btranwrites

[btranwrites]

He smelled like a stone after centuries of rain, all the rough, biting edges worn down over time into something you couldn't help but to run your fingers across, over and over, marveling at the little miracle of softness where one wouldn't expect.

[btranwrites]

Wesley is eager to show his new girlfriend to his parents, but can't stop feeling like something's wrong.

His parents had high standards, after all. But what were they? Somewhere within, Wesley felt a fleeting ghost of a worry, a whisper that he was missing something important. But its fingers were weak and limp, barely applying the weakest pressure on his throat, enough to hitch his breath for but a second, not quite strong enough for him to stop, for him to hang onto, for him to stop and scream for what was missing. Huh. No need to be so dramatic. Why stress over nothing? He was young, plenty of fish in the sea. He’d just got to find someone good enough, someone right, someone with a correct checklist. What else was he supposed to want from a partner?

Finally finished another chapter of Liam An, my ongoing novella that mixes superheroes with Lovecraftian horror. Last chapter, Liam, the protagonist, threw a drag party to draw in the potential culprit behind mysterious cases of missing people who lost memories, and ran into Wesley, his ex. However, it seems like Wesley does not remember their relationship, or even the fact that Liam, and Wesley himself, are gay.

Full chapter under the cut, or read on my website!

Liam An 4: Ill Correction

Intro post Chapter 1: Executive Intervention Chapter 2: Hall Business Chapter 3: Trench Complications

I.

Yeah the guy was cute, sure, but come on. How could Adrianna not see this coming? How did she miss this? She poked at a pea on her plate, chasing it around with the fork as she racked her brains for the signs she could have missed. He was polite, appropriately flirtatious, though maybe a little stilted at times, but overall he seemed like a functioning adult man?

“This crazy thing happened that night at the bar, you won’t believe this mum,” Wesley, the adult man in question, still had a lot to go through, apparently. “I ran into this dude, Liam, used to know him. Absolutely crazy, flinging shit around and shouting and all, but it didn’t matter, because she texted me back!” Adrianna shot her head up and looked over; finally, he noticed her—oh. Never mind, already back to talking with mum. “I was elated, mum! Couldn’t believe it. Right away I—”

Adrianna doubted it even mattered she said anything or not; the past half hour was torturous. How long did dinners usually last? An hour? Two? Maybe if she was less desperate, she could have realised that being invited to a ‘cool and chill’ dinner with the parents at the family home after two weeks was a very glaring sign. Meeting the parents often meant the whole night, but that was the more serious type of parent-meeting. Right? Maybe this ‘chill’ one could do with an hour and a half? Would she need to climb out a window? Break her ankle? It was honestly tempting.

And to think she thought it was cute, that it couldn’t be this bad, not everyone grew distant from their parents, close ties with family could be a green flag, and oh god, she could just hear the group chats having a fantastic time flaying her ass until dawn tonight.

“—watched it, yes! Starlight is a very good cinema! Drinks were a little pricey, but there were—”

The mum—her white hair was gorgeous, honestly—was listening to her son with stars in her eyes, chin in one hand, fork in the other, her plate basically untouched, her attention devoted to her son regaling his apparently rapturous dates with Adrianna. Classic red plaid table cloth, maximalist plates and silverware, the white vase with sunflowers on the mid-century cabinets at the back… Fine, Adrianna could imagine the two of them framed in a very sweet, aww-inducing painting, and fine, maybe Adrianna wasn’t that close with her own parents, maybe her parents weren’t invested enough in her life, but was there not a more appropriate time and place for a conversation like this? You know, not in front of the date? Hello?

“—We did check out the park! Nice and sunny, just a little breezy—”

Maybe she could retry a chat with the dad?

He was sitting across the table from her, still deathly quiet. Eyes still daggers ready for blood. Still looking like she trampled over the family graves or something heinous, who even knew. Definitely not Adrianna.

She tried a sweet smile.

The daggers sharpened.

Or not.

Adrianna ducked her head and chased the pea with her fork again. Slip sliding around the plate all wet, slathered in salad dressing. At least it was having a better time than she was.

***

Wesley turned off the music from the car radio on the drive by himself back home. He wanted some silence to think.

He didn’t blame Adrianna for not wanting to meet again, not really. Disappointed, yes; it had been two weeks, after all, and he was excited to show her to his parents, but he didn’t blame her, not for how cold dad was. Mum was enthusiastic, but why did dad not like her that much? An office job doing things with computers, so it wasn’t like she was a partying, unemployed gold digger or anything.

Oh she could party alright, but still, she was presentable tonight, no? She didn’t show too much skin or whatever. Not that Wesley would complain. Or that he had anything to complain about her. Nice breasts, slim waist, long flowing hair, she checked everything on the list. Nothing was wrong.

Or was there? He grunted. His parents had high standards, after all. But what were they? Somewhere within, Wesley felt a fleeting ghost of a worry, a whisper that he was missing something important. But its fingers were weak and limp, barely applying the weakest pressure on his throat, enough to hitch his breath for but a second, not quite strong enough for him to stop, for him to hang onto, for him to stop and scream for what was missing.

Huh. No need to be so dramatic. Why stress over nothing? He was young, plenty of fish in the sea. He’d just got to find someone good enough, someone right, someone with a correct checklist.

What else was he supposed to want from a partner?

II.

Brett fiddled over some notebooks from the side table, heaping a couple onto his lap, flipping over them as though he was looking for specific pages, gauging the vibe from his peripheral vision in the most uncomfortable armchair in the history of psychotherapist armchairs. Those wooden yet cushioned creatures—such a paradoxical existence—would have to do a lot of heavy lifting to make a room like this more comfortable, more breathable, no matter how well-ventilated and filled with sunlight and calming décor it was; not with clients looking like these.

