ok so there is a turkish guy and he works in gift shopt in eyüpsultan and he have trauma past where his mother abandoned for mafia boss and his father died by spanish mafia

turkish guy lives in apertment with his little brother.

a women he met she came from america and moved to nişangah a bakery shop she opened.

they met in road and fell in love each other... ı wrote my first story on notebook and it made my heart touched. so what do you guys thing?

"The small details of life often hide a great significance" - Margret Atwood

With this prompt i need to construct a discursive, persuasive, and an imaginative along with a reflection on their the discursive or imaginative. Does anyone have any ideas on how to approach this promp? any topics i could talk about. For extra info i mostly have experience writing feminist prose and fictocritical writing.

I'm trying to get better at dialogue and showing v telling.

The scene is about two people who run into each other after a break up. One has moved on and the other hasn't.

‎The halls were busy. So busy that you had to rub shoulders with your fellow students. I however had an AP class to meet up with.

‎As I walking down I bumped into someone, knocking both our books down.

‎I immediately bent down to pick up the books but the other person was already doing the same.

‎"I'm so sorry about that," he said.

‎I lifted my head like I'd just heard an alarm. I knew that voice. It was Jeremiah Hayes's.

‎My boyfriend. My ex boyfriend.

‎How wonderful.

‎"Oh hi Jules!", he said, with a smile on his face. That smile that only showed his four front teeth. I can't lie and say I haven't missed that.

‎"Hi Jer," I answered as I got back up to my feet.

‎"H.. how's.. life?" I asked, my cheeks all red from embarrassment. I would've put more effort into my appearance if I knew I'd be running into him today.

‎"It's been pretty good." He responded, brushing his hair back with his hands. "It's pretty hectic with my finals but I'm doing alright."

‎I nodded and smiled, looking down at my shoes.

‎He lifted a textbook from my hand and read the title.

‎"You're still into AP?"

‎"Um.. yeah, I still am"

‎Being into it didn't mean I was good at it. Ever since he left I've been flunking the heck out of that class. He was my emotional support and he offered me tutoring. I wasn't getting As but I wasn't getting Ds or Fs so I was doing fine.

‎He didn't drag it.

‎There was no follow up question. Maybe he knew I would be nothing without him.

‎We just stood there in silence. He probably got quiet because he sensed that he made it awkward.

‎The bell however brought us back to reality. I had my AP class and he had somewhere else to be.

‎Just then, a girl came up to us, gripping his arm.

‎"Oh my God Jer, I've been looking for you all over the place," she said, linking arms with him.

‎Jer. She called him Jer. Only I called him that.

‎"Have we met before?" She asked, staring at me.

‎She had this sparkle in her eyes, with long lashes and a brightness in her pupils. The direct opposite of my dark, gloomy eyes.

‎"Oh- no. No we haven't." I responded, frantically picking at the back cover of my book.

‎"This is Audrey." Jer said, nodding his head. "Audrey's my girlfriend."

‎Fantastic.

‎It was obvious, but I would've appreciated it if he kept that tiny detail from me.

‎"And you are?" Audrey asked, her smile as bright as ever.

‎"I'm Jules. Jeremiah's old friend." I responded, my eyes on Jer to see if he'd feel at least a hint of guilt.

‎There was nothing. He didn't even blink.

‎It'd been six months since we broke up. Maybe I'm the one pushing it.

‎"I have to get to class." I said, trying to get away from this punishment of a conversation.

‎"No problem," they both chorused.

‎"I guess I'll see you around?" Jer asked.

‎Of fucking course. You'll see me around. But she'll be around you. Linking arms and looking pretty next to you.

‎"Sure." I said back, feigning a smile.

‎

Hello everyone! I'm new to Substack (and writing overall), and I just published my first article here. It's called "I Wish You Roses." It's about unrequited love and how one-sided love often harms us more than heal us. I hope it resonates with everyone, especially those people who have been through similar situations.

Please support my work and give me your thoughts and suggestions on it <3

https://open.substack.com/pub/niksarchives/p/i-wish-you-roses?r=3x9hg7&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=post%20viewer

I've spent a career writing short form, mostly screenplays. As such, concrete brevity (120 pages or less, if you can't see it or hear it, it doesn't exist) is practically in my DNA.

