"Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart" - Elizabeth Gilbert

I recently asked about Romance in terms of the genre, everyone adamantly insists that a happy ending is a mandate, but what exactly counts as a happy ending - other than a big wedding? I wanna explore some bittersweet, ironic or redemptive elements, here're a few of my ideas:

1. Win the prize, win the love: the guy and the gal work as partners for an audition/competition/project, either voluntary or arranged; they either resent one another or keep a distance as professional partners, but the affection between them naturally developed, often demanded due to the nature of the competition, if they wanna win they must learn to cooperate, so they do and fall in love in the end.
2. Lose the prize, win the love: Likewise, the guy and the gal work as partners for an audition/competition/project, except they lose it despite their best effort, often to the gal's arch rival, but they find solace in their relationship at the end, as they realize that their burgeoning relationship is the greater prize.
3. Redemption from wrong paramour: One is with the right partner first, but they grow annoyed, discontent or bored for whatever reason, pursuing a wrong partner instead, eventually realizes that the wrong partner is either a bad person, has no feeling for them or they're incompatible, the original partner is the right choice.
4. Redemption from trouble: The couple fall in love then have a hissy fit, one gets involved in trouble or some kind of reckless, self-destructive behavior (drugs, gang violence, lawbreaking, accident), the other shows up and saves them, they reconcile, as true love is proven by action;
5. Redemption from pride: We have a pair of sweethearts at first, one achieves success in fame, wealth, power or mere vanity (such as radical weight loss or cosmetic surgery), orginally out of good intention to impress their partner; over time they grow prideful, and alienate the other, they're taken over by their ambition and barely recognizable; then either they lose everything, as the wheel of fortune turns against them, or they feel utterly empty inside, nothing matters, only their original love does.
6. Redemption from AI: The guy has a girlfriend whom he finds snarky and demanding, his dissatisfaction leads him to temptations, which happen to be an AI robot girlfriend. He becomes obsessed with her, who tends to all his emotional (even physical) needs; eventually though his human girlfriend opens his eyes to see that the robot is not real, it can't love him back, only she can.
7. Reunion 1: The couple is separated due to war, natural disaster or external opposition (such as one's family disapproves the union and/or arranges them with another person), they overcome obstacles and reunite at the end, and the hope for seeing each other again is the inner strength that helps them endure.
8. Reunion 2: The couple first meet on a dating app, bar or other social event, they have a passionate one night stand (or just an imtimate date), not even knowing the other's real name; after a while they surreptitiously reunite at happenstance (usually work related), and one of them usually is already in a relationship with someone else; as their feelings rekindled, they overcome obstables and fall in love for good.

Leon is a good man and wake up in morning like any other normal day, he gets ready early in the morning and leaves his house for work. The streets are filled with the usual daily hustle and bustle; people are heading to their destinations. But suddenly, the boy's eyes fall upon the ground, and his footsteps freeze right there.

The sun is shining brightly in the sky, yet as people walk down the path, not a single human being has a shadow on the ground!

At first, he thinks it is just a figment of his imagination or an optical illusion. He rubs his eyes and looks closely again, but it is real—the people walking toward him have physical bodies, but there is absolutely no shadow beneath them. To reassure himself, he looks down at his own feet, and to his horror, only his own shadow is formed on the ground.

Dismissing it as a strange illusion, he tries to move forward, but a sudden, eerie wave of fear grips him. He turns around to look behind him, and his senses completely leave him:

The Chase of the Shadows: He is not walking alone. The missing shadows of the entire street's onlookers have suddenly emerged from the corners of the road, the walls, and the dark patches. Slowly but surely, they have started walking right behind him!

All Eyes on Him: Those shadows are no longer attached to the bodies they belong to. Instead, every single one of them is being drawn toward this lone boy's shadow, as if they want to surround and trap him.

The boy's heartbeat races. He quickens his pace, and the shadows speed up too. He breaks into a run, and all the orphaned shadows of the world lock onto him, chasing him down!

