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If You Play With Fire, Then You'll Burn - Chapter 6
Sarie strode right after him. “Are you this much of an insufferable cunt to everyone, or just to me?”
Johnny froze, shoulders tensed. When he turned to face her, his expression was pained.
“Just… Make sure you don’t get us all killed,” he muttered.
Private Sarah "Sarie" Meyer has hit rock bottom.
A year after her expulsion from high school, she's managed to build a new life for herself as a despatch rider with the South African Women's Auxiliary Army Service in North Africa. Ferrying messages, packages, and relief to Commonwealth units throughout the expanse of the Sahara desert, her life has gained a stability it hasn't had in years—until it all comes crashing down around her.
When a vindictive CO reveals a classified secret from Sarie's past, she finds herself ostracized from the rest of her unit, stripped of her duties, and facing a discharge. That is, until a chance encounter in a Cairo bar leads to a proposition from a new, radically unconventional unit of the British Army.
The SAS breaks with tradition. Sarie Meyer is going to shatter it.
eventual johnny cooper/original female character, multi-chapter
read on ao3: chapter 6 - mik van my hart - 5.3k words
as always, thanks to @reneetoile for beta reading (even while experiencing The Horrors)
Well, this was half a Blind Date and half of a character study on Bill, but I had fun with it and that's what counts! Everyone go read the rest of the @blind-dates-fest characters!
Fandom: SAS: Rogue Heroes (spoilers for s2)
Word Count: 3,285
-
Wars, his father used to say, are fought by soldiers but won by plans.
Bill Stirling knew in his heart that his father was correct - Brigadier General Archibald Stirling was something of an expert on these things - but the reassurance still weighed very little against the actual doing of the thing, and if Bill had to sign another requisition in triplicate authorizing the removal or reorganization or re-upping of whatever to wherever he was quite sure he was going to throw something.
No one became a soldier to fill out paperwork - and yet here here he was, and paperwork seemed to be all he had.
Bill could remember far too many conversations along these lines in Cairo, David ranting over his whiskey while Peter only laughed. "Well it's all right for you, you're at the damn embassy," David accused. "What is the point of being in a fucking war if there's not going to be any fucking fighting?" And then Peter would say something else inflammatory and David would pull back his chair and Bill would move the bottles and the glasses and suggest they all go home if they were only intent on breaking things.
That was the way of it, with older siblings, despite whatever anyone might say to the contrary - always negotiating, always second. Older brothers were supposed to take the high road and let their younger brothers have their way - to let them be the first to chose the game and first to say when they were finished, first to chose sides and first to declare winners. They’re little, the nursemaid would say, as David took the biggest cookie and Peter the biggest sandwich and Hugh the better tennis racquet, even though he was only four and couldn’t yet play. They don’t know better, he was told, even when Hugh came crying back with the racquet, broken now, and wondering why he could not make the ball go as far as Bill had.
And Bill would have to let it go. Older brothers were supposed to pick up whatever got put down and make it work again - clockwork toys and regiments, both.
So here he was, in Bagnara, still fixing David's toys, and dealing with all the other nonsense that his brother had never bothered with because in his world wars were not for paperwork or plans. Never mind that he'd had his own ambitions, his own selected trajectory, the things that he might call his own and mean it. David and Hugh wanted glory, and Peter wanted power, and Bill wanted - Bill wanted purpose, what he'd had at Inverailort. The trainings he'd lead, the soldiers he'd selected and honed like their fighting knives, ready to go silently back into their sheath until the time was at hand to let them loose. The purpose of the organization to which you and I belong is subversion.
Bill took a deep breath and looked around him at the remains of the German guard post, noting the blood spatters, the ripped clothes and gouged eyes. There was nothing subversive about this, nothing subtle - these were the wild dogs of war that his brother had so boasted about. Blood and destruction shall be so in use, and dreadful objects so familiar that mothers shall but smile when they behold their infants quarter'd with the hands of war.
Paddy Mayne would have appreciated the Shakespeare, he thought - the man seemed to have a poetic tag for everything. Including women, perhaps? Bill glanced down the road at the approaching car, reviewing the approach to his next problem.
"Let's try and avoid relaying any idle gossip about mad men and savages to anyone," he said to the officer next to him, carefully watching the woman in the back seat, the sun glinting on her glasses and the bright silk of her scarf. "Especially not her. She's a journalist and a spy."
