I’m back for now. Haven’t posted here in a while but looking to bring writing back into my life with the goal of working on a book of poetry that has been collecting spiderwebs in my drafts for over a year.

I’m sophia, a tattoo artist living in Chicago. I write for fun and neurological creative stimulation aside from visual art, although I like to bring visuals into my poetry as well at times.

I’m also a Pisces ;)

and glad to be involved in writing again.

As of late I have been writing poetry that has taken on some sort of structure that has allowed me to tell a story that I have been hoping to tell since my first year in high school. I never had the knowledge or even the ability to do half the job until now and it has been truly amazing. The issue is that I do not know if this is the final way that I want my story to be, and I am not sure if I will be able to complete the story. This last year I have been slowly pushing toward a different future that may not allow me to write and even if it does I am uncertain if I will be capable of making this as great as I would like it to be. I write this because I know others have their own strange relationship with writing that has transformed into a part time to full time practice, and then back to part time again. In this current time I write to manifest a story that I feel is truly important, I wish to present the ills of youth in particular, mainly the social madness that has taken place in Wealthy nations, particularly in the U.S given that is what I have the most experience with.

In my previous three little essays (little to me at least) I have highlighted the importance of knowing why you write, and thanking those who take the time to read what you put down, good or not. In addition to that I believe that honesty is absolutely necessary, not just to the audience but to the writer as well, if you cannot fully express the reasons why you write or do not then you will forever be stuck in a pit of fear that will only weigh down every word and creative concept that crosses your page.

For all the glory that prose provides it leaves me wanting more, I remain here because it is a place where I can get the attention itch I need to get me to the next piece. I dislike this, it is the reason why I stopped making so many pieces, I had to slow down and actually take the time to challenge myself, count my syllables, check the thesaurus a million times over to find a word that had a better cousin. While Prose has several people who put out engaging challenges I still find that it does not match the issue that I want to tackle so I take on a blank page with a blank mind not knowing what I want to write but still writing regardless. Taking this on has only led to less being made and my creativity distracted by the world around me. I have a vision as to what I want to create but for some reason the very words for that realm are so beyond me, I do not know how to do it. Even worse in my hopes to create something others will enjoy I hardly take the pieces of others into consideration, I do not support the people that support me. I truly would like to be the writer that engages heavily with the community but I cannot possibly do so in a way that is not disingenuous, while posts could be better others are truly so great that I do not know how to properly evoke my emotions, even the thought of this bothers me, my mind yells “ just say what comes to your mind and improve over time”, and after that it yells “This is foolish these are random people who you may never meet”, perhaps this is true but I come to this website to engage with what others do and to develop my writing. In the end I do not know whether I can talk to every soul and engage with everyone, we all have people beyond our screens that we wish to talk to and places to go and so on, truly I want to say that I thank all the people who read what I write and to let those who read my work that I do not mean ill if I do not respond to you or read what you write, and of course I understand if you cannot come and read what I create.

In terms of what I am currently pursuing in my writing. These past few months I have written Doom, Historia, Oblivion ,Oceanside, and Apocalypse, each relatively short poems that seek to explain a Dystopian Universe as well as the stories of the characters within them. Initially I wanted to do it in a novel format but I found that doing it as a poem allowed me to play around a little more in the way I constructed the world. Generally I like to use one word and break it down conceptually, as I write this portion of the essay I realize that my aims have become more specific before I wanted to show the beauty of Darkness and now I have found that is taking harsh realities and the people within them and finding a way to take some sort of lesson out of it. If not a lesson than to alter the perception of it. Doom is a piece that looks at the lives of youth, or at least as I experience it, so many young adults find themselves in a harsh social landscape that fluctuates between past and current norms. Several also find themselves in a mental hellscape that is hardly ever acknowledged with any harsh truth, it is only coaxed. I am currently trying to figure out how to extract my understanding of my pieces and their aims, that is why my thoughts are all over the place. For the most part these pieces are a means for me to mythologize the current state of this nation into some Dystopian Epic with some fantastical elements. I want to build something of my own as I believe many do.

