#spilled stories

[harrison-abbott]

Hopper

My father wanted to take me fishing. I’d never been fishing before and he said it was important that I learn. He picked me up from mother’s house on the Saturday morning. Mother never wanted to speak to him so whenever he came I would run out to his jeep and get inside. He smiled at me. “Hey there Hopper,” he said, which was his nickname for me. He used to call me that a lot before the whole mad breakup thing with mother, and his use of it stuck with other people – when other folks would come around to the house. Anyway, he drove me out of down and down to the woods on the way to the river. He drank quick bolts of liquor from a flask. When I was a good I always wanted that silver flask for myself; and I didn’t really understand alcohol yet. Dad wasn’t such a bad drunkard (even though he ended up dying from it). I mean, he wasn’t mean or loud or anything unless it was way at the end of the night and he would go to sleep. And he would take me to the football games with the school; come and watch me play even though I wasn’t any good, and would cheer me on anyway. That day when we went fishing it was super hot – like it was the afternoon and not nine in the morning when we got out the jeep and took the equipment down to the river. He showed me how to fit up the rods with the nylon and it all seemed intricate but he did it real skilful. “Throwing takes a whole bunch of practise,” he said, and he lanced the string into the great seething river, “but for today we’ll just wait on the bankside. And there will be some chaps in the water for sure.” I sat next to him. It took a long time, but the wait was exhilarating. He’d told me to tell him when I got a shudder on the handles. And then I got one! And I squealed. Dad laughed. “Pull it in, Hopper! Wind it up!” I tried but it was like when I would get the ball on the field; I’d wait and wait and wait, imagining the ball coming to me and me doing great things with it: but when I actually got it, I realised imagination was far different from the brutality of sport. So I reeled the winder up … and it stuttered and jolted. And then stopped: and the force on the far end of the line had gone. “Oh. I think he got away …” I looked up at father to see what he would think from his expression, and because I couldn’t read it I said, “I’m sorry Dad.” He blinked and said, “Don’t apologise for things you shouldn’t be sorry for, Hopper.” And that line has remained with me ever since he said it to me when I was a six year old boy.

He caught a trout later that day. He yanked it out of the water and killed it swiftly with a rock to the head. I thought that was sublimed to witness because I’d never seen anything murdered before aside from in cartoons. “I will gut the fish now,” Dad said, “But I must warn you that it’s quite gory. So if you don’t want to see then you can look away, Hopper.” I replied that I wouldn’t watch and so I turned my head and instead listened as he worked with the knife, and it is crazy how small volumes can make gigantic ideas in your head: especially when you are a child. I lot it would take a long while but father was finished real quick. He threw the entrails into the river and what was left was the image of a fish as you’d see in a monger. Father had brought along a pan and some oil and he made a fire and got about cooking it. He drank some more of his liquor. I can’t remember if it was whisky or rum or gin that he drank in those days because I wasn’t knowable with any of the smells. He did smoke a lot of rolled cigarettes as well, and, as with most things he did, he was fast and deft with the way he rolled them. I really didn’t like the smoke. So he always stood up and walked ten paces away when he smoked and we would call back and forth from where he was. “Is it done yet, Dad?” meaning the fish meat as it sizzled in the pan. – “Give it a bit longer on the other side, Hopper.” I turned it over with the fork. When it was done he gave most of it for me and a little bit for himself and we ate. I wished it had been me that had caught it but I felt proud to be on the team all the same. After the food we sat by the fire for a while. And of course it was weird to have a fire on such a hot day, but I liked the colours of the embers. I knew it was getting to late afternoon and that mother always wanted me home by four o’clock. And this great sadness enveloped me. I wanted to stay with Dad. Or to have him come back home and live with us again. Eventually father put out the fire with river water and we went back to the keep and then he was driving me home. And I really, really wanted it to be like the old days when he was sleeping in the room next to me, instead of the other side of town. I’d wanted to ask him a question for a long time. A query that I’d wanted to do with mother for a while as well, but had never as yet had the guts. So I blurted it out there in the jeep. I said, “Dad. Why did you and Mum split up?” His face withered, every so slightly. And he swallowed. “She was with another man, Hopper.” I’d never known this and it was quite a barrel load to take. So I said, “Does that make you sad?” And he went, “Yeah. A lot. But, that’s for me to be sad. And not you. Okay? So don’t let it bother you. And, we can go fishing again next weekend. And I’ll see you on Wednesday night for the football game, right? We’ll be good.” I said I would see him, too. When father dropped me off home he never hugged me or kissed me; what he did was give me a handshake. And I always recall how his hand dwarfed mine with my tiny fingers and palm. Then I waved to him as his jeep whizzed off into the hazy road and it was as if, whilst the jeep got smaller and smaller, this enormous mass of pain grew larger and larger in my chest. And so because I couldn’t do anything about it I ran into the house and slapped the door shut and went into my room to concentrate on something else.

