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Day 9: Touch like a spark

The sun was setting below the horizon, painting the sky above the island in warm, pastel hues. The house smelled of tea and persimmons. The silence was not tense but peaceful, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the fireplace.

Jack sat on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa, while Tia settled between his legs, resting her head against his chest. His fingers slowly combed through her hair. In her hands was a long-forgotten book.

His other hand lay atop hers on her knee. He traced her knuckles with his thumb, then higher, along the long scar on her forearm. Each touch was a quiet, memorized confession.

He intertwined his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his face, pressing his lips to the place where the scar began.

And then it happened.

Where their fingers intertwined, a spark ran between them.

Not a metaphorical one. But a real, genuine electric spark. Tiny yet bright, a white flash. It was warm and slightly ticklish.

Tia flinched in surprise and let out a soft laugh.

Jack looked at his fingers.

"Whoa!" His voice was low, filled with genuine astonishment.

"Whoa," her eyes shone warmer than the fireplace. Sparks of amusement and tenderness danced in them.

A touch like a spark. Not as a harbinger of a storm, but as a confirmation of their connection. Like a little personal miracle, understood only by the two of them.

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #writing challenge #sparktember #Spotify

Day 8: "I didn't mean to burn it"

I'm in a terrible tilt due to work, so I'm late for now.

Now we, like Sarah Kerrigan, bear on our backs Wings without feathers, like heavy clusters, Bones unfit for flight.

She examines her wings. Pathetic. Mangy. Broken. They never healed. Two ugly reminders of her helplessness.

She runs her fingers over the bare bones where new feathers never grew. Every touch is a flash of pain and memory. The images of her tormentors' faces and her brother's dead body flash before her eyes.

And then there was nothing left. Only a bright flash of light, born from her inner power, incinerating everything and everyone within a radius of several dozen kilometers.

Her hand trembles. She thrusts it into a surviving part of the wing and clenches a handful of feathers in her fist until they break.

"I didn't want to..." she whispers to her reflection in the ocean's still surface.

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge #SoundCloud

pinthok

posters by me

ilovewillsolace

God left humanity only because of me.

I am guilty of the death of Christ and I am guilty of everything.

I'm to blame for Hiroshima and 9/11

I am guilty, as it happened, for the texture and chiaroscuro

Guilty for Babylon, guilty for Tiananmen

I'm guilty of the beer hall coup, I'm guilty of Carthage.

Guilty of everything in the world, but only to whom?

Day 7: Glint in the eye

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his palms pressed against the cold sink. The pressure on his fingers was real—it was an anchor point in a world that swayed and swam after another wave of panic. A deep breath. An exhale. The damp chill from a wet strand of hair on his forehead. Droplets of water on his eyelashes, distorting his vision.

"Mirrors reflect each other. Reflecting and mutually distorting the reflection."*

He dared to look up. In the mirror, he saw himself—pale, with sunken eyes. A familiar face. Exhausted. He almost smiled at himself, a bitter, tired survivor's smirk at the corner of his lips.

"But what if it's not like that?"

At first, he thought it was just a trick of the light, perhaps from a droplet of water rolling down the glass, but no. This was something inside.

"And the truth is, mirrors don't distort anything—they distort the reflection."

Deep within his own pupils, behind the veil of fatigue and fear, a glint flickered. It wasn't a distortion of the light in the room. It was something else. A cold, sharp gleam. Alien. Aware.

"What if I myself am the distortion, and have been long before the mirror?"

He froze, gripping the sink so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn't breathing. This wasn't his gaze—it was the gaze of the one watching from within. The one hiding in the corners of his mind, now making itself known with this tiny, soul-chilling signal.

"Is this wondrous or dreadful?"

That glint was proof. A physical manifestation of his inner enemy. It wasn't a metaphor. It was real. It was here.

"And there is a question, but only the shadows may know the answer..."

Slowly, with immense effort of will, Jack leaned closer to the mirror, peering into himself, trying to see the bottom of his own soul. And that glint grew brighter, clearer, more merciless. The white of his right eye began to fill with black, as if injected with ink.