I have been wanting to write this fourth installment since December but felt as if I had nothing to report on, but now I do and it is not as intense as the last but nevertheless I want to say my piece. I will soon ship out for some training and then go down my career path, if everything goes right, if not I will write a bit more, if so then I hope I can return to create. I hope that once I am done with this route that I can pursue my love of writing if it is still there. Thank you all for the support and for continuing to come back to this website to do what you love.

Thank you all:

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“Okay, we need a plan.” Me and Sadie are conversing between mouthfuls of burgers.

“Okay, so let’s crash at my house.”

“Which one?”

“Not funny.” She glares at me. She really doesn’t like me bringing up the fact that her parents are divorced. “You know which house I go to.”

“How’s your brother doing?”

“I don’t know. I never see him.” Her voice gets quiet for only an instant, and I decided to shut up. She probably misses her brother. I know how that feels. “Anyway. We crash at my dad’s.”

“Okay.”

“Yes, my parents are divorced, Heather! Jesus!” Sadie snapped.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” I whispered with an evil smile.

“Be quiet, Silas.”

“Okay.” My hands go up in mock surrender.

“Drive me to my father’s house, please.”

“I love how you’re pretending to be nice.”

“I’m very good at being nice. But I’m also very good at kicking you in the balls.” I get up and start walking to the car.

“That was a cleverly veiled threat.”

“Thanks. Now get me the fuck out of here.”

“It’s be my pleasure, ma’am.”

“Just drive!”

“Okay, okay, fine. Jesus lady. Calm down.”

“I’m being stalked by an incredibly hot guy who wants to kill me. I’m not going to be ‘calm’, okay?”

“And you say I’m the one with a one track mind,” I snicker. “Okay.”

#DeathSquad

“You’re late.”

“Hello to you too. Yeah, I’m late.”

“Are you sassing me?” He says it in such a harsh tone that I almost flinch. I know I should flinch, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Yes, I am. Is there a problem.” There’s now a crowd around us. My dad can’t show weakness towards his son. There’s already talk of favoritism.

If only they knew what goes on behind those tightly shut, locked, and probably soundproofed doors. They’d never say that bullshit again.

“Hell yeah there’s a problem! Sadie Heathrow still isn’t dead!”

“So?”

“So you were supposed to kill her!” He explodes. The crowd backs up a step, all in one fluid motion. Even though I’m surrounded by people, it feels like I am alone with my dad. And I don’t like being alone with my dad. I can’t help it. I shudder. This causes me to get embarrassed, and I look down.

The crowd disperses, and I really am alone with my dad now. His stone glare could freeze Hell.

“Derik, I swear to God-”

“No. You don’t swear to God anymore. You’ve signed your fucking life over to the devil.”

“I’m righteous,” he hisses.

“Righteous my ass.”

“Don’t talk that way to me.” He gets out of the chair.

“I’m amazed your legs are holding up, Grandpa.”

“SHUT UP!” He slaps my face with the force of a tractor. He slaps me so hard that my usually superior balance fails me and I fall over. Now I’ll have a bruise on my ass as well as my face. I close my eyes and brace myself for another hit, maybe to the face again.

But instead I get kicked in the balls by a five hundred pound man.

Let me tell you, that does not feel good. But I learned crying never helps, I learned that when my stepmom arrived.

Okay, so my dad was a wreck after my mom died. Sure, he forced her to do all kinds of stuff, like have me at age sixteen, but that’s what love is, right?

My stepmom was his recovery. He found her behind a dumpster at a bar, crying about her husband cheating on her.

Yep, it was love at first sight. It makes it even better that she’s a bitch who hates my guts.

“Hello, Derik.” Her cool voice rings evenly in my ears. I touch my forehead and my fingers come away red. This is not going to end well. Either I’ll pass out and be beaten to death, or I’ll manage to stay conscious long enough to be beaten to death. I’m not sure which is worse. Her voice makes me flinch every time I hear it, but not this time. This time I blink the red haze off my eyes and stare into her coal black eyes.

“You’re a bitch, you know that, Raina?” She twists my wrist and I try to ignore the sound of cracking. My bones aren’t broken yet, she’s just stretching me out.

“What did you say?” she asks, to which the right answer is “Nothing.” And to which my answer is

“You’re a bitch.” I say it because I know she won’t break my hand. Only my pinky. My pinky is crooked because of all the times she’s broken it before.

