u/Mundane_Main_2726

This post is oriented towards discussion of an anti-car anarchism. If you disagree with it, I'm not really interested in debating this stance. The thread is here to discuss some practicalities of an anti-car anarchist society.

I've been an anarchist for basically as long as I remember to some extent. Despised borders and (nation-)States since I was a kid.

I also have always had strong feelings when it comes to owning and using cars. My family did not have a car when I was growing up, and I never did myself, nor do I plan on getting one. My brother bought one a few years after I moved out.

I'm pretty known in my social circle as being strongly anti car and people always seem to love to tell me how great it is to have a car and how awesome it would be if I got a driving license. No thank you.

Public transport and boots-made-for-walkin are pretty efficient most of the time in my opinion, at least when it comes to necessities. I grew up in a town deep in the mountains, which is connected to other towns and cities by bus or train. If, however, you want to spend a nice day at that lovely river two valleys over, you would need to travel there by car. Car, or leave two days earlier and hike there, or ride by bike (which could be intense depending on the road). Sure, it would be great, but very limiting to people who have major disabilities, that would have otherwise been able to reach the place in a car. Or the elderly or children who simply don't have the strength to put up with such an effort.

What is a potential solution to this? I thought of cars that would be available to borrow in case of need, which I assume would be pretty needed in case someone was interested in moving to a different city or country, to transport all their stuff. Would these cars be automated? You would need to know how to drive them otherwise. Would everyone be able to drive these cars?

As cool as it may sound to some, carts and carriages are out of question because we stand for animal liberation.

Hey hey, I'm looking for some more bands that feature lead female voices that go for a rougher/coarser singing style, more throaty if that makes sense, rather than melodic and gentle.

I really love the girls from Cheap Dirty Horse, and Sherri's occasional performance in Defiance Ohio is wonderful. And obviously Whitney from Days n Daze.

I'm looking for something more akin to the latter's style, or, for a male example, something like Pat the Bunny.

The beat was like a mix between DNA. and the second half of m.A.A.d city, and the song was Kendrick talking about his height. He compared himself to a race car, which is shorter than a regular car but goes faster, and that was a metaphor I guess.

The chorus would alternate between "I'm a race car biiitch" and "I'm a race car [n-word]", and he would say the n-word the way Stinkmeaner does in Boondocks.

There's a magpie sitting on a tree branch, just hanging out, and she looks down and sees a cow climbing up the tree. The cow then sits next to the magpie on the branch, and the baffled bird asks:

"Cow, what did you climb the tree for?"

"I just came to eat me some cherries."

"But cow, this is a maple, there's no cherries up here!"

"Oh that's ok," says the cow, "I have the cherries in a can."

I used to walk barefoot outside a lot, as a kid and in my teens. and i try to still whenever i can and when i deem it safe. I grew up in the countryside, and spent lots of time playing at the creek. even did some barefoot hiking.

I'm looking into barefoot shoes, and was really curious as to what they feel like. i've always heard that it makes you feel as if you were actually barefoot.

Looking for some recommendations, that are dedicated to discussions of feminism. I know it can always be discussed here, but yeah, was looking for something specific.

I looked into r/feminism and tried to hang out there a while ago, but it's just a lot of islamophobia and apologia towards racism directed at indians, and I'm not interested in that.

Real feminism, so no TERs, no male-centred pop feminism etc. I hope you know what I mean.

I got into an argument with her over this a while ago.

We both love literature and in fact, I guess she was the one to get me into reading in the first place when I was a kid. We're both writers as well. The thing is, she has really bad media literacy.

I have a younger brother, in his early 20s, who lives with her still. I was visiting that time and he was telling me how he's getting into literature, and been reading classic russian authors. My mother told him he should check out Nabokov, and specifically one of her favourite books which is Lolita.

And she started talking about the book. She said how she knows by heart the opening line, which she recited in this weird sensual voice. It made me sick and nauseous and I told her, maybe a little too expressively (I didn't yell, I was just sickened) not to do that.

She found that upsetting, that I overreacted. I don't know girl, controversial, but I think that reciting a passage about a minor, told by a pedophile (Humbert Humbert, not Nabokov) in an erotic tone does call for a strong reaction.

