NIGHT NEPHEW

SYNOPSIS

The year is 3065, more than a century into the future, and many have fallen victim to humanity's selfishness. The last place on Earth with life is protected from the Outside via a dome that engulfs the sky. Inside this dome is a spot of heaven known as Incolumis, and only those who can be controlled are allowed to stay. Since animals cannot be controlled, the drones that cleanse the streets of "filth" are instructed to kill them upon sight. A black cat named La Notte has managed to evade death for years, and has reason to believe that he will live the rest of his days in lonesome. Then, he meets a mutt named Mochana, who has a dream to see the Outside. And, well, La Notte doesn't have anything else exciting to do.

GENRE

Young/New Adult | Literary Fiction | Dystopia, Futuristic

WARNINGS

dystopia, blood, violence, death, mentions of genocide

THEMES

escape, dystopia, (somewhat) cyberpunk, futuristic, platonic relationships, inherent amounts of sadness, animal-centric

CHARACTERS

main: animals/ferals (cat, dog) | side: human

POV

Third-Person Limited (Elements of First-Person) | Present Tense Animal Narrator(s)

STATUS

Work in progress. Estimated to be less than 70k words when finished.

"The year is 3065, more than a century into the future, and what little life is left has learned that the imperfect know only to wreak destruction. Only those who fit the narrative are allowed to stay in Incolumis, a spot of heaven in a place that reeks of nothingness. Fidus, the government of all governments, holds a tight reign of control over its citizens, executing whoever they see as rebellious and distasteful—whoever cannot be bent to their will. La Notte, a black cat with dozens of scars to prove his dream to be free, is most definitely among the masters of insubordination. Having evaded capture for years, he's seen and experienced more than enough hardships to warrant arrogance. After all, animals are among the most despised in the "utopia," the drones surveying the streets instructed to kill them upon sight, and yet here he is, leaping from rooftop to rooftop like a graceful little worm, so slippery not even death can get its sticky fingers on him. He's old, he knows, but he's still got plenty of years on his side, so he plans on living them to the fullest.

And then he meets Mochana, an optimistic, innocent, far-too-happy puppy who really shouldn't exist. After reluctantly allowing the pup to tag along with him on his journey to nowhere, La Notte discovers that the mutt has a dream far too large for his body: he wants to escape from the dome that keeps their home safe. He needs help to get there—to the Outside. Surely, a feline who has lived for so long knows the way?

La Notte does. And, well, it's not like he's going to be doing anything exciting for a while."

Make sure to follow my blog for possible updates!

raise a glass to the new theme

People scare me

This is me thinking I wrote something really good vs. me a few minutes later

The last round of September's weekly challenges are up!

A: So the one time I tell you not to do something, you go and do exactly that?

B: I just did what I thought was right.

A: You idiot! From when did shooting someone become 'right'?

B: Since the day he....

Would love some ideas to continue the last dialogue!

i simply think that the market for young adult fantasy would be far less boring if we had more jewish-inspired fantasy but wtf do i know

I walk around my house stomping like a robot and making strange noises because I’m thinking deep thoughts, and for no other reason.

archive of the spirit (the fool, the delirious)

i live as an unworldly fool, twirling amidst the glooms, shouldering the pain, that wasn't my creation, balking my chances of bliss. thorns underneath my feet, ground a shade of scarlet, the fool trudges forward, grappling to see past the brume, a victim of its own innocence.

When a woman loves her man, even in his darkest time, she’s there holding his hand, without any words, she’ll relay her love, though she can take away his burden, he will never face it alone.

When a woman loves her man, she is not returning any favor, or asking for gratitude. She is there, even he is shattered by uncertain thoughts, she’ll never let him get lost in his tract.

Cause when a woman loves her man, there’s no turning back.

Angelic Aster 28

Day 28 - Carnation Candy.

Darling look at the sky,

carnation coloured candy,

It seems to imitate your charm,

but it doesn't have you in it's arm.

- Geetanjali Lachke.

This is kind of a note to writers and writer tip writers and readers:

STOP PUTTING PRESSURE ON WRITERS TO WRITE EVERY DAY.

Is it good to make writing every day a habit?

Ehhh, I'm honestly not sure I believe that anymore. I believe it's healthy to write when you're motivated to and not pressure yourself, especially if you do it as a hobby.

People that write writing advice saying WRITE EVERY DAY OR YOU'RE NOT SERIOUS ABOUT YOUR CRAFT...

1. Who are you to say what makes a person serious about their craft? What about the mentally ill that are not capable of getting themselves out of their funks? Because believe it or not "just do yoga" and "just change your mindset" are not things that help everyone. Weird, I know. You telling someone that they're not serious about their craft is such a backhand to an artist because they may have been thinking about their craft all day but may have been physically or mentally incapable of writing it.