“My name isn’t Raina, you ungrateful bastard. I’m your mom now.” Don’t remind me, I want to say, but the pain in my finger is beginning to bother me.

Snap.

#DeathSquad

As of late writing just about any word has troubled me. I find myself stuck in figuring what I want to write about or lost in trying to make an image come to life through words. It’s not that I’m under the thumb of writer’s block, I don’t feel like I have a lack of words to write down, but a limited time to do so. My school life has invaded my private space and because of this, every time I sit down to write, regardless if I’m in a speeding car or in the middle of doing my homework, I find myself rushing to make some finished product that I’m obsessed with. A piece of writing that makes me want to read again and again in my head and figure out how can I improve the visuals or the flow of the verse to ensure that my point is made perfectly. I don’t make perfect pieces of writing, but I do write over topics or concepts that I believe are perfect for me. In other words, I make something for the purpose of spreading some message that is important to myself and try not to overextend to another topic that I’m not familiar with. With each piece my hope is to create something that is genuine and doesn’t seem like an artificial creation that manifests me as some superior being, or a person who is plagued with problems.

The reason I am writing this is because I am hoping that I can further elaborate on the person that I am, because people are complex things and they change drastically in their way of thinking over time, and I have yet to interact with my audience. My second reason is that I find myself now and then destroying my love of writing for merely gaining attention. I keep finding myself trying to write something for gaining likes and popularity, but those things I feel should come second, once you’ve established yourself. I hate writing for attention because it ruins my hopes to popularize certain types of writing, or to make a whole new style of my own. It takes my creative pursuits and crumbles them into a piece of paper, and throws them right into the trash. The thing that I hate most is when you spend days, weeks, or even months creating something and then the moment you put it out there in the vast world of words, it instantly dies, never to be heard of again. I understand that not everyone is going to like what you have to write but it is a punch to the gut to see your hard work die. Not even with one comment to tell you whether it was a pile of crap or if it was decent. Without some response you can’t tell if you can improve or if you have a style that you should continue honing. Whenever this has occurred to me in the past I have tried to just keep going, and figure out what element is missing, where did I go wrong. I didn’t give up, because I kept finding new ideas and concepts that gripped me, but now this has changed. My hope with this piece is to see how it is others deal with this, or if they may even feel the same.

So if it is possible, I would not only greatly appreciate it, but adore you for any response, if that means anything to you at all.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this.

So, it's the weekend, or maybe the weekday by the time you come across this, but we all have some freetime sprinkled in through the day. I want to propose a challenge to those who are willing to do a personal deadline for writing.

Set a daily or maybe weekly goal of how many words you want to write in that span of time and sit down and try to reach it! I'll be going along with you guys, setting goals for myself also. If you have a day where school the school load is too heavy, you can set your goal lower but if you have plenty of time, like me today, you can set it higher.

Are you in? Let me know what your goal is down in the comments!!!

I'm going to try and do 5,000 words today. All the encouragement will help!

If they weren’t suspicious before, they most definitely are now. The boss is going to kill me.

So why do I feel like this is a good thing? Maybe it’s because, unlike the people that surround me, I have a goddamn moral compass? Why is that so hard to find these days?

Good God, I’m fucked. Time to go see Mr. Boss, the almighty and royally fucked up man who governs my every move. As if that isn’t enough, the universe decided that HA HA HA he’s my dad, too.

The Heathrow line of psychics is one of the more powerful ones around here. That’s why he wants me to kill Sadie so badly.

Well, I’m sick of it. Do I have the courage to tell him that? No. But am I going to kill anyone else, no matter what they do to my mind? Hell no.

And I know there’s only one way to end this.

But it’s not time for that yet. Not until I’m sure Sadie and… what’s the ghost’s name? Heather or Lilac or something like that. Some weird flower name. And her friend, who almost ran me over twice. Man, I really wish he hadn’t stopped the car. Just ran me over and driven away without a second glance. I’d be dead, and they wouldn’t have to be running so much. Everyone knows I’m The Shadow Clan’s best tracker. That’s why (lucky me) I was chosen for this God forsaken job. I love how that’s what we call it. Job. Killing people just because they see ghosts and it’s just “job”.

