jadegem20

[jadegem20]

Solarpunk, realism, dystopia: a rant

Hopefully this is helpful to someone out there 🌸

You can find the Prompts podcast here, I drew some of the covers :D Also check out this digital library full of Creative Commons Solarpunk art (neither of these are sponsored).

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[jadegem20]

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

It's Almost Over

The carnival always appeared on the edge of town in late summer when the leaves changed from bright green to a sickly chartreuse. Tom never really liked the carnival, but he would do anything for his girls, even spend the evening eating greasy foods and riding rides that made him a bit queasy.

“Daddy, teacups!” his younger daughter squeals pointing to the pink, purple, and white set of teacups that were twice as tall as she was. Lyla was a toddler just out of diapers that refused to take off her pink tutu, even when her mother pleaded with her that she would put it right back on when they came home.

Tom scoops up his daughter and smiles at his wife, “I think the teacups sound like a great idea.”

Riley smiles back at him. He always loved how her honey blonde hair wove so beautifully around her rosy cheeks. At her hip, Noa latched onto her mothers leg for dear life. Tom’s older daughter was -as of the drive here- afraid of clowns.

He crouches down and taps Noa on the shoulder, “Do you want to ride the teacups?”

She looks around slowly, fear obvious on her face, “Are there any clowns?” she whispered.

Tom makes a big show of looking high and low, then all around. He slowly bends down and whispers dramatically, “I don't see any, but let's race to the tea cups just in case.”

Noa let go of her mothers leg to grab onto her father’s hand and they run to the teacups. Riley follows a few steps behind taking the chance to rest the leg she’d been lugging Noa on from the parking lot and admire her husband’s strong physique.

The family waits in line for only a moment before the previous ride ends and the ride operator starts letting new people fill the teacups. As they make it to the front of the line, the operator stops them and points at a sign, “Three riders per cup.” The smiling bunny mask that hides his face turns a bit, as if to question who wouldn't be getting on this ride.

“Why don’t you girls ride with your daddy?” Riley steps out of line, then smiles at her husband, “It would be weird if I rode alone.” She watches as her husband takes the girls to a pink tea cup and straps them in tightly. He shows them how to turn the teacup and laughs as Noa whispers in his ear. He really was a great dad.

The teacups started with a loud whirl that almost drowned out the other sounds of the carnival. Riley lost sight of her family as they spun around in a dizzying dance with the other teacups to the carnival music. As she waits, alone in a crowded place, she feels the exposed coolness of being watched. She looks around for the culprit, hoping it was only a child or lost dog. No one seemed to be paying her any attention. Goosebumps crawled across her skin.

Tiny hands wrap around her waist as a body slams into her, almost knocking her over, “Mommy, I loved riding fa teacups!” the child says through missing front teeth.

Riley throws the small arms off of herself and spins around, ready to point the child that scared the crap out of her to their mother. Instead she found her own daughter, Lyla. Two missing teeth, hair in ponytails, her favorite pink tights, yes this was Lyla.

“What's wrong?” Tom asks, noticing the look on his wifes face.

“Nothing, I-” Riley takes a deep breath, “I guess I just forgot how fast my girls were growing!” She reaches down and pulls Lyla into a tight hug.

“I thought the teacups were boring,” Noa says, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms, “I want to pick the next thing.”

Tom pulls Noa into a side hug and she tries to pull away, “Okay, Noasey Rosey. We know we aren't as cool as you.”

Noa escapes her father’s grasp and smooths her hair. “I want to go to the mirror maze, my friend says they have creepy clowns and ghosts,” she says as she makes a creeping motion towards her sister.

Lyla retaliates by sticking out her tongue between her empty front teeth.

“Remember when Noa used to be scared of clowns?” their mother laughs.

“I’m not scared of anything!” Noa says and starts stomping away.

The mirror maze is lit up with black lights that highlight the bright neons in the hand painted murals covering the walls. The air is stuffy with stale air and nervous laughter. The smiling chipmunk at the booth just outside takes their tickets without a word. Tom watches as his daughters run straight into the maze. His wife follows with a wave of her hand, gesturing for him to join her.

