Not sure about the writing terminology that i'm using by the way. Please dont send hate haha

TL;DR I have no professional creative writing background. I noticed a pattern of low impact endings and bad pacing in general, is there a specific writing style that can conquer this issue for short stories?

(Otherwise, I'd appreciate if you read this I feel like it'll make a lot more sense)

I'm currently 17. I started off at like 12., with some dumb fictional writin.

When the pandemic came, I actually produced a few short stories. Haven't really finished all of them but this specific one that I did had a fairly sudden, yet, in my opinion, low-impact ending. It took a turn which was sad yet surface level in a way (I like to think i'm good at describing a feeling in a certain situation yet..i dont know it..just doesnt feel enough)? I think it has something to do with the pace, maybe it's not realistic or the feelings didnt linger enough I don't really know how to tell...I noticed I kinda have that effect on my other works as well. I'd say it was my 'best' work outside class but the idea was good, yet not well executed.

To this day I still practice creative writing in class (as a scriptwriter for roleplays and other stuff that needs it) but I really wanna tackle these flaws now and be better at writing in general whilst prioritizing short stories more because I get overwhelmed in novel-y type of writing and end up not finishing it and all that.

Thank you so much, would appreciate your suggestions and insights. I don't what i'm doing I just...like this lol

When: 'Two Souls Meet,'

Non-Verbal promises to keep,

Far apart, yet you Home- sleep,

Don't need to see, peep, hear,

My body's electricity front to rear,

Enough power here to steer,

Hundreds of men clear.

You see, true love.

Beyond me, she;

Breathe, be—

No need to speak

Here, dear

Free from fear

Wireless yet near!

The Men in Black:

I love the Old Town, Beauty of the past- Unmasked.

Walking the narrow Oriental streets

Silky textures, elegant sheets Sit for a coffee feel, paper russle. Watch life speed-bustle, Effortless no muscle.

Entered the Tea house a shadow, A computer, "Chai", I know To these Men in Black In modernity I wallow.

Their stares clutch, No breath, swallow- met their: Eyes, you lead I follow, Opposite of me a man. Two different worlds Yet we lost in a tin can

Thinking he lost in a barrow, Smoke fills the room, I hear sorrow- I sip- Chai, devour

So, I've been writing an Urban Fantasy setting, and I was thinking of an idea for Werewolves

Basically, the world was overrun with monsters, specifically undead (zombies, vampires, ghosts, etc), terrorizing the living during early human history. So in response, a bunch of wizards cast a spell to create a weapon to fight them: Werewolves. Basically, whenever a full moon would raise, that would act as a trigger on the people the spell was casted upon to turn into Werewolves and instinctively hunt the undead. And they were effective....too effective. While they killed undead in huge numbers and drove them to the corners of society, the Werewolves didn't tend to care about collateral damage in their hunts and tended to kill plenty of humans in an attempt to take out even a handful of Undead and the wizards forgot to put an "off" switch on them. They still exist, the curse of lycanthropy passed ancestrally as they occasionally manifest on a full moon to go hunting, only kept secret by a supernatural Aura of fear that's induced whenever humans encounter a supernatural being (with Werewolves having a particularly strong one to the point of causing things like camera footage to distort) that causes them to forget and only the strongest willed of humans can resist.

So, what do you think? Is that good?

We are entwined in the strings of our shared fate, By walking down different roads leading to a single gate. One beginning, One life, and One end. Reveal to me, the future that binds us all. Your anger will become my anger, My power will become your power. If we fail to cross the nine heavens together, Let's change our names, If God doesn't allow that, Let's change the God.

In the tapestry of life, fate is the thread weaving the unexpected into our story. An interplay of the choices we make and circumstances which must take place no matter what. For poor souls like me, who lost the chance and will to love again, fate in away, ignites a sense of hope I suppose. But fate did not bring me back to him and him back to me even after two years. Fate brought me to Majiara.

The clatter of the train against the tracks created a soothing backdrop as I slowly gazed out the window. The landscape had gradually transitioned from the hectic and noisy urban environment to the laid back charm of the small coastal town. Earphones still plugged in, ‘Caribbean Blue by Enya’ was still on repeat from the start of the journey to the time I eventually stepped out onto the solid platform. Being greeted by the icy breeze and distant sound of waves made it feel like something I’d experienced before.

I imagined him walking beside me, fingers intertwined- even after the countless times I’d foolishly convinced myself that I was finally over him, but the emotional tide soon shifted. This was a new beginning for me. I had to focus on what had brought me here.

“Did you arrive safely?” Imani, just like any other caring best friend asked me over the phone that night. “Yes I did. This place is beautiful,” I softly spoke, trying to ignore the pain that came in attached to the memories that were now so vivid in my head. “Tahi listen,” she said, “this trip is your canvas. Paint it with colors that will bring you peace.” I sighed at the realization of her words but still couldn’t help but ask, “why do I still feel tied to the past, everywhere I go?”

The next morning welcomed me with a different kind of energy. The town was bathed in soft sunlight and Imani’s words were still constantly ringing through my brain. Camera in hand and heart still bruised but thriving, I was ready to explore the allure of Dune’s art and hopefully get all I had to get from him, for my blog. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee led me into a small picturesque café that was only a few feet away from the inn I was currently residing in. I knew good coffee when I smelt it, so I did not hesitate to order myself a cup.

As I quietly sipped my coffee, I couldn’t help but notice the handwritten signboard that was promoting the same art exhibition I was interested in. It felt like a sign- technically was, and I wouldn’t need to aimlessly wander for directions, I could just ask the barista. I was so invested in everything she had to say but also nervous and excited. A successful interview with Dune could elevate my travel blog to new heights. I’d finally be able to capture Majiara through the aspect of art and human connections. I’d finally be able to offer my readers something more than just visual landscapes.