"No, sir. Of course not, sir." Greville-Bell took a deep breath of his own, and then asked, almost hesitating as he considered the jeep that was now approaching. "How do you know she's a spy, sir?"
The question almost made Bill laugh. Because no woman comes here openly who isn't looking for something. Because I've been told so, by men I can trust. Because it takes one to know one, and that's what I am, too. "Call it a hunch, Lieutenant," Stirling said, and offered no further information, letting the other officer return to the duties he'd just been assigned while he carefully combed his hair down with his fingers and adjusted his shirt - a little movement she was sure to see from the back seat of the jeep. Here was his role today - the less polished older brother, trying to impress the pretty girl who'd captured his brother's eye. "Ah, Miss Mansour. Lieutenant Colonel Bill Stirling. 2SAS. We missed each other in Sicily."
"You mean you avoided me and ignored my request for an interview." The Frenchwoman exited the jeep with a sense of urgency, hardly paying any attention to Bill as she glanced around the guard post, taking note herself of the bodies splayed here and there whose pockets were still being investigated by his intelligence officers.
Straightforward - he'd expected that. "I don't really do interviews. Rather busy fighting a war."
"I knew your brother in Cairo," she said, casually, like that was going to bait him into something.
"Yes," Bill said, squaring his shoulders as if with some annoyance, "and because he is my brother, he told me absolutely nothing about you."
One got territorial, in a house full of brothers - of dreams and possessions both. As they got older and learned the laws of property, the matter of my book and my dog and my gun became more distinct, and each distinction borne on the back of another slight and another fight and another bruised eye, until they all learned to be more sly in their counterattacks.
Bill could still remember the time David had ‘borrowed’ (his word) one of his golf clubs, the one that he knew he’d said once had a better drive, and chipped the finish, and he, in a fit of revenge, swept in before his brother could get a word in edgewise and asked the girl he knew David was sweet on for a dance at the club that evening. (There were some advantages to being older, when the cards were down, and being slightly taller and slightly more sophisticated and slightly more practiced in the ways of women were several.) David got a little more circumspect about sharing his feelings on women with his brothers after that, though there was nothing to be done to hide the many tells that Bill had learned from twenty years of careful observation.
That had been the start of his career in intelligence. The first way you must fight your enemy is by knowing him - his secrets, his vulnerabilities, his habits and his patterns. Careful intelligence is the first step in a successful campaign, and you must not begin your work without it.
He denied her requests in the most polite terms, watching as her expression turned more and more stormy seeing he would not let her go where she desired. "Your brother really didn't tell you anything about me," she said, finally, staring at him with a stony face.
Oh, no, Bill thought to himself, his smile invisible behind his annoyance and his rules and strictures, walking away and leaving her at the post. When he was completely unlike himself, he told me absolutely everything - and I will use that against you in whatever way I can.
What he did or said now, he knew, would matter very little - Eve Mansour would do whatever she was going to do, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. His opposition was a matter of formality only - a way to continue playing the role she'd assigned him. Other things required his time and attention and he would use those precious resources where they would do the most good. There were reports to review in his command post, maps to consult and plans to relay to Paddy Mayne, who was last seen hiking into the hills with his men to find, in his own words, a quieter place.
Bill collected his dispatches, checked in with his signals officer, and walked into the tent his men had erected as a command post ...only to find something there that he had completely failed to anticipate - a woman in her late twenties, wearing a faded black housedress, a handkerchief over her hair, and a man's jacket with thinning elbows, perfectly at her ease behind his desk.
"Good Christ!"
She looked up from her reading with a slight smile, pleased, it seemed, to be so discovered. "You know, if this is your idea of security, I shudder to think what the Germans are getting away with."
Her amusement annoyed him. "What are you doing here?"
Another smile. "I should have thought that was obvious. I'm reading your mail."
"Not that, what are you doing here?" The last time I saw you was in Scotland.
"The security of the organisation," she said, smiling as she quoted one of his own lectures back to him, "as a whole depends on the security of individual agents. No member will be told more about the organisation than is necessary for him to do his job." He allowed her that small coup and remained silent. "I love the smell of sand and water," she said, rising from her seat and waiting for him to return the pass phrase - the one from their final assignment, the test to see if they were fit for the field.
