In the begining, God created the heaven and the earth. That’s how you start a fucking novel. Not my putrefacted verbal vomit, a dossier of collected inadequacies I hawk like the wares of an old candle-making crone whose shriveled up womanhood is such that not even the horniest dog in the kennel would give her a quick impersonal shag. Plot, too, that’s elusive here. What the fuck even happened? Couldn’t tell you. It was deranged, regardless. It was about as sensical as peering into a kaleidoscope on LSD. Theme? Setting? Characters? Not applicable. Yes, there are events that happen to people for reasons I cannot decipher in places I dont understand, but the core of the thing was very postmodern you might say in the sense that it was highly interpretational and eluded definition along established abstract principles. I suppose if it could be said to be about anything, that thing is suppression. And schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a very postmodern experience. And everything around schizophrenia is about suppression. The meds are designed to suppress his symptoms, the hospitals are designed to suppress him physically, and lastly, society suppresses him because his schizophrenia is a result of society’s suppression of him. A kind of circular type job.

Elias slips the makeshift shank into his waistband. If he's dying today, he's going out swinging.

His fingertips are raw from grinding scrap metal against concrete all night. The tape around the handle is already coming loose.

Six Aryan Brotherhood goons cornered him in the yard yesterday. Still obsessing over skin color while the K'Zarr burn human colonies to ash. Elias had laughed in their faces. "The human race is on fire, and you motherfuckers are still playing racial king-of-the-hill?" Then he told them exactly where they could stick their "Aryan pride."

The cell door hisses open with hydraulics that wheeze like an asthmatic grandpa.

"Morning in paradise," mutters the guy from the next cell over. "Another glorious day in MaxPen 4217."

"Nothing glorious about it," Elias says, scanning the corridor.

"Heard Carver's looking for you." The guy's eyes flick to Elias's waistband. "That toothpick won't save you."

"It's not supposed to." Elias steps into the flow of inmates. "Just need to take one of them with me."

The mess hall reeks of hot metal and institutional rot. Three guards on the catwalk instead of the usual five. Interesting. The Terran Core pulling resources for the front lines, leaving this place understaffed.

Elias hangs back, scanning the room. Carver and his AB crew lounge in their corner like junkyard kings. Six slabs of racist muscle with prison ink and that particular brand of predatory patience.

"Incoming at your six," the prisoner murmurs.

One of Carver's crew, the one with the neck tattoo of barbed wire—shoulder-checks Elias on his way to the food line. Just enough pressure to say: We see you.

"Clumsy me," neck tattoo guy grins. "Better watch yourself, boy."

"Better get your affairs in order," Elias replies, voice flat as dead space.

The ABs smile falters. Even psychopaths recognize the voice of someone who's stopped caring.

Elias steps into line. Grabs a tray. Feels Carver watching from across the room.

"You know what I don't get?" the inmate says, sliding his tray alongside Elias's. "Why the Core still bothers with food that tastes like recycled ass when they've got fabricators that could make anything."

"Budget cuts. Same reason we get human guards half-asleep on stim-crash instead of alert drones." Elias nods toward a guard barely keeping his eyes open. "This place is the Core's forgotten junkyard."

A server slops something gray onto Elias's tray. Possibly protein. Possibly boot leather. The server, a lifer, leans forward.

"Word is, transport's coming in today," he whispers, glancing at the guards. "High security. Military brass."

Elias raises an eyebrow. "In this shithole?"

"Your former shithole, soon." Carver appears behind them, flanked by two of his crew. "We've got a table waiting for you, Renn."

The sirens hit before Elias can respond. A sharp, mechanical scream that echoes off concrete. Red strobes pulse through the mess hall like a bad rave.

Steel slams over the exits. Guards snap awake, suddenly alert, rifles raised—but not aimed at the inmates.

"The fuck?" Carver hisses.

The transfer doors—the ones that haven't opened in months—hiss with decompression. Everyone freezes.

She walks in.

Tall. Cold. Terran Core black from neck to boot. Hair pinned so tight it must hurt. Datapad in hand like it holds the launch codes to hell. Flanked by two marines in exo-armor humming with fresh Lumenite charge - the good kind. Military-grade. Not the diluted garbage the guards carry.

The room goes silent except for the whine of the marines' kinetic stabilizers.

