NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND (Completed)
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Notes from Underground, also translated as Notes from the Underground or Letters from the Underworld, is an 1864 novella by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Notes is considered by many to be one of the first existentialist novels. It presents itself as an excerpt from the rambling memoirs of a bitter, isolated, unnamed narrator (generally referred to by critics as the Underground Man) who is a retired civil servant living in St. Petersburg. The first part of the story is told in monologue form, or the underground man's diary, and attacks emerging Western philosophy, especially Nikolay Chernyshevsky's What Is to Be Done?
The second part of the book is called "Apropos of the Wet Snow" and describes certain events that appear to be destroying and sometimes renewing the underground man, who acts as a first person, unreliable narrator and anti-hero
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![spilled thoughts and crafted words [ SOON TO BE PUBLISHED ]](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/231795358-256-k193472.jpg)
spilled thoughts and crafted words [ SOON TO BE PUBLISHED ]
These are thoughts remembered in the middle of awkward laughter and noticeable stares that are divided by three sections. The first one is leakage. It talks about our suffering, the strange feeling of existing, the weight, and the burden; the quick whisper of "I need help." Leakage is where our anxieties walk through to escape; the foreign place no one knows but our fear. Meanwhile, the mid part is a pocket of acceptance-may it be real or a mock-up one. I called it "disguise." Here are forgiveness, bravery, and a little tinge of hope concealed with vivid narratives of childhood flashbacks and muted confessions. The last and the longest part is about the cracks. Some of it is just a mere fault, yet most of the time, cracks cause tough surfaces to break too. This is where all the souls I loved before lies. The cradle of leakages. The continuous attempts at recognizing and creating my own language again-because they once made me speak a dialect my tongue never had a taste of. This is filled with lapses, hatred, debris, the gloomy age, and the stories of failed first loves that I have overheard. Composed of forgotten cold cases, the broadsides I will tell the first and last time, and the stabs I had to cope with until I bled from the same wounds they pierced and invaded.Complete
GIRL'S INFERNO ✴ fyodor dostoevsky.
In this whirlwind of life, in this society, you want to meet a handsome man, not for venereal reasonsㅡbut to have a dream romance; each and every one you know already had a husband, except you, a naive femme who longed to be cherished for who you were and not for your beauty and figure. But who you were to dare to speak of love if you lived in this inferno of your own? ▶ girl's inferno | fyodor dostoevsky. wrote by amariiel ㅤ 2O24 𝒮low updates 𔔡 female reader insert. ❞ ⤿ 𝐁SD. fanfiction featuring a fyodor d. x reader relationship. Usual bsd trigger warnings (tw) / novel.Complete
𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 𝙄𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙩 - 𝙔𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 ✓
(As this is an older story of mine, the literacy and grammar within this story is not as polished or skilled as what's recent within my works!) --- "𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶?" "𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨?" "𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯," "𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘰'𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥." "𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭." "𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦." --- As a new nurse at the Psychiatric Ward, one of your assigned patients is Stanislav Dostoevsky. A Russian man with a thick accent, an unkempt appearance and a dark demeanour lingers around him, in a greater contrast to the other patients. It wasn't the silence and distance he held from others within the Psychiatric Ward that was terrifying, it was the intensity of his gaze, the way the glow of the sterile tiles and walls reflected against the whites of his eyes, and just how much he's been observing. --- (This is based on a C.ai Bot I created and its storyline! The characters and storyline were all created by me! The C.ai bot link will be in the author's note within the first chapter along with detailed warnings and such!) ---Complete
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A story of good and evil. It's a love story, of sorts. Isador Vivona is a young federal agent whose main focus was to work as an undercover agent. Finally after being a desk jockey like agent for the dawn of his career-- he is given an undercover assignment. Collect evidence that can be used to convict Aleksei Volkov. Now Aleksei Volkov is known by the all mafias on the coast for uncovering the rats who find themselves interwoven into the mafia families in efforts to bust them. They all call him Mousetrap. He gets tasked by his own boss to welcome in a new member. It's then that Isador and Aleksei meet, their paths crossing and opening quite the chapter in the boys lives. But with the death of the families boss comes new leadership. A leadership who wishes for more power. More power that could get everyone killed. Listen to This While Reading: Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4L1jbpeiYabV7YTQgN5K7F?si=bKtKEal7RxSMs1CWFMJjOg This story was co-written, on Lioden. Users involved: Rico #22069 - Isador Kay #390963 - Aleksei We hope you enjoy them as much as we did.Complete
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These are thoughts remembered in the middle of awkward laughter and noticeable stares that are divided by three sections. The first one is leakage. It talks about our suffering, the strange feeling of existing, the weight, and the burden; the quick whisper of "I need help." Leakage is where our anxieties walk through to escape; the foreign place no one knows but our fear. Meanwhile, the mid part is a pocket of acceptance-may it be real or a mock-up one. I called it "disguise." Here are forgiveness, bravery, and a little tinge of hope concealed with vivid narratives of childhood flashbacks and muted confessions. The last and the longest part is about the cracks. Some of it is just a mere fault, yet most of the time, cracks cause tough surfaces to break too. This is where all the souls I loved before lies. The cradle of leakages. The continuous attempts at recognizing and creating my own language again-because they once made me speak a dialect my tongue never had a taste of. This is filled with lapses, hatred, debris, the gloomy age, and the stories of failed first loves that I have overheard. Composed of forgotten cold cases, the broadsides I will tell the first and last time, and the stabs I had to cope with until I bled from the same wounds they pierced and invaded.
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