Their platinum hair was lush, expertly styled, effortlessly crowning bright, wizened faces with but a few wrinkles, and only the fashionable ones. And clothing? Dark, of immaculate, no doubt premium textiles that warmed the body but fenced the soul, guarding intimacy only for a select few. If Alan was still here, Brett would have joined him in casting them as some sort of middle-class extras, ones that exuded the arrogant comfort only afforded by a lifetime unsoiled by hard work but undoubtedly stilted by decorum and etiquette.

He chastised himself; that was unfair. Hardships come in different shades, plaguing hearts and minds across class and generational divides. They were in his office, after all, and not even looking at each other. Joshua Flament was drilling a hole in the left wall with his gaze, and Mary Atkinson’s frown was setting ablaze the window behind Brett.

He stole a glance at the tealight candle burning patiently on the cabinet next to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall to his right.

Its reflection darkened, the lighting and colour dropping a shade colder.

His heart skipped a beat. He’s here.

Brett didn’t know why the Man in the Mirror was interested in these two. Letting him watch what was going to unfold was obviously not ethical, but when presented with the choice Brett found it wasn’t even a dilemma for him. Alan was worth any price.

Right, time to get this started. Brett picked a sheet from a notebook like he found what he was looking for, grabbed a pen, and clicked it. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. and Mrs. Flament. I understand you came with concerns for your son Wesley, who’s not here today. What’s troubling you?”

Joshua pried his eyes from the wall and threw their gaze at his wife. Mary stopped burning the world outside the window with her mind and glared at her husband, who rolled his eyes and turned to Brett. “Our son is seeing a woman.”

“Which is a great thing!” Mary exclaimed. “It’s a divine miracle—”

“It is not!” Joshua turned to Brett. “He came out to us as gay ten years ago, and—”

“And I told you then, which you agreed with me back then as well by the way, that it was a phase!” Brett managed a straight face when Mary looked back at him. “I keep telling him he’s upset for no reason. I prayed for our son’s salvation every single day since, and finally, God rewarded His faithful.”

Joshua looked offended. “Did you even mean it when you told him you love him? Was it through gritted teeth and crossed fingers? Christ, Mary!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I do! Love the sinner, not the sin. God works in mysterious ways, and he tested our faith over this difficult decade. You should be more grateful, Josh, and not insult His grace by wasting time and money on…” She looked around his office and somehow managed to bypass him completely, fingers vaguely feeling for something foul in the air. “On whatever this is.”

Wow. Like Brett wasn’t even there at all.

“This is our son, and I thought you would want to be more involved in having a professional opinion on our son’s wellbeing.”

“Should have been more steadfast in your faith instead, Josh.”

“Why did you even agree to go with me, then?”

Mary spared Brett a glance, then back at her husband. “I don’t agree with you. Our son is fine, he’s recovering. But if this will let you sleep soundly, then a few hours are okay to pass.”

Joshua rubbed his face, almost pleading, before giving up and turned back to Brett. “Our son came out to us way back when. It took us, or me at least,” he cast another accusing glance at his wife, who rolled her eyes again, “a few difficult years to come to terms with it, to learn and to understand. Now he’s acting like he was never into men at all.”

Mary shrugged. “Or he came to his senses and realised he actually does like women.”

“That’s absolutely not what happened Mary! Can you imagine the boy not even recognising the name Liam? ‘Oh the guy I used to go to college with, what about him?’ That Liam wasn’t just ‘some guy;’ we spent years trying to… trying to break them apart, Brett. And breaking our boy in the process. And realising how much I was hurting him.

“Now he scrunches his face at the name like something offensive… something disgusting. Like the face I must have made when he first brought up the notion that he’d prefer the company of men to women. Like when… like when I was still yelling at him. God, I was not a good dad, but… partying all night? Picking up girls at bars like a sleazy, uneducated brute? Even graduate Wesley was not that much of an excuse of a man. It would be one thing for him to come out as bisexual, but this… this acting like he was never gay to begin with, is him back in the closet, or even something worse.”

Mary waved a hand. “Why does it even matter, Josh? He was happy with the girl, isn’t that what’s important?”

“Was he, Mary? Was he? He didn’t even look at her that night, he was talking to you. Reporting every minutiae on how much of a lady-killer he was being. What if he got into a cult? What if she got him into a cult and brainwashed him?” Joshua looked at him. “How do I know my son was not brainwashed? I… I don’t know what my son is going through. How do I know if he’s OK?”

Brett rushed in the last few words of his furious scribbling onto his notes and put down his pen. At the periphery of his vision, the darkening had departed from the mirror, and so did the candle flame, a wisp of smoke rising from its wick. There had been no wind; the window was closed.

His work was satisfactory.

“Why are you smiling?” Joshua asked, frowning.

Brett looked back at the elderly man. “Ah, I’m always happy to see parents caring this much about their children. I myself don’t have that,” he didn’t bother looking at Mary; she wasn’t interested, and he doubted she’d be returning anyway. “It does sound concerning for your son, and there’s a lot to go through there. Let’s start, shall we?”

***

That evening, when the sun had set completely, no light adorned that same room except for candle flames, dancing gently by the dozens on the windowsill, on the desk, and the cabinets.

Brett lit the last of the candles and stood before the mirror. It was like looking down at a lake from a dock after nightfall. Lanterns only lit your path on land; their light breached not the domain of the deep, not strong enough to assure you nothing was staring back.

