HELP hi new follower…. please don’t expect much of this blog all the wips are very outdated and i haven’t thought about them in forever /lh

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HELP hi new follower…. please don’t expect much of this blog all the wips are very outdated and i haven’t thought about them in forever /lh

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people who DON'T know anything about psychic especially please vote
two truths and a lie: psychic's crimes edition
stalked a young woman and nearly sent her to a cult
trapped a guy in a dating sim twice (same guy)
committed arson at a bar while evading the cops
im doing this for the funnies and to see if im actually good at Making Stuff Up
don't say the answer if you know it btw
So last month I got hit by a car and died right. Which I didn't initially realize until I watched some guy haul my body into his pickup and drive off. Which, being that it's deep in rural Michigan, I assume means my body will make some venison jerky and maybe some wall decoration, and I'll be resigned to being one of hundreds of deer ghosts floating around Saginaw, which is w/e. But then I find out the guy works at a taxidermy shop or something, and he's actually pretty good at stuffing and mounting deer carcasses, which I come to find out when I find myself face to face with my old body in the shop window. So naturally, I figure since ghosts need to possess something to interact with the living world and etc etc etc the most logical thing to do is to possess my own body, since it's basically a statue of myself. And a little surprisingly, it actually fits like a glove. Like, since it's my body, it feels like stepping right back into place. So I get out of town and back to my herd, eventually. And that's where the trouble starts coming into it, because after I get settled again, I don't know how to explain to everyone else what feels so weird. Like since I can move my body and do everything I used to do, it's functionally the same, like nothing happened. Or it SHOULD be, so I don't know how to explain how it's NOT. But it's just hard to explain it to someone who's never been hit by a truck I guess
#it took me way too long into this post to realize op was a deer
OH THEY'RE A DEER I kept skipping over that and thought they were a farmer and Fictional Michigan was super fucked up
You have an older brother. He's more charismatic than you, handsomer than you, always surrounded by a big circle of friends. When you follow him in school, all of your teachers know you only as an extension of him. "You're Kaito's brother," they tell you when they hear your surname. They expect you to be him and you just can't measure up. Even when his choices ruin your life, much of your family take his side.
And then one day you die. It's tragic, but at least you don't leave behind a wife or children. At the memorial, how many people there are just a little bit relieved that it's you and not him?
You come back to life in a new world, and make a new start. There's nobody there to overshadow you. You gain confidence, and power, and a big circle of friends. Every time you rank up in power you get handsomer. Every time you rank up in power you look more like your brother, until your face is more his than yours.
Then you come home. The world turns upside down with the revelation of monsters and magic, and now he's the one running to catch up. He gets a job with the magical society you introduced him to. He's helpful and well-liked, but in these circles that only makes him average. His coworkers know him as an extension of you. "You're Jason's brother," they tell him when they meet him. They expect him to have your audacity, your proprensity for miracles.
And then comes the day that you step out of a portal and find him dead.
His funeral is widely attended. You come in secret, because your presence could upset the whole event. His death is tragic, but not world-shaking: in that crowd, how many people there are just a little bit relieved that it's him and not you?
When you rank up high enough, a friend tells you, you'll look just like his twin.
When you rank up high
enough, a friend tells you, you’ll
look just like his twin.
Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.
Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”
These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.
╰ They say they're "independent." Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay. They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)
â•°Â They say they're "laid-back." Translation:Â They stopped believing their wants mattered. They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.
╰ They say they're "a perfectionist." Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable. Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.
╰ They say they're "private." Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied. Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.
╰ They say they're "ambitious." Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away. If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)
╰ They say they're "good at moving on." Translation: They’re world-class at repression. They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.
╰ They say they're "logical." Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings. Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)
â•°Â They say they're "loyal to a fault." Translation:Â They mistake abandonment for loyalty. They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."
â•°Â They say they're "resilient." Translation:Â They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)

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500 year plan:
Years 1-50: Obtain immortality in whatever way most enjoyable
Years 50-182: chill. Have a little treat.
