New Plan
I’m trying to find ways to continue posting on Prose. It is a very useful site for my writing purposes, and worth the effort of replanning how to post my stories. Most works I have posted were my own random ideas, but sometimes, because of Prose’s community, I wrote down the stories or thought of new ones.
It takes some finagling for me to subscribe to Prose, although the $17.99 paywall is very reasonable. I forget exactly how much the higher paywall was, but it is completely beyond my budget, even if I cut out the few things that I don’t strictly need. Mom and Dad kindly and spontaneously paid for this year’s Prose $17.99 subscription. By next year, I will have to either pay for the subscription myself or periodically subscribe for one month and post stories, then let the subscription lapse. When I told Mom the plan, she thought it was a bad idea, hence delaying it for a year. Also, now I have enough time to save up for next year’s subscription.
I do writerly things from 9:00 or 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM Monday-Wednesday and Friday-Saturday, with enough short breaks to keep my brain functional. On average, 3-4 50-minute blocks are for actual writing, editing, and worldbuilding, 1-hour is for reading, and the rest of the time is for writing more or doing other miscellaneous things, like studying English, organizing, researching, and fiddling with ideas. Writing happens on bad days or tolerable days because the text always requires editing later, however competent it appears at the time. Editing on a bad health day is difficult, and I overlook important things, so I prefer editing on a tolerable or good day. Worldbuilding happens as needed, when stuck, or when time allows for curiosity. Postable writing happens on tolerable days. Sometimes I write longer, and on Thursdays and Sundays.
My output is already low because I edit as thoroughly as possible and have limited days in which to edit well. Editing is mentally exhausting, which slows me down. Posting stories will slow down post-Wolftown, since I will have a one-week vacation and spend the next three weeks writing without deadlines. Wolftown has taken much, much longer than expected to write, and I haven’t had a break from writing in a while. Missing a deadline for health reasons is not actually a break—I’m still dragging myself through the work.
Until I finish Wolftown, I can afford Prose’s paywall, but after that, I probably won’t be able to afford a monthly subscription. I will continue posting Wolftown because cutting off a serial story early would irritate me as a reader. Probably, Wolftown will end in August or September. It was supposed to be a short story, but Wayne talks too much, John rarely says no, and Schuster accidentally became a point-of-view character.
After that, I will be revising and editing a novel, Glyndŵr Rises, and monetize it. The novel should be ready 12-18 months after the post-Wolftown break. It is set in the 2140s British Isles, which France has conquered and rules with a totalitarian regime. The British monarchy died or refused to claim the throne. According to legend, Owain Glyndŵr will rise from the dead and save Wales in its most dangerous time, and King Arthur will do the same for Britain. They appear as visions to two of their descendants, Charles Morgan and Persephone Winters, who happen to be surprisingly close friends. Charles is a French Army veteran, and Persephone is a classicist with no military experience; despite spending over half their lives under French rule and subject to indoctrination and conditioning, they object to the government’s policies. France is a military superpower that can invade and conquer small countries in a month; revolutionaries and other political opponents are routinely killed or arrested and mistreated; the French military and government commit war crimes and crimes against humanity. Even reading about revolutions is illegal, and a police state with highly advanced surveillance obviously interferes with overthrowing the government. Because Charles and Persephone are not members of the British royal family, their revolution would make Wales an independent country, but if their revolution failed, anybody in Wales could suffer the consequences, regardless of a person’s actual involvement.
Postern is a rough Cold Curtain story about one of Charles’ experiences in the French Army. It also features Persephone and some other important characters. Before entering the challenge held by @thWanderer, I knew that Charles (1) had a Croix de Guerre for a military action that an infantry soldier in any army might do, (2) that it involved taking a machine gun position, (3) that he did not discuss it until George found the medal in a junk box, (4), Charles couldn’t be bothered to return the medal when the French Army rescinded it because, although he didn’t want the Croix de Guerre in the first place, he rarely had a chance to mildly irritate France.