His work was satisfactory, Brett told himself. There was nothing to worry about. He put down the lighter, took a deep breath, and said to the empty room where sunlight had forsaken, “Mirror Man, Mirror Man, come to my mirror, Mirror Man.”

In the mirror, the candle flames winked away into the darkness. If it was like a lake before, then the lakebed had collapsed into an abyss. Its surface rippled, not like from a sudden breeze, but from undercurrents, of something moving, emerging. Then a shape of a man formed in the mirror before Brett, wearing an immaculately fitting tailored suit as black as the deepest night, and a tie as red as the finest wine. Shadows concealed his face, but where his eyes should be the candles once again danced, twin pinpricks of lanterns, of crackling promises.

Brett cast his head down; he did not dare look into those eyes for too long. “Thank you for coming, Man in the Mirror. I hope I did well this morning?”

A rumbling voice replied. “You did. I have what I needed. Payment was satisfactory.” There was a pause; a pressure Brett did not realise was on him lifted. “Seeing you called me here, I assume this is where you wish my service rendered?”

Brett lifted his head. The candle eyes returned their gaze on him, and the pressure returned. But the deep did not feel cold or biting. It was warm, comfortable. Safe. “Yes… I…” He struggled with sudden need, eyes again yanked downward. “I want to remember. Our first night.”

“That can be arranged. Is that what you desire as completion for our transaction, Brett Crawford?”

It was the easiest answer. “Yes.”

“Then when you are ready to conclude business, Brett Crawford, look into my eyes.”

He took a breath and looked up again. The instant his eyes met the pinpricks of candles, his mind fell forward. It rushed past the horrid flashes of the last night at the hospital, past the night of the accident, past the many anniversaries, the many fights and the many laughs, to the first months… the first night.

The onslaught was over the moment it started, and once again Brett was back in his office. Half the candles had whisked away, the rest casting frantic shadow tendrils on the walls, flinging to a silent tune of manic ecstasy.

Before him stood the Man in the Mirror in the flesh, but he wasn’t in the suit and tie as he was in the mirror. Perhaps it was the play of shadows and candlelight, but to Brett he had on the exact button up and jeans that Alan wore that night, when Brett was staying late for work and Alan offered to bring over dinner. They had just been seeing each other for a few weeks, and it was such a sweet gesture, and he smelled so good then, like spice, like tobacco, like fragrant sweat and immense tang and exactly like what his nose was savouring here and now.

Brett gripped the ledge of the desk like a lifeline. His booming heart commanded him to step forward, but his feet were leadened with fear, fear of somehow shattering the candlelit dream before him. But the dream, oh it did not shatter, it took his trembling hand and placed it on that chest. There under his palm Brett felt the right fabric, the right warmth and hardness, drowning in the right scent, his head swimming in all the ways the light and shadow caressed the little he could see of the face before him being so right, so correct.

“You’re not him, I know you’re not,” his voice broke, “but oh God, I want to believe.”

Warm breath breezed through his lips, tasting like the red Alan brought that night. Shimmering eyes held his gaze. “Tonight, you are allowed to. Tonight, I am not the ghost from the mirror. Tonight, Brett Crawford, history is just a bad dream. Tonight, forget what hurt and remember what didn’t. Tonight, Brett, call me Alan.”

“Alan,” he let go of the ledge and leaped into an open embrace, landing on warm cotton and cologne that were very much still there, very much did not vanish. “Alan. Oh God, I miss you so much.”

Large tender hands held his face, fingers and lips burrowing through his hair, dragging burning wetness down across his forehead, his cheek, and nestled in his ear, imparting soft murmurs like oak, like honey, like crackling lantern flames promising the moon itself, in a voice not from the mirror, but the voice robbed from him for many years too long.

Alan told him, “I am here, love. And I missed you, too.”

III.

Wesley was huffing and puffing his way down the stairs to the gym’s showers in the basement, furious. Weights and sweats were supposed to let off steam, but an hour of strenuous work later he was just more pissed off. Why were there so many people? Especially the guys. Yeah yeah, they were buff, they were good-looking, they lifted heavy, they were huge, he got it, got it loud and clear, now could they not get off his face?

Not that they were rude or anything; they were perfectly polite, courteous even, but Wesley was still pissed for some reason. All this lifting didn’t make him any less agitated, just made it worse.

What a waste of time. At least the showers were downstairs so he could walk away for a bit.

Wesley spun around the corner of the exposed concrete of the stair rails, and almost ran into a half-naked man if he didn’t catch himself.

Or not.

“Woah there, buddy!” The annoyingly smiley man said, built like a brick wall, because of fucking course he was; there was just a towel loosely hanging onto a very slim waist, underlining a very defined stomach, and Wesley doubted the guy would even mind if it dropped.

Of course Wesley would mind! God, why was he so irritated?

The guy raised his palms defensively, backing off; Wesley realised then he was glaring murder at him. “Good evening,” the man hesitantly nodded, looking apprehensive at Wesley’s frown, and walked off to the drawers.

Wesley sighed, frustrated, mostly with himself now. The gym wasn’t a strange territory to him, seeing sweaty half-naked men there wasn’t new to him. Why had the past few weeks been so weird? Liam turning out to be a fag out of nowhere, Adrianna dropping him, failing his parents again… It was like something tectonic shifted beneath his feet, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what went out of place, or missing.

He stripped in the thankfully empty locker room, trying to calm his breath by focusing on the scents of air freshener and sports shampoo, the sterile white tiles, the straight cut wood panels, all clean and orderly and correct and maddening. He wrapped on a towel and left for the showers. Christ, maybe he could look up those hippy places where you could go smash stuff?

