If you’re new to the community, introduce yourself, please! Ok i will start: I am lulloluwuowo but you can call me lul, im 20 years old and one of my friends with me made this reddit as we found tge arg of thecountryofnext very cool. My friend FalconEasy (call him Falcon) brought me to the idea of the arg reddit as i showed him the arg i found, he's new to arg's. He's 20 years old as me, we go to school together. Ok that's it. You can write anything you like to share about you like: You Favorite Color, Your Favorite Shape, Your Sex (what you are: Male,Female ir anything else), Your orientation (Straight, Gay or anything else(Furry is in orientation and Sex).

Was contemplating Rivian’s future as my R1S is in service (nothing major). Managed to get a Mustang MachE and have been driving that for a few days. Current owner of a Model 3 as well. For reference, been driving EVs since 2014 including BMW i3, Leaf, e-Golf, Fiat 500e, Model 3 and now R1S and the MachE as of a few days ago. Have also driven the Model Y and Model S but not extensively.
Thoughts on R1S: Nothing else like it out there. Utility, style, range, storage, comfort and quality.
Thoughts on R2’s competition. Let’s take the Model Y & MachE as they seem somewhat similarly sized/priced.
The MachE, I’m truly sorry if you have one. Sure this is subjective but it’s my post so I get to be subjective, the MachE is like you didn’t know where to park your money and you decided that burning it was better, that you needed to be miserable but pretend to be happy. Drive is comfortable but it “drives” like poop (lots of understeer), acceleration is lacking, UI/Controls all feel dated, even with Apple Car play (feel free to hate on this post if you like Car play). I understand some of the conveniences it brings but it cluttered the UX for me so meh. What’s the deal with the stupid startup/shutdown music and why do I have a “start” button again? Still better than the 500e ignition switch with key for an electrical vehicle but that was clearly a compliance car, the MachE is not. The interior door handle is cute but also silly. Interior overall feels cheap. The rear hatch cover is flimsy as heck. The software is so unpolished and that volume button in the screen looks kinda cool but limits what you can do, software wise) and the novelty wears off quickly. I could go on, but this car just isn’t for me. Every drive I find myself calling it names. Unpleasant ones.
The Model Y, assuming no build quality problems and feelings aside of the man in charge, it’s a decent car. Good performance, good tech, reasonably smooth ride, doesn’t understeer and just drives reasonably well. Good storage. A bit lacking/barren on the interior. Overall reasonable package for a good price if you like an egg-shaped vehicle on wheels. The Model Y and Model X both do nothing to inspire on the outside, for me, and to each their own.
If this is Rivian’s competition for the R2/R3S, Rivian will eat this market alive IMO. Yes I’m aware there are other vehicles/contenders out there like the Volvo, perhaps one day Lucid’s SUV etc.. but I don’t have experience with them or they’re not out yet so I can’t comment on those.

You're going to begin your submission for the contest when you see tomorrow's post, right? Because these are a few important considerations to be making as you start the process tomorrow! Good luck!
We continue to post tools for this even once it begins. Your entery is due by 11:59pm on January 31st! No later than that will be acceptable!

1. Protagonist's Identity:

• Who is the protagonist, [Protagonist], and what makes them uniquely suited for an unconventional response to adversity?
  
• What are [Protagonist]'s defining traits, both apparent and hidden?
  

1. Adversarial Force:

• Who or what is the antagonist, [Antagonist], and how do their challenges defy conventional expectations?
  
• What motivates [Antagonist] to confront [Protagonist] in such unorthodox ways?
  

1. Fictional Location:

• Describe the fantastical realm of [Fictional Location]. What are its unique features and challenges?
  
• How does the setting of [Fictional Location] contribute to the unfolding of the story?
  

1. Temporal Setting:

• In what era is the story set? How does this era differ from conventional timelines?
  
• How do the unconventional aspects of the era impact both the story and the characters?
  

1. Inner Dialogue:

• Does [Protagonist] have an inner self or conscience that plays a significant role in their decision-making?
  
• How does this inner dialogue manifest, and what role does it play in [Protagonist]'s responses to adversity?
  

1. Love Story Arc:

• Who is [Protagonist]'s love interest, and what draws them to each other?
  
• How does the love story arc intertwine with the main plot, and what challenges do they face?
  

1. Conflict Resolution:

• How does [Protagonist] ultimately resolve the conflicts with [Antagonist]?
  
• What compromises or unexpected resolutions contribute to the story's conclusion?
  

1. Character Development:

• How does [Protagonist] evolve throughout the narrative, both emotionally and in terms of their abilities?
  
• In what ways do the challenges shape [Protagonist]'s character development?
  

1. Symbolic Elements:

• Are there symbolic elements in the story, such as recurring motifs, objects, or themes?
  
• How do these symbolic elements add depth to the narrative and characters?
  

1. Moral Dilemmas:

- What moral dilemmas does [Protagonist] face, and how do their unconventional choices influence the story's ethical landscape? - In what ways do these dilemmas contribute to the overall theme of the narrative? 

1. Unconventional Choices:

- Provide examples of [Protagonist]'s unconventional responses to adversity. - How do these choices set the tone for the story and distinguish [Protagonist] from conventional protagonists? 

1. Motivations and Goals:

- What drives [Protagonist] to confront [Antagonist], and what are their ultimate goals? - How do these motivations influence [Protagonist]'s decisions and actions throughout the story? 

1. Twists and Surprises:

- Are there unexpected twists or surprises in the plot that challenge both characters and readers? - How do these elements contribute to the overall narrative structure? 

1. Cultural Influences:

- Are there cultural elements within [Fictional Location] that influence the characters' perspectives and actions? - How does cultural diversity enhance the richness of the story? 

1. Relationship Dynamics:

- Describe the relationships between [Protagonist] and other key characters. - How do these dynamics contribute to the overall story and character interactions? 

1. Historical Context:

- How does the era's unconventional nature impact historical elements within the story? - Are there historical events or changes unique to this timeline that influence the characters' lives? 

1. Foreshadowing:

- Are there instances of foreshadowing in the narrative, hinting at future events or revelations? - How do these subtle clues contribute to the story's overall suspense and intrigue? 

1. Parallel Narratives:

- Does the story explore parallel narratives or subplots? If so, how do they intersect with the main plot? - What purpose do these parallel narratives serve in enhancing the overall storytelling experience? 

1. Narrative Tone:

- Describe the tone of the story—Is it whimsical, poetic, dark, or a blend of various tones? - How does the narrative tone align with [Protagonist]'s character and the overall atmosphere of the tale? 

