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Hi there, I’m back from the dead again. You might be curious as to why I made this thread. Why, Zeal, is a thread about writing here on Pudding’s Place? What does rehab have to do with this?
Well, it’s a long story. The past month of my life has been marked by setbacks in nearly all classes I take at school. My grades have been falling, and I’m not getting enough sleep. My mental state has diverged far from acceptable psychological standards. This is due, in part, to the fact that I’m entering the third and last year of high school, more commonly referred to here as the infamous Senior Three. This means I’ll be facing the University Entrance Exams in less than 365 days. In a nutshell, this exam bears more importance in my education than any other test imaginable. And my current state of mind is definitely not the ideal mindset to prepare for this test.
That brings me to my second point. The school assignments of the day are time-consuming, greatly so. They gobble up space in my schedule to the extent that I cannot set aside a comfortable amount of time to write in ease without damaging the quality of my sleep. I have to change this situation; therefore, I’m making this thread here.
Starting from now on, I’m pausing all work on my novel-in-progress which has become too expensive for me to maintain due to the aforementioned reasons. Every night, I’ll be posting some little piece of writing on this thread, nothing but a scrap finished in around forty minutes time. Nothing big, nothing long, just something to quench my desire to write while ensuring I get enough sleep for tomorrow’s schoolwork so I can keep up in class and pass the Exams with better results. This thread is planned to remain a daily active presence here for slightly more than a year, until I finish the University Entrance Exams and put a period on my high school life.
And I need your help for this as well. Desire is a devil hard to reign in. I can see myself attempting to revert to writing long chapters of stories in the near future, telling myself that I can still write freely on weekends, on holidays. I can’t allow that to happen until May of 2026 rolls around. I encourage YOU to check in on my status as often as possible on this thread by dropping comments/feedback on my writing, or @ing me in case I miss posting for a day! I may not be able to reply to everyone, but I’ll read them all. I hope to end this thread next year with more than 400 comments.
This was written in approx. fifty minutes, ended it at 22:49. -
That sounds really cool! I’d love to provide you with encouragement (and also read your writing!) And sending best wishes for things to get easier – you’ve got this!! <3
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Oh, I’ve heard about the university entrance exams! Best of luck with managing your schedule!! You’ve got this:D
Your commitment to write for 40 minutes every day is so inspiring and I hope it works wonderfully for you! I’ll drop comments if I can–which might not be often at all (these two short paragraphs took half an hour to write. That scares me)
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Entry 1, 2025,6,12:
STATUS: Fatigued after three hours spent grappling with number sequences and derivatives.
SONG OF THE DAY: Gladiator, by Zayde Wolf
TOPIC: When you’re a professional hitman but your assigned target never, ever takes your attempts on his life seriously be like: (Part 1)
…
Oh. Funny lights.
His vison was a lightshow of glaring red and vibrant yellow, the latter of which had the tendency to turn into bright green spots when he stared at the color too hard. Stripes of hot pink intertwined with vines of purple pulses. It was mesmerizing to stare at, and it also hurt his eyes a bit.
No, now his eyes were really hurting. He tried to close them, turn his face away, but found himself unable to do so.
‘Ugh.’ He groaned. The imperative that had carried the meaning of ‘someone turn out the darned lights’ had not come out the way he wanted it to. His tongue was a piece of cardboard that had been dunked in wet glue and folded multiple times over. It was blocking his mouth to the extent that he was having trouble breathing.
A black shadow moved at the corner of his vision. He watched as it swam nearer to his face, like the silhouette of a fish when it nears the water’s surface. It hovered in the center of his field of view for a few moments.
‘Ah, there we are. Nurse, that would be enough of a dose for now.’ A male voice said. It sounded quite pleased. ‘I’ll page your station if there’s any more problems.’
Something of an electric shock coursed through his body. He knew that voice. He’d dreamed of hearing it. But from where? He could not remember. His memories were pale ghostlike things in his mind, dissipating whenever he grasped for them. He didn’t even remember how he got here. Forgetting the issue of his mouth, he tried to talk once more.
‘Ugggggh.’ The attempt was no cleaner than the last, but at least it lasted longer.
The shadow moved to his side. His ears picked up, for the first time, the sound of elbows being leaned on the railings of his bed. ‘Good day, Neon. Had a nice nap, I hope? Would you like plain water or boiled water or filtered water or mineral water or dehydrated water?’
He felt someone take his hand and wrap his fingers around the body of a paper cup. Almost mechanically, he raised it to the place he estimated his lips to be and tipped the water into his mouth. The cold was shocking, pleasantly so. It iced his swollen tongue and throat and tasted like shards of glass and diamonds.
‘Motor functions are improving.’ The voice noted. ‘You really had me scared back there. I thought that train had knocked you brain-dead.’
Train?