He stopped by the sink, catching his half-naked reflection, tiny in the yawning, massive minimalist mirror. Wesley was sweaty, like the lot of the men upstairs, though obviously not as big or built; he didn’t look too bad himself, but hold on. Why was he breathing so hard? Almost hyperventilating?

Wesley felt like nails were scratching from the inside of his chest, like he should be feeling something, but he didn’t know what.

What was wrong with him? What was missing?

The lights went out in the bathroom.

Not all of them did, but enough that darkness undraped around him. There were no commotions he could hear above, so surely this was just an electrical fault, nothing to worry about. But Wesley’s eyes locked in on the mirror, now like a vast still lake, at the somehow still illuminated but shadow-shrouded, naked reflection that seemed to fray at the edges before him. It had to be his own—it was a mirror after all—but the man in the mirror had the size he didn’t have, with muscular definition that rippled and mesmerised and Wesley thought of Liam.

He thought of Liam, he thought of Liam naked, of Liam under him, on top of him, of whispers and touches that clawed and burned. He gasped, clutching at his head, but the images blackened his vision with nauseating memories he did not have, laughs he did not remember, Liam in his arms, face buried in the nape of his neck, wet hot tears and choking sobs and wracking, retching guilt, oh God they are my parents, Liam, I cannot do this, I’m sorry, you will find someone else, I will miss you, and that voice, oh that voice.

That voice, telling him he will miss him too.

A voice so alien yet so familiar, a forgotten comfort, something engrooved by the weight of years then ripped out and discarded, only rust marks left behind. It was a younger voice, one Wesley heard just a few weeks back older, more matured, more hardened in the alley at the back of that stupid bar, a voice laced with anger and hurt, asking him, accusing him, what were they?

What were they, Wesley?

They were friends, what else could they be?

But the nails inside his chest must have drawn blood, because there was pain, but also sorrow, so much sorrow, so much of it that he could not understand what for. Wesley clung onto the edge of the sink, but lost grip, knees planting on the tiled floor. Bleary eyes showed him phantoms: the lights were gone, but the reflection in the mirror above him still stood tall, flickering as though lit by house fires; a reflection of a man, eyes of smouldering crimson flames glaring down at him.

A naked, beautiful man.

A naked, beautiful Liam.

Wesley did not know how he could possibly have known; after all, he'd never seen Liam naked now, did he? But that chest, that body screamed familiar. It screamed at him, and Wesley too wanted to scream back not in recognition, but that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, something bad, a horrible, ill thing to be corrected away, but those crimson eyes were relentless, blazing past the terror and demand to be right and correct and slammed straight into his heart.

It thumped.

Wesley clutched at his chest. In the split-second ringing of that drumbeat within, he understood what had been missing.

Adrianna checked the list, Adrianna was correct, the way he was corrected. From what, he could not remember, but his bones ached in the hollowness left behind, the lack of something primal, something essential, the absence of histories erased, of decades washed away.

In that heartbeat, there were no lists to check. In that heartbeat there was only a swansong of want. It was not right. It was not correct. But it rang like thunder.

It rang true.

Somewhere within, a tripwire snapped. Pain seared through him like fire, and nothing else registered. Wesley again remembered nothing, nothing but blinding, all-consuming rage.

IV.

Fuck! That did not get through to him! Inside the Glasslit Void, Liam discarded the illusion of his naked body off his Shard Reaper body suit and jumped through the mirror, landing on the tiled floor of the gym bathroom. Wesley was writhing on the floor, screams mixing up with choked cries as his body contorted in on itself.

“Wesley!” Liam rushed over and knelt down, reaching for his mind. It was a frantic, incoherent mess, and the heart he managed to pry open was a dwindling inferno. The lights flickered hard; shadows fought over their dimming brightness. Show was over; this was no longer necessary. He willed the darkness back to the Void.

The darkness did not respond.

Wesley was crying out, but it was a bestial sound. Black shards flipped in and out throughout his body, shadows coalescing around him, alien, shining black tendrils squirming over themselves, rushing towards his chest where the fire was fading. Liam strained his will, commanding the shadows back.

They did not budge.

These were not his darkness. These came from elsewhere.

“Wesley, Wesley,” Liam tried. “Remember! Hold on to it! Do not let go—”

The flame inside Wesley snuffed out. A shockwave blasted from the core of the once-again vanquished man, pushing Liam back.

All the ruckus must have been loud enough, because there were heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs. Liam snapped his neck back to catch two guys with only towels on, three others still in their workout clothes shining fresh sheens of sweat, barging into the carnage he was now in the middle of.

He shouted. “Evacuate now! This is Hall business!”

They looked behind him, eyes widened, and ran back out.

Liam looked back. Before him, whimpering, in a form that was barely human, was an amalgamation of blackened, writhing glass shards that frayed into nasty fibrils and coiled back into themselves by the second. Gelled black ink bled from the shifting cracks, and in the ashes of the extinguished radiance in his chest, a crucifix of rusting nails jammed through his heart.

That did not look good.

Ending on bad terms or not, it pained him to see anyone like this.

Liam tapped the side of his head. “Jamie, do you copy?”

His earpiece replied. “Roger, Shard Reaper. Status report?”

“I’ve located Wesley Flament. He is… unresponsive, potentially turning hostile. Request backup on standby. We’re at Palm Bay Gym, Eastcourt.”

“Any civilians?”

“Yes, it’s quite busy. I’ve told them to evacuate, trying to control the target now.”

The Wesley-formed bundle of shifting shards and fibrils and bleeding, fraying black goo rose up. It turned around, hungry, empty eye sockets stared at him, the same pits that stared him into paralysis behind the Trench a few weeks back, now simmering with rage.

