A Little Urban Fantasy

Tips for writing flawed but lovable characters.

Flawed characters are the ones we root for, cry over, and remember long after the story ends. But creating a character who’s both imperfect and likable can feel like a tightrope walk. 

1. Flaws That Stem From Their Strengths

When a character’s greatest strength is also their Achilles' heel, it creates depth.

Strength: Fiercely loyal.

Flaw: Blind to betrayal or willing to go to dangerous extremes for loved ones.

“She’d burn the whole world down to save her sister—even if it killed her.”

2. Let Their Flaws Cause Problems

Flaws should have consequences—messy, believable ones.

Flaw: Impatience.

Result: They rush into action, ruining carefully laid plans.

“I thought I could handle it myself,” he muttered, staring at the smoking wreckage. “Guess not.”

3. Show Self-Awareness—or Lack Thereof

Characters who know they’re flawed (but struggle to change) are relatable. Characters who don’t realize their flaws can create dramatic tension.

A self-aware flaw: “I know I talk too much. It’s just… silence makes me feel like I’m disappearing.” A blind spot: “What do you mean I always have to be right? I’m just better at solving problems than most people!”

4. Give Them Redeeming Traits

A mix of good and bad keeps characters balanced.

Flaw: They’re manipulative.

Redeeming Trait: They use it to protect vulnerable people.

“Yes, I lied to get him to trust me. But he would’ve died otherwise.”

Readers are more forgiving of flaws when they see the bigger picture.

5. Let Them Grow—But Slowly

Instant redemption feels cheap. Characters should stumble, fail, and backslide before they change.

Early in the story: “I don’t need anyone. I’ve got this.”

Midpoint: “Okay, fine. Maybe I could use some help. But don’t get used to it.”

End: “Thank you. For everything.”

The gradual arc makes their growth feel earned.

6. Make Them Relatable, Not Perfect

Readers connect with characters who feel human—messy emotions, bad decisions, and all.

A bad decision: Skipping their best friend’s wedding because they’re jealous of their happiness.

A messy emotion: Feeling guilty afterward but doubling down to justify their actions.

A vulnerable moment: Finally apologizing, unsure if they’ll be forgiven.

7. Use Humor as a Balancing Act

Humor softens even the most prickly characters.

Flaw: Cynicism.

Humorous side: Making snarky, self-deprecating remarks that reveal their softer side.

“Love? No thanks. I’m allergic to heartbreak—and flowers.”

8. Avoid Overdoing the Flaws

Too many flaws can make a character feel unlikable or overburdened.

Instead of: A character who’s selfish, cruel, cowardly, and rude.

Try: A character who’s selfish but occasionally shows surprising generosity.

“Don’t tell anyone I helped you. I have a reputation to maintain.”

9. Let Them Be Vulnerable

Vulnerability adds layers and makes flaws understandable.

Flaw: They’re cold and distant.

Vulnerability: They’ve been hurt before and are terrified of getting close to anyone again.

“It’s easier this way. If I don’t care about you, then you can’t leave me.”

10. Make Their Flaws Integral to the Plot

When flaws directly impact the story, they feel purposeful rather than tacked on.

Flaw: Their arrogance alienates the people they need.

Plot Impact: When their plan fails, they’re left scrambling because no one will help them.

Flawed but lovable characters are the backbone of compelling stories. They remind us that imperfection is human—and that growth is possible.

“This is your daily, friendly reminder to use commas instead of periods during the dialogue of your story,” she said with a smile.

Writing without a story

I’ve got a couple of asks in my inbox about my prompt fills on here as well as how long I spend on them exactly. So here’s a bit of my process!

1) Find a prompt you like.

There are a lot of great prompt blogs out there! @writing-prompt-s, @gingerly-writing, @witterprompts, @yetmoreprompts and @corvidprompts are some of my favorites to go for inspiration.

For this post, I’ll be using this one (X) from writing-prompt-s! Don’t think too hard about it–that’ll just keep you from writing! Pick one you’d be interested in learning more about and open up a new document!

Prompt:  You are a lonely young child. Your parents are always working and you don’t have any friends. To cope, you decide to start talking to your stuffed animal. After you ask it a question one day, it responds

2) Choose your genre.

I tend to stick to urban fantasy or high fantasy, but maybe that’s not what you’re interested in writing! If you like writing out suspense, maybe thriller is more your speed or mystery! The world is your oyster.

