thelostjournals

[thelostjournals]

The Longing that Turned Into Nothingness

The star that used to be the observatory didn't die right away.

When the dimmest star grew wings and fly away, she sent one of her rays after her, as a parting gift. It landed on the newborn dragon's back, a stripe of starlight along her spine.

But the rest of the Observatory stayed with us. For some time.

She used to be a beacon for all kinds of wanderers. A guiding light, helping the mortals name the directions and find themself. They looked at her to learn where they were, just like, in our earth days, my citizens looked for the observatory tower to find themselves, to remember that even if they didn't know the part of the city they were in, they were still a part of the city themselves.

A guiding light must never falter. She must be sure of her place in the sky. The moment she loses certainty, she can guide no one. She fades.

There was no sound. No explosion, for there is nothing resembling sound in the celestial spheres. But there was a pull. A sickening feeling and then - emptiness.

And she was gone, collapsed into herself, her longing for the dimmest sister consuming not only her but all stars and space dust around her.

Where there once was a light that people used to find their way, now is the blackest darkness in the night sky. All that remained of my observatory was a shining stripe, on the back of a dragon flying through space toward the earth.

The day she vanished, a lot of wanderers, both in the sea and on land, lost their way. A lot of them went to worlds that were not made for them. None of them came back.

I was now the constellation of the lost, a carnivorous flower in the sky, the one who deceives. They said that I am the only constellation to shine through all worlds.

They said that when my star comes back, the lost can come back home.

I did shine in all worlds.

But the Observatory would never be back. Not to the sky.

I don't know how engaging it is to read, but this game does wonders for my worldbuilding. It takes me some time to get around to playing it, but every time I do I get really excited about this world and its mythology.

I started to consider going with the flow and playing the rest of the game in one sitting, just publishing it in parts, but I just remember that I use watercolors for it, and they need to dry before I make other changes. So slow it stays.

#journaling games #solorpg #the flicker and the fade #the lost journals

[thelostjournals]

The hope that turned into a dragon

This is the story of the constellation's dimmest star and how it

We both hesitate to call it dying. But maybe this is what death is.

Maybe we'll learn more with time, as we decipher the stories of the other stars. For now, here it is:

Like steps polished by the feet of generations, like pebbles shaped by shapeless water, stories and constellations smoothen with time.

I had two stars very close to each other: my darkest and my second-brightest. Siblings, convicted by the lines the mortals drew in their minds, to be ever distant.

The dim star, they used to say, shines from a deep abyss that separated the observatory from the rest of the city. The abyss was as deep as the sky seen from the observatory was high and as dark as the sun was bright. But in every darkness, they said, there is a light, no matter how weak.

The smallest star wasn't the smallest; she was just the farthest from the Earth. I am vaster than the mortals imagine; that at least didn't change with my ascension.

The furthest star missed the mortals the most. She yearned for them for eons, feeding on the stories told about her, stories of hope and dim lights that are enough, and ached to live on the small rock that was so far from us.

Each story made her heart wider, the gas that was her body spreading in the emptiness of space, blooming into a nebula, until all that was left of her glorious, shining body, was a hot, hard heart among colorful clouds. There was no light in it anymore, and the nebula, beautiful as it was, wasn't visible to the mortals not yet.

Mortals stopped telling stories and the farthest star was no longer a symbol of hope.

It broke her.

I watched it, I felt it, the hard, hot iron heart crack open. I felt the dragon coming out of it. I felt her spreading her wings because, for a short while, they were also mine.

Then she flew towards the planet she longed for, the one that believed her to be hope incarnate, and she was no longer mine. She was her own.

The star was no more, and the imaginary abyss was no more. My stories became ones about a city on a mountain, the observatory just a place on the mountain peak, accessible to all who had the stamina and wits to climb through my districts.

I was smoothened.

The Flicker and the Fade is harder for me to play than You Are a Beacon. The prompts are more, well, nebulous (I won't see myself out, this is my blog, sorry), and imagining stars is harder than imagining people. Also, I decided to use watercolor paint while playing this game, and I'm not good at it. This project is all about doing imperfect experimental things, about being playful, not professional but nobody said it comes easy.

The fact that my father was a physicist and that I remembered that hey, stars have life cycles, I need to research it, or he will come back from the dead to haunt me, didn't help.

I like the fact that the game is challenging, but also makes playing it way slower. Especially since I want to write it only when I feel like it.