With a smile, he steps inside and runs straight into a mirror. He backs up and gets his bearings. Multiples of his wife and daughters appear around him interwoven with the faces of strangers. He turns back around to have one more look at the outside world. The ticket attendant stairs back at him, waving slowly, his large plastic eyes unblinking. With a deep breath, Tom moves farther into the maze, leaving the creepy attendant behind him.

He takes a left, then a right, then slams into another mirror. The laughter and voices around him seem to rumble to a low hum of whispers. The sour air chokes him as he tries to catch up with his daughters.

He sees less and less of his family until he catches a glimpse of his wife’s honey blond hair in just one mirror and she disappears. “Rye?” he calls, his breaths coming rough and ragged.

Standing there, alone in what looked like an infinite hallway of darkness, Tom feels goosebumps crawl across his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he could swear he sees the shadow of someone else. It must be a trick of the mirrors. With hands outstretched, he slowly walks forward, determined to navigate this maze built for children.

Right. Left. Left. Right. He moves faster and faster. Left. Left. Breathing harder and harder. Right. Was it always so suffocating in here? Left. Right. He could swear he saw someone following him. Right. Right. Suddenly, sound.

The music and hubbub of the carnival comes back all at once, and standing just ten feet from the exit, his family.

“God, that took you yeeears,” Lyla says almost blending in with the darkness of the evening, black seems to be her favorite color these days.

Noa laughs, “Give the old man a break.” She always gives Tom a hard time these days, but he doesn’'t mind, this would probably be the last time they could visit the carnival together before she went off for college.

“Tom,” his wife calls, her hair streaked with the gray of a seasoned life, “the girls want to ride the coaster next.” He grabs his wife's hand and smiles, “I think I could do with a sitting down ride.”

She smiles back, “Noa is right, you are an old man!”

Riley never quite liked roller coasters, but she wanted to spend time with her daughters, and if this was the price she had to pay, then so be it. Plus she didn't like feeling old, and she definitely would if she sat out of this one. She picked a seat in the middle of the coaster with her husband while the girls opted to sit in the front. The coaster was bright red and had at least one loop, there may have been more, but she'd rather not look.

With a click she was strapped in. She grabbed her husband’s hand in a white knuckled grasp. He met her eyes with a knowing smile, at this age nothing could surprise them, they knew everything about each other.

The ride operator, a person in a smiling cat mask, walks down the coaster silently checking each person’s seat belts. As they lean into Riley, she detects a strange smell, something like the smell of decaying leaves or the smell of rotting wood. The operator moves on to the next person and she decides it doesn't matter what a stranger smells like, if she would never see them again.

The coaster takes off in a flash then slows as it starts making its first ascent. Riley squeezes Tom’s hand tighter as they get closer to the top. It crests over the tip of the hill, pausing for a second as if to give them a chance to admire the view, then lurches forward with exhilarating and terrifying speed.

Riley yelps, her scream getting lost in the wind, and her husband releases her hand to raise his own. She latches onto her harness and squeezes her eyes shut. The coaster makes its first loop and drops down into a tunnel. They’re enveloped in darkness when the second drop comes from nowhere, but no one screams. Only the scratch and pull of the tracks notes their movement through the tunnel. The air turns cool and goosebumps run across Riley’s arms. When they come out the other side, she reaches for her husband's hand. One wrinkled aging hand mets another.

“It's almost over,” Tom says, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, his cotton white hair blowing in the coaster’s breeze, “I can see the end.”

The coaster stops with a loud hiss and the restraints go up. Tom climbs out first and leans back over to help his wife. Why did they ever decide to ride this ride? They both had bad backs. They walk, or stagger, down the ride platform to where their daughters were waiting.

“Granny, I can't believe you rode that huge roller coaster!” Lilly says letting go of her mother’s leg to give her grandmother a hug. Riley smiles at her granddaughter, “Maybe we can ride something you want next?”

“Pop,” the toddler demands, pushing against her mother so she could be put down.

Tom reaches over and scoops up his granddaughter. The pink tutu she wore almost engulfs her little body. “Teacups!” she squeals, pointing to the pink, purple, and white set of teacups.

“I think that's a great idea,” Lyla says, agreeing with her daughter.

“Do you want to ride the teacups too?” Noa asks her own daughter, “I bet we could race there.”

The four of them run off as Tom and Riley follow a few steps behind taking the chance to rest and admire their little family, after all, maybe this would be the last time they’d get to go to the carnival.