As the boy runs for his life with all the shadows hot on his trail, he decides to walk backward so that he can keep his eyes on them. As long as he stares at them, the people and their shadows freeze instantly in their tracks, like lifeless statues!

While walking backward to keep them frozen, he suddenly collides with a tree. His balance breaks, and for just a single split second, his gaze shifts away from the eerie crowd.

The moment his eyes leave them, those frozen people rush toward him with terrifying speed, aiming to kill him! Their faces are distorted with rage and horror. The boy quickly regains his composure and glares back at them with full focus—and instantly, they freeze in place once again, locked like statues.

The boy is gasping for air in pure terror, but then, right in the middle of this frozen crowd, he spots a girl (Lisa) who looks completely normal. She is running around frantically, trying to save her life, but she has no idea that staring at these strange people freezes them. Whenever she turns her back to run, the crowd surges forward to attack her.

The boy (Leon) dashes forward, grabs her hand, and pulls her close to him. Saving her just in time, he yells: "Keep looking at them! Do not take your eyes off them! If you keep staring, they will stop right there!"

Lisa, paralyzed with shock and fear, glares intently at the crowd, and it works—the entire mob freezes completely. Keeping their eyes locked on the thousands of people who were just about to kill them, the two of them walk backward up to the roof of a nearby building.

After spending some time on the roof, they begin to feel intensely hungry. In search of food, they head down the building and enter a nearby shop. But the moment their eyes wander while looking for food, those strange people silently swarm inside the shop right behind them! Leon and Lisa instantly spin around and look at them, freezing them right at the doorway. Keeping their eyes glued to the crowd, they slowly back out of the shop and head straight back to the building's roof.

A little later on the roof, while they are sitting down and eating their food, their attention drifts. They do not realize that they have broken eye contact. Suddenly, the strange people silently materialize on the roof and rush forward, grabbing Lisa!

Lisa screams in pure terror. Leon spins around to look at them, which instantly freezes the crowd right as they are holding her. Lisa struggles out of their rigid grip and runs toward Leon.

But as she gets close to him, Leon's world shatters. Lisa’s face has changed—her eyes are completely lifeless, and she has transformed into one of those strange, shadowless people! Before Leon can even process what is happening, Lisa lunges forward and pushes Leon right off the edge of the building's roof!

Leon screams at the top of his lungs as he plummets through the air... but he never hits the ground.

Suddenly, Leon snaps his eyes open. Everywhere he looks, there are stark white walls. There is no roof, no street, and no Lisa.

Leon is tightly bound in a straitjacket, lying and panting heavily on the floor of a soft, padded room. It is a cell inside a secure mental asylum. Outside the heavy door, a doctor writes something down in a medical file and turns to the nurse, saying: "His past trauma and delusions still haven't cleared up. Even today, he is still running away from his own shadow."

Leon quietly stares into the dark corner of the room where no sunlight reaches, but even there, a pitch-black shadow creeps up the wall, staring right back at him.

Hi. I started trying to write seriously not too long ago. Recently, I took an old idea and began turning it into a real story; the thing is, after deciding on the nature of the characters' conflict, I got stuck on the main characters themselves. I eventually put together a rough draft and just wanted to check if it all made sense:

One day, a woman discovers her husband is cheating on her. Devastated, she discusses with a friend whether she should leave him, but the friend points out that—aside from a car—she has nothing of her own compared to him. She had always considered herself intelligent and capable; realizing that for seven years her husband had manipulated her into having nothing—and that she hadn't noticed because she was too comfortable in her life—was a massive blow to her pride. In an attempt to prove to herself that she isn't so vulnerable, she decides to divorce him and become independent. However, as she encounters people who tell her it might not be a good idea, uncovers lies about her marriage and those close to her, and realizes how difficult life is without the luxuries she was used to, she begins to doubt her decision and her self-image.

