r/creativewriting • • 16h ago

Question or Discussion Struggles with ADHD

9 Upvotes

Hey all,

I've been struggling with ADHD my entire life, and it's worsened as I've entered adulthood. I noticed it's taken a toll on my writing. Every time I go to write, it's like my brain freezes up. Suddenly, the entire process feels super daunting. Ideas don't come as naturally anymore, and I haven't finished a completed script since June of 2023. I know I'm capable of telling great stories, and I've learned so much these past 3 years since my last script, but I just need help as my ADHD makes it super difficult to get where I want to be.

Hopefully this post made sense. Any and all advice is appreciated! Thanks much.


r/creativewriting • • 2h ago

Poetry Hi

3 Upvotes

All Rise for the Judge

All rise for the judge...

You may be seated.

Case #333666.

We are here today

To put on trial

The demons in Nicole’s head.

Nicole, how do you plead?

Well, Your Honor,

I think I should bleed

Due to the misery

Of my history.

I manipulated many.

My demon’s name is Freddy.

He led me down the street.

Of, horrors!

Death around every corner.

I needed Freddy to stay alive.

I don't expect you to sympathize,

But hear me out.

I was scared and alone

When Freddy came along.

He taught me to be strong

In a world where it all felt so wrong.

Now I’m here today,

In court,

For doing what I had to.

I’d be dead if I didn’t,

Because of Freddy,

I survived.

But it didn’t stop there.

Freddy took over my lair.

I lie there and wait,

Decaying in silence.

With Freddy, I’ve made an alliance.

It’s really simple: silence.

I would be dead if it weren’t for Fred,

But Fred’s taken over my head.

“Objection, Your Honor!

The defendant

Is reasoning with insanity.

Surely this cannot be!

The defendant isn’t crazy!”

“Objection ruled.”

“Defendant,

You can’t defend

Against the innocent you hurt.

You don’t work.

Freddy’s driving you insane.

I think you need a safe place—

In a coffin.

All for death by gun?

Judgment or fun?”

“Wait, Your Honor!

I don’t want to die!”

“Then you need to repent,

Not repeat the past.

But your time has come.”

“I’d repent

And hope this gun jams—

The one that I hold in my hand.”

“I’m Judge Jury, and straight-up killer.

On the day of your death, I’ll deliver.

It’s the only way for your crimes.

You must pay.”

A bullet went off,

But it wasn’t the judge.

It was an angel,

Sent to save me

From the heavy hand of the judge.

But I don’t understand.

Why would an angel save me

After a demon enslaved me?

Well, maybe that’s exactly why.

You see the light and the dark

Written in the sky.

You must fight the demon,

Not die on this day.

Your options you must weigh.

You can slay the demon

And be enslaved no more,

Or you could let the demon take over once more.


r/creativewriting • • 18h ago

Writing Sample First time poster, this story is based on a recurring dream I have.

3 Upvotes

**(I'm posting this as part of my exposure therapy. I have never shared my writing before, I've always been too scared. It's not finished nor have I edited it. Please be kind!)**

I'm in a house bustling with activity. It’s an interesting house, where the level of activity and mood seem to dictate how a room looks.

The kitchen and dining room are connected by a door, and many members of an extended family are present. Some are cooking, others are putting dishes onto serving trays and platters. One family member is taking these trays to the dining room table. Through the kitchen door, on the right is a fireplace, throwing light over the whole room. A big picture window lies ahead, showing that the outside is blanketed in snow. There are shapes in the snow, perhaps other houses. The sky is turning deeper and deeper shades of crimson and orange, but it is still clear and bright. The snow absorbs the light, plays it back in brighter shades of yellow and cream. The whole scene is calm, light, and nearly silent.

To the right of the room, a cavernous opening, leading to the cold, silent great hall. One family member takes a tray to the table, which is a sort of metal slab, sitting in the center of the dining room. Light dances around the surface, as a bluish bubble forms around the tray. As the final parts of the bubble fill in, another family member approaches with a bag, and zips the protected food inside. Though the bubble is jostled, the food inside remains in place. The bag is added to a tidy stack next to the picture window.

My attention is drawn to the great hall. Though the dining room is bright and warm, that warmth stops, as if cut by a knife, the moment you step onto the cold stone on the other side. The great hall is somehow a mirror of the dining room, but not. The picture window is there, as is the fireplace. But this fireplace is not lit, and in its cold silence it somehow seems much, much bigger. I feel as though it’s going to swallow me, so I turn my attention to the window. Through it, the same blankets of snow. But instead of calm and quiet, they seem now to be foreboding. The door behind doesn’t lead to a kitchen, but rather a set of stairs. I know because, though it is lost in the shadows, I’m certain I’ve been here before. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door between kitchen and dining room has been propped open.

“How close are we?” Calls a middle aged woman, with just a touch of grey around her temples. She is standing, gazing absentmindedly at the stack of food, apparently waiting to go somewhere. “I don’t know if this is all going to fit.”

A man in the kitchen looks at the pots, pans, dishes, and bowls, scattered about the kitchen. Some are full, waiting for their contents to be baked or dressed. Others empty, dripping the remains of a now completed dish. He calls out “five more are coming.”