We got to talking, and I explained that the book is meant to be disturbing, it's written from the POV of an unreliable narrator who is a pedophile and kidnaps a little girl. My mother seems to have not understood that, and believes that it's actually an "unconventional love story" between this middle aged professor and a little girl infatuated with him, whom she related to in the past (and currently as well), in her attraction towards older men, which she justified as having grown up without a father. DOLORES IS NOT ATTRACTED TO THE NARRATOR WHAT THE FUCK.

My mother did have a brief somewhat relationship with a family friend of ours (never fully confirmed but I'm almost 100% confident this is the case), who is like 26 years older than her (she was in her late 30s and 40s when this happened). She now has a boyfriend who is just a couple of years older than her.

I just find this all so foul and disturbing, yet somehow I'm to blame for having been upset over her being apologetic to pedophiles. I said how, if I were a mother and my daughter got kidnapped, or abused by a rapist, I would really really want to have revenge over that. And somehow this made me a monster, because I'd be so careless and quick to hurt another person.

On a completely unrelated note, by coincidence, she believes that Elvis and Priscilla were in love, when some time ago I said that Elvis Presley is a disgusting monster who is tragically still celebrated as a great artist despite being a horrid groomer.

My family comes from Poland and chrain is a popular condiment to have with bread, especially for festivities. There are a lot of similarities between Poland and Lithuania and I was curious as to whether this is something the two cuisines have in common.

I'm writing a short story set in the early modern age (XVI century to be precise) in Lithuania along the Baltic, and wanted to mention some food, and thought chrain would be fun, but wanted to make sure first.

Sveiki! I'm currently writing a short story set sometime in the XVI century in coastal rural Lithuania. It focuses on a family who resisted christianity long after 1386 and continued to practice the native religion.

My protagonist is a woman in her 40s whom I'd like to have a pre-christian name. Currently it is Ugnė, and I might keep it as, from what I learnt, it means fire, which is pretty incredible as I did not know this when I chose it, and it coincidentally fits incredibly well with the story. One of her cows, one who is very tied to and affectionate with her, also needs a name, which I hoped would be pagan as well.

I don't speak lithuanian myself so navigating lithuanian sources for this is a little hard. I am familiar with the area of the baltic as my family is polish and I spent there the earliest years of my life, so I'm drawing a bit from my own memories of the area while writing this story.

I have been considering going on prog after almost 2 years of E. I'm currently doing EEn monotherapy, and all is great.

I want to give prog a try for breast growth. I'm aware of all the possible side effects, which is why I'll be simply trying it for the moment being.

However, I talked about this with my girlfriend and told her that in the past, I was worried to take prog because I heard how it "changed" people's sexuality. I've been a lesbian for as long as I can remember really. As in, even when I was 11, I was upset I wasn't born a lesbian tomboy. Gradually, as my mental health worsened over the years I distanced myself from any romantic and sexual desires, which came back when I transitioned, and I felt comfortable being a lesbian.

I did date a guy briefly after that, but I was coerced into the relationship and I struggled finding him attractive. If anything, I felt pressured to do so. All in all, I'm not attracted to men, and I know so from direct experience.

My girlfriend is worried (she tries to dismiss these thoughts) that with prog I'll stop being attracted to her, that I won't want to be together etc. I told her this isn't how that works, but she still worries though she's trying to hide it. How can I explain it to her that all is going to be ok? Without lying obviously. Is she right to be worried?

TL,DR:

I have been keeping track through photos etc, and my breasts have not grown one bit for over a year (started E two years ago). If anything, they shrunk after I dropped cypro, which was expected. I'm afraid that because of how messy my levels were and my doses, I have compromised any possible growth. Right now they're basically at Tanner 3. Areolas have been puffy just the same throughout it all. Breast soreness is completely gone. T is successfully suppressed and that's great, but that's it.

Do I have any hope that by regulating my injection dose, bringing it to a healthier level will make it better (question makes more sense with the full context)? Or is it actually possible for breasts to completely halt forever given an irregular therapy and dosages?