If he didn't know her, it would have mattered more - but she was doing as she'd been taught, and there was beauty in that. "But heather and stone is equally fine."
She nodded, niceties satisfied. "I've been up in the hills near Santa Christina making friends for the last year and a half. A little bird told me the British had finally landed."
"And you thought you'd just...come into an army camp alone for a little chat, hoping you knew someone?" The next line of the manual was near at hand: No member will attempt to find out more about the organisation than he is told.
"Italy is full of widows. No one notices a woman in black. And I had a good teacher."
"Grace," Bill warned.
The sound of her name - her real name - brought only the briefest flash of recognition, covered a moment later by practiced confusion with a touch of anger, and he realized that he had broken one of his own rules, drummed religiously into his students. The agent must not mention facts which he himself is not supposed to know. Sixteen months in the field - when, he wondered, had someone last called her that? Who here now would know that she had once belonged to the name? That was part of the training at Inverailort, to give up your name in place of a new one, a series of costumes and disguises that could be picked up and shed at the blink of an eye.
He could remember sitting behind a long table in the Great Hall, reading the dossier of the woman standing in front of them. Women's Royal Naval Service. Place of Residence, Margate. Parents occupation given as shopkeeper - place of birth, Campagna. Emigrated 1921. Fluent in Italian. Spadolo, Maria ...Grazia. The way his fellow lecturer read it aloud grated on the ear, and she quickly corrected him. "I've always gone by Grace, sir. No one can pronounce Grazia."
Already an alias, something to hide behind. A woman of no particular importance or charm, the sort you saw at shop counters and bus stops who only came to your attention if you were allowed a smile. Practically invisible - just the sort we need. Lynx, who was Benedetta, who was Livia Tormola, who was Ordinary Wren Grace Spadolo, from Margate.
A woman, he could see, who after more than a year in the field knew far too well how much all those names could protect her, the desperate necessity of the pass phrase. "Mi scusi, signore. Mi dispiace di averla offesa, ma il mio nome non è Grace." She pronounced the words quickly, as though she did not understand English, as she'd been taught to do in Scotland in case someone stopped her. "È Livia." He pursed his lips, a silent sign that he knew he'd been in the wrong. "The little bird also had orders for me to establish contact with you specifically - and with your man in the Etna circuit - Brutto. He's been out of radio contact and I have papers for him before he goes into Termoli - and updated intelligence."
"Intelligence?"
"A new brief. They have an leak. Someone's passing information to the authorities, and we need it stopped before you take the city. The man's clever, but only just. We have his name and he needs to be removed. Can you call him in?"
He had nearly opened up the flap of his tent to call for an orderly when he remembered security. "Someone could see you. You've no reason to be here. Your cover - "
She shrugged. "Italy is full of widows - and everyone knows soldiers will pay for anything." She chuckled at his shock that she'd even think to suggest that as a cover for her presence. "Surely Lieutenant Colonel Stirling is allowed a little vice." Her smile was soft and mischievous - the same smile he remembered from Scotland when she'd done particularly well on an assignment, outplayed the traps that other trainees had fallen into. Shopgirls from Margate knew more about how the world worked than debs who'd learned their Italian from nuns. "Perhaps it would help your reputation among your men."
"Livia." He remembered himself this time, using the name he was supposed to use.
"That is your cover now, isn't it? The ...unassailable commander?" Another one of her soft smiles. "Men talk an awful lot when their captains aren't listening. The man they were describing wasn't the one I knew in Scotland, who knew how to smile and take a joke."
He recalled the particulars of the lecture on covers - The story, being real, will be self-consistent. Records will confirm at least part of it. However, people acquainted with the person whom you are impersonating may give you away. "Inflexible martinets can't be seen with widows. Especially pretty ones."
"And pretty journalists?" Her amusement was almost infectious. "I saw some of your performance down at the harbor - the bit with the hair was quite good. Who is she, really?"
" Another spy - and my brother's lover." He sighed. "I didn't give her what she wanted, so I'm sure she'll be back later to try again."
"To seduce you?"
He considered Eve's bright scarf and stylish hat, a strong contrast to Grace's workaday dress and worn-down flats, gritty with dust from the road. No one had driven her to Bagnara - unless it had been on the back of a donkey cart. And the ways of her war were quite different to Eve's. But then, they'd had different teachers. "Most likely. She seduced David. Why should his older brother be any different?"