Years 182-183: discover the end of the world prophecy, panic briefly but with much theatrics. Burn my wizard’s tower in lament.
Years 183-184: restore my wizard's tower. Apologize to all neighbors for the inconvenience.
Years 184-195: contact every entity of knowledge and power in search of remedies for the end of the world.
Years 195-200: in light of the end of the world seeming inevitable sit in my new tower and sulk, indulge in attempting some melancholy songs.
Years 200-220: get really invested in my melancholy songs, master the humble guitar and slowly gain some indie popularity with my band, consisting of yours truly and some other powerful entities I formed a sullen bond with in my search for ways to thwart the inevitable demise, End of the World Disposables.
Years 220-222: due to some interpersonal drama our band falls apart despite its solid claim to fame, but with some introspection and making amends I manage to stay friends with three out of the four other members. The bass player continues to sulk at the bottom of the ocean but I send him the occasional fruit basket.
In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”
A group of far-future linguists and archeologists suddenly *poof* into existence in front of me. One is holding a tablet. "What is the difference between 'red sauce' and 'tomato sauce?'" they ask me. "The distinction is not clear in extant texts from this time and place."
"Uh, they're the same thing," I tell them. "Who are you?"
"Yes!" the being with the tablet exclaims.
One of the other researchers groans. "No! My thesis...months of writing wasted..." One of the others comforts them.
"Now, what is this object for?" The first researcher holds up a discolored, dinged-up plastic object. It's clearly been buried in the ground for quite some time, but the two holes and the scuffed plastic window are distinctive.
"That's a cassette tape. You record music with it."
"Interesting, interesting." The being enters something on the tablet.
"How are you speaking English?"
"Sophisticated translation technology," one of the researchers confides. "We are students of your society. From the future."
"What does this pictogram represent?" The researcher with the tablet turns it around so that the screen faces me.
It's the eggplant emoji.
"Sex," I say. "Why do you need to ask me this if you can time travel or whatever? Can't you just go wherever you want to go and look around and see how these things are being used?"
The beings shift guiltily and look at each other. "Technically, travel to times and places prior the advent of time travel is strictly prohibited. Paradoxes, you know."
"Oh."
"We must be get back before our advisor returns to the lab. Just don't tell anyone you saw us, alright? The space-time continuity depends on it. Can you do that?"
"Uh, sure, I guess?"
One of them pats me on the head. "And don't go to Mars."
"Okay. Wait, why? Is it dangerous?"
"No. Just not worth it."
The group disappears in a shimmering light.
The cassette clatters to the sidewalk behind them.
Out of befuddlement, mainly, I pick it up. It's clearly old, discolored and scuffed, but it still has tape in it.
I carry the tape around in my pocket for a while. The curiosity builds. I want to know what's on that tape. I don't have a cassette player anymore, so I go to Goodwill and pick up the first one I can find, praying that it still works. I plug it in. It turns on.
I slide the tape inside. It's dirty, but it still seems to be in decent shape. I snap the player closed and hit play. The wheels begin to turn. I hold my breath.
A familiar tune starts up. A wobbly voice comes out of the machine.
We're no strangers to love
Things I Didn’t Think Would Be Hard To Write But ARE
Walking into a room
Transitioning between scenes without it feeling awkward
Two characters saying “I love you” without it being cringe
Describing a character’s face without using the word “eyes” 500 times
A battle scene that doesn’t feel like a turn-based RPG
Body language cheat sheet for writers
As a writer, understanding and incorporating body language into your storytelling can greatly enhance your characters and their interactions. Here's a cheat sheet to help you describe body language effectively:
Facial Expressions:
* Raised eyebrows: Surprise, disbelief, or curiosity.
* Furrowed brow: Concentration, confusion, or frustration.
* Smiling: Happiness, amusement, or friendliness.