The woman grumbles, tosses a bag over each shoulder, and pushes a panel by the window. A small section of floor drops, revealing three stairs down, and two up, then a thick steel door. There’s a triangular window to the side, but unlike the picture window, the view is obstructed by a solid sheet of ice. The woman pushes another panel, and the door slides open to reveal an area of packed snow and three parked vehicles. She goes to the largest. It’s shaped like a loaf of bread, white as the snow it sits upon. A ring of transparent glass at eye level reveals a sparse interior. Panels cover the walls, ceiling, and even parts of the floor. The woman touches the outside of the vehicle, and a panel on the inside dances with light. A door appears where before it was just the wall of the vehicle. The woman begins stacking bags against the far wall, grumbling the whole time. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back inside, the stack by the door has been reduced to a dozen, cube shaped bags. The picture window now shows blankets of snow in varying shades of blue; some nearly white, others dark as midnight. The sky is bright white not from light but from reflections. Many members of the family are now sitting around the table. It seems to have gotten larger, to accommodate everyone. The fire is still lively, the great hall sitting opposite, reduced to just a black void in the wall.

The same man from earlier sits with his back facing the fireplace; “We can’t leave anything behind.” he says, “this is what they requested, and it is our last winter together. We must oblige.” 

The woman responds, “yes, but it’s also an unnecessary danger. The younger ones are taking the vehicles, and two are on the cusp. That’s a lot to handle, and we can’t go along and risk detection. They really should stick together.”

Another woman, this one with tight black and grey ringlets, speaks up, “couldn’t we send a betweener with them, using light catchers?”

The whole table erupts in agitated whispering, each adult speaking only to one or two neighbors. A woman with slate grey hair interrupts in a deep booming voice; “Obviously, that depends on whether or not any of them are willing to take the risk.”

The man goes to the kitchen and whispers to a young woman washing dishes at the sink. She sets a pot on the slate counter. The scraping “plink” calls everyone’s attention. The younger woman stands in the doorway, between the two rooms. “I’m willing,” she says. “I will go speak to Rela.” She walks diagonally, avoiding the table and those sitting around it, and walks through the cavernous opening, into the great hall. As she does, there is a glimmer of light. In it, I can see that great hall seems… smaller. The walls are white, cast in the blue light reflecting through the window. A vine is crawling its way over toward the window, in search of light. The young woman walks through the doorway, and the cavernous opening goes dark again. In silence, the rest of the family members get up and begin tidying both rooms. A few filter out as the shadows grow longer, each time walking through to the great hall, and each time briefly casting it in a different shade of light. Finally, the first man and woman link arms, about to walk through. As if realizing that she’d forgotten something, the woman turns around, her gray hairs glinting in the light coming through the window. In the corner, she can see the woman with slate grey hair. Chair pulled up to the window, she’s staring outside. The light on her face is bright white. Feeling the woman’s eyes on her, she speaks; “this is our fault, and you need to remember that. Both of you.”

The man and woman nod, and walk through together. There is no flash of light as they do. Just darkness, as their footsteps echo throughout the great hall. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is morning, and the young woman from the night before is out by the parked vehicles. She walks, staring up at the sky. There are massive beams above her, holding up a structure of glass, cement, and metal. The beams are a striking white, still visible despite the snowy hills in the background. The weather is pleasant, the air is still. Another woman, younger than the first, is hunched over the smallest of the three vehicles. This one has a rectangular, domed roof, like the first, but the bottom is also rounded. The younger woman is hitting and cursing at a panel, which spits out sparks of multicolored light in response.

“Rela” the first woman says, “I don’t think that’s doing much of anything.”

“Oh ha ha,” the younger woman responds. “It’s really not a good time for jokes, Chell. Please take the hint.” 

Chell nods, and walks closer to the vehicle. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, the light emitters are working just fine, but the light catchers are buggy. I tried realigning them three times and they’re still not working.” Rela points to different parts of the panel while she talks, as Chell nods in understanding. 

“What does The Elder say?” Rela scoffs at the question. “You know what they say,” Rela responds, “less light, less bright, less right!” Chell shakes her head, holding back a smile. “Don’t let them hear you say that” she says, nodding back toward the picture window. 

From this side, the window is just a rectangle, covered in a light layer of frost, a faint glow coming from the other side. There’s a hint of nervousness behind Rela’s joke, and a matching furrow of the brow from Chell. After a few moments of pensive silence, Chell speaks again.

“I know you tried realigning, but if it’s the harmonics that are out of sync it might be best to use a light repeater to seal the parts. It might also add to the shielding effect, and we would only have to offload a couple other supplies to rebalance.”

Rela nods in approval, “that’s a really good idea, I’ll go grab one.” She stands and starts a leisurely jog back toward the house, under the arc of the massive beams. Before reaching the door, Rela turns back and calls toward Chell, “I’m sorry about the joke I made, I was being insensitive.

Chell shakes her head and calls back; “I may only have one between year left, but that doesn’t mean my light is gone!”

The women smile at each other, a silent agreement passed through the calm of the snow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is mid-morning, and I can see a scene unfolding in the living room.

Chell and Rela stand in the great hall, with their family assembled around them. The fireplace isn’t lit, though the bright, yellow-orange light streaming in through the picture window is enough to illuminate large swathes of the room. It is cold, though not foreboding. The first man and woman stand, side by side though not touching, near the door. The woman with slate gray hair, The Elder, stands near the two young women. She’s speaking, but I can only hear the melody of her deep vice, not the words themselves. She motions toward a young man, between Rela and Chell’s age, with a shock of black hair and piercing black eyes. His mother is the woman from the night before, who suggested using light catchers for this journey. How do I know this? She’s standing near him, that must be why.

When I look directly at the man with black hair, he snaps his head up and looks straight at a blank spot on the ceiling. Nobody seems to notice. Somehow, his gaze pierces my soul. But I don’t feel anything; no fear or happiness, no recognition. Does he see me? Who is he? Who am I? 