3) Write the first line.

I favor my 10th grade english teacher’s advice here and try to write “one true sentence!” Technically it’s Hemingway’s advice, but he can go ahead and stay the frick out of this post!

Here’s my thought process: Young children need physical/verbal/emotional affection. Without the parents around, their reliance on stuffed animals makes sense. They probably hug the animal a lot and, from my experience, well loved stuffed animals aren’t quite as soft as they once were.

First line: Mr. Kili’s mane feels more like the fraying mop in the kitchen than yarn the night that Janet decides he’s the only friend she’ll ever need.

Keep reading

"Well, we started late anyway. One More Round, GO!"

When there's a minute left in class and my instructor thinks we can still fit a workout in

And I’m standing there like

I feel this is terribly important to keep in mind if your world building includes a substantial time skip. Unless a given reason has stagnated the world, "100 years later" should show a drastically different world.

We went from horse and buggy to space in less then 100 years

Abaddon Among the People - A drabble

I had some spare time at work and a word processor opened in front of me. A fun idea of a character that was once a harbinger of doom gets put on hiatus so the creator can get back to creating. But what happens when they don’t want to come back?

Enjoy.

~~~~~

"You're Grounded!" The eternal being bellowed.

"What!?" The destroyer of worlds cried back. Then, in a flash of light, the world opened around him. His glorious wings vanished and he fell. Passing through the several layers of reality, each plummet robbing him of his home and place among his kind. It its place grew a painful resentment. 

Then, he landed. He glared back at the bubbling rips in existence from whence he came. As the rends stitched themselves back together, he cried up into the void, “You’ll pay for this!” 

And then, silence. He would be forced to live among the mortal people. Creatures he once only saw at the tip of his lance. He would be forced to wallow alongside them.

That is, until they are called upon once more.

~~~~~~

"Let's get your wings back." Said the emissary of the eternal being. It floated in the middle of the living room and pulsed with eerie blue light.

"Actually," Don said, "I kind of like it here."

"What?” The being’s body bubbled and hissed as impossible energies coursed over what passed for its skin. The lights in the apartment started to flicker and shine in strange ways, like the bulbs were in pain.

"Hey, easy easy, you're gonna blow the whole grid." Don said, putting his hands on what passed for the being's shoulders. "Do you want some tea? I was just heating up a pot."

"How-" It began, before a finger pressed to what passed for its lips. Don gave a  pleading look before hooking a thumb to the bedroom door.

"She's trying to get some sleep."

The emissary's eyes twisted in an unnatural and disturbing way, the pupils weaving between each eye. When they settled, it began again.

"How can you turn down the call of the Eternal?" It said. Though hushed, the voice of the emissary was still heavy with purpose.

He shrugged, "I guess it just isn't as important anymore." 

What passed for the emissary's mouth dropped open.

The tea kettle began to hiss. "One second," Don said and hustled off to the kitchen to grab the kettle. When he got there, the emissary was standing next to the refrigerator. Its glowing body illuminated everything in a swirling mix of blue and white light. He didn't turn to face the impossible being as he poured out some of the hot water into a pair of cups.

"Was that a yes or no to the tea?" He said.

"You are making a mistake." It said, its voice dipped into that quivering pool of impossible where it sounded close and far at the same time, a booming whisper. The kind that makes your heart wait its turn. A mortal being would probably drop to their knees in terror and repent their sins.

Don set the kettle down and tipped his head to the side. "Yeah, probably too late for black tea. Too much caffeine." He poured out the cups and walked right past the emissary to the cupboard. "How about some chamomile lavender?"

"PESTIFER MUNDI ABADDON," the emissary said. “I CALL UPON YOU.”

Its voice was like a forgotten song. It was old and dripping with power. For Don, it ached with memories. A surge hit him and an old itch prickled his skin, centering on seven very particular points on his back. He grabbed the edge of the counter top to keep himself upright. His jaw clenched as a warm, pleasing, dangerous power kindled in his arms. The counter top began to crack.

"How feeble," He thought, looking at the splinters spreading from his flexed fingers. "A flick of my wrist and this whole wall would crumble. No, the whole building." A smile creeped over his face. His muscles burned, burdened with power, on the edge of a sudden push that would bring forth ruin.

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE," The emissary said.