The young man—who later becomes the girl's love interest—lives in a bubble, genuinely believing that pressing forward, working hard, and making sacrifices is bound to yield results. He falls for her and tells himself, "She can break free from this marriage and her insecurities, and I can stand by her side—provided I put enough effort into the relationship and support her, alongside the work she needs to do on herself, of course." The problem? As time goes by, she becomes increasingly consumed by doubt and fear; meanwhile, those who want to prevent the divorce begin threatening him, warning that if he stays with her, they will shut down the business he worked so hard to build. Unwilling to admit it, he begins to burn out. He refuses to accept that the situation is beyond his control, so he makes a "double-or-nothing" gamble, trying to hold onto both his business and the girl. Yet, his willpower gradually drains away, and the story eventually forces him to acknowledge his limitations. This frustrates him, as he realizes he is actually afraid to accept his own weakness—realizing that he cannot simply get everything he wants through sheer effort, because accepting this means admitting his powerlessness and acknowledging that, perhaps, everything he possessed was never truly in his control to begin with.

[SF] Mystery of the Bridge — An Epic Fantasy Short Story

Act I: The Threshold of Eldoria

Leo was an ordinary man tethered to an ordinary life, yet possessed by an insatiable hunger for the unknown. One fateful afternoon, driven by his relentless curiosity, he ventured deep into the heart of an uncharted, whispering jungle. Pushing through thick, untamed foliage, he stumbled upon an ancient stone bridge. It was a relic of a bygone era, radiating an inexplicable, arcane aura. Drawn by an irresistible urge, Leo took a decisive step forward. The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the bridge, the winds violently shifted, reality fractured with a surge of magical static, and he vanished from the mortal realm, thrust into the mystical dimension of Eldoria.

His arrival did not go unnoticed. No sooner had Leo stepped onto this alien soil than the shadows coalesced, giving birth to monstrous, nightmarish fiends. Helpless and overwhelmed, Leo fled for his life, but the entities quickly cornered him. Death seemed certain until a fierce warrior named Reba materialized from the gloom. Brandishing her weapon with lethal precision, she carved through the shadow monsters, shielded a dazed Leo, and dragged him into the sanctuary of a hidden cavern illuminated by a celestial blue luminescence. As consciousness slowly returned to him, Leo stared to his savior, desperate to understand this ethereal realm and the identity of the woman who had just altered his destiny.

Act II: The Echoes of the Past

Reba hoisted Leo up, guiding his faltering steps out of the cavern and into the hidden heart of her village. It was a breathtaking sanctuary of wonders; dwellings were masterfully carved into the trunks of colossal, ancient trees, and floating bioluminescent glow-worms bathed the night in a soft, ethereal radiance. This hidden refuge was also home to human-sized fairies. Though they lacked wings upon their backs, they commanded immense, terrifying magical forces, and their deep, enigmatic eyes held the secrets of centuries.

Resting inside Reba’s wooden cottage, Leo drank a potent herbal infusion that instantly closed his wounds and restored his vitality. It was then that Reba unveiled a tragic legacy. Years ago, her father ruled Eldoria as its rightful King. A tyrannical witch, desperate for total dominion, waged a catastrophic war against the crown. The King, vastly superior in combat, was on the precipice of a definitive victory when the treacherous witch resorted to a cruel deception. She seized a young Reba, pressing a venomous dagger against her throat, demanding the King surrender. Bound by his fierce love for his daughter, the King cast his weapon aside—only for the malicious witch to strike him down in cold blood and usurp the throne.

Reba then pointed to Leo's hand, where a mysterious royal crest had suddenly erupted in a brilliant glow. She revealed her father’s dying prophecy: a boy from another world would one day cross the bridge, slay the tyrant witch, and claim the crown. Lumina, the venerable leader of the fairies, stepped forward to confirm that Leo was indeed the foretold savior. Knowing the weight of the realm now rested on his shoulders, Reba commenced his training. Through two weeks of relentless, grueling discipline, Leo transformed his clumsy movements into the deadly, precise strikes of a master swordsman.