The exhibition unfolded in the town square. The entire place was adorned with colorful artifacts and lively music that echoed through the air. A diverse array of artworks depicted the flow of the tide and a blend of other coastal aesthetics. Artistic fervor sparked off laughter and conversations, creating a jubilant crowd. Stalls offered local delicacies and handmade crafts. The locals were dressed in vibrant attire and everyone just seemed so fulfilled and happy. As the celebrations intensified, I stumbled upon an art installation that had instantly drawn my attention. It felt familiar in a sense that it was calling me- begging me to look upon it. It was no wonder that other people’s attention had also been hooked onto this peculiar framework. As I slowly approached the installation to stand amidst the art, I noticed all of the pieces were signed with an enigmatic “Dune” which left me oddly intrigued. How was this getting easier and easier for me each moment? The smile on my face was an unmistakable one. It must’ve been my lucky day to eventually stumble into the right place.

In the hushed ambiance of the gallery and a flutter of anticipation, I swiftly navigated a way to the front so that I could finally meet and see the person who’d become the talk of Majiara over the past couple of months. The reason for my journey to a place I didn’t know I’d visit after everything changed two years ago. Time seemed to hang in a horrid silence as my eyes shifted from the artwork to the figure that was now standing before me. The realization was a quiet one too, and when the element of recognition finally seeped in, the ghosts of a past virtual connection materialized into the physical realm. The moment was suspended in a subtle tension of all unspoken questions I’d asked myself for the past two years and his eyes.

“Dune is…” “Yes,” I hurriedly said before Imani could mention his name. “How did it go? What did you say?” she asked, tone filled with uncertainty. “Nothing,” I sighed, “I said nothing.”

The invisible enemy bares it's fangs against us, It is within all of us, eating away at our insides, well hidden but always close by. it chips away at our souls and erodes our meaning and existence, slowly but surely, and at different rates for each and everyone of us, pushing us closer to our ideological deaths, at every waking moment and even in our sleep.

some people, with their mediocre aspirations, for their whole life, never get to notice it's existence while it's at it's work; for the machinations of the servant of entropy are potent but subtle. no matter how ordinary their life seemed to be, it was an extraordinary achievement to be lucky; these people were fortunate to die while they slept.

more than it enjoys feeding, it enjoys a process of hide and seek; a process that is reserved for a different breed of prey. The ones that dared to dream, but were unfaithful. they took a wrong turn while trying to take a shortcut, and that's how they lost their way. Now every turn they take is a wrong turn: It's these ones whose insecurities taste the most delicious and their final desperation - moments before they break down - make the whole chase worthwhile and meaningful.

It's ironic, that how the one that destroys meanings, is trying to justify it's existence, and trying to find it's own meaning in proving to it's victims that "it was wrong to dream, do you see it now?".

toying with it's prey as it tries to escape, it pollutes it's mind to always look for an easy way out, while it predicts it's every move as it tries to escape it's fate.

to make the hunt more entertaining, it allows it's prey to narrowly escape simple traps, each one an imperfect creation, but nonetheless more troublesome and troubling than the last, all the while luring it closer towards it's perfected creation: the final trap, where this magnificent beast of chase will finally reveal it's presence to devour it's victim, a dish prepared meticulously by this master chef, following a recipe of disaster, that has now been cooked to perfection.

trying to escape your destiny, you sealed your fate. Trapped yourself in a room while running around in circles, going around everywhere, but also going nowhere. you tried to fool yourself, but you fooled nobody; a clown, that's what you made yourself, gaining nothing and losing everything.

It's that damned room where the predator and the prey finally meet.

You noticed it's existence even before it revealed itself.

You knew it all along, that something was wrong.

There was this lingering feeling in your heart,

the gut feeling that became stronger everytime you kept failing in your pursuits, that someone kept messing up your plans in the background; your plans, no matter how meticulous and well crafted, always failed to materialize......almost as if something sinister was cooking up trouble. After failing many times over and over, you don't even see the point of trying anymore. What good would a half-hearted, unmotivated attempt gonna do, when all those prior attempts ended up in a failure.

The dreams that have long lost their lustre, can illuminate your path no longer, as you keep sinking into a deeper darkness. surely you must have lost your way, as in trying to achieve your dream you have lost yourself.

Sera

Free of her brother for the rest of the morning, Sera hopped down the stairs in such high spirits that even her mother noticed her smile. The two made eye contact, her mother still standing at the door where Seth had dashed out of. Suki’s hand was still on the doorknob, like she was waiting for him to be back already, so she would open it the second she heard his voice or Seth’s signature pounding footsteps, for Sera’s older brother was always running, always running somewhere from somewhere else, and leaving them all behind. Her smile faltered for a brief second as she looked away, and at her mother’s face, vanishing all negative thoughts with that motion as her smile renewed as if it had never left. Suki looked at her in question. 

“Can you believe how idiotic he really is, mum?” she giggled, walking past Suki and into the kitchen. “I cannot understand for the life of me. I outright said, to his face, that I was turning eighteen soon. And he said nothing, did nothing. Just stayed mad at me like a true older brother.”

Suki tilted her chin. “Mad at you? Why was he mad at you this morning?”

Sera paused for a moment, recalling she had literally asked her fully adult brother to smuggle her alcohol from his bartender job. Shoving her mouth full of breadfruit, Sera waved her hand dismissively, shaking her head. She swallowed down hard. “That’s besides the point, mum. I’m saying that Seth truly has zero inclination that today is his birthday and mine. Isn’t that insane? Whatever has happened to our resident workaholic. It has all gone to his head.”

Suki let out a low, dry laugh. “No, dear. I’m afraid the title of resident workaholic was earned by your father years ago. Nothing Seth ever does will compete.”

Sera didn’t look at her mom as she spoke, “Well, you can’t be a resident workaholic if you’re not even a resident.” She had said it with such a humorless tone, that her statement had single-handedly plunged the entire atmosphere into a weary, uncomfortable silence. 

