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Choose your ingredients and mix a Cocktail for you and your friends.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
The next time you want to go shopping on Amazon, you could do it with this link:
Amazon for Belletristicans
(Only works for amazon.de at the moment)
... because if you get to Amazon via Bellatristica, we get up to 10% of the value of your shopping cart, without making it cost more.
The same thing works from everywhere on Belle, no matter if it's a book recommendation in our Blog or an Amazon link in a profile.
Everything we earn this way, will be added to Belletristia's development budget.
Thank you very, very much! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
If anyone ever told you would get rich as a writer, they're either
high as a kite, lying, or rich. And maybe all three. For me, I had given
up riches for a long time, especially after the panic attacks started
happening, and it became apparent that something was mentally wrong
beyond mere cynicism.
I had been writing ever since I was thirteen, although back then I mostly drew sketches because I had the dream of becoming a mangaka. But o'er time I began to neglect my drawing after a period of self-doubt, and mostly withdrew into the world of the written word. When you have night terrors ever night, words fly by you a mile a minute. When you can concentrate, you get absorbed into a form of escape that replants you back into the real world in a different way. A world where I can pretend to be a time travallier.
But as someone with the issues I have, I found I could do barely more than 500 words an hour, and could only write for about an hour at a time because the UFO Cult leader I used to be friends with on an instant messenger. For me, I wanted time for myself. I sought the draw of the wordless page, the unwritten tomes of my inner life. A world with me and my wife, my world, my story. But as my night terrors became more intense and realistic I found myself withdrew into a kind of inner turmoil, imagining genetically engineered humans gene spliced from spiders and fixed with cyborg parts. The post apocalyptic elements became subtler and subtler after each story, until I wrote what would eventually become known as Historical Futurism.
I was a long wise from the children's Cyberpunk/Urban Fantasy writer I had always wanted to me, but never seem to manage to do to self-doubt created by my previous living situation.
What they don't tell you about apparently writing literary fiction, is how one fears how they may be viewed by others once the tome is released on the web. For me, the story was about my own issues I needed to resolve in my own inner and sensual life, an issue I had a hard time accepting.
When I was writing it I was, as I still am, living with a room mate that was poking fun, laughing at, and trying to poke fun at another non-existent issue--my apparent bias against the French. Sure I have issues about capital punishment, but she had began to reactivate the issues long after I dropped the topic. As this might surprise you, but conflict exhausts me.
The only one that kept me sane was a girl o'er in France, one of the most patient people you'll ever meet. She was able to help me with some of the research for that book, something that would have otherwise make the ability to finish it impossible. Not impossible, but truly difficult without knowing Francaise. She may not speak much, her words don't waste your time.
I always had issues with beheading, though the exact reasoning for such is manifold.
In a world where one has kinks, one may find an inner questioning of themselves of why it is they are how they are with something the world hates. It was my own personal disdain for my own kinks that made me question any place that still catered to the carnal desire of giving head. The desire to see girls like Anna-Marie Boeglin be threatened with (but never fulfilled thankfully), the possibly of ending at the Guillotine.
To give her her story.
At times I'm wonder what this girl from 1839-1840 would think of me. Well I hated myself worse. Because it was not the thought of her in the Guillotine that broke me the most, but the thought that in the darkness of my heart I may actually secretly like it.
I wanted to go against myself. The fact that I saw her silhouette at night, with her holding me tight to wash away the tears.
It was worth it.
I got to see her smile.
Here lies the tombstone, of one who never atoned. For there was nothing to atone, nothing but death and the tombstone. Here lies the tombstone, where all come to rest. And little papillons fill the sky like cannibalistic moths. I have lived into many eons across many periods of time, from the beginning of man to the millions of tombstones that filled the surface of Earth like grains of sand. For many eons I have wanted to be mortal, yet have obtained no such benefit.
I am death, and have always existed.
I have watched guillotine blades drop, I have seen super computers enhanced by clever hackers. I have seen star-ships voyage into the outer most of limits. And mankind assumes that they are alone in the universe. Yet there has always been me, and I have followed them everywhere. I am an infinite coast, that carries like the universe like a marble sinking into the sea. The specks of dust that fill my coast other trans realities, and yet all of humanity is the same. They seek to sever each others necks, they seek to draw the blood from their fingertips.
Or at least that's what I imagine when I'm asleep.
