r/creativewriting

I reached my breaking points a thousand times, I didn't adapt but there's no breaking points left.

Weird title I know. But I beg you to hear me out.

I'm doing a cyberpunk inspired group writing project set in a very fucked up britian in 2055.

With one of the characters being a corperate CEO of an arms and security company (called Highland Arms)

A thing we're doing is a quick blurb bit in the style of social media posts to kind of convey who they are. Problem is with this CEO I'm struggling for things she would say. I look online to irl right wing pendants and there's no way I can get half of what they say into this at all. That and it's not too applicable even if I did want to use it.

So hopefully turning over to you guys for some help here for this women I've helped create. A ceo right-wing ultranationalists that's helping fund and develop paramilitary groups to destabilise the wider country for her corperation to help 'secure' after.

Any and all help would be greatly appreciated in these...I guess you could call them blurp tweets.

I have no idea where to start, every time I get an idea that might be interesting it’s either extremely derivative or falls apart under the slightest bit of scrutiny.

I'm writing my first book and I want to know if writing courses are worth the money. I've seen some no credit classes online and I would love to know if they're any good. I haven't written since high school and I want to get better at it. Have you taken a course? Is it worth the couple hundred dollars?

I have a short story-ish. I'm not sure how the relationship between the guy and the girl is coming across so I want to know from an unbiased group of people that aren't living in my brain. And I'm also unsure how to end it to really pack a punch.

So here's the outline I dreamed up:

Highschool friends, went different ways.

Guy is living a short plane fight away. Girl decides to visit him a long weekend in the summer.

She takes the train there.

He meets her at the train station and he carries her backpack. They go to eat some soup dumplings and have a long conversation.

Then they part ways briefly and she gets settled in her accommodation. They meet up again in the evening to meet with his friends and watch the holiday fireworks at the port. On the way there, they can't find the friends, and he gets a message.

It's his ex. She has just flown in from overseas and wants to meet up with him the next day. He asks the girl what what she thinks and she says, after observing the guy's body language she says that it's up to him. He doesn't have to meet up if he feels uncomfortable.

He continues considering it. They hang out with the guy's friends. He introduces girl to his friends and one of the friends, friend A speaks the language girl is learning. Guy tells girl to show off the progress and he winks. They hang out and the guy and his friend A walk the girl back to her accommodation. The guy gives the girl a hug before leaving.

They get together in the morning for breakfast at one of the girl's favorite places. Unfortunately they have to change the plan- the place is full and is now by reservation only. After breakfast the guy takes the girl to the subway station. He apologizes for leaving the girl alone and hugs her before they part ways.

She goes to an art museum and then goes and has a bubble tea. He meets her after at the bubble tea. His body language is slumped and he's looking down. But then a little girl compliments the girl's bag and the subject changes.

They go out and walk some more, checking out some bookstores, and stop for gelato. Guy suggests midway through eating that they try each other's gelato and they do so. They also check out where guy will study in the fall.

The girl can't decide what proper meal to eat so the guy brings her back to his place and gives her a bowl of noodles. They sit and talk some more. Then they decide to go out with two more friends. The guy friend A from before and a girl friend. She's just a friend but guy changes his shirt and puts some cologne on.

So girl friend B and guy and guy friend A all meet at girl's accommodation. They go out to a fireworks competition event and watch from under a bridge. Girl ends up talking a lot with friend A and guy talks a lot with the girl B. Turns out girl B is staying in the same accommodation as the girl on a different floor. So guy and friend A bring the girls back to the accommodation. Guy gives girl a hug good night on the elevator and she gets off on her floor and sulks all the way to bed.

They meet up one more time after girl has checked out from her accommodation and guy lets girl leave her backpack at his place. So they go out and she has already had something to eat. They go and guy buys a coffee and a pastry. She is not hungry but they sit and guy insists that she try his pastry and take a good bite, then he eats the rest.

They check out a sketchy little antique shop. The guy moves a little squirrel on the display between them but they pause and look at each other and not the squirrel before they continue. They check out more books, and end up checking out a little grocery shop with an adjacent restaurant. They have some pupusas and rice pudding, sharing the plate of pupusas and cup of rice pudding.

At the very end, the guy ends up accompanying the girl on the bus to the airport, carrying her backpack, and they talk about next visit. She gives him her temporary transit card to use up. When they arrive at the airport, the guy hugs the girl goodbye, they say goodbye and he goes back in for a second hug. They both look back and she flies home in time for work the next day.