"He didn't tell her anything about you, then."
"No," he said, smiling as he did so. "He didn't tell anyone."
His mind was made up. He strode over to the tent flap, opened it wide, and didn't care at all when his batman turned around and saw a woman in the shadows of the tent. "Lofty, where is Sergeant Riley? I want to catch him before he goes."
Lofty's eyes were politely wide. "I think he's up at 1SAS, sir. Something about rum."
Paddy Mayne's 'quiet place' was some ten minutes out of town, amidst a tumbled-down farmhouse that had quickly been turned into a slapdash camp, supplies and packs tossed where their owners had found level ground.
Only McDiarmid stood up when he saw them approaching, snapping his heels together with a great goofy grin on his face and saluting with parade ground polish from underneath a very non- uniform issue fedora. "Lieutenant Colonel Bill, sir! Boots still in tip-top shape, I see." His gaze moved on to Grace beside him - the bedraggled but still winsome Italian farmwife, her kerchief tucked into her pocket after it had nearly blown away in the jeep, dark curls escaping their pins. "And you brought a friend. Well, hello, sweeting, and who are you?" He stroked a piece of hay off of her coat collar. "Bill showing you a nice time?"
It was like something out of a training script- in less time than it took to breathe, she had seized his hand, and wrenched his arm around behind his back, to the absolute awe of everyone who'd seen it, her English perfect and unmistakable - "Touch me again, trooper, and you'll lose more than your shirt."
The men were staring, and Bill had a hard time keeping his well-deserved smile to himself. "This is Livia Tormola, one of our operatives here in Italy." She let McDiarmid go, and the big man stepped quickly away, flexing his fingers. "She's here to speak to Riley."
"Where the fuck did you learn to do that, girl?" Jock was nursing a sore wrist and an even more sore ego.
Grace scoffed. "On my combatives course, the same as you." She glanced over at Bill, a slight smile creeping to her lips. "Colonel Stirling was an excellent teacher for hand-to-hand gutter fighting."
All eyes turned to tall, weedy Lieutenant Colonel Stirling, who was not his brother and had, as far as they were aware, stolen no glory, thrown no bombs and killed no men. What else has this man done that we are unaware of? What reputations have we not seen?
Paddy's sneered retort in the prison bathroom, the angry glint in his one unbattered eye as the two of them squared off, the dirty decorated brawler and the shiny lord's son - As far as I'm aware, you don't have a reputation.
How he'd wanted to smile then, staring down his brother's mad dog. No, Major Mayne, you are right. I am known for nothing. I am not my father, who was known for plans, and I am not my brother, who is known for daring, and I am not you, Paddy Mayne, who is feted for madness and swift rage. My reputation is only among those who trained with me and to them I was a good liar and a ghost and a knife in the dark, and I taught them all to be the same.
I am completely unknown to you - and that is just as I want it, because that means I will be whatever I allow you to see of me - the older brother, put upon for command, eclipsed and overlooked and angry about it, a man who has earned none of what he has, a wall to bash your fists against.
That is what my brother has told me you require to win, so that is exactly what I will be for you. For myself, I am someone else entirely.
And that's just as I've planned it.
---
Any errors in Grace's Italian are entirely mine and Duolingo's. The manual Grace and Bill are quoting is the SOE Operations Manual from the course at Beaulieu, which you can read online at archive.org.
A big thank you to the several friends who let me complain about this for the last two weeks and wrote me permission slips.
forgive me for this very last-minute entry to the @blind-dates-fest! allow me to introduce lucy 'luca' torrio to you all - my favourite partisan and jock mcdiarmid's deeply unhinged future wife
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
communion
Music filled the midnight air as someone thumped out a tune on the piano the SAS had commandeered in Augusta. The clumsy playing almost entirely drowned out by the din of voices, the partisans belting out an old Italian song, its lyrics as familiar to her as the pages of a childhood book.
Luca liked to drink - she liked to sing - and neither activity was in short supply tonight. Yet there she was, sitting on the church steps and watching on in motionless silence.