"...Did I distort gradually, or was I born like this?"

There it was—the madness. It was staring back at him through his own eyes, and in their gleam, one thing was clear: "I am here. I am real."

"So much at stake, and I could lose everything, but I still don't understand—lose to whom?"

Jack stumbled back from the mirror, his back hitting the doorframe painfully. His eye returned to normal; the glint was gone. Now, the mirror showed only him—frightened, trembling, his heart pounding wildly.

"I believe not in the invincibility of evil, but in the inevitability of defeat."

*song by: pyrokinesis - я верю только в неизбежность зла

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge #pyrokinesis #Spotify

Day 6: Static before the storm

The air in the kitchen had frozen, so thick and heavy you could cut it with a knife.

Jack stood by the sink, gazing blankly out the window at the darkening sky. He didn't see the clouds or the first stars—only the vague reflection of the room and his own tense face. A ringing echoed in his ears—the aftermath of his own voice mixed with the hollow silence that had followed.

Tia sat at the table, hunched over a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Her hand lay motionless on the tabletop. They weren't looking at each other. Each was locked in their own shell of silence, yet the space between them crackled with everything left unsaid.

Everything was unbearably loud. From the ticking of the clock to Jack's own breathing—too loud and too nervous.

He felt goosebumps running down his forearms. The air was charged like before a storm. Every cell in his body needed a release. It waited for Tia to speak. Or for him to break and snap again.

He knew he should say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything to break this unbearable tension that had filled the room. But the words were stuck in his throat in a heavy, painful lump.

She was waiting too. Waiting to see how this lull would end. In a new storm or in a calm.

Jack made an almost imperceptible movement—shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The creak of the floorboard under his foot sounded like a gunshot. He felt Tia's gaze dart in his direction, caught her eyes in the window's reflection.

They both froze, listening to the ticking clock, waiting to see whose nerves would crack first and shatter the silence.

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge

Day 5: "You started this"

He was on his knees in the center of the room, though he didn't remember falling. The shadows around him thickened, living their own life, and each one was a part of him—a part of the darkness he had tried to suppress in himself for years. A white haze flashed before his eyes, his ears were ringing, and through this noise, a voice broke through. His own, yet so alien.

[You started this.]

The voice was loud, angry.

[Not me. You. Remember?] — the voice in his head was deafening. [The first lie. The first fear. The first thought that you were a monster because he said so. You started this. You created me.]

Jack clenched his temples, trying to rid himself of the obsessive voice. It didn't sound from the outside, but from within.

[You were so afraid, so desperate to lock me away. But nothing can just disappear. And you stifled your true nature for years. You fed me with your fear, your self-hatred, your pain. Every tear, every silent scream into the pillow. You gave it all to me. And I grew.]

His vision barely cleared, and one of the shadows shifted and took shape—vague outlines of a person, his mirror reflection, but distorted, run through a negative, stripped of everything human.

[I am your purest creation. The truth you refuse to accept. The power you fear. I am what you turned yourself into in your darkest fantasies. You started this. Because of you, we are here.]

Jack tried to say something, to protest, but only a hoarse rasp escaped his throat.

[You think you can fight me? How can you even fight a part of yourself? Accept me or disappear. Yield your place to me, so I can finish this.]

Shadow took a step forward, and Jack felt an icy cold pierce his chest.

[You started this] — the voice whispered, echoing right inside his head. [Now let me finish.]

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge

Tia looks out of the window of the house as Yuzu and Saya "unnoticeably" steal persimmons, photo in color

#writing

Back to the previous post

In fact, it would be like this:

Tia: "I'm cold." Jack: "Here, take my jacket." Yuzu: "I'm cold too." Saya: "Well, if you want, I could set you on fire?"

#writing

Day 4: Warm skin in cool night

The evening turned out to be surprisingly cool, and the asphalt, still wet from a recent rain, glistened under the dim streetlights like a black river. The air was full of dampness and pre-dawn silence.

They walked along the deserted street, coming down from the adrenaline (their goal had been to sneak onto Tia's island and steal persimmons).