There's gotta be an ending to this but I'm not sure how to close it.

I want to slow dance with you.

I really do.

Pull you closer and hold your hand.

But only sometimes.

I’m not someone meant to stay.

I wasn’t made to stay.

I’ve always been rather fond of exits—

the little green signs,

the unlocked doors,

the comfort of knowing

I can leave whenever I want.

And then there’s people like you.

Sometimes,

you make me want to stay

just a tiny bit longer.

Not forever.

Don’t look at me like that.

I don’t think I could survive

something as permanent as forever.

But if I’m not too late,

would you mind giving me a minute?

Put your hand in mine.

Don’t ask where this is going.

Let the music decide.

Do my 3AM drunk calls disturb you?

Or do you, sometimes, secretly long for them?

Do you ever hear my name

and wonder if I’ll call?

I wonder if you know

how strange it is

to find someone

who makes leaving feel rude rude—

and who makes me care it does.

Someone who makes me forget

to look for the door.

Someone who can hold me

without making me feel held.

And maybe that’s all I want from you:

one song.

One stupid, beautiful song

long enough for me to forget

that I am always halfway gone.

Let me sway with you

until the room disappears.

Until there is no tomorrow

to ruin it with.

Until I stop wondering

whether this is a beginning

or merely a particularly convincing way

of saying goodbye.

And when the song ends—

please don’t ask me to stay.

You knew I’d leave.

You just made the mistake

of making me wish I wouldn’t.

— Crownless.

Let my lips kiss you and taste how sweet you are as I curse how good you taste to me.

I let my mouth wander into your valley, just for my tongue to drink and lap from your overflowing well.

Your water is thick like nectar. It coats my lips, leaving them shining with your heavenly dew.

As it trails down my chin, I can't help but give praise to the gods I never knew existed.

Like a man who has wandered the scorching desert for far too long, I drown myself in your secret spring, eliciting a sinful groan and a curse in one breath at how I won't be able to drink from another's well.

You whisper to me, in that breathy, angelic voice, to open the gates of heaven so that both of us can descend into paradise.

You take my breath from me as I plunge into what I think will be my salvation.

Instead, a deep rumbling sound settles through my chest. My eyes flutter, and through gritted teeth, I curse the same gods you made me worship.

Indeed, what they say is true: the path toward heaven is narrow. And with that, I know my soul is eternally condemned, for I shall no longer venture down any path but yours.

Now that you've offered your body to me like a sacrificial lamb, you have awakened the hungry devil within.

You are splayed right before me like a fine feast fit only for the gods to eat. But my hunger is not that of a god, but that of a starved beast.

I shall not partake in a holy banquet, for my plans for you are nothing but unholy and ungodly.

For I shall devour you from the outside in. I will leave my mark all over your flesh as I growl every praise and every curse known to man.

With every bite that I take...

Shhhit...

Oh my fucking God... you feel sooo good...

You fucking made me discover heaven, and in doing so, I willingly damned my heart and soul to you.

Fucking Christ... this is... this is my rapture. My fucking nirvana.

A drop of water falls to the ground. Or maybe it rises to the sky? I know it sounds insane but stay with me for one moment and let me explain. We view reality through the things we are taught, for example, water is fluid and fire is hot. But what if we were taught that fire is cold and that water is truly solid? Would our perception of the world change to fit what we’ve learned? How do we know the things we know? If our understanding of reality only exists through the things we are taught, then truth itself is a fragile thing. And if enough people collectively agree that something is true then truth is not discovered but instead is created. 

Last week I saw a man walk through a wall.