1. Open-Ended Possibilities:

- Does the resolution of the story leave room for open-ended possibilities or hints at potential future developments? - How might the events of this short story set the stage for a longer, novel-length exploration of [Protagonist]'s journey? 

These questions aim to guide you in fleshing out the intricacies of the story and characters, allowing for a more detailed and nuanced narrative.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

This song is the song where I have the most issue with when it comes to the fans' interpretation of it. Their biggest argument for this is the football references, but they fail to consider that the football metaphors were just a way for Taylor Swift to draw parallels between the (American) football world and her situation.
In this analysis, I'll be doing a line-by-line breakdown of why this is not a Travis Kelce song, but is instead a song that she wrote where she is directly addressing her fans, much like how "But Daddy I Love Him", and "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me" were written.
Here it goes. Please bear with me!
This happens once every few lifetimes

• Suggests a rare and significant event. Taylor's comeback after a major public backlash (Kim Kardashian's Snakegate incident) and hiatus was a unique moment in her career, and in anyone's public career, really.

These chemicals hit me like white wine

• The "chemicals" symbolize the rush of emotions and excitement, akin to the thrill she feels from reconnecting with her fans by organising the Eras Tour.
• "White wine" can imply a pleasant, intoxicating experience, like the support she gets from her fans (look up her sales and streaming charts).

What if I told you I'm back?

• The "you" here directly addresses her fans, announcing her return to the public eye after a period of "absence".
• IMO this line is not at all a shade to Joe, but directly references the line "but I come back stronger than a 90s trend" in willow.

The hospital was a drag / Worst sleep that I ever had

• This song is a direct reference to epiphany, and, on a bigger picture, the pandemic. We must remember that her plans ("Loverfest") were all cancelled thanks to Covid.
• The line also metaphorically refers to her time in "hiding" or dealing with the aftermath of the public fallout, which was a difficult and restless period.

I circled you on a map

• This is the easiest line - she always plans her tour ahead and would choose the locations that she would be performing at.
• This symbolises her plan to reconnect with her fans, targeting them, in each location, specifically as her focus upon her return to touring.

I haven't come around in so long / But I'm coming back so strong

• This line once again emphasises her "hiatus" and assures her fans of her strong comeback.

So when I touch down / Call the amateurs and / Cut 'em from the team / Ditch the clowns, get the crown / Baby I'm the one to beat

• "Touch down" signifies her reentry into the music industry. "Call the amateurs and cut 'em from the team" represents reclaiming her position, emphasizing that she is the top artist and dismissing those who doubted her or tried to take her place.
• "Baby I'm the one to beat" represents her thoughts that she's the one "ahead of the curve" (this is me trying). Now, couple that with her AOTY award for her albums "folklore" and "Midnights", despite the strong competition she had (SZA, Harry Styles, Dua Lipa) - no, folks, Taylor Swift is the one to beat.

Cause the sign on your heart / Said it's still reserved for me

• Indicates the unwavering loyalty of her fans who kept a place for her in their hearts despite her absence and the controversies surrounding her (in general)
• .

Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?

• "Alchemy" symbolizes the magical, transformative bond.
• Taylor thinks that the bond between her and her fans is a magical one, one that withstands challenges and changes.
• The Alchemy is what makes her bejeweled.

Hey you, what if I told you we're cool? / That child's play back in school / Is forgiven under my rule

• Now, this line is where she addresses her fans directly. In this line, she is suggesting that she forgave all that drama ("child's play") back during the snakegate. (disclaimer: we know she forgives, she forgets, but she never let's it go -- so let's move on from this one lol)
• But basically, between her and the general fans, she's saying that she's 'moved past' what she thought was her fans' reaction to the the public feuds and media drama.

Now, let's move on to the bridge!
Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads / Beer sticking to the floor / Cheers chanted, cause they said

• This is where she uses the football metaphor to describe the celebratory atmosphere of her concerts, the unity, and the joy her fans experience together.

There was no chance, trying to be / The greatest in the league / Where's the trophy? / He just comes running over to me

• This line! Basically reflects on how she defied the odds and criticism to become the "greatest" with the support of her fans, symbolizing victory and recognition.
• By all means she is currently "the greatest".
  • She is, afterall, the first person in Grammy history to win album of the year four times.
  • Her name is definitely up there as one the greatest of all time, according to Billboard.
  • There's more but I mean, it's like repeating the same points basically.

These blokes warm the benches / We been on a winning streak

• In this line, she is trying to say that everyone else are just warming the benches, while she's the one who's been out there on a winning streak with folklore, midnights, and the eras tour.
• Her usage of "we" here indicates not only "her", but everyone involved, including her fans. This reinforces the alchemy that she has with her fans, and that all of this is a mutual success, i.e. she would not be here without the support of her fans.

He jokes that it's heroin but this time with an "E" / Cause the sign on your heart said it's still reserved for me

• This line is a controversial line, because of her usage of the word "he". Now, who is "he"? Is it Travis Kelce? Or could it be Matty Healy, considering his history with the pills? In this song, this actually does not matter. Why?
  • The point of this line is to symbolise the feeling she feels when she's performing, bejeweled, in glittery skirts, and the feeling insider of her when her fans giving her a standing ovation. To her, this feeling is euphoric. It's like taking heroin.
  • Because she is a female artist, she feels like a heroine in her show. Everyone pays attention to her, and only her. As with all heroines in movies (specifically, those movies with no heroes).
  • Combining both together, "Heroin with an 'E'" signifies as a powerful, euphoric connection (her and her fans) that's not destructive (unlike Heroin), but rather, a positive, euphoric, and uplifting feeling.
• Again, the "sign on your heart" symbolizes fans' loyalty.

and finally, this line....

• Where's the trophy? He just comes running over to me.
  • Before I do a deep dive on this, let's establish the definition of the "trophy". The "trophy" symbolizes ultimate success, victory, or recognition in a competitive field.
  • This line is a rhetorical question. There is no actual "trophy". Taylor Swift is the trophy.
  • Any dudes dating her should recognise that. That she's the trophy.

Addressing the (American) football references in this song:

As mentioned before, the football references in this song are simply metaphors to help illustrate the themes of competition, triumph, and teamwork.