I start to hear muffled words. My attention is drawn from the young man. The words become more clear as I focus my attention on The Elder. 

“... and though I know everyone here feels some measure of apprehension about this journey, I also know that Rela, Chell, and Levos have the knowledge and experience necessary to get the last of our supplies to the ancestral grounds.”

Hearing his name, the young man steps forward, nodding at Rela and Chell. They nod in return. All three begin a walk toward the door, stopping occasionally to grasp a hand here, or kiss a cheek there. Finally, they arrive at the door. Levos looks at the other two, as if asking a question. They nod in return, and he turns to face the first man and woman. Levos begins to speak;

“We ask the last paired keepers, near elders and conduit to the ancestors, to approve of our journey.”

The older man nods; “Rela, Chell, and Levos. You are on and between the light. I approve of your journey, but send you with shadows to shield you.” As he speaks, he clasps each of their hands, before motioning them on to the woman with grey hairs sprinkled around her temples.” 

I can feel something coming from the older woman. No, the keeper. I can’t tell what it is. I have a fleeting feeling. Is it recognition? She speaks; “Levos, Chell, and Rela, I approve of your journey. Your light is now hidden, let it move you swiftly and silently.” The keepers move so that they are between the rest of the family members, and the three young people.

I have a thought in the back of my mind, but it’s fuzzy. I feel an intense rush of emotions. A moment of clarity tells me to tear my attention away from the door. There’s something about the group that’s remaining. They are the ones staying behind, why? I focus my attention long enough to realize that they are all a mix of dark feelings. Sad, worried, even… sick? My thoughts are fuzzy again. I’m watching Rela, Chell, and Levos as they walk toward the small, rectangular vehicle. It is noon, and the vehicle is almost indistinguishable from the snow around it. Their boots crunch on the compact, icy snow, the swishing of their snowsuits the only other sound. They get to the vehicle and, with a brief glance at Chell, and then Levos, Rela pushes an invisible panel. A small doorway opens, and each of the three young heroes climbs in, one by one.     

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside the vehicle, the atmosphere is surprisingly warm. A few panels blink with light, but otherwise it is dim. The large windows show only snow, cast in dark shades of blue. It must be late. I hear laughing, and my attention is drawn back to the interior. I’m surprised to see that some time has passed. I don’t know how I know, it is just a feeling.

“We should check on the youngest” says Levos. Chell and Rela were the ones who had been laughing.

“Oh, lighten up” says Rela, causing both young women to keel over in raucous laughter. 

“My light is now hidden, “ responds Levos. A moment of silence, followed by wheezing. It is coming from Levos. No longer able to hide his smile, he joins the women in laughter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s much brighter in the vehicle, now. Morning. The vista is… snow. Only snow. But the light bounces off of it with such brightness and vigor. It is obviously a new day.

Levos lies, sleeping, in a net woven from rope, strung across the curved bottom of the vehicle. His face is turned toward a blinking panel that looks similar to the light relay panel the Rela and Chell fixed. How long ago was that? There’s no way of knowing, but it seems to have been a while. Rela is huddled over a viewscreen in the cockpit. How do I know those words? I feel… confused. Rela gasps, dissolving my confusion into a distant blur. I listen as she and Chell hurriedly whisper. 

“Could they have been thrown off course?” Rela asks.

“The cuboid, maybe, but the main compartment? The keepers installed so many failsafes…” Chell, looking over Rela’s shoulder, appears visibly concerned. I can’t see Rela’s face.

Suddenly, I am surrounded by white. I feel… frantic. I look around. I see light bouncing off hills of snow. What’s underneath? No time to think about that. The light changes rapidly. First the bright yellow white of morning, then, the intense warm orange of midday, then the deepening amber glow of evening, and then? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark as pitch. But for the first time, I notice lights dancing in the sky, and not on the snow. They seem to dance without moving. They cast a silent, steady glow onto the ground. It’s then that I see it… barely distinguishable from the unbroken powdered landscape, sits the smallest vehicle. The lights inside are mirrors of the sky above. Bright white, dancing without moving. Yet their glow doesn’t go past the windows. I move my attention closer. Now I can see trees, off to one side of the vehicle. They’re also covered in a soft hilly blanket of snow, I only know they’re trees because of their shape. My mind briefly wanders… but how do you know what trees are?

I shake off the thought. Doing so seems to transport me straight to the side of the vehicle. Rela is crouched over the same panel as before. Cursing, but not touching it. Chell looks on in worry.

“Is there a way to... “

Rela shakes her head in answer, then stands.

I notice that the vehicle is not lifted off the ground anymore, but rather has begun to be buried by eddies of snow, blowing off nearby branches. Without looking at each other, both women walk toward the edge of the tree line.

I can see what they see. A large expanse of open sky, stretching without limits above us. In the middle, hills, perhaps mountains, covered in snow. There’s no way to know how close they are, or how large. My attention moves toward the ground, about 100 yards in front of Rela and Chell. But not me. I am not…

I notice a different kind of shadow. It curves with the ground, like a bedspread draping over the edge of a mattress. It is a chasm. Deep, stretching as far as the eye can see, to both our left and our right.

“Chell” I say. “Maybe we should go back?”

“Rela, you know that’s not an option.” Chell responds without looking at me.

I have a pain in my stomach. I feel a sense of… confusion, I guess? I feel lost. But we ARE lost. What is happening?