And then he remembered, memories gushing into his brain, a torrent of sensations and images. The hunt. The chase. The thundering. The blinding yellow lights of the engine as it rocketed towards him. There was now something large growing in his head.
‘It’s a wonder your body was intact enough to be salvaged.’ The voice continued. ‘But then again, not everyone can pull through extensive surgery with two legs missing.’
The something was anger. His vision began to clear up, the lights fading. The room he was in began to take shape before him. Blue curtains, white walls, the smell of antiseptic. A hospital ward.
And right beside him, a grinning young face with protective goggles pulled high up on his forehead, amber eyes staring at his face bemusedly. He knew that face as well. He had signed a contract to wipe that face from existence. He glared up at him.
The owner of the voice smiled back and raised a smug eyebrow. ‘Well then. Look who’s woken up. What, are you going to try to kill me again, right now?’ -
ENTRY 2, 2025,6,13:
STATUS: Relieved that the week is over
SONG OF THE DAY: Lock Me Up, by The Cab
TOPIC: Translating Chinese poetry, in this case Lin Jiang Xian by Yang Shen, and seeing what I come up with.
‘Eastwards/ the mighty river/ roars away,
It’s foam-spray/ lays to rest/ old heroes…
Achievements/ honors/ all echo weak and alone…
Green mountains/ still stand high,
Basking/ in the sunset glow…’
There is a boat drifting freely on the river. From afar, it appears as no more than a brown leaf caught in the current. But take a closer look, and it is, unmistakably, a boat. And an old one it is, rickety and patched, a frayed canopy of tarp and straw doing little to shield passengers from the wind and wet.
There is a girl and a boy sitting on the boat, and there is a basin of red cherries laid between them. Beside the basin of cherries is a gourd and two bronze cups. There is, over the smell of river-spray and damp wood, a strong aroma of cinnamon in the air.
The girl lowers her voice and reaches for her cup. She downs the contents in one go and swiftly pours herself another serving. Her movements, though not vulgar in appearance, still lack the refined elegance of aristocratic training; and yet she holds herself in a manner that is simple but timeless in natural grace, a way free and unhindered by any controlling etiquette or manners. She is clad in a simple blue robe of cloth that spills into her surroundings like a blot of azure dye on a dark brown canvas. Her hair is as white as moonlight, cascading down her shoulders like a current of flowing silver, and her eyes are round pools of water as deep as the sea itself.
‘Immortal on the River.’ The boy notes, nodding slowly. ‘Fitting.’ He wears a raincoat of straw stems around his shoulders, and underneath that, a worn shirt knitted from the fibers of plant roots. ‘I have not heard this tune before though.’
‘It came to me some time ago.’ The girl replies. ‘We would sing like this, Ling and I, when we chanced upon each other and had nothing immediate to attend to.’
‘Ah. How is she now?’
‘She lost her voice and found a home in the mountains to the north.’ The girl chewed a cherry and spat the pit into the river. ‘I have not seen her since the Yuan era. For all I know, she should have passed.’
The boy paled slightly, and sat up straighter. His eyes are bright like sunlit gold. ‘Oh? What about the others? Your sisters?’
The girl shook her head. ‘We have not talked for ages. I doubt we would even recognize each other if we did meet. They could be anywhere under the sky, and above it as well.’
A moment of silence elapsed between them. ‘So,’ said the boy conversationally, picking at the stem of a cherry, ‘what plans do you have next? Anything you’re going to do?’
The girl looked at him intently with her dark eyes. ‘Travel. And observe.’ She said, simply.
‘That’s all?’
‘Forgive my straightforwardness, but it is a better way to spend the time than pretending to be an enchanted well for 400 years, do you not agree?’ She asked him.
The boy laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I was stuck in there, didn’t have much of a choice but to call for help, eh? It isn’t my problem that the people can’t understand my dialect.’
The girl shook her head resignedly. ‘Young.’ She murmured.
‘Hey. I heard that.’
‘Maybe you did. You mingle with people too much. There will be more wells waiting for you to get stuck in, heed my words.’
‘And there are other wonders to find in this world other than craggy peaks and rushing rivers.’ The boy told her. ‘Age makes you reluctant. Watch the people before you, and you’ll find scenery never seen before.’ He rose. ‘Thanks for the dinner. I’ll be off now.’
‘See yourself out as you wish.’ She gestured at the vast expanse of river outside, the banks flitting by them rapidly.
There was a vibration in the fabric of the world, and the boy was gone. The girl looked upwards at a new crane that had appeared in the sky above. It soared towards the setting sun, and was gone in the blink of an eye.
She sighed, reached for her cup, and drank, and sang.
‘The hoary fisherman/ riding the current’s brunt,
Knows how the cycle/ takes its toll…
But drink with a meeting/ can quench our woes,
When we talk of/ ancient pasts,
Whose life through/ our/ lips flows?’