Yuzuru walked first, stepping through puddles with the air of a victor, her hands shoved into the pockets of her bright red hoodie. But with every step, her posture became more closed off. Her shoulders rose slightly, trying to hide her neck, and her back arched in a barely noticeable curve against a gust of wind that cut to the bone.

"So, happy?" Saya tossed out lazily, walking behind her and watching her back with a mix of familiar half-contempt, half-tenderness. They could have just gone to the island anytime and taken the damn persimmons—after all, it was Saya's home too. But there was no arguing with Yuzu and her "stolen things taste better" logic.

"You bet!" Yuzu replied, but her voice sounded a pitch higher than usual, and her body began to shiver.

Saya silently quickened her pace, drawing even with her. Her gaze slid over Yuzu's face—over her earlobes, white from the cold, over the light blush on her cheeks.

"Shaking like a leaf," her voice held not a drop of sympathy. "Pathetic to watch."

"Well, don't look then!" Yuzu snorted but didn't deny the obvious.

In response, Saya just clicked her tongue. And then, without any warning, her hand—quick, precise—dove sharply into the pocket of Yuzu's hoodie.

Yuzuru flinched in surprise.

"Hey! What are you..."

Her protest got stuck in her throat. Inside the cramped pocket, her cold, almost numb fingers collided with Saya's warm palm.

A short pause followed.

"...And I thought you had cold tentacles instead of fingers," she finally quipped.

"Warm up quietly, before I change my mind," Saya cut her off.

They walked on, their steps falling in sync. At first, Yuzuru's fingers were cold as marble. But gradually, with every step, with every second of contact, the warmth from Saya's skin seeped into Yuzu.

Yuzuru suddenly moved her hand, intertwining their fingers more tightly.

In response, Saya just turned her head and looked at Yuzu's profile, illuminated by the orange streetlight.

"Alright," Yuzu said, looking straight ahead. "For today, you can consider yourself cooler than me. Not for long."

The corner of Saya's lips twitched in a self-satisfied smile.

"Thank you, your highness."

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge

Day 3: Smoke curling in the air

Jack is all jittery from constant stress. Tia knows this state all too well. She temporarily disappears from his field of vision and returns with a clearly long-packaged pack of cigarettes.

Jack looks at her in bewilderment when she offers him one.

"This will help."

He had never smoked in his life, so now he just dumbly shifted his gaze from Tia's face to the cigarette in her hand and back.

Tia sighed quietly and brought the cigarette to her mouth. Jack watched as green flame deftly sparked at her fingertips and she lit it with a precise motion. He never would have thought that Tia could have ordinary human vices. She took the first drag, exhaled the smoke somewhere in Jack's direction, and handed him the cigarette.

"Come on, trust me."

And he kept staring, mesmerized. This was a revelation for him, a reminder that Tia was, first and foremost, also just an ordinary person. He slowly reaches out; their fingers touch. The cigarette filter on his lips leaves a sweet taste. He takes a drag and immediately starts coughing. Smoke billows out of his lungs. Tia seems to laugh quietly and gently places a hand on his back.

"Easy, not so hard. They're pretty strong for a first time," Tia is still smiling. "Sorry, it reminded me that I coughed my first time too." This breaks the tension. Jack feels the whirlwind of thoughts in his head quiet down.

He tries to take another drag, not as deep this time. Inhale. Exhale. The smoke curls in the cool evening air, and he watches it, its strange, slow movements. It's hypnotic. It's meditation. This smoke is a visible embodiment of his inner pain, which he can finally release and watch as it dissolves.

"When I was 13, my guardian taught me to smoke to help cope with stress," Tia shrugged at Jack's look. "Sounds wild, but it helped." He didn't say anything in reply; after all, he wasn't in a position to judge her.

He didn't ask anything either. Tia closed her eyes for a moment. Someday, she might tell him more about her past. For now, they just stood and watched the smoke in silence.

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #writing challenge #sparktember

- You need therapy

- I already have therapy at home

Therapy at home:

Day 2: "Don't move"

It was an ordinary movie night. Tia was lazily sprawled on the living room couch, and Jack was sitting on the floor beside her.