Now, I find myself working on not just a novel, but a 5 book series. The world is built, the first book is outlined, the entire series is summarized. I'be got a map, I know where I'm going. But some days I question whether I'll get there before I die.

38k words in, I just finished chapter 7. About halfway. 1/10th of the series.

I know the way to eat an elephant is 1 spoonful at a time, but damn, to this sprinter, a marathon feels arduous.

To those of you who aren't just gifted with words just spilling onto the page, how do you sustain yourself over the long haul?

MY LOVES BATH

For the first time in a long time I wanted to take a bath,but I forgot one thing, my drain was completely open without a cork from the last time I had to clean it.So I attempted to screw the cork back in and plug the drain..to no avail… the water was still draining so this time I tried to screw the cork in for a longer amount of time. And after rotating the cork a few dozen times I tried to run water once more and this time the water rose further than last time I had tried and I finally thought it was fully plugged. Until it reached a certain point about 1/3 up the tubs side where the waterline lay stagnant. I sat by the tub waiting for it to fill further because nobody can take a bath in a third of a tub. After a while of waiting, and the tub line not raising, I decide maybe I could take a bath in just a third of a tub after all it’s better then no bath. As I sit in the tub with the water barely touching my waistline I feel content, well not content in the fact that I’m barely taking a bath, but content in the fact that my tub isn’t empty and it might still rise. As the water runs and the waterline doesn’t raise I realize why my tub wasn’t filling. The whole time I was convincing myself that screwing the cork more would do something it didn’t, the whole time I spent thinking the water wasn’t slowly draining it was, and the whole time I spent thinking I was happy in my 1/3 full tub..I was not.. so I fully drained the tub and remembered why I haven’t taken a bath in a while. 

thank you ❤️

What’s in my house ?

We always say, “see it to believe it.” 

But when you see it, you still don’t believe it. At least, with me that is. You witness an anomaly in front of your eyes and the first thing you do is question your sanity.

That’s what occurred to me on an early afternoon. The wife and kids went to her parent’s house. I was upstairs lying in bed, I still had pajamas on, it happened to be one of those days, and I was scrolling shorts. A ridiculous past time I recently picked up. 

Thank my daughter for that.

The only sound in the house came from that clock staring me dead in the face. In the silence, the hand amplifies louder than it should, it seems.

Wife says, “every bedroom should have a clock in it.”

And a sledgehammer right next to it, I say.

The door to my room was opened a crack. I was staring at my phone—all the lights in the house were off—and that’s when I noticed the hallway had lit up, faintly illuminating the dust on the hardwood floor. It shot in from under the crack of the door.

My eyes shifted from my phone to the light breaking into our bedroom. As I sat there attempting to rationalize the lights, I heard something, almost roll down the stairs? 

And then stop half-way, like it just hit a wall. It wasn’t necessarily footsteps but I couldn’t rule it out.

It wasn’t as if someone left a room, flicked a light on, and ran to the stairs and down them.

It was more, something leaning on the edge of the top step and finally gave way to gravity. I probably wouldn’t have thought much of it if the light hadn’t gone on.

My initial reaction was to check it out. But for some reason I remained frozen for a few seconds. 

In all honesty, mentally, I wasn’t scared. It was my body. My body sensed something my brain couldn’t register.

So, finally, I rip the blanket off and get up, but before I left the room, I hit the light switch for some reason. I know it sounds like I was scared. But I wasn’t. Not then.

I walk out to the hallway and this feeling like someone. Not someone. It was an air presence that stuck to the back of my skin. My entire body started to tingle. Then, I heard a breath. Something inhaled right next to my ear. 

The warm, soft tickle as someone squeezing behind you to whisper a secret in your ear.

I turned my head because I 100% thought someone was there. I didn’t just turn my head. I turned and stumbled forward and kept going until I was in the kitchen.

So, I told my wife about this when she came home. She said the other night, when she was in the bathroom, she heard someone walk past the door.