The strange thing was not that I saw it happen. The strange thing was that everyone around me acted as if it were perfectly normal. As if every Tuesday at three o’clock, a man casually walks through a brick wall in a subway station. 
For the rest of the week I tried to forget what I saw. I tried to tell myself that it was just the angle I saw it. Fatigue. Perhaps a momentary lapse in judgement. 
Yet seven days later I found myself standing in the same exact spot, staring at the same brick wall. I had been standing in that spot for nearly two hours, waiting for a man who might never appear. Then three o’clock came. And once again, the man walked straight through it, clothes and all, as if the wall was not even there. 
I quickly turned to the older woman that had been standing next to me for nearly 10 minutes waiting for her train. “Excuse me, but did you see that?” I asked her in a tone that may have been slightly too eager. 
“See what?” she asked, looking at me. 
“The man, He just went throu—”
“What wall?” the woman said.
I stood there in silence for several seconds contemplating whether I had finally lost it. But then my brain caught up with what had just happened. I had never mentioned the wall to her. In fact, I had barely finished speaking at all. I turned immediately toward the wall, expecting to find empty space where the bricks had been. Instead, the wall remained. Cold to the touch. Solid. Unmoving. 
I reached out for it, pressing the pads of my fingers against the rough surface of the concrete. 
Brick.  Real.
I turned back toward her but something felt off. The scent of vanilla had disappeared from the air and had been replaced with the scent of cheap after shave mixed with whiskey.
The woman was gone.
No, she wasn’t gone.
I stared at the spot she had been standing only a moment earlier. It was now occupied by a figure I did not recognize. In her spot stood a man. 
Tall? 
Maybe. 
Or maybe he wasn't.
I frowned. For the first time since this event began it no longer seemed like an overreaction to check myself into a mental institution. But the harder I looked at him, the less certain I became. His clothes were painfully ordinary and unspecial, the kind you'd walk past on the street without ever knowing. Nothing about this man demanded attention. 
Yet I found myself fixated on him and the idea of who he could possibly be. 
There was something familiar about him. Not his face, not the way his nose was crooked slightly to one side or the way that his hair looked greasy. Nothing physical, just a feeling, a change in the air. Almost like déjà vu, except I couldn’t remember for the life of me what I was supposed to be remembering.
I stared at him for an absurd amount of time, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. The rising and falling of his chest. A blink. Anything that would prove that he was real and not simply the machinations of a tired mind. 
For several moments we both stayed frozen as the rest of the station moved around us. The rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tile floor, a symphony of urgency. 
I wanted to say something. 
Anything. 
But before I could the man suddenly leaned down to tie his shoe. The action itself was so normal it caused me discomfort. Afterwards he stood back up and started to walk away. 
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped but did not turn around. 
Commuters stepped around him without looking, weaving through the space as though they already knew that he wasnt going to move. 
Stationary. 
A statue. 
“How did you do that?”, I asked.
He took one step forward.
“The floor.”
A pause.
“Not the wall.”
But it wasn't what he said that struck me. It was the voice that he used. I'd heard it somewhere before.
On the radio? No. 
On television? No.
Somewhere closer.

For me, it was realizing that a sentence can be grammatically correct and still be awkward.

When I was starting out, I thought fixing grammar was basically the same thing as improving writing.

Now I notice things like rhythm, unnecessary words, vague phrasing, and sentences that technically work but don't quite sound natural.

What did you eventually learn to notice in your own writing?

Opening to a short story I'm writing, what do you think? Would you continue reading?

--------

The sun still hasn’t come up, my name is John Correy, the time is 1:23pm. August 12th 2026, when waking up to work at the office the sun was gone. The skies were pitch black, not a speck of light to be seen, out the windows sat only darkness which felt as though they suffocated all those within it. We were told it was an eclipse, one which would quickly pass.

Its been two weeks.

I didn’t go to work that day, I called in sick. I couldn’t do it, something about that pitch black that sat outside just didn’t sit right with me. Seeds of doubt planting themselves within my stomach, laying like iron. When my family called, they called me paranoid. 

Its been a week since I’ve last heard from them.

Currently I am sitting within my house, the authorities have issued an order for us to wait. To stay within the confines of our own homes until help arrives. 

Hey there folks, I have a story I am working on as part of the next novel in my fiction universe. Its basically a pulp Black Indiana Jones story in a modern setting. The only issue is there is no pulp adventure sub that I can find to gauge this in? Anyone know of any subs or genres this would fit in instead, for example, here is a short synopsis:

When a violent attack in Mali exposes an ancient diary pointing to Mansa Musa’s lost gold crown, ER doctor and secret archaeologist Ezekiel Drake is thrown into a high-stakes treasure hunt he never asked for. Armed with a cane that hides a blade and a nurse who refuses to stay behind, Drake must outrun a ruthless warlord, a twisted occult cult, and a deadly Russian mercenary before the legendary crown falls into the wrong hands—and the history of an empire is stolen forever.

Looking forward to hearing you fine folks thoughts, thanks!

My mother was a broken woman. This is the way I have come to process her and her behavior now that I am in my 50s.

