I am not depressed or burned out … but I had a hard time expressing how it felt going to work on the daily.

A ray of sunshine?…

I have a scar that will not stop growing.

Sometimes, I pick at the keloid, convincing myself that it has grown smaller, that perhaps the wound is finally healing. I peel away at its edges, searching for the skin that existed before it. For a moment, the surface appears smoother, the scar less conspicuous. Almost gone.

But it always returns. Thicker. Uglier. Harder than before.

I have tried to reason with my resentment. Things could be worse, I remind myself. Time will eventually carry me somewhere else. None of it matters. The resentment simply grows, quietly and stubbornly, the way scars do.

And yet, every morning, I return to the place where it grows.

The janitor greets me with a fist bump. The respiratory therapist tells me about his family in Haiti. The charge nurse shares her plans to return to school to become a nurse practitioner.

And they seem happy to see me. You’re like a ray of sunshine, they say.

Perhaps what they see is merely the light of a star that died millennia ago.

Once, a patient asked what I had planned for the weekend. Nothing came. For a moment, the question seemed meant for someone who wasn’t there.

As I leave the building, the keloid begins to itch. Then it grows. By the time I reach my car, the ray of sunshine they see is gone.

The people inside blur. Their names vanish. Their stories crumble. I joke about it, of course. But the truth is harder to admit: this place never mattered to me. Nothing within it ever did. I arrived already wanting to leave.

Like all keloids, it grows past the edges of the original wound.

The reflection in the mirror saddens me. Unrecognizable. He stands tall, wearing a smile that could fool even those who love him most. But I know him. The weariness in his eyes cannot lie. There is no light.

Then, on the horizon, a sunrise. The first light of spring, finding its way back to me.

My sister telling me about her day. A friend, nervous and excited about a date. My mother describing what she is cooking for dinner.

A spark catches. A familiar warmth returns.

For a moment, I am back.

I look for the scar. Was there ever a keloid there at all?

But even in the warmth, a small fear remains. The darkness will return. Perhaps it will take more of me this time.

A tap on my shoulder. The janitor.

I smile and give him a fist bump.

Hey there, this has to be the very first Reddit post of mine. I have been trying to take up writing seriously once more recently, and began writing about a historical bedouin tribe and their adventures in a quasi-fictional timeline. I'm badly in need of more people to read and let me know what they think. Because most of the people in my personal-life circle aren't avid readers.

Please don't mind the UI-issues on the website as I could only do so much on my own. Here's the link to the series on the webpage run by me personally: https://mothnest.net/tag/banu-numayr/

Don't hold back, and thank you so much in advance. I wish you all the best of muses.

Editing: There are currently three episodes, and they all are around 10-minutes-reading mark.

Heey so this is my on going book, the vibe is enemies to lovers and I will upload 3 chapters every week! Already 2 are on!
It will mean the world to me if you give it a shot and also give me a good feedback especially because this is my first book. Available in English and Greek.

I write because I love the world, its quietest corners and its loudest heartbreaks. Somewhere out there, I know there is someone who shares this strange, beautiful obsession with stringing words together, looking for a place to share their soul.

That’s why I built Righter. (https://righter-drab.vercel.app/)

Every twenty-four hours, a single prompt blooms. A shared canvas for a community of strangers to write, connect, and lift each other up. Because in a world that often feels heavy, creativity isn’t a luxury - it’s the medicine we use to survive it.

Please try it and let me know what you think!

Hi,

I am looking for a writing partner (if you also know Spanish, this is a plus). This would be writing for fun and will not be published. I would like someone who is able to write paragraphs. The plot I have takes from 1985-1989 and then again, in 2015. It is fiction, like slice of life with other genres in-between. The plot takes place in the Lehigh Valley. Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, specifically. I tend to do this on messenger and if you are comfortable and willing, we can go ahead and use messenger as the the writing platform. It would be back and forth.

Thanks!

Book is finished and published. Idk how to share it other than It’s free on kindle. Is anyone interested in reading and giving feedback? Or is this page strictly for boosting each other to keep writing?

Hi! I recently started journaling with the intention of turning it into a personal memoir. I would like some feedback to see if it sounds interesting at all. Some names have been redacted because I do not feel comfortable posted them online yet, however you should be able to understand my writing still!

Context: October 26,2026

Although I am writing to an imagined reader, there will be context provided as to elucidate who this voice belongs to in hopes that one day someone will care enough to live alongside my words.

As of now, I (REDACTED) am a 24 year old woman, born and raised in the south. I was raised by a strict mom (love you; I promise) and a relaxed, should-have-been-comedian dad. While my parents were (and still are) together compared to what seems the more commonly divorced crowd, I have just realized per my brother’s divorce, that my “perfect” parents’ partnership was not so perfect. Which brings me to my main theme, that you will no doubt (and I mean NO DOUBT) pick up on: love (with a side of male pessimism).