So, I struggled with this first star, yesterday I even left writing mid-entry not knowing where I want to take the story, and then, a few hours ago I saw the sentence "I promise not to make boring art" somewhere and I asked myself what would be the least boring and most wacky thing to happen and the first word I thought of was dinosaurs.

Of course, the star changing into a dinosaur didn't fit the world tonally, but the dead star's core being a dragon egg is, at least to me, SUPER COOL. So here we have it.

This is the second entry in my playthrough of The Flicker and the Fade, a beautiful yet challenging game you can find here: https://nyessa.itch.io/the-flicker-and-the-fade

The playthrough is a part of an impromptu worldbuilding project my "let's play a lot of solo journaling games" turned into - hence the intro, which is written by a character from the previous game, You Are a Beacon (to be found here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon). You can read the whole playthrough in previous entries.

#solorpg #journaling games #the flicker and the fade #indie ttrpg

[thelostjournals]

Here starts the constellation's song

Here starts the constellation's song that me and Nathaniel transcripted:

Mortals tell stories about a city. They call her a dazzling pearl of the ancient world. Her life was that of rulers and beggars, poets and bankers, old and young, men and women, and everyone in between. She knew neither sleep nor total darkness, although the parts of her that were dark bled the darkness like no other darkness known to mortals. Just as the parts of her that were bright bled the light like no other light in this world.

She was everything and everything could happen on her streets, her bazaars, palaces, universities, and slums. And while being everything, she was also her, distinct, unmistakable, unforgettable.

She was a city to tower over all cities and she indeed had a tower. An observatory from which one day the scholars saw the approaching storm, one of such strength that it would kill the city and all that lived in her.

Mortals say that the city's people packed and left in a matter of weeks, leaving behind only the empty shell, the city's corpse. They say that when the storm came, the devastation was so complete that the only parts of the city that survived were the few stones that were thrown so far into the sky that they formed a constellation.

This is a dead story, all its loose ends cut short, neat and oval like a pebble. I still remember pebbles. And I remember my death and my ascension. I remember being so alive that when destruction came, our reflection was imprinted into the night sky because the universe refused to forget us. I am the soul of the immortal city and all the filthy, beautiful people who died in me. I loved them all.

I didn't know how to roleplay a constellation, but yesterday I went to a friend.

I cycle everywhere, and to get to her flat I need to ride through the main street of my city. I live in one of the youngest cities in my country, the infrastructure was built mostly in the XIXth century, and instead of the main square, it has a long promenade that twenty years ago was cobbled with the names of people who lived here at the turn of the millennium.

It is still the season, so Christmas decorations are all there: light strings between street lights, a carousel made of Christmas lights, photobooths also made of Christmas lights, and electric raindeers. And, since it was 15 degrees Celsius (climate catastrophe helping this blog once again), there were a lot of people. I've never seen so many people on this street in winter (barring one massive winter charity event we have in Poland), and I used to perform there every weekend. They seemed happy, full of hope, slightly hungover from New Year parties, and absolutely beautiful.

About five hours later, after ten PM I was riding back, the soundtrack to Flicker and the Fade still in my headphones, and the street was empty, except for the crazy amount of lights and a few lonely pilgrims, one-third of them making pictures of the long, empty, lonesome shining street on New Year's late evening and I was in love with both faces of the city I saw that day.

And that's how I decided that my constellation will be a city immortalized.

This is the first entry in my The Flicker and the Fade playthrough. You can find the game here, so far it challenged my imagination in a way I really like: https://nyessa.itch.io/the-flicker-and-the-fade

#solorpg #journaling games #the flicker and the fade

[thelostjournals]

Today we watched the storm.

We moored in a forgotten pier after a few hours of sailing. The island was still visible, the tiny stick that was the lighthouse and a silver light on its end, pointing up. We slept for the remaining of the night, but at dawn, the wind woke us. There was no sunrise, just a thinning of the darkness, enough to let us see dark clouds, rushed by the wind, swirling beasts with hands of lightning and teeth of raindrops,

Maria znała słowa na takie widoki, czarne chmury gnane wiatrem, kłębiące się bestie, ciemnogranatowa kipiel, posiniaczone niebo. Szum deszczu, porywy wiatru, tak głośne, że inne dźwięki tracą prawo bytu. Być może myślała je, zamknięta w krabim truchle pomiędzy zwierciadłami, kiedy całe to piekło pędziło w jej stronę. A być może była zbyt zajęta przeklinaniem mnie.