My thoughts swirl around me as I find myself reliving memories. The kitchen and dining room, cooking and eating, classes in the great hall, the stairs leading to my room… I see The Keepers. They don’t come to my room. Neither does The Elder. But Levos and Chell…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s morning again. The light is bright, but empty. I keep my eyes clenched shut for a few more seconds. I was having a dream. A really weird dream.

“Rela?”

I recognize the voice, it’s Chell. “I made some tea.” 

I open my eyes. I know her. I feel safe.  

I open my eyes. I’m on a bench behind the cockpit of the smallest snow vehicle. No, that’s not right. It’s called the “Hidden Light.”

I try to speak, and my voice sounds hoarse. “Chell… what… What’s happening?”

Chell looks worried. “I know you have questions. I… I can’t answer them right now. I don’t know how much you remember and… if I tell you too much it… Well, I just can’t, I’m sorry.”

The self assured, funny, easygoing friend that I once knew is now acting distant. I don’t know what to say. But I’m confused, and feel like I should ask some questions. I instinctively look down toward the glass floor, at a rope hammock hanging underneath the pilot and co-pilot’s chairs. It’s right next to the engineering controls. I feel a sudden shock of cold, which drives the air from my lungs. Gasping, I ask; “Where… where is Le…”

Chell cuts me off. “I know I’m a betweener and I … I can’t use the light the same way that you can. But you’re on the cusp, so… I can’t tell you…. Please…”

I don’t understand anything she’s saying. What is a ‘Betweener?’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Keepers, arm in arm, stand at a threshold made of cold slate. They had watched as all other family members walked over the threshold. Now, it was their turn.

The woman -- peering at the wall behind her -- appears lost in thought.  

The man speaks. “Vera, I…”

“You don’t know what to say.” The woman finishes his thought.

“I just don’t think we should make assumptions.”

“The Elder said this was our fault. She told us not to forget.” Vera responds.

“I know, but, if what you suspect is true...?”

The man’s voice drops off, his question implied. Vera, considering his words, turns her eyes to the wall beyond the threshold. It’s made mostly of light dampening glass, so that it’s camouflaged from the outside. But from this inside, it’s merely a window. This has the effect of making the inside both unfathomably bright and unbearably cold. Through the glass, the woman can see the curved beams holding their world together.

Vera unhooks her arm from her companion’s. “I don’t know why,” she says, “but I need to stay behind. I’m sorry”

She turns away, and walks down the stairs, back into the cold, shadowy, lifeless great hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rela and Chell, standing arm-in-arm, apprise the scene before them. A deep canyon, so deeply covered in snow that there’s no way to tell where the ground ends and the snowbanks begin.

There is no sight of Levos.

I linger on this thought, trying to catch it before it slips away. Alas… my attention is drawn toward a long, metal path, stretching between the canyon walls. It curves up and down, with no discernable pattern. The sides are only a few inches tall, and the path itself is little more than a foot wide. Any gust of wind, or the smallest misstep, and you would be gone forever.

“Chell,” I begin, “we can’t possibly cross that.”

“Well not if we walk. But if we slide across...”

I am driven to comply. There’s a reason, but I can’t name it now. My mind is preoccupied with the journey. 

“Should we make sleds?” I ask.

“... No.” Chell says. “We don’t know who made this path, or why. We should make ourselves as un-noticeable as possible.”

I feel this person, once so familiar to me, is slipping away. It doesn’t feel bad or wrong, just confusing. We work in silence to tie the remaining supplies to our backs. We walk, stoically, to the edge of the path. I can now see how thin the meal is, how the curves have been formed by metal blowing in the wind and then rusting into place. While the surface of the path is still and smooth, the sides are precariously low. 

Chell looks at me.

“You are the most appropriate person for the job” she says, before turning back toward the path. Assuming a seated position, Chell slides slowly onto the metal platform, legs pointed forward. Using her hands, she begins moving herself forward, a few inches at a time.

After a few minutes, I hear a faint beeping. I remember my communication port. As I hold it up to my ear, I see Chell pause in the distance.

“Start moing now.” She says. “I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the canyon, Chell and I excitedly embrace. “I’ve never been so terrified,'' she murmurs into my shoulder. I look back at the abyss. It’s pitch black, like a night with no light. Above it, the path waves in the wind. I wonder if it just started, or if it was like that the whole time. My stomach turns, as I feel myself pulled back toward Chell. She’s taken off two of her packs, and is peering inside one. I feel like something is missing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vera huddles with her eyes over a screen. Using her fingertips, she zooms in and out of various parts of the landscape. Her actions are furious, too fast for the naked eye to follow. Ravel, Vera’s fellow keeper, enters the room.

“I’m worried….”

“... about me, yes I know.” Vera finishes the sentence.

Ravel, obviously perturbed, continues; “any sign of the…”

“... Lightbringer? Yes.”

Keeper Vera, on a wheeled chair, moves rapidly between multiple screens, touching each of them briefly before turning back toward Keeper Ravel.

“The Lightbringer and Cuboid were separated, about one month into their journey. We did not receive a notification about this, for an unknown reason. Two months ago, when I began having The Feeling, is when The Hidden Light lost sight of The Lightbringer.”

Ravel stares blankly at the wall of glass in front of him.

Vera continues; “The Lightbringer arrived at its destination one month ago. We just received confirmation.”

She turns to look at Ravel. I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rela and Chell stood underneath four massive, curved metal beams. At the apex of the beams was a domed structure. The white concrete of the structure absorbed most light, blending seamlessly into the landscape. Faint glimmers of light suggested that there were windows at the top, though they were mostly out of sight.