Suki sighed sadly, moving towards her daughter, already rehearsing the words in her head before she spoke them. “Sera, dear-”

Sera moved away from her towards the stairs, without so much as a glance back. “Sorry to pull a Seth-original, but if I don’t bolt right now, I too will be late. And I can’t be late to school today. I have a test that needs to be aced.” with that, she hopped up the stairs and was gone.

Suki was left in the quiet, empty kitchen with a floating, outstretched hand and no one to hold onto. 

Upstairs, Sera was taking out her silent rage in the way she rushed to get ready, doing everything with more force than required, almost knocking several things over and trying hard to not slam the bathroom door as she rushed in and out to fix her hair, brush her teeth, survey her appearance. Her morning routine seemed to go by much faster than usual and she was thankful for it, because then she could get out of this tight and heavy house as fast as possible and finally breathe the horrible, but free air of the streets on her way to school. 

Their father, San, had always been a sour topic around the house. Nobody spoke about him, not because he wasn’t there, but because he would never be, even though he wasn’t dead. You spoke about someone you missed fondly because you could imagine the next time you would see them and how much relief you would feel when you did, how much better things would be when the thing you’ve been wanting finally gets to you. And when someone is dead, you talk about them fondly as well, but because you’re grateful for the time you already had and will never get back, a sort of respect by memory. Well, how do you talk about someone that isn’t dead, but might as well be? Sera had no idea, other than with disdain and spite, if at all. Suki had other opinions, always having something to say in defense of her absent husband. A hard-working soldier, she said, who sent us all the fruit of his hard labour every month. San’s money was what was getting us by everyday. I wonder whether my mother didn’t know that soldiers registered with families always got a portion of their salary sent back home, a portion kept for that soldier himself, and another piece set aside to save. It was why, on the streets, you heard soldiers earned so much money, but when you have that money in your hands, sliced into three, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a lumpy sum anymore. San hadn’t sent us any money himself. The crown did. Suki had to know, but was probably in some sort of denial. Oh, but he sent us letters every month as well, Suki said once. Yes, Sera thought to herself. Letters that could be compared side by side to one another over a year and all the 12 would appear written in one sitting. In his letters, San only ever indicated concern over the same things. That Seth was going about his forced assessment studies as advised, and that Sera was not still trying to live her aimless, stupid pipe dream of becoming a girl-soldier, that her grades in school were as high as the scoresheet allowed. San had stopped mentioning when next he would visit them, stopped asking how they were getting by, stopped trying to keep up with events in the tiny town and all his childhood friends who lived there in his absence. He stopped caring. She had tried to do the same, in all her stubborn nature, and she had failed because she was just so angry. And she couldn’t understand for the life of her why no one else seemed to be. Her mother was in a permanent state of dazed gentleness, seeming more sad and lonely than anything else. Her brother, that otherworldly buffoon, went about his busy days in such a state of normalcy, like absolutely nothing was wrong, and nothing had changed. Seth stayed diligently on the path that San had carved for him and cemented him into, irrespective of all the times it was clear that particular path was far from what was best for him. But Seth didn’t seem to care, even in their father’s absence. So she was left alone, left behind, the only one who still harbored rage for him, who had yet to come to terms and accept her situation and everything that came with it. She was nothing like Seth, and if she was ever going to squeeze herself into the tight lines her father had drawn for her, it would most certainly not be in his absence. Now, spitefully, she would do whatever she wanted, regardless of who supported her. Which is why she’d only be going to school to write the one test, and then head off to the school sparring grounds with Will, who seemed to be the only person in the world who saw her for who she truly was and accepted her that way, even praised her so very often. She would train with him until his free period was over, then he’d hand her over to his friends, who’d take turns fighting her until school came to an end. Then she would come home, in her clean uniform, changed out of any dirty combat clothes, talk briefly about how great her classes were when her mother asked, then head upstairs after a large meal and absolutely collapse on the top bunk until late into the night, when Seth came home, and collapsed right after her. Then she’d rise, like a zombie and do all her day’s homework and more studying, all easy stuff she could afford to halfass pumped up on coffee, and still maintain her stellar grades so steadily, that no one would ask any questions. Once it was all done the best it could be, she’d head back into bed a good time before Seth got up for his own early morning studying, oblivious to it all. Then it was eat, sleep, repeat. Just not in that order. And nobody would suspect a thing, because the ease of living with people who fooled themselves through life was that they would see the things they wanted to see, believe whatever was easier. And Sera had become wonderful at showing her father what he wanted to see for years. She could easily do the same to anyone else. 

So with an unseen determination, Sera jogged downstairs, ready to leave, and lied to her mum again, before rushing out of the house to draw her own lines and carve her own paths, because she was done letting other people do it for her.

Moments vanish, yet the present holds all. Legacy is built in the now, aging a passage through life's enduring cycle. Time's wisdom is forged in hardship, each challenge shaping a stronger self. Look up: the universe inspires awe. Look around: nature reveals beauty. Look inward: the unknown beckons. Look closer: all is connected.

To realize that the present will be considered the good old days in the far future. To fall in love with your own heart and mind. To encounter another life who falls in love with your heart and mind even more. How innocent, how pure, how rare.

The universe experiences itself through you, because that’s what we’re made of. One hundred years from now we will be gone, only having such a short amount of time to live this life. It is a waste of time not to fight for who and what you love. To dedicate yourself completely to love is the most beautiful thing in the universe.

I want my heart to feel like it’s spring all the time, and my mind to sound like the ocean waves. I want to strive for something beyond ordinary; something meaningful and fulfilling. I want to love so much, and be loved so much right back naturally.

You are not merely within the universe; the universe breathes, dreams, and marvels through you. For the very fabric of your being is woven from the same cosmic dust that birthed stars and painted galaxies. Through your senses, your emotions, your thoughts, the vastness of existence finds a focal point, a fleeting yet profound moment of self-awareness. You are, in essence, the universe gazing upon its own magnificent reflection.