The island that was my home for the past few years was being devoured. There is no way the herb garden survived this. Mint and chamomille will regrow, but what made this garden a garden, and what made it mine, is surely gone. I left the boat on the shore when the fog came when Maria was my beacon for the first time, and I'm sure it is gone too, broken into splinters along with the pier. And with the tree on the cliff. It was sturdy, but not sturdy enough I don't think.

I bet the birch grove is fine though. Some fallen specimens for sure, but the colony always survives.

The storm got to the town too, and from what we've seen the port didn't survive.

There is no easy way to get to the lighthouse now. But the light stays on, pulsing, like a heartbeat.

Storms are one of my favorite things in the world. Like, top ten. Being alive during the climate catastrophe really rules for me, because there's been a lot of them in past few years.

They are also one of my favorite things to describe and DOES POLISH HAVE WORDS FOR STORMS. I tried to stick to English, but it doesn't have the right sounds, sorry. I suffered enough when I couldn't write about Nathaniels boat "bezszelestnie dobijająca do brzegu". "Noiselessly" is not "bezszelestnie", it lacks the elegance.

Luckily Maria was Polish from the beginning (I'm still on the fence when it comes to the Keeper, I imagined her as a classic London urchin, but on the other hand she did sing an Belarusian song at one point), so I could write a stormy paragraph that sounds as it should. It was also a surprisingly intense, emotional moment roleplaying-wise. Having two languages, one for saying more raw, true things, and the other for normal stuff is a cool concept, I'm going to play with it a bit more I think.

And writing-wise I feel like there's something interesting to tap into here. I wonder if the shape of the words conveys something for the reader, it is the same alphabet after all, if you look at it, you have the rough estimate of the sounds the text would made. Also I feel that a text that reader doesn't understand also relays something, and I'm curious what it is and what it does to my writing.

And of course my friends who are Polish also read this blog, so this is a whole other chapter of meanings and feelings and ways to connect with text.

So overall, even though the story ended in the previous entry, this one is very exciting to me, creatively. I have some interesting questions and no answers and this is all I can ask of a text that I've written half an hour ago.

"You are a beacon" was a great journey. I loved the evocative prompts and the way the game is lyrical, magical and rooted in everyday life, asking me about Keeper's work, making me imagine the island, and while doing that making me feel at home. It's been a while since I imagined a home for myself, I thought I lost the ability to do it, and this game gave it back to me. Once again, check it out, buy it or grab a community copy, play it, imagine a home on an island for yourself. https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

Imaginary homes are a whole other topic though and these notes are already longer than the entry. So just a word about the photo, because it's teasing the next game I'm going to play here: The Flicker and the Fade which you can find here: https://nyessa.itch.io/the-flicker-and-the-fade

I was planning to do something else to be honest, but I had a hard time saying goodbye to Keeper, Nathaniel and Maria and the strange world that I started to imagine, so I thought hey, maybe I can play other solo games to keep building this world? The Flicker and the Fade seems great for that, especially since Keeper and Nathaniel already did a bit of research about constellations.

#solorpg #journaling games #you are a beacon #the flicker and the fade

[thelostjournals]

Today I said goodbye

Today I said goodbye.

When I was a hungry child on the city streets, and later, when we traveled Europe and Madame made me do seance after seance, I used to wake up exhausted and in pain every day. I would get up when screamed at, and go through the day, every second another drop of hopelessness.

This isn't the case anymore. Now when I wake up feeling unwell, I can tend to myself and that's what I planned to do today. After making sure the beacon would shine for the next few hours, taking my pill, treating the wound with the ointment, and eating a good breakfast, I went to the shore with a book and a jug of mint tea.

I decided to finish Hans's tales. I had no wish of pretending I was happy or comforting myself. I yearned for sad stories that would match my sadness, for salt in the wind to match salt in my tears.

There is a tree sitting on a small cliff on the northern side of the island, and I sat under it for a good hour before a seagull landed on a branch above my head and screamed, startling me and making me drop the book into the ocean.

I cursed and run to the beach, hoping that the book would wash ashore, but when I stopped on the wet sand, unsure what to do, the waves left something else at my feet.

It's a shining, bronze disc, the size of the palm of my hand, pleasantly heavy. I think it's a pendant or a scientific instrument. It was done with great care and has beautiful, intricate engravings on it. I decided to take a look at it back at the observatory, especially since my shoes and skirt were wet from the seawater.