Unrelated to the Cold Curtain stories, I have two partially finished stories and a few contenders for a science fiction story.
· Horror: Oliver is given a toy dragon for Christmas, and he names the dragon Chester. At first, Oliver and Chester seem to show only a great deal of imagination.
· Fantasy: A young mother needs to feed her starving baby, younger siblings, and eventually herself, and potentially the other villagers. It is a fairy tale based on Baba Yaga, Hansel and Gretel, European fairy tales about famine, hunger, or starvation, and the Volcanic Winter of 536. Its setting is inspired by continental European Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages without Christianity (anywhere in the world).
They and one science fiction story will be posted as soon as possible while consistently working on Glyndŵr Rises, although science fiction might be delayed. I like science fiction but have always been a humanities person, and so writing science fiction tends to require more effort and time than other speculative fiction genres.
I also want to write another story about the Overflower; a challenge held by @AJAY9979 gave me an excuse to write about him in The Overflower vs. the Grape. The Overflower tends to perform smaller heroic acts or do things which do not seem heroic, and sometimes his actions have absolutely nothing to do with his powers. He can be character-driven, which I’m terrible at writing, and, unfortunately, he can be boring.
Marcus on Calospelegna was for a challenge held by @Prose. Because I didn’t want to write a story about a psychopath or sociopath, which seemed to be the most obvious options, I wasn’t going to enter. While vaguely wondering what the other alternatives were, I thought that Ancient Greek and Roman pantheons caused quite a bit of chaos, and speculated about might happen if they attempted to fix their problems by committee instead of unilaterally or through hatching plans against each other. Other ancient pantheons had similar issues, and thanks to the Roman Empire, combining them was sensible. I have a few ideas about the Crescent Sea, but they will definitely require more time than the dragon, famine, or Overflower stories. On the other hand, taking inspiration from ancient history intimidates me much less than science.
The fewer stories I post, the fewer justifications I have for subscribing to Prose. Also, it doesn’t make sense to ask readers to subscribe to me unless they will have a sizeable story or segment at least monthly, or possibly an archive.
Writing is the best employment option because of chronic health problems (except that the average writer still needs another job). My writing is too low-quality to sell yet, in my opinion; my standards should be much higher than they are. The stories might meet readers’ standards, but I’m not comfortable selling incompetent work. That’s why none of my stories require payment to read my work yet; if people think a story is competent, that’s fine, and I appreciate their opinions.
Since October, 2023, I’ve been writing, editing, and worldbuilding as much as possible because I learn through practice and experimentation. Growing up, my parents ensured I was comfortable with the English language in various situations and for various purposes—and my output would be extremely low without that background, and writing and editing would be frustrating otherwise. Also, now I know approximately how much I can sustainably write and edit in a given time frame. I’m getting better at identifying underlying reasons for unproductivity and finding solutions.
Writing feels much more comfortable now, and I’m making reliable progress. Hopefully, by working on a novel and shorter works simultaneously, eventually I will have a consistent queue of things to post. I’m not sure if the idea will work, but it seems worth an attempt. If the idea fails, I can still post on Novelo and Booksie. Even if I can’t stay on Prose, the time I spent here will give me good writing experience.
Infinitesimally Infinite
I'd never seen anyone outside the house, but it always looked like I'd just missed them. A pile of recently delivered bark chips sat in the driveway next to the car that was forever standing watch in front of the garage. A ladder splayed open among some tall shrubs, or maybe short trees. I wasn't sure which. The front porch, deliciously cluttered with shiny glass bowls, and animal figurines reminded me of Grandma's house; warm, inviting, and safe. I felt like I could trust them, whoever the residents were. Around the corner, an overturned wheelbarrow was becoming one with the strip of nature left between the sidewalk and the street. Garden pathways wound around the luscious corridors of untended decorative plants. Everything from butterfly bushes to bleeding hearts melding together as the years continued to slip by.