Rael spoke first, “Is this a… I don’t know what it’s called.”

Chell responded; “it’s a colony. A light colony. It used to have keepers, just like we do. But they’re not here anymore.”

As she spoke, Chell turned toward one of the arches; “if they were still here, there would still be a house.”

We stood together. Not a house, I thought, a home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vera and Rela lay, arm in arm, on the cold stone floor. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rela awoke, laying on something cold, and a dark room. There was the faint sound of water dropping on the slate floor, somewhere in the distance. I sensed her first, the spoke to her.

“You are safe. I’m not sure how you know that, but you ARE.” I said.

“I’m safe, okay. I can move my arms and legs. I can hear. My eyes work…”

“Rela?” I can hear Chell speak, her voice only a few yards away. Next to her, I hear groaning.

Suddenly, a flash of light. A wall goes up. Simultaneously transparent and not. I’m alone, but I’m not. Globes of light dance across the stone floor. They seem to recognize me, and I feel like I recognize them.

“Hidden Light. The Keepers sent you? Please… They’re close…” 
It’s dark again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where am I?”

Rela’s eyes flickered open as she spoke. She heard voices in the distance, but couldn’t see through the cloudy, grey wall.

Above, a circular opening covered in glass.

It was cloudy as well, but the light on the other side seemed bright and lively.

“Okay,” Rela thought to herself, “I need to focus on that area. How do I get up there?”

Looking around, the walls seemed to barely exist. Slick, pitch black, but also seemingly reflecting small flickers of light. Like glitter reflected by a distance light source. A pit grew in Rela’s stomach. She realized she was looking at glass. Thick glass. They were in large, curved panels, bolted together. At eye level lay countless boulders, and stone walls, but if Rela looked down… She was facing the bottom of a pit of some sort. Far from any source of light. Yet there WAS light. Glancing around, Rela noticed small spheres. Very small. All shades of blue, white, yellow, green, red…

She was so tired. She realized she’d been waling this whole time. Closer to the cloudy wall, even though she had no idea what ;ay on the other side.

Right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rela awoke to the chatter of many small voices. They were indistinguishable. So was the light that flickered before her eyes. Or on her eyelids? There was no way of knowing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


r/creativewriting • • 21h ago

Short Story THE SAME PATTERN

3 Upvotes

Always falling into the same pattern. When will she learn to stop begging for what others refuse to give her? The affection and love she has to plead for barely last beyond a night of casual sex.

The next morning, that familiar feeling of being used returns. Once again, she’s fallen into the same kind of encounter, convinced that this time will be different. That if she tries a little harder, they’ll finally choose her, recognize her worth, and decide to stay by her side.

They’ve told her to her face that they don’t love her, that they feel nothing for her. So why does she keep waiting for a phone call?

She lives with a blindfold over her eyes. That’s how she was raised. She’s known so much mistreatment that peace feels unfamiliar. When a man treats her well, she becomes suspicious; when he makes her suffer, she clings to him. She mistakes uncertainty for passion and ends up seeking the very thing that hurts her the most.

Every day, she sits waiting for someone to choose her, glued to her phone, her stomach in knots and her mind exhausted from overthinking. But she doesn’t give up. She keeps believing that if she changes enough, tries a little harder, or finds the right man, someone will finally love her. Because it simply can’t be possible that there isn’t a single person out there capable of loving her.

Who knows, maybe someday…

Time passes. She grows old, older, lonelier… more tired.

Always waiting.

And the phone never rings.


r/creativewriting • • 38m ago

Poetry Acid

• Upvotes

You open your mouth and shit rolls out, you fester your filthy slop to the masses, group your judgements and point your fingers. You just have to have the biggest voice, you're the singer. Crying out, oh my oh gee. I've got a little bit of philosophy.

Flush it down the toilet, walk away, forget about it. The toxic culture has come to an end, you sociopathic fucks couldnt see the bullets coming if you tried. The fires that rain down when the revolution rides. Will cut you down like a knife through butter as your sickness subsides.

Your little microscope shatters in your eyes, as you view the world as your playground to analyze. Pick apart and retort, when you can't even comprehend a book about a family of bears and some porridge, you left your hard drive in cold storage, disconnected in layered frosted rings of hate.

Left, right, center and beyond. I sicken of your little prods, your lifeless bleats and self serving needs. I can't wait to watch you beg on your knees, as each swing of the blade; cuts…bleeds. As you spill your vitriolic tyrannical bleats, ill watch as you get stomped with cleats.

Psychotic, neurotic and foolishly lame, you spit ideas that are all quite the same. The brain cells of one watt bulbs, so dim you are as the light slowly fades, from your evil gaze. You end up in Tuesday's trash, in a daze.

Social media the curse, of giving voices to ignorance, voices to inbred, backwoods pig fucking clowns. Most of us pray, most of us wish, your mother drug you out back into the bush. Gave you a push, and held your head down like Casey Anthony now. Even this twit has a voice, as if she is the world's beacon of morality. Not one fuck, not one care, if there is a platform for even the damned. Then happily ill watch, as the tide smashes the levy…again and again. Until the tide rolls in and washes the world clean of this sin. No fema no aide, no hope, none saved. That is the prayer I let free everyday.


r/creativewriting • • 22m ago

Poetry Timmy

• Upvotes

Work…harder; keep on at it Timmy…

Let me tell you, you'll surely get ahead.

You'll work your bones till the crackle, snap and groan.