"Who I am," Don said, his own voice was becoming dangerous and hot with feral potential. In truth, he never forgot. The memories of a lifetime long lost all gripped at his heart and mind every day. And every day he had placed them in their dark box. Things were different now.

"Who I am, is not who I was." He said. His bones, his body, ached in protest. But it wouldn't be the first time.

"YOU ARE A TOOL FOR THE ETERNAL AND YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED." The emissary said. Its body shimmered brighter, eyes burning with literal fire. Wisps of white smoke drifted towards the ceiling.

"Shove it, glowstick," He said, turning to face the floating voice of eternity. He put his finger right into its burning face, "You want to destroy this world so bad you can do it your damn self!"

What passed for the emissary's face curled into a horrible look of satisfaction. "So be it."

It was gone in the next moment.

Don was left in the kitchen alone. In the sudden darkness, he had the chance to ruminate on his choice of words. The gears whirred in his head as he flipped through the pages of his memories. Back, back, back. He finally reached that dark box in his mind. Whispers crept to his mind. Whispers of the end times, and getting permission, and a prophesied fool who would welcome the end of the world.

"Fuck," Don said.

A small voice gasped from behind him. He spun around, arms raised defensively. He looked at the doorway where a young girl was huddled, peeking in. She had a yellow rain hat and rain jacket, just like when he first found her. The baseball bat was a new addition. Though, it did prove that she had been listening to his survival advice all along. Her hazel eyes were wide and fixed on him.

"You said a swear," She said, her shocked face turned to a chiding smile.

He dropped his hands and let out the breath he realized he had been holding. He walked to the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a small hard candy. It was a serious swear, so he grabbed a strawberry one. He walked over and knelt down in front of her. He held up the candy and said, "No telling, okay?" He smiled.

She set the bat down and grabbed the candy, stuffing it in her pocket. "Deal. Who was the floaty guy?"

Don had almost forgotten about it. Is this the mortal ability to bypass traumatic moments? He will have to be more careful in the future. Things were about to hit the biblical fan.

"The floaty guy," He began, "Was an old friend. Wants me to get back into my family's business. I turned him down and he took it pretty hard."

"Is that why he exploded?" She said, she fidgeted with her hair, fingers fumbling to make a loose braid.

"Pretty much," He said, once again taking advantage of the impressive ability children have to just go along with things. They can inquire forever about why rain falls but tell them your old friend, who is a floaty guy on fire, just exploded because of family issues and they just nod along. Which is what she was doing, nodding her head like it all made sense to her.

"Speaking of which," He said, "We need to go see Mother May."

Mother May would know what to do. Probably. Assuming she was lucid enough to still be coherent. It was still early in the night. If they could catch her before her second bottle of absinthe, they might stand a chance to get a question in before she goes into her "Trance".

"Ready to go," She said. She grabbed the backpack that was tucked behind the doorway and slipped if on. Then she picked up the bat and rested it on her shoulder like a big leaguer. 

“So it would seem,” He said, giving her a nod. “I’ll grab my stuff and we’ll get going.”

He hustled to his room and dug into the back of his closet. He grabbed his satchel and leather duster jacket. He dashed to the door, but his hand came up and caught the door frame. He hesitated at the door. He looked back at the closet. His fingertips drummed on the door frame.

"What's taking so long?" The girl called from the front room.

He let go of the door frame. "Nothing," He called back to her before leaving his room.

Seconds later, he came sprinting back, vaulting over his bed and diving into the closet. He pulled back with a small box in his hands. He let his fingers trace over the intricate and ancient writing on it. He stuffed it into his satchel.

"We'll be fine," He said, "But just in case." He got to his feet and hustled out of the room again. “We’ll be fine.”

. . .

Mother May was a withered husk of centuries of abuse. Most, if not all of it, had been chemical and self-inflicted. However, for all the hallucinogens she had ingested in one form or another, she was a spry woman, scuttling about her duties at the Pearly Gates hostel. After a day of hard shilling to the lost and misfortune, she would shuffle to the parlor in the back to engage in recreational fortune-telling and tarot reading. Surrounded by her favorite tinctures and exotic smoke, she would play cards against the gods and read what the future had in store. This night, she had barely settled down to turn over the first card when there came a knock, knock knocking upon her chamber door. She laid down the card "The Fool" and sighed.