* Frowning: Disapproval, sadness, or concern.
* Lip biting: Nervousness, anticipation, or tension.
Eye Movements:
* Eye contact: Confidence, interest, or honesty.
* Avoiding eye contact: Shyness, guilt, or deception.
* Narrowed eyes: Suspicion, skepticism, or concentration.
* Wide eyes: Shock, fear, or surprise.
* Rolling eyes: Exasperation, annoyance, or disbelief.
Gestures:
* Crossing arms: Defensiveness, disagreement, or discomfort.
* Nervous fidgeting: Anxiety, restlessness, or impatience.
* Pointing: Assertiveness, emphasis, or accusation.
* Open palms: Honesty, openness, or sincerity.
* Hand on chin: Deep thought, contemplation, or evaluation.
Posture and Movement:
* Slumped shoulders: Defeat, sadness, or fatigue.
* Upright posture: Confidence, attentiveness, or authority.
* Pacing: Restlessness, agitation, or contemplation.
* Tapping foot: Impatience, annoyance, or frustration.
* Leaning in: Interest, engagement, or curiosity.
Touch:
* Hugging: Affection, comfort, or warmth.
* Handshake: Greeting, introduction, or agreement.
* Patting on the back: Encouragement, praise, or camaraderie.
* Clenched fists: Anger, determination, or frustration.
* Brushing hair behind the ear: Nervousness, coyness, or flirtation.
Mirroring:
* When two characters unconsciously mimic each other's body language, it indicates rapport, connection, or empathy.
Nodding:
* A subtle nod can convey agreement, understanding, or encouragement.
Crossed legs:
* Crossed legs can indicate relaxation or a casual, nonchalant attitude.
Tapping fingers:
* Impatience, anticipation, or nervousness can be expressed through rhythmic finger tapping.
Hand on the chest:
* Placing a hand on the chest can convey sincerity, empathy, or a heartfelt emotion.
- Tilting the head:
* Tilting the head to the side can suggest curiosity, attentiveness, or interest.
Rubbing the temples:
* Rubbing the temples can indicate stress, fatigue, or a headache.
Chin stroking:
* Stroking the chin while in thought can portray contemplation, decision-making, or intellectual curiosity.
Arms crossed behind the back:
* This posture can indicate authority, confidence, or a composed demeanor.
Tilted body posture:
* Leaning slightly towards someone can suggest interest, attraction, or engagement in a conversation.
Biting nails:
* Nail-biting can reveal anxiety, nervousness, or tension.
Foot tapping:
* Rapid or impatient foot tapping can show agitation, restlessness, or eagerness.
Squinting:
* Squinting the eyes can signal suspicion, doubt, or an attempt to focus on something.
Shifting weight from foot to foot:
* Shifting weight can imply discomfort, unease, or anticipation.
Covering the mouth while speaking:
* This gesture can indicate hesitation, embarrassment, or the desire to hide something.
Remember that body language can vary across different cultures and individuals, so consider your character's background and personality while describing their movements. Additionally, body language is best used in combination with dialogue and internal thoughts to create a more nuanced portrayal of your characters.
Happy writing!

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i am STILL trying to find that balance between dropping subtle hints and making sure that the hints are actually connectable in a meaningful way
A related piece of advice that made the penny drop for me, and I really want to share it, although it doesn't fully answer your question. I've heard it in the context of designing DnD puzzles, but it applies to writing:
Your readers will miss the first hint, ignore the second one, and notice the third.
And even if they notice the second, they'll pat themselves on the back for finding the third clue.
An illustrative example from the Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in Scarlet:
“That seems simple enough,” said I; but how about the other man’s height?”
“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child’s play.”
Now, if the readers don't need a crystal clear picture, just a general idea, I'd leave it at two clues, but don't clump them together.
came back wrong but its from the perspective of the person who came back
Seeing pictures of yourself -the real you, the one people miss, the one people look for in your eyes- is like staring into a foggy mirror. The parts are there, you think, but the details are lost.