• "So when I touch down"
  
  • While "Touchdown" is a direct reference to scoring in American football, it also, in a literal sense, means refers to when she has landed in her private jet. At this point, we all already know about her and her private jet "news" - I do not need to elaborate on this.
  • "Touching down" symbolizes a notable return after her hiatus and public controversies, Taylor Swift’s "touch down" represents her re-emergence into the public eye with a strong, confident, and elevated status.
  • In the context of the song, it symbolizes Taylor's return to the public eye and re-establishing her position in the music industry.
• "Call the amateurs and / Cut 'em from the team"
  
  • This phrase uses the concept of a sports team to signify separating the less dedicated or less talented (the "amateurs") from the main group. It implies that only the best and most loyal (fans) shall remain, akin to a team selection process in sports.
• "Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads / Beer sticking to the floor / Cheers chanted, cause they said"
  
  • This imagery is reminiscent of celebratory scenes in sports, particularly football games where fans celebrate their team's victories with loud cheers, lifting people in celebration, and the chaotic but joyful atmosphere, very much like the Eras tour.
• "There was no chance, trying to be / The greatest in the league / Where's the trophy?"
  
  • Directly references sports league competition and winning a trophy, which signifies achieving the highest honor or success. And who is she? The Billboard Woman of the Decade. The first person in history to win the AOTY 4 times. One with one of the highest grossing tour of all time. Yes by all accounts she's the music industry.

TLDR: If you switched the "you" in this song to reference "the fans", this song will make complete sense. Now, try giving this song a listen, and think of "you" as "yourself" (the fans).
Taylor Swift's song "The Alchemy," is basically a powerful ode to her fans, chronicling her journey through public scrutiny and her triumphant return to the music industry. It draws parallels to her tumultuous period following the "snake gate" incident with Kim Kardashian and her subsequent hiatus before the release of "Reputation," the lyrics reflect a narrative of resilience, redemption, and the unwavering bond between Swift and her fans.
Once you are able to interpret "you" as "the fans", you'll be able to see, without having to do too much mental gymnastics, that the song is about the transformative and enduring connection Swift shares with her loyal supporters.
If you've made it this far, thank you for reading. Sorry for any typos or grammatical errors - but I hope I helped you made sense of the song!

**Prompt 15:
Layogenic (Tagalog) - Appearing More Attractive from a Distance**

1. Immerse your character in a moment when they are perceived as layogenic, appearing more attractive from a distance. Explore the external factors, such as physical appearance or demeanor, that contribute to this distant allure.
   
2. Delve into your character's internal reactions to being layogenic, considering how it impacts their self-esteem, self-image, and the dynamics of their relationships.
   
3. Explore the expectations and assumptions that others may have when encountering your character from afar. How do these external perceptions shape their interactions and connections with others?
   
4. Reflect on how your character becomes aware of their layogenic appeal. Does it happen gradually over time, or is there a specific moment when they realize the impact of their distant allure?
   
5. Consider the moments when your character grapples with the dissonance between their distant allure and close-up reality. How does this internal conflict influence their authenticity and sense of self?
   
6. Delve into your character's relationships, both romantic and platonic, and explore how the layogenic effect impacts the dynamics of connection and intimacy.
   
7. Reflect on societal or cultural standards of beauty that contribute to the layogenic effect. How does your character navigate these expectations, and do they conform to or challenge prevailing norms?
   
8. Explore whether your character embraces or resents their layogenic allure. How does it become a source of empowerment or vulnerability in different aspects of their life?
   
9. Consider how layogenic encounters shape your character's personal growth and development, exploring whether it becomes a recurring theme or a transformative element in their journey.
   
10. Envision a key moment where the layogenic effect becomes a focal point, driving your character's actions, influencing their relationships, or contributing to a significant turning point in their narrative.
    

**Prompt 16:
Yūgen (Japanese) - Profound Awareness of the Universe's Enigmatic Depths**

1. Immerse your character in a moment of yūgen, experiencing a profound awareness of the universe's enigmatic depths. Explore the setting, emotions, and contemplations that accompany this deep spiritual connection.
   
2. Delve into your character's understanding of yūgen and how it shapes their perception of the mysteries and beauty hidden within the universe. What philosophical or spiritual beliefs contribute to their sense of awe?
   
3. Explore the impact of yūgen on your character's daily life. How does this profound awareness influence their interactions, decisions, and overall mindset?
   
4. Reflect on the specific elements in nature or the cosmos that evoke yūgen for your character. Are there recurring symbols or phenomena that deepen their connection to the enigmatic depths?
   
5. Consider moments of solitude or introspection where yūgen becomes particularly pronounced. How does your character navigate the vastness of the universe within their own consciousness?
   
6. Delve into the relationships in your character's life that amplify their experience of yūgen. Are there individuals who share this spiritual connection, and how does it shape their connections?
   
7. Explore the ways in which cultural or religious beliefs influence your character's interpretation of yūgen. How do these external factors contribute to the richness and complexity of their experience?
   
8. Reflect on whether yūgen becomes a source of solace or existential contemplation for your character. How do they find meaning and purpose in the face of the universe's vast mysteries?
   
9. Consider how yūgen intersects with your character's personal growth and development. Does it become a guiding force, leading them toward deeper self-discovery and understanding?
   
10. Envision a pivotal scene where yūgen takes center stage, influencing your character's actions, relationships, or contributing to a significant turning point in their narrative.
    

**Prompt 11:
Déjà-rêvé (French) - Dreams Intertwined with Reality**

1. Describe a moment when your character experienced déjà-rêvé, where dreams intertwined with reality, and explore the emotions and sensations that accompanied this surreal blending of realms.
   
2. Delve into the specifics of your character's dreams that often overlap with reality, considering whether certain themes, people, or scenarios consistently resurface.
   
3. How does the recurring déjà-rêvé experience impact your character's perception of both their dreams and waking life, blurring the boundaries between the two?
   
4. Explore whether your character actively seeks out or avoids situations that may trigger déjà-rêvé, and how these choices shape their relationship with the intertwined realms.
   
5. Reflect on the emotional resonance of déjà-rêvé, considering whether it adds an element of wonder and magic to your character's life or if it introduces a layer of complexity and uncertainty.
   
6. Can your character distinguish between a genuine memory and a dream that has come to life through déjà-rêvé, and how does this ambiguity influence their understanding of their own experiences?
   
7. How do others in your character's life react to or perceive these moments of déjà-rêvé, and does it impact their relationships or interactions with your character?
   
8. Explore whether there are specific triggers or patterns that precede déjà-rêvé experiences, and whether your character attempts to control or understand these occurrences.
   
9. Consider how cultural or societal beliefs influence your character's interpretation of déjà-rêvé, and whether they attribute spiritual or symbolic meanings to these intertwined dreams and reality.
   
10. Envision a key scene where déjà-rêvé becomes a central element, shaping your character's decisions, relationships, or contributing to a significant turning point in their narrative.
    

