Mohannad Sayed
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ms-writes.bsky.social
Mohannad Sayed
@ms-writes.bsky.social
43 followers 21 following 81 posts
Gamer by habit. Writer by accident.

I follow my ideas — no matter the genre. Let’s see where this goes.
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ms-writes.bsky.social
The embodiment of intrusive thoughts in a novel.

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Hale’s light skimmed over the entrance of the next landing: Residential Suite B4. The iron door was punctured in places, small jagged holes scattered across its surface. Whispers leaked through—fragmented, overlapping—like a dozen conversations just out of reach. Metal clinked—knives, forks, spoons—tapping against dishes, people gathered around a feast. Brushing dragged in unbalanced strokes—broom bristles sweeping the floor—followed by the groan of wood settling under a heavy weight—someone taking a seat. People? They shouldn’t be. They couldn’t be. But if not… then what are they? Who talks but people? He glanced at the others—pale faces, stiff limbs, stares fixed on the door in utter silence. Maybe he should… Hale lifted a finger to knock, but Camilla clamped it down. “Mother said it’s inadequate to disturb… things when they’re eating. Let’s leave them in peace.”
October 29, 2025 at 12:37 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
A pre-war speech from Darion La Valette. Taken from my old fantasy novel that will probably never see the light of day.

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My men do not fear the blades of fallacy. My men do not tremble at the sight of the armies of heresy. My men do not kneel and crawl, for they are neither fodder nor thrall. Steel your hearts as we march, let their screams reach the stars. Men, let’s show them how the Kingslayers charge!
October 22, 2025 at 10:50 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
"Songbird" is the nickname Marco gave Camilla.

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October 21, 2025 at 3:14 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Hello everybody, been a while. I was hibernating from social media to finish my WIP and i finally did. Now i am discovering how this whole beta reading thing works.

From my finished draft: A Monster's Lullaby.

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A lonely house nestled between the trees, camouflaged by roots and leaves. Vines coiled up its sides, clutching the boarded windows, while the roof sagged beneath broken branches and a colony of bird nests. Marcia lowered the map, pistol drawn. Her boot hit the porch step, wood groaning. The door hung ajar, leaking earthy rot and the dense choke of decay. She swallowed a gag and nudged the door wider with the barrel of her gun. Switching her flashlight on, Marcia’s beam swept over a table set for one. Mismatched utensils sat next to a plate bloated with rot. A torn ration packet marked “Westfield Camp” leaned against the plate, its moldy contents leaking sludge into the wood.
October 20, 2025 at 12:14 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
From my finalized first draft of the novel: A Monster's Lullaby.

When Camila woke up to a burning street and smoky sky, her mother tasked her to gather only what matters and meet her downstairs.

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October 6, 2025 at 12:34 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Does it make sense without context? Probably not. Would that stop me from posting it?

well...

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Does it make sense without context? Probably not. Would that stop me from posting it? well... #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts #AmWriting
September 10, 2025 at 2:16 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Omniscient narration goes hard sometimes in my opinion.

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Connie grabbed her glasses—frame twisted out of shape—and began bending them back, adding more force, and more, and more, until the frame snapped in two. Her eyes—likely half-blind—widened, possibly wondering whether she added too much pressure.
September 9, 2025 at 4:08 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
I've always wondered how far can I push a certain voice in the narrative? like, did i go a little bit overboard with the pros in his snip for example?

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When they entered the room, the emergency lights spilled through the openings, lining the walls with jagged contours of claws, hunched figures, and twisted limbs. Hale couldn’t tell if they were beasts, or tricks of a brain drowning in cortisol and adrenaline, his amygdala hijacking perception into a survivalist’s nightmare. The facility groaned—metal shifting, doors rattling, the unseen pressing against the structure like the whole place was breathing. An event was unfolding on the edge of Hale’s peripherals.
September 5, 2025 at 11:44 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
I've been off social media for over a week now. Life's been crazy, but here we are, back in the game and with a snip that slaps.

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As Zero picked up the mug, the drink wobbled, spilling fresh lines, dripping onto the floor. It was still warm. Still tasted the same? She sipped. Weak bitterness. Dull sourness. It was thin, and shallow, like water that loved coffee so much it started imitating. It’s rich, brave flavour was reduced to a faded memory. Zero stuck out her tongue. A chalky aftertaste clung to her mouth. The Caretaker had made her a cup before. But the only thing they shared was the name. This Coffee must have died.
September 4, 2025 at 10:22 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Instead of using career, i named one.

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Lydia’s gold hair was pulled into a high ponytail, but a few strands slipped down to frame her sharp eyes. She rarely blinked when speaking—and rarely spoke without orders. Everything was assessed with care, as if her mind processed information on a different wavelength. The title Doctor carried many meanings. But for Lydia, every one of them fit.
August 20, 2025 at 8:57 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Here's more of the omniscient narrator idea. Wondering if you like the voice.