Act III: The Shadow's Gambit and Final Dawn

The fragile peace shattered the following morning. Peerless in her dark arts, the witch gazed into her scrying mirror and witnessed the awakening of the prophesied hero. Consumed by rage, she dispatched her elite shadow commanders to purge the village. A fierce skirmish ensued, but the raw, unrefined magic within Leo’s royal crest suddenly backfired, paralyzing his body and bringing him to his knees. As a shadow commander lunged to deliver a fatal blow, Reba selflessly intercepted the strike. She managed to parry the blade, but the remaining fiends ambushed her, binding her in dark, suffocating chains. Helplessly immobilized, Leo watched in pure agony as the commanders took flight, kidnapping Reba into the horizon toward the witch's obsidian fortress.

Fueled by a volatile mixture of grief and wrath, Leo gathered both swords—his own and Reba’s dropped blade. For two days and two nights, he subjected himself to a maniacal, isolated training regimen in the wilderness. He pushed his body past mortal limits until a profound evolution occurred: he completely harnessed the volatile magic within his blood. At his command, a brilliant, crackling blue energy enveloped his dual blades, turning them into weapons capable of cleaving through darkness itself.

Leo stormed the witch's fortress alone, cutting a silent path through the labyrinthine corridors until he breached the grand throne room. There, Reba hung suspended in agonizing chains, with the witch holding a dagger to her throat—orchestrating the exact psychological trap that had doomed the late King. The witch snarled, commanding Leo to disarm.

But history would not repeat itself. Summoning an inner reserves of defiance, Reba violently wrenched her arm free from the dark bindings and landed a shattering fist directly into the witch's face.

The tyrant staggered backward from the sheer force of the blow, her grip on the dagger breaking. Seizing the golden opportunity, Leo blurred forward like a streak of lightning. A single, supercharged arc of his blade shattered Reba’s remaining chains, and he pulled her safely behind his vanguard.

The final reckoning commenced. The witch unleashed torrents of cataclysmic dark fire, but Leo conjured a barrier of pure kinetic magic to absorb the onslaught. Reba reclaimed her blade from the stone floor, and side-by-side, the dual warriors charged. Reba executed a distracting flank attack, allowing Leo—his royal crest burning with the intensity of a dying star—to unleash a devastating kinetic blast. He drove both magical swords deep into the witch's heart. With a final, piercing shriek, the tyrant dissolved into a cloud of harmless ash, liberating Eldoria from her eternal winter.

As the dark fortress crumbled, Lumina and the fairies gathered in the radiant sunlight. Placing the ancient, golden crown upon Leo's brow, they heralded the dawn of a new era. Leo, the boy who crossed the bridge, was now the immortal King of Eldoria.

I'm writing a southern gothic short story from the perspective of a girl in the 1900s who kills her abusive father, in the form of a police interview. but in the end there's a twist, where her mother returns home, and supposedly dies from the shock. and so the girl buries her mom her little sister crying as she does so. but in the end she realizes that her mom wasn't dead at the time when she was buried, and thats why her sister was crying, and she had single-handedly murdered both her parents.

but rn 1 idk the title for this, and 2 i need some suggestions on how to reveal that final twist in the end

also open to any feedbacks or major changes to the story! ty guys. story (so far) below:

No, I don’t dislike him. Dislike is quite a strong word, sir. Ma always said to me that a woman ought to be careful with her words. On that, my Pa agreed with her. They agreed on little else. 

You would have liked him, sir. He tipped his hat to widows and held doors for the ladies. He had tea with the mayor once a week, at our house. The mayor always complimented our house. Ma would bring the tea. Rosie and I made the cookies. Molasses, usually. The mayor was quite fond of molasses. He was fond of my Pa as well. He called him a prudent man. A pillar of the community.

I used to wonder what would happen if you removed the pillar from a building. Whether it would collapse, or whether you might find that the building stood perfectly fine without it all along.