When I was a little girl, though, there was no such thing as talking about parents being broken. It was the 70s and 80s. Nobody talked about anyone being broken. There were just parents. And there were just kids. And everyone just bumbled alongside each other and tried their best to get through their obligations. Parents were tasked with raising kids, and kids were tasked with navigating around their parents’ resentment.

There were no jokes about someday lying on a couch, relaying childhood trauma to therapists. Therapy was for Woody Allen movie characters who had indulgent lives, wore tweed, and did grown-up things like drink whiskey and listen to classical music in brown landscapes.

I was a pleaser. It was my one job, and I worked tirelessly at it. I worked it with the dedication of a middle-aged office manager trying to support his family. Every morning I would wake up and vow to try again – try harder – and do a good job today. I would wake up and make it a “snappy new day”. I tried, Mr. Rogers, with your sweet little tigers and narcissistic little kings and your toot toot little trolley.

I was an exhausted 7-year-old going to school and failing miserably there. Failing the work. Failing at making friends. Walking around with my cooties and ugly denim overalls while all the little girls got to wear bows and dresses and Mary Janes. Angering teachers with my inability to focus, my staring out of windows, my not knowing what the “difference” between 9 and 7 was. I would then pack up and take my failures home with me, to try and work hard at this job I never applied for, never asked for, never wanted, and never got paid for.

 I was bad at it.

This job required deep environmental assessments. Extreme hypervigilance. Very specific answers to very tricky questions. This job required detecting any change in the air. Noticing a shift in noise level (silence was always bad), following with extreme superstition anything that remotely yielded success the previous day (yesterday I put my winter hat on the desk in my bedroom – NOT my bed. That was a good day – do that again today).

There was no performance review. No job satisfaction survey. Just me taking inventory at the end of every day, weighing out my successes and my errors with only myself as the reviewer. There were no “good jobs”. There were no indulgent smiles or proud beams.  Just a holding of breath and wishing to get through this moment. And this moment. And this moment. And this moment – please – with it not happening.

There was no “self-esteem.” I don’t know if people talked about it in the 80s – if it was something only for divorced women or teenage girls who finally got their braces off. I remember self-esteem being discussed on Mr. Rogers with his soft voice, dull sweaters, and creepy puppets. He said he liked me and that I was special, that there was nobody like me. And maybe he was right, singing sweet little songs and tossing around his shoes….I felt like there was nobody like me, sweaty and crying and having kids trip me and put tacks on my seat. I felt very alone in my uniqueness, but I know Mr. Rogers was also trying. He, too, had a job to do – to sing and smile and hope he was reaching every sad and pathetic little kid who stumbled onto PBS.. but I also knew there was a whole universe and a TV screen between us, and he did not really know that I existed.

My mother, though, she knew I existed. There was no universe or TV screen between us. Although I would wish for anything to come between her and me. To protect me from her anger. I would conjure up protection – mostly in the form of animals – who would create a wall between her and me. Childlike puppies and anthropomorphic kittens who would try their best to shield me. Beautiful, angelic white fish with flowing lacey fins circling me, creating a warm barrier between me and my mother.

They tried.

They too had a job to do.

They also never applied, never accepted their positions, never were paid. I conjured them up, and then there they were… desperately devoted to their hot, red-faced little creator with bruises on her face and tangled hair  - still sticky from her mother’s sweaty fingers and coming loose from her stinging scalp. They circled me and smiled at me and tried to be a friend to me.

They too failed at their job.

There was no such thing as “angry people” back then. Or – if there were – there was no such thing in my world. My mother was angry. Always angry. But the only thing that really made her angry was me.

Angry at the childish mistakes I made: shoes in the wrong place. Slamming the toilet seat too loudly. A stain on my shirt. Sneezing. Losing a button. Failing a test. Not understanding my math homework. For making my dad leave us. For standing too close to men. For having my belly press into my pants button. For laughing. For crying. For falling and scraping my knee. For having blood run down my nose or out of my mouth when she hurt me. For bruising her hand with my face.  

All of these things - a reflection of not only my poor job performance, but moral failings as a human. A stupidly small human.

I played the part of a ping pong ball. Bouncing in any direction I was flung, passively trying to find a place to land, always at the will of the paddles in my life. The one job I was good at was smiling no matter what. I was HAPPY.

