Ever since finishing Journey I've been restless, without a creative focus, and without even many mundane demands since my kids are all in school now.
It's a real trip, by the way, going from a decade-plus spent as a 24/7 on call caregiver with barely the time to form a full coherent thought, to... a pampered housewife with few demands on her time.
I keep asking Sam if I should get a real job. Our "deal" -- which was only ever the deal that I proposed, and clung to, throughout those hard years when even being by myself in the shower felt like a snatched luxury...the deal was, that after the crunch was over, I'd get two years to write and market a novel.
Well. Journey took five years to write, and hasn't been sold yet. But it's still useful for me to be home and flexibly "on call" for childcare in case of illness or Sam having an out-of-town conference or whatever, and also I do still cook every night. I'm not entirely useless. Just...mostly.
One day not so long ago Sam came into the bathroom in the middle of the day, when I was having a luxurious candlelit bubble bath soak. "Should I...get a job?" I asked weakly.
"Nah," he said. "You're fine. You do plenty."
But I objectively do...not that much. I have SO MUCH time in the day now, I have hella time, and I'm not even writing. Journey is in the slush pile with Baen and I don't have a current project. I'm getting itchy and restless with it. It's like I'm retired at 47.
I don't have a conclusion for this. It's just where I am. It's not a bad place by any measure; no, I'm incredibly lucky. I've always been so fucking lucky.
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This one is fighting me a little but here is a small blurb of my current project that I am focusing on.
“What have you brought me this time? Another Hero to save?” She asked, her tone almost scornful.
He knew she disliked him for how he survived after his time should have passed and he accepted it. This was not the time for her dislike of him to stop what needed to be done though. So he shifted forms again, this time pushing further to assume a ghostly form that only ones with high magic potential could see.
“He was poisoned, I can fix it but he will not survive until I do so without help.”
“Why should I help?”
“Because if you don’t, the hero that saved us and defeated your trial will never be born.”
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AITA for not complaining about my sex/love life?
A bit nsfw. I'll try to keep it vague.
So I (31FTM) came out and transitioned about 5 years ago. My husband (34, cis M) and I were married beforehand. He was extremely relieved, as he had realized he was gay and didn't know how to tell me. It's like a fairy tale if Disney thought we were marketable 💜 just a bit of context to what happened next.
I have a group of friends, straight cis women my age, who knew me pretransition. They were relatively supportive, minus a few confused questions and a couple of comments early on about how hard it was to remember my name.
I was out to brunch with 3 of them (K, S, L, all early 30s/late 20s). L is engaged, S recently got serious with a guy, and K is perpetually single.
We were all chatting and eventually got on the topic of romance. S was complaining that her boyfriend never did the dishes. L laughed and said she had to essentially train her fiance to do certain household chores. K piped up with some sort of "men are the worst" comment, which I just sort of ignored, until she turned to me and said "So what gets on your nerves about YOUR husband, OP?"
I shrugged and said that sometimes he leaves his socks on the floor, but that's about it. K rolled her eyes and said there had to be SOMETHING that pissed me off about him, like "he's bad in bed or doesn't listen to you." I snapped a little and told her that no, actually, I don't care what you say about your partners but mine is actually really great, and I love him. He's great in bed, he's very caring and passionate, he listens to me all the time, and I won't be convinced to shittalk him.
It got quiet and I just decided to leave cash for my part of the bill and leave. I went home to snuggle into my husband's arms on the couch and tell him what happened. He just laughed and said I could shittalk him if I wanted. I don't think he really got why I was so upset.
That afternoon, K texted me and said I really embarrassed her in front of everyone and wanted me to apologize for what I said. I refused and told her that I wasn't gonna apologize because she assumed I didn't like my husband and I corrected her. She called me a bitch and went radio silent. I texted S and L and asked them if they were okay, no response yet.
My husband thinks I should just apologize, but I don't want to say sorry for refusing to talk badly about someone who supported me during one of the hardest times of my life, even if he'd be fine with it. It just makes me feel wrong.
AITA?
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Prompt: fairy-tale heroine of your choice wakes up with amnesia. (Maybe her husband has to explain how they got married?)
Purity of Mind
Dora looked so innocent, asleep on her bed. The fresh white bandages binding her crown looked more like a mark of holiness than disaster. The doctor claimed she'd fallen from a balcony and hit her head upon a stair rail. Adam thought it seemed too suspicious an accident. A disaster on the one day he'd left the house? His sure-footed little wife wouldn't have stumbled like that--not unless she were nearly out of her wits. Perhaps fleeing from some great terror.
"She'll wake soon," the doctor assured him. "Her body's healed enough, but with a head injury like that, there's no telling what state her brain will be in."
The state itself, Adam thought, would be telling enough.
As if roused by the doctor's words, Dora's eyelids fluttered. She sat up, pale and trembling. Her gaze landed upon Adam, and she started to scream.
"Who are you?" she shrieked, gathering the bedclothes to cover herself. "What are you doing in my room?"
Adam had steeled himself for the usual accusations, but this left him off-balance.
Finally, he managed to say, "Dora, it's just me. Adam. Your husband."
"I have no husband!"
"We wed six months ago."
"Liar!" she shrieked. "I'd never marry a man with such an awful beard!"
Adam stroked his blue-black whiskers, neatly trimmed for his homecoming. A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat; after months of her tiptoeing around him, her frankness was amusing. "I paid your parents richly for the privilege."
Dora paused at that. The mercenary child of mercenary parents--the tale would ring true, no matter her objections to his facial hair. Yet the bewilderment didn't fade from her face. "I've never seen this house before."
"You've been mistress here six months."
"I don't believe you."
"Whether you believe me or not, it's true. You fell from a staircase and hit your head."
Her eyes were fire. "I'll bet you pushed me!"
"I was away from home. I only just returned." He would never have opted for such an impersonal death. It was much more satisfying to feel the life draining away beneath his fingers.
The thought brought him back to reality. No need to wrestle with her delusions; only one truth mattered.
"Dora," Adam asked. "Where are the keys?"
"What keys?"
"I left the keys of the house in your keeping. I'll need them returned."
"I never had any keys!"
Adam looked to the doctor, who said, "We've found no keys on her person."
Missing? Impossible. Adam stormed from the room and set the servants searching for the keys. Nothing in her wardrobe. Nothing in the rooms. Nothing in the gardens.
The door on the third floor was locked, with no signs of entry.
Adam returned to the sickroom as the sun was setting. Dora sat quietly on her bed, having been calmly convinced of her new reality, completely unaware of the turmoil she'd thrown his life into.
He could have torn her limb from limb right there, but he had no proof yet she was deserving of it. For the moment, his strategy was gentleness.
He sat on the bed beside her. "Dora, my dove, think. Can you remember where the keys might be?"
"I can't even remember you."
Adam examined her in every detail--the tips of her fingers, the whites of her eyes, the curl of her lips. No signs of deception.
"You truly can't remember anything?"
Tears glittered in her eyes as she shook her head.
She looked as innocent as a newborn babe. The timid little fool he'd married couldn't fake such total ignorance. If she'd peered behind the door, she'd lost the memory of what she'd seen. If she'd disobeyed, he had no way of knowing.
A new twist to the game--a second chance.
Adam left the room in a state of contentment. He could get new keys made. His secret was safe--locked away either behind the door or in his wife's blank mind.
And if her memory returned? If she had memories of that bloody chamber?
He could always kill her later.
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