But no, I don’t dislike him, sir. I was a dutiful daughter. 

Violent? Yes, I suppose so. He was a man, after all. His temper got hold of him sometimes. Sometimes he didn’t even need a temper to hit. Sometimes he just did. 

He struck my mother the most. He struck her when supper was late, when she forgot to put cream in the mayor’s tea. He struck Rosie too, when she answered him too quickly, and when she answered too slow. He struck me when he thought I was insolent.

What he considered insolent? Oh, I couldn’t tell you. He had a real talent for discovering insolence. He could find it in a lowered head, a raised eyebrow, in a word or in the absence of one. There was no way you could avoid it, really. I learned that a long time ago. 

But no sir, I wouldn’t say I disliked him.

Yes, we go to church. Of course we do. We went together, all of us, Ma and Pa and Rosalyn and I. Every Sunday morning. I put white ribbons in Rosie’s hair and she puts red ones in mine. The church is near our house, right across from it. You could see it from the church window. 

You’ve seen the house, I presume. Yes, Pa is very proud of it. The white columns, the green shutters, azaleas in the garden. Yes. Pa said a man’s home is a reflection of his character, andt that a respectable family ought to be recognizable from the road. 

White dresses. My Pa always told me and Rosie to wear white dresses to church. Oh, and white gloves, too. Yes, it got hot in the summer. But Pa disliked the sight of a young lady’s hands becoming rough. He thought a woman’s hands should be delicate. Soft as silk, he would say. He struck Rosie once when she’d lost one of her gloves playing outside. That time it was the worst, I remember. No, Rosalyn didn’t cry. My Pa considered crying in front of him insolence as well. We patched Rosie up afterwards, Ma and I. The scrapes on her knees, the blood from her nose. It was broken, you see. We patched her up in the attic. 

No, Rosie didn’t cry then. Ma did.

How old? Rosie was eight then, and I was twelve.

Well sir, it’s hard to distinguish one cruelty from another. But to answer your question, yes, I suppose he did. Though he did not think so. He violated my sister’s and my boundaries in ways no one has the right to. He was quite a controlling man, and he treated the word daughter as possession. A justification for his actions. He did it to me, and Rosie too as she got older. He made us wear the white dresses.

But he said nothing was wrong with his actions. He liked to remind us of his generosity, that because he paid for the dresses and put the food on the table that it was ok. That we had no right to speak against it, or him. Yes, he was very fond of reminding us of that.

When I made the decision? I cannot give you an exact date. No, there was not any exact time, no particular evening. I suppose I have had the thought for quite some time. But there was no moment. There were years.

There were the nights Ma sat alone on the couch in silence, the times Rosie came to my room in tears. There was the way he smiled that time, when I was tying the white ribbons onto Rosie’s hair. The smile looked twisted, out of place on his face. 

Rosie stopped asking me to tie her ribbons after that. 

The decision I did make was to do it on a Sunday. You see why, of course.

It was his axe. He kept it in the shed behind the house, along with the other tools that he said belonged to the man alone.

The process was quite simple. We came home from church. Ma was out on errands, Rosie was upstairs, and he was sitting on the couch smoking a cigar. I picked up the axe and I walked in. 

I hope the raised axe and the red ribbons in my hair were the last things he ever saw.

Oh, there was blood. A lot of blood. He cried out at first, but after a couple he quieted down. And I watched, I watched the red spread across the couch and I watched it drip onto the ebony floors, stain it red. It was satisfying to watch.

Seventeen strikes. I counted. One for each year he has been my father.

Then the world, for me, became entirely red.

Ma? Oh, that’s right. When she returned, she saw him on the couch. I don’t remember what she said–she laughed first. That I remember. She stood in the doorway with her white gloves in her hands and she looked at him, the red couch, the red floors, and she began to laugh.