Liam hurried. “Actually, dispatch backup ASAP. This is looking nasty.”

The Wesley-thing roared and sprinted at him. With mirrored spikes, holy fuck.

“Reaper! What’s happening?”

He shouted, “Jamie, get help here now!” and ducked to the side.

Wesley-Thing slammed head-first into the mirrored wall. Glass smashed against glass, a thousand splinters spraying all over the pristine bathroom. Liam pounded the steps up the stairs back to the gym ground floor.

Gym bros, jocks, men in tight-fitting shirts and shorts looked at him, their faces in various stages of concern and uncertainty, but apparently not enough to forfeit their lifting session for the night.

He shouted. “Why are you all still here?! Hall of Heroes containment in progress! Evacuate now!”

Some stood up and started leisurely packing away their stuff. The rest went back to their sets.

Jesus Christ. Liam took a deep breath, gathered his will, and in a snap plunged the entire gym floor into heavy shadow except for emergency lights, which brightened like miniature lighthouses in a sudden storm. Then with a massive psychic blast, the Shard Reaper unleashed visions of spiders, snakes, all manners of creepy crawlers, indeterminate contorting screaming faces flooding the vision and mind of everyone. His voice boomed, “LEAVE. NOW.”

And now there were screams and running, people finally scrambling off benches, machines and racks. Thank you.

Wesley-Thing pounded up the stairs, roaring; more people screamed, everyone picking up their pace dashing for the exit. The dimness did not deter the Thing’s vision; its head locked in on Liam immediately and started sprinting.

He jumped into a mirror and out the other side of the gym floor.

The Thing corrected its course, and charged at him again.

The Shard Reaper was not a fighter; Liam used his mind to intimidate, manipulate, and quite often seduce his way to his objectives. His muscles were just for show, and the only pounding he was proficient in was not the physically violent type; that he left for other Heroes of the Hall. Now there was an inhuman thing in the vague shape of his first love charging at him at full-speed, and the violent pounders of the Hall had yet to show their faces.

He could just fuck off to the Glasslit Void and wait it out, but that would risk Wesley-Thing turning its attention on the escaping gym goers.

Okay, this better work.

Liam backed away slowly. Wesley-Thing kept its charge, roaring all the way, all sunken eyes and a pit for mouth, grating shards shining a sickening darkness, coiling around the damn crucifix.

The rest of the gym goers had evacuated. When the Thing was a few paces away, he cut off the lights completely, and slipped into the sudden darkness.

The Thing hit empty air, and from the shadows Liam landed on its back. In one smooth motion, he wrapped his legs around its waist, spun around, and pinned it down on the floor, straddling on top.

Bedroom gymnastics had limited cross-disciplinary applications.

Before the Thing could get its bearing, Liam yanked the crucifix off its chest, drawing a sharp gasp. He threw it off the side, hitting the carpeted floor with a thud, and withdrew the darkness from the lights. In artificial dawn, whimpering underneath him was Wesley, eyes red and wet.

“Liam?”

Oh thank god. “Wesley? Wesley, can you hear me?”

A trembling hand reached for him. Wesley’s face crumbled as he sobbed. “Please help. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Liam caught the hand with both of his. “We will, I promise we will, okay? Help is coming. The Hall will be here soon, and we will—”

Red wet eyes collapsed back into hungry pits. Trembling lips slit open wide, too wide, into a mad grin filled with pointed teeth that rolled over themselves like gears in a machine. “You thought it was that easy, didn’t you?”

Fuck! He gripped the Thing’s wrists. “What the fuck are you? What have you done to Wesley?”

“Hello to you too, Shard Reaper. Or should I say, Liam?”

He froze.

“Good thinking on the crucifix, but that’s more decorative than anything, sorry boo. And don’t worry, I’m not ratting you out, where’s the fun in that? I’m very keen on you, Reaper, and your mirrors. This is getting real interesting.”

The windows smashed in. Yellow Watch landed, wings spread wide knocking over benches and weights, shimmering hammer in his hand. Oathbearer rolled off his back, unsheathing her giant sword. The Eye of Magnus followed in from outside, the green halo radiating from his staff softening as he landed softly a few paces nearby. They started running over to him.

“Looks like our chat is unfortunately short,” the Thing said. “Lovely meeting you, Shard Reaper, we will meet again. I shall leave you a parting gift.”

“You are going nowhere—”

Wesley’s back jerked up with a sickening crack and a soul-wrenching cry. His eyes were human again, wide in utter terror, helpless when his neck snapped to the side, cutting short the scream.

His wrists in Liam’s hands went limp, too weak to hang on to what was missing, what was corrected away.

“Wesley? Wesley!”

[btranwrites]

i really like the advice “write marginalized characters but don’t write about marginalization unless you experience it” 

absolutely i think cis people should expand their horizons and write trans characters, but they shouldn’t write stories about being trans. likewise i think allistic / NT authors should write about autistic characters! but not stories about being autistic. 

represent us. absolutely. but don’t tell our stories. let us do that.

[btranwrites]

no more cold and calculating i want warm and calculating. i want characters who use deductive reasoning to figure out whether their friend would like a wool or cotton quilt based off of their lifestyle, career, hobbies, and habits. i want "your nails are often chipped because you work for a law firm as a typist for this company which notoriously underbudgets their IT department, so ive bought you a keyboard cover that will not only prevent manicure damage but is also sensory friendly because I know you dislike certain clicking noises". i want characters who figure out their friends entire schedules and social battery levels just by examining who only use that info to know when the best time is to hang out with them. i want characters who create elaborate, supervillain level schemes just to get their hands on some collectible they know their best friend wants. most of all i want characters who do not use intelligence and reasoning skills as a reason to be cruel but as a means to be kind

[btranwrites]

okay so someone on tumbler just informed me you can click on these two little cats

It gives you this notification on your activity which is adorable meow meow bitch

As a plus it gives these cute little notifications!