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PREMISE: keep in mind that I'm aware my actions were erratic. They were a result of unmedicated mental health issues such as depression and anxiety as well as poor mental states caused by bad levels of E. Moreover, my experience with medical professionals was atrocious and they were unwilling to help every time, from not wanting to adjust therapy to providing misinformation as to the meds.

I had a bit of a rough first year when i initially started hrt, with lots of changes and fluctuations and I worry that since then my breast development might have been compromised as it has halted for over a year.

Below is the full story, more or less. I don't remember all the details, it's a mess.

I started E with sandrena gel, I can't really remember the dose. I think a daily 1 mg (which might seem low, but in Sandrena's case, it equals to 2 mg of other gels for a whole bunch of reasons I don't remember). I was also doing leuprorelin injections monthly to suppress T.

3 months in and everything was great as per test results and personal feeling. 4 months in I started feeling awful, I felt a surge of T and upon doing a test, my E went down by 100, to something like 50 pg/ml.

Lots of issues with my endo, she dismissed my concerns. I decided on my own to apply gel on my scrotum, basically in an act of desperation. I did this 2 days in a row and stopped as it worsened my mental health (I did not have antidepressants back then) and went back to applying gel on my thigh.

Then I went back to applying on scrotum for a bit and switched to Estrofem (sublingual pills) for a few months, which made me feel better and it made breast soreness come back. I changed endo, and she prescribed me a higher dose of E via gel (2 mg, so 4 mg if equated to other forms of E), and replaced leuprorelin with cypro. I went back to that but applied it on my scrotum. Literally the next day of gel, breast soreness vanished and did not come back. Gel yielded a level of E 750 pg/ml after about a month or two. We switched back to Estrofem, which I took buccally. I stuck with Estrofem for a while, I'd say like 5 months. As soon as I went back to Estrofem, breast soreness came back for around a week and vanished gradually and I have not felt it since. This was a year ago.

I started feeling wrong again, not as bad as after the first 3 months, but my levels turned out shit, around 80. I switched to weekly injections of EEn since october, I think 0.7 ml, and dropped cypro after a month to do monotherapy. I tested for it 5 months later (this march) and my levels were at 400 something I believe. I have been slowly reducing that dosage now, gradually.

This is a thought I had with my best friend the other day and I just want to share it. I know it is a hypothetical, but I find it worth discussing.

If politicians, when elected, were to be always asked whether they are antifascists, not only a lot of them would surely take issue with such a ritual, but a great portion of the public would find this problematic.

This has a basis in reality, obviously, from it actually happening (italian politicians refusing to say they are antifascists, you know, Italy, where fascism emerged as we know it today; this was a few years ago, I cannot find the news source for it), and people who believe that antifa is some organisation with leaders and members and meeting locations and so on.

Imagine feeling uncomfortable having to admit you are against fascism.

The breeze carried the flaring sun through the ferns and grasses. There was a drone of flies around the muddy shores and the sand hissed as the young stepped on it. Then the sky caught on fire.

It burnt away, and winter came, and she forgot it could ever leave. The sun never rose, the candid blue it always lit became a desert of thin black sand and spores, and she forgot what it looked like when the day ended behind a treeline. She forgot about the moon too, and all she knew was the night.

Orange ghosts still flickered on the horizon sometimes, and there she knew to turn the other way, into the outer dark, where it stung to breathe. She forgot the bubbling flow of creeks and rivers, trickling between the rocks, but she remembered thirst.

She rose her head towards the sky and let the cold flakes melt on her face. Each droplet carried a thread of dust as it collided with others into a web, before dropping down into the muck.

She watched, following their fall, and stared into the soil. The night was quiet, the wind got lost again. She listened to the ice, melting and weeping, and leaned in closer, towards the small forming puddle, so small she probably did not even see it. She opened her jaws and scooped up the grey sludge, and the last dangling strand of her unborn's shell unstuck itself from between her teeth. The mud took it, so it could never be seen again, long after it had already been forgotten about.

She pushed the sludge down the scars in her throat, and it sunk thickly. Her mouth tasted of old smoke on its own, but the slop was warm and spoiled. Nameless chunks of decay brushed on her gums and stuck to the roof, tickling, while past her mouth, the mixture suddenly felt dense and dry as sand. She pushed it hard, jerking her head, until she felt it all in her gut. It was enough to fill her until she hurled.