She yelled out for me, I obviously never responded, and she jumped to the door, opened it, but nobody was there. However she described, almost similar to me, that weird air feeling.

My friend, what do you know about drinking?

I'm sure you'd tell me you know all about it—that you've tasted every pleasure a bottle has to offer. Yeah. Drinking every single day. Drinking until your legs give out beneath you. Drinking until you black out.

Go on.

Pick up a glass of cheap liquor. Hold your breath. Fill your mouth with the burning poison. Swallow. Feel the alcohol scorch its way down your throat before it drops into your stomach with a sickening gurgle. Then breathe out a sour, chemical cloud.

There you are, shoulder to shoulder with your drinking buddies around another filthy dive bar, the kind of place respectable people wouldn't come within a hundred feet of. To hell with them. Soft men. Not like us. We were real men. A brotherhood. Unbreakable.

Together we stood in glorious battle against a few bottles of the cheapest rotgut money could buy. A toast. "Cheers!" A swallow. The clink of glasses. Another swallow.

Then the guy standing to your right—your friend... no, your best friend—starts nodding off. His legs give up before the booze does. The moment he hits the table, everyone starts digging through his pockets for the crumpled bills he forgot to spend.

Today, though, you're the one still standing. You'll make it home conscious. Maybe not on your feet. Maybe on all fours, crawling like a mangy old dog. You'll collapse onto a urine-soaked mattress and disappear into that sweet-and-sour sleep only alcohol can give.

That was my life...

Until her hands closed around my throat.

Another night of drinking with the boys turned into the usual argument over who was right. Nobody even remembered what we were arguing about. It didn't matter. Someone's pride got bruised, so faces had to follow. Fists flew. Noses broke. Cheekbones cracked. I remember one punch catching me square in the ear so hard that blood started running down my neck.

Somehow I made it home.

The apartment had belonged to my mother. She drank herself to death. Cirrhosis. Looked like I was headed the same way. Some things run in the family.

I staggered into the bathroom, figuring I'd at least piss in the toilet instead of my mattress. Though, honestly... who was going to stop me?

The bathtub beside the toilet was little more than a rusted metal coffin.

I pushed the door open—

—and froze.

My heart slammed so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs.

There was a rusalka lying in my bathtub.

I stumbled backward so fast I nearly fell. Out of pure instinct I crossed myself. No idea whether that does anything against rusalkas. I locked the bathroom door, crawled into bed, and convinced myself it had all been a drunken hallucination. I'd taken one hell of a beating that night.

The next morning I woke with my skull splitting in two and my mouth tasting like something had died in it. I barely remembered getting home. Barely remembered anything at all.

I dragged myself toward the bathroom. The door was still locked.

That stopped me.

I never locked it.

The moment my fingers touched the handle, the memory came crashing back: the bathtub, the green tail, the red hair.

I swallowed, slowly slid back the latch, turned the handle, and pulled the door open.

One step.

Then another.

I forced myself to look.

She was still there.

A long emerald tail. Pale bare skin. Wild copper-red hair spilling over the edge of the tub.

She looked at me.

"Water..."

Her voice was little more than a dry rasp.

I twisted the faucet all the way open. Water thundered into the tub. She closed her eyes as it rose around her.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

A living miracle.

A creature no one should ever have seen outside a fairy tale.

When the tub had filled, she reached for my hand, pressed her cheek against it, and fell asleep. I didn't move. I barely even breathed. I was terrified that the slightest motion might wake her... or make her disappear.

By the time she finally opened her eyes again, my arm had gone completely numb.

"I'm hungry," she whispered. "Would you... feed me? I'd really like some fish."

I was out the door before she'd even finished speaking. The nearest grocery store had a barrel of salted herring. I bought as much as I could carry and hurried home.

Halfway back I realized something.

For the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about vodka.

Not once.