I could be tossed around into the air, dragged by my scalp, bent over a knee to be pummeled, elbowed in the face…. And then suck in the air, close my eyes, picture my animal friends, and walk out of the room just fine to face the world. I was ok. I was OK. I didn’t need anything else to cry about. So I learned how to stop crying.

My mother was an emotionally stunted woman. That was not language that anyone had back when I was a child. Certainly not me. I just knew that if I got a stuffed animal, or any kind of toy, she would need to get one too. There were times when we would play stuffed animals together, she and I.

Those were peaceful moments. Moments where our stuffed doggies would get along, and there would be peace in our little animal kingdom.

My imaginary animal friends would get a well-deserved day off, and I would go to bed high on the joy of an evening that went well, of a night being fun and joyful. I would cherish those moments and all of their sweetness. My reward for somehow everything going right that day. Weekdays were my favorite because there were fewer hours with her to make a mistake. Yes, it would be a school day, but some days would just…. Work themselves out. I would try to take my inventory at the end of those days – what did I do – what did I do… and then there were even a few days in a row where I would delude myself into believing that maybe everything just magically changed. Maybe Mr. Rogers was right, and the land of make-believe could be real, and I acquired some magical life promotion.

I remember one day asking my mother to never hurt me again, and she promised me she wouldn’t. The feeling of that day still rolls around so sweet in my memory. So joyful.

Sticky sweet molasses joy and the reflection that comes with it, still, of how hopelessly trusting and naive I was. I am sorry, baby me, for thinking that was real.

I found moments of my own anger. Big and cumbersome, like I was trying on a pair of my mother’s dress shoes, clomping and stumbling. Anger showed up in sneaky little ways, usually aimed at myself – sticking myself with safety pins, banging my head against the wall until the dull throbbing lulled me to sleep.

But there was a day – a weekend day – when the storm of my mother came. A hurricane of pain with no end in sight. Just eyes of storms and then the storms – again and again and again. Even my imaginary animal friends quit. Everything quit.

I snuck into my mother’s room during one of the eyes with scissors. I cut up her stuffed animals. I yelled at them, tore the ears off. Cut another’s ear off. The ripppp a satisfying sound. The slivers of fake fur in my hand. In my head, I remember thinking – I am ruining her toys – but then she and I will fix them together. She will understand my pain. My hurt. And will fix these together, and it will be fixed forever.

I really believed that. WHY did I believe that? Where did that thought even come from? I was 8.

When I showed her what I did – proud – proud of my job….Finally PROUD…. She sobbed. Bent over the toys. Wailing loudly. Looking at my bruised face, the dried blood on my nose, crying at what I did. She cried for so long and so loudly; I imagined she was laughing. The big gulping sounds almost sounded like laughter.

I stood there as she called me a monster. As she sob-laughed out questions of how I could do such a thing. How could I do this. How could I do this to her.

A monster.

My animal friends never returned after that day. Neither did the animal play time with my mother.

It was just one workday after another. Year after year.

Until one day, I packed up a few of my own stuffed animals. My favorite pair of shoes. A few books. And left.

So I've started writing out this treatment called The Risen Daughters based on the pendle witch trials set in Lancaster UK and one of the characters in it his name is Nicholas and he is the son of the leader of this witch coven , I've given him a very interesting arc and backstory I dont want to make a stereotypical harmful trope I want to really flesh him out and make him .... a compelling character

I'm cisgender btw so I know the topic of this is very difficult I'd appreciate some feedback if you could ❤️🥰🥰

Opinion: I'm brainstorming a middle-grade book right now, and I really badly want to do a dual first-person POV. However, I hardly ever see examples of this in the wild. I have two characters, an 11-year-old brother and 13-year-old sister, of which have polar opposite voices, which is why the dual first interests me so much.

What are your thoughts on this?

I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to titles, I go with whatever I come up with first usually. I’d love some help on what makes a good title. I’ve included a bunch of my titles below, and some blends in why I named it that.