She had not learnt again.

She marched, maybe forward or in a circle, maybe somewhere she went before. The black pillars stood around her the same wherever she was.

Then a splash echoed in the fog and her weight fell to the mud. She whined a deep hum in her chest, and crawled on her side, her legs yanking against the air, splattering around. The greaselike smoke wormed into her mouth, and it made her hiss and exhale. Like that, more of it spat onto her tongue and roof, and some of it tasted like curds of fermenting sweetness. Her chest gargled another whine, rising in pitch as it bellowed in solitude.

When she pulled herself on her trembling feet, she marched on with a limp. The mysterious growth deep in her femur bulged with each step, piercing further and further out of her flesh, or so she felt. It had been there since before the day the sky caught on fire, but she did not remember.

Eventually she was heading downhill. The fading tracks of one of her kin led her there, though she did not know how long she'd been following them, nor did she know why she was. The cold was stinging her eyes now, a whistling ghost creeping from beyond the ridge and rushing between the black pillars.

Her feeble eyes looked for the hiding landscape, and a heavy rattle sang from her chest, sending a frail shiver through the air. Only the wind howled back in a foreign echo.

She still limped forward, down to where the pillars laid scattered and ripped out of the soil, forced together into piles upon piles of rubble.

Where once a tremendous landslide roared towards the valley, she found shelter. The debris it carried now hung like a cave, water dripping from the charred roots onto massive stripped bones. Monstrous ribs clawed out of the mountain's new wall, where the skull laid buried along most of the twisted neck, while a giant foot was reaching out to drown in the weight of the air.

She was dwarfed by the carcass. The shreds of flesh that somehow had not decomposed yet were enough to fill her for seasons. The black fibres of muscle and skin had slid to the ground like heavy spiderwebs, and were it not for the sickly grey that the meat soaked in, it would have turned hard as stone and unfit for a meal.

Her nostrils had become immune to every smell, and she was hungry.

She did not have to pull hard for the meat to fall off. It was damp and mushy, hardly any different from the ooze she walked on and drank. Some of the tougher strings got stuck in the gaps between her teeth, while several teeth she lost right there. She failed to notice their fall and swallowed them, and others disappeared in the mass of flesh in front of her, leaving her gums, and returning to the mouth with a foul crunch.

She couldn't have any more, but she wasn't full. Her stomach melted and crawled up her throat, where it lodged itself at the back of her tongue. It was wide, too wide to sit in her belly, let alone her neck. Her belly, however, was taken up already, by thick intestines that kept on growing into strangling lumps that swam up and down and out into her stomach, where a liquid sat, sour like the air she gasped for.

She squirmed and spun around, but her stomach would not crawl out. It was stuck there until the day it burst. The night delivered her calls across the solitude, but could not offer anything but absent caresses, and more of the black powder that it stuffed down in her lungs.

She rolled up on the ground, where the snaking tail of the buried giant engulfed her, like her mother's did when she was young. She did not remember her mother, but she remembered her call.

A low deep wail shook her in her sleep. It rolled through the evernight, rising and rising as if it were to grow into a mountain. She opened her eyes to the darkness around her, and the long wail fell and boomed into a drum, a guttural thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. Then the night went quiet again.

She hissed and rose, the growth cutting through her swollen leg. A faint croak resounded in her chest, then she bellowed a low song, and the night went quiet again.

She looked dully at the fog in front of her, then headed that way.

The land was flat and unknowably wide, but its fumes made it a deceitful cavern, without a way in or out, inhabited by the vague ghosts of memories burnt onto its walls. She was nearing the edges of where everything laid thorned by the black pillars, as they grew thinner among stones and rocks that rumbled as she kicked them with her stride through the muck.

The urge to drink haunted her again. She bowed down with her jaws tilted open and the liquid poured into her mouth. She hoarked and hissed as soon as it sat on her tongue, then shook her jaws, so as to rid her body of every viscous drop of whatever it was she tried to swallow. It tasted like thirst. It was strong and overwhelming.

Even once the only grey pus in her mouth was the one oozing from her tumid gums, it still felt like a mouthful she could not swallow or let out.