Someone who loves you makes you breakfast. You thank him and eat it despite the fact the eggs are too crisp on the sides and missing much needed salt. He says its how you like it, but that just makes your frustrations boil.
How I used to like it, you want to say, how I used to be.
You grip your butter knife harder and light catches the polished metal. The glimpse you catch of yourself in the cutlery looks nothing like the photo on the mantle.
my main requirement in a partner is someone who's willing to "yes, and" me. if i say something completely insane i need them to just pick that up and run with it and commit to the bit until we wind up with a conversation that's funny to us but completely incoherent to everyone within earshot. actually now that i'm typing this out i've realised my ideal relationship might just be "shitty improv comedy duo"
I bet octopuses think bones are horrific. I bet all their cosmic horror stories involve rigid-limbs and hinged joints.
To an octopus, a human is like a thinking being with blood-stained coral growing inside it.
I need to sit down and breathe into a bag for a while.
Its parts were obscenely limited in their movement. Each hinge could open or close only a small amount before reaching its limit, yet by working in concert they demonstrated unexpected dexterity, moving and manipulating the objects before it with cunning equal to my own. It was more torso than limb, as though a seal had been stretched and warped, given long grasping tentacles filled with bones like bars of coral. It’s head was most horrid of all, flat and ovoid, jutting out too small from the trunk as though it belonged to a beast half its size.
The thing rose upon its lowermost appendages, two long trunks that ended in flat, protruding flippers that branched into stubby, grasping mockeries of a sucker. It’s triple-hinged uppermost limbs were similar, but the ends branched into five smaller tentacles, each with three hinges of their own.
I froze, as the thing’s gaze fell upon me and it opened its hideous fish-jaw, filled with thick, many-shaped teeth like white shards of stone, and spoke in a shrill, discordant babble. I felt its horrid dry grip on my flesh, as those hinged appendages closed on me like the legs of a crab.
I felt the heat of its body, tasted its noxious, oily flesh through my touch, and prepared for the end, and all went black as a swoon overtook me.
I awoke, some time later, the cold and comforting water, banished back to the comfort of the sea and the dark. I should be grateful I am alive. I should cast aside the experience like a half-remembered dream.
I shall never again go swimming in search of lights above. The last thing I recall before the darkness took me was my right eye popping free of the thing’s grasp enough to see into the distance for one brief moment.
I saw thousands of lights.
ok so it turns out “horror but it’s about something mundane from the perspective of a non-human animal” fucks severely
A Plea for Hope as the Year Ends🕊️🇵🇸
As the end of this year approaches, all I can wish for is a moment of peace, even if just for a short while, to bring us back to our homes, to the memories and places that war has destroyed.💔💔
We simply wish to end this year with our loved onesđź«‚đź«¶, to feel the warmth of our homes that we have lost, even if only for one month. After that, the war may continue if it must. But as people, as families, we need a small pause to feel that we are still alive.
Today, we live in a small tent, with no safety or stability. Our little children, my siblings, and even the elders in family, we all dream of a moment of calm that gives us a chance to rebuild our lives—or at least to breathe life away from the sounds of bombs.
Your support means hope for us. It means a chance to survive, to find a safe place, and to rebuild the dreams that were shattered. We are asking for your help to raise funds to get through this crisis, to secure our basic needs, and to try to live with dignity.💔🥹
Any contribution, no matter how small, makes a big difference. The end of the year is a time of hope and humanity, and with your support, we may have a share of both.
Donation link:👇👇👇👇👇
https://www.gofundme.com/f/faydxu-help-mohammed
Thank you to everyone who reads, supports, or even shares this plea.
**Help the Almadhoun Family Escape from Gaza** You tube v… Loria Rahime needs your support for Help Mohammed Almadhoun and his Family

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truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.
i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
you get it. you get the themes. i dont have time to do it justice. just look at it its on the ceiling