[jadegem20]

This minecraft short comic called "A strange Coast" made by Ian Flynn I believe, I found in a book from my library I work has to be one of the most beautiful and respectful takes on the game.

It understands minecraft so perfectly and doesn't treat it as childishly as the other stories in it did.

And all that within 10 pages and no word spoken.

[jadegem20]

this is so mean but sometimes i see published writing and suddenly no longer feel insecure about my own writing ability. like well okay that got published so im guessing i dont have much to worry about

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

Ængus the Prize-Winning Hog

Through the rolling hills and down a steep incline layed a shallow cranberry bog that sparkled in the sunlight. It was filled with thousands of deep red, swollenly ripe berries. The bog had just been flooded and the water was crisp and fresh on that cool October morning.

Wading beside the raking farmers, and gobbling as many sour berries as he could, was Ængus. He was a small pink pig covered in sparse white hairs. He loved this time of year when the leaves turn and the air smells like apple cider.

He would always find himself swimming through the cranberry bogs in the morning to lazily catch his breakfast. Then he would waddle up to the sprawling fields of sweet corn for lunch. Lastly, he would always end his day with a trip to the local pumpkin patch so he could snack on the gourds while the children rubbed his belly.

On this day, though, as he took his morning dip, Ængus heard the farmers talking about the state fair that was just two towns away. They talked about the many dishes of sweet and savory foods that were being judged. They talked about the rides and games that made people laugh and scream with excitement. Most compelling of all, at least to Ængus, was the talk of the shiny blue ribbons the judges give out to contest winners.

Ængus could just imagine standing still and tall as a ribbon was draped around his neck and the whole crowd cheered. He just had to have a ribbon.

So, that fateful morning, Ængus finished his breakfast, dried off on the shore, and started walking to the state fair. He traveled through the red, yellow, and orange countryside admiring the cool fall breeze and the crunch of the leaves beneath his hooves. After about three hours and a ride from a farmer, a trucker, and even a cyclist, Ængus had made it to the state fair.

The old farmers had not done the fair justice in Ængus’s opinion. Music from a band filled the air and complemented the sweet smell of food and fall. Ængus watched as a young girl smacked on a candy apple and an older boy tasted each of the pies that were out for judging. Toddlers were bobbing for apples while their parents enjoyed warm cider. Everywhere he looked there were red, yellow, and orange decorations.

Soon he came across a small stage with a big banner. “Vote For the Prize Winning Hog!” This is what he had come for. He studied the other pigs that had gathered around the stage and thought they were quite lacking. None were quite as pink as he was. None were quite as plump. He would be the best pig and win the blue ribbon!

As the farmer started showing each of the swine, a small crowd gathered and watched. They didn’t watch too closely, some were distracted by their cider or candied apples, others found the hogs boring and just decided to find something more interesting to do. But when Ængus waddled onto the stage, something changed.

The crowd watched and admired just how perfect a specimen Ængus really was. From the powdery pink of his skin to the perfect spiral of his tail, he really was the best pig. As he stood on the stage the crowd grew larger and larger. After just two minutes, most of the fair had come to gawk at him.

Ængus did not mind. He quite liked the attention. He held his chin high and even spun around a few times so everyone had a chance to glimpse at his body. He decided to strike a pose by turning sideways and sticking one leg forward and one leg back. The people swooned at the swine. Ængus smiled, the crowd loved him. He pranced around the stage and twirled a few times.

The cheers grew louder with every step he took, “Ængus the prize winning hog!”

He hopped a few times and danced his way across a piano that was nearby. The cheers swelled in his chest, “Ængus the prize winning hog!”

He continued his tune on the piano and a few people also took up instruments and joined in. Soon he was oinking along to the music as the crowd danced and cheered, “Almightier than God! Ængus the prize winning hog!”

Somewhere along in the haze of bodies and shouts, the blue ribbon was slipped around Ængus’s neck. It hung low and heavy with the weight of a thousand hungry stares and a thousand more desperate wants. Yet, he danced with the crowd, played his tune, and listened as the crow chanted along:

“Ængus is the leader Ængus is the brother Ængus is the father Ængus is the Savior Ængus is the answer Always and forever Ængus will protect you Follow him forever Ængus for Governor! Ængus for President! Ængus for Chancellor! Ængus for Everything!”