In the hours since news of Mussolini's arrest had made its way over the radio waves, her comrades' celebration had been impossible to avoid. The alcohol stores had been swiftly depleted - much to the eventual chagrin of those not involved - and she didn't doubt that the Irishman would have some choice words about it come morning. But for now, things were good; many of the SAS men joined with the music where they could, emptying their cups just as swiftly as the Italians. McDiarmid's deep, Scottish tone rang clear as it cut through the song, warbling along off-key and without any knowledge of the words in a reckless merriment that made an involuntary smile tug at her lip.
Her glass had been empty for a while. Too long.
Her boot scuffed against the stone steps as Luca hauled herself to her feet, glass balanced between her fingertips, scraping a few stray strands of red hair away from her face. The night breeze was cool against alcohol-flushed cheeks as she turned towards the church door, the din from outside muffled the moment she stepped inside. Each footstep echoed against the arched ceiling, throwing each inch of her intrusion back at her, amplified. It had been a long time since Luca had felt God had any place in her life - a long time since she hadn't felt betrayed.
The communion wine perched high upon the altar, a glimmer of moonlight catching against the glass as it streamed in through one of the narrow windows, glittering silver in the dark. It looked good. Perhaps more importantly, it looked easy to take.
Luca ran a hand across her face, tugging slightly at the skin, fighting against exhaustion with what may have also been a subconscious effort at snapping herself out of what she was about to do. The wine sloshed slightly as it was decanted into the chalice, the red pool almost black in the dark. She stared at it; a moment's hesitation. She could hear her father's voice from the long-ago days of her childhood, chiding her for any tiny misbehaviour in such a holy place. How his face would run pale to see her now. And yet, the wine slid down her throat as smoothly as any other.
"What would God say?" A Scottish accent rang out from the far end of the aisle, Jock's voice growing steadily familiar to her as their days of proximity ticked by.
His arrival had startled her. She didn't let it reach her expression. "Well are you gonna tell him?" Luca glanced back over her shoulder, offering a smirk.
He chuckled, a slight grin parting his lips. "Not if you share." Letting out a snort, she held out the bottle to him, using her free hand to lift the chalice to her lips again.
A yawn escaped Luca between sips, raising a hand to cover her mouth as her eyes screwed tightly shut. Jock shot her a smile as he stepped up to the altar beside her, accepting the drink.
"Not celebrating?" He asked after a long swig.
"Not 'til he's dead."
"Atta girl," Jock grunted with a nod of approval as Luca rolled her eyes, unable to stop the hint of a smile breaking out across her expression.
She wouldn't tell him why the fire that burnt inside her was different - why it couldn't be dimmed by something as fragile as progress, why the inferno would never lose its heat until the object of her hate was dead and buried. She wouldn't be known by him. Not like that. Not even when he gave her that look and she felt her resolve weaken for a moment. Even when she wasn't looking, her gaze wandering across the dimly lit pews and the glint of moonlight through stained glass, she knew he was staring. He often was - Luca wasn't quite sure if he couldn't tell or if he just didn't care, heedlessness and over-confidence both equally characteristic.
"Yunno," He said. "Your friends don't like me, I reckon."
"Really?" Luca gasped sarcastically, leaning back on her elbows against the altar. He snorted at her tone, a bubble of honest laughter popping in her throat, the sound echoing against the arched ceiling above.
"They don't think you're serious," She shrugged.
"They might be onto somethin' there."
Luca dug a tooth into the inside of her lip. "You wanna know what I think of you?"
Jock's brow arched, beginning to grin. "Oh, aye - now I do."
"I think I could put any woman within a hundred-mile radius in front of you right now and you'd flirt with her. Because you don't care about who's attached to a nice pair of legs."
"Okay, that's…" He paused to think for a moment, taking a sip of wine. "That's not entirely untrue," Luca snorted at the confession, his grin widening. "-But! I resent the accusation that I only flirt with you for your legs. Haven't even seen 'em - your trousers are too baggy."
She laughed again. "So you admit you've been flirting with me."
"I think we're past denying that, love."
Sucking in a long, deep breath, Luca nodded slowly. Eyes fluttering shut, she tilted the chalice, the remainder of her wine sliding down her throat in a single gulp, metal cold against her bottom lip. When she reopened her eyes, Jock was staring. Again. More blatantly than ever.
"You have a real staring problem."
He shrugged. "Not a problem. I can stop."
Luca's brow arched in challenge. "You sure about that?"