She hurried a few steps further, and drank there, and the same disease rinsed her mouth. It still carried the melted viscera and coal she always downed, but whatever now stung the tears in her gums was new.

Too much of it crept down her throat. She bobbed her head once, then twice and spread open her jaws, and a flood the size of her bowels crawled up. Her legs fumbled forward as she gagged, until a thin brown stream oozed, running in sticky chunks down her neck. Rancid clots soured her mouth, and her throat sat bulging, itching as if filled with splintered deadwood.

She took two feeble steps forward, and they echoed in the distance behind her.

As if before she even heard the sound, she burst into a run, and the echo ran too.

Her legs sprinted into the unknown, but the mud buried her feet, pulling her towards the steps behind. The same began to do all the ills inside her. Just like when they suddenly left, now they shredded her leg, wretched her guts and spun her head.

The false echo sounded somewhere to her side now, so she turned the other way and ran there.

The ground was barely in front of her. Few dusted boulders and branches like charred lightning flashed in the great swarm of sporelike ghosts.

When the echo ran closer, its steps felt heavier than hers, shivering the ground, storming her viscera and bones. Yet all she could hear was how they sliced through the mud. The echo bellowed no sound.

Stones hiding under the putrid desert gave way to her weight, sliding and rolling, but she refused to fall. Spits of mud splattered her tail, and whether marks of her efforts or harbingers of defeat, she did not know.

She sank into a sudden pool. Everything thundered and it deafened her, and slow bubbles tickled and popped as they swarmed her. Then she pushed her weight up, before realising what stood over the surface.

She emerged further from where she slipped. The mud kept pushing her eyelids down and spraying from her nostrils, and for a while it drowned her still. When it finally let go, she could not see an opposite shore.

The stalker made no sound while it stood there. The soot in the air was too thick for her to see, but she could sense its mass looming over the pool, and so she stared back at the lurking dark.

Then it breathed, and she felt the blow against her wet face. She treaded the gross water with guarded movements, and the ground swam further and further down with every attempt at finding it, while unknowable things brushed and moved up her legs. Her foot kicked at some large form, an impossible shape that was gone when she tried to touch it again. The swamp was bottomless, and it held her, letting her float ignorant of its shadows.

Then ripples sent through her body as a great mass walked away into the night. She waited, sparing her breath, silent. Only when all stood the same around her, she turned away and paddled until her muzzle hit solid dirt, and her feet scraped at stones and pebbles that rolled to the abyss.

Black strains of the earth's bile trickled down from her back as she went on, searching for the horizon.

The white wind howled at the turbid air, and its soft crystals were grey when they came to sting her legs. Her thigh, pregnant with a gorging growth, had swollen to twice its size, and it stepped and dragged in an alternating pattern.

Then a great stone wall stood in her way. She circled it and found a crevice in its side, leading into the rock. It was narrow, but she fit once it grated off the skin on her spine. It widened towards the end, where a thin crack at the bottom of the wall exposed the way to a dark place further down. Its breath was chilling, and when it whistled, the distant roar of a terrible river carried with it. She could not pay it any mind. Sitting there, crammed and sheltered, her eyes closed and seasons went by in a slumber. Though maybe it was just a lazy blink.

The airflow inside the cave stopped.

She rose up and shuddered while the damp waft from the fissure cried alone. Her curious eyes, stuck in gunk, reached into the dark way out where the wind sounded distant, and her careful steps led the cave's cacophony of little clacking echoes. Then she came to a halt, and stared at the great shape in the entrance.

It was larger than her and could not pass. It did not try to, nor did it try to hide. It stood, alien and perverted, motionless like stone. Its small eyes were locked, gleaming and all-knowing. It was of her kin, an abominable ghost of what it once was: its starved skin clung greedily to the bones, and thick ash replaced the scales that it had melted away. She did not know she looked no different.

Its jaws tilted open slowly, and puffs of steam gushed from the narrow gap, they alone enough to make her seem small. She stared back into its eyes, and dared not move.

Then a low hiss filled the cave, and began to engulf them. The sound was heavy and made her ribs tighten, and she saw its chest swell and throb.