The party lasted day in and day out, sun up to sun down, sun down to sun up, day after day after day, until the weather cooled enough to see the breath of your closest neighbor. Even still, the crowd wanted to dance, sing, and celebrate. But not everyone in that crowd was pleased.

As the first snowflakes of the season brushed the delicate white hair on the rump of that prize winning hog, a tall muscular man climbed onto the stage. He stood steady in heavy leather boots and wore a stark white apron outfitted with a utility belt of sharp knives. Ængus felt unease filling his stomach as he looked over the man. He watched as the man smiled at him. A mouth full of glistening pointy teeth. Ængus swore he could feel the greedy hunger in the man’s gaze.

He aimed his barbed smile at the quiet crowd, “Aren’t you people forgetting an important tradition?”

The wind picked up murmurs from the people as they wondered who the man was and why he stopped the party. The man paced in a small circle, seemingly unaware the crowd was whispering about him.. He pulled a long sharp knife from his belt and slowly raised it to point at the pig. “The winning hog is feasted upon on the last night of the fair,” The Butcher rested his hungry eyes on the perfect swine, “And that night, is tonight.”

The chill in the air had nothing to do with the goosebumps that crawled their way across Ængus’s flesh. He looked over at the murmuring crowd and imagined their gaunt faces from the long days of dancing. He imagined the gnawing hunger squeezing their stomachs and the thrill of their mouths watering as they anticipated fresh meat.

Amidst all of the murmuring, hunger, and watering mouths, Ængus saw the golden blonde locks of an angel float up above the crowd and make a proclamation, “What if we changed the tradition?” There was a small buzz of agreement flowing through the people. “Are you suggesting we let this impeccable pig go to waste?” The Butcher looked over at Ængus and his tongue snaked around his dry lips, the hunger clear on his face.

Another angel called out, closer to the front this time, and draped in white, “That's just an old wive’s tale!” The hum of agreement was louder this time.

With a fabricated hand over his heart The Butcher feigned a deep aversion to the idea, “Even the notion of breaking tradition is a slap to the face of history and could curse the town with a bad harvest.” In the glow of the warm decorative lights, Ængus watched as a final angel made a stand, “I think The Butcher is just out for blood.” The hum of agreement grew into a roar of animosity as the crowd sized up The Butcher.

“Don’t you see I am one of you,” The Butcher said, anger and fear mixing on his face, “I am doing this for the people, he is just a hog.” The people didn't listen to the pleading butcher, instead they looked over at Ængus. There was fury in their eyes, but also something else. A question. They were looking for him to give permission. They wanted Ængus to approve. They wanted him to lead. The sudden realization hit Ængus like a truck: he had come for fame, but he had received power too. With a small curt nod, he watched with his jaw hanging open as the crowd moved as one.

“Run Mr. Butcherman!” the first angel taunted with a sickening laugh. Others joined in on the teasing as the mass of people descended on The Butcher.

The Butcher saw that he had lost and decided to run. He ran through the fair with its sweet smells, candied apples, and cider. He ran through the red, yellow, and orange decorations. He ran right through the forest and left a trail of sticky red blood as the leafless branches clawed into his chest.

For the first time in his life as a prey, Ængus felt the blood of a predator pounding through his veins. He hunted right along with the humans, calling, tormenting, and pursuing The Butcher until late in the bitter unforgiving night. Finally, when the fun of the chase had worn through their cold bones, they captured the butcher and celebrated with a feast, but it wasn’t Ængus that roasted over the triumphal fire.

With full stomachs and the burning warmth of the fire filling the air, the people sang out:

“Ængus is the leader Ængus is the brother Ængus is the father Ængus is the Savior Ængus is the answer Always and forever Ængus will protect you Worship him forever!”

Ængus let the celebration wash over him. The people served him full plates of roasted meat and treats scavenged from what was left of the fair. He imagined the people chanting his name and indulging his every want until the day he took his last breath. Comforted by the thought he slowly fell asleep, dreaming of that sour cranberry bog, barely noticing the biting cold of a long hard winter setting in around him.

*****

This story was inspired by the song "Ængus the Prize-Winning Hog" by The Toxhards. Great music. I thought it would be fun to write their song into a short story.