No one ever stops to wonder why we kill. They just mindlessly follow orders.

I mean, how could they not? They’re fucking mind controlled for God’s sake.

I’ve been trained since… eight, I think… to hunt down people who see ghosts. To hunt psychics. That’s all I’ve known since eight, and I’m sixteen now. Half my life I’ve been trained to kill, and the other half I barely remember.

Other than one thing.

My mother. Not the stepmom I have now who hates my guts, the one that gave birth to me.

When I was eight, she went to the grocery store, and she never came back.

A psychic killed her.

My dad was… I don’t know, exactly. He got crazy. He cultivated in me a belief that psychics are evil. So it started small at first, right? But then he gained followers. People - you know the type, the kind that hate everyone who’s different - those people followed him.

And then some nutcase teacher joined up, Mrs. Yancy. She’s the one who really started the problem.

She’s the one who suggested we start killing. She’s the one who governs the mind control business, although I don’t know how. She’s the one who decided we use kids to kill. She’s the one who branded us with a red eye. And no, I never knew it was possible to change your eye color. But you can, and it hurts like Hell.

So now you have thirty or so kids with red eyes who kill people. That doesn’t sound easy to hide from the police.

Solution? Infiltrate the police, get them on our side.

God, sometimes I hate having a free mind. It hurts to think about my life too much.

I push open the door to our “secret base”, an abandoned shack passing for a house in the middle of a neighborhood.

It’s not really much of a house anymore. Moldy books pollute the floor, because everyone’s too lazy or disgusted to pick them up. And then we enter the living room, a.k.a. the throne room, and it’s spotless.

Okay, it would be spotless, if you ignore the loveseat in the corner, worn and faded, surrounded by empty bottles, and in it sits the worlds most crazy slob.

My dad. The boss. Mr. Crazy Ass Motherfucker. It doesn’t matter what you call him, he only answers to one name. Boss.

“Hi, Dad.”

#DeathSquad

Hey, quick thing-a-ma-bob here. I have a new book idea that I've decided to name Grey. And I know what a lot of you are probably thinking. "Oh great, another book that Famewriter isn't going to finish" but hear me out, Please? I don't plan on publishing any of the chapters on here until I have finished the book because so many times I feel like I let you guys down by writing ten or fifteen chapters and then never going on and I don't want to do that anymore. I just want to know how many people would potentially want to be tagged once I do start writing it.

As for the synopsis... it may be a bit long.

Reality has been split into two Timelines, Light and Dark. In the Dark Timeline, we have Chae-Won whose life seems to be steadily going down the drain. After ending up in a mental institute after witnessing her mother's death, Chae-Won has to deal with the death of her mother, father, and aunt all in the span of two months.

In the Light Timeline, Kyung (Also known as Chae-Won but goes by her nickname so the readers don't get confused ;D) is living her best life. A concert painist at age 15, she has everything layed out before her. Her whole life she's gotten glimpses of Chae-Won in the other Timeline through various scenarios.

And in the middle is a man named Mr. Time who is trying to bring the two Timelines back together to form Reality, something that was broken apart several years before either Chae was born. But Mr. Time can't intervene in the events of a Universe he is not a part of. As a person looking in from a second Universe, he is unable of helping. So he approaches both Chae's to save Reality.

But the thing is... Darius Adams, a normal nobody was at the wrong place at the wrong time when the Timelines tried to come back together and got caught in the middle of everything, preventing them from coming together. The Timelines keep going back to the beginning of December 13 and making everyone relive it, hoping that one of the times, Darius Adams will not be there.

So Chae and Kyung are reliving December 13 over and over again until they finally realize they are living it over and over again and find a way to remember.

But both Chae's have reasons for not wanting the Timelines to come back together and Mr. Time has some secrets of his own that could change everything and may keep them from saving Darius Adams.

So... is anyone intrested? Any takers? Like I mentioned before, I plan on writing the story before posting any of the chapters and having my 'editor' go back through and make changes so you guys get the best version of the story. So it may be a month or two before you get to read anything. Sorry for taking up your time but thank you for reading and I hope you'll read the story in the future. Until next time, Famewriter