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13 contributions to The Afterskool Writing Club
1d •
July 2026 Writing Prompt: The Lantern‑Back Man (Amy Winehouse Edition)
Bayou folks say the Lantern‑Back Man only shows up when a guy’s on the verge of making a spectacularly bad decision — the kind you’ll later call “growth” even though everyone knows it was just you being stubborn with style. He’s got that Amy Winehouse aura: smoky, sharp, and carrying the kind of tired affection reserved for men who insist they’re fine when they’re clearly unraveling. I met him on a night when I was absolutely not winning at life. Shirt wrinkled, hair doing whatever it wanted, drink in hand that tasted like bravado mixed with denial. Very I swear I’m good, man energy. The fog rolled in thick, and his lantern glow cut through it like the last warm light in a bar that should’ve closed an hour ago. He didn’t say a word — just gave me that look Amy perfected, the one that’s half‑tender and half‑“you’re better than this, love.” I muttered, “I’m fine.” He tilted his head — pure Rehab energy — the kind that says, Sure you are, champ. Then he tapped my phone. The screen died instantly, like it had been caught pretending it had its life together. The river hummed. The night breathed. My pulse finally slowed. He pointed toward the water, inviting me to sit with something real for once. So I did. And the quiet hit me harder than any drink — that Winehouse truth that shows up when everything else stops buzzing and you’re left with yourself. When I finally looked up, he was gone. Just a faint shimmer drifting toward the trees, like the last note of a song that leaves you standing there, hands in your pockets, wondering how you got so far off track. People say he appears to men who are unraveling with charm. I believe it. I haven’t doom‑scrolled by the river since.
0 likes • 14h
@Mary Jo Wisneski (pt.2) The second time I saw the Lantern‑Back Man, I wasn’t spiraling — not exactly. I was doing that thing men do when we’re “fine” in a way that looks productive from the outside but feels like emotional tax evasion on the inside. I’d been stacking good habits like sandbags, trying to keep the river of my life from spilling over again. Gym. Journaling. Less drinking. More sleep. All the things you do when you’re trying to outrun your own patterns with discipline instead of honesty. It was working. Mostly. The night was thick with humidity, the kind that makes the air feel like it’s leaning on you. I was walking the bayou trail with purpose — earbuds in, podcast on, pretending I was the kind of man who could self‑improve his way out of his own head. The fog rolled in again, slow and deliberate, like it remembered me. And then I saw it: that warm, amber glow cutting through the mist. Not bright. Not urgent. Just… present. He stepped out from between the cypress trees, lantern fused to his back, glowing like a bruise made of light. Same smoky sharpness. Same tired affection Amy used to have for men who swore they were “working on themselves” but hadn’t yet touched the real wound. I pulled out an earbud. “Not tonight,” I said. “I’m actually doing okay.” He didn’t argue. He just tilted his head — that familiar Rehab‑energy gesture — but this time it wasn’t Sure you are, champ. It was I know you’re trying, love. He reached out and tapped my chest, right over the sternum. Not hard. Just enough to make me feel the weight of the moment. And the lantern on his back flickered — once, twice — syncing with my heartbeat like it was checking my pulse for truth. My phone didn’t die this time. My bravado did. The river hummed again, but differently — less like a warning, more like a welcome. The night breathed around us, thick and forgiving. Something loosened inside me, something I’d been holding too tightly. The kind of tension you don’t notice until someone gently points at it with supernatural patience.
1d •
A Reaction To: Monsterhearts Campaign > Game Premise
@Laura Cushing I hope you don't mind. I read the premise of your RPG in the July Accountability Post - and it took me to another place . It also reminded me of Summer Camp! Briarwood feels different now. Like the whole town is walking around with a bruise they can’t see but keep pressing anyway. Thirty‑one days gone — cleanly, surgically — and everyone pretending they’re fine because what else do you do when the calendar betrays you. The halls look normal, but the air has that charged heaviness, like a storm passed through the building and forgot to take its teeth with it. Friends I used to nod at in the hallway now carry themselves like they’ve fought something in the dark. Some have scars they joke about, but their eyes don’t match the punchline. Others keep glancing at their phones like they’re waiting for a message from someone they don’t remember meeting. And the dreams — God, the dreams. I’ve never been to a lake like that. Never stood on a dock that long. Never heard water whisper like it’s trying to confess something. But I wake up sweating, heart pounding, like I almost drowned in a place that doesn’t exist. People keep finding photos too — blurry, off‑angle shots of August that shouldn’t be real. A bonfire. A cabin. A shadow that doesn’t look human. Everyone laughs it off, but nobody deletes them. And every so often, someone remembers one moment. Just one. A flash of fear. A scream swallowed by trees. A hand reaching through water. Enough to know August wasn’t empty. Enough to know something happened, and it wasn’t kind. Briarwood woke up on September 1st. But I’m not convinced we all came back!
1 like • 23h
@Laura Cushing Thank You ! It's a beautiful premise - I'd be curious to learn more !