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

[jadegem20]

I curl into a ball as the hero slowly walks closer. Blood pools from my face down to the asphalt covered roof. I definitely have a few missing teeth and a couple broken ribs. This was how every fight between us went, me cowering and him victorious. I just want one thing. I just need one thing.

“Do you surrender?” he asks.

I turn my head and face him the best I can, and stay quiet. If I’m going down, I’m not losing my dignity.

He stops right in front of me. I can feel his eyes roam across my prone body. “I said, do you surrender?” he booms as he releases another kick straight into my side.

I clench my teeth as I hear another crack and new pain blooms. Tears threaten to escape, but I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You don’t get it do you,” he laughs that charming laugh. The same one they air on the nightly news praising his heroics. The same one that has women and men alike fawning over him. The same one he used when he took her from me. “You don’t get to win, you don't get freedom, and you don’t get the girl. You're a villain.”

With that he let another kick fly. His boot connects with my face making a sickening crack echo in my skull. The force makes me roll to my back. In the blindness of my pain, I almost miss something. The something digging into my back.

I wasn’t always hated. I wasn't always desperate. I was once a top student at MIT. In nano engineering in fact. The gun that is currently pressed into my back is designed to rip atoms apart, effectively vaporizing a target. I had been planning on using it to vaporize the bunker door that hid a secret government prison on the longshot that she was hidden deep inside.

I hadn't used the gun on anything living, much less something that was indestructible by mortal standards.

“What happened to women being just as strong as men?” he says as he reaches down and grabs me by the neck. My vision blurs in and out with pain and lack of oxygen as he drags me to the edge of the roof. “All of that feminist bull shit is the reason why humanity is weak. Strength is what matters, and I think we’ve proven who has won in that department.”

He lifts me up by my throat and places me right on the edge. My heels hang sixty stories above the ground. I shakingly reach around my back and grab the gun. He watches with a smirk as I point it right at his forehead.

“You know that can’t-” he starts, but I pull the trigger.

The ray is invisible and almost instantaneous. In the blink of an eye, I am staring through the head of my once mortal enemy. His hands fall away and his body drops to the ground. His face may have once been handsome, but it is now unrecognizable.

I wait for him to stand back up. One breath. Two breaths. No movement.

Suddenly, relief fills my body. He isn't in my way anymore. He isn't going to hurt me. He isn't going to hurt her.

I killed a man and all I can feel is relief.

Screw it, I am the villain, and I will get the girl.

[jadegem20]

I closed the curtains and blocked out the rest of the hazy light that struggled its way through the smoke and debris. The power had gone out an hour ago and I had officially turned off the news about three hours before that. The constant blaring of the emergency alert system had been making my head ache. They didn't have anything new to say anyway.

I found my way, in the darkness of the highrise, to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the bottle of ‘82 whiskey that was stashed away for our anniversary. I slowly creeped back to our room listening to the eerie silence of a city that has stopped breathing.

I stopped with my hand on the brass door knob and waited. For what? I don’t know exactly. A miracle? A worm hole back in time? An ounce of hope? Nothing found me, in that dark apartment hallway on the 64th floor in the middle of downtown New York. No particle of light revealed itself to me, one alive among the millions dead and dying.

With a creak, I found myself opening that cream colored door.

The air was still and smelled of the cinnamon candle you had lit in the corner. The dim flame flickered as the air from opening the door passed through the room, then flickered again when I walked past it. I smoothed the covers on my side of the bed before sitting on top of them. I cracked open the whiskey and took a deep swig. It burned going down, but at this point physical pain didn't matter as much.

I looked over on your side of the bed. The comforter was disheveled and lumpy. I could see your dark hair laying on your pillow. It draped over your face, like it had done many times before in your sleep. I could almost believe you were sleeping if not for the unnatural stillness of the body below the covers and the empty bottle of pills on your nightstand.

At least the tears had stopped flowing, but I suspected there wasn’t anything left in me to cry. I took another swig of whiskey and frowned at the burn of life inside me.

Most people would have some regrets or longing for the life that they once had. I did. And I grieved. For whatever this earth had been. For whatever I once was. For the mess we had made. And lastly, for you. My happiness, my love, my person.

There wasn’t anything left of me to give. The world is empty, and so am I.

[jadegem20]