"Aye," Jock nodded, smirking as he lifted the bottle to refill her cup. "Just don't wanna."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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All England-born Henry Stirling has ever dreamt of was becoming a world champion. By the time the 2018 season comes along, he is one of the strongest and most feared drivers out on the track. Until Julien Renaud, French rookie with an attitude Henry deems he is all together undeserving of, comes along, and for the first time since making it to Formula One, Henry feels his claim to the top might be taken from right under his nose.
Between car crashes, tabloid scandals, and a threat of expulsion from the FIA, the rivalry between Stirling and Renaud delivers what will always be known the most entertaining and most dangerous season of racing to date.
10 plants for your character's medicinal herb garden
PLANT — When to Plant — Conditions & Care — Medicinal Uses
ALOE VERA — spring/autumn — sunny site indoors; pot up as needed; do not overwater — fresh plant gel for minor burns and wounds
CALENDULA — spring/autumn — well-drained soil; full sun; remove dead flower heads — cream for cuts, scrapes, inflamed skin; infusion for fungal infections
COMFREY — spring/autumn — warm sunny site; moist soil — ointment or poultice for sprains and bruises (use the leaf only)
FEVERFEW — autumn/spring — well-drained or dry, stony soil in sun — fresh leaf or tincture for headaches and migraines
LEMON BALM — spring/autumn — moist soil in sun; cut back after flowering — infusion for anxiety, poor sleep, and nervous indigestion; lotion for cold sores
PEPPERMINT — spring/autumn — sunny but moist site; do not allow to dry out — infusion for indigestion and headaches; lotion for itchy skin
ROSEMARY — spring/autumn — sunny sheltered site; protect with burlap in winter — infusion as a stimulating nerve tonic and to aid weak digestion
SAGE — autumn/spring — well-drained or dry, sunny, sheltered site — infusion for sore throats, mouth ulcers, and diarrhea
ST. JOHN'S WORT — spring/autumn — well-drained to dry soil with sun or partial shade — tincture for depression and menopause; infused oil is antiseptic and heals wounds
THYME — spring/summer — well-drained soil, may need a layer of gravel; sunny site — infusion for coughs, colds, and chest infections; lotion for fungal infections
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I've tried tons of writing apps and sites, so you don't have to. Here's a list of free sites to plot out your novel, with my review and some images of how I use it.
Milanote
Milanote is like having a giant pinboard with folders. You can upload anything onto it [yes even your main doc] and then draw over it or connect things with lines and arrows
Milanote lets you add up to a hundred things for free, not including drawing. This is one of the downsides of the site as I've found myself reaching that limit recently.
For me, the best part is being able to draw over stuff, and the color swatches.
Milanote is a lot less structured than other sites I've used, and personally, I don't think their templates are worth using.
8/10 overall, Milanote is what I mainly use. Here are some pics of how I use it:
Miro
Miro is a flowchart website mainly used for corporate jobs, however, it can be a great plotting tool for that reason
Miro has a lot of great starter templates if you are looking for a more structured freeform experience. It also comes with a blank page as well.
Unfortunately, I'd argue that it's a bit of a hard tool for beginners to use without a template, I've learned copy-paste is my best friend with Miro the hard way.
It's much better than most platforms at making timelines though.
It has a limit of three boards which is a bit disappointing but overall, I think it's worth the try.
5/10 Miro is very middle of the road for me due to the limited ability to customize things and the free limit. Here are some pics:
[I wrote that part weeks ago, I am now fully using Miro and believe it's the best for making timelines and charts, I just wish it let me make more boards 8/10]
Hiveword
This might be someone's jam, I can't really say it's mine though.
First off, the unpaid version is really just a few boxes saying "Write a summary here." which makes it just not worth it in my opinion
There really isn't any way to customise things which is my favorite part of most of these softwares
I've barely used this, so maybe there's something I'm missing but
1/10, Just use Google Docs at this point, here's a couple pics
World Anvil
People like this software, it's mainly used for tabletop, which is just a different way of writing adventure, and I've seen it recommended by authors.
Unfortunately, I'm going to disagree with a lot of people and say it's hard to use and isn't even really good at plotting.
I may be biased on this one as every time I've tried to use it in the past I've struggled. However, it seems like another just write it in a document and create a folder.
I'd say it's closer to an organizing tool, but even then just use something else.