[btranwrites]

I want to write a book called “your character dies in the woods” that details all the pitfalls and dangers of being out on the road & in the wild for people without outdoors/wilderness experience bc I cannot keep reading narratives brush over life threatening conditions like nothing is happening.

I just read a book by one of my favorite authors whose plots are essentially airtight, but the MC was walking on a country road on a cold winter night and she was knocked down and fell into a drainage ditch covered in ice, broke through and got covered in icy mud and water.

Then she had a “miserable” 3 more miles to walk to the inn.

Babes she would not MAKE it to that inn.

[btranwrites]

Sooo Cait Corrain (that white author I exposed for review bombing a bunch of debut authors of color) came back with an exclusive tell-all in the Daily Beast insisting she is not racist and was actually in a state of psychosis induced by her ADHD meds.

I didn't even want to bother addressing this at first, but autism, ADHD, and mental health medications are already stigmatized enough without Cait claiming they could cause you to go on a racist rampage against your peers for MONTHS against your will. (And why is Matthew Perry getting dragged into this??)

I also thought this was a good opportunity to address the problem of white people being more motivated by the fear of being called "racist" than the desire to mitigate the harm of racism itself. It leads to this knee-jerk unproductive defensiveness when called out. You can't simply declare yourself "Not Racist." Many racial biases are unconscious and combating them requires an active effort to recognize and resist them. It's not enough to Not Hate whole races of people and not be going around hurling slurs. You have to be aware of the unequal racial dynamics at work in all aspects of society and how your actions may or may not reinforce them.

As always, please check out the books most affected:

Voyage of the Damned by Frances White

So Let Them Burn by Kamilah Cole

The Poisons We Drink by Bethany Baptise

To Gaze Upon Wicked Gods by Molly X Chang

Mistress of Lies by KM Enright

The Empire Wars by Akana Phenix

[btranwrites]

A Writer's Introduction

Alright, I've been posting short stories and things for a few weeks, and now that Halloween is over, I thought it was time to do a proper introduction.

Who Am I?

My name is Liam. I am a 30 year old, British writer, who is currently unpublished. I'm cisgender, go by He/Him pronouns but have no object to They/Them, I'm straight (as far as I'm currently aware) and have mild Dyspraxia. I primarily write novels, but also short stories. I have various projects in the works, some of which I will be posting here.

What Am I Writing?

Currently, my potential projects include almost a dozen story universes, but to be straightforward, here are my main projects.

Stitches of the Mind: I am working on a Psychological Horror/Crime Drama series of which I have three books written. The first two books focus on a series of murders, with events leaving the characters uncertain if elements they faced were paranormal in nature. Book Three is a soft reboot with a new cast, but does connect back to the first two books.

Signs of Light and Shadow: I am working on a fantasy adventure series focused on two sisters and their adventures across a mystical land. Less high fantasy, and more classical fantasy. More Last Unicorn or Dark Souls than Tolkien. (I bloody hope that comparison makes sense.) I have one book written, but judging by its size I'm going to break it up into a trilogy.

Tales of Hero City: A collection of superhero parody short stories all set in the titular Hero City. They started out from a few writing prompts and kind of evolved from there. I hope to one day release these as a whole collection in a single book.

What Will I Be Posting?

Random Short Stories

Tales of Hero City

Snippets of Novels

I'll mainly be posting short stories and other minor writing pieces I have lying around, or I suddenly write. However, I will also begin posting a selection of stories from my Tales of Hero City collection. I may also start posting snippets from my novels, but we'll have to wait and see.

Followers and Interaction

I am currently open to asks, reblogs, and general interaction. Reblogs especially would be appreciated, spreading the word. I'll of course discuss my projects, but I'll try and steer clear of spoilers where possible.

So, that's me. Hope to see you out there in the writer sphere of the internet.

[btranwrites]

I’m working on a concept for angels as a type of undead— human corpses animated by light.

They can’t see, having been blinded by the brightness of their transformation, and the illusion of wings comes from cuts down the length of their spine, allowing light to escape. Much like vampires, they maintain some semblance of their living personality, at least at first, and need to eat something special— in their case, the magic in the flesh of other undead creatures.

The setting I’m making them for sees them as a terrifying necessary evil in places where they’re plentiful, as they hunt worse threats, but they’re often misinterpreted as holy defenders in places where they’re scarce.

[btranwrites]

Just learned about garden path sentences.

They’re basically a literary prank– the sentence starts out in such a way that you think you know where it’s going, but the way it ends completely changes the meaning while still being a complete and logical sentence. Usually it deals with double meanings, or with words that can be multiple parts of speech, like nouns and verbs or nouns and adjectives.

So we get gems like

The old man the boat. (The old people are manning the boat)

The complex houses married and single soldiers and their families. (The apartment complex is home to both married and single soldiers, plus their families)

The prime number few. (People who are excellent are few in number.)

The cotton clothing is usually made of grows in Mississipi. (The cotton that clothing is made of)

The man who hunts ducks out on weekends. (As in he ducks out of his responsibilities)

We painted the wall with cracks. (The cracked wall is the one that was pained.)

[btranwrites]

Fanfiction Authors: HEADS UP

(Non-authors, please RB to signal boost to your author friends!)

An astute reader informed me this morning that one of my fics (Children of the Future Age) had been pirated and was being sold as a novel on Amazon:

(And they weren't even creative with their cover design. If you're going to pirate something that I spent a full year of my life writing, at least give me a pretty screenshot to brag about later. Seriously.)