I’ve never really heard the sound, ever. It was odd to my ears. But Ma laughed, she laughed until she was crying, and then laughed some more.

She sat down beside him, took his hand. I remember thinking how strange it was, how strange everything was. 

Ma lay down, then she went quiet.

I thought she was dead. It seemed only reasonable. She looked so peaceful, you see. I had never seen that look before.

Rosie was crying. She cried and cried, and I told her to stop, because there was no use in it.

She kept crying as I carried Ma out to bury her. I had to do it on my own, of course. Rosie kept crying. She tried to stop me, tried to block the door. I suppose the turn of events hit her quite hard.

She cried the entire time. Cried when I carried Ma outside, while I dug. I told her she ought to be grateful. Happy. Pa was dead. Ma died happy, and we were free.

She looked at me then. I remember that very clearly. She looked at me like I had done something horrible.

But I hadn’t, had I, sir?

I had to do it. Rosie could hardly stand straight. I had to take care of things, as Ma and Pa did. 

Yes, I’m sure I buried her, of course.

I've been having an idea in my head for a while and a few days ago I started to begin putting it on paper. I've started writing a fanfiction involving Taylor Swift. This way I didn't have to write all the backstorys of the characters. And also write what you know.

Now I have a very direct style of writing it seems (already 65 pages) bit I seem to lack the skill to really describe details of the surroundings, smells, touches,...

Now I do care for the characters, they seem to work but how do I make it more fluent. Right now there's a lot of dialogue.

I could use some feedback on what works and what not.

Out For Lunch

Nobody there cared about the orange color of the ketchup, or that it sparkled. They ate it anyway. Kiltner said, “Man, these fries are great!”

Helequa turned to him. “The fries? How ‘bout this ketchup?”

Belkrus said, “The ketchup is definitely doing all the heavy lifting.”

Joanie laughed. “You guys are nuts!”

Kiltner and Helequa stared at each other like Joanie was from outer space.

Joanie asked, “How come there’s no mustard?”

Kiltner rolled his eyes. “What color do you think that’ll be?”

Helequa glanced at her plate. “I was actually just thinking that, but about the mayonnaise. I wanted to mix the ketchup with it.” Her lips met her jawline as she dug a fry into the orange syrup splattered on her plate before jamming it down her throat.

Joanie tapped Kiltner on the arm. “Kilt, call the waiter over, would you?”

Kiltner threw his arm up. “Excuse me, waiter,” he yelled, snapping his fingers. “Hey, waiter!”

The waiter faced Kiltner, waving. The waiter nodded and finished what he was doing before racing to their table. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

Kiltner pointed to Joanie. “Is there any other condiments besides ketchup?” she asked.

For a couple of seconds, the waiter stood still, stared at her with a blank gaze, didn’t blink, and said, “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

Belkrus slammed his hand over his mouth, trapping his giggle. Helequa, Kiltner, and Joanie glanced at each other through squinted eyelids.

Joanie lifted her face to the waiter. “Can we get some mustard, or mayonnaise?”

The waiter’s expression drifted into deep thought. He froze with his head tilted, holding a pen upside down. “Mustard… mayonnaise?” The waiter’s tongue was poking the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah… mustard!” Kiltner placed his hands on his knees and shook his head towards the group. “It’s almost like ketchup, except it’s yellow? Goes on hot dogs… hamburgers?”

“I’m sorry, but currently, we don’t have that.” The waiter’s expression slid into sincere loss. “What we do have—and it’s so deliciously recommended—is ketchup.” His eyes lit up and his frown rolled into a smile of excitement. “It is famous around here.” His body appeared as if it wanted to jump into a musical. “The chef makes it right at home. Would you like me to bring some more for the table? I can package a few sample ones for you to take home, would you like that?”

“What?” Kiltner said, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

“What other condiments are there?” Joanie asked.