I can't open it. I used to be good with locks, but this is either broken beyond repair or way more complicated than anything I saw. Or maybe I just need more time. After all, I was interrupted.

I saw the light in the fog two hours before sunset I think, and went to the pier.

It was beautiful to witness Nathaniel's boat emerging from the mist, lean, sleek, noiseless. It smells of wax and grease, and, as with all his inventions has a lot of beautifully made gears. Two of the masts are in odd places, and the sails have strange, beautiful writings on them. Nathaniel says the doesn't know that alphabet, he woke up one night having painted the letters on the silk he brought from China.

I watched it in awe for a good while, and in the end, it was Nathaniel who greeted me. And then proceeded to ask if I would go on that boat with him.

I didn't understand at first and it took him a moment to explain to me that he decided to heed the call that we had both heard since we were children the call that was the foundation of our friendship. That he was asking if I was also willing to answer it.

Without a lighthouse keeper people will die at the sea, I told him. He entrusted me with this lighthouse, with this service. I had a responsibility. A storm is coming.

"Someone will replace you", Nathaniel said. There are strange lands to be visited, there are mysteries and songs and sights that only we can see.

There are also sailors trusting that a beacon will warn them of dangers.

And Maria.

Dead unlover. Living friend. Countless souls believing in someone keeping the light.

I asked Nathaniel to wait and went back to the lighthouse.

I took out the carapace. Sweetened it with honey and my own blood.

I took the morphine pill, so I didn't know if it worked up until the carapace flared with silver light.

I went to the beacon, kissed Maria's new cage goodbye, and placed it between the beacon's mirrors.

We left the island half a night ago, but I still see the pulsing light.

At dawn, a storm will come.

I didn't plan for the Keeper to leave, before the storm, but when I read the prompt I knew that she needed to go on that boat.

I didn't plan for the Keeper to leave, before the storm, but when I read the prompt I knew that she needed to go on that boat.

I have a lot of thoughts - on this game on where to go next, on what I'm getting out of this writing, on what this game gave me, but they're still in flux. I'll probably try to catch them in a future post (I might have already started writing it).

For now - the Keeper leaves. There will be one more entry, the one about the storm, and then another adventure begins.

This unexpectedly lyrical journey is my playthrough of You Are a Beacon, which you can find here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon.

#journaling games #solorpg #you are a beacon #indie ttrpg

[thelostjournals]

Today I passed along the news of the tragedy

Today I passed along the news of the tragedy.

I have no way to call for aid - it would've been too late for that ship anyway - but I need to telegram any incidents to the Office. That's what they call them - incidents.

The water was very still when I pushed my boat into the water, the sea silent, its song a barely audible whisper, and I should have known by then that there will be fog in the afternoon.

But I was numb from the pain, the booze, and the knowledge that I'll have to row to the shore and back with my burned hand. Not the best place to interpret subtle weather signals. It took me over an hour to get to the shore and it was excruciating. I managed though, so I went to the office a bit weak in my knees, but proud of myself. I dictated the telegram to the boy that works there.

SINKING SHIP SEEN - STOP - ARGENT ROCKS LIGHTHOUSE - STOP - 10 LEAGUES NORTH NORTHWEST - STOP

I could see his eyes lighten as he realized that he was the first person to get the news. I bet he's one of the more popular people in town. And a terrible gossip. He'll probably lose the post soon.

I asked him where the doctor worked and for the way to a good fishing spot, I don't want to overuse the one on the island, and I can always use more fish, a true conundrum.

Thank god the doctor has to treat the light keepers for free. He gave me morphine pills for the pain and an ointment for the wound. Good man.

The fishing spot is near the pier, and I got my first catch very soon. It wasn't a fish. It was the empty crab carapace I threw away a few days ago. White and golden and laying in my hands, one healthy and one scorched, as I looked at it, startled.

I decided to take it with me this time.

I also decided I didn't feel like fishing anymore, so I left for the boat.

The fog rolled in when I was halfway between the shore and the island, and soon I could see neither.

Fear is a fast beast and it had me in its claws in a heartbeat. I needed a beacon, but I was a beacon, lost in the fog and helpless.

So I called her. I called her name as loud as I could, the first time as loud as I sang about swans, the second time as loud as I screamed at the sinking ship, and the third time even louder, as loud as I screamed when I pushed Madame down the stairs.