[wearenotjustnumbers2]

Remember the 6 year old girl who was surrounded by Israeli tanks and the red crescent couldn't reach her? Her name is Hind Hamadeh. Here you can hear the phone call her 15 year old sister, Layan Hamadeh, made with the medics. She was killed exactly a moment later including all people in the car, except for 6 year old Hind who was stuck in the car with the dead bodies of her family, Israeli tanks and IDF surrounding her, shooting, preventing anybody to reach her.

That was last night (29.1.24). Today, still nothing. The fate of Hind remains unknown.

palestine red crescent ambulance team went to rescue her yesterday evening, but they have not returned as of now. We lost contact with them about 18 hours ago, and we still remain unaware of their fate and whether they succeeded in evacuating her or not.

Please, share Hind's story as much as you can on any platform. We need to know what happened to her. Put yourself in her place, how terrified she must be. Don't scroll past this.

This is Hind.

[flintpunks-mind]

A co-worker of mine was standing outside with me during a break from customers to share a cigarette with me, and told me about how he had lost his brother that he was close with some years ago. He told me about how they used to be in a band together with some friends, and how ever since he'd died, he hadn't played any music because he'd been too scared and anxious. I told him about how I'd lost my brother to suicide some years ago.

I went home and pulled out an old tiny wooden box my brother had given me before he'd died. I'd been using it to store guitar picks I'd collected over the years, including one guitar pick that used to be his. I haven't played the guitar since he'd died, my hands are too small to play some of the chords, so I play bass and piano instead.

I went to work the next day and gifted my brothers old guitar pick to my co-worker. I told him that it'd been sitting in a box for ten years unused, and would probably sit there for longer if I kept it there. Told him that I thought he deserved to have it, because I bet he could put it to better use than I ever would. Told him I didn't feel like it was coincidence that me and him would cross paths with each other in our lives, and that it seemed suiting that we had these similar experiences but split in two halves. That somehow, I felt like he was meant to have the guitar pick. I told him that I knew he'd not played guitar since his brother died, but that if he ever decided to play again one of these days, maybe he'd be able to honor both of our brothers by using that guitar pick.

He almost cried. He thanked me. Then he went home that night and for the first time in years he played the guitar.

I don't know what the meaning of life is or what my purpose is, but I do believe that love and human connection is one of the most important things in life. It's finding ways to tell strangers you love them and share experiences with others. I think it's all just about love.

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing References: Character Development

50 Questions ⚜ "Well-Rounded Character" Worksheet

Basics: How to Write a Character ⚜ A Story-Worthy Hero

Basics: Character-Building ⚜ Character Creation

Key Characters ⚜ Literary Characters ⚜ Morally Grey Characters

Personality Traits

5 Personality Traits (OCEAN) ⚜ 16 Personality Traits (16PF)

600+ Personality Traits

East vs. West Personalities ⚜ Trait Theories

Tips/Editing

Character Issues

Character Tropes for Inspiration

Tips from Rick Riordan

Writing Notes

Allegorical Characters

Binge ED

Childhood Bilingualism ⚜ Children's Dialogue ⚜ On Children

Culture ⚜ Culture: Two Views ⚜ Culture Shock

Emotional Intelligence ⚜ Genius (Giftedness)

Emotions ⚜ Anger ⚜ Fear ⚜ Happiness ⚜ Sadness

Facial Expressions

Fantasy Creatures

Happy/Excited Body Language ⚜ Laughter & Humor

Hate ⚜ Love

Health ⚜ Frameworks of Health

Identifying Character Descriptions

Jargon ⚜ Logical Fallacies ⚜ Memory

Mutism ⚜ Shyness

Parenting Styles

Psychological Reactions to Unfair Behavior

Rhetoric ⚜ The Rhetorical Triangle

Swearing & Taboo Expressions

Thinking ⚜ Thinking Styles ⚜ Thought Distortions

Uncommon Words: Body ⚜ Emotions

Voice & Accent

Writing References: Plot ⚜ World-building

[darlingdeathx]

I am yours, even in this waiting. I am yours.

[keferon]

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAH

[wedarkacademia]

From my pov, every woman's love language revolves around not needing to ask.