I promptly filed a DMCA complaint to have it removed, but I checked out the company that put it up -- Plush Books -- and it looks like A LOT of their books are pirated fic. They are by no means the only ones doing this, either -- the fact that """publishers""" can download stories from AO3 in ebook format and then reupload them to Amazon in just a few clicks makes fic piracy a common problem. There are a whole host of reasons why letting this continue is bad -- including actual legal risk to fanfiction archives -- but basically:

IF YOU ARE A FANFIC AUTHOR WITH LONG AND/OR POPULAR WORKS, PLEASE CHECK AMAZON TO SEE IF YOUR STORIES HAVE BEEN PIRATED.

You can search for your fics by title, or by text from the description (which is often just copied wholesale from AO3 as well). If you find that someone has stolen your work and is selling it as their own, you can lodge a DMCA complaint (Amazon.com/USA site; other countries have different systems). If you haven't done this before, it's easy! Here's a tutorial:

HOW TO FILE A COPYRIGHT COMPLAINT FOR STOLEN WORK ON AMAZON.COM:

First, go to this form. You'll need to be signed into your Amazon account.

Select the radio buttons/dropdown options (shown below) to indicate that you are the legal Rights Owner, you have a copyright concern, and it is about a pirated product.

Enter the name of your story in the Name of Brand field.

In the Link to the Copyrighted Work box, enter a link to the story on AO3 or whatever site your work is posted on.

In the Additional Information box, explain that you are the author of the work and it is being sold without your permission. That's all you really need. If you want, you can include additional information that might be helpful in establishing the validity of your claim, but you don't have to go into great detail. You can simply write something like this:

I am the author of this work, which is being sold by [publisher] without my permission. I originally published this story in [date/year] on [name of site], and have provided a link to the original above. On request, I can provide documentation proving that I am the owner of the account that originally posted this story.

In the ASIN/ISBN-10 field, copy and paste the ID number from the pirated copy's URL. You'll find this ten-digit number in the Amazon URL after the word "product," as in the screenshot below. (If the URL extends beyond this number, you can ignore everything from the question mark on.) Once this number has been added, Amazon will pull the product information automatically and add it to the complaint form, so you can check the listing title and make sure it's correct.

Finally, add your contact information to the relevant fields, check the "I have read and accept the statements" box, and then click Submit. You should receive an email confirmation that Amazon has received the form.

Please share this information with your writer friends, keep an eye out for/report pirated works, and help us keep fanfiction free and legally protected!

NOTE: All of the above also applies to Amazon products featuring stolen artwork, etc., so fan artists should check too!

[btranwrites]

NO ONE knows how to use thou/thee/thy/thine and i need to see that change if ur going to keep making “talking like a medieval peasant” jokes. /lh

They play the same roles as I/me/my/mine. In modern english, we use “you” for both the subject and the direct object/object of preposition/etc, so it’s difficult to compare “thou” to “you”.

So the trick is this: if you are trying to turn something Olde, first turn every “you” into first-person and then replace it like so:

“I” →  “thou”

“Me” →  “thee”

“My” →  “thy”

“Mine” →  “thine”

Let’s suppose we had the sentences “You have a cow. He gave it to you. It is your cow. The cow is yours”.

We could first imagine it in the first person-

“I have a cow. He gave it to me. It is my cow. The cow is mine”.

And then replace it-

“Thou hast a cow. He gave it to thee. It is thy cow. The cow is thine.”

[btranwrites]

Some critical rules for writing coherent genre fiction, courtesy of my writing teacher, who is very wise. I don't pretend to have mastered all of these, but their application can do wonders for a story, their lack can cripple it:

Employ the causal chain - every action must be connected to what comes before and after. Each action and beat needs to have impact. They don't all need to be shown but the author needs to know what they are. It is impossible to build suspense without this principle. Things can't happen "just because" or there's no reason for the audience to become engaged with your sequence of events or do things like make predictions. All subsequent rules follow from this principle.

When showing a new type of fictional magic or science, you must show it work before you can show it break. For example, if a character has the ability to summon objects into their hand, we need to see them do so successfully and see how it works, before we see it break at a critical moment during the climax. Otherwise, the audience can't be expected to follow why this situation is unusual because they don't know how it works during normal circumstances.

When claiming a character is good at something, you must show them succeeding at it before you show them failing at it during a moment of pressure. Otherwise, we don't believe you when you establish your character's competence or badassery. For example, when saying your character is an excellent military commander, we need to see them win a fight using those skills and tactics. We can't open with a fight they lose, or else the character and author lose credibility. By all means, show the experienced hero/military leader/ruler/assassin/mage etc break down during a moment of intense pressure, fall down sobbing in terror at a truly insurmountable foe, or otherwise fail to meet the moment, but don't do this before we've seen them succeed at least once, or the moment loses impact.

During the build-up of tension, coincidences should hurt the hero and help the antagonist. This plays into the causal chain rule. Coincidences that help the hero feel cheap. Coincidences that help the villain raise the tension.

Every beat, whenever possible, should be connected to conscious action by central characters (hero, love interest, or villain). The more events are connected to purposeful action by key characters, the more satisfying the causal chain for the reader.

Avoid things that happen "just because" whenever possible. You can have one or two, sure, but the more often things happen "just because" the less interesting the story is, especially if those "just because" moments are core to the story. Fiction is not real life. Audiences are drawn to stories where purposeful actions dictate the success or failure of the characters.