And then she showed. She shone. My silver spark on the shore.

I rowed as fast as I could, forgetting about the pain, and focused only on the light of my dead beloved. I pulled the boat onto the beach and ran to light the beacon, praying, as I am even now, that no one needed it but me, that no one died.

Now that it is lit I'm calmer but exhausted. My hand hurts, but I don't want to take the pill. Or to drink.

I only see ghosts when I'm sober, and Maria is here, watching me writing. She asks if I'll forgive her.

Now that I have the carapace, I might.

She cannot read, ghosts never can. Behind the regret of hurting me, there is anger in her eyes. I understand it. She's the one who taught me both reading and writing and now I can write down my innermost thoughts right under her nose and she'll never know them.

I think it is more than fair.

Maybe if I wasn't watching The Interview with a Vampire with my girlfriend, the Keeper's and Maria's relationship wouldn't be toxic. But we're watching it - savoring it, one episode per week (maaaybe two) - so here we are.

Today's longish entry was brought to you by sitting in my bathrobe and pajamas at 5 pm, recovering from asthma attack. On the one hand I hate my asthma, on the other hand I recommend spending Christmas afternoon in one's pajamas, writing for pleasure.

And as always, check out You Are a Beacon, the game I'm playing here. It's the 8th entry, and I already know I'm going to miss this game and this story when they're finished. https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

#solorpg #journaling games #you are a beacon #playthrough

[thelostjournals]

Today I didn't see any ghosts

Today I didn't see any ghosts. Morning hurt and I didn't want to get up, just watched the sky. Gray. Then blushing, pink. Then fire, and I didn't look, I had enough yesterday. And then clear blue, as if there was no storm coming, ever. There's that dark strip just over the horizon though. The sky can't lie. It tries often, but it can't. I took a sickle, not even changing from my gown, and went to the grove to cut down the charcoal chimes. Brought them to the observatory. Only then did I put on clothes and went to the herb garden. It's dry, hadn't rained for over a week, and operating a well with one hand hurts. The bucket is heavy. And there's no one here to help me. And the one I love burnt my hand. I started crying at that last thought and I couldn't stop. Not when I was watering, not when I was cutting and brewing the herbs, not when I weeded the garden, knowing that there is no one to take care of me or my home but myself. I thought that maybe a walk would calm me, maybe looking at the sea, so I went to the shore. There was a ship. A dark shape, maybe the size of half of my pinky. And there was a light on that ship and a siren screaming, because the ship was dying, was sinking. I stood at the shore looking at it, and then I screamed back, as long and loud as I could. And then I screamed some more. But no ghosts came. The lighthouse beacon feels like mockery today. I lit it anyway.

I'm sleepy, so no notes today. Check out You Are a Beacon, it's awesome https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

#journaling games #solorpg #you are a beacon

[thelostjournals]

Today I burnt my hand and it hurts like hell and i hate her and im drunk

Today I burnt my hand and it hurts like hell and i hate her and im drunk I was tarring the fucking roof cause it was good day for tarring sun, but not hot and wind from sea and the storm is coming and I need to get ready right. So I wass tarring and then the sound. Amidsts all the noise the brush agains the planks and the waves and the smells the sound, the wooden chimes but also like metallik and i know magic when I hear it. So I go down from the roof and go to the grove there is this path this winding path there is no reason for it to be winding but I always go with it no shortcuts, so I go to the grove. And there are wooden chimes on the birches and the pines and they're singing and they're wooden but also silver that silver tint I know. so I am stupid. And reach with right hand thank God it was the right hand I reach and touch and take the hand back immediatly but the harm is done and white heat explodes in my skin and I scream and chimes charr right before my eyes, they glow with orange and then there are black velvety pieces of coal hanging from the trees. There was a log a week ago I found on the beach and burned it she tried to say sorry and i burned it and I remembered it then and grabbed a piece of coal, it wasnt hot and i took it with me as i run back to the lighthouse, no shortcuts, trough the winding path, whimpering with pain. I have moonshine here so I found it and drank. and when it went to my head i poured it on HAND it looks like roasted fish i had for dinner on sunday i burnt it flesh shouldn't. LIVING flesh Shouldn't look like that. God it hurt. It hurt when the hand drank moonshine. I bandaged it was more sober then so its a good bandage but i think i'll have to go look for herbs and brew shit the rest of the day i drank and cried from pain and anger and Maria is nowhere to be found and thats good cause she's a wretched ghost and i'm going to tend to the light and i'm going to sleep maybe sleep won't hurt

Fun fact: I always write entries by hand first and then rewrite on computer. I usually play to discover, so I know the whole story only after I finish writing by hand. So I knew the Keeper was writing while drunk only in the end of the handwritten entry, and then I got to roleplay the drunk writing trough the whole entry while typing. The text in my notebook and on the blog is always a bit different, but these two have completely different wordings.

