Pinned Post
You wake up with fresh dirt under your fingernails, scratches down your arms, and a half-buried shoebox in the garden. You don't remember a thing. Inside the box is something that changes everything.
What’s in the box?
👉 Drop your answer in the group — we wanna see how twisted your imagination can get.
You find a bundle of letters hidden beneath the floorboards — all addressed to you, all dated ten years before you were born.
The final one ends with a warning:
“Don’t read the last page.”
You’re alone in a quiet room—until you hear your name whispered behind you.
No footsteps. No echo. No one there.
And yet… you know exactly who it sounded like—and what they once promised.
✨ Write a short scene, paragraph, or opening line that captures that moment. Is it grief? Guilt? Or something much darker?
Time. Though we run from it, name it and try to cage it, measure it out with grains of sand or the slow decay of atomic energy, it will not be ruled. We can try to know it -- like I know that is has been 7670 days since I last heard your voice, since you last whispered my name -- but in the end, it rules us. Because it is the end, like you were my end, my love, my judge, my ruin.
Dark Initiate
Dark Initiate
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The box is filed with hundreds and hundreds of baby teeth. I have no children of my own…