"Come on in, Don," She barked at the door, "You know you're always welcome."

someone give him a grammy

Sir Rathus Kaine Returns

Inspired by reading Seven Blades in Black by Sam Sykes, I made this while trying to emulate the style. I highly recommend the book. Please enjoy my brain nugget.

++++

“Great General Baltha!” Said the messenger, running frantically into the office. Bethany Burlesque Baltha spared an irate glance at the frantic messenger.

“Yes?” She said, voice creaking from the remnants of a cold she was battling. The stress of running the Palace of Great Deeds had been ruining her sleep schedule which had made her condition rather worrisome. But she couldn’t let down the Glorious One, or more importantly, Abigail. She pushed the thought away from her mind. She realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the messenger.

“Uh, what was that?” She said, “Catch your breath and start over.”

The messenger seemed thankful and took a few deep breaths before speaking again. “Like I said, the Crypt of Kings was found open this morning.”

“Grave robbers?” She said and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I wouldn’t think a General would have to instruct her forces to hunt down bandits.” She paused as a cold chill passed down her spine, “Unless there is more to this story?”

The messenger, steadied himself on a chair in front of her desk. She motioned for him to take a seat. He obliged and took another breath.

“We thought it was stranger for bandits to get this far into the Palace of Great Deeds without anyone noticing. So we went into the crypt and found there was only one tomb disturbed. One that we have all been instructed to stay far away from.” He paused as the realization sunk into her. She rose from her desk, her eyes deadly serious and focused on him.

“Show me.”

The Glorious Empire of Divinia held a great deal of the western continent with its heart beating in the capital city of Falk at the top of Mount Spire. Surrounding allies all held an important part of the Glorious Empire. And in Velkinrath, they had the Palace of Great Deeds. A glorified cemetery for the great martyrs and pillars of the nation. Though, that was just on the surface. Deep beneath the polished marble floors, a series of chambers held dire secrets. And among them was the body of the true pillar of the Glorious Empire.

Sir Rathus Kaine. First of the Glorious Empire. The Hero who sacrificed everything for the benefit of The Glorious One. He was buried in a very prestigious place, behind several layers of protective barrier. The scraps of which lay in shattered flecks around the feet of Baltha. She gazed, a pale expression of unrest sitting uncomfortably on her face, into the gaping maw of the opened crypt. The messenger stayed at the door behind her as instructed, but for a fleeting moment she really wanted to have another body there as a shield. Or better yet, she really wanted to turn tail and run back up to her desk and dive underneath and snatch that bottle of aged whiskey for a long and comforting pull. But this would demand a report. And she would need to add a very important detail. One that Abigail would be looking very keenly for. And one that, should she leave out, would reflect poorly on her maintaining the loving relationship her neck had with her head.

She steeled her resolve and pressed onward. The echoing sound of her boots in the stone corridor emphasized the feeling that she was alone in the tomb. And hopefully, that was true.

She reached the remnants of the chamber door leading into the tomb. There were large gashes on the metal door that had severed the layers of locking mechanisms. She felt a cold wind on the back of her neck, she fought her urge to cry out, and simply turned around slowly. All she saw was the messenger standing at the entrance, dutiful and at attention. Poor soul must have been anxious as hell. Seeing his superior meekly stumbling in the dark towards a room he never had any knowledge of. She cleared her throat and called out to him.

“Seems like the grave robbers were using some impressive tools.” She said, and to her credit, she almost believed it. But the gouges in the door were clearly rend from the inside of the room. The messenger nodded from his vantage point far away from her.

She turned back to the door and the room beyond. A cold sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. One last thing to check. Just a quick peek will do the trick. Then she could leave and file a report that there was just some burglars that need apprehending and she could go back to trying to drown troubling memories and nightmares.

She slipped her hand between the cracks in the door and felt for the special switch that deactivated the traps within the room. You could conceive that these traps were built to discourage the incredibly dedicated thief, but she knew there was another being that it was actually designed for. Several layers of powerful and painful magic pointed at the sarcophagus at the center of the tomb. To be fair, it was a rather splendid piece of work, that regal coffin. Draped in the wonderful colors of the Glorious Empire and sealed with hundreds of pounds of inert stone, sculpted to look like the late Rathus Kaine. Or at least, it would, were it not for the gaping scar that tore through the length of the elegant confinement. And by all accounts, that kind of rupture did not appear to come from the outside.