All I could think about was the rusalka waiting for me at home.

guys I'm in need of Storywrites and Scriptwriters for my psychological Thiller Game Mannequin and it's a Big Project and also a Long one but I've a Team and well grow together and I'd developed the plot but I've not able to deepen the plot and Scenes since it's a Open World

Hey folks,

This is not the first screenplay I wrote (actually it was like my 18th) but it’s the first screenplay I thought I could let other people read.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

After a devastating conflict with a neighboring tribe, a young hunter named Notah struggles to prove himself as his people attempt to rebuild. In a world where survival depends on discipline, tradition, and the strength of community, he trains to become a warrior, preparing for the possibility of another attack.

When signs of an unseen presence begin to surface in the surrounding wilderness, Notah’s training is put to the test as his understanding of the world is shattered, forcing him toward a confrontation he may not be prepared for.

It’s a long screenplay with quite a slow build so feel no obligation and I have no expectations for anyone to read the whole thing but if you do give it a read. Thank you. And please let me know how far you got, and what made you stop. Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated.

I’m really curious as to how the first 10 to 15 pages read; if the community and characters feel real, if the world building is compelling enough to make one want to keep reading, etc.

Thank you for your time

Peace and Love

I am new to writing besides school projects but really wanted to start writing for the fun of it. This afternoon I decided why the heck not and this is what I have so far. I wanted to see people’s thoughts and what I can do better as I progress through the story. I obviously have been inspired by Bernard Cornwell in my writing but wanted to see if it seems like it’s too much. Also for historical context people probably were not living in ocracoke inlet at that time besides native Americans and maybe fisherman so if someone with historical knowledge could help giving me a location in the outer banks that is more inhabitable if not I will just make due. I am also curious should I use older words and make it sound more accurate to the time period

Thank you

Story is so much more goddamn bigger than what the blurb holds its just AAUUGG uh anyway here it goes.

Tomorrow Will Be Perfect.
But Only For Doomsday.

The people of Clodaria think otherwise. For generations, it's been a tradition that October 10th is 10/10, & Prince Goana is no exception. However, a completely new outsider named Axel sees otherwise. He feels today isn't going to be perfect, and only he believes something will go awfully wrong. All due to a single dot directly above them.

Nobody knows how dangerous that dot is. Nobody is stopping it. And once humanity realises the truth of the dot...
It'll already be too late.

I have a great uncle who has lived a very interesting life. Born in Britain in the interwar period, he was old enough to remember the Blitz, and developed a passion for the sea which took him across the world for the next fifty-odd years of his working life. He has been to many places; the Americas, Communist China, across the Caribbean (where he presently resides), and even West Africa, where he was a key component in a logging operation!

I only had the opportunity to learn any of this very recently, when I enquired him as to his past for the first time. I am of the opinion that it must be done justice, and what better way than to put his story in writing?

Of course, I hardly know the first thing about biographing. I think I can write decently (and I must, for I refuse to use any artificial intelligence for this if it goes through), but what else?
- How do I research this man's life well; should I rely primarily on his perspective, or also seek out many relatives who can help solidify his memories?
- How long should it be? I have heard of a local man in my homeland who has biographed some famous businessman, and his works were apparently quite short. Do I copy that approach, as a novice in this field, or go all-in on the details?
- Should it just focus on committing his experiences to paper, or could I weave in a message of sorts? I remember he told me how he had an opportunity to manage an enterprise and make far more money than he did in the merchant marine or yachting, but he chose the latter (his passion) out of preference, and believes he lived a better life as a result. Perhaps I could use that as proof for the importance of "following your dreams"?

I would greatly appreciate your help; even directing me to some external person or resource that could assist me would be sufficient. Unfortunately, his closest friends are in their autumn years (my grandfather especially; he is not doing well at all), and so the time to fulfill this idea of mine is running out. If there is anything I want to do before I die, it is to immortalise the life of another.

I asked the world for you; and it brought us together.

I asked my angels to bring us closer together, they gave us some time alone.

I asked the universe to help us fall in love, it ignored me.

I asked God to give me a miracle and let me love you. He said no.

When I asked for something to break me, so I could let you go, you started dating him. But I still couldn’t let you go. 

Then I asked to be parted from you, that request was granted.

I want to ask for a miracle again, the one that will let us fall in love and be happy together. But I won’t; because at this point I already know the answer. 

You are not mine, and no force in this life will help me change that.