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Connie trapped the trap beneath the trapdoor— so that anyone who traps the handle between his fingers and yanks, would get trapped in the trapezoid-shaped room.
August 19, 2025 at 7:49 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Here's a synonym to one of the meanings of a word that has many meanings.

What a twist.

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Rigel wiped the blood streaming from his nose. He straddled toward the king, every step carving the smile on his lips wider. "Last time when you had me on my knees, i did it because my legs failed me. But now?" He rested his hand on the King's shoulder. "You'll do it submissively." Rigel leaned in, whispering in the man's ears. "Kneel."
August 18, 2025 at 11:26 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
From my current WIP novel.

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A rapid burst of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Camila flinched, almost dropping the flashlight as it jittered over a silhouette darting from one doorway to another. The door creaked as it swayed shut behind it. Glass shattered. Furniture scraped the floor. Metal groaned under strain. Camila’s beam swept upward to the drop ceiling, where broken tiles exposed the HVAC ducts—rattling under the movement that crawled through them.
August 17, 2025 at 8:16 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Something on the fly for today because i am going to work and i'll stay at work for the rest of the day.

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Lucy jumped back. Her boot caught on a tangle of wires, and she crashed to the floor. "Impossible!" She muttered, gaze fixed on the figure passing through the entrance. "We killed you." "Aw... cute." Alex stepped into the light, crouching to meet her eyes. "Did no one tell you? I am allergic to death."
August 16, 2025 at 10:42 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Little nightmares is a spectacular game. Ever since i finished it, i've had that idea of a horror story written from an omniscient POV with the voice being somewhat similar to old tales.

The story structure has to be unique though.

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As darkness yawned, the shadows took shape. Black fingers crawled down the walls, edging toward Connie’s face. Fear was adamant. Death was imminent. Panic carved into the wrinkles across her skin, threading through bone and marrow. But yonder, a spark of light. The gleam of a razor’s edge. A sword. A saviour. Or was it?
August 15, 2025 at 10:06 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
And Alex is back at it again. Who would have thought.

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“You think yourself better than us, Alex?” Lucas growled. “You kill like we kill. You pillage like we pillage. You steal like we steal. At least we do it for survival—for a future. At least we do it, because we’re right.” “I don’t wallow in my own shit.” Alex replied. “I didn’t lie about my goodwill and proceeded to believe it so damn hard, everyone in existence saw through it except me.” Alex leaned in, voice low and cutting. “The truth is staring you right in the eyes, dancing in the night like fireflies and yet you refuse to follow the light. You choose to stumble in darkness. You’re blind not of sight, but of insight. You dug your grave so deep that instead of climbing out, you mourn the years and health you spent digging, so you keep on drilling and drilling.” The dim torchlight gleamed off the pistol Alex drew. “Wanna know the real difference between us? When you raise your sword to a man’s face, you call him a traitor. You call yourself a saint.” He pressed the barrel to Lucas’ temple. “But when I point my gun, I call myself what I am—a theif. A killer. A maniac. The villain of everyone’s tale.” A slow smile carved across Alex’s face. His finger brushed the trigger. “And still, dear Lucas…” His voice curled into a whisper. “I shoot with a smile.” BANG!
August 14, 2025 at 10:38 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Do you think Mavrick is a piece of shit?

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Mavrick flicked his lighter open, sparking a flame as he lit the tip of his cigarette. “Is that George’s lighter?” Nicolas’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a piece of crap. George was a cheap bastard.” Mavrick blew a smoke ring into the air. “Why do you have George’s lighter?” “Took it from his corpse after the Nightclaw had it’s fill from his flesh.” “You serious?” Nicolas’s voice spiked. “You robbed our friend’s corpse?” “I’m a cheaper bastard, alright? Dead or alive, he ain’t smoking after that thing ate his face off.”
August 13, 2025 at 10:39 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Ever stared down an abandoned elevator shaft? Well, after this one, i don't think you would.

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A hand. It rose from the darkness—long, bony, veined with pulsing threads of muted green. Its bones stretched unnaturally as if they had gone through substantial growth. Pale skin hugged the knuckles in a suffocating grip, splitting at the joints—cracked like the flesh couldn’t accommodate the size. Long, curved nails—chipped and blackened—clicked against the iron as the fingers curled slowly, gripping the edge of the elevator frame with enough force it made the metal groan.
August 12, 2025 at 8:36 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Alex is spittin facts today.

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“Do you know the difference between facts and reality? A fact is proven by science. Reality is an idea a collection of minds agreed upon, which makes it subjective. One fact about the brain though—it’s one hell of a trickster.”
August 11, 2025 at 2:09 PM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Flowers are pretty... as long as you don't screw with the poisonous ones.

Know your flowers.

