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7 mos ago
It’s my birthday today! I’m officially an older adult. It feels like Jude Law becoming Michael Gambdon overnight, and still being just as magical.
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2 yrs ago
You can’t control the ebb & flow of the status bar. Just let it be.
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2 yrs ago
Harisutosu Fukkatsu! ✨🥂
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In ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ → 2 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
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𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊


𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕

“𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎’𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎’𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚎-𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 ‘𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝.”

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢, 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜; 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚎𝚜. 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙰 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍.

𝙰 𝚑𝚞𝚖. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛. 𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝.

𝙰 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚢, 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚢, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚂𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝. 𝙰 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢.

“𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢…” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 —

𝚂𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝. 𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝.

“𝙱𝚊𝚍! 𝙱𝚊𝚍!” 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛?

“‘𝙷𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚘𝚘!” 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝, 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕’𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙴𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛.
In Hi there! New here! ✨💖 → 2 mos ago Forum: Introduce Yourself
👋🏻 Hi & welcome!
In Microfiction & Poetry contest #14 - new beginnings (voting and feedback) → 2 mos ago Forum: Writing Contests
Congratulations to everyone who entered. It takes courage to put your work on display for criticism and judgement. Many writers on Guild are skilled but lack the bravery to enter this small but fun competition.

With that said and the repetitive mention of how I’m a simple stay-at-home mother with a useless International Business Degree:

In What are some of the most confusing/cringiest OC's you have ever encountered? → 2 mos ago Forum: Roleplaying Discussion
@Mole Writer's block and AI prompts regurgitating the same output just with different names and personalities, probably.


That was the implication induced with a shoulder shrug. I also wasn’t aware the prompt was AI generated until the posts started coming. I need to be more vigilant about these sort of things.
In What are some of the most confusing/cringiest OC's you have ever encountered? → 2 mos ago Forum: Roleplaying Discussion
I joined a game that was created by AI. All the players (save maybe another player and me) used AI to generate majority of their posts. Due to writer's block, the game never made it to page 2. 🤷🏻‍♀️
In long term RP writer but out of practice for several years → 2 mos ago Forum: Introduce Yourself
Hi & welcome! Hopefully, you find what you're looking for.
In Word association Game! → 2 mos ago Forum: Spam Forum
Benign
In ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ → 2 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
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𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊


𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢.

𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎. 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕’𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎.

𝙸𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗. 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. 𝚃𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢. 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛.

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛.

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜.

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚗. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚝. 𝚅𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐.

“𝙰𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝,” 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢, 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚠. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜–𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎.

“𝙸𝚝𝚣𝚣 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢.” 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍.

“𝙰 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢?” 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚠 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚘𝚑’𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚑’𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

“𝙸’𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘,” 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍. 𝚅𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

“𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙,” 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍. 𝙻𝚘𝚠. 𝙼𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚜. 𝙳𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚞𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌.

𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙰 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝. 𝙰 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙽𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐.

𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐. 𝙰 𝚠𝚎𝚋 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕’𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚍, 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎.
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His demand must have surprised then terrified her. She obeyed him; she always did as she was told.


— Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts


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