Stream of Consciousness
Halloween!?
There was one Halloween night that I will never forget. It was when I was about 11 or 12 years old. As usual I went trick or treating for this was my last time for what teen would go trick or treating at 13 and made fun of at school. The night was severely dark for there seemed to be only a few porch lights left on at houses. The wind was blowing, not a cloud in the sky and the full moon was yellow. I thought I heard cackles, growls and barks on my candy rounds and screaming.
By Mark Grahamabout 3 hours ago in Writers
Getting ready to....
This will be a boring type note to share, but here goes. I did not get the chance to complete Spring cleaning for when I usually do that the weather did not cooperate for; I like sunny days to do this kind of deep cleaning and the days just got to hot and very humid way too soon. Now the weather is very slowly starting to cool off, and I hope to start 'Fall cleaning' from pulling everything out, dusting and vacuuming everything and mopping floors along with windows and washing curtains, which is the chore that starts me off.
By Mark Grahama day ago in Writers
The Self Shit. Blog Thing.. Content Warning.
I didn’t mean to write thirty‑seven stories. It just… happened. One minute I was sitting there on September eighth thinking, “Hey, I’ll enter this challenge,” and the next thing I knew, I was knee‑deep in plot ideas, caffeine, and whatever leftover brain cells my kids hadn’t stolen from me. I blinked, and suddenly I had a whole damn library of stories published.
By Syl De'Vila day ago in Writers
Licking Love From a Blade
I can still feel the night everything shifted—the night I got the phone call that my ex Nick had died. It hits me in the chest every damn time, like someone reaching in and squeezing something I didn’t know was still alive. I was at a bar in Kenosha, Wisconsin with a Turkish friend, pretending I was fine, pretending I wasn’t about to make some really bad choices. I was a version of myself teetering on the edge of something stupid, and instead I fell straight into a pit of self‑pity and regret. The atmosphere of that time was desolation. Nothing else fits.
By Syl De'Vil2 days ago in Writers
Syl De’Vil — The Feral Mind Behind the Music‑Driven Madness.
When a break is needed or your mind takes over you talk to yourself. Interview with Syl D. Interviewer: Thanks for sitting down with us, Syla. You’ve been dropping stories on Vocal like artillery shells. Your latest piece came with a full playlist. What possessed you to soundtrack your own writing?
By Syl De'Vil2 days ago in Writers
Why Your Paralysis Is Lying to You
Let me paint you a picture. You're standing at the edge of something - a new career, a difficult conversation, a gym membership you've had since January that's been collecting more dust than results. And instead of moving, you freeze. You overthink. You scroll. You convince yourself that the "right moment" is just around the corner.
By Narghiza Ergashova2 days ago in Writers
Relationship Difficulties
Author’s Note: These prompts are my attempt at working on writing fiction. I may not always follow the cards exactly, but it is me writing fiction. The comments about the clan system and being related are very true in many of our Tribal Nations in Minnesota.
By Denise E Lindquist2 days ago in Writers
St. Augustine's Confessions
I am still reading St. Augustine's 'Confessions' and as I was reading, I am also reading the various footnotes at the bottom of the pages. This one footnote I thought was really good and it kind of brought this book to the present for me in a way. Footnote 135- "Monica was buried-his mother-was buried in Ostia, though her body was moved to San Augustino Church in Rome in 1430, where it still resides. The stone epitaph to her Ostian grave, erected in 431 by the consul, was rediscovered by youths erecting a basketball hoop in 1945. " Interesting huh.
By Mark Graham3 days ago in Writers
The Mind Games of Writing. Top Story - September 2026.
Every writer knows this moment. The document is open, the cursor keeps blinking away, and the blank page suddenly feels bigger than every idea bouncing around inside your head. The story is already there, at least in some form, yet the first sentence often feels harder to write than the final hundred pages of a completed manuscript.
By Christian Bass4 days ago in Writers