**All I can Do is Burn** \- follows a young widow as she deals with the fire-based ritual practices of her community

**Bones in the Cellar, Blood in the Street** \- a Soviet researcher follows the story of a child possessed by a fossil, and the riot that followed his exorcism

**Circling** \- a time-loop story that starts with buzzards flying over head

**Gaggers in the Woods** \- a boy learns the truth about a local boogeymen, The Gaggers

**Never Answer Junk Mail, Unless You Want To Die** \- a man answers a promotional letter, leading him into a strange research center. Bro doesn’t even die so idk what I was on about

**The Gods of Death are in Our Neighborhood** \- the arrival of an old man and his servants bring bad omens, symbolized by the literal gods of death

**Faces of the Dead** \- follows a pair of ceramicists and undertakers who create urns / busts of the deceased

**Children’s Rhymes ‘Round the Campfire** \- a group of travelers share memories of a mysterious song from childhood

**Shall Death Have Dominion?** Or **Confession from Chilpilnonan, a Grieving Mother**\- I’ve posted this one under the two names, neither of which I like in retrospect. Follows the life of a woman and her relationship to death and the supernatural

What sticks out as good, bad, or just boring. What kind of titles usually catch your eye when you’re scrolling the feed? I’d appreciate any feedback or tips

Before exiting the car, the young man takes a moment to look himself over and steps out. The gravel of the pavement soon turns to grass as he approaches the hill.

Stopping short at the bottom, his eyes trail up toward the peak. “Maria! You up there?”

Maria’s arm pops over the hill’s crest like a signal flag.

Seeing her arm, the young man’s face softens as he ascends.

Suppressing his exhaustion he says, “Just had to find the biggest one tonight, huh.” Before laying down next to her.

Maria giggles. Though her fingers smooth over the stone in her hand— rough and aimless.

The grass kisses her cheek as she turns her head to look at him. “This is where I get the best view.”

Returning the gesture, he turns his head. “Of what?”

Maria lazily brings her gaze back to the sky. “The stars.”

She raises her other hand, squeezing a star between her fingers. “You ever wonder what it’s like—I mean… do you ever think about the distance between us and the stars?”

His face crinkles, then follows her outstretched arm to the sky. “I can’t say I do, Marie.”

Her fingers slowly suffocate the star. “My family’s leaving town, Jason.” Her fingers on the stone cease.

Rising to his elbows, Jason rips his gaze from the stars back to her face. Wordless, all he can do is watch the single tear travel down her cheek.

What’s something that is/was stopping you from starting your story or start building a world? Were there any questions that you had that you wished you could ask somebody or find the answers to?

“The traders should have already returned by now,” Sir Gareth spoke as he stared into the darkening woods. “They have been gone for far longer than usual.”

“And you propose we go look for them?” Ganmar asked, with just the hint of a smile beneath his pointed hood.

The lights of the lanterns flickered, casting long shadows across his aged yet sharp features. He was an old man, seemingly past seventy, and he had seen the departure and return of countless caravans. “After all, on what account do you think they are late? Perhaps we are just early. ”

Not rising to the bait, Gareth stared at the dark rustling treetops bordering the path to them, and decided to allow this eccentric senior to indulge in his own amusement.

Right at this moment, the sound of frantic steps echoed up from beneath their feet, as a man climbed to the top of the watchtower. Letting out a breath of turbid air, he straightened his back and looked at the two. “Squire Warren greets Elder Ganmar,” he said, saluting.

“And how may I be of assistance to you today, squire?” Looking up, Ganmar twirled a string of straw between his wiry fingers.

“His lordship has sent for you, it is an urgent issue,” answered Warren, sweat dripping off his face.

“Well then, do lead the way.”

Warren went in front, nimbly picking his way down from the high tower. Taking leave after a short nod to Sir Gareth, Ganmar followed afterwards. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones, roots and hidden sinks just off the trodden path, waiting for the unwary and careless. The two men strode away from the front gate and walked towards the town hall. 

Dusk faded to midnight, the grey skies took on a darker hue, then faded to black. As the stars brightened the night sky, the full moon illuminated the town below. The light shined down and cast a soft glow over the winding streets, countless worn down cottages lined these passages as their thatched roofs took on the glimmer of silver. Two figures could be vaguely seen threading their way through the streets, their target the grand hall sitting in full view of the town square. 

As they approached the building, the sentinels standing vigil at the entrance held up their palms, “Halt, state your names and purpose.”

Straightening his shirt and meeting their gaze, Warren replied:

“Squire Warren and Elder Ganmar, here to answer the summons of his lordship William.” 

The guards lowered their hands, gazing at the two with recognition.

“Apologies, Elder. Your features were concealed by the shadow of your hood.” Standing by, they pushed open the two intricately carved mahogany doors. 

As the duo entered the hall, the sounds of their steps were muffled by a long red carpet snaking through like a viper, leading to a high seat of polished stone, upon which sat a man garbed in fine silk gilded with gold.

