This is my first foray into writing.

The year 2026 is ¾ of the way over and it has been quite an interesting year for me to say the least. 2025 was scary. I’m kind of amazed. I got through it.

I used to think I could be a nurse. I work at a hospital but tonight I’ve listened. to a man die I don’t know what to do with this.

Life just kind of happens around you and you just made it however you’re equipped to do so.

A few good things have also happened. Many wonderful things have happened too within.

I start school in a few weeks and I hope to God I’m ready. I feel like this is my last shot. My last shot for life, love, success, happiness, health. I don’t know that I’m going to get any of those things, but I’m going to fight like hell to achieve them for whatever that’s worth.

the last 365 days I would love to share with my best friend but I was treated with such disrespect, contempt and such a depth of searing cruelty the likI have to by never experienced in my adult life.

One year ago, it was a different person. I was in love with a man who I thought was in love with me. I was making plans. I thought we would get married.

Then I discovered he didn’t want me.

When “disability” is a novelty and you’re just a cute woman who happens to walk with a cane. It’s one thing.

When shit got real, When everything you ever warned him turns out to be 100% correct, suddenly

he has second thoughts.

I moved to another state to be closer to him. Then he left.
p
Eight days befoXmas, I stopped hearing from him. There was no way I thought the person who I had shared with And laughed with and planned with For five years Would ever do this.

I was good enough when I was a cute little disabled girl with a cane, but when push came to shove, he didn’t want me anymore. He was ashamed of me and he skulked away like a craven coward in the dead onight.

I’m still not over it. I may never get over it.

At the same time, I am lying here on my side, having had spinal surgery and all I want is my best friend, but he apparently never existed.

This is the best friend you only wanted me when I was cute and pretty inconvenient.

I could understand it if we were 25 years old, but we are twice that age and there is no forgiveness for that.

I hope for his sake, he gets a handle on his mental illness because there is no way a sane individual treats a human being that way.

I am writing this down because I don’t want to forget, and I will never forgive. In all likelihood, I will never trust a man again as much as I might want to.

I took a leap of faith and my partner let me jump without him.

He’s not married he’s not involved. There’s no other woman. He just didn’t want me because I’m disabled Something I was upfront about from day one.

This is not the first time this has happened. It is the first time it’s happened after five years.

The thing about life is if you’re lucky Enough to live a long time eventually disability will come for you. Chronic illness will come for you. None of us will live forever, and none of us will be healthy forever health as a temporary state.

I wish I could be generous and magnanimous and say that he will learn someday, but I don’t care.

I hope he’s not one of those lucky people that just dropped dead in the middle of the street or gets hit by a bus. I hope when disability comes for him the woman he thought was the love of his life walks out on him. I probably won’t be around to see it.

I was trea manner in which I have never experienced in my adult life.

My objective here is to share my objective here is to share with in furnished honesty, which is not always the best thing, but holding it in, has not served me well.

I’m writing about life, changing careers later in life re-entering the workforce, continuing my education, and trying to find my way in the world where it seems like women, my age, my level of physical ability, my type are just unwelcoming unwanted.

I don’t give a damn. I’m going to do what I’m going to do and I am going to claim my place in the world.

I have followed many content, creators, and writers who have brought a paradigm shift that happened around the time the online disability community started to develop.

My parents generation invented the Internet, my generation popularized social media, but the generations after me have gone for fearlessly and expressed themselves in ways that I have not been able to.

Some women, my age don’t give a damn they will just express themselves online fearlessly, unapologetically, and be disability influencers, and I wish I had their courage and their strength of voice .

I am not afraid. I didn’t do this to myself and I make no apologies. I didn’t ask for this but at the same time it gets exhausting to f for your place in the world every single day. Around 4 PM
what the fuck do people talk about on the ride anyway?
is it just questions about batteries and fart jokes? either way I’m here for it. I’m work shopping. All my ideas for my new screenwriting endeavor. Most of the stuff I say is creative writing don’t thinking any of this shit is serious.

i’m craving pizza with ricotta cheese, and broccoli rabe right now.

i’m trying to just distract myself because something very serious is going on 10 feet away from me and I cannot do anything about it.
Life is short. Life is precious. Take care of each other. Take care of yourselves.

this year I plan to get well. A year from now I wanna be mobile. I won’t be successful. I want to be in love. I wanna be married to someone who was in love with me. I want to adopt a baby because I don’t want to bring anyonennn into the world who has the same horrible, genetic conditions as I do.
c
Be decent to each other.

Watch

भगवान श्री कृष्ण के भक्त की कहानी ( Beautiful Story)

*विश्वास रखिए व्यापार बढ़ेगा* 🙏

https://youtube.com/shorts/oAexE3RWTvk?si=Wwr7OEtumUeqMXPv

Some are born to live in imagination,

They are happy in their dreams,

Other are designated to live in truth,

Where life demands more than a illusion.