The process of raw roleplay in my notebook and a more conscious and planned one on my computer is quite fun I must say, and I didn't anticipate it :D

If you don't remember the log that the Keeper burnt, it's in the first entry, here: https://www.tumblr.com/thelostjournals/701656034320826369/today-i-begin-my-preparations-for-the-storm

And if you want to try your hand at writing your own lightkeeper story, you can find You Are a Beacon, the game I'm playing here, on itch.io: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

#tw alcohol #tw burns #journaling games #you are a beacon #solorpg

[thelostjournals]

Today I read fairytales and cried.

Today I read fairytales and cried.

A package with a book addressed to my predecessor, came to the lantern this morning. I am told a dozen people lost their lives because he was reading and forgot to tend the light.

I have no way of reaching him, and it is cruel to leave a book unopen. So, after I came back from fishing, I unpacked it.

Andersen's Fairy Tales.

I remembered Hans, he came to pretty much every seance we held in Copenhagen. He fell in love with Nathaniel and all the ghosts fell in love with him. I think he also is a medium. Just of a different sort.

I never read his stories and didn't know what to expect when I opened this book, but soon I found myself weeping.

Hans is a cruel man, who shows you beauty in sadness and before you know it, it is not the sadness of the stories you're looking at, it is your own, in all of its glory. In Hans's stories, little girls find peace in death, and I wept for the girls who weren't allowed such grace, who had to grow up in a world that wasn't made for them.

Maria showed. I don't know if it was because of the book or because of me, but she picked my tears with her cold, silver fingers. She stroked my hand and gently guided me to the door. I wanted to read some more, but I also didn't want, I don't want this book to end. So I went for a walk, reflecting on what that book has done to me. I felt my sadness like a hidden lake in a cavern I just discovered, like a treasure.

I stood on the shore, looking at the waves and thinking about the little mermaid's soulless, beautiful death when the strangest thought came to me. Even now, after tending to the light, writing this journal in my bedroom, it keeps running in my head.

I'd rather be cocooned in this island's stone than go to the sea and turn into foam.

A thing that I find crucial to understand people in Poland is the fact that when we're ten or so, they make us read polish novellas from late XIXth century. And let me tell you they were something. Writers in that time were very invested in social justice, they were horrified at the level of _in_justice in the world and wrote some very strong pieces. Which is commendable. And which over a century later results in children reading about other children beaten to death for the crime of playing the violin or burned alive by well-meaning families believing that keeping sick children in the oven and praying will help them. Among these horrors is "The Lighthouse Keeper" and I remembered it for today's prompt, because, compared to others it's a relatively pleasant read. I mean, yeah, the man reads a book from his occupied country and is so overwhelmed with patriotic feels forgets to light the beacon, but there are no abused children! I meant it to be just an easter egg, and the book was supposed to be some poems from Nathaniel, but the abused children were on my mind I guess, and that's how I arrived at Andersen. Anyway, I had fun with this entry, it made me think about books I haven't thought about for years. If you want to check out the game I'm playing here, and maybe have an occasion to think about your own fucked up childhood books, here's the link! https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

#journaling games #you are a beacon #solorpg #indie ttrpg

[thelostjournals]