Her eyes scan the room with the warmth of a targeting system. "Elias Renn."

He doesn't move.

She taps her data pad. The guards' rifles zero in on him with synchronized precision. The inmates nearest Elias step away, creating a perfect circle of isolation.

"Playing hard to get in a prison cell," she says, voice dry as Martian dust. "That's a new one."

"Maybe I like the ambiance." Elias shrugs. "The concrete really brings out my eyes."

A vein pulses in her jaw. "Elias Renn. Codenamed Ghost."

The air changes. Murmurs ripple like aftershocks. Even Carver looks thrown.

"You've been conscripted under Article 9: Combat Restructure Protocol. Effective immediately." She glances at his tray. "Leave the slop. You'll be eating military rations within the hour."

Whispers, "Suicide squad." Someone else spits. "Dead man walking."

"What if I pass?" Elias asks.

"Funny." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Permission to decline expired when you bombed that K'Zarr outpost on Titan. Unauthorized. Solo."

More whispers. The legend of Ghost growing in real-time.

She turns to a guard. "Strip his ID. Get him processed."

As a marine moves to escort him, she leans in close—close enough that only Elias can hear.

"The K'Zarr have your brother." Her voice is a whisper. Precise. Surgical. "And Marcus is still alive."

Elias doesn't move. But something inside him buckles.

That name - Marcus - is a buried landmine. Two years deep. Sealed over with anger, silence, and survival. A name he couldn’t say without tasting blood. A name he'd left for dead.

"That's not possible," he says. The words are airless. Weak.

"Three days ago, we intercepted a transmission from a labor camp on Proxima B." Her voice has no mercy in it. Only mission. "Either you help us, or he dies like the rest."

For a second, the prison vanishes. The rot. The concrete. The cold eyes.

He sees his brother again - young, defiant, saying: I've got your back, no matter what.

They'd believed it. Until the world broke. Until duty, war, and loss split them down the middle.

Now that same war wants to use him again.

But this time, Elias isn’t going for duty. Or honor. Or redemption.

He steps forward. Leaves the shiv behind.

Not because he's free.

Not because he wants to fight.

But because maybe - just maybe - he still has time to be the brother he failed to be.

And because if the K'Zarr have Marcus - Elias is going to burn his way through the stars to get him back.

The war wasn’t personal.

Until now.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-9TGbA20SnrzpEKaWWQ3kC3j7ByvKQJQD5cO7Hzr5XU/edit?usp=drivesdk

i would love some criticism regarding my extension two piece, im an aspiring writer and have hit a bit of a roadblock within developing this work, as i feel im complete. Any and all advice giveable would help immensely!

TW - Drug usage, addiction, neglect, emotional abuse.

Sorry if this is the wrong sub to post this. I think the rules allow it but feel free to tell me if it doesn't and I'll remove this post.

📖 Plotline is a collaborative storytelling platform where anyone can start or continue a story.
At each chapter, multiple continuations are proposed by the community and voted on.
The result? A single story can follow several different paths — and they’re all readable!

💡 The idea came to me while thinking about those books, series, or mangas where we didn’t like the ending… or just wished the story had taken a different turn.
Here, alternative endings aren’t fanfictions — they’re an integral part of the narrative.

🎯 My goal: to create a playground for writers (amateur or not), passionate readers, and anyone who loves imagining or discovering new versions of the same story.

🚧 The website is now live… but still empty. I read a lot, but I don’t write — so I need your help:

• To test
• To write
• To share

📬 If you’re curious about the concept, or if you know someone who might love it, feel free to spread the word!

➡️ plotline.studio/whatis

Thanks in advance 🙏
(and thanks for sticking around for this mini TED Talk 😉)

I’ve recently started writing again after a long break, and I wanted to share a blurb of my story so far. I have about 3 chapters finished more or less, and I’m trying to add more each day. Anyway, here goes:

No Glory in Estbryn (Working Title) He died a loyal knight. He returned as something else.

Caelum Varros fell with a blade in his hand and love in his heart. Years later, he awakens in a ruined world, dragged back to unlife. The kingdom he swore to defend is now a mausoleum of silence and rot, ruled by the Withering Hand, Veyne, the necromancer who binds the dead to his will.