Kneeling down, the two men bowed their heads to the most powerful man in this town. “Rise,” Lord William spoke, gesturing languidly with his hand. “Tell me, Ganmar, do you know why I sent for you?”

Picking himself off the floor, Ganmar replied, “I would not know, sir.” Flicking the dust off his shoulder, “I do reckon it is something interesting, to warrant a unique skill set like mine.”

“Interesting?” William scoffed, raising a goblet of wine to his lips. “If the traders had returned by now, perhaps we could all be interested in lining our pockets.”

“They have been gone for longer than usual,” Warren assessed, “Spring is almost over. They should have been back a week ago.”

“Two,” William corrected, raising his fingers. “They should have been back for two weeks.” Setting down his cup, he rose from his seat and grabbed a roll of parchment. Walking down the steps, he handed it to Ganmar. “Elder, on the morrow, I would like you to summon these men and ride with them to find the fates of our trade delegation.”

Before Ganmar could reply, the building shook violently and several paintings lining the hallways dropped to the ground. 

As the tremors stopped, vague screams echoed across the town. Bursting into the main hall, one of the sentinels nearly collided with Warren, his face pale beneath his helm.

“My lord!” the guard gasped. “The northern treeline, something moves within it. The gate shakes as though struck by a ram, and the walls have caught fire!”

William’s expression hardened in an instant. “To your posts,” he barked. “Seal the inner courtyard. No one opens the front gates without my command.”

He turned sharply to the two before him.

“Ganmar,” he said, voice low but urgent, “Sir Gareth holds the front gate. Whatever stalks those woods has chosen its hour well. I would have you go to him at once. Lend him that unique skill set you boast of.”

A thin smile tugged at the elder’s lips. “Ah,” he murmured, tucking the parchment into his sleeve, “this night won’t be so dull after all.”

William’s gaze shifted. “Warren.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Rally the city guard. Every able-bodied man is to report to the square. Send runners through the lower wards—have the people bar their doors and douse unnecessary lights. I will not have panic spread faster than order.”

Warren struck his fist to his chest. “At once.”

Another shudder rippled faintly through the cobblestones beneath their feet, less violent than before, as though something was testing the town’s defenses.

Without further word, Ganmar swept past the guards and descended the hall steps into the square. The once-peaceful streets now writhed with motion. Doors slammed. Mothers called for their children. Dogs barked madly at the street edge. Above it all, the moon hung bright and indifferent.

He moved with surprising swiftness for one of his years, robes whispering about his boots. The cold air carried a scent of damp earth freshly torn, with sap bleeding from splintered wood.

At the northern rise, the gate loomed ahead: thick oak reinforced with iron bands. Torches flared wildly in the hands of the watchmen lining the walls. Beyond them, the treetops churned yet the wind was quiet.

Sir Gareth stood at the parapet, helm removed, eyes fixed on the darkness.

“You chose a fine evening to be correct,” Ganmar called as he ascended the stone steps.

Gareth did not look at him. “I would rather have been wrong.”

A thunderous impact struck the gate once more. Wood groaned as it bent inwards.

Several guards staggered back from the wall. One dropped his spear in fright.

“Hold fast!” Sir Gareth commanded, voice cutting through the air. “Brace yourselves!” 

Another hit. This time, splinters burst inward between the iron seams.

Ganmar reached the parapet and peered into the forest below. For a long moment, he said nothing. His sharp eyes scanning the shadows between the tree trunks.

The woods had gone still.

“Back from the gate,” Ganmar said quietly.

Gareth frowned. “What do you—”

The night split apart.

A blinding flash erupted from the darkness, as white and violent as a star of ruin. The impact followed half a heartbeat later. The gates did not creak or splinter this time, it detonated. Iron bands snapped like twine and planks shattered into a storm of jagged shards that tore through the courtyard.

Men were hurled from their feet. Torches scattered. Smoke and dust swallowed the entrance in a choking cloud.

When the ringing in their ears faded, there was… nothing.

The gateway stood open, its heavy doors reduced to ruin. Beyond it, the forest loomed silent and undisturbed.

A thin wind drifted through the breach, carrying with it the scent of burned soil.

“Form ranks!” Gareth barked, though his voice carried a hint of uncertainty. 

They waited.

One of the younger guards, with barely any stubble upon his chin, lowered his shield. “There’s nothing there,” he muttered, peering into the dark. “It’s just trees.”