0 likes • 14h
@Mary Jo Wisneski thank you !
23h •
Willow Marie Sullivan : A Reaction
@Kathryn Holmes Hi Shelley ! I saw that outline you left in general discussion - so I worked it. I hope you don't mind. This is a one-off . The Night The Darkness Recognized Her: The road to her grandmother’s ranch felt endless— a narrow ribbon of asphalt swallowed by trees that leaned too close, as if they wanted to listen to the quiet girl walking toward her fate. Willow Marie Sullivan moved through the dusk like someone half‑erased. Her footsteps were soft, her breath thin, her grief a second shadow trailing behind her with perfect devotion. By the time she reached the house, night had settled fully— not gentle, not star‑washed, but heavy and watchful, a presence that seemed to know her name before she spoke it. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved from cold angles. No welcome. No flicker of recognition. Just a stare that felt like a verdict. Willow stepped inside anyway, because she had nowhere else to go. The house smelled of dust and old secrets. Floorboards groaned under her weight, as if protesting her arrival. Every room felt dim, not from lack of light but from lack of kindness. She could feel it— the way cruelty can settle into a place and make a home of it. Outside, the ranch exhaled differently. The horses shifted in their stalls, their bodies restless in the dark, their eyes catching faint glimmers of moonlight like small, flickering lanterns. And William Boyd stood among them, a tall, quiet figure with the kind of presence that made shadows hesitate. He noticed her immediately— the girl with the haunted posture, the girl who moved like she expected to be struck. He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched her, as if trying to understand what kind of darkness she carried and how long she had been carrying it. When he finally approached, his voice was low, steady enough to cut through the night without disturbing it. “You’re safe out here,” he said. Not a promise— promises were too fragile for a girl like Willow— but a truth spoken softly enough that she almost believed it.
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29d •
Honesty as a First Language
The Quote: “I realized I didn’t want to write in code anymore.” From: 2021 The Anthropocene Reviewed — John Green My Take: There’s a moment in writing when you stop performing and start telling the truth — not the grand, cinematic truth, but the small one you’ve been carrying quietly for years. That’s what it means to stop writing in code. It’s the decision to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not, to stop sanding down the edges of what hurts, to stop hiding behind cleverness because vulnerability feels too expensive. When you write without code, you’re not trying to be profound. You’re just trying to be real. You’re admitting that your life has been messy, that your fears have teeth, that your joy is fragile, that your hope is something you have to rebuild over and over. And somehow, that honesty — the shaky, unpolished kind — is what makes the work feel alive. Because the truth is, writing isn’t about revelation. It’s about recognition. It’s the moment someone reads your words and thinks, Oh. I’ve felt that too. And suddenly the world feels a little less lonely, and you feel a little more like a person who belongs in it. PSA: Sometimes it feels like I’m getting quietly escorted out of Skool rooms I didn’t even know I’d entered. A few pages, a few people — gone. No explanation, no message, just a digital door closing. I’ve reached out for clarity and gotten silence, which is its own kind of answer, I guess. If my writing ever rubs you the wrong way, just send me a DM. I’d rather hear it from a human than from an automated ban button. I’m here to connect, not to confuse.
0 likes • 6d
@Kathryn Holmes You don’t ever have to get over it . Give yourself permission to write a messy, incoherent draft that is meant entirely for your eyes only. Try and make the draft as detailed as possible - get all the raw emotion out - eventually you will get it all down. I find it’s always helpful to live with the memory - eventually you will find solace - and that’s different for everybody.
0 likes • 5d
@Kathryn Holmes Sure thing ! I hope you find some solace in the writing.
11d •
Response To: "July Accountability Check-In"
I swear July snuck up on me like a plot twist none of us approved. One minute I was saying, “I’ll start fresh in July,” and the next minute July said, “Surprise! I’m already halfway done.” My writing so far this month has been… let’s call it “warming up.” I’ve opened my manuscript, stared at it meaningfully, and even scrolled through it like a Victorian ghost haunting its own novel. Actual words on the page? Those are coming soon — allegedly. My goal for July is simple: momentum. Not perfection, not brilliance, just steady forward motion. A few pages, a few scenes, maybe even a chapter if the stars align and my coffee is strong enough. I’m focusing on showing up even when the writing gremlins whisper dramatic nonsense. So yes — you’re not alone. July is already sprinting ahead, but we’re catching up. Here’s to a month of small wins, messy drafts, and the occasional moment where we surprise ourselves by actually writing something good. Let’s do this!
1 like • 9d
@Jonah Wisneski I’ve gotta ask — what subjects are you diving into these days? I’m genuinely curious what corners of the creative universe you’re exploring, because you always seem to be cooking up something interesting. If you feel like sharing, I’m all ears and at least 40% caffeine!
1 like • 7d
@Mary Jo Wisneski aw thank you so much ! I’ll try my best - I’m always willing to try new styles !
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