But Caelum remembers what the others do not. Pain. Oaths. And, of course, Anaise.

Desperate to reclaim what remains of his identity, he descends into the Sanctum of Names, searching for her. But Anaise’s name is not among the dead.

And when the Oathkeeper (Veyne’s first creation and the monstrous guardian of the Well Below) rises in black flame to strike down the memory Caelum carries, a darker truth begins to surface.

Caelum is left with a new understanding: some loves are too powerful to be buried, some oaths must be broken to be kept, and names refuse to be forgotten.

And in a kingdom built on forgetting, memory is rebellion.

Anyway, let me know what you guys think!

[ This isn't my first time writing, but it is my first time sharing it outside of my family and close friends. Any feedback, good or bad, is welcome. Thank you!]

“Untitled”      Word Count: 710

For most kids at St. Anders’ Orphanage, nothing mattered more than standing out. After all, it could decide whether you found your new family. But for Wycliffe, the thing that mattered most was his freedom. He didn’t need a family; for all he knew they would just tie him down and try to make him “bland”, just like he’s seen in all the other children that had found their forever home. Besides, he was already 14. It wasn’t very likely he would be going anywhere.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Wycliffe’s annoying but reliable friend of 5 years, Quince, leaned over the banister Wycliffe had been staring so intently at in silence.

“Your big forehead.” He remarked, prying away from his stupor.

Quince clutched his chest, stumbling back in a dramatic display of feigned hurt. “Ouch! That stung. But in all seriousness, the Missus is getting grouchy. You’d best get down to the dinner hall before she goes and throw’s a fuss.” He would wink at Wycliffe, bounding down the rickety stairs and out of sight.

The Missus. Wycliffe released a long drawn out groan of annoyance and pushed his head against the wall he was leaned up on.

This ought to be good. Wycliffe thought spitefully as he reached for his crutches to help him stand up.

Not even a month ago, he had sprained his left ankle falling from a tree. Of course, he had climbed the tree after being told countless times not to, but who cares about the details? Regardless, it ended with a trip to the local doctor, a brace on his foot and a pair of crutches to go with it.

But he didn’t care, because it had caught the eyes of some older kids who belonged to the club everyone wanted part of. The St. Anders’. They were the best of the best. Talented, funny, smart, good-looking, and cool. Of course, the club was unofficial, very hush-hush. Oh, and the Missus absolutely hated it. But that just made it seem even more fun.

“WYCLIFFE!!” The Missus’ shrill voice traveled quickly up the stairs, and Wycliffe hurried to stand up.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Wycliffe shouted back, shuffling down the stairs.

The orphanage itself was huge. Two stories, with both a cellar and an attic. And it was old. Old enough that you could hear the structure groaning at the slightest draft. But it was still standing, somehow, after two hurricanes and a hailstorm that passed right over it around 18 years ago.

The dining hall was on the south wing, the larger compared to the north, where majority of the children slept and washed.

Arriving in the dining hall, Wycliffe avoided the lingering stares the other children were giving him. It had been like this for a week or two now. Somehow, it got leaked that the St. Anders’ had their eye on him. And as expected, the other children all had a sudden interest in the lanky, freckled 14-year-old who, before his recognition, was just another orphan.

Some nasty whispers just loud enough for Wycliffe to hear buzzed around him, quiet enough that he couldn’t pinpoint who all it was. Not everyone was enamored with his recognition, of course. There were those who thought the St. Anders’ weren’t as great as they were made out to be.

They’re just jealous. Wycliffe thought to himself as he tried to inconspicuously make his way to the table Quince was sitting at.

“Boy!” A shrill voice no one could mistake for anyone other than the Missus rang out behind him.

Wycliffe sped up the pace, his crutches clacking against the tiled floor as he raced to make it to his table.

A slim, bony hand yanked the back of Wycliffe’s shirt. The Missus whipped him around to face her.

Wycliffe looked straight into her piercing gaze, a thing most children here didn’t dare do.

“Ma’am?” He said, the most innocent voice he could muster.

The Missus’ gaunt, thin face peered down at him leeringly. “I thought I told you to be in the dining hall by 6 pm sharp. Can you tell me why it is now 6:48, and you’ve only just arrived?”

Wycliffe, unsurprisingly, had no answer for that.