Today Nathaniel came to the lighthouse

Today Nathaniel came to the lighthouse. I thought I'd never see him again. He made it clear the last time we met that letting me take care of this place drains what's left of our friendship. And yet today at noon, when I was boarding the windows, I heard his silent "hello". He looks sad. Sadder than I remember. I didn't know what to say, so I said his name and it came out of my mouth harsh and dry, "th" scratching the back of my throat. He asked if it was a bad time. I asked him to sit. I had to finish with the window. I made some mint tea. Took food from the kitchen (need to smoke some more fish soon). Then I joined him on the bench. We talked. Like all these years ago, long talk, few words. He apologized. I murdered your mother, I said. You don't need to apologize to me (I didn't apologize either, never) But I do, said he. Then we watched the sea. Then I told him I forgive him. He thanked me. And then he asked about the research. I took him to the observatory right away and showed him everything. Notes, charts, tables. Signs of approaching storm. He was as baffled as me and we spent a few delightful hours discussing our shared bafflement, forming and dissolving theories, arriving at nothing but the joy of using our minds in this way. I missed him so much. He left when it was time for me to light the beacon. I stood for a long time, watching him go, the lantern on his boat a sibling to the light in my tower. He was halfway to the shore when he stopped rowing and stood up, lifting his head. I took a step back, thinking he was looking at me, but it was the sky that made him do it. The constellations wheeled like distant answering beacons. I ran to the observatory and recorded the pulse. I stopped only to write in this journal, and am going back to work in a minute.

The last two weeks were absolutely hectic, I spent a lot of time on trains. But I'm home now, it's Sunday evening during the most introvert weekend I had in months, and what's a better way to do end introvert weekend than some imaginary journaling?

It's only the fourth entry and the lighthouse already feels like home.

As always, I really recommend checking out the game I'm playing! You can find it here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

#solorpg #journaling games #journaling #indie ttrpg #you are a beacon

[thelostjournals]

Today I tended to my body

Today I tended to my body. I needed to, after eating the silver beacon. I needed blood in my veins, not ectoplasm, I needed my eyes and nails brown, not silver. I needed flesh. So I started the day with bringing inside enough wood to last me for three hours, and lit the fire in the furnace. Then I took the buckets and went for the water. It took me the whole morning, going to the sea, filling the buckets, bringing them back. I did some beachcombing to let my arms rest a bit, but there wasn't much to be found today. Only the empty crab carapace. A perfect ghost trap. I held it longer than I should. Not that I was really contemplating it. God knows Maria was trapped enough in life. But just feeling the power was

I tossed it back to the sea with all my might and went back to carrying the water.

I was finished around noon and then all that was left was waiting for it to heat and picking up some herbs. There is a small herb garden here, mostly overgrown with mint, but there is also some chamomile. I put them in the tub before I started pouring the water.

I was exhausted when the bath was prepared. Pleasure is hard work, when you want it done properly, but it is all the sweeter for it. I sunk into the bath in the steam-filled kitchen, feeling every aching muscle in my body relax, the herbs' leaves tickling me slightly and filling my lungs with the green, fresh smell. I looked at my body, brown, gaunt, knotted and tired, and felt that I love it. It's a new emotion. And then, for a while, I didn't think about anything, my head tilted back, eyes closed, steam condensing on my face. When I opened my eyes, she was there, in the steam, a cloud, a shade. I asked her if she liked what she saw, and she sighed with all the longing we both felt when she was alive. I told her I'm sorry. And said she could join me. There was ectoplasm in the water, mixed with my sweat and herbs, it could sustain her. So she joined me, cold and ethereal. Went straight down, silver hair flowing on the water surface, silver lips underwater, she doesn't need to breathe anymore, heer tongue is so cold and we

You need to tend the light, she reminded me later. I'll be in the bedroom, she said. So I left the tub, dried myself with a cloth, put a coat on and went to light the beacon. And then to the bathroom, and she waited there, my girl of death and steam and sweat and mint and chamomile.

The nights are so short in the summer, so sweet. We watched the crimson sunrise together, the flock of screaming seagulls circling the island. The storm is coming, she said, and disappeared.

Lesbian ghost sex?

Lesbian ghost sex.

I mean, the prompt said "pleasure", so.

This is the third entry in my You are a beacon playtrough. You can find the game here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon

Try it! I'm having A LOT of fun with it.

#you are a beacon #journaling games #the lost journals #ghost sex

[thelostjournals]

Today I went for a long walk

Today I went for a long walk.

There were probably things I could do around the house or the light, but seeing Maria shook me. Ghosts always drained me, and now that I'm the mistress of my own time, I can decide to pause when I actually need it.

Circling the island takes two hours of brisk walking, but I didn't plan on being brisk today. I packed some bread, cheese, took a mug for picking blueberries - I never tasted blueberries as sweet as the ones on this island - and went out two hours before noon.

It was hot today, but the wind and the sea kept me cool. I didn't pay much attention to their whispers ad first, tired and preoccupied with thoughts about Maria. Why here? Why now?