As I marveled at the cacophony of it all, I realized my observations must still fall short. We have this ability to condense each leaf into a branch, and each branch into a tree, until it feels like the universe only holds a few billion big things instead of an amount of small things so incomprehensible that your mind would explode trying to contain it all. What untold wonders lie in the dirt beneath the green? How many bugs worked the soil, and maintained the plants while the owners of the house remained a mystery? What birds had landed here, and how many squirrels quarreled with them over food? The blades of grass stood tall yet unquantifiable, like the many hairs on my head, my arms, my legs; begging me to wonder how all of this infinity could come to exist in what couldn’t be more than a quarter acre.
Gratitude Journal For The Week of 1/6/2025
"Thankfulness is like a door to God's presence."
- Kendra Barrow, Vineyard Northwest
"Enter His gates with thanksgiving; go into His courts with praise. Give thanks to Him and praise His name (Psalms 100:4 NLT)."
A Church I follow has an app (Crossroads Anywhere) where we journal together as a community, and one of the things we journal about are things we are thankful for. I wrote these based on prior prompts from the app. I hope these inspire you to reflect on what you are thankful for in your own life. :-)
1/6/2025
"What are you looking forward to this week?"
- Seeing my parents later this week.
- Working on my gaming backlog.
- Getting back into a normal routine again (once the snow clears anyway).
1/7/2025
"What are you grateful for today?"
- The warm embrace of my wife.
- Coffee.
- Getting to work safely this morning.
1/9/2025
"How did someone help you this week?"
- Our landlord helping us with a leak issue at home.
1/10/2025
Affirmation: "I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me."
"Is there anything you would like to thank God for this week?"
Thank You God for helping me through a challenging work week (even though it was short, it packed a punch). Thank You for time with my parents this weekend, and for some fun to enjoy before taking on the first full work week of the new year.
Disapointing
I am humble enough to admit that I wasn't a great mother. I had all four sons before turning twentyone years old. No they didnt have different daddies, no I wasnt promiscuous, yes I had a good wholesome upbringing. One flaw, no father in my life to guide me in the ways of boys and men.
You know, I sacrificed so much for them, I loved them, and yes did I make mistakes, of course. After all there wasn't an instruction booklet.
My first son was a product of a date rape, understand here that I have never blamed my son, it was never his fault. He was sweet, and a beautitful boy and wonderful.
The younger three were from my ex, who also had a daughter a year older than my oldest son. She was two years old, her dad had custody, and I fell in love with her. I was in love with her dad, my ex, but he wasnt in love with me as I thought.
After spending four years together, my ex took the son he wanted to keep and left me pregnant with two little boys. His daughter went to visit his exwife, the two of them used her as a pawn in getting back at each other through the years. I did what I could to make her feel loved as much as my own, but later in her life it wasnt good enough, and it was all for naught.
I was encouraging throughout all of thier lives, when two sons came out as gay, I still loved them, supported them and never once told them they could not be what they wanted to be. I did tell them they had to wait untill they were adults before they made major life changing decisions....
Fastforward to the present.
The daughter I helped when she got pregnant out of wedlock at twenty, my husband I married when the kids were still little, we took her in and gave her a home and helped her with our grandbaby.
The boys were still in highschool, we all helped out.
Then, she got a house, a boyfriend and instead of celebrating getting married with the ones who supported her, she just got married.
I wanted to help pick out her dress or at least go to try outs.
I was completely cut out.
My oldest son as much as I exspressed my love and care for him, he was always in trouble, mixed up in drugs and with the wrong people. He married an addict and they have three children, I never get to see because I refuse to support thier drug habit, and they told his kids that I am dead. So I am dead.
My second son, the one my ex took with him when he left me, well it took me a month but I got him back. I was seven months pregnant with my youngest son.
So my second son was smart, a good baby, a good kid, everybody liked him and you could just tell he was going to be gay but I didnt care, I loved him no matter what.
I supported him, let him bring friends over, and yet, he still picked everyone elses moms over me because they had more money. They lived in fancier homes or nicer cars ect.