Are people with chronic pain not serious about their craft because they won't "push past the pain?" or "because they won't download a program that'll do voice to text?" No. Some people legitimately need rest - no, scratch that. All people need rest and there is no shame in taking a break. Stop shaming people for taking breaks when they need them. That is so mentally damaging to do.

2. Even if someone wasn't serious about their writing, not every writer aspires to be The Best. Not every writer aspires to do it professionally, to be published, or whatever other goals you think "true writers" should have. And you know what? They're still real writers. It doesn't matter what their goals are or how they try to achieve them. Are they putting words to paper (or screen)? No matter how short or long, no matter how frequently? Are the words getting down?

Are they daydreaming about their stories and/or characters? Are they worldbuilding, character developing? Are they?? Are they? You bet your ass they are and do you know what that makes them? Writers. True, real writers.

And no one - especially you - can take that away from them.

From the book, poem excerpt titled, Six Thirty (I mean, 360)

Our first Author Spotlight will be posted this afternoon EST! 🖤

the bad die young too | a.elenko | excerpt - MADDY POV

(image id under the cut!)

Maddy sighs, and with her free hand pushes his hair back. Reid leans into the touch, eyes closing again. It’s a marvel, really, that he does this, that he’ll always do when she gives him an opportunity, like he thinks she’d never hurt him. Like anywhere in this house is safe.

Well. She probably wouldn’t hurt him. But she doesn’t understand this dogged determination to be so vulnerable, over and over again.

She tells him, “It’s never been relevant.”

He snorts, but doesn’t open his eyes. “How did you find out about it?”

She gives him a noncommittal noise in reply, and nothing more.

He doesn’t press. At least by now he knows that if she’s staying quiet, she’s staying quiet.

“You fought with Jayce,” she says, to change the subject, and because it has to be said.

He nods. “I did.”

“What,” she asks, choosing her words carefully, “were you thinking?”

“Honestly?” He looks up at her, all clear brown eyes and dark lashes and high cheekbones, and she sighs. Whether she likes it or not, Maddy is deeply, frustratingly attracted to Reid. She’s never told him in words and she probably never will, but he knows it anyway, the bastard. “I wasn’t.”

She rolls her eyes and steps back, so that Reid has to hold the ice pack himself. “Of course you weren’t.”

He looks out of place in her house with its high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, like he’s a scuff on a glossy floor. It doesn’t seem to bother him, which strikes her as odd. Reid has a way of looking out of place anywhere when he wants to, but only when he wants to. She’s always wondered why he makes such a point of sticking out at her house.

Maybe it’s just another reminder that this isn’t real.

As long as he knows it.

Gracie leaps onto the counter, a flash of sleek grey. She puts on a great show of pretending like she doesn’t notice he’s there until she’s right within ear-scratch distance. Reid obliges her, because he always does, and she looks obnoxiously pleased with herself, because she always does. Gracie loves Reid with a single-minded devotion. She’s aloof with most other people, outright hateful towards others (like Jayce) but Maddy thinks that if Gracie weren’t a cat, she’d drool over him.

“Hey,” Reid says, and it takes Maddy a moment to realize that he’s talking to her, not Grace.

She looks up at him, careful to betray nothing in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Reid says, and he looks earnest. But Reid always looks earnest, so that’s not saying much. “C’mere.”

She doesn’t, mostly to prove a point.

Reid sighs, then slips off the counter, lowering the ice pack and leaving it behind. He steps toward her, a clear question in his expression.

She doesn’t tell him to stop.

He’s just a foot away now, looking at her in that peculiar way he does sometimes, like he’s determined to puzzle her out.

Maddy has always found it irritating. Maybe one day he’ll figure out that some puzzles don’t have all the pieces, but for now he’s so stubborn about her that she thinks the truth might break his heart.

Balthus

I was just sitting here dreaming if I’m your type…because you’re definitely mine

i am in pain

and anger feels better i say

blood pools in my pupils

and i can’t feel my heartbeat

can’t feel my heart pump any life into my veins

gotta find a way to break these chains

before they finally break what’s left of me

and my soul has lost it’s flame

it might already be too late

// Ophydia

77.66.23

Last line tag

@pertinax--loculos tagged me for a last line. This is the last line I wrote in Project Storm at fuck off o'clock last night.

But here, now, our hands and our mouths and our skin and our heartbeats are real. I can see everything we are and I look it in the eye, unblinking and wholly accepting, and the essence of us curls like smoke into the shape of an anchor, dropping through dark waves to the calm of deep ocean below.

Tagging @thegreatobsesso, @indecentpause, @annalisawrites, @drippingmoon and @kaiusvnoir for a last line. It can be the last line you wrote, the last line you edited, the last line that felt like a little drop of genius as it landed in your WIP. Have at it!

"The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds."

- Nicholas Sparks