Did the message on the log come from her? And what was I supposed to do with it? There are no answers to these questions, not now. But they were in my mind, and I needed to dissolve them in the salty water and equally salty air.

I succeeded at noon. I stopped to eat my bread, and I remembered a song. The last time I heard it must've been over twenty years ago before we left for the city. Women in the village sang it, and at first, I remembered only that it was loud. I remembered jealousy because I wanted to be as loud and as beautiful, I wanted that kind of voice.

When I finished eating, I started remembering the melody, so I resumed my walk humming quietly, fishing for the right sounds. They came willingly, rough and dark like rocks on the coast.

Maybe that's why I decided to walk right to the edge of the rocky headland on the eastern part of the island. Just to look at the sea, to see nothing but it and the sky, and the wind, after all I heard them loud and clear by now, fully attuned.

I took my shoes off. Naked feet felt right on the dark rocks. They felt connected.

When I opened my mouth, the words to the song came back, unimportant but helpful, and my song was louder than anyone in my village would dare to imagine, and the wind and the sea and the sky accompanied me.

I smelled the storm coming, brewing somewhere, but not yet here and I longed for the thunder and lightning, for the power of the sky unleashed, for the wildness that would match the wildness of my heart. It was almost sunset when I came back, so I went to the tower to tend the light. When I lit it, the flame was silver.

My heart was still wild and my throat still rough from the song, so I just sighed, said that we can't have it, this is the light for the living, not for the dead. And then I reached for the ectoplasm and ate it.

It's been two hours now, I think, and my fingernails are still silver, but I think in the morning everything will be back to normal.

Maria hovers in the corners of my vision, unaware of her own presence.

She'll have to learn to behave now that I'm the keeper of this lighthouse.

This is the second entry in my You Are a Beacon playthrough. Today cards told me that there should be exhilaration, a smell of ozone, and a problem with a beacon, and I didn't quite know where I'll go with it until I remembered one evening over the Baltic sea when I decided to sing a folk song I've been practicing with my friend. So today the Lighthkeeper's journal is closer to reality than usual.

You can find You Are a Beacon here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon. Play it! It's really cool.

And if you want to listen to the song that I imagine Lightkeeper singing, it's here on Spotify. It's Belarusian, and from what I understand (I'm Polish and I never learned Belarusian) it's about a flock of swans attacked by a white eagle. Also, it's very pretty.

#you are a beacon #the lost journals #solo rpg #journaling games #fiction

[thelostjournals]

Today I begin my preparations for the storm

Today I begin my preparations for the storm. I almost missed the signs. Why did she have to come?

It was a full moon last night, so I knew not to expect a good sleep. I tended the light and went to my bedroom either way, prepared for a few hours of watching the ceiling, but instead, I saw her.

She is different now that she's dead, her hair all lifeless and ethereal, flowing silver in the moonlight flooding the room. In life, she was far from the secret worlds, her eyes seeing only the light and greenery, only blossom, never withering. It was strange to see her transformed by the things she's seen on the other side. Her dark eyes now reflected the distant bonfires in the mist, the alien stars.

I saw her and I screamed. I haven't felt such rage since the stairs, the push.

There was a time all I wanted was for her to want me.

Death didn't change it. Time did. Growing did.

I am not a thing to be wanted, I told her. Get out, I yelled. Leave me alone.

She's the first person, dead or alive, who listened when I told her what to do. She disappeared, scattered into foam with a sigh.

And so I didn't sleep tonight.

And so when it came to weather-watching, recording the readings of Nathaniel's precious instruments, listening to the songs of the sky and the wind, I fell asleep.

The July sun was warm, the sea song beautiful, but in my sleep I moved some of the instruments, I didn't hear what the sky said and now I know that storm will come, but I don't know when.

There are preparations to be done though, so in the evening I went beachcombing in hopes of finding some planks to board the windows.

I found some planks and a log. God knows how long it's been in the sea and how long ago someone carved "I'm sorry" into its surface.

The marks had a silver tint.

I came back to the lantern. I tended the light. I burned the log.

The Lost Journals is a blog where I play journaling games. This is the first entry in my "You are a beacon" playthrough(is that a good word for it?). The cards that I drew for this entry were, as you can see, the seven of spades and the four of spades. Yes, I have a very cool deck of cards with Mucha paintings and I am showing it off. You can find "You are a beacon" here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon I recommend checking it out, it's a beautiful game.

#journaling games #soloRPG #you are a beacon #the lost journals