[btranwrites]

As writers, we love to put our heroes through emotional hardships. Whether it’s being mistreated, having to make difficult choices, or grieving a personal loss, that sweet internal angst is useful for building drama and attachment. Unfortunately, writers don’t always consider whether it makes sense for their hero to go through the angst in question. And since sad moments tend to receive more scrutiny than happy ones, audiences can sniff out these contrivances pretty quick. Let’s take a look at how that manifests in the wild. 

[btranwrites]

I think it does, in the same way that tracing a drawing helps you understand better how a painting is constructed, copywork kinda let's you pick up how sentences are constructed. I think it's similar to how when you journal, the process of articulating your thoughts as you write things down help you think better than they're all in your head.

Fellow writers, does copywork help ?

I saw someone recommend doing it [& genderswapping to make it a tad bit more difficult - I think so your brain is putting in a bit more effort idk] to get better at writing. Is this actually useful ? Or no ? Or does it depend on the writer ?

I kinda like the idea, but idk if it'd actually be beneficial

Also if you don't know what copywork is, from my understanding it's like... Reading something & writing it word of word ? [If that's wrong let me know-]

[btranwrites]

hi ! i apparently always want to send you asks so here are 2 questions :

- last night i had a dream where ABM had been translated in my first language (french). now i’m wondering, have you said anything about translations ? are fan translations encouraged ?

- as a writer who writes about divinity do you have any advice for a writer-to-be who is trying to write about divinity ? it’s not about the same god(s)/religion but i think a lot of themes on godhood are similar no matter the culture (morality and cruelty of the divine, omniscience and omnipotence,…)

Hello!! :)

For your first question, because of legal/rights reasons, you are not allowed to translate ABM FOR PROFIT, unless you are a publisher intending to buy the rights for translations. As in, you can't sell the ABM you translated. I genuinely wish that you could, but it's a legal issue

That said, FREE fan translations are cool with me and should be alright legally. I 100% support !

Now, for the q about divinity:

The first thing is not to be embarrassed. I think writing about spiritual/philosophical themes in a sincere way involves a lot of, well, being serious and raw and saying things that you fear aren't profound at all. And I promise that, unless you overcome the fear to be vulnerable, then you're not going to write divinity well.

Religion, theology, spirituality is personal and it's serious, so let it be.

On that note, writing about divine stuff is really tough and really dependent on your own approach and feelings, but I can tell you what helps me:

Try to really conceptualize the omnipotent, the omniscient. There are things that don't make sense about it, don't force them to make sense.

Treat the "plot holes" in theories of god/gods as features, not flaws.

Nature, think about nature.

Before more modern times, life and time was seen pretty cyclically, instead of a line of progress/change. Circles are everywhere in religions and ancient society. Think about circles and returning to the beginning again and doing everything over again.

Morality is about whoever has the monopoly on violence, but kindness and pain are real.

Whats the purpose of worship??

Whats the purpose of living when divine/god life seems to be tragedy and nothing else

Cruelty is easy when you're powerful

Divinity is about being outside understanding. When you're divine, people say, "but that's not possible; You're not possible." I always thought being gay and/or trans is sort of divine in that way, something inexplicable.

Love is something inexplicable, like divinity; when u make it easy to understand, you've made it lose the divine part.

[btranwrites]

Writeblr Introduction

Please reblog!

Hello Writeblr! I'm oliveScales, and I'm currently writing and illustrating my webcomic named "The Forgotten Legends of Chima", or TFLOC for short.

I'm a fan of mythology and folklore, and I'm trying to study a few of them for my worldbuilding. Worldbuildings with focus on culture are my favorite! I also really like stories with animals and anthropomorphic characters.

The Forgotten Legends of Chima is a fantasy science fiction story about the land of Chima, home to eight animal tribes. Here, you'll learn about their cultures, witness intriguing and complex relationships between them, and understand the importance of diversity.

TFLOC is an interpretation of Legends of Chima's storyline, which means that worldbuilding and characters are going to be developed alongside new content to add further depth into the story, such as unimportant/secondary characters becoming important and vital to the story.

Synopsis

In a world where civilizations clash for Chi in order to survive, Laval, prince of the Lion Tribe, strives to overcome every war and all injustice without ever gripping a sword. It all started when Laval witnessed evil and inequality with his own eyes. Since then, he has promised himself to protect anyone, no matter who they are, from suffering and that he will restore peace in the land of Chima. These are the Forgotten Legends of Chima.

Episodes

Episode 1

Episode 2

Sneak Peeks

TFLOC Full Sneak Peek

TFLOC Episode 2 Sneak Peek

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 1)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 2)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 3)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 4)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 5)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 6)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 7)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 8)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 9)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 10)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 11)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 12)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 13)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 14)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 15)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 16)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 17)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 18)

TFLOC Sneak Peek 2 (part 1)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 19)

TFLOC Sneak Peek (part 20)

TFLOC Sneak Peek 2 (part 2)

Snippets

TFLOC Snippet 1

TFLOC Snippet 2

TFLOC Snippet 3

TFLOC Snippet 4

TFLOC Snippet 5

TFLOC Snippet 6

TFLOC Snippet 7

TFLOC Snippet 8

TFLOC Snippet 9

Laval and Lagravis

Worriz and Gorzan

Sir Fangar

Found Family (Tormak and Li'ella)

Heads Up Seven Up 1

Asks

Are there any proverbs [in Chima]?

When and why did you start writing?

Laval's purpose

Laval and Cragger

Storytelling Saturday

Character Ask (Laval)

WBW Chi Market

STS Halloween Party

Cragger character ask

Muse Monday Ask (Laval)

WBW ghost stories

Carrds

The Forgotten Legends of Chima Carrd

oliveScales' Carrd