The air in the room was the same. The same light was on, her tea was in the same spot. But something clicked. Switched. As if someone had swapped their reality for another one, identical but deadly dangerous.

Jack didn't change his position, didn't move a muscle. He just froze. His breath got stuck halfway to his lungs in his constricted throat. His fingers, resting on his knee, dug into the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He was far away from here. His pupils dilated, turning his amber-brown eyes into two black, unseeing holes. He was frozen like a statue of terror.

Tia felt it before she saw it. Not a movement, but its complete absence. That same icy wave of panic that radiated from him during his worst nightmares, but now without a single sound. She turned off the TV. Silence fell upon the room like a deafening, oppressive mass.

She didn't jump up abruptly. She didn't touch him—a sudden touch could be a trigger. Slowly, giving him a chance to track her movement, she slid off the couch onto the floor and placed her hand on his wrist. Not on his shoulder, not on his back, but on the spot where his pulse was hammering wildly against her fingers like a bird against the bars of a cage.

Her voice was quiet and calm.

"Jack, don't move."

A pause. She was letting the words reach him through the thickness of the nightmare.

"You're in the living room. With me."

Another pause. His breathing hadn't changed. He was still not here.

"It's evening. You're 23. You're at my house. On the island."

She spoke slowly, naming simple, undeniable facts, the building blocks of reality with which she was constructing a bridge back for him.

"Can you hear my voice? Concentrate on it."

He didn't answer. But under her fingers, the frantic pulse began to slow. Just by a fraction of a beat. He had heard her.

"Now breathe. With me. Inhale..." she took an exaggeratedly deep breath, "...exhale."

He tried. The exhale came out strained, ragged, more like a moan. But it was a sound. He was finally here.

"Again," her warm voice didn't falter. "Don't move. Just breathe. I'm here."

He obeyed. Because her voice was the very anchor that had pulled him from the depths before. Because "don't move" was not an order to be inactive, but permission not to fight, not to run, but to simply be. And to allow her to be with him in this.

Challenge by: @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #writing challenge #sparktember

Day 1: Strike of a match

Finally, she was the one who dared to approach him. Because otherwise, they would remain in this suspended state forever—just two ghosts in one house, locked in the endless rituals of the same "safe" actions for Jack. She pinned him against the wall, sudden and sharp, cutting off his escape. It must have looked ridiculous from the outside; she was barely taller than his shoulder. He flinched and stared at her.

"Are you even listening to me?" Her voice was quiet, but in the silence of the house, it sounded like a gunshot.

"Tia, I'm not..." he mumbled, shifting his gaze somewhere past her shoulder. His entire world had narrowed to the space where she held him captive.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion. A green, cold fire of long waiting. And he was simply paralyzed. He was going crazy from the scent of persimmons and the sea, which seemed to have seeped into his very skin and solidified in his lungs instead of oxygen. She let out a loud, almost ragged sigh. And with that sound, he heard the wall of the last boundaries between them crack at the seams.

And then he struck a match.

Sharp, desperate, he lunged forward in an attempt to grab the edge of the abyss. His lips found hers not in a kiss, but in a collision—an attempt to seize even a shred of initiative. It was painful, awkward, smelling of fear and sudden scorch—the kind that lingers after striking a matchhead.

It wasn't a flash, but a burn. Short, bright, and yet painful.

She didn't respond immediately, frozen in disbelief, and he already felt icy horror crawling down his spine. But then her fingers dug into his hair at his temples. It wasn't the gentlest gesture, but it was the only way she could hold him there.

They released each other just as suddenly. A tension hung in the air, making it impossible to breathe. He could see the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of her neck. He had counted that pulse every time his own world had crumbled.

She didn't smile. She didn't whisper something tender. But to the exhaustion in her gaze, a certainty was added, and a tiny glint of victory.

The match had burned out, scorching his fingers. It smelled of persimmons and antiseptic. The wall between them had finally crumbled to dust.

Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges

#writing #sparktember #writing challenge

— You’re not a trash! Tie hits the sink in front of the mirror. Every word echoes through the bathtub. Today she was reminded once again how insignificant she is, but she was tired of it. — You’re not a cold! One more hit, even stronger than previous. She finally thought it worked out, but Nye ruined it all again. She did not understand how he was tracking her. — You’re not a bitch! Hit. And also this stupid meeting. Tie looks at herself in the mirror and she wants to destroy this reflection. — You’re not ugly! She hits the glass for the first time, it rings. — You’re not disgusting! The scream gets louder and the hits get stronger. There is a dent on the glass. — You’re not a mistake! Small particles of glass bite into her fist, causing it to bleed. — You’re not dirty! You’re not spoiled! You’re not a monster! She takes a short break, and then hits the glass with all her might. Perhaps she never screamed so loudly. — You’re deserve to be loved! The glass shatters and the fragments hurt her skin, but Tie doesn't care. She slowly rolls to her knees, sobbing.

#writing #oc

Errors in general and Nye in particular

Thanks to the best bro for motivation (even though you did it unconsciously).

It’s time to talk about concept and characters, yeah. Although today I will pay attention to the most unprocessed of them.

A brief digression: once upon a time there was a boy of fourteen years old and he wanted characters with angel wings. But he not only had given up on the wings, and he'd given the race the stupid name "Errors," and by the time he was twenty, he hadn't come up with anything better. So, in addition to the wings, Errors each have their own curse (there are only a few types, but more on that later). Accordingly, when they are severely or mortally wounded, the curse consumes them (who understood thay understood, who did not understand they will understand). However, even after the resurrection, the curse does not immediately go away, it torments the wearer for another couple of days (depending on the circumstances), while the body slowly recovers. Errors are born rarely from ordinary people, parents see the wings from birth, even though they are like in a hidden state. By the age of 3-4, Errors awaken their first powers, including their wings, and they can no longer keep them hidden, so for the next few years everyone can see their wings until they learn to control them. We continue to develop my insanity, Errors are immortal. You can kill them only by pulling out their wings, all other methods of killing lead only to rebirth. By the way, the Error itself can not pull out the wings, either, they will grow back in this case. It seems that all the most important things are indicated.

Let's go back to the one I originally wanted to write about. Nye. Initially, he was envisioned as a completely neutral character, but quickly enough something went wrong, and he became an asshole, which probably difficult to find. But a recent conversation with bro made me think about him. I really wanted to write something, and I asked her if she wanted to see something from the life of a certain character. She also said that she wanted Nye and Jack(another Error) to meet for the first time, and I was a little upset. It was in my mind in general terms, but I never thought about this moment in detail, however, as well as about Nye. Among all my characters, he is the only one who does not have a prototype from real life. Somehow, he just happens to exist on its own. Among other things, somehow it turned out that he was fucking special. In theory, the first Error appeared due to a freaking major failure in genetics, according to the theory, all the genes there should have been recessive (I'm not a biologist, so I don't quite understand what I'm saying, I warn you right away). Nye, in turn, was born an albino, which is also a fucking glitch in genetics, and with it came a new curse that no one had before. Nye is currently the only carrier of it (and probably the only one, I don't think that he wants to have a child). So, when I thought about him, I tried to put aside all my negative attitude towards him, and realized that in fact he is very strong, and it is quite possible that he was so twisted because of life. He had to deal with all this shit himself (Errpr’s powers, I mean). And even when he was able to find some information, he still had his curse, which no one had ever seen before. And I will remind you that he is an albino, so he periodically got severe sunburn. I also remind you that the curse begins to work when the wearer is seriously injured. His curse is carnivorous butterflies (yes, what will you do to me). They eat away at the place where the wound is, which is accompanied by hellish pain and not the most pleasant sight, in the case of death, the butterflies eat him completely, while he remains conscious for as long as possible (when I imagine what pain he is experiencing, I already wince). And to avoid suffering, he was able to subdue his own curse, which also happened for the first time in the history of Errors.