**Prompt 12
: Ephemeralité (French) - Embracing the Transient Beauty of Life**

1. Describe a moment in your character's life when they embraced ephemeralité, appreciating the transient beauty of life, and explore the emotions that accompanied this awareness of impermanence.
   
2. Delve into the specific experiences or phenomena that evoke ephemeralité for your character, considering whether it's tied to nature, relationships, or personal achievements.
   
3. How does the recognition of life's transient nature influence your character's mindset and decision-making, especially in moments of joy, sadness, or uncertainty?
   
4. Explore your character's relationship with time, considering whether they savor the present moment or if there's a constant awareness of the fleeting nature of life.
   
5. Reflect on how ephemeralité impacts your character's relationships, both in terms of appreciating the time spent with loved ones and navigating the complexities of impermanence.
   
6. Can your character find solace or inspiration in the fleeting beauty of life, turning ephemeralité into a source of resilience or motivation for living authentically?
   
7. Consider whether your character actively seeks out or avoids situations that intensify the awareness of life's impermanence, and how these choices shape their experiences.
   
8. Explore the contrast between ephemeralité and more enduring aspects of your character's life, such as long-term goals, aspirations, or their legacy.
   
9. Reflect on cultural or philosophical perspectives that may shape your character's understanding of ephemeralité, and whether they find comfort or conflict in these influences.
   
10. Envision a pivotal scene where ephemeralité becomes a central theme, influencing your character's decisions, relationships, or contributing to a significant turning point in their narrative.
    

**Prompt 5:
Komorebi (Japanese) - Light Filtering Through Leaves**

1. Describe a moment in your character's life when they experienced komorebi, with sunlight gently filtering through leaves, and explore the emotions stirred by this natural spectacle.
   
2. How does the presence of komorebi impact your character's mood, and does it evoke specific memories or associations tied to this ethereal play of light and nature?
   
3. Delve into the symbolic significance of komorebi in your character's life, considering whether it represents moments of clarity, inspiration, or a connection to the cycles of life.
   
4. Explore your character's favorite settings where komorebi is particularly enchanting for them, and how these spaces contribute to the emotional resonance of the phenomenon.
   
5. Reflect on the contrasts between the ephemeral beauty of komorebi and the more enduring aspects of your character's life, such as relationships, aspirations, or personal growth.
   
6. Can your character find solace or inspiration in the presence of komorebi during challenging times, and how does this natural phenomenon become a source of resilience?
   
7. Consider how komorebi intersects with your character's cultural or spiritual beliefs, and whether they attribute any symbolic meaning or rituals to this play of light.
   
8. Explore the impact of komorebi on your character's creativity and thought processes, examining whether it serves as a catalyst for reflection, introspection, or artistic expression.
   
9. How does the changing seasons influence the experience of komorebi for your character, and do they associate different emotions with this phenomenon during different times of the year?
   
10. Envision a pivotal scene where komorebi becomes a central element, shaping your character's decisions, relationships, or contributing to a significant turning point in their narrative.
    

**Prompt 6
: Torschlusspanik (German) - Fear of Diminishing Opportunities**

1. Explore moments in your character's life where they have grappled with torschlusspanik, the fear of diminishing opportunities, and delve into the emotions that accompany this anxiety.
   
2. Reflect on the pivotal life events or milestones that contribute to your character's sense of diminishing opportunities, and how these experiences shape their perception of time.
   
3. How does torschlusspanik influence your character's decision-making, especially in situations where time-sensitive choices could impact their future opportunities?
   
4. Delve into your character's aspirations and whether they feel a sense of urgency to achieve certain goals before the window of opportunity closes, leading to heightened tension.
   
5. Explore the impact of societal or cultural expectations on your character's experience of torschlusspanik, and whether external pressures contribute to their fear of missed chances.
   
6. Can your character find moments of empowerment or liberation within the fear of diminishing opportunities, turning this anxiety into a driving force for positive change?
   
7. Reflect on your character's relationships and how torschlusspanik may influence their approach to personal connections, whether in friendships, family, or romantic entanglements.
   
8. How does the fear of diminishing opportunities affect your character's perspective on aging, and are there specific milestones or birthdays that intensify this existential anxiety?
   
9. Consider whether your character experiences torschlusspanik as a recurring theme throughout their life, or if it becomes more pronounced during specific phases or transitions.
   
10. Envision a crucial scene where torschlusspanik becomes a central focus, driving your character's actions, influencing their relationships, or shaping the overall trajectory of their narrative.
    