I trust anyone giving this word vomit any analysis will pick up on these themes throughout their reading (though technically are not themes, but topics. Yes, I am a 7th grade ELA teacher.) Despite my humorous tone throughout my writing, I trust you will treat my stories, thoughts, and topics with some amount of earnestness. All things written here will be the full, honest truth as much as the human experience can allow for.

Focusing back on my life context, I feel another essential part that encompasses me are my friends. Yes, it sounds cliche (and like a middle school diary) however I believe a person, to its core, is a mirage of moments made with others. Those who have had the largest hand in creating who I am, and who I am not: REDACTED A, REDACTED B, and REDACTED C. REDACTED C, I have known since I was 4, though not exactly friends the entire time. REDACTED A, I have known (and befriended) since 5th grade; REDACTED B (as a byproduct of my friendship with REDACTED A) since 6th grade. Each will, I hope, get a separate chapter later, but I can guarantee all will appear repeatedly throughout as each one represents my wants, hopes, fears, and soul.

Acknowledging that this is a journal and all will be told in due time, I will give a comprehensive snapshot as to whom I am for a basis not just for your own comprehension, but also for a baseline to myself in an effort to measure my growth, fears, desires, and anything else noting introspection.

Today is October 26, 2026. I am a woman struggling with a fear of loneliness, a slight animosity toward men (I mean what woman doesn’t  have any), and a desire to become okay with an uncertain future. A future that feels, as of this moment, filled with a quiet, empty house where solitude seems more assured than happiness, comfort, or fulfillment. By the end of this, I hope that I, if not you, will understand the following:

I can build a life I care about today. If my life turns out differently than I imagined, 
I will learn how to live that life too. I don’t have to solve my entire future today.

Recently, I finished 9 chapters for my fantasy (PH mythology inspired). And I think I'm mostly done with my prologue and chapter 1. But the thing is. Im stuck with writing the latest chapter and redoing the drafts of previous chapters.

I want to continue writing new things because writing really is fun, but at the same time I also want to review my drafts. Both take so many hours that it kills the drive to do the other.

How do you consistently write?

How does one be effective in it?

Redo your drafts to correct your prose, grammar and structure to make it better?

or

continue with new chapter so that you can continue to be in the Zone?

I know some may say to each our own. But im genuinely curious about how people deal things like these to make their time worthwhile. Not just hope for the best. Or am I just adhd? Haha

P.s. this is my prologue if anyone's interested.

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1tLn_l4wEfWO9NPXhzlASj7vrvjBhTlFu

Ansera is a home for original stories where the main character is Black or POC.

Theme: Transition

A character in between: a new job, a new home, a new age, a new self. The story lives in the change.

Prompts, if you want a starting point:

→ A character who can teleport, but only to places they've emotionally outgrown.

→ The first day the eldest daughter takes over the family business.

→ A boy spends the summer in his grandmother's hometown and has to make friends in a language he barely speaks.

Twist them any way you want, or write your own take on the theme.

How to enter

• Any form: stories, poems, comics, audio.
• Post your story wherever you usually post. Put "Written for the November Ansera challenge (anseraworld.tumblr.com)" at the top. Then send us the link: drop it in the Discord, tag #ansera challenge on Tumblr, or email [ansera.world@gmail.com](mailto:ansera.world@gmail.com). Under 350 words? You can post it directly in Discord.
• Anything heavy in your story? Say what happens at the top ("a parent dies of illness"), not just "dark themes."

Every entry gets a real response. Not just "nice work."

Dates: November 1–30 · Early deadline November 22 (read first, top spot in the roundup). Both deadlines are 11:59pm ET.

Join the Discord to share snippets while you draft, get unstuck, and give your finished story its own thread. Readers are welcome too: https://discord.gg/BwqZUb7SEd

Any writer can enter: write from your own culture, write another with care, or leave culture out entirely.

The ottoman slammed its lid shut. We felt a sudden, violent upward acceleration, like being launched out of a subterranean cannon toward the surface of the earth. My ears popped in C-minor.

This is chapter 27 of my story. Can you tell me if you find the prose and the characters' dynamic interesting. Or any other general critique on it, let me know in the comments

Class has begun. A carefully orchestrated chaos has engulfed the room, erupting in a cacophony of noise.

A cavalcade of personalities fills the room. Voices ebb and flow, clashing, crashing, like the tide against the rocks. Overwhelmed, the room cannot contain the din and roar of voices that fill it.

Welcome to our Sunday morning Youth class!

Undaunted, I proceed to bring a lesson amid the fray.

And just as suddenly as it began, the noise subsides. Class is over. A door opens and bodies vacate the room. The crowd jostles and hurtles along like chariots in a scene from Ben Hur. Clamor and commotion follow them down the hall, a jangling, strangely harmonious symphony of chaos. What some might describe as noise, to me, sweet melody.