[garden-of-thoughts-fruit-of-lips]

" Out of Line"

It's the person who's "out of line" who is always told to, "Get back in line!"

I'm "out of line," and the students tell me to, "Get back in line!" But I say, "No, " and I saw a smaller line, and they all seemed happy and stood out as different. They were dressed in school uniform. So I started making my way over there. And the teacher of the line I left came and asked me to, "Get back in line" and when I replied, "No", immediately that teacher took it to the principal and now the principal and teachers from my original class started threatening me in front of the students. Who were trying to scare me to get back in place. When I started to break down and cry, my original classmates and other students of that class said, "If you would have stayed in line, this wouldn't have happened to you!" Even with that being done, I kept making my way to the other line. Now, the teachers became furious, and bullies from that school approach me, telling me to turn around. Once again, I refused, so the principal gave a "signal" to the bullies, and they said, "Fine, you could go." As I turned and walked a couple steps further, they added by yelling, "This school dressed you! So we're taking your clothes from off your back!" They started ripping the clothes off of me in front of my classmates and other students. "Hahahaha," they would all laugh as I became naked. Once, I was stripped, and the students of that class noticed the scars and bruises on my naked body. The bullies moved aside so all could see, and I saw pointing, I heard whispering and laughing, and from the laughing crowd, words came out, "How long you had that there!" followed by more laughter. I even heard the ones that had pitty for me say, "If he would have only stayed." At that exact time, I got up from off the ground and turned my back against them

[notfavghost]

I want to hear my name on your lips, over and over again.

[harrison-abbott]

Smile as much as I Could

I taught them the best I could, and I’ll admit that I never wanted to become a teacher … but I tired as much as possible.

There was this one kid who I still think about a lot who was called Robbie. You know when you have somebody that provokes trouble? That was him. His brain was born far too younger than the other kids and far too older at the same time; he was immature and mature all at once and his age didn’t meet the bracket with the other kids.

They were all terrified of him or they saw him as somebody they could mingle trouble with or they avoided him completely. The girls hated him, especially. Which was a contradiction in itself because he was approaching puberty far faster than most and he’d developed an affection for many of them and was learning how to flirt. I was with Robbie for a year and he remains one of my most entertaining pupils. I had him for P4 and so he was eight years old or thereof when I knew him.

Robbie moved off to another teacher in P5 – and during the lunch breaks with the colleagues I would meet up with the other teacher, who now had him, and he would come over to me with his coffee and moan about how much of a nuisance Robbie was. I’d smile as much as I could.

The fact was that I was glad that I had a calmer class with my new class. They were younger (only tots; P2s). I taught only rudimentary English and Maths. Stuff that you only go to primary school for and they were wide eyed things that got through the material if you said it in the right way.

And at Christmas I got these boxes of Chocolates and cards that their parents had bought me and inside the cards there would be messages like BEST TEACHER EVER and YOU’RE THE FUNNIEST TEACHER IN THE SCHOOL and so on. And they gave me a little boost of hope. [I usually didn’t eat the chocolates because I was trying to lose weight at that point. Or I gave them to the other teachers to give to their kids. I didn’t have kids of my own. But that’s a whole other story.]

In the January after the festive break I got back and there came in the second week some bad news about Robbie. A group of P7 boys had beat him up in the playground. And the older boys had all been reprimanded by the school. But Robbie wasn’t content with it and he had began to follow each of them home. And then one of the boys (who had attacked him) had told his mother about it, and the mother had called the police, and the police came to the scene and they stopped Robbie.

They found a knife inside Robbie’s bag. Because he was so young he couldn’t be charged with anything. But they had to pass him on to ‘child services’.

Whatever indeed that authority meant …

And this impeded his school life because he wasn’t allowed to come to school for five weeks. And throughout this period of other a month, there were rumours, spread from the adult word down, into the kids’ playground, where gossip is as treacherous and false as any political lie, international or national, articulate or dumb; the lies proliferate in the playground as fast as any plague or pandemic. They were calling Robbie a ‘psycho’, a ‘stalker’ a ‘creep’. I heard many of the kids in my own class speak about him. In such a manner. And I sensed that something was wrong and hugely exaggerated about this child.

So I asked the headteacher if I could go and speak to her about it. Well, I organised a meeting with her. And sat at her desk.

“I would like to say a few words about Robbie Carson, if I could, please?”

She listened. As I told her that I was concerned that Robbie would face a lot of bullying when he returned to the school. That he was ‘famous’ in a way, for things which he hadn’t done. I told her about the name calling. When she hear me out she sipped her coffee along the way.