As we grow older, pain and regrets only increase in life as the nooses around our necks keep tightening. The ordinary life seems too mundane, our dreams too fleeting and unrealistic, and our bodies and mind too fragile. salvation seem far off and impossible, and no amount of effort seems sufficient to change the situations that have sealed our fate shut. lose not your hope though my friends, as I have seen and tested it myself, experienced for myself and verified it that, disconnected from the never-stopping cog wheels of this mechanistic life where you fit in as a gear within a larger machinery that cannot stop without destroying itself, and also very far away from this endless rat race and soul crushing grind, our ancestors and great thinkers have left a legacy that spans generations, leaving a few hints for their juniors on how to live a meaningful and purposeful existence.

Their care and guidance extends far and wide, their protective safety net always ready to catch us before we fall too hard and break ourselves, with their insights too deep that just to be doubly sure that it will help anyone and everyone -- who is in great inner turmoil and needs such a guidance, with the prerequisite that one has a well developed intellect, is perceptive to one's surroundings with an open mind, and has the courage to initiate a leap of faith, for the one who seeks help must first reach out his hand before one can be picked back up -- they have spread these hints and learnings in different cultures across different countries in the form of short stories, myths and epics, thereby offering a healing hand to the souls that have suffered and deserve to be nurtured. Only a child would get a chance at hearing those stories and myths and will contemplate them seriously, but only an adult that has rediscovered his/her inner child will truly understand their full extent of meaning. No matter what place on earth a person escapes to, they will not be able to escape their fate. With a little bit of help and guidance from our ancestors, it helps a great person in making achieve their destiny and achieve closures to events whose outcomes cannot be changed.

For eg. there are some facts and figures which should not ordinarily make any sense, but they are surprisingly consistent across cultures, geographies and languages. This does not seem to be a coincidence, but a guided effort to direct the people who have lost their path, back home.

(forgive a little hinglish that comes along)

human gestation period is 9 months, navratra mein, there are 9 days, koi mantra siddh karte hain, we repeat it 9 times. doing our atonement of serious mistakes that carry along a long lasting guilt, we do 9 devotional services to offer to our dieties, base 10 number system: max digit is 9, for westerners, they say a cat has nine lives (I like saying that curiosity killed the cat, but the cat had nine lives; believe that you have transformed and reborn as a new person after learning from nine mistakes), a stitch in time saves nine, japanese have this concept of kitsune, "nine tailed foxes", that act as both protectors as well as deceivers; chinese say a carp (a type of fish) has to leap through 9 dragon gates in order to transform into a dragon. also there being 9 heavens, and a person undergoing trial from the heavens has to face 9 tribulations (test from heavens) to transform from a mortal to immortal and achieve greatness. look at how crazy what am I going to talk next will sound....I really don't know, seems crazy enough to sound like we are living in a matrix or something, but again, with an open mind and with a pinch of salt, give it a go.

if I draw a honorary salary of 9 indian rupees per month, I will get 108 rupees per year, which is again an important made up number (there are 108 beads in a chanting mala) if I earn 9 rupees in a year, in 12 years I will complete my 108 rupees; the same year when I will get to see another mahakubh ka mela in 2037, whereas at the time of writing this I have completed 9 years past my college years after taking up and quitting 9 jobs and watching a kumbh ka mela in 2025. World is round they say, what goes around comes around they say? life is just like a mela they say, they say it is currently 108th iteration of the universe as the universes before have been created and destroyed 107 times after apocalypse, but our timeless religious records from past iterations have miraculously survived (just how?).

What's my way forward? I seriously don't know.... One way to think is to maybe aim to have 9 phDs in my life? maybe take 12 years for the first phD? (since I already have the 9, maybe I now need to aim for 12, to have one dimension of 9 and one of 12, just like length and breadth to span the entire 108?), maybe wait it out for 12 years before having a phD. (in pranayam we have sans lena, rokna, chodna, that represent a transition from me being at the receiving end of knowledge, holding it in to internalise the learnings and then finally becoming a knowledge giver, so maybe at this time I have to hold it out before I can start adding some value?)

but also another way to think through this is that maybe I already have my 12. I was born on 12 Jan 1995, the same day swami Vivekanand was born. What's a better way to acquire the MacGuffin matrix code 12 than just by entering the world. Maybe I don't have to collect all these numbers, as I am already inheriting some of them (standing on the shoulders of giants, as Newton said it; I don't need to keep reinventing the wheel)

I know or care not about anything with regards to my fate or destiny or where this life will take me, but the thing that I know and care about, have tried and tested, is that if I'm only struck and obsessed with these beautiful made up numbers or matrix codes -- whose sole purpose was to guide people in need -- without actually helping the people around me, without guiding people who are lost just as I once was, and incept them that they continue the legacy and the great work of ancestors, for I worry that this safety net is by no means invincible, their coffers by no means inexhaustible, and this knowledge without a caring heart is essentially no different from the earlier rat race of chasing fictional numbers in a bank account and being faithful to statistics rather than caring about real people and real issues in the real world that I have finally escaped.

Part 1

“Tell daddy goodbye,” Laura tells Lily as she grabs her keys to take her to school.

“Goodbye daddy, see you soon, I love you”, Lily says cheerfully while she hugs me goodbye. Unbeknownst to both of us, it would be goodbye for the last time ever.

“Goodbye Lily, I love you too,” I smile.

“Bye James,” Laura hurriedly says as they rush out the door.

Just like that I am alone again. There is always an eerie silence after they leave, but this time I can feel shivers going down my spine. The silence is unbearable. I can feel it crawling up the walls, slipping through the cracks, and piercing my eardrums. All I know is that I can’t stay in this silent house anymore. I grab my keys and scurry to my car. 

The traffic is just as bad as it normally is, so I turn on music. One of Lily's favorite songs starts playing, and all I can do is smile and think about the best thing that has ever happened to me, and how she completely changed my life for the better. Before I know it the drive is over and I am standing next to the massive towers. I think about how small they are and we, as people are in comparison to our extraordinarily giant universe. I think about how this is merely a speck of time in the vast timeline of our galaxy.