Silence has filled the void. This empty room, once filled, now sits lonely. Except for me. I sit for a moment, after the room has emptied, to collect my thoughts.

The silence is deafening.

Thoughts whirl and twirl around inside my head. The empty room clamors for the raucous crowd that has now fled its confines. I see faces—the expressions of the former occupants. Snapshots of my students come to mind as I take a moment to reflect. I could tell by their expressions, some small part of my lesson resonated with my frenetic audience!

What could I have done better? Could I have been more prepared? What, if anything, did my students take away from the class? I feel more a bystander than a participant.

As I ponder, a smile overcomes me, a sigh escapes me. In the brief respite of sanity that has returned to the room, I reflect on the melee that was.

I breathe a hasty prayer before I dash off to join the boisterous herd descending on the auditorium. And I thank God, for a brief moment, I was allowed to be a part of it.

Epilogue: The Still, Small Voice

My raucous crowd has long since grown and left. The room where we met now stands still, empty. Abandoned. The silence is deafening.

I walked through that same room a few years ago and sat still. Both the room and I seemed ... deserted. We both sighed a sigh and longed for days long past.

And in the silence, I wonder, could I hear that still, small voice in the silence?

No strong winds blew, no fierce fire raged. And no earthquake shook the rocks. But in the silence, He spoke. The time has passed, though well spent. And I realize, I was as much the student as the teacher.

I say nothing. No words from my lips disturb the quiet. The strong, silent Eloah speaks. Loudly, the voice fills my mind: Be still and know that I am God.

Today, wherever you are, in the silence, He speaks.

hi everyone, i wrote this in a kind of sleep deprived fever dream state. definitely wasnt crying through bits of it whaaat.

im not claiming to be a writer in any sort of capacity, but i used to be good at english lit essays and i really used to enjoy it, so i’m trying to get back into it. not even in a serious way, just a hobby.

i’m quite proud of this work tho, i really liked my voice in it, felt like i managed to convey what i wanted to.
if you could take a few minutes of your day to give this a read and give me some feedback, i would be so grateful! any critique, thoughts, suggestions, all would be welcome :)

thank you.

Our in-person writing night this Wednesday has history as its theme, so here's a prompt for anyone, anywhere, who wants to write along. Drop yours in the comments and I'll read every one.

If you're in LA: Short Story Writing Night, Wed 10/28, 6 to 7:30 PM, Good Girl Books, 12444 Venice Blvd. RSVP: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/short-story-writing-night-tickets-2001673105141?aff=oddtdtcreator (I'm with Literati Events, co-hosting.)

Hello! I wrote this to let out some feelings I've had for someone for the past two years. I know it might sound a little narcissistic, but I'm actually kind of proud of what I made, so I hope I can hear some of your thoughts on it!

Haysssss... I'm not sure if I'm yearning or if I'm still infatuated after these 2 short years, but... I just can't stop thinking about Franzin. I known it sounds weird to others when I keep saying I still having feelings for her. But I can't help it! I feel like a ghost who has unfinished business. I can't stop thinking of that half-assed confession I gave her and that empty promise she gave me. Ughhhhhhhhhh! Okay. Let's start with the cause of the problem, Me. My head keeps making me remember that pathetic excuse of a confession I gave her. It was long, messy, and made by Ai. I mean... It's not like Ai made it. But I gave it prompts of what I was feeling when she told me "Why me?" Those 2 words made my brain malfunction and stop working. Why me, My head kept repeating those 2 words over and over, Yet. I couldn't come up with an answer. I thought I could've come up with something after thinking about it for a while but nothing. It was so pathetic of me, I had my chance to tell her how I felt and I blew it! At that point I was stressing like crazy! Almost half an hour had gone by and i still hadn't given her an answer. I was desperate. So, I opened Chatgpt and gave it words on why I liked Franz and turn it to confession. What came out was long paragraph full of unnecessary words and statements. Gosh, thinking about it now. It was probably such a massive turn off for an amazing, talented, and hardworking journalist like her. I just wish I could've told her something more sincere and something made by me, not Ai. So if she rejected me I would've atleast know I tried my best and said what I wanted to say. I would give up a lot of things at this point to tell her this instead when she asked me "Why me?" and I'd say "Franz, It's not that hard to say why I want to be closer to you. From your Personality, Humor, Looks, Style, Interest, and most importantly your eyes something that I just can't stop staring at. This list could go on and on but these are the things that really made me fall for you. But in all honesty this was the Franzin from last year. Now, I dont even know how to make you laugh anymore. We can't keep a conversation for no longer than 5 minutes and when it's just the 2 of us it's always nothing but awkward silence. Telling you this, it sound like we arent meant to be at all... But even so. When im with you I always felt happy even in those quiet or awkward moments and I want you to be happy too when you're with me. I hope you give me a chance, I want to get to you know you better, I want to make you laugh, I want to have long conversations with you even with simple topics. So please, think about it." If I had told you this instead of that half-assed confession i probably would have moved by now. But oh well... I lost my chance already. This is nothing more than a fantasy to cope. No wonder you didn't go through with giving me a chance. It hurt me alot when you told me you wanted space but now that I'm a bit more mature than I was back then, You we're the one who was being the bigger person in the room by still being friends with me afterwards. I would've not be surprised if you ghosted me back then but then again... Ugh... Its all in the past now and I'll never have another chance at telling you how I feel and I can't do anything else but cling onto this unresolved feeling in my heart.