Nye has learned to spray his body on butterflies and thus travel long distances in a very short time, he has to wear a black cloak so that the sun can not burn him, and in case of which people do not see his rotten, butterfly-eaten flesh. Also, since some butterflies are extremely good at mimicry, he has learned to use them to turn into any person, which is also a great achievement. Let's go back almost to the beginning of the post, where I mentioned Jack. Nye took him away from his family around the age of 7 to take care of him, so that he would not face the same difficulties as Nye himself. Only Jack's family was good, they loved their son, even too much, perhaps even considered it a blessing that their son was an "angel". But Nye took him anyway. My main character, has a theory that maybe Jack's parents were part of a cult that hunted her once (ugh, in short, Error’s feathers are important shit and that very sect catches them as children until they can't control their wings), or at least were going to give it to them, and all their love is ostentatious, so that Jack does not master the ability to hide his wings for as long as possible. Given that I still haven't refuted this theory, it's possible that this is true, and Nye actually saved him (let's skip the point that after a dozen years, he began to treat him). I'm all for what, maybe Nye is just broken, like almost all of my characters. Yes, compared to someone else (I'm talking about the main OC, yes, her name is Tie), his suffering and pain are not so large-scale, but we all have a different psyche, none of us consists of iron or something harder. In addition, in the end, after almost a decade from the main events, Nye still comes to his senses and realizes that he behaved like an asshole.

Up to this point, I have not had any sketches with Nye, except for some very short snatches from the plot, because it is very difficult. It is extremely difficult for me to think like Nye from events of present, he is extremely adept at mixing lies with the truth, so that in the end you involuntarily begin to believe him.

"You know, I almost feel sorry for her. She has everything and nothing — no friends, no homeland, no family… She is a proud person, she never gives up, but her very contempt for death speaks volumes. She has nothing to lose, and she wants nothing but her own death, and she won't get it. Tie is smart enough to understand this and more… She hates us, fights with us, but even so, she understands that the truth is on our side. By blood, she is a person, but by birth she is tied to Errors and **. ***, Yuzuru, and even ****** can be forgiven and accepted. Tie — no, because the hatred of the traitor and betrayal is stronger than the arguments of reason… She knows how to show that she does not care, but she is a living being. She proved to everyone that she was ready to be the best, but it wouldn't change anything… She will live her life with the stamp, so she does not fall in love. Whatever she is, she is afraid that her children will turn out to be Error and live the same life. That they'll live in hell... "The good has sharp fangs" ... that's what Tie once said. Her drinking with *******, her friendship with demons, her lack of fear… God, everyone is afraid, even me, but Tie is not… She seeks her own death, and finds someone else's, " Nye said softly.

I'm sorry, some of the words are censored (?), because I'm not ready to talk about someone’s names yet. Let's go back to the other one. Will you be able to figure out where the lies are and where the truth is, without knowing anything about Tie?

While the real Nye is hard for me, I have a good understanding of the Nye of the future and, as it turned out, of the past. And all this demagoguery I spread only for the sake of the second.

When the curse first consumed me, I didn't immediately understand what was happening. Gradually, the white butterflies of “death" were killing me. I knew I was turning into food for them, but I couldn't help it. I just lay there helplessly, watching as they gradually absorbed my flesh and reached my bones. Everything happened very slowly, and I was conscious until they got to my heart.

But even after the rebirth, they have not disappeared. I didn't want to go through that excruciating pain again, I didn't want to be [eaten] again.

I tried not to get hurt, but it's very difficult, so I started wearing a black raincoat in all weathers to keep the burns to a minimum. That's something.

But in battle, it is more difficult to avoid a blow or even death. In one of these I do not know how, but just for a couple of seconds, I turned into a flock of butterflies, with the help of which I was able to avoid a blow. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but it struck me. And ever since, I've been haunted by the thought that it's Me who can control my curse, not it.

With small steps, I began to master it, first scattering the individual parts of the body, getting used to the sensations and control over each of the butterflies. Then it was more difficult, it was necessary to learn not only to scatter the whole body, but also to spend as much time as necessary in this state. It's very energy-intensive, but I'm sure it will pay off for me.

Maybe with this ability, I can become something special, something more…

#writing #original character

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