In the heart of Chicago, where the skyline pierced the heavens and the streets pulsed with life, there lived a man named Victor Kane. At 26 years old and a startling 6'3" in stature, Victor commanded attention effortlessly. His piercing gaze seemed to see through the very fabric of one's soul, and his knowing, flirtatious smirk hinted at secrets that few could ever fathom. Victor was a man of many faces, each one carefully crafted and expertly worn to blend into any situation, like a chameleon adapting to its surroundings. Each interaction with another human was as if it were another painting to be hung in the Art Institute of Chicago, a masterpiece of social maneuvering and charm.
To most, he appeared unremarkable, perhaps even a bit dim, an illusion he maintained with meticulous precision. Yet beneath this facade lay a mind as sharp as a dagger, honed by years of strategic thinking, manipulation, and the art of emotional deceit. Victor had learned from the best. His father, a man deeply entrenched in the shadowy world of organized crime, had mastered the art of bending reality to his will. A master chess player, he treated people like pieces on a grand chessboard, moving them at his whim, always six steps ahead. Victor had absorbed these lessons like a sponge, his young mind eagerly soaking up every tactic, every subtle nuance of control.
Battles with his father have left their scars, trailing off Victor like a snake's entrails as they slither through crowded streets, scanning for their next meal. They probe the aura of each passerby, tasting their energy, yet to their disappointment, they find no juicy, dirt-filled sponge of pain and suffering. They taste desires, yet nothing hits just right. Empty husks, devoid of the essence they crave. Living memories enshroud him in a cloud of black smoke, a spectral fog visible only to a witch. A demon, masquerading as a homeless man and muttering incoherent whispers, feels the snake's embrace tighten around him. He halts abruptly, turning to Victor with a knowing gaze. 'I see you,' he murmurs, 'Such discipline and composure may deceive the others, yet it's only a matter of time before they find you.' The homeless man continues his walk, pulling a black suitcase along, his tattered white shirt contrasting sharply with his black suit, and no tie to complete the ensemble.
Victor makes no comment, his mind a labyrinth of dark intentions and calculated moves. He viewed the world as a malleable entity, something he could shape and twist to suit his needs. The streets, the people, the very air he breathed; they were all part of a grand, intricate game where he alone held the key. He had no qualms about using others to achieve his goals, seeing them as mere tools in his grand design. It was a dangerous philosophy, one which required constant vigilance and adaptability. As he moved through the throngs of oblivious souls, he could almost hear the whispers of their deepest fears and hidden sins. The scars trailed behind him, living entities of their own, reaching out hungrily, desperate for a morsel of genuine suffering. Yet the city, with all its noise and chaos, offered little more than hollow echoes and fleeting shadows. Traces of happiness. Lost children in the never ending void of their own desperation. Victor's eyes flickered with a cold, calculating light. He was a master of this urban jungle, a predator in search of worthy prey. The demon’s warning lingered in his mind, yet it only fueled a burning hunger. He thrived in the shadows, where power and control were his for the taking. Each step he took was a step closer to his ultimate end goal, a twisted vision of dominance, only he could see.
In the distance, the city’s lights shimmered like false promises, yet Victor knew better. Beneath the surface, in hidden corners and forgotten alleys, darkness mirrored his own. In this abyss, he felt certain he would find what he sought: the true essence of his own hunger, the raw, unfiltered energy he could devour. Victor thrived on the underestimation of others, reveling when people perceived him as lesser. Such perceptions made his manipulations appear as innocent mistakes, acts of ignorance and oblivion. His favorite targets: those with inflated egos, individuals convinced of their invincibility.
"A person with a big ego is like an orgasm," he often mused, speaking as if to his shadow. "It's just so easy. Their first mistake: telling me we're not equals. Afterward, they reveal all the buttons and levers in their psyche. They hand me their own weapon on a silver platter, asking, 'Victor, please send me to meet Anpu. Please show me the gates of my own demise.' Their insanity begs to be freed from this curse of societal norms. Always the first mistake, then the rest follow." Laughter echoed from the snakes twining around Victor. As he whispered these musings, the words ensnared a group of Venezuelans nearby, inciting them into a frenzy of violence without understanding the spark. Victor watched, casually tossing a silver dollar their way as if to say, "Welcome to the sanctuary," his smirk a shadow under the flickering streetlights. He calls to the boys, 'there now before you boys get into trouble remember this, you're only seeing the lions teeth, yet you haven't seen what triggered it.' They stared at Victor, startled, as he bid them farewell with a two-finger salute from his left temple and continued wandering down the street.
A drone sliced through the air, its camera lens capturing the serpentine twists of the Chicago River below. Victor, watching its flight, was transported to his youth, to days spent cobbling together a demonic owl from discarded household trinkets and an owl decoy. He would pilot this macabre creation through his neighborhood, a spectral puppeteer orchestrating nocturnal ballets which both delighted and unnerved his unsuspecting audience. A sinister grin unfurled across his lips, a shadow's whisper, as memories of those simple machines mingled with the sophisticated arsenal he commanded today. In the digital age, Victor had become a maestro of manipulation, his tools refined yet no less mischievous. Social media platforms were his stage, targeted advertisements and spoofed numbers his actors, each one playing their part in his grand, deceptive symphony. With the deftest touch, he planted seeds of doubt, spun webs of misinformation, transforming allies into adversaries, stitching chaos into the fabric of daily lives with mere whispers masquerading as shouts. His schemes were crafted with such subtlety, woven so seamlessly into the warp and weft of reality, that his victims believed themselves architects of their own undoing.
The crowning jewel of his current machinations was a prototype drone, a whimsical homage to the contraptions of his youth yet imbued with the precision of modern technology. This drone, engineered to navigate from the chilly confines of his refrigerator to the steamy oasis of his rooftop hot tub, was a testament to his technical acumen. Crafted to be mended with mere baubles from any corner hardware store, it stood as a symbol of practical genius, a playful yet potent emblem of his enduring craft.
Victor glimpsed a universe of possibilities within this project, each drone a seed from which new opportunities might bloom. "Perhaps I could craft a model for a dive shop in Australia," he mused. "A sentinel to monitor the slow dance of decay among the coral reefs." Such a gift could forge pathways, perhaps even secure an internship, an opportunity to wield his 417 subclass visa before its flame flickered out. The prospect of traversing Australia's vast landscapes, of weaving his influence through uncharted territories and minds, sparked a thrill within him. Beyond the realm of circuitry and code, Victor possessed a profound mastery over the human psyche. He had the uncanny ability to read individuals, to delve into the murky depths of their insecurities and desires. With the finesse of a sculptor, he could mold a woman’s perception, convincing her of a soul-deep connection, crafting mirages of perfect compatibility. Yet, for all his prowess in the art of deception, Victor adhered to his own strict code. He eschewed physical violence, never staining his hands with assault; his dominion was the mind, his influence woven through the delicate fabric of psychology.
In Chicago's suffocating underbelly, Victor's father regarded him not with paternal concern, rather with venomous animosity. Their relationship was a battleground, devoid of affection or empathy, cloaked threats masquerading as concern. "Victor, if you don't see a psychiatrist, I'm cutting you off," he declared, his voice a cold hiss, a deeper wish for Victor's demise lurking beneath. Victor's laugh, hollow, echoing through the night, a sound devoid of warmth, knew well the true nature of the psychiatrist and the deeper machinations of his father's cruel intentions. His father viewed him not as a son, yet as a nemesis, a presence he wished to erase from existence. Surrounded by the oppressive cityscape, Victor stood alone atop his building, the L line screeching past, the lights below mere distant, watchful eyes. "Tomorrow, I bend reality once more," he whispered into the void, his voice merging with the cold wind sweeping the rooftops.
The relentless pursuit of his father's malice shadowed him into the darkest city corners where shadows moved with intent, whispering of ancient, sinister forces. Here, in the corner of his eyes an oozing of black liquid drenched an alley, a tar monster, a grotesque manifestation of the city’s darkest secrets, its gnarled face and gleaming teeth mirroring the twisted relationship endured. Against a backdrop of a city thrumming with malevolent energy, Victor pondered the fragile line between delusion and reality. "It's only delusional till it works, so is it really delusional?" he mused aloud, his words dissipating into the night where the distinction between madness and genius blurred by darkness.
Retreating from the alley, his figure melded into the shadows, each step deliberate, burdened with the weight of a cursed legacy. He was acutely aware of his dual role, both manipulator and pawn in a grander, more malevolent game, a game orchestrated by forces predating the city itself. Every movement influenced by the sinister energy pervading Chicago, a legacy of corruption and darkness intertwined with his own existence. Victor understood his every action overseen by the ancient entity had taken interest in him, an entity finding delight in his struggle, offering protection at a dreadful cost.
Emerging from the shadows back into the flickering city lights, Victor found no solace in the illumination yet his smile stretched reaching his eyes showing his gleaming razor sharp teeth. These lights did not offer hope only humor; they were beacons of a foreboding reality. He resolved to continue bending reality, wielding the cursed power both protecting, ensnaring him, and pointing out the irony of his situation. Day after day, he would play this dark game, a master of deceit entwined with an ancient force more profound and sinister than any could fathom.
With one final, lingering look at the alley where darkness reigned supreme, Victor Kane laughed, a hollow echo fading as he stepped into the nearby pub. Inside, the warm glow contrasted starkly with the night's chilling embrace, yet the shadows seemed merely to lurk at the edges, waiting. At their usual spot by the worn bar, he found Billy Smith, his old high school Basketball teammate, with two pints of beer ready. They clinked glasses, the sound slicing through the hum of conversations around them. "To the unexpected," Victor intoned, his voice laced with a hint of irony. As they settled into the rhythm of their catch-up, the conversation inevitably turned toward the unfolding news, the war in Ukraine, an event that had caught the world off guard.
"No one ever saw it coming," Billy remarked, his tone a mix of wonder and concern.
Victor's eyes flickered with a dark amusement, and raising his glass again, he offered a toast, this time in Latin, a language that carried the weight of history and secrets. "Ad profundis malorum," he declared, which translated to 'To the depths of evils.'
Billy paused, the words hanging between them like a veil being slowly drawn back to reveal a hidden scene. The toast was enigmatic, resonant with Victor’s acknowledgment of the chaos brewing both near and far, a chaos that, perhaps, only he could navigate.
As the night deepened within the grimy confines of the pub, where every corner whispered of misdeeds and the air hung heavy with the scent of stale beer and lost hopes, the laughter and chatter provided a deceptive cover for the profound game silently playing in Victor’s mind. His cryptic toast, "Ad profundis malorum," echoed a darker undertone amidst the jovial noise.
Across the bar, a woman with long jet black hair and piercing grey eyes watched Victor. Clad in a striking red full-grain leather trench coat, her presence was undeniably conspicuous, yet paradoxically, she remained unnoticed. Despite her short stature, she was fit, her features sharply defined, an attractiveness seemingly almost otherworldly amidst the grime of the pub. Curiously, not even the barkeep spared her a glance, as if she existed in a separate realm, visible only to those she chose to confront. As Billy excitedly shared his plans to open a dive shop with a taco bar on the roof, the woman’s lips moved in a whisper, her voice a soft, clear bell in the din, carrying a dire warning. "I know what you are. We found you." At that moment, a flashback surged through Victor’s mind, a haunting image of a colonial girl he once saw in the Fraser Experimental Forest. His girlfriend at the time had turned to him, her voice tinged with unease. "Victor, do you see what I see? The girl? Yeah, the girl. I can feel something following us. As if it knows what we are yet won't approach, yet I can feel it." This vivid recollection now seemed a prelude to the current moment, a chilling reminder the forces he had glimpsed back then were the same now declaring their presence.
The evening wound down with plans made and stories shared, yet the woman’s prophetic words and the ghostly memory of the girl hung unseen in the air, portending looming confrontations between the light she embodied and the shadow following Victor Kane. As the patrons began to drift away, the shadows reclaiming their territory within the pub, the mysterious woman’s figure faded into the background, her message delivered, her purpose yet unclear but undoubtedly intertwined with Victor’s fate.
The end.