“Oh no,” Baltha said to herself. She began to contemplate her options. She could bring this intel to Abigail, now would be fine. But she knew the question would come.

“And the body?” She would ask. In a voice like honey. So sweet. So viciously sweet. You wouldn’t notice the poison until you were already a blue and bloated corpse.

So, with her fear of the known overpowering her fear of the unknown, Baltha tipped her head forward and looking into the regal coffin’s wound.

Within the sarcophagus, wrapped in the regalia he wore in life, lay the late Sir Rathus Kaine. Eyes closed gently as if in peaceful rest. Hands holding onto the sword given to him on the day his life was taken by an enraged elemental and he passed away for the benefit of the Glorious Empire.

She closed her eyes let out a heaving sigh of relief. The body was still there. Still dead. Whatever had happened here was very strange, but at least she could end her report and Abigail would not come after her.

“Did you miss me?” A voice said.

Her eyes snapped open, Kaine was looking up at her. His eyes open wide. Bright and filled with a light that was not human, or divine, something else. She felt the would fall out beneath her, dropping to her knees and scrambling back to the entrance to the tomb. There came a blast of wind as Kaine stepped beside her. The edge of his sword found its way under her chin.

“After all these years, you never visited.” He said, his voice was distant but she could feel it pounding in her head. “I guess I can’t blame you, what with these magical traps. Did you make these, Baltha? Traps always were your specialty.”

She swallowed hard, the edge of the blade biting gently into the skin of her throat. Her body trembled as she tried to lift herself away from the blade. She was so close to the door, to the trap switch, she could still make it out alive. She just needed to buy time.

“Please don’t kill me.” She said, choking back a sob. “I don’t want to die.”

The pressure against her throat lessened. “Oh dear, Baltha. I am not going to slit your throat.” He said and slipped the blade into the sheath at his side. “You’re just following orders.” His eyes danced with fire as he looked down at her. “Another dog of Abigail.”

“Yes,” She said, stumbling to her feet and falling against the door frame, “I was just a pawn. A tool.”

He tipped his head to the side, “Baltha, what are you doing?”

She jammed her hand into the door crack, “I’m putting you back in your box, Kaine!” She shouted and flicked the switch. The magic in the traps began to hum back to life.

“Aha, I see.” He said and smiled. “So that’s where it is.” The hum of the magic traps began to change tone to a rhythmic pulsing in and out. It sounded like a grumbling, gravelly echo. Like someone…snoring?

“You know Baltha,” He said, his form shivering and fading away to show her still standing over the sarcophagus, asleep on her feet. “You really should get more sleep. You’ll get nightmares.” He said and clapped his hands.

Baltha woke up with a start, standing in front of the sarcophagus, looking down into the gaping wound. The empty box presented the lovely interior of the royal coffin. She turned back to the door, to find Kaine standing there. His hand was slipped into the crack in the door.

“Goodbye Baltha.” The clock of the switch rang in her ears before being drowned out by the roar of the magical traps.

At the end of the corridor, the messenger barely had time to dive away from the blast of powerful magic that ripped out of the tomb. He scrambled to his feet and looked down the glassed corridor.

“General Baltha?” He called out.

There came no answer, but there was a whisper that came from behind him.

“You’re a messenger, right?”

The young messenger spun around to see an emaciated and ashen body wreathed in the scraps of tattered regal clothing, a dangerous blade hung at his hip. He placed a hand on the weapon and cleared his throat to insist a response.

“Y-yes, sir.” He said, fumbling to pull a notepad and everink quill out of his pockets.

“Good,” The shambling corpse said, his smile causing cracks to form at the edges of his face, “Tell Abigail I’m coming for a visit.”

The messenger scribbled on the pad. At the bottom of his notes, a flourished blank patch begged a name. He looked up to the imposing threat before him.

“Uh, who–“

“Me?” Said the crackling creature. It’s eyes flashed with a sickly light and his grin peeled back to reveal sharpened teeth. “I’m the Boogeyman.”

*strums guitar*  I like to call this song  "Terry Pratchett Should Be Required Reading, Jesus Christ He Didn’t Fuck Around"

Going to try 30 minute spit painting as warm-ups. I’m realizing my dependency on brushes needs to be minimized a bit.

Row of lights was the theme. I don’t think I emphasized the theme enough and probably could have done so with higher contrast. Next time I’ll do better!