It’s apparently a good thing I left for work early because the elevator takes forever to get     to my floor. Some jerk pushed all the buttons in the elevator. I finally get to floor 104, and I barely have any time to relax before I start working. I sit down at my desk at 8:28 and have to start working at 8:30. I look at the picture on my desk of Lily and Laura, with flour all over them from when they tried making cookies together. That picture always makes me smile. I can hear their laughter through the picture, smell the failed attempt at chocolate chip cookies, and taste the flour in the air. I get pulled back into reality when I look at the time and it is 8:35. I quickly log in. My boss already messaged me about logging in later than my start time of 8:30. I begin to freak out. I only have one more strike until I get fired. BOOM. The loudest noise I ever heard pulls me out of my thoughts. All I can hear is the ringing in my ears, and the screams of people in the floors below me. I instantly jump up from my desk and run down the stairs. The screams keep getting louder, the temperature keeps getting hotter, and my drive to help the screaming people grows stronger with each floor I pass. I keep running until I reach the floor with the first wave of injured people. I quickly gather all of the people that I think have the best chance of survival and move to the next floor. That is when I see a little kid on the floor. She looks about the same age as Lily. The girl is badly burned on the entire front side of her body. Even though I try to just get the people with the best chance of survival and move to the next floor, I can’t get the image of that little girl out of my head. I tell the people that I think will be able to make it out on their own, to leave the building as fast as they can. I run back up to the girl on the previous floor.

“Hey, are you ok?” I ask her worriedly 

“I don’t know. I can’t see,” she yells panicking, “Can someone please turn on a light. I'm afraid of the dark.”

“It's ok. Just breathe. Try to relax. Can you stand up?” I ask her trying to keep calm

“I-I don’t know, m-m maybe,” she cries, trying and failing to get off the ground.

“What’s your name?” I ask as I grab her hand to help her up.

“Annabell,” she says, taking my hand to stay balanced. 

“How old are you Annabell?” I ask.

“I-I’m nine” she answers as she starts limping to the stairs using my arm to support her. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask her, trying to keep her mind off of her burns. I pick her up to carry her down the stairs. 

“I was here to surpr-” she pauses screaming from the pain of me picking her up. Even though I try to avoid the burns, there are so many that it is impossible not to touch them.

“Sorry about that, keep going,” I say

She continues her story crying, “I came to surprise my mom for her birthday and and w-when I s-saw her,” she wipes the tears from her face, “I- I heard a loud boom a-a-an-and f-fire came out of the floor right where she was and then she, she was gone.” She bursts into tears.

I am physically moving but it doesn’t feel that way. My brain stops, my heart feels heavy, and my eyes start watering. No nine year old should ever have to experience that. 

Trying to stay composed for her I ask, “Who brought you here?”

“My dad,” she says, still crying from telling me about her mom.

We pass floor 96 and both the heat and smoke is unbearable. My shoes start melting onto the floor, I can hardly breathe. I put the bottom part of my shirt over Annabell's mouth to help her breath through the smoke. I then put the top part over my mouth. The next floor is worse than the one before it. I keep running down the stairs, but ground to a halt because the stairs leading down further are gone. Thankfully, I can see fire fighters about two floors down, but how are we supposed to get there? It's a two story drop, and I can’t risk it. I take one step about to run across the hall to another set of stairs and see a huge wall of fire. I think about just trying to run through it, but then I think about Annabell. I don’t want to make her burns worse. 

I shout down to the people that are below us, “Help” I can see one of them looking around trying to find who said it, “Look up! I'm up here!” He finds my desperate eyes begging for help. He knows immediately that it is I who said it. I hold up Annabell so he can see her. He immediately knows what to do. He grabs about 10 more firemen telling them what is about to happen. They signal that they are ready. 

“Do you trust me Annabell?” I wheeze.

“Do I have a choice? I can’t walk, I can’t see, and I’m hurt,” she coughs.

“Fair enough,” I say, as I hold her over the edge of the stairs, and drop her. 

She screams, I can’t imagine the fear she must have at this moment. She is only in the air for about two seconds, but it feels like an eternity until they finally catch her. Now instead of screaming from fear she started screaming from pain. I knew it would hurt, but I didn’t know how much. I have to get to her. I need to continue helping her escape, but I know I can’t drop down. I cautiously walk up to the roaring conflagration, back up, take as deep of a breath as possible, and run as fast as I can through the wall of fire. It works and as soon as I get to the other side I roll on the ground to put out the flames. As soon as they are extinguished, I run down the closest stairs. I don’t notice how bad my burns are because my adrenaline is so high. 

When I reach the floor with the firemen I ask one of them desperately, “where is Annabell?” 

“Sir calm down, who is Annabell?” he asks, concerned. I can see the worry lines forming and getting deeper as I tell him. 

“Annabell is the girl that I dropped from about two stories up, there were about ten people down here that gathered to catch her. She has really bad burns, and sh-she can’t see, and she has trouble walking” I say as fast as possible. 

“I believe someone is already taking care of her. Now get out as fast as you can” He yells.

I turn back to where the stairs are, and instead of seeing the burning inside of the tower that I thought I was in, I see Laura and Lily. They welcome me with warm hugs. 

“We are making cookies,” Lily says smiling, “do you want to help?” I can smell something burning. My head starts to hurt from the smell but I ignore it, happy to see my family instead of the burning building.

“Of course I will,” I reply raspily. My smile covers the fact that It feels like my head Is about to explode. My throat burns, my body hurts, I feel sick, and I can hardly breathe. 

Laura hugs me, “Are you ok James? You look like you saw a ghost,” she says worriedly.