You'll work so many hours work will be your home. Such a good little boy, you surely will be. Oh, what rewards await little old thee? Its quite simple, quite wondrous indeed. You'll have a car bill to get you to work, you'll have a rent payment to shelter you safe. You'll have a phone bill so work can get ahold of you. You'll have internet so they can get you there too. You'll have a job, and you'll love it surely.

It will become what you are, what you are for certain. And they'll hide the good stuff just behind that curtain, the one that seems to move just a little further each day. A little more everyday.

A little to the left…a little to the right. Just as you have your hand within its grasp. Oh joy oh dear, everything just got more expensive. I'm sorry. But here is a nickel to cover that too. Oh boy you'll work till you're blue.

Its this person's fault…no that person surely. Point the finger at stage blue then stage red. Hide it behind the colors you see. Not the reality of banks and corporate greed. They lobby and lobby to take it all away. Yet here little Jimmy just loves his truck ill say.

You are weak and you are soft. You dont work enough, you should work harder, and surely then you'll have what you need. As we pencil in toxic things..like pushing the gambling, or pressing “fake bird flu” ill find a way to raise money off of you, little Jimmy Oh Jimmy, such the fool. You fight your friends and neighbors over the frivolous things about theys, thems, big titties, women being whores, and Epsteins all but forgetten. As you sit and binge on your Tik Toks and Netflix. It's all a stage, all a stage dear Timmy. And youre the leading actor. Yet all you do is clamber and clomber and work a little longer. As the world falls apart. We know it wont be you…or you…or you who lights the first spark.


r/creativewriting • • 5h ago

Poetry THE DEVIL’S APOLOGY LETTER

1 Upvotes

My love,

before you burn this,

remember I’m quite good with fire.

That was a joke.

You used to laugh at those.

Not that one, probably.

You used to laugh properly, though.

Head back.

Whole body.

Wings knocking shit off tables.

You never did learn

how much space you took up.

I liked that about you.

I liked a lot of things about you.

That’s sort of the problem.

Anyway.

You said I should explain myself.

No.

That’s not true.

You said,

“Don’t ever speak to me again.”

But people say things

when they’re upset.

And technically

this isn’t speaking.

So.

Here we are.

I suppose

I should start by saying

I’m sorry.

I am.

I think.

I’m still working out

what part I’m sorry for.

You’ll hate that.

Fair enough.

*

You knew what I was.

I know you hate

when I say that too.

But you did.

I didn’t turn up

with flowers

and pretend to be

an accountant from Bristol.

I told you.

I told you exactly

who I was.

You were standing

at the edge of Heaven

looking down

like you already wanted

an excuse.

I gave you one.

That’s different

from pushing.

It is.

You asked me

what Hell was like.

I said warmer.

You laughed.

I loved that laugh.

I probably loved it

before I loved you.

Maybe that’s not

the nicest way

to put it.

You asked me

whether God would forgive you.

I said

if He loved you,

He’d have to.

I was very convincing

in those days.

Still am,

if I’m honest.

You took off your halo

and held it in your hand

for ages.

Long enough

for me to stop you.

I didn’t.

I knew what would happen.

Not every detail.

But enough.

I knew you wouldn’t

just pop back upstairs

if things went badly.

I knew falling

was mostly one-way.

I knew.

And I still kissed you.

Because you looked at me

like I was worth it.

Do you understand

what that does

to someone like me?

Probably not.

Good.

*

You gave up Heaven.

For me.

Do you know how often

I’ve replayed that?

Not the falling.

The choosing.

That bit.

You chose me.

Me.

After everything

they’d told you.

After everything

I’d done.

Whole choirs

singing about goodness

and light

and whatever else,

and you still looked at all of it

and said,

him.

I think that ruined me

more than Hell ever did.

Because once someone

falls from Heaven for you,

you start believing

they can’t possibly

leave.

Where would they go?

That sounds terrible

written down.

It sounded quite reasonable

in my head.

Most things do.

*

And yes.

Her.

I know.

We’re getting there.

You always hated

when I took too long

to get to the point.

She was gorgeous.

There.

You wanted honesty.

Not beautiful like you.

Different.

You had that annoying kind

of beauty

that made people quieter.

She made people louder.

Millions of men

watching her

through their phones,

telling her what they’d do,

what they’d pay,

what they’d give up

for ten minutes

in a locked room.

She liked being wanted.

I liked that she liked it.

She had one of those ring lights

that makes everyone

look half-divine.

I thought that was funny.

She called herself

a goddess.

I thought that was

even funnier.

So I messaged her.

Not because

I wanted her.

Well.

Obviously I wanted her.

But that wasn’t

the interesting part.

Everyone wanted her.

I wanted to know

if I could make her

want me more.

There’s a difference.

Not a good one.

But there is.

*

I told her

all the usual things.

That vanity

was confidence.

That greed

was ambition.

That lust

was honesty.

That jealousy

just meant

you cared.

That anger

was strength.

That wanting more

was proof

you were alive.

People will forgive

almost any sin

if you rename it nicely.

She was easy.

That sounds cruel.

She wasn’t stupid.

That’s not what I mean.

Actually,

maybe it is.

No.

She was lonely.

That’s probably closer.

Lonely people

are easy to convince

that being wanted

is the same thing

as being loved.

I should know.

*

Did I corrupt her?

You keep using that word.

I gave her choices.

She made them.

I offered her beauty

that wouldn’t fade.

Attention

that wouldn’t stop.

A body

that time couldn’t touch.

She wanted all of it.

So I gave it to her.

There were consequences.

There are always consequences.

Nobody reads that bit.

You know that.

You didn’t either.

She changed.

Of course she did.