Fast forward to now:
Now he is married, we supported him because we wanted him to be happy, his in-laws live with him and his spouse AND he took thier family name.
So I handled that.
Then he talks down to me, and acts embarrassed that I am his mom. I noticed that on his social media all his pics are of his new family, the ones of me are from years ago.
Yes our political views are oposite, does that mean I dont love him of course not! It does for him though.
My third son has always been a middle child. Hes very good, easy going, and an introvert. Always has been. Kind and gentle he has a good head on his shoulders. We had a tiny bit of trouble when he was a teen, but he was just afraid of coming out. All is well now. He lives with his partner.
My youngest is on the spectrum but high functioning and keeps a job. When he was four months old he contracted spinal meningitis and it settled on his brain, as a result we spent two months in childrens hospital and in the end he had to have brain surgery. I was devastated. The doctors didnt know how well he would develop after, walking, talking ect. As it turned out he didnt talk until he was almost five. My older children said I favored him the most.
Maybe, but they never came so close to losing a child to death like I did, they never had to realize how precious that sweet child so sick with fever really is after everything you go through. You see in the end you love all your children no matter what. Period.
My youngest is married now, again, I was excluded from any of the planning or helping. I would have liked to be included but why start now?
My two youngest sons do keep in touch with me. The others have taken on the attitude that I should chase them around, call them all the time and bend over backwards so they will stay in touch. They want to hold the grand kids over my head.
So I give up. I cant do it. I cant be that kind of person so I'll just be dead. I never was disrespectful to my folks, and I took my children to see them every weekend.
So I'm disapointed that mine cant even wish me happy birthday, happy mothersday, happy thanksgiving, or happy holidays! Not one word or picture.
Yet I send them all those greetings.
Maybe I did everything wrong.
Maybe should have done what society today thinks is best by just taking the easy way out and murdering them before they were born.
All I know is that this generation is so
Dissapointing.
Opinions?
Hi!
I’m actually in a block right now but I have questions
if you’ve read my works, what type of writer do I seem like?
idk why something is ringing depressed writer in my head
And do you feel idea of stories should be made here?
like “oh I saw this butterfly today & it reminded me of summer” & you share it for 24 hours because it’s pretty
5/23/24
“Eight billion people in this world,” I said to the asshole pointing the gun in my face, “and you picked me to fuck with?” I shook my head as I stared down the gun barrel. “You made a really bad choice.”
This part of the story is one hundred percent true. Yes I, Ledlevee, Mike Monroe, the real life person writing this, beat the shit out of two guys who tried to rob me at gunpoint. They fucked with the wrong person on the wrong night. So this first entry is the true part. Everything after this entry is going to be what could have happened the next day and every day going forward if I’d done things just a little differently after this night. But back to the story. And let me rewind a bit now that I’ve got the first sentence hook out of the way.
I’ve had five really bad years. Like legendarily tragically all-time bad years. My dad died. My wife of eleven years told me she was gay and wanted a divorce. I moved out and was forced to pay for both households since she refuses to get a job, and all that with four kids. My mom has dementia and has been steadily getting worse and I was the person who had to help take care of her, call her every night to remind her to take her meds, to do mundane things most of us take for granted. And that’s on top of taking care of four kids and paying for two households. I never have any money because of this shitty situation. I started messing up at work because of the psychological toll of all of this. I have therapists, psychiatrists, more meds than you can shake a stick at. I’m bipolar. And I have PTSD. Plus I’ve been dealing with Crohn’s Disease most of my life. I’m not saying all this because I want a fucking pity party. I’m just giving some context.
But of all the shit, the one thing that stung the most, the thing that hurt more than anything ever has my entire life, was when the woman I love stabbed me through the heart. Metaphorically of course. We haven’t gotten to the violent vigilante part yet. Let’s call her Mary Jane. Because every super hero needs to have his Mary Jane.
