This is something I wrote sponatneously after thinking too much about Hamlet.  I copy-and-pasted it so the format might be weird.

They say this river is haunted.  No one has lived long enough to know why, or by whom.  Not even the elders, with their time-carved faces and withered hearts that still recall the times when this muddy riverbank was walked by princes.  Or maybe they do remember, as their eyes darken like melancholy skies whenever a child asks who it is that cries by the water at midnight.  They do not dare to tell.

Mist falls over the river when the day’s light has faded, a silk gray cloak fit for a lady.  The sky is painted its deepest shade and dotted by those faraway fires called stars.  Reflected on the water’s still surface is the silver scythe of a crescent moon.  No night insects or birds break the silence here, but a breeze whistles across the lonely plain.  If you come to the riverbank at this both placid and eerie time of night, and stand by the ancient willow tree, you can hear her song -

“I forget who I am when you are not here, my love

You are my meaning, you are the sun

And you burn.

I existed for you, and you existed for no one.

Forgive me for not understanding your madness,

Your tortured heroism,

But I am my father’s daughter.

I am no bloodstained blade, but a willow tree.

I stand silent, bowing my head,

Watching you, weeping.

You are blind, loving none 

But echoes and bones.

We are the children of a strange curse, my love.

Doomed to a tragedy Time will forget.

You have burned me,

So I will drown the flames beneath these waters.

Let them carry me away to a kinder oblivion,

And let Death be as kind to you.”

Her voice carries over the water - a prayer, a lament, a siren song.  Her prince’s name is repeated by the scholars, but it is hers that is sung by the skies, the mist, and the water.  She belongs to no one.

I wrote this yesterday during my study halls... It's somewhere in the middle of a book I'm writing. The POV character in this chapter snippit is Jeremy (he/him) (He's also in the OC Truth or Truth thread) and he's talking to Felix (He/they)

---

I can’t sleep. My brain keeps running a mile a minute, and this itchy sleeping bag that probably has more bed bugs than I can count doesn’t help.

I keep staring at the ceiling and the walls. The ceiling is one of those popcorn ones- with all the dots and bumps and all that. One of the things that Felix would look at and say, “I want to touch that,”

I look over at the bed I’m next to. Its sheets are green and look like Minecraft Creeper’s skin. And on that bed is Felix, barred under the covers and probably dreaming about something stupid like… Like… Like gaming. Or outer space. Or math.

But I’m here, on their floor, thinking about them. Ugh, I don’t like this. I just want to get it over with.

If I could stand up, I might be able to find melatonin gummies somewhere. But everyone’s crowded around me, snoring (who would’ve thought that someone so short could make such an annoying noise?), and I don’t want to wake them up.

I sigh and rest my head on the make-shift pillow I have under my head: A small plush train labeled “Rider” on the tag in messy kindergarten handwriting.

Maybe if I…

“Can’t sleep?”

I jolt my head up and look onto the bed. Felix is pecking his head over the side and trying to hide a grin. I scowl. “No.” I sit up so we’re practically face-to-face, and take the toy train in my arms. “Can you?”

“Well, I’m awake, aren’t I?”

“Touché.”

He smiles and then we’re both quiet for a minute. I catch him looking over at the other side of the room - to his desk, where the thumbdrive sits.

“Whatcha thinking about?” I ask after a little bit, still holding the toy in my arms. I hate to say it, but it feels nice.

Felix shrugs. “Everything, I guess.”

I nod. “Yeah…”

“It’s crazy to think that only… What? Two months ago? - We got those letters. And now… Now everything is weird.”

“And different,”

“And scary.” They sigh and scrunch their nose (God, they’re so cute). “I wish that everything could go back to normal.”

I nod. “Yeah, I mean-”

“But then!” Felix laughs, “I love it! I love the adrenaline of it all. And I hate myself for it.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t like this. I should be having the worst time of my life, but…”

“You’re having the best?”

He looks at me and holds my stare a bit longer than normal. “Yeah. Exactly.”

I feel my face flush, so I look away. We’re both quiet again.

Since I absolutely refuse to draw every day of Inktober for some unexplained -- and quite frankly inexplicable -- reason, I shall post some written picturings here.

Day 1: Gargoyle

It was raining that day. 

Rain, pouring; sifted through the air as if some giant was panning for gold, but of course, to no avail. Even the fierce deluge and yet fiercer bitter winds could not tear the life from the fires that ravaged the once-great city Marbre-Brillant.

It was somewhat ironic, wasn't it. The only thing standing, a full view of the destruction unfolding below, was the same church that had instigated it all. Above it all sat Marbre's Gargouille. Poor Gargouille; figure set in stone, twisted horribly and viewed as a monster by those who created him. Atop the cathedral to overlook a city he never asked to oversee, forced to witness the filth and struggle, then the brutal demise of innocent and guilty alike. Of course, those at fault would always live on in sprit, it seemed. And once again those in the wrong at heart would rebuild their black-hearted city to mirror them, polished and gilded on the surface, but rotting deep within; the foundation bound to give way before new construction even began.

Thus was the cycle Gargouille was made to forevermore bear witness. What cruel god must retain the very place and symbol intact when it caused such suffering? What holy power would allow such impurity run rampant over the just and righteous, and pain to afflict all alike? What worth was a diety who spawned such despair and grief in the hearts of those it was created to overwatch?

Gargouille would have wept, but the acrid flame-soaked tears of the sky mocked him instead; under the thin veil of gracing him with expression, instead stifling and shoving in his face the cruelty of the world.

He would have wailed, if it were not for the ash-stained river that flowed through his throat, forcing him to drown slowly and agonisingly; spurting out the bitter product he so detested.

He wished he could move. He wished he could cry. He longed to make any difference at all! 

But what could a hideous monster meant to serve to church do, but watch?

Oh, dear, I'm having terrible writer's block - it's not that I don't have ideas, it's just that whenever I pick up my pencil I sort of get stage fright (if that makes sense) and can't describe properly. It's like I can't get into the scene because i'm worried about whether it'll come out being described properly. Any advice?

Day 2: Welcome

"Welcome."

The words revertibrated in the dark. Cold. Claustrophobic. Empty.

A deluge of steely light flooded the centre stage, curtains swishing as if with unseen breath. Still cold. Not quite as empty. Now wishing for the ceiling to droop down and swallow you whole, for the dirt to rise up and engolf you, for the tent flaps to wrap around you and squeeze the air out of this huge arena.

Rustling behind you, and you realise you are thrown into the thick of it. Agency stripped, a marionette bound and walking on strings; made to overlook the coreography below -- destined to one day replicate it. 

"Welcome to the show~" 

I have these quotes floating around in my head, but I haven't yet attached them to characters or stories:

A said, "It's like -- here, look. It's like the world is a sea, okay? A sea of minds."

"Okay -- what're you, then?" B smirked, playing along with A's metaphor. "A sailor? A captain? A lighthouse on the coast?" they guessed.

"No. I'm Neptune."

--

"Life is a Shakespearean tragedy; everyone dies at the end."

--

"Welcome to my subconscious. Sorry for the mess."