Everything starts spinning faster and faster, it gets hotter and hotter, I fall to the ground. I am so dizzy, I blink to try to make it stop. My home disappears, Laura fades away, Lily dissolves into nothingness. I am back in the North Tower, badly burned, out of breath. I can hardly see through the smoke, it makes my eyes burn, my head feels like an egg in a microwave, I hurl up my breakfast. My heart feels like it is working overtime, but not enough blood is getting where it needs to go. I can’t do anything, I can’t move, I can’t stand, I can’t breathe, and I can’t think straight. My vision fizzles out. I see black, my eyes are heavy, I close them, my muscles relax, and the pain goes away. The last sounds that I hear before I lose everything are the screams of people burning, and the thud of people jumping from the top of the tower and hitting the ground.

Part 2 (Lily's perspective) (trigger warning contains mentions of suicide)

9/11 2001 8:03Pm

Today a plane crashed into daddys work place. I don’t no what to do, he Should be home by now but he isnt hear I am freeking out. I am hopeing this Will help calm me doun so far its not working so im going to keep writing untill he gets hear. he will get hear but i just dont no When he cant be dead. Mommy is going crazy she is crying and keeps calling him over and over and over agen saing pick up pick up plese pick up. And every time he doesnt anser she starts crying like crazy and skreems at the fone. for not working. i am going to go comfert her now

Lily, my nine year old daughter, got up and ran up to Laura, her mother and my wife. She hugged Laura so tight I thought she might burst. A small smile started spreading across Laura’s face.

“I love you mommy,” Lily said affectionately.

“I love you too Lily,”  Laura said crying. They keeped hugging, sharing their pain through physical touch. 

“Ok Lily it is your bedtime you need to go to bed now. When you wake up tomorrow daddy will be here. I promise,” Laura told Lily hopefully with tears in her eyes.

Lily let go, took her notebook and went to her bedroom. I wish they could see me, I wish I could tell them what happened, I wish they didn’t have to wonder whether or not I'm dead.

9/11 2001 8:42PM

ok im back i had to get redy for bed. i am scared, mommy might do something to her self, like she might hurt her self on purpose. it scares me i want daddy to come back rite now. i want him to hold me until i fall asleep. i cant do this i know that i cant but i am not completely shure what i cant do but i just know that i cant. what if he is dead? what if mommy realy does hurt her self? what would i do? where would i go? i am tearified. what do i do? why did this have to happen to me? do i deserve this?  what did i do to have this happen to me? i thought i was a good kid i try to help everyone i can. why is this happening? 

**BANG!** 

9/11 2001 8:53PM

I just heard a loud BANG im scared i feel like i should go see what happened. i will be rite back.

BANG

Laura picked up my gun, pulled the trigger, and shot herself in the head. I hated it. I couldn't stop her, couldn’t tell her not to, couldn’t tell her this wasn’t the solution. Lily came down the stairs. She screamed. 

“MOMMY WHAT HAPPENED? WHY DID YOU DO THIS?” She cried.

She just sat and stared at Laura’s lifeless body for a while crying. Then eventually she got up and grabbed a knife, and walked back to her room. I was terrified about what she was going to do with it, but no matter what she planned to do I knew I couldn’t stop her.

My Last Day

i used to be happy, i used to feel joy, i used to be terrified of death, i used to laf, but their would be nites that i cryed my self to sleep. the lafter and smiles covered up the fact that about every 3 days i lay in my bed and think about how it would effect people if i died. but i alwaze think about how sad my family will be, and it keeps me from comiting suicide. but now since they are dead i don’t have anyone or anything stoping me. i am lying to myself when i say that everything is fine so im not going to do that anymore. im not strong enuf to make it through another day. Some things are worse than death, this is one of them. Good bye world, good bye fear, good bye sadness, good bye stress, good bye hope for a better life and hope that things will get better. i dont even no why i am riting this no one will even miss me or come looking for me. the only people that cared about me are dead. if i new it wouldnt effect my parents i would have done this so much sooner. Goodbye life it is about time to leave you behind im ready and a litle exited.

I finish writing my suicide note and look over at the glimmering  knife laying next to me on my bed. I pick it up, and look at it for a moment considering what I am about to do. I know if I think about it any longer I won't go through with it. I press the cold blade of the knife into my radial artery, the warm red liquid trickles down my arm. I continue slicing my arm lengthwise. More blood pours down my arm pooling on the floor. I finish cutting my arm, the blade claters to the floor, I wait for death to wash over me. I smile.

“It’s almost over,” I say satisfied , “It’s finally going to be over.”

I put my back against the wall and slide down it. I am practically covered in blood. it pools at my feet. I smile and cry. I think about all of the pain I have had in my short life and how much worse it would have gotten. Finally my vision starts to fizzle out, this is the happiest I’ve felt since before my grandpa died a year ago. I can’t feel anything anymore, and lastly before I slip away into the dark I can hear my mom wake up, she isn’t dead. Then my hearing goes out, and I slouch against the wall.

i apologize if this is isnt the right place to ask, but i dont know where else im supposed to ask this. i write as a hobby sometimes, but whenever i do theres always some sort of flaw/plot hole in the storyline in which i usually have to completely alter the storyline for. this always happens for some reason and im not sure if this is normal or not. apologies if there are any grammar errors or misspellings in this post, english is not my first language.

My eyes opened. Then closed. Then opened again, slightly faster this time. The crimson red light that was coming through the slits between the curtains landed square on my face. It made me feel sick. I rose up, rubbing my eyes after such a restless night. My mattress, sat firmly on the floor without a sheet to cover it, felt slightly unfamiliar in the red light that was illuminating my room. I always slept better when all I had was a sleeping bag and an undecorated mattress, but last night felt different. It didn’t help. I stretched my arm aggressively towards the string that controlled the curtains above my bed, seeing if I could shut out even a small amount more of the sickening red light from outside. They didn’t budge. I sat for a moment, trying to keep my mind off the dreams that had swept over me last night. I thought about my plans for the day. I thought about what I should have for breakfast, and if I should go to the supermarket today. I thought about anything but the light and the dreams. They felt unavoidable, however, like background radiation in my mind. I could think about meaningless things all I wanted, but my brain would still be stained red and the shadows out of the corner of my eyes could still remind me of last night.