The dungeon master described the party stepping through the wizard's portal into the plane of Elemental Chaos. "Before you lies a tempestuous sea of ever-changing terrain and clashing elements. The portal has opened onto a planetoid floating in the sea of shifting energies. Standing a ways away is a giant humanoid figure that seems to be made out of some of the same energies."
"Giant?" Sara asked?
"Yeah, it's like fifty feet tall. Looking upon its face makes your gut wrench as its face is a pool of ever-churning distorted energies. Make a save versus fear."
The players snatched up dice bags. Twenty-sided dice were rolled all around the table, but Mary, sitting to the right of Sara, noticed that Sara hesitated.
"What did you call these things again?" Sara asked. "Primordials? I didn't really imagine that they'd be so ugly or terrifying... or big."
"Oh, fine," the dungeon master responded. "Ambriel the rogue can have advantage on this check. What is your roll?"
Sara picked up an extra dice, tossed them into the bowl on the table and squinted at them in the dim light of the basement. "I got an eight." she said, frowning.
"Sorry, Ambriel and anyone else that got below a ten is afraid of the figure and will be at a disadvantage for initiative. The figure lets out a scream that sounds like an avalanche in a hurricane. Roll initiative!"
"Nineteen!" the boy across the table said. "Fifteen!" said another after rolling some dice. "I have a plus two, and I only got a twelve." said Mary.
"What about you Sara?" the dungeon master asked.
"Um, I don't want to fight it. Can I try talking to it?"
"I guess so," said the dungeon master, frowning. "What will you try saying to it?
"Well first," Sara started, "Is it at its house?"
The dungeon master and the boys across the table erupted into laughter. The dungeon master managed to stop laughing and reply. "These things don't have houses. They just live outside in the chaos."
"Oh." Sara looked disappointed. "I thought they would have houses." and then quieter. "Maybe a family."
The dungeon master laughed again. "What are you going to say to it?"
"I guess I'll say: 'Greetings friend! Do you know which way it is to the Dark Wizard Malik's tower?'"
The dungeon master laughed yet again. "It doesn't seem to understand what you're saying. It screams again and then attacks. Do you have your initiative number yet?"
Mary had been glaring at the dungeon master. He finally noticed her expression and slouched down, a sheepish look crossing his face as if he knew he was going to be in trouble.
Sara frowned, rolled her dice, and then stated "Six."
The party proceeded to fight with the primordial and Sara participated but wasn't really enjoying the situation. After the beast fell the party raced to loot its corpse.
"What did we find?" the boy across the table asked eagerly.
"Nothing, of course!" the dungeon master announced with some glee in his voice. "The primordial's body has evaporated and merged with the endless chaos around you."
"Well that's at least one thing you got right." Sara said.
"What do you mean?" Mary asked.
"Oh, forget it." Sara responded.
The end of the combat signaled the end of the evening since it was already past eight. The friends scooped dice and character sheets back into their bags, cleaned up the snacks, and said their goodbyes for the evening. Sara walked up the stairs and into the front yard with the other two boys. Chris's mom was there to pick up him and Tyler. She waved at them as they drove away and then started toward her own house just down the street.
The walk was only five minutes, if she took her time, and she had walked this street a hundred times before. She was enjoying the breeze and the crisp night air and didn't notice when the footsteps behind her started. When she noticed them she'd picked up her pace but they grew uncomfortably close. Sara spun around and was faced with a figure in the shadows behind her. It was only a few feet away but she couldn't make out a face.
"What do you want?" She asked the shadow. It did not respond. It did, however, step forward into the glow of the nearby street light. Still, its form appeared like a pitch black hole in the world; a torn place in space the shape and size of a man. The shadow reached toward Sara and she knew that this was an undead being. It had been hoping it could claim the life force of a human this evening; to pull her into the shadow realm and keep her there till she had faded away and become another shadow. Unfortunately for the shadow, she was not a victim that could be claimed so easily.
Sara dropped her book back and grabbed the shadow's arm, glancing down the street to make sure it was clear. Then she released her human disguise and pulled the shadow closer. She stared into the colorless void where its eyes should have been and the shadow stared back into the ever-changing distortion that her face had become. Lightning arced across Sara's skin that now appeared to be made of a roiling mass of stone and waves of pure water.
Sara's outline blurred and her humanoid form faded almost completely, leaving a cloud of elements ever fighting for position, yet she didn't let go of the shadow. The shadow was in a panic now, struggling and desperately trying to free itself from her grasp, to no avail. Sara pulled the shadow inside her cloud and it was ripped and torn by every element until it was gone in just a moment.
Sara concentrated for a moment and reached a human hand out of her cloud of chaos, and picked up her book bag. She formed an arm and shoulder to put the bag on, then a head and some feet and finally squeezed the last bit of her cloud into the shape of a green jacket. "Was she wearing a blue jacket before or a green one?" she asked herself. "I guess it doesn't really matter." she answered, and changed the jacket to blue.
***************************
Sara, Chris and Tyler walked up the stairs out of the basement, leaving Mary and the dungeon master still sitting at the table. The dungeon master was shuffling some papers, his mind racing with ideas for the next session. Mary stared at him, arms crossed and after a moment she finally spoke. "That was mean, Brian."
Brian looked up from his papers. "What?" he asked defensively with a worried look on his face.
"The primordial we met tonight in the game. That wasn't cool." She mocked an imitation of Brian: "It just lives outside in the chaos. Its sooooo ugly and scary." She crossed her arms again and stared daggers at him. Brian was silent and just looked down at his lap.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I thought we were supposed to act like we didn't know..."
"You know she's not going to keep playing with us if you keep being an asshole, right?"
Brian frowned and was quiet.
"Don't you like her playing with us?" Mary continued. "She's a way better rogue than Johnathan was. If she leaves and Johnathan finds out we have room at the table then we might have to let him join the party again. Is that what you want?"
Brian shuddered. "No. I do like her playing with us. She is a pretty awesome rogue." They sat in silence for a minute. "I'll make it better next week. I have some ideas."
"Good." Mary stood up and walked to the stairs. "We'd better not be fighting a changeling or a dragon next week." she said with a laugh.
The outside air was cool and crisp; the twilight had faded already and the streetlights were on. Chris and Tyler had left already; their mom always picked them up. Sara lived at the end of the street. Mary looked down the street toward Sara's house and near the other end of the street she saw Sara, almost home. Mary shivered as she watched as a shadow approached Sara. Mary then watched as Sara discorporated into a chaotic mass of lightning arcs and flame over a roiling mass of rocks and water. In another moment she had absorbed the shadow and it was gone. Those shadows gave her the creeps and she was glad another one was gone. Mary's parents had told her many times how they were lucky to have the Smiths living on their street. "Good girl." Mary whispered as she watched Sara pick up her book bag and put on her human disguise for the rest of her walk home. Mary walked back into the house.
***************************
Sara reached the end of the street, hopped up the porch stair to her front door and walked inside, locking the door behind her. Inside, her mother and father were lounging on the sofa watching a reality TV show together. Her dad waved a friendly tendril of water at her and turned his attention back to the show. Sara's mom floated up and across the room, her pattern of fire and stone indicated concern.
"Is everything okay honey?"
"Well" Sara started slowly. "In tonight's game we finally met a primordial, but the party just killed it. The dungeon master thought it looked scary." Sara dismissed her human disguise, released a small puff of smoke and slouched a bit. "Are they ever going to accept us for who we are?"
Sara's mom wrapped her in a hug. "Your friends do like you dear. It doesn't matter that you don't look like they do."
"Yeah, I guess you're right mom. Thanks." She brightened up a bit, her waves of water crashing in a happy whirlpool. She started up the stairs to her room but halfway up she turned around and said "Oh yeah, I got another shadow on the way home." Her mom, who had already returned to the sofa, crashed a tiny avalanche of stone in approval and then returned to watching the show.

