ever did was try to lead a semi-normal life. As normal a life being some intergalactic space trucker, shipper, can be. I payed taxes, obeyed the law mostly, didn’t cheat. I mean, I’m not a bad person. I didn’t do anything wrong! Or did I?

I mean, there are several possibilities. Maybe one of the times a delivery was late it costed someone more then a few extra minutes of paperwork. Maybe I inadvertently stood in the wrong spot, ruining some poor tourists prized photo. Maybe I-

Ping.

Maybe I’m dead, and this is my eternal torture.

Maybe, just maybe, there isn’t such a thing as fate or karma or metaphysical legacies. Maybe, this is just some freak thing that occurred because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? How’s that sound? Must be hard imagining not having someone to blame for all the things that go wrong, huh? Well, I’ve been stuck here for who knows how long. No one’s coming. And there’s nothing wrong with the ship except some inexplicable power loss.

Ping.

Maybe whatever’s making that noise is the cause?

Ping.

Pong.

How do you like dem apples, huh?... Well, I guess you like them. Seeing as you haven’t immediately thrown them back at me. Maybe this’ll keep me entertained for awhile, huh?

Out here, you take whatever you can get to pass the time. There is literally nothing.

I even look out at nothing. I mean, sure, I see some of the Milky Way nearby, as well as light clusters that are the other galaxies. But I’m so far off the beaten path that the ship’s computers don’t even register any gravitational pull, and they’re tuned for the center of the Milky Way to set a universal constant for direction. Uh, simple speak, the big thing at the center of our galaxy? That’s down.

There’s some velocity. So the ship will drift for millions of years, preserved in the inky cold of this wonderful frontier, until it get’s close enough to, something, so it's pulled in and crashes or burns. What? It’s not like anyone will find it anytime soon.

I suppose you can’t really see the futility of existence yet. Me? My days are numbered, and I’ve already run out of gum.

Ping.

Pong.

Where was I? Right, existence. It’s a funny thing really. Out here, with nothing to do or see, you start to question if anything was really real. Everything turns into this far off dream, the distant past of another person. Here and now, its just you, and the void. Well, that, and the flimsy metal contraption keeping you safe from said void, but even that’s debatable.

Isolation was the worst punishment we were able to come up with for criminals, after all.

Eh. I’m waiting my time. You don’t want to hear a condemned man ramble on, or maybe you do, you sicko, you. You want stories, you want to hear the high flying adventures of traveling this wasteland. Tales of explorations and intrigue. Maybe even a little romance mixed in.

There really aren’t any. Space is, well, space. Big, and-

Ping.

-empty, and boring. As for the people, well, the Captain Buck and his intrepid crew all work for the military. The only civilians that do this are either, criminals, insane, or desperate. And any combination of those.

So there it is. The reality of this grand fantasy you’ve always held in your head-

Ping.

-laid bare at your very feet. Not very palatable, huh? Makes me think of that paste you get fed out here. Chemically infused with all the calories and nutrients you need to live. Tastes like they blended cardboard and water into sludge and called it food.

That’s not even the worst example. There was this one time... one time that...

Ping.

Ah, thank you Ping. There was this one time a station had a rodent infestation. Nasty stuff. You know what they did with the buggers? (Not the Editor, Editor’s Note: Not actual bugs.) Used them for meat! You had rodent steaks, and ground rodent. Didn’t stay at that station for long.

Oh, look. A red light is blinking. Must be time to party.

Ping.

Ping agrees it’s time to party. Where’d I put the people to party with? Oh yeah. They’re all back in inhabited space. C’est la vie.

Vie la c’est? Why are you asking me?

You know? I’ve done all the talking up until now. I think it’s your turn to tell me a little abut yourselves.

Yeah?

Really?

No.

Ping.

Ping doesn’t believe it either. He’s even making this slight hissing noise. Just like a cat. Maybe Ping’s a cat that goes ping? Or a ping that cats?

Having trouble understanding that one? Do what I do. Don’t.

Stuff doesn’t have to make sense. I mean, does it make sense for some random guy to be stuck literally nowhere? No, it doesn’t. He should be back home wondering what dinner will consist of. Well, truthfully, I’d probably be stuck with the nutrient paste still.

Ping.

I agree Ping, that paste is a travesty and insult to the human palate. At least include something that gives it some flavor. Maybe lemon juice? And some water, and sugar. You know what? Take the nutrient paste out all together and give us lemon, water, and sugar. We had a name for that back home.... I can’t seem to...

Ping.

Oh, right! Lemonade. Life’s gift you didn’t ask for. Well, would you look at that? There some ice dust outside. Almost like some rock had a gas bubble inside and it leaked. There you have it folks, the lemonade for today; ice dust!

You know, I’m getting kinda sleepy and light headed. I have been up for quite some time now. Why? Well, you and Ping are such good listeners, I couldn’t just walk away. No, it was my responsibility to entertain at the expense of my own health. I hope I did a good job, I don’t like to disappoint people. Only peaches disappoint, you expect them to be all flavorful, and they tase like the fruit has been soaking in water.

Well, guess this is it for now. Nature calls, and I don’t think I’ll be awake for much longer without really going off my rocker.

Ping.

Yeah, good night Ping.

Ping.

...

Ping.

bishop.

i want to go to colorado
by the fire with a bottle
of champagne with a little
marijuana and a pillow
tired of looking out the window
every tree a weeping willow
done with dying in this riddle
i just wanna live a little and

i might wanna try skiing
down the slopes but
i don't wanna fall
grab a friend and
hit the snow just
try to vibe it off
can't feel my face
i'm feeling better
bad shit can't recall
snowball fights
my heart is racing
til the night falls

been sober dreaming of chicago
off the loop we're eating tacos
you made a ring out of a napkin
and proposed on south financial
my cheeks on rubies oh like marco
to the hotel that we called home
slept on each other on the green line
highland park right by the water

i might wanna try skiing
down the slopes but
i don't wanna fall
memories got
me all dark, just
try to vibe it off
can't feel my face
i'm feeling better
bad shit can't recall
snowball fights
my heart is racing
til the night falls

we will travel to mars and devour the stars
run fingers through wild dusty meteor scars in the dunes
of faraway moons till the tunes of their soundless bassoons become ours
when we sight the next staggering flight
from every direction bends infinite light in an arc
you and i will embark to each spark till it's dark and together sail into the night

We now have the opportunity to continue our 100-word writing prompt fun :)

@Kat, the initiator of this writing club, nominated me as her successor as this round's topic keeper (or if we allow some fantasy, the "queen of stories", as in the Decameron). I'm very happy, honoured, nervous ... and so eager to read your contributions!

As a reminder of the rules, let us make the written piece exactly 100 words. Next weekend, I'll pass the garland to one of the writers, and they'll become the monarch of stories, bring to us a new topic.

This week's prompt is in the title:

I can see [them], but [they] cannot see me.

Here the pronoun they, in the brackets, is a generic one. It can be anyone, anything, or ... let us know :)

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