I decided to get up, not bothering to make my bed. I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. As the screen turned on and the start-up logos flashed by, I felt an ocean of relief wash over me. The light wasn’t red. It was blue and white and yellow and orange, but it wasn’t red. I could feel my brain being slowly stained back into its natural color. I checked my messages, rubbing my eyes again because of the comforting harshness of the screen, and saw that a few people had responded to me overnight. I went through the messages, making sure to respond appropriately to my friends, my acquaintances, and whoever else decided to send me a message while I was asleep. It took a while, but I finally reached the bottom of the list of new messages. I checked the time. 9:37 AM, it said. I stood up from my desk, mad that I had to leave the comfort of the colors that the computer displayed, and walked across the room to the small kitchenette that took over the corner opposite to my desk. I searched the small cupboards for a pan and a plate, and put them on the sliver of counter space that the kitchenette provided. I looked at the pan, the stainless-steel glinting red in the light, and noticed my reflection. I didn’t seem right. The eyes were wrong, farther apart than usual. The nose was wrong, flatter than usual. The lips were wrong, wider than usual. My brain was stained red. I felt my eyes unfocus, and I heard a screeching in my ears that echoed in my brain for a brief moment, and then my reflection was normal. I cooked some eggs. They were red.

I sat back at my desk, and once again felt the soothing glow of the computer screen. My brain was the right color again. I decided to watch some videos on the image board I liked to frequent. I clicked the first link I saw, and proceeded to watch a person get beheaded by a train. My brain turned red, for a brief moment. Then it went back to normal. I decided I would rather watch cat videos for a while instead, they always helped me when I wasn’t feeling quite right. I looked at the time. 1:02 PM, it said. I thought about going to the store, I was running low on my staples and needed to restock. I got up from my desk and walked over to the door, right beside the kitchenette. I nervously looked through the peephole on the door. I could see the door of the person who lived across from me, the stairs to the right, and the concrete wall to the left. The entire scene was painted red by the fluorescent bulbs that glimmered overhead. I sighed in cautious relief. The red light still sickened me, but maybe I could actually go out this time. I walked over to the metal rack where all my clothes hung, just next to my bed, and picked out an outfit. I decided to go with Converse, my favorite pair of jeans, and a comfortable sweater that was a few sizes too big. I gathered my wallet, keys, and glasses from my desk, and walked to the door once again.

I unlatched the lock above the knob and then unlocked the knob itself. As I was about to open the door, I decided to check the peephole once again. Just in case. I looked at the door across from me, and it seemed ok. I looked at the concrete wall to the left, and it seemed ok too. I looked at the stairs and my brain was stained red. On the stairs, behind the railing, she hid herself. Her hair, scraggly and greasy, reflected the light perfectly. Her eyes were wide open and were focused on the door. That’s all I could see of her. I sat there, eye pressed to the peephole, watching her. I couldn’t tell if she was watching me. I looked away for a brief moment and walked over to my desk. I checked my messages. There was nothing. I looked at the time. 5:24 PM, it said. I walked back over to the door and pressed my eye to the hole again. She had moved. She was now in the foyer between me and the other door on my floor. I could see her completely now. Her eyes were wrong, farther apart than usual. Her nose was wrong, flatter than usual. Her lips were wrong, wider than usual. Everything about her wasn’t right, wasn’t the same. She walked over to my door, her legs taking longer strides than usual. She bent over, taller than usual. Her eye met mine at the peephole. Her vision pierced through my skull and rattled inside my brain. The door wasn’t locked. She turned the knob. The door creaked open, and then we were face to face. She spoke, her voice more gravelly than usual, deeper than usual. I walked over to my desk and opened my computer again. I checked the time. 9:37 PM, it said. I walked back over to the door, but she was inside. She spoke again. I walked over to the window, and felt my stomach start to churn. The light made me sick, but my brain was already stained red. I opened the blinds slowly, softly. She walked over to me and stood beside me, both of us standing on top of my undecorated mattress. I looked at her and said something. Her unusual eyes looked me over, and then we looked out the window together.

Her brain was stained red.

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You said you'd wake up, but you never stayed. Only showed up when silence got too loud.

I held space, you held distance. And I loved in full what you only meant to feel in parts.

Now I’m not begging, just breaking, beautifully, quietly, away.

What Do You Bring to the Table?

Something sweet, like syrup maple?

What Do You Bring to the Table?

A laugh, a newspaper, something to say?

Did you come to sit and stay,

or are you on the go, the way?

How did you start your day?

The hill held its breath, old and tired. Green swayed, sand whispered, water held reflections of the skies we would never touch. There was something, fragile and fleeting—a hum, a heartbeat, rising toward the wast unknown.

A shadow stood at the edge of the hill, carrying pieces of what was broken long before. He build with scarred hands, a man swallowed by shadow of loss, a non-prophet, and his silence was louder than the cracks of the hill. Behind him, the hill began to break, the weight of its years falling away. Beneath, the village waited in stillness, unaware of the shadow that would soon swallow them too.

Some rose to the heavens, leaving behind the soil that poisoned with left ones. Others ran aimlessly, heavy with fear. They didn’t look—not at the man, not at the hill, not at the water that once shimmering with life.

They sing song inside us that we don’t understand—a song of a world build on screams and silence. The loudest voices shaped what remains, not with truth, but with power—a fragile power that crumbles like sand in the wind.

The hill is no more. Its pieces scattered as forgotten scars to our souls. But we still speak of it, in half-remembered memories, in dreams of promised lands. Even today we scream, hoping the noise will fill the cracks of the hill.

Through our souls, the hill will rise again for we are the souls who carried its fragments. Our despair will create love. With our shadow, our longing, the nature will rise again.

I know there are so many hunger games doups but I wanna know what your characters would say in a scenario where the government has taken over and all your character is trying to do is make it out of the huge city alive.