“I’ll have a look,” he said, stepping past the splintered remains before anyone could stop him.

“Do not cross that threshold,” Ganmar called out sharply.

The guard hesitated only a second, long enough to glance back with an embarrassed grin. “With respect, Elder, I see no—”

The space just beyond the gate convulsed.

Something moved where nothing had been.

The guard’s words became a scream.

A dark shape lashed out from the ground itself. It seized him around the torso and yanked him violently off his feet. His spear clattered uselessly across the stones as his body was dragged across the frost-hardened dirt.

He clawed at the ground, fingers scraping desperately for purchase on the paved stones.

“HELP M—”

The darkness swallowed him, leaving behind nothing but bloody trails on the road.

Then silence returned as abruptly as it had been broken.

Only the guard’s helm remained, spinning slowly where it had fallen just beyond the shattered gate.

For a long moment, no one breathed.

Then Sir Gareth found his voice. “Fall back from the breach! Form a second line inside the square. Move!”

Boots scraped against stone as the guards withdrew from the ruined northern gate, no man dared turn his back fully to the forest; they stepped away slowly, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond.

“Close ranks,” Gareth ordered again, descending with Ganmar from the parapets and positioning himself between the men and then yawning threshold. “Nothing crosses without us greeting them with steel.”

Ganmar did not argue. His gaze lingered, as if listening to something only he could hear.

Then the night changed.

A distant whistling cut across the town. Low at first, then rising sharply.

Ganmar’s head snapped toward the opposite end of the city.

“South,” he breathed.

The whistle became a shriek.

A heartbeat later, the southern wall that was several streets away vanished in light.

A colossal fireball struck the stone ramparts with catastrophic force. They burst outward in a storm of shattered rock. The flames did not die on impact; they surged forward, spilling through the new-made breach like a living tide.

Fire roared into the nearest row of cottages. Thatch ignited instantly. Timber beams caught with a violent crack. Within moments, orange tongues were clawing skyward, devouring roofs and leaping from building to building.

“The wall!” a guard shouted. “The southern wall’s fallen!”

Heat swept across the streets in a blistering wave. The moon’s pale glow was drowned beneath a furious, flickering red. Smoke coiled upward, clogging the air.

Forgetting about the gate, Ganmar stared at the flames far away.

Within the inferno’s illumination, movement revealed itself—shapes crossing through the ragged hole where the wall had stood.

A group of seven giant creatures hauled themselves over the broken stone. Looking like an amalgamation of a volcano and a crab, each had three to four arms. With their heavy bodies supported by six segmented legs, they were broad and hunched. Encased in a carapace of rock that glowed red-hot from within, veins of molten light pulsed through fissures in their stony shells.

The air around them shimmered.

One placed a massive hand upon the remnants of the wall. The stone beneath its palm blackened, then fractured and melted from the heat alone.

Ganmar’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the blaze.

Another of the monsters stepped fully into the street, fire flaring from the seams of its shell.

Behind it, more silhouettes emerged through the smoke.

Gareth followed Ganmar’s gaze, and whatever color remained in his face drained away.

“The town guard will not hold that,” he said grimly.

From the south, the bells began ringing again in chaos.

The town was burning.

Credit goes to u/SeaflameSmith for this piece and to u/Goodboimix_99 for editing

I've been thinking about this quite a bit while working on my own fiction.

A lot of writing advice encourages authors to spend huge amounts of time developing characters, building detailed worlds, and exploring deeper themes. Those things obviously matter, but I sometimes wonder if plot has quietly become the part of storytelling that gets the least attention, even though it's what gives all of those elements direction.

I've read books with beautiful prose and memorable characters where, by the end, it felt like very little had actually happened. On the other hand, I've enjoyed stories with much simpler writing because every chapter moved the story somewhere new. Every obstacle mattered, every decision had consequences, and there was always a feeling that the story was evolving instead of standing still.

The more I write, the more I find myself thinking that plot isn't just a sequence of events. It's really a chain of choices, conflicts, and consequences that pushes both the story and the characters forward. Without that progression, even interesting characters can start to feel static. At the same time, a fast moving plot means very little if the reader never becomes invested in the people experiencing it.

For me, the strongest stories are the ones where character and plot strengthen each other rather than compete for attention.

I'm curious how other writers see it. When you're developing a story, do you naturally start with the characters or with the plot? Or has your own writing changed the way you think about the relationship between the two?