3/10, I have nothing to say about it but maybe you'll enjoy it, all here are two photos
Campfire
This is the one I think I've heard the most about, but have never actually tried.
right off the bat, I'm going to say this is 100% worth it, you'll see at the end with the photos but this is like if Miro and World Anvil had an organization baby.
It's extremely easy to understand, and it makes timelines, it's more for writing your whole book but idk about that yet.
7/10, its themes are really pretty but it limits how much you can do to 20 I believe. Here are the photos
That's all for now, honestly, I think you should use Miro if you are looking to plot things out, and Milanote if you want to collect and organize your thoughts for writing, as that's what I do. Obviously what I like won't be for everyone, but hopefully, this helped you see some options
— ever since she was a child josephine montgomery knew that she would one day be a scientist. it was the goal she lived by, a goal she’d never give up.
at 24 years old this goal was about to come true. two years away from getting her doctorate, jo was focused on tracking storms , getting data to one day save the world with her research. it was all she’d ever wanted.
when a storm began brewing in new mexico she jumped at the chance to research. she didn’t realize that by doing so the plans she had spent her entire life working towards, would be forced to change. and she really doesn’t want them too.
"Sand. Dayne. Frost. If I learned one thing in this world, the name you are born with does not hold much weight. It's the names you're given during your life, the names people either love or fear, that count as much as any coin or land."
—Kathryn Dayne
(inspo 1 & 2)
tag list: @mandalhoerian @kingsroad @idohknow
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Turns out, winning the Hunger Games was the easy part.
Julius Alexander, citizen of District 2 and victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, thinks he has his entire life figured out. After being the youngest District 2 volunteer to win the Games, he sets out on his victory tour with impossibly high spirits and unshakable confidence.
That is, until he meets Fletcher Hunt. Victor of the 68th Hunger Games and a truly depressing guy to be around. After forming an odd bond with Fletcher, Julius begins to look back on his experiences with a different perspective, but the terror of it all doesn't truly hit him until the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games, where his brother Cato volunteers as tribute.
From surviving his own games, to watching his brother die, to being thrown back into the arena for a second time, it's safe to say Julius has a lot to be upset about. But Julius Alexander doesn't get upset. Instead, he gets angry.
Fletcher Hunt, weighed down by the things he'd been forced to do in order to survive, has a hard time pretending to be happy. He has an even harder time being forced to attend the banquets thrown in honor of the new victors. It's not entirely his fault, then, that he sulks in a corner of the room for most of the evening. It's Julius's fault, really, for approaching him in the first place.
But Fletcher likes Julius. Against all odds, and despite Julius's seemingly unshakable ego, Fletcher likes him. He likes him enough to keep meeting him, in the small moments of time that they're awarded together. He never imagined Julius liked him back in any similar capacity. Let alone enough to make sure that Fletcher would survive the Quarter Quell, no matter the cost.
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Violence: A Writer’s Guide: This is not about writing technique. It is an introduction to the world of violence. To the parts that people don’t understand. The parts that books and movies get wrong. Not just the mechanics, but how people who live in a violent world think and feel about what they do and what they see done.
Hurting Your Characters: HURTING YOUR CHARACTERS discusses the immediate effect of trauma on the body, its physiologic response, including the types of nerve fibers and the sensations they convey, and how injuries feel to the character. This book also presents a simplified overview of the expected recovery times for the injuries discussed in young, otherwise healthy individuals.
Body Trauma: A writer’s guide to wounds and injuries. Body Trauma explains what happens to body organs and bones maimed by accident or intent and the small window of opportunity for emergency treatment. Research what happens in a hospital operating room and the personnel who initiate treatment. Use these facts to bring added realism to your stories and novels.
10 B.S. Medical Tropes that Need to Die TODAY…and What to Do Instead: Written by a paramedic and writer with a decade of experience, 10 BS Medical Tropes covers exactly that: clichéd and inaccurate tropes that not only ruin books, they have the potential to hurt real people in the real world.
Maim Your Characters: How Injuries Work in Fiction: Increase Realism. Raise the Stakes. Tell Better Stories. Maim Your Characters is the definitive guide to using wounds and injuries to their greatest effect in your story. Learn not only the six critical parts of an injury plot, but more importantly, how to make sure that the injury you’re inflicting matters.
