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  1. Hard to stay positive when you feel and think badly of yourself.

    Hard not to think that no one really understands or cares.

    Hard to not think of everyone as seeing you as something to be rejected.

    Hard not to feel alone and abandoned.

    Hard not to feel useless and pointless.

    Hard not to grow cold and numb.

    Hard not to feel like a failure.

    Hard not to think that life is just plain cruel.

    Hard not to push others away.

    Hard to not want to just give in or give up.

    Hard to trust when you think you will just get hurt.

    Hard not to make jokes and act a clown, to hide your in pain.

    Hard to not feel broken.

    Hard to just stop having all these damn negative thoughts and feelings!


    Depression you really suck, and I want to punch you in face really hard!
  2. As some of you are well aware that I am a Fetishist. More precisely a Medical Fetishist,
    that practices Med/Surg/Dent. Wow this must be how coming out of the closet feels like,
    but for something stranger than simply sexual pref. :p Not that I have done much to hide
    my extracurricular activities outside of writing. It is something I have had to keep on the
    DL for a long time, like many people do about their preffs.
    I understand it could bother some, considering I have a bit of a masochistic nature and
    a fancy metal candy dish filled with needles. Just think it would be best to get this off my
    chest, and be who I am and not be all 'Phony Smiles and Fake Hellos' (BLS ref) :p
    All the puns, jokes, and metaphors are just apart of who I am, and I can't switch it off.
    TBH I have only in the past year figured out the why, and it is due to the fact that it
    does hurt to heal. Not that I feel the need to delve into dark subject matter, that has made
    me into the man I am today. We will just say for augments sake that I am kinda hardwired
    this way, and it can't be undone. Not that I find it all to be problematic in the slightest, but
    I have had at least one person think that I am pushing some ideology. when I am clearly
    not. Not out to push either BDSM or Kink on anyone (though I have been accused). I am
    simply me. And yes I am weird, strange, and think differently than most. But I am nothing
    more than a novelty created from a place you don't understand. That does not make me any
    less genuine a person. I am not perfect, and I don't judge anyone,but by the character of their
    person, not just to be an ass.
    So what if I am serious in what I am into, isn't every person? We all define ourselves by our
    interests and nature (whether it be from a place of nicety, or one of pain and misery).

    So can you accept me, the way I accept you?

    (Also cause I wanna have a bit of fun) :p
    Me.jpg
    Carly Berg likes this.
  3. As some of you are well aware that I am a Fetishist. More precisely a Medical Fetishist,
    that practices Med/Surg/Dent. Wow this must be how coming out of the closet feels like,
    but for something stranger than simply sexual pref. :p Not that I have done much to hide
    my extracurricular activities outside of writing. It is something I have had to keep on the
    DL for a long time, like many people do about their preffs.
    I understand it could bother some, considering I have a bit of a masochistic nature and
    a fancy metal candy dish filled with needles. Just think it would be best to get this off my
    chest, and be who I am and not be all 'Phony Smiles and Fake Hellos' (BLS ref) :p
    All the puns, jokes, and metaphors are just apart of who I am, and I can't switch it off.
    TBH I have only in the past year figured out the why, and it is due to the fact that it
    does hurt to heal. Not that I feel the need to delve into dark subject matter, that has made
    me into the man I am today. We will just say for augments sake that I am kinda hardwired
    this way, and it can't be undone. Not that I find it all to be problematic in the slightest, but
    I have had at least one person think that I am pushing some ideology. when I am clearly
    not. Not out to push either BDSM or Kink on anyone (though I have been accused). I am
    simply me. And yes I am weird, strange, and think differently than most. But I am nothing
    more than a novelty created from a place you don't understand. That does not make me any
    less genuine a person. I am not perfect, and I don't judge anyone,but by the character of their
    person, not just to be an ass.
    So what if I am serious in what I am into, isn't every person? We all define ourselves by our
    interests and nature (whether it be from a place of nicety, or one of pain and misery).

    So can you accept me, the way I accept you?

    (Also cause I wanna have a bit of fun) :p
    View attachment 12905
    Malisky and Carly Berg like this.
  4. Since getting feedback from the writing group last week on my current main WIP, it was a massacre (no pun intended). And some of what I got back was that one of my MCs came off as pervy for having a mercenary sit on a live grenade at gunpoint. Even though it is not hinted at being more than just a sick joke to keep them there until back up arrives.
    Altogether I have the entire first 40pgs that need to be axed and re-writ. Which feels massive, even though that would leave me 100pgs that are workable.

    But should I really bother with finishing a story that nobody will ever read? Not like it's prequel really gained any steam or audience. Kinda been avoiding it like the plague and working on shorts that don't have anything
    to do with my WIP, because it just seems like a massive undertaking to endure next to no payoff. I mean it is almost as if I have thrown a year and few months do the drain trying to get this damn story to it's ending, but it just doesn't really inspire me to want to even see if I can get it there.

    IDK what to do about this conundrum...Help please? Thank you. :)
  5. This has to be one of the hardest parts I have had to write. Just don't know if it works,
    given the fact that I had to do a bit of research, and kinda mashed together a few elements
    to create the entire portrayal.

    1421 words that hopefully make sense. :p


    Marckus:


    Huddling in the corner in the pitch blackness, sore and weeping. Unable to muster the energy to raise my head, as the dull ache in my skull resonates with each little sob in the gaping hole where my left eye no longer is. Still I do not know how long I have been here. Even more frightening still, I am unsure of who I even am. Which is worse? The bright lights, restraint, and never ceasing Inquisition that has ravaged my body, along with never ending questions. Questions I refuse to answer. Or the darkness and deafening silence, and my imagination running wild of nightmares. Shivering soaking in sweat, straining my mind in the vain hope of remembering anything. At points something taunts me, but always remains just outside my focus. Mostly they are mere glimpses of the dead and dying. Reaching, begging, pleading through a haze. Towards me in a dense fog, to help them. To save them.