So Mary Jane showed up right after my separation from my wife, though I’d known her most of my life. She helped me through one of the hardest things I’d ever been through which was the separation and pending divorce. She was really there for me. And as the couple of years or so went on, we grew closer and closer and started going on trips together and spending more time together. I started to realize how much we had in common. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, I fell in love with her.
Things got physical very briefly. And right before she took me on this wonderful birthday trip, she told me an ex had emailed her. She laughed it off and said the only reason she’d ever dated him was she didn’t want to end up falling in love with some ex convict. Made sense I guess. She’d convinced me that this guy was totally wrong for her and she had no interest in him whatsoever. And then she takes me on this wonderful all expenses paid trip and we have sex. And on the way back she was talking about introducing me to her sister and I’m like “Hmm, maybe this could end up being something.” A week later she emails me and tells me she’s getting back with her ex; you know, the one she supposedly didn’t give a fuck about. So you can guess how that made a guy who already has major self esteem issues feel.
Anyway, five months later things hadn’t gotten any better. I’d been fighting suicidal thoughts for months. I really didn’t give a fuck anymore. So I went to this sound bath and acupuncture therapy I’ve been going to. And afterwards, I was hanging out with my friend. We’ll call him John since I probably shouldn’t use real names in this thing. He says “Hey buddy. Sorry I have to go to work now, but you should go treat yourself. Do something nice for yourself.”
So I’m like, “Okay. It’s a nice night. I’ll go for a walk.”
I drove home and started walking up Harford Road. I’ll use real place names to help things seem more real. This all takes place in Baltimore, by the way. So here I am walking up Harford Road, and on my way back, this eighteen or twenty year old kid comes walking up next to me, dressed in all black. And he says “Give me your bread, dog.”
And I’m like, “My bread?”
“Yeah, your bread.”
Then I notice there’s another guy walking behind me who says, “Give it to him!”
I say, “Why don’t you go to the fucking grocery and get your own fucking bread.”
He says, “Give me your money.”
I say. “I don’t have any money.”
He says, “Yes you do.” I really didn’t, but I wouldn’t have given it to him if I did.
I smile while I’m walking. “Go fuck yourself.”
So these assholes jump me and start punching me in the head and face. I should mention I don’t feel pain and it takes a shit ton to knock me out. So their punches didn’t even hurt, though they did knock my glasses off and it was hard for me to see after that. But I started punching back. I should also mention that I’m strong as shit and I’ve been taking karate. It’s one of the things that’s been helping me survive the past few years. I was using it to get out my frustrations. I never thought it would literally save my life.
Anyway, I started punching back, and though their punches didn’t hurt me, mine definitely hurt them. I was taking out years of pent up rage on their unsuspecting assess. I went all Darth Vader on them. The guy in front of me realized they weren’t gonna take me out like that so he took a few steps back and drew the gun. The guy behind me was still behind me.
And that’s when I said, “Eight billion people in this world and you picked me to fuck with? You made a really bad choice.”
The guy behind me said, “He’s gonna kill you.”
I said “Great! Put me out of my misery.”
I remember the guy with the gun laughing. He must have thought that was hilarious. “Come on mother fucker,” I said. “Kill me. Put me out of my misery. Do it. Just make sure you don’t miss and turn me into a brain damaged vegetable or something.”
Then this car pulled up. Apparently we were blocking the intersection. I tried to wave at them but they just sat there. So the guy with the gun moved out of the way and they drove past like nothing was happening. I tried to flag down other cars that were driving by. It was almost comical at this point.
The guy with the gun said “Ain’t nobody helping you.”
I smiled and said, “I’m not the one who needs help. You are.”
At this point I figured he’d have shot me by now if he was gonna do it. And I was super pissed that he was too much of a pussy to pull the trigger. So I decided to take out all of my rage and frustration on these two assholes.
I knocked the guy’s gun away with a left handed middle inside block. Then I gave him a heavy hook to the jaw with my right hand. I back kicked the guy behind me and hit his crotch. I turned and took a few steps back, making sure I had them both in front of me, and I stepped closer to the guy with the gun to take away his range advantage.