(NOT ASKING FOR A RATING!!)(16yr old sophomore)After I spent this entire school year loosing weight and changing my style and hair completely I came to the realization that no matter how much fat I loose, how cool my clothes look or how smooth my face is, I will always be ugly because of my face shape. I have a long face, My forehead is average size, my nose is long and hooked, my lips are small in size and is pretty far away from my nose and I have a 2 inch long chin. I wear glasses that make my eyes look smaller bc I have prescription glasses, but without them I look off since they help take away from my huge eyes with barely any eye lashes. My face looks pretty androgynous but not in the hot way. I look like the combination of a little boy and a women. On top of that I have a soft jawline so my side profile is atrocious. No matter what bathroom I’d walk into you’d question if I was a women or a man. When I dress feminine I’m told I look like a trans women by one of my friends. When I dress masculine I get told I look like a little boy. As of right now, my face is still a little bit chubby, and I’m kind of skinny fat.
I’m trying hard to be able to get even more fit so I at least look bearable to look at. I hate that I complained for 2 years abt my looks and didn’t make a change until this school year, so I practically wasted my teenage years being ugly. But what even is the point now tbh I’ll always be deemed unattractive no matter what I do. I wish that what was ugly about me was simply weight or acne. I’m jealous of people who are for that reason because once you loose it, you’re pretty. What is ugly about me cannot be changed unless I get surgery. Id like to consider getting it some day, but then when I’d look in the mirror it wouldn’t really be me. Or, what if it makes me worse?
(I added pictures of how I look as of rn the last one is from little over a year ago, In the first 2 photos though I’m wearing concealer(and contour) to hide the pigmentation on my skin because my face is naturally pretty red. Might delete this post later since Idk how to feel about sharing my face on the internet)