Hey guys! This is my on going book on wattpad.
Meet Hope and Adrian and follow their story.
The story is available in two languages, English and Greek.
If you love enemies to lovers, this book is for you!
Any comment will help me

Had a long-form crossover between High Fantasy and Hard Sci-fi that I was actively working for a few months, but after some pretty rough words at exactly the wrong time and complete silence from my beta readers, I went scorched earth and deleted everything (at least I thought I did, but that's beside the point.) I was about 35K words in on the first draft and was enjoying it, but then I couldn't stop thinking about it being pointless or terrible whenever I sat down to write and just couldn't get myself to do it anymore.

Now I somewhat regret that decision, especially since I'd found backup drafts elsewhere I hadn't looked when deleting. But when I opened one of the documents again I felt that feeling of pointlessness all over again. I tried the rationale of just writing it for myself and nobody else, but that still wasn't enough. Is there anything anyone else here does when they start feeling like everything they've made is terrible?

I see nothing but a fall when I get lost in your eyes, and you say not to worry

Every word spoken by your venomous lips felt real, and I did as well,

When I looked

I saw a world where you are everything, and you were the sky and limitless sex

 
I’m a girl whose smile was raped when I was barely eight

They ate me alive and left me shattered like a dream and sentenced me to death

When I saw “You”

I fell for the guy who’d see me getting fucked and still love me like he never did

I’ve got a story to tell

How can I write the best prose of my life if you taste sweet wine when I serve you Tennessee whiskey?

 
Poems

Stories

Prose

Haikus

Novellas

What should I pen down to steal you from her?

Does she shimmer the flickers I will never earn?

Then turn me on, unlocking the doors of my velvet

Kiss me as you do to her

We always meet in secret.

Change our rendezvous day to day

Before we met,

I was a religious who had faith in Gods

Since you happened to me.

I became Guinevere Beck

Class has begun. A carefully orchestrated chaos has engulfed the room, erupting in a cacophony of noise.

A cavalcade of personalities fills the room. Voices ebb and flow, clashing, crashing, like the tide against the rocks. Overwhelmed, the room cannot contain the din and roar of voices that fill it.

Welcome to our Sunday morning Youth class!

Undaunted, I proceed to bring a lesson amid the fray.

And just as suddenly as it began, the noise subsides. Class is over. A door opens and bodies vacate the room. The crowd jostles and hurtles along like chariots in a scene from Ben Hur. Clamor and commotion follow them down the hall, a jangling, strangely harmonious symphony of chaos. What some might describe as noise, to me, sweet melody.

Silence has filled the void. This empty room, once filled, now sits lonely. Except for me. I sit for a moment, after the room has emptied, to collect my thoughts.

The silence is deafening.

Thoughts whirl and twirl around inside my head. The empty room clamors for the raucous crowd that has now fled its confines. I see faces—the expressions of the former occupants. Snapshots of my students come to mind as I take a moment to reflect. I could tell by their expressions, some small part of my lesson resonated with my frenetic audience!

What could I have done better? Could I have been more prepared? What, if anything, did my students take away from the class? I feel more a bystander than a participant.

As I ponder, a smile overcomes me, a sigh escapes me. In the brief respite of sanity that has returned to the room, I reflect on the melee that was.

I breathe a hasty prayer before I dash off to join the boisterous herd descending on the auditorium. And I thank God, for a brief moment, I was allowed to be a part of it.

Epilogue: The Still, Small Voice

My raucous crowd has long since grown and left. The room where we met now stands still, empty. Abandoned. The silence is deafening.

I walked through that same room a few years ago and sat still. Both the room and I seemed ... deserted. We both sighed a sigh and longed for days long past.

And in the silence, I wonder, could I hear that still, small voice in the silence?

No strong winds blew, no fierce fire raged. And no earthquake shook the rocks. But in the silence, He spoke. The time has passed, though well spent. And I realize, I was as much the student as the teacher.

I say nothing. No words from my lips disturb the quiet. The strong, silent Eloah speaks. Loudly, the voice fills my mind: Be still and know that I am God.

Today, wherever you are, in the silence, He speaks.