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“You’re one of a kind, Hale.” Lydia said. “And you have gray eyes. They’re… beautiful.” Hale gazed straight into them. “The compliment isn’t the point, is it?” she asked, narrowing her beautiful eyes. “Ever seen a belladonna? Elegant flower. Deadly toxin. Beauty often hides danger, Dr. Lydia.” A rush of heat swept through Lydia’s body—equal parts alarm and disorientation. This complete stranger called her by name—and added the correct title. She reached for her waist—no pistol. Her heart miscalculated a beat.
August 10, 2025 at 8:58 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Let's get a bit philosophical.

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“I’ve had it with my brother, man.” Fredrick flung his brush onto the table. The bristles skidded across the wood, smearing it with a streak of red paint. “It’s the money. The moment he touched real coin, it changed him.” “Did it, though?” Alex leaned against the paint-stained table, arms folded. “Money gives you opportunity—and access to everything that rots the brain,” Fredrick said. “That’s a pig’s process of thought.” Fredrick arched a brow. “We calling each other names already?” Alex snagged a chair and took a seat. “The main difference between an animal and a man is will. Put a pig into a pin full of filth and he’ll wallow in manure. Put a gun into the hands of a man and set him loose—will decides whether he is a human, or a marksman pig.” The chair creaked as Alex leaned forward. “The rich don’t want you poor—they want you to believe money changes. The powerful don’t want you weak—they want you to believe power corrupts. The armed don’t want you unarmed—they want you to believe the gun makes the killer. If a single word they said were real, then why would I keep dipping my hand in a liquid I teach that it burns.” He picked up the brush and scratched a crude face onto the tabletop: lopsided eyes, a round blob of a nose. “What do you think?” “I think you suck at drawing.” Fredrick said. “No—the brush is broken.” Fredrick plucked it from his hand. “The brush is fine.” He swept the bristles in smooth, practiced arcs, painting the clear, joyful face of a child. “It’s just a tool.” A slow grin spread across Alex’s face. “Then why blame it for a bad painting?”
August 9, 2025 at 10:07 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Laughter almost chocked me reading this.

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Rigel crashed to the forest floor. A twig raked his forearm, and he grunted as a sharp pain burned across his skin. Flat on his back, with stones digging into his spine, he sucked in the bite of cold air. Breath after ragged breath, the wild hammering in his chest began to dull to a heavy thud. The radio on his hip hissed to life, spitting out Alex’s voice through the static. "Hello, fellow hunters. Uh, quick update. I was playing catch with one of you—name escapes me. Anyway, he caught a car engine with his head, which… was cool to see, but not the smartest in hindsight. Though, looking at his head—what’s left of it—I don’t see a brain, so it checks. I’ve been poking him for the past thirty minutes with a pointy stick, but he’s not moving. Hold on a sec." Rigel let out a shuddering breath. “When I play catch with you, Alex, I’ll fling a rocket. Trust you me.” "Oh." Static fizzed. "Interesting. I poked his armpit and his fingers twitched. I think someone should check that out—preferably a paramedic. In the meantime, I’ll be giving him CPR through the intake pipe. Man, I am such an exquisite addition to society. Send me a medal with the paramedic, will you? And make sure my name’s engraved. Peace."
August 8, 2025 at 9:07 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
It's a synonym today... kind of. same meaning different feeling.

This one is from the chapter i am currently working on
August 7, 2025 at 11:40 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
let's follow the trend of comedic moments. This got to be one of my favorites. Taken from my old fantasy project.

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Rigel traced his fingers over the Vigil river on the map. “We”ll move our fleet, loop around the Marrow and gun the fields of wheat— shake the very ground beneath these bastards feet.” Rigel slammed a knife into the map. “Let’s see how that dipshit Criss will compete.” “Neat.” Trevor murmured from the corner. Rigel glanced at the faces around him. “Any questions?” Emily raised her hand slowly. Rigel rolled his eyes, sighing. “What?” “Why is everyone rhyming?” “Son of a bitch.” Rigel kicked the chair behind him. “Any questions about the plan? No? Good. Now leave.” He jabbed his pointer at Emily. “Especially you.”
August 6, 2025 at 7:54 AM
ms-writes.bsky.social
Here's something lighter than the grim collection of depression that i post every day.

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“Oh, I haven’t introduced you yet,” Marco said, gesturing to the group with a lazy sweep. He pointed one by one. “That’s my sister, Marcia. If she’s not punching things she’s shooting things. That’s Camila, she’s a songbird. That’s healing Hale, he… well, heals.” Then his hand landed on the last person. “And that’s Lydia.” He lingered. Their eyes locked for a beat too long. That juvenile grin crept on his face. “She’s the no-fun, no-nonsense, perpetually annoyed character who grates on everyone’s soul so bad she sends them spiraling into a slow psychological breakdown, which pours into Hale’s career by filling his clinic with people suffering from PTSD.” He paused, catching his breath. Marcia slapped him across the chest. “Ow—okay! Fine. She’s the boss. Whatever.” He waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head. “What I said conveyed the same meaning anyway.”
August 5, 2025 at 10:14 AM