I'm not sure if this is the correct sub, but please direct me to the correct one if I'm wrong!

First of all, I got this dream inspiration (not kidding I got it from a dream) and wrote down as much as I can remember the moment I woke up. I spent literal hours both writing down what I remember and adding my own ideas and suggestions. I like reading, which is probably the main reason why I get these dreams but I never really felt like writing a story from them. I write down my dreams because well, they were always interesting and I liked talking about them to my friends, but this one really just kickstarted something in me.

I only ever wrote long essays for school, so I really would love advice on how to build a story, and how to connect the ideas I have. I have a general idea where I want the story to go, but I don't have a technical(?) way of putting those thoughts down to paper.

I'm not even doing this looking to get published, at least for now, but because I'm feeling awfully inspired. It might go away, but at the moment, I really feel like making something out of these dreams I keep having.

Tell me what you think is happening

“I’m cold,” she thought. 

She watched as a rat crawled to her hand while she laid on the tile. The sun shined delicately through the murals in the windows and cast a beautiful shadow over her face.

“What was my name again?”

 A breeze flew through the open door. She looked down at her body, sprawled across the entryway. She watched as the color slowly drained from her face.The congregation gasped. The rat scurried off. She looked up to see Pastor Williams rush down the aisle. People stood up to see. Some laughed, some sighed and some shushed. Pastor Williams approached the entry and carefully kneeled by her body. He cradled her gently in his arms, and shook her slightly.

“Wake up Eloise” he called softly.

‘Eloise!’ she thought. ‘That's right.’

“Wake up dear girl,” he called again. 

“I’m awake Reverend!” said Eloise, but the pastor did not respond. She began to realize. She was here, by the door, but she was also there in the pastor's arms. She turned away while he stood up with her frail frame and carried her toward the altar.

Radical Catalyst Art & Literary Journal has open submissions, and the theme for this issue is Political Satire. No cost to submit. U.S.-based contributors receive $10 for each accepted work, and the chosen cover artist receives $50. Anyone outside of the U.S. is welcome to submit, but can't receive compensation due to grant restrictions. The deadline is September 20th, and the release is expected in December. Submit here: https://radicalcatalystjournal.submittable.com/submit

Hum a tune to put me to rest
Because it is sleep I most detest
Draw yourself near me
That my eyes may grow weary
You bring me peace of mind
And it is no where that I can find
One such as you

This challenge is for MonsterVerse fanfic writers who want to take the reported leaks and rumors surrounding Godzilla x Kong: Supernova and create their own story from them!

IMPORTANT: These are based on reported test-screening leaks, merchandise information, rumors, and fan discussions. They may not represent the final movie, so feel free to change, remix, ignore, or completely reinvent anything!

The reported leaks suggest that SpaceGodzilla will be the major antagonist, with Godzilla and Kong finally becoming genuine allies rather than enemies. SpaceGodzilla is allegedly powerful enough to put both Titans on the defensive, while a mysterious even greater threat may be teased at the end.

Meanwhile, Suko and Shimo are reportedly returning, Kong may receive a new R.A.G.E. (Rage Augmented Gauntlet Enhancement) from Monarch, and Godzilla is supposedly portrayed more like his calmer 2014/KOTM incarnation.

P.S. There will be more challenges for all of you and there is no deadline to my challenges or limit of how many people can participate and you may post it on Popular fanfic writing sites.

Hey guys! I am currently working on my third short story. I will be uploading the other 2, once I edit, to get some feedback and see how everyone likes it. The end goal is to start my first trilogy and get it published. :) I am a newbie. Let's see how this goes!

I saw him on Wednesday.

Not in the lecture hall. Not in the controlled, tiered geometry of rows and seats where I had a designated square of space and a reason to look at the front of the room. This was the hallway outside the architecture building. The long, linoleum corridor with the trophy cases and the pinned-up student work and the particular echo that made every footstep sound like two.

I was coming from the print shop. I had my portfolio case under one arm and a tube of drawings under the other and my phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder because Cassie was talking to me about a party on Friday and I was saying mm-hmm at intervals while thinking about whether I had enough time to re-do the elevation sketch before Thursday's studio.

And then he walked out of Room 314.

His office. I knew it was his office because I'd stood outside it on Monday for four minutes before knocking, reading the nameplate — T. MARSH, TA, STRUCTURAL STUDIO — in small brass letters, and then I'd knocked, and he'd said come in , and I'd gone in, and he'd poured me coffee, and his fingers had touched the mug, and I'd walked home in the rain without an umbrella.