Everyone changes

when they get exactly

what they thought they wanted.

She got colder.

Hungrier.

Meaner.

Less human.

Eventually

she stopped pretending.

So yes,

she became a demon.

But don’t look at me

like that.

She chose.

You chose.

Everyone chooses.

That’s the lovely thing

about choice.

You can blame people

for almost anything

afterwards.

*

You asked

why I fucked her.

Fine.

There.

You wanted the ugly word.

I fucked her.

Happy?

No.

Of course not.

Neither am I.

Not really.

She was good.

You probably don’t want

that detail.

I don’t know why

I wrote it.

Maybe because part of me

still thinks honesty

earns points.

It doesn’t.

I’m learning.

She knew what she was doing.

She knew exactly

how to look at someone

and make them feel

like the only man alive.

Which,

considering there were

several million men

paying monthly

for roughly the same illusion,

was impressive.

I liked that.

I liked being the one

she didn’t charge.

Jesus.

That’s awful.

Leave it in.

You wanted the truth.

*

It meant nothing.

I know.

You hate that too.

But it didn’t.

That’s the stupid part.

I didn’t love her.

I didn’t want

a life with her.

I didn’t picture

eternity beside her.

I didn’t think

about her when I woke up.

I didn’t know

how she took her coffee.

I didn’t know

what frightened her.

I didn’t know

what she sounded like

when she was ill.

I knew you.

And I still did it.

You said

that made it worse.

At the time,

I thought that was ridiculous.

Surely if she meant nothing,

then there was nothing

to be jealous of.

That was my argument.

Quite proud of it, actually.

Then you said,

“So you destroyed us

for nothing?”

And I didn’t have

a clever answer.

I hated you

for about five seconds

for asking it.

That’s another thing

I’m sorry for.

Probably.

*

I thought

you’d forgive me.

There.

That’s the bit

you really want.

I did.

I thought you’d scream.

Throw something.

Hit me, maybe.

Then cry.

Then I’d say

something beautiful.

You always liked

when I said something beautiful.

And eventually

you’d come back to bed.

Because where else

were you going to go?

There.

That’s it.

That’s the thing

you’ve been trying

to make me say.

I didn’t think

you could leave.

Not really.

You’d already lost Heaven.

Earth was never

going to take you back.

Hell knew you

as mine.

My angel.

My fallen girl.

My—

You hated that word.

Mine.

I thought it was romantic.

I thought forever

meant belonging.

I still sort of do.

That’s probably

not helping.

*

You didn’t scream.

That was worse.

You just looked at me.

I kept talking.

Of course I did.

I explained context.

Circumstances.

Human weakness,

which was funny

because neither of us

was human.

I said

it had been one night.

I said

she meant nothing.

I said

you knew what I was.

I said

I never promised

to be good.

I said

you chose me anyway.

You just kept looking at me.

Then you said,

“I fell for you.

You made sure

I stayed fallen.”

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because I didn’t know

what else to do.

Then I told you

that wasn’t technically true.

You jumped.

I didn’t push.

That’s what I said.

Can you imagine?

You were breaking

in front of me

and I was arguing

about verbs.

*

You went back

to Heaven.

Or tried to.

I followed.

Obviously.

You stood at the gates

with black wings

and no shoes.

I remember that.

Your feet were bleeding.

I remember thinking

you’d ruin the floor.

That’s the kind of man

I am.

Apparently.

You knocked.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

And for one horrible second

I nearly said,

See?

I told you.

I nearly used

your grief

to win an argument.

I didn’t.

I want credit for that.

I know I shouldn’t.

But I do.

*

You cried.

I’d seen you cry before.

This was different.

You looked like someone

who had finally understood

the price

after the shop had closed.

And I stood behind you

thinking,

come back.

Not because

I understood.

Not then.

Because I couldn’t bear

the idea

of you having nowhere

and still not choosing me.

That was new.

I’d always thought

if I became

the only door left open,

eventually you’d walk through.

You didn’t.

You sat outside Heaven

until the light changed.

Then you stood up

and walked past me.

Didn’t say a word.

That silence

did more damage

than God ever managed.

*

You’re different now.

I know that sounds

like blame.

Maybe it is.

Your wings are darker.

You don’t laugh much.

You hurt people now.

Sometimes for fun.

I’ve seen it.

You’ve become cruel.

You’ve become

good at cruelty.

And every time

someone says

you’re becoming like me,

you look at me

as if you’d rather

tear your own skin off.

Part of me hates that.

Part of me—

No.

I’m not writing that.

Actually,

fuck it.

Part of me

likes it.

There.

Happy?

Part of me likes

that you’re darker now.

Because if you become

something like me,

then maybe what I did

wasn’t destruction.

Maybe it was revelation.

Maybe you were always

capable of this.

Maybe I didn’t ruin you.

Maybe I just—

No.

That’s bullshit.

Even I can hear it.

*

You said once

that I never loved you.

That I loved

being chosen.

I told you

there wasn’t a difference.

You looked at me

like I’d finally confessed.

Maybe I had.

Because I loved

your sacrifice.

I loved

that Heaven lost

and I won.

I loved knowing

you had somewhere perfect

and still picked me.

I loved

that you had nowhere

higher to go

after that.

That’s not love,

is it?

Don’t answer.

I know

what you’d say.

*

I keep trying

to find the right sin.

Lust sounds obvious.

Too obvious.

Greed maybe.

Envy.

Wrath.

Gluttony.

Pride.

All of them,

probably.

People like categories.

Makes evil easier

to shelve.

The truth is

I wanted everything.