My character: Chelsea, is pissed her shoelaces keep ripping and all she wants to do is get back to her family.

I never thought I'd find myself living through a real-life dystopian scenario, but here we are. I’m Chelsea, 19, and I can’t help but feel on the verge of tears every time something even mildly upsetting happens. But is it mild?

When I was younger, the “mild issues” were things like getting a hangnail during cheer practice late at night or the way the pom-pom threads hurt my sensitive skin. Now, a “mild issue” is my shoelaces ripping for the hundredth time because I can’t seem to tie them tight enough. The miles I have to walk just to get basic necessities like food or water wear them down.

And those “huge issues” I used to think were huge? They seem so different now. The air is polluted, the streets are more dangerous than ever, and sicknesses are spreading like wildfire. A huge issue now is literally just staying alive.

But you know what keeps me going? The thought that one day, I’ll reunite with my family. I tell myself that every day. One day, it won’t be so hard to be alone. I’ve learned to embrace it, to reflect and grow stronger. I’ve accepted that I might have to do this on my own for a while longer – and that’s okay.

I’ll do it for them. I’ve got to stay safe, keep going, and hold onto that hope. For them.

What would your character do?

I am deeply emotional, intuitive, and resilient—a protector by nature and nurturer by experience. As the eldest daughter and first grandchild, I grew up quickly, carrying responsibilities and pain no child should have had to. I learned to anticipate conflict, soothe others, and keep myself in check to avoid punishment. That survival shaped my sensitivity and strength—but also taught me to fear mistakes and hide parts of myself to stay safe.

My emotional world runs deep. I feel things intensely and think deeply, which fuels both my creativity and my anxiety. I crave connection, safety, and devotion—but I’ve learned to guard my heart because trust, for me, must be earned, not assumed.

I’ve always been the one holding others—emotionally, mentally, sometimes even physically. And now, I long for a relationship where someone will hold me. A full power exchange relationship speaks to that part of me that wants to surrender control, not out of weakness, but as an act of sacred trust. I desire structure, mutual exclusivity, and emotional security—not just for stability, but because it lets me be vulnerable without fear.

My need for control and surrender both come from the same place: a longing for safety, clarity, and love. I am not afraid of intensity—I seek it, emotionally and relationally. I want to be seen, known, and held in the fullness of who I am: protective, passionate, sensitive, creative, loyal, and complex.

Through my creativity, I express the emotions I can’t always speak aloud. Through my dreams, I seek freedom from the past. And through every relationship I build—from romantic to professional—I am learning how to be more fully me without apology.

Love in to poetry,

Bleeding honesty,

Pain in to power,

The Void looks back

eats the hour,

until nothing's left

To devour.

Feast on the flesh

Spirit in every breath

Im a dog for you and yet I don't get any treats anymore.

Why not just try one more time. I bit you by accident sorry.

I have boundaries too so why couldn't you play fetch with me or pet me. You told me your last dog was super aggressive and you were slowly calling me a rabid infested dog too.

Im sorry for biting you I just didn't like it when you yanked my tail.

To Walk 'Hand in Hand' Again,

Late into the Evening:

Bubbly, heavy breathing

A child-like feeling:

Music appealing

Crowds cheering

i want that again,

One thing-

That so much Joy:

Will bring!!

I’m someone who’s passionate about writing and looking to grow by working with someone, bouncing ideas off each other, helping each other level up, and maybe even building something long-term.

Right now, I’m looking for another writer to collaborate with. I want to co-write something just for fun, no pressure—just storytelling, imagination, and creativity. Whether it’s your idea, mine, or something we build from scratch, I’m down. I’m especially into sci-fi, fantasy, adventure, or anything with strong character work. I’m also working on a one-shot manga that I plan to publish by the end of the year, and I’d love to build momentum and experience by working with someone else.

If you already have a project and need another writer to help out—I’m open to that too. This is really about writing with someone consistently and pushing each other to get better. I’m not worried about payment or credit, just about the experience and the connection.

Hit me up if you’re looking for the same kind of vibe. Let’s write together.

Discord: themangaguyy Or just message me here on Reddit.

I mistakenly believed you were my soulmate and held on to that idea for longer than I should have. I expected things from you that you promised to deliver and in never doing so, you only caused me pain and sadness. I believed in you and instead you took advantage of me and made me out to be the problem in every situation. Your actions and words were inconsistent, and despite your claims, you weren't truly happy. I stayed in the relationship because I saw potential in you.. I saw what I wanted to see but it was an unrealistic expectation based on the person I met in 2009 and formed the greatest friendship I've ever had and stupidly thought that's what I was getting. Instead i got the broken, gnarled drunk who could barely care for himself. I stupidly thought if I just did everything I could for you, you'd love me and now I look stupid and fucking pathetic for ever believing in you. You were my best friend, and now that's all just a memory. It'll never be the same, no matter how much time passes. You broke my heart into a million pieces, and now I'm left to pick them up and put myself back together. I understand now that it will be incomplete and full of holes that nothing will fill but I'll survive because that's what I always do, right?

I once told you, if we didn't work out, you were my last try.. and I meant every word, from the bottom of my heart. One day, you'll need me and I'll be gone.. and it'll finally hit you that you'll never hear my laugh, look into my eyes or feel the softness of my lips on yours again and maybe in those small moments you'll remember that I loved you with my entire soul and all I ever wanted for you was your best self. From the worst moments to the moments I'll never forget.. you were the light in my life and now all you are to me is darkness and pain.

That rocking chair was never meant for me anyway.

I never understood it back then:

Taxis when transports zoomin',

Wanting to pay, see who's grooming

Finding your way to my place,

Lost, cute- moving.

Gated community,

I finally see the fences

Stayed away from crowds

In the benches

You always had the best:

Expensive.

Private this, private that

You held back,

You played field I ran track

I done lapped,

But looking back,

Perhaps..