The hiss broke, and chopped into rising waves, then rattled a chain of grave croaks, each yowling louder than the last. They rose and fell and rose again, then its chest began to bark, pounding with an ill violence. Still, its eyes were possessively locked on her, and it never flinched, not until she snapped.

She came at it, then pulled back and snapped again when it crept its head too far into the cave. She bit on its lower jaw and pressed hard, their teeth scraping against each other. Then her muzzle crackled and she felt her bones splinter under the weight of its teeth. Her blood wept down, circling her eyes, but she did not let go. She pulled and twisted, feeling all the hard and soft surfaces of its jaw.

It pulled away with all its size, out into the night. Strips of her shaved skin dangled down her face, blocking her view, but she had felt its taste now, and limped after her prey.

Uphill the ground was fine and soft, and dry. It danced in whirls around her legs, and hissed as she descended the dune.

She hardly heard the hum carried by the far horizon, when a pair of great jaws jumped her from the dark and bashed her to the ground. It tore at her skin, and pressed down her tail. She kicked hard and her claw cut deep along its ribs: their surface felt moist and smooth before she defiled it. It let go and hissed at her, and snapped again. She caught its jaw in her bite, and a vile pop sounded in the night.

Blood trickled in thick streams from its exposed joint. Its lower jaw hung down, swinging from side to side, and from it each shred of meat, tooth and bone swung with its own motion.

It limped and twitched, all except the eyes. It stepped towards her, then burst into a sprint. She turned, and as soon as she stepped, sickly yellow pus squirted from the dark tears in her thigh, pouring down all the way to her claws, and she could not outrun it.

It tanked her to the wet sand, where printed shapes of their clash were made into puddles by shallow black water. It could not bite her, but its teeth sawed her skin just the same with each desperate slam. She tried to kick it again, and the sharp form in her bone shattered, sending splinters up her bowels and down to her feet. She wailed and the sound curled the grey foam around them.

She pushed it with her other leg and tugged its pale mass down. Then her jaws trapped its neck and in one blow, its throat erupted in her mouth.

All went silent. She could finally hear the waves and the gliding sand on the shore. She pulled away from the body, and it sat, still as stone, red streams trickling down a mountain to dissolve in the washing waves. She could finally eat.

Her leg flexed to lift her weight, but she did not even get to collapse. All the pushing only dug a slot that the water immediately filled back with sand.

Her breath puffed against the wet ground. She crawled, twitching, towards the mass of fresh meat and opened her mouth. None went down, and only some warm blood poured along her empty gums.

She moved towards the arm that laid nearby, where sand coagulated the open flesh. She gripped it and swallowed, before knowing it was her own.

A moan sounded in her chest, but it stung to sing it, thus she hissed instead. Water washed up around her jaw, it was cold though she could not feel it. She crawled towards where it was deeper, and let it pour in her mouth. It tasted like thirst, but how could she have learnt.

A chill ran through the fibres of her body, making her feel small and brittle. Then she felt something pull at the fibres that hung outwards, and so she turned her eye, first at her abandoned meal.

Small things stood on it, a whole group of them. They cawed little songs and dug their beaks in the red oozing pockets of the corpse. They were strange and familiar, but she had forgotten about them too long ago.

Her eye turned towards her back now, where she felt her meat pull and snap. They stood on her too, trotting back and forth. Their tails were soft even when caressing her shredded flesh, like the ferns and tall grasses of the singing summers she did not remember living.

She looked at them as they slowly turned pale and hazy. Then their light spread to the foam of rippling water. The water shone too, silver, then white and blinding. She tried to turn to where the horizon laid, but her head was too heavy, and it began to sink into the ground, then fall through the air, and the air grew bright too.

The sun was rising once more, maybe it would set the sky on fire again. Maybe the night was coming to and end, now that she could not stay awake. Maybe it was growing too bright, as she could not see a thing. Maybe she did not remember how bright everything could be. Or maybe it would stay dark for a little longer, now that it was time to sleep. She did not know, but now she could forget about it all.

____________________________

For my C., who took me to meet the plants and critters whose home was and is everywhere.

(Ironically, I did not have a good flair for this post either)

I have some stories I am currently working on, and I struggle assigning them a post flair. Same for the last story I published, which has an apocalyptic setting, and I had a hard time picking a genre among those available.