“I appreciate your concern, Mr Temple,” she replied, “and thanks for coming along. The board from child services are in liaison with me and they will get back in touch when Robbie is ready to come back.”

“Well. I wanted to make sure that Robbie would have some protection for when he does come back.”

“The child service people will make their analysis. And we can move on from there, after I have read it. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today? I have another meeting in twenty minutes so I have to rush on.”

I left angrily because I thought that she, as headteacher, was one of the good ones. A moral person, I mean; I didn’t expect her to say what she said during that meeting. And I remember the cool sky blue of her eyes when she delivered the lines. It’s hard, when people say things in a plastic voice, to determine whether they really believe what they are saying, as if there is a plastic mask over their face at the same time, even though you can see their flesh and their lips and nose and the shapes their pupils make when they speak.

So I had to head back to, well, my lunch break that was waiting for me. My humous, cucumber and tomato sandwich.

I ate it in the car because I didn’t want to go into the staff room. The car was parked in the car park, which was 100 metres away from the kids who I could see in the background, swarming about, all dressed in navy blue uniforms. They looked like blue bottle flies. So many people despised them for being young and damageable. When young folks are most vulnerable. Why not try and make them less vulnerable.

With Robbie, I tried as well. And I often feel like I failed. Considering what happened with him in the end.

[iamlongingtofeelathome]

It’s been a fortnight since I’ve done the unspeakable. They’ve removed the visible parts off of me and announced me fit as if they didn’t just rip me apart and stitch me back roughly. But every day since, I’ve started to notice that life is a series of thousands of miracles.

महक // it just took two body altering events to finally notice

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: The Shape of Story

by Christina Wodtke 

Start with Conflicted Characters

The character needs a goal, a motivation and a conflict.

The goal can be alien to your audience,

but the motivation must be shared by them, and

the conflict creates struggles that increase engagement.

Paint a Picture

Details transport you into the story.

The world disappears and you have a story play in your head.

Even though there are no literal pictures.

But be careful—Too many details and the story gets bogged down.

Make the Protagonist Suffer

“Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them - in order that the reader may see what they are made of.” (Kurt Vonnegut, How to Write a Great Story)

And when it can’t get any worse, make it worse before it gets better

The two key moments that create the peak of excitement in a story is the darkness before the dawn, and the dawn. 

The climax is the moment when the protagonist is either rescued or rescues themself.

In older tales, we saw a lot of Deux ex Machina (the hand of god) rescuing the hero. A hero could be rescued by luck, a partner, another hero…but modern audiences strongly prefer stories where the protagonist helps themself.

Resolution is Boring, Keep it Short

Interest grows with every additional conflict, but once the hero figures out the solution, our fascination collapses.

Don’t natter on while the audience’s mind is drifting.

Also Consider:

You need a good inciting incident to move your protagonist to action.

A setting is more than a place, it’s a situation and a moment in time. A vivid place has details.

Modern audiences prefer “return home changed” to “return home the same.”

EXAMPLES: ARCHETYPAL PLOTS ALONG THE ARC

Boy Meets Girl

Internal conflict is always satisfactory (e.g., she believes love interferes with his career, he believes love interferes with his beer.)

The crises usually revolves around betrayal — lying, cheating — and the climax shows it was a misunderstanding or we get atonement.

The struggle is always about them being separated.

The resolution is about binding them more tightly together than ever.

The Quest

You seek things, and find yourself.

Return home changed and don’t pass go.

Common elements include companions, a mentor, great losses and extreme character arcs.

The Underdog

Even though they do not have a shot in hell, the underdog wants something. They want it so bad.

Common elements include an enemy who blocks their path, and a coach who helps them forward.

In this case, they do not return home changed but rather move into a new life that fits their changed self.

Coming of Age

Naive person has the world teaches them a hard lesson, and they become a better person for it.

Struggle revolve around life sucking and then sucking more.

The hero grows and becomes better because of it, and via new understandings becomes competent.

In some tragedies, the world breaks them.

They can return home changed, but more often they move to a new life they have earned.

More Examples. Justice & Pursuit:

Weaving Multiple Plots:

Weaving multiple plots together to make subplots can further increase tension.

Multiple plots woven together makes the whole story not only unique but very compelling.

[thoughtsthatstayedwithme]

[poetic-little-soul]

“I need someone to understand that I get incredibly cold sometimes and it’ll take more than your warmth to pull me from those depths.”

-S.Lilobell (An ocean of thoughts and I’m drowning.)