Now a normal human would have probably ran at this point, but I was having too much fun. They weren’t apparently, because they looked at each other and ran across the street and into some dark trees.
While they were running I yelled “You fuckers are lucky you knocked my glasses off or you’d both be bleeding in the street right now!” Then I picked up my glasses and put them back on.
Walking home, I felt like a badass. I had a shit eating grin on my face. Two guys tried to rob me at gunpoint and I beat the crap out of them. But then I remembered my four kids. I can’t leave them alone with their mom. I have to be there for them. I can’t be doing stuff like that anymore. I have to be more careful.
That’s what my real life self said. But from here on, I’m going to turn this thing fictional. But based on reality. This is the story of what may have happened if I’d decided to become a real life superhero.
Meditations
Ok, so recently I told one of my friends that I meditate every night. They opened up their eyes like hot air balloons and jumped up and down in excitement. "Wait, you meditate? How did I not know this? That is amazing!" They said, and immediately, I regretted mentioning anything. I don't meditate because I want people to think I'm cool. It isn't something I do to achieve my best life style or be "at peace with myself." Its something I do because I have no other choice. This is my way of stopping myself from obsessing over murdering some one as I go to bed. I learned breathing exercises so I could calm down at school instead of breaking down. I did all this because I have to. I did all this because I wanted a life that wasn't me convincing myself I still deserved to live. I do these things because they have proven to be the most effective measure against every horror the world has to offer. Reducing it to anything except that is just cruel. I didn't do it to please you. I didn't even do it to please myself. I did it because it brought me some peace. I did it because after years of drugs nothing seemed to work. I did it because there was no end to the madness in my head. I did it because I had no where else to turn. I do it still because it keeps me sane. I do it still because it taught me to focus my attention on a sound so annoying I can barely think. It taught me to make that sound my entire reality. The whirring of a machine becomes the vast intricacies of the cosmos. The ticking of a clock becomes the fabric of time, set in motion by mortal hands. Then, before I know it my head isn't spinning. My thoughts, if not whole, are just a little bit clearer than when I left and the everything makes sense. For one fucking second it makes sense.
The voices in my head keep talking. The conversations among my peers keep going. I look up and I am among yet distant. I am not outcast and yet I will never be a part of the group. I'm different. I spent years learning breathing techniques so I could survive a single day at school, only to go to bed at night and do everything I can to learn something more, something permanent. At the same time, I know I could never be happy with ordinary. No matter how many years I spend learning to fit in I will still be me. And, that will never be enough, not even for me. So I keep going, hoping that one day I will be ok with not being perfect, but simply existing and knowing, that that is enough.
The naming game
I just use whatever comes to mind and feels right. I tend to follow my instinct for most things. And sometimes, the name I choose can become symbolic in itself later on. I once gave a character the middle name Hyacinth, finding out later that the meaning humans have given to the flower resonate with him quite well. I once named a character Emily and had the man she thought was her runaway, biological father call her by the full thing, "Emilia", because it was he that gave it to her before he left. I named two characters Adam and Steve because hey, gay. Devon and Trevor cos it sounded like it rhymed. Elozonam because I wanted to find an Igbo name without "chi" or "chukwu" meaning God in them, seeing as I'm not a Christian and neither was he. His name means "don't forget me". I'm rather fond of how pretty it is. Elozonam. I'm planning on a character nicknamed Lucifer for funzies, his real name Lucian or something, though he may never see the light of day. Many of my creations haven't, honestly. There's a girl called Nebula cos her mother loved the cosmos and quite a few with names that begin with Z because it's my favourite letter. Any character I have with a name that starts that way is almost certainly a self-insert.
I have many names for myself, too. Zee, Zedd, Icarus, Rainbow. A few other, less used Z-starting names. It's fun. Names are important. We use them over and over again. If I'm gonna make a character I'll love enough to flesh them out, I definitely need a name that melds with my mind to go with it.
And that's that.