Blood on the Page: This handy resource is a must-have guide for writers whose characters live on the edge of danger. If you like easy-to-follow tools, expert opinions from someone with firsthand knowledge, and you don’t mind a bit of fictional bodily harm, then you’ll love Samantha Keel’s invaluable handbook
first thing you might want to consider: is the pain mental or physical?
if it’s physical, what type of pain is it causing? — sharp pain, white-hot pain, acute pain, dull ache, throbbing pain, chronic pain, neuropathic pain (typically caused by nerve damage), etc
if it’s mental, what is the reason your character is in pain? — grief, heartbreak, betrayal, anger, hopelessness, fear and anxiety, etc
because your character will react differently to different types of pain
PHYSICAL PAIN
sharp and white-hot pain may cause a character to grit their teeth, scream, moan, twist their body. their skin may appear pale, eyes red-rimmed and sunken with layers of sweat covering their forehead. they may have tears in their eyes (and the tears may feel hot), but they don’t necessarily have to always be crying.
acute pain may be similar to sharp and white-hot pain; acute pain is sudden and urgent and often comes without a warning, so your character may experience a hitched breathing where they suddenly stop what they’re doing and clench their hand at the spot where it hurts with widened eyes and open mouth (like they’re gasping for air).
dull ache and throbbing pain can result in your character wanting to lay down and close their eyes. if it’s a headache, they may ask for the lights to be turned off and they may be less responsive, in the sense that they’d rather not engage in any activity or conversation and they’d rather be left alone. they may make a soft whimper from their throat from time to time, depends on their personality (if they don’t mind others seeing their discomfort, they may whimper. but if your character doesn’t like anyone seeing them in a not-so-strong state, chances are they won’t make any sound, they might even pretend like they’re fine by continuing with their normal routine, and they may or may not end up throwing up or fainting).
if your character experience chronic pain, their pain will not go away (unlike any other illnesses or injuries where the pain stops after the person is healed) so they can feel all these types of sharp pain shooting through their body. there can also be soreness and stiffness around some specific spots, and it will affect their life. so your character will be lucky if they have caretakers in their life. but are they stubborn? do they accept help from others or do they like to pretend like they’re fine in front of everybody until their body can’t take it anymore and so they can no longer pretend?
neuropathic pain or nerve pain will have your character feeling these senses of burning, shooting and stabbing sensation, and the pain can come very suddenly and without any warning — think of it as an electric shock that causes through your character’s body all of a sudden. your character may yelp or gasp in shock, how they react may vary depends on the severity of the pain and how long it lasts.
EMOTIONAL PAIN
grief can make your character shut themself off from their friends and the world in general. or they can also lash out at anyone who tries to comfort them. (five states of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventual acceptance.)
heartbreak — your character might want to lock themself in a room, anywhere where they are unseen. or they may want to pretend that everything’s fine, that they’re not hurt. until they break down.
betrayal can leave a character with confusion, the feelings of ‘what went wrong?’, so it’s understandable if your character blames themself at first, that maybe it’s their fault because they’ve somehow done something wrong somewhere that caused the other character to betray them. what comes after confusion may be anger. your character can be angry at the person who betrayed them and at themself, after they think they’ve done something wrong that resulted in them being betrayed, they may also be angry at themself next for ‘falling’ for the lies and for ‘being fooled’. so yes, betrayal can leave your character with the hatred that’s directed towards the character who betrayed them and themself. whether or not your character can ‘move on and forgive’ is up to you.
there are several ways a character can react to anger; they can simply lash out, break things, scream and yell, or they can also go complete silent. no shouting, no thrashing the place. they can sit alone in silence and they may cry. anger does make people cry. it mostly won’t be anything like ‘ugly sobbing’ but your character’s eyes can be bloodshot, red-rimmed and there will be tears, only that there won’t be any sobbing in most cases.
hopelessness can be a very valid reason for it, if you want your character to do something reckless or stupid. most people will do anything if they’re desperate enough. so if you want your character to run into a burning building, jump in front of a bullet, or confess their love to their archenemy in front of all their friends, hopelessness is always a valid reason. there’s no ‘out of character’ if they are hopeless and are desperate enough.
fear and anxiety. your character may be trembling, their hands may be shaky. they may lose their appetite. they may be sweaty and/or bouncing their feet. they may have a panic attack if it’s severe enough.
and I think that’s it for now! feel free to add anything I may have forgotten to mention here!