    Every so often I can feel my hand try and reach out to pull a fuzzy image of a suffering form, and they pass through my gnarled and mutilated fingers. Each failure to reach out and touch these apparitions grates on my mind, like that of a rasp on a bone. Contorting my face into a horrid snarl of frustration and torrential agony. Causing each new failure to emblazon me with a sorrow and regret, that crashes upon me in waves. With each new wave only allows me to guess as to who I use to be, what I was meant to be. All of it ultimately weighing on me in an ever increasing vice, slowly crushing my weakening body. Squeezing the life from me, as well as what little remains of my spirit.

    “Look at you,” a voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, as if there is someone standing near me and yet far off in the distance.

    With the little will I have left, forcing my eye to scan the darkness around me. I do not change my posture, noting from somewhere deep down that I am still alone. There was not an instance that I could ever recall of there every being a time when there has been a way to be spoken to from inside the cell itself. I am sure of this having explored the confining metal box down to the last millimeter. As far as I understand walls do not have the ability to speak.

    “You’re pathetic,” the voice chimes in a scolding manner,” To think what started as a man, reduced to nothing but a quivering husk of fear and disappointment.”

    Retreating a bit further into the recess of the wall, scraping my shoulder against the rough metal bunk just to my left.

    “Go away,” I feebly murmur trying to banish the offending voice. It let out a sickly sinister laugh, sending a chill through the marrow of my bones. Echoing off the metal walls of the cell for far longer than could ever be possible in the metal box. Taking a long inhalation, emitting a hum of amusement and defiance.

    “No! I can’t leave,” it began again, starting to take shape, becoming sharper, clearer, and gaining a definition,” Not until you remember. Become what you are. Only then can I go.”

    I consider what it speaks, wondering how this voice can possibly know, that which I cannot seem to recall. Admittedly even as it ridicules me, there is something in the way it speaks that may bring some form of relief. In a way the hope in me is not much more than the dying glow of a spent match. Smoking, as it fades from my will to live. Knowing in my growing lament for death, denied by those who have done this to me.

    “This is not what imprisons you. You have done that all by yourself,” the voice continues,” Not in what those who ream and molest your flesh. Not even in these walls of metal. The only thing holding you captive is you.”

    Propping my chin up on my weary hand, searching the darkness with a little more vivacity with my burning dry eye. Almost creaking against the bone, as there is no more tears to lubricate it as it strains to see anything in the blackness shrouding everything about me.

    “Stop looking for answers with your eyes,” It barks and I involuntarily jump at its tone,” There are no answers in this box. You are as stupid as you are spineless.”

    “You have some nerve,” I hiss through my teeth, and exposed bone of my fingertips bites into my palm. The sweat burns into the freshly split flesh, only feeding the disdain for the contemptuous voice mocking my pain.

    “Correction I did, but not anymore,” the voice grows more even, almost forlorn in a way,” But you of all should know that,”

    “Quit dancing about,” a little more inflection and life in my throat,” You’re really starting to piss me off more than the fuckers who won’t stop trying to force me to tell them about those I don’t even know.”

    “That is the spirit,” half mocking, half encouraging,” Now we’re getting some where. So get pissed off at me, I could care less. Though it is useless. Now shut the fuck up, and listen to me! Time and my patience are not something you can simply piss away, not now.”

    “Fine,” I bitterly concede to it,” How can I remember, and be what you think I am?”

    “Here is your key to freedom,” the tone growing soft, mournful,” Beja nis...Revein nisola gworn illumai.”

    The words echoed in the hollowness, and silence ruling the sweltering confines in the emptiness of the cell. A few moments pass, before I realize I am standing. Something buried so far down, transcending a lifetime long since passed. No sooner on my feet, gravity brings me to my knees. For a second I am filled with confusion, and immediately stricken with a mass of emotions.

    New pain more excruciating than I have ever felt before, making the fresh wounds nothing but a pinprick. Every bullet, slice, hit, and fragment of shrapnel from hundreds of battles, become one with the heat of a flame. Every centimeter of my skin shrieking, as all the old wounds come to life again in my flesh.

    Every single face that had once been locked in a haze, now flashing before me in complete clarity. Each look of desperation, each hand reaching toward me. From the most recent injured, mutilated forms bleeding from all wounds a war can inflict. Thousands upon thousands of these horrific images only compound the pain in my flesh. Soldiers. Civilians. Humans. Aliens. Every last one I fought to keep alive. Dragging or carrying them to safety. Some survived, and others died.

    The final nightmarish image lingers in front of me. Her small body laying on the gurney in the medic tent. Lower jaw exposed except for a bit of flesh on her right cheek. Large deep walnut eye, a gelatinous soup pouring from its socket. Limbs and torso torn up from razor wire, and a light artillery round. Upper pelvis and organs pulsing in the open air, as her purple blood flowed freely from every part of her.

    I remember carrying her small body wrapped in my fatigue blouse, she weighed nothing in my arms as I fought to get her from the front line. Two frantic and mortifying kilometers, half a dozen rounds in me, and a terrifying several minutes tangled in a razor wire line.

    Reliving every moment, as if it were only yesterday. The raw nerve reaction and ferocity re-awoke in me. The immense resentment I had when the medics could not save her, and her pale gray skin went white. I broke the senior medics jaw with all my force behind my fist. Nearly died from cross contamination of her silicon blood in my wounds.

    My arms up in the air supporting an invisible mass, turning my face up into the void. Passion, desire, hatred, all begin to rekindle my fading light. In the rage, one word roaring from my swollen raw vocal chords.

    “Lilanisya!”