I wanted you.

I wanted her.

I wanted Heaven

to know you chose me.

I wanted Hell

to know you were mine.

I wanted strangers

to want what I had.

I wanted you

to forgive me

before I’d even finished

hurting you.

I wanted

to do whatever I liked

and still come home

to someone

who called that love.

That’s probably

the whole thing.

Not very philosophical

when you put it like that.

*

You used to say

love should make people

more free.

I thought that was

one of those things

good people say

because they’ve never

actually loved anyone.

Love makes you terrified.

Love makes you count

how long someone takes

to reply.

Love makes you notice

who looks at them.

Love makes you want

to lock every door

and call it safety.

At least

that’s what I thought.

Maybe that wasn’t love.

Maybe that was just me.

That sentence

makes me feel sick.

So naturally

I don’t trust it.

*

You hate me now.

Properly.

I can see it.

Sometimes

you walk past me

and don’t even look.

That’s worse

than when you used to scream.

At least screaming

meant I was still

inside your head.

Now I’m not sure.

You’re becoming

something else.

Not an angel.

Not quite a demon

like the others.

Something angrier.

Something I don’t

have a name for.

Maybe that’s my fault.

Maybe I took someone

who loved beautifully

and taught her

how useful hatred can be.

I don’t know

if that was always

what I wanted.

That’s the truth.

I genuinely don’t know.

Maybe some part of me

saw you standing

in all that light

and thought,

I wonder

if I can put it out.

Maybe some part of me

called that love.

*

I’ve been told

an apology

is supposed to end

with change.

Something hopeful.

A promise.

So here.

I understand now.

Love is not ownership.

Love is not

someone losing Heaven

and you keeping

the receipt.

Love is not

making yourself

the only place left

and calling it loyalty.

Love is not

being chosen once

and treating that

like a lifetime contract.

I know that.

I do.

So go.

I mean it.

Go wherever you want.

Fuck whoever you want.

Love someone else

if you can.

I won’t follow you.

I won’t ask

where you sleep.

I won’t ask

who makes you laugh now.

I won’t ask

whether you still wear

the silver chain

around your ankle.

I won’t ask

whether you think of me

when someone touches

your wings.

I won’t ask

if you still hate me.

I won’t ask

if there’s anything left

of the woman

who fell.

I won’t ask

if some tiny part of you

still belongs—

No.

See?

I nearly did it again.

My love,

I’m learning.

Yours always,

mine.


r/creativewriting • • 6h ago

Poetry THE PHILOSOPHER'S KNICKERS

1 Upvotes

I've read an awful lot of books by men who seem terribly certain about how one ought to live.

Virtue. Reason. The pursuit of happiness.

Hundreds of pages.

Not one of them explains what you're supposed to say when a handsome man takes off his breeches and you discover he's been making promises his cock can't possibly keep.

Plato would probably call it an imperfect form.

Aristotle would fetch a ruler.

I'd quite like to know whether I'm expected to look impressed.

I mentioned this to Joan.

She laughed so hard she nearly choked on her wine.

Then she asked why I insist on thinking about philosophy when I ought to be enjoying myself.

I told her I can do two things at once.

She said that was rather more than could be said for most of the men she'd met.

I couldn't argue with that.

Last Thursday I found myself explaining the difference between pleasure and happiness while a gentleman was kissing my neck.

He stopped.

Looked at me.

And asked whether I ever shut my bloody mouth.

I told him that was a rather rude way to address an educated woman.

He kissed me again.

And, well.

Perhaps Aristotle wasn't right about everything.

Joan says I'm going to get myself into trouble.

Father says books have filled my head with dangerous ideas.

Neither of them knows the half of it.

Though I do wonder what Father would say if he discovered I've been studying the Greeks with my skirts round my waist.

Probably something about bringing shame upon the family.

Which seems unfair.

I've learnt more about human nature in one afternoon with my knickers on the floor than I have from three hundred pages of men telling me what virtue looks like.

And I rather suspect Plato would have enjoyed himself more if he'd occasionally put his bloody book down.


r/creativewriting • • 6h ago

Poetry A GOOD ROMAN

1 Upvotes

i've always loved the republic.

i loved it under caesar. i loved it when they stabbed him. i loved it under antony.

and when octavian won, well, i wasn't going to stop loving it then.

a man's got to have principles.

mine have survived five commanders, three civil wars, a particularly difficult widow and an unfortunate business with a goat.

the goat was political.

that's all i'm saying.

we crossed the rubicon to save rome.

someone asked why saving rome involved marching an army against it.

our centurion said rome wasn't a place.

it was an idea.

brilliant, really.

you can kill almost anyone for an idea.

anyway.

later they gave me a list.

names. addresses. how much each man was worth.

i recognised one of them.

he'd fed our company once when we were short of supplies.

his wine was dreadful.

honestly, i don't know how he drank it.

he offered me money to let him go.

i said no.

i'm not that sort of man.

he offered more.

well.

there's no harm in hearing a man out.

but then i remembered my honour and told him to stop.

he asked if he could go inside and fetch his sandals.

i said yes.

didn't see the harm in it.

when he came back he'd put them on the wrong feet.

i nearly told him.

funny, isn't it?

i can still picture those sandals.

the worn leather. one strap hanging loose. his toes sticking out.

i remember thinking he'd be uncomfortable walking in those.

as if he was going somewhere.

as if it mattered.

strange, the things that stay with you.

i remember his sandals.

i remember the wine.

i remember exactly how much money he offered.

but his name?

no.

can't remember that at all.