That was two days ago.

He walked out of Room 314 and turned left, heading toward the east stairwell, and he didn't see me. I was on the other side of the corridor, half-hidden behind a group of second-years arguing about a laser cutter booking, and my phone was still pressed to my ear, and Cassie was mid-sentence about someone named Derek and his "situational ethics," and I stopped walking.

I just stopped . In the middle of the hallway. Like my legs had received a different set of instructions than the rest of me.

He was carrying a stack of books. Not a lot. Four, maybe five, pressed against his chest with one arm. His other hand held his travel mug. He walked the way he did everything — unhurried, deliberate, each step placed like he was checking the ground for structural integrity before committing his weight. His jacket was different today. Dark green. Corduroy, maybe. Soft-looking. The sleeves were too long and covered his hands halfway, and he kept adjusting them, pulling them back to his wrists, and each time he did, I saw the watch. The scar. The long fingers.

Cassie was still talking. "—and then he said, 'Well, technically, it's not cheating if you redefine the parameters,' which is the most Derek thing—"

"Mm-hmm," I said.

I was not listening to Cassie.

I was watching Theo Marsh walk down a hallway.

He passed the trophy case. Passed the pinned-up drawings from the spring showcase. Passed the water fountain where someone had taped a handwritten sign that said PLEASE STOP PUTTING COFFEE IN THIS . He didn't look at any of it. His eyes were forward, slightly downcast, the way they are when you're thinking about something specific and the world around you has become scenery.

I counted his steps.

I don't know why. I don't know what part of my brain decided that this was a thing to do, a thing to track , the number of times his left shoe hit the linoleum between Room 314 and the east stairwell. But I did. I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Each step even, measured, unhurried. His stride was longer than average. He didn't bounce. Didn't shuffle. His feet landed flat and rolled forward, and his shoulders stayed level, and the books stayed balanced against his chest, and the whole thing was so steady , so completely without wasted motion, that watching him walk felt like watching someone build something. Like every step was a beam being placed. A joint being set. A structure going up, one careful piece at a time.

Fourteen steps. Room 314 to the stairwell. Fourteen steps.

He reached the door. Pushed it open with his shoulder because his hands were full. Held it for a second — not for anyone behind him, just a reflex, a habit of holding doors, his body doing it before his brain registered whether someone was there. Then he went through. The door swung shut. The little rectangular window in it showed his shadow for half a second. Then nothing.

He was gone.

I stood in the hallway.

"Lena? Lena, are you—"

"What?" I said.

"You've been quiet for like forty seconds. I asked if you wanted me to pick you up at nine or ten."

"Ten," I said. I didn't know what I was agreeing to. I didn't care.

"Okay. Cool. Are you okay? You sound weird."

"I'm fine. I have to go. I have a sketch to redo."

"You said 'mm-hmm' four times and didn't hear a single thing I said."

"I heard everything. Derek. Situational ethics. Redefining parameters."

A pause. "You literally heard nothing."

"Bye, Cassie."

I hung up. Stood in the hallway. The corridor was emptying. The second-years had resolved their laser cutter dispute and dispersed. The echo faded. The fluorescent lights buzzed.

I looked at the east stairwell door. The door he'd gone through. The little rectangular window was empty now. Just glass. Just the grey stairwell beyond it.

Fourteen steps.

I hated myself a little. Not a lot. Not in a dramatic, what is wrong with me way. Just a small, quiet, rueful hatred. The kind you feel when you catch yourself doing something stupid and can't stop. Like picking at a scab. Like rereading a text you shouldn't have reread. Like standing in a hallway counting a stranger's footsteps and feeling your chest go warm when he held a door open for no one.

He's a TA , I thought. He's your TA. In three days you will sit in a studio and he will look at your cantilever model and say, "Your joint needs a secondary brace," and that will be the entirety of your relationship. You will not see him in hallways. You will not count his steps. You will not stand behind laser-cutter arguments and watch him walk away like he's the last person on earth and you've been given four seconds to memorize him.

You are twenty-one years old. You are an architecture major. You have a scholarship to maintain and a sister to send money to and a portfolio that needs fixing. You do not have time to stand in a hallway and feel your sternum go warm because a man in a green jacket adjusted his sleeves.

I walked to the print shop. Collected my prints. Walked to the studio. Set up my drafting board. Unrolled my elevation sketch. Picked up my pencil.

I drew for two hours.

And three times — three separate times, I counted these too, God help me — I looked up. Toward the corridor. Toward the east stairwell. Toward the door he'd gone through.

No one was there. Of course no one was there. He was in his office, or in another building, or in the faculty lounge, or anywhere in the world that was not this hallway, and I was sitting at a drafting table in a half-empty studio drawing a building elevation and glancing at a door like a teenager waiting for a text.