I feel like the ones we have here are not sufficient and decided to recommend a few new ones.

• Folk horror.
• Crime/Thriller, as long as it's horror obviously. Some current flairs could fall under this category, but I feel like these two are more specific.
• Grounded horror, for stories that don't feature anything supernatural, monsters, cults, etc, but are based on relatively plausible scenarios (ex. Penpal from the podcast)
• "Unspecified genre", not the actual name for the flair, but I'm thinking of a flair that allows the author to keep the horror element unknown until it's revealed. Having these specific flairs may ruin the element of surprise (I guess this could be a name for it) of the story. Take Borrasca, which until the very conclusion could either be supernatural or grounded. I have a few stories currently being written where part of the suspense is wondering whether there is a supernatural element or not.
• Apocalyptic.
• Survival horror, these last two could be merged into this one simply. Obviously not all survival horror is based on apocalyptic settings, but still. And you can have an apocalyptic story that isn't about survival, and about a creature instead.
• Slasher, thank you u/walkerbswitchinghour.

These are my suggestions, I hope they can be appreciated and potentially integrated into the sub. Thank you for reading :))

I'm looking for some resources regarding the way medieval peasants, especially serfs, viewed the world. How did they understand it, what did they think of it etc.

My focus is on the Iberian peninsula and the Italian peninsula

Please don't leave comments like "I'm happy for you or sorry this happened". I've seen it happen, and it's pretty sad. You don't need to engage if you're not interested. Thank you.

TL,DR: The moon is on fire showed a mental condition as the reality of the story, and didn't treat it as a plot device, which is how it is represented in the majority of media.

Before getting into my yap, I want to say, yes, I know that the story relates to a different project by the author. I have not read that other story though, so I'm not going to express myself on that connection. Thus, I will be looking at the latest story for what it is on its own.

I would like to reflect on some reactions I saw, whether from the boys or a lot of people in the community, in regards as to how the story should have ended and what it should have been about.

I really loved this story. Part 1 to 3, all great and this was a wonderful concept and a really well executed portrayal of a bad episode of unmedicated psychosis.

It's a horrible thing how people's perception of schizophrenia has been informed by its awful portrayals in most media. This is reflected in a lot of people's complaint that the story should have ended with the protagonist ending up doing something atrocious, whether it's a political assassination or killing his parents. This is just depressing to me. People affected by conditions are not monsters and are often time not dangerous, if not to themselves.

Would it make for a "satisfying" ending? Why have a satisfying ending? In a story that is a very grounded portrayal of someone's delusions and how they spiral into this absurd conspiracy when not receiving the necessary care, there is no satisfying end. The horror of the story is the horror of a reality that is so foreign to most.

I think it's quite poetic how the story asserts its grounded identity by having this fantastical and absurd ending, ironically so far removed from the reader's perceived reality. The fact that the protagonist does not go on to commit any grand action is what makes it feel real. I think of part 3 as an epilogue to a story concluded in part 2. Part 3 doesn't need the reader to fully grasp it. It is functional, but not a literary progression. It was pretty depressing to see, but a very fascinating depiction of what this psychotic conspiratorial state looks for people.

Another point is how many people said the story should have been all set in a mental health facility, which just shows how people misunderstand how those work. In no way would the protagonist be allowed to get off meds in a facility. It shows the ignorance of how difficult it is to receive minimum care in a place like the US where healthcare is privatised. If the protagonist was able to receive the needed attention and help, there would be no Part 3.

Also, to have it said outright to you that the story was set in a clinic just cheapens it and is really boring. What's the point of having a story that requires no media literacy.

Literature doesn't always have a linear progression, as is the case in a lot of classics, and it should be something obvious to most readers.

I like to visualise the progression of parts 1 to 3 as the first two progressing as a line, a pretty straightforward setup for someone who's experiencing the early stages of psychosis. Part 2 concludes this narrative by establishing a point of no return, and part 3 is just an overinflated balloon that never bursts, that, again, is an expression of a mental state, not a description of reality as it would be perceived by neurotypical people, but a reality as experienced by the affected person.