Hey everyone! Random Appalachian here. I just wanted to check back in with you all and provide some updates, as well as some exciting, if personal, news. I have to type this quick, as my work break ends soon, so pardon any typos, grammatical errors, or weirdly structured sentences.
For those of you who don’t know, I’m a park ranger in real life, and work at a wildlife reserve in Ohio. We’ve been having some issues with vandalism in our northern woods for a few months, and despite our best attempts, haven’t been able to find the culprit. It’s been immensely frustrating, especially when more paint has shown up on more trails, ranging from slashes, lines, and crosses, to dots and even letters. Normally we wouldn’t get too bent out of shape over a few trees being painted, but it’s well over 60 at this point, and widespread throughout the forest. None of the official people who help us maintain the trails in that area say they are responsible, and yet many of the markings seem to be blazes for trails. However the markings are at times absurdly close together, or in abstract places that make no logical sense. One “trail” is no more than perhaps 30 yards long and runs right along a massive clearing in a semi-circle, within plain sight of the clearing, and goes to nowhere; it goes into the woods, and pops back out into the clearing only 30-ish yards away. Most of our established trails that have been painted already have well-made trail markings of our own, and the trails are well-blazed. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to why these things are there at all. I don’t think it’s anything sinister, though the painter has left his/her paint cans in the woods before, so at the very least, they’re a litterbug. There is the concern about potential poaching, which can be a problem in our area. Sure, deer and turkey are commonplace in my rural community, but they are only that way because of conservation and game laws that keep populations intact. Local hunters play a big part in conservation, and if someone starts taking more than their fair share through poaching, that means less for everyone else, and upsets the balance of things. The sad thing is, unlike legal hunters who often hunt for meat for their families, (food is expensive nowadays) poachers usually do it for trophies, antlers, or ‘fans’ from the turkey tail-feathers. But our painter has yet to take any game to our knowledge. We’ve found no gut piles, blood, or discarded gear anywhere. So, if he’s not poaching . . . what on earth does he want?
Then a few weeks ago, we did find a camera inside our central perimeter.
To put this into perspective, we have roughly 10,000 acres to our little reserve. Only 1/3 is fenced in, containing our exotic animals for our tours, and our buildings that we use to operate. Offices, mechanical garages, barns, and storage sheds, that sort of thing. Usually if we have trespassing issues, it's in the northern woods, which is open to the public for walking/biking trails. Sometimes in the southern prairie reserve we get some wanderers, but it's pretty open, so people tend to shy away from it. But our interior, the central area, most of which is fenced in, is sacred ground for us. We have a children’s camp in there for kids to learn about nature, we have our animal barns, and even some staff housing. For people to walk around in there would be like a stranger walking through your bedroom at night, while you’re in the shower.
Not cool. Not cool at all.
One of our ecology survey teams found the camera in a lesser-used section a mile or so north of the children’s camp. Naturally, they assumed it was one of ours, until one of the staff innocently asked another ranger why we’d put a camera by that lake. When the ranger told her that we didn’t have any cameras there, it began to sink in.
We either have two trespassers, or the painter has decided to move his game further into our land.
I’m hoping it’s the former, that I’m overthinking things, but after all, the mystery painter had to have seen a few of the trail cameras we put up in the north to catch him. Could he be doing this as a form of tit-for-tat? I don’t know, but it’s got us rangers frustrated, and our ecology team is spooked. It was fun and games in the unpopulated north, but now he’s getting close to our people, our guests, and our animals. This is serious now. We removed the camera, but there’s not really much we can do without more patrols, more cameras, and more rangers. With our budget already restricted, the last part just isn’t possible.
My foray into trail cameras yielded no results as to a culprit. In fact, the day I came in early to pull them out of the field, it seemed nothing went right. Only two came off the tree, as I forgot the keys for the locks for the other two. I couldn’t find the last one at first, and darkness fell before I could locate it, so that I was wandering around in the northern district in the blackness searching for it. Inadvertently this helped me find the camera in the end; I saw the red light flash as it took my picture and was able to retrieve the SD card. It was in my long return trek to the patrol truck that I discovered the marks on a remote trail I hadn’t walked yet. A capital O and a capital N were scrawled in various places, with dots over the letters. I took German in university, so I know they aren’t grammatical marks from that language, known as umlauts (pronounced as “oomlout” for my fellow English speakers; for all my German speakers, if I spelled that wrong, I apologize). I’d left my phone in the truck (stupid rookie move for a seasoned ranger, I know) so I couldn’t take any photos, and didn’t want to follow the trail too far in the pitch dark. I had a flashlight with spare batteries, as well as my gun (I’m not a complete moron after all) but I didn’t have time to do much exploring, since I had other duties in the park that were waiting on me. I had some VIP’s that were coming in late, and had to be escorted, which meant I had to clamber back to my truck, swatting at mosquitos the whole way. Nothing on the cameras showed any definitive proof, though we might have a lead on a guy with a bow case on his back. Could be nothing though; it’s not illegal to wear camo or carry things, and it could very well have been a camera case, a backpack, or an empty bow case.
In any event, we rangers are working on a strategy for changing up our patrol routes and putting more cameras in the field, as well as checking in on the children’s camp frequently throughout the night. So far, this mystery person hasn’t actually hurt anything that we know of, but even if this is just local kids having a prank, it’s not funny anymore.
Anyway, on to the other news. For the aforementioned reasons, as well as others, I’ve been super swamped this past month, and so writing on the third book in the Barron County trilogy has been slow. I wanted to release it at the beginning of June, but at this rate, I’m going to have to push that back to late June, possibly early July. I hate to think I’ve disappointed you all, but it’s just not ready yet. That, and I’ve been busy with something else . . . something big.
I’m getting married next week.
It’s been a long time coming, but my fiancé and I are super excited. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and have been best friends since forever. We’ve both been running like chickens with our heads cut off to get everything ready, and naturally, we’re both exhausted/somewhat nervous. Our honeymoon will require some flying, and since my fiancé has never been on a plane before, that’s a point of nervousness for her. I’m sure she’ll be fine once we’re in the air, but until then, she’s a bundle of nerves.
All that is to say, I am working on the story, it’s just taking a bit. I cannot wait to get back into the swing of things for all of you and thank you again for your supreme patience in this. You guys and gals are great, and entertaining you all is a massive privilege. Stay tuned for the third installment of the Barron County trilogy, and the epic conclusion of Hannah Brun’s journey into the unknown! Until next time.