I put my pencil down. Pressed my palms flat against the drafting table. Felt the cool laminate under my skin.

Stop it , I told myself. Stop it right now.

I picked the pencil back up. Drew another hour.

---

That night, in my dorm room, Cassie was out at a study group that was definitely not a study group. The room was quiet. The radiator ticked. Rain tapped the window in small, irregular bursts, like someone testing whether they were welcome before fully arriving.

I sat on my bed with my notebook. The same one. The one with T. Marsh. Hands. Ink on the thumb. Scar on the knuckle. written on the first page.

I turned to the second page.

I wrote: Fourteen steps. Room 314 to the east stairwell. Green jacket. Corduroy. Sleeves too long. He adjusts them. Pulls them back. He holds the door for no one. He holds it anyway.

I stared at the words.

I underlined he holds it anyway .

Then, below that, smaller, almost embarrassed: I counted. I stood in the hallway and I counted his steps. Fourteen. I don't know why. I don't know what I was looking for. I don't know what I was hoping to see. He didn't see me. He didn't know I was there. I was behind the laser-cutter people. I was no one. I was seat 14. I was a grey sweater.

But I counted.

And my chest went warm.

And I hate that it went warm.

And I would do it again.

I closed the notebook. Set it on the nightstand. Turned off the lamp. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling. The rain picked up. The radiator ticked its slow, metallic tick.

Thursday was tomorrow.

I was going to sit in the studio. He was going to walk in. He was going to look at my cantilever model. He was going to say something about shear loads and lateral forces and the philosophy of weight. He was going to look at me, or not look at me, and either way I was going to feel it in my chest, and I was going to hate it, and I was going to sit in row eleven and let it happen.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

Fourteen steps.

I closed my eyes.

I counted them again.

.

Cheers!!

Hey there! I just posted my third article on Substack called "They are dead; they are gone. No one lasts forever." The Charli xcx song inspired this one (and hence the title), and it's about the idea of legacy and why legacy means nothing to the dead. Hope you guys enjoy and support my work!

https://niksarchives.substack.com/p/they-are-dead-they-are-gone-no-one?r=3x9hg7&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

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Looking for a 5$ to 10$ remote work 30h a week

Hi all, just looking to put some of my recent work on the crucible. Advice on readability, dialogue, interiority and anything else going on in this would be appreciated.

Thanks in advance.

I'm doing a short film where the main characters will be a real horse and a real dog. They will later be voiced over by my female and male friend. The horse is a female and the dog is a male. The problem is that i have no idea what the movie should be about. I know that I want the horse and dog to be on a date, I'm gonna set up a table with plates, candles, etc on a field. Is there any creative soul who might help me with an idea to this movie? I want it to be kinda abstract and the relationship between the horse and dog should be a methaphor for humans relationship. Thank you!

I recently wrote a piece about the Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope and the mysteries it's designed to investigate.

I'm not an astrophysicist, so the challenge for me was less about showing how much I know and more about making ideas like dark matter, dark energy and gravitational microlensing interesting and understandable without drowning the reader in technical language.

I'd really appreciate some feedback from a writing perspective:

• Does the opening make you want to continue reading?

• Are there places where the explanation becomes too technical or slow?

• Does the conversational style work, or does it feel forced?

• Where would you have stopped reading?

Here's the piece:

https://medium.datadriveninvestor.com/the-telescope-that-may-find-what-the-universe-is-hiding-08e2f2236504

I'm especially interested in criticism rather than just a "nice article", I'm trying to get better at this kind of explanatory writing.

This one is a little strange to explain but I want to try.

I started a project in spring. Character I believed in, opening that felt right, general sense of where it was going. Wrote consistently for a few months. Somewhere in that period I also started a document for what I told myself was a different project, something smaller, something I was just sketching while the main project developed.

Six months in I had fifty thousand words across two documents and no clear sense of which one was the real project.

They had started as genuinely different things. Different characters, different settings, different tones. But reading back through both of them I found they were asking the same question from different angles. The same preoccupation dressed in different clothes. The same thing I apparently needed to write about badly enough that I had started writing it twice without realizing the repetition.

Tried to explain what I was working on to a friend over dinner and produced something incoherent that combined both projects without meaning to. She asked if I was writing one book or two. I said I was not entirely sure.

Spent the following month reading both documents carefully and trying to understand what they were each doing that the other was not. Eventually merged the best elements of both into something that could not have existed without the strange six month accident that produced them.

The book I am finishing now is better than either version would have been alone and I would not have written it if I had been disciplined enough to stay in one document.

Most writers does not write,

Because they think who read it,

But don’t think so much about it,

Just write and feel the magic with it.