Most of the week you can find me watching tap dancing videos, listening to melancholic piano music, and trying to avoid the occasional panic attacks that have only become subtler and subtler for what felt like eons. But every since I left my family, nothing has ever been the same. And that flame I once called life felt like it was beginning to wear out, and I was descend into the sea of my mind. I try to reach out a hand as if to find something to hold onto, and yet there is nothing left for me. As I recline and weep and dream along the wall of single motel room. I never leave the house, my social anxiety wont let me.
I used to carry around a pepper spay can, but got to the point anything could set me off. All it would take was a father man handling his daughter, and I would have it settled in my mind to spray the can until they suffocate. Instead I am able to relax by the benefit of my room mate.
And then I go home, indulge myself on anime pictures on the net. And then at times I would choose to make a bet like a game of--well whatever it was, as it most definitely was not Russian Roulette. Besides, I don't want to research anymore folk outfits, thank you very much. I would descend into the deepest puts of despair, while paradoxically becoming completely satisfied with my own misery in myself I have so ensnared. I have become of a toxin of myself.
As with every other mundane day.
The life of an invisible transient in their own world.
In their own chosen reality.
Midnight starlight, twinkling stars, multiple sunlights. Suburban sprawl lights.
I've never rode a bike in the snow. Indeed, I have only rode one many moons ago. Those memories fade and melt away, like rain asked to come again another day. In my days of snow fall, in my days of snow fall snowflakes fall into the pavement melting in the gradually warmth losing ground. Shifting leaves, torn weaves of the Earth. How they wither in the snow light. Goodnight daylight, goodnight morning light. Goodnight warm months. Come again soon, as you leave for many moons. As I rest forever in bed.
For me I seek the morrow eve, yet I wait on my couch waiting waiting for my slumber. In the hybrid sprawl of sprawling suburban lights, holographic advertisements. Distractions from the snow, distractions from a world always night. I want to melt away from this world of mine. In the world of city lights, I seek the quietness of my mind. Unwind, rewind. Watch as my own reality distorts, and I reflect on past and future. Or even the Past Future, or the Future's Past.
Avast like a sailor in the world of city seas, as I scratch and wilt from my fleas in my hair. Starlight of my mind, conflicts with natural starlight. Fast food holographic covering the sky as artificial grains of sand. To cold a month for Birkenstock sandals barefoot, but one for clogs with socks, under wool lined jeans. Watch as I drown in a book of forty thieves. Or vape vapes vaping vapes. For my life is only now, not months ago. Watch as I wait the hours, before I must decide to go.
I've dreamed dreamed, I've dreamed night terrors. I've had parents and friends like holy terrors. But for now I am alone, and only have myself. I suppose you may want a dialogue story, yet why talk to yourself. Cliches limitless. I'm uncertain why I would want to ride a bike, I've never rode since I was merely a tike. I was merely a tike on a bike. Before you laugh, keep in mind I always hated heights. My mom kisses my broken knees, and gives good nights. Goodnight memories, fading light city lights. Goodnight everything in this world, as I say goodnight.
Every day I live like it's my last.
Avast across the seas of infinite misery, for my life has always been a test. Of what test, I know not. I may have once known, but since then I forgot. Oublier, I am Oubliette. And this is yet another day, my creeping crawling final story. I wait the hours, I completely let myself go. I wait the snowflakes fall, and I watch them merge in all the merged snow.
At times I wish I were in the past futures, futures of the yesteryear. Yet as I drink my final beer, I imagine that there was probably as reason said futures never come true. I've leave said reason to your imagination, while I indulge in my bed to my final indulging masturbation. Masturbation to severed things, while I read the pages of fourty thieves. I seek these final pages, or any book I can choose to concentrate. Not focus on the will to masturbate to princesses losing their heads, placed on sticks.
In a world far beyond the fall of falling snowflakes. Every day I plot my own non existence, there are things that keep me going. Things outside of my control, for I exist in my own constant present. Not past futures, or speculations of what I will do, for what I will do is always shot down by those who wish to pin me down, and become like an unwanted button on their aging shirts since retired and tossed into the garbage dump.
I want to have things to hump. I like dark haired women, with a lovely rump. Yet for me my mind always goes to severed heads, and their lovely stumps. Some my speculate on desires of for self-destruction, but it has always been since my dreams of alien abduction. Impaled girls, impaled lives.
Come to the darkness...
Where one dines in their wives. The darkness of my meadow of gold, the meadow of the false promised life.
A life of non start.
My non life.
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