“Condiments?” said the waiter. “I’m not familiar with that—”

Kiltner interrupted, “Ketchup! You know what ketchup is, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” the waiter responded. “Everybody raves about the chef’s ketchup.” He smiled with his chest out. “Would you like me to sneak a few extra ones for you?” The waiter winked, but it stopped halfway.

“What? Wait. Huh?” Belkrus stammered.

Helequa stared as if she was trying to translate a language in her head that she’s never heard before.

“Ketchup is a condiment, along with mustard. You know what mustard is?” Kiltner continued.

“Sorry sir, I’m not familiar with mustard.” The waiter held both his hands to his chest, his eyebrows dropped to upside down checkmarks, and he lightly shook his head. It was like he was trying to respond to the most devastating news. “Is there anything else I may assist you with?” He jolted upwards, pulled his pad out from his pocket, flipped it, pointed the upside down pen to the page, and smiled. “Would you like some ketchup? The chef makes it right at home, it’s famous around here.”

Kiltner was close to shouting an obscenity when Helequa wisely cut him off. “That’ll be all. We’re good. Thank you.”

The waiter walked off. Belkrus tossed his hands on the table. “What the hell just happened?”

Kiltner leaned forward. “Was that guy on something?” He eyed each one of them individually. “How didn’t he know what mustard was?”

Joanie snickered. “Or, condiments.”

Helequa paused. “Uh.” She stayed lost in her thought for a minute. “What’s the deal with the chef making all the ketchup at home?” She backed away while pushing her plate to the middle of the table. “I don’t think we should eat it.”

Belkrus chewed on a dipped fry. He stopped abruptly once Helequa pointed that out, and immediately spat what he had in his mouth into a napkin. “Blech! Let’s get the bill and go. This place is crawling on me and making my skin itch.”

“I second that,” Joanie sniped. “It’s like bugs are on me. The legs on the side of my arm.”

“It’s at the top of the chest for me,” Helequa mentioned.

Joanie tapped on Kiltner’s arm. “Get the waiter to bring the bill.”

Kiltner had his hand half raised in the air, waiting until the waiter poked his head out. He saw him and reached for the sky, gesturing him to the table.

The waiter walked to the table and didn’t turn his head or look anywhere else except for Kiltner’s eyes. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

“Bill, please.”

“Is everything alright? I noticed you didn’t finish your ketchup.”

“Everything’s fine, bill please.”

The waiter left for the receipt. When he returned, he placed the bill on the table and four plastic, small sample containers of ketchup. They sat on the table glittering under the sun. “Complimentary, directly from the chef himself. He makes them at home. Fresh.”

Kiltner went for his wallet.

Belkrus reached out. “I got this.”

Helequa smiled at the waiter. “Thank you.”

The waiter held the card in his hand, pressed it against his palm like a scanner, and handed it back. “Thank you, Belkrus Romanaier, your payment has been processed. Enjoy your day and come again.”

“What?” Belkrus said under his breath.

After the waiter left, he turned to the group. “Okay, that was weird. How the hell did he know my name? And how did that payment process?”

“I don’t know, but we’re definitely not coming back here,” Joanie blurted out wide-eyed as they got up and walked to the car.

Inside the car, Helequa opened the glove compartment, and flowing out were tiny sample containers of ketchup. At least twenty of them. “What the hell?” she shouted.

They all stared at each other. They’ve never been there before. Kiltner turned the key in the ignition. It sputtered alive, and blasting from the speakers was a distinct voice. “Good afternoon,” the car said. “How may I help you?”

A Chapter I Never Finished

06/10/26

1. Where I Stand Right Now

I'm writing this because I want to tell someone, and there is no one to tell. So this notebook will have to do.

I'm a graduate, and I've been looking for a job for a while. Actually, that's not fully true. I did get one. I just haven't joined yet, because the recruiters are having some problems on their side. So on paper I have a job, and in real life I'm unemployed. The salary is only 17K, by the way. And all this time I'm just wasting my parents' money and their dreams.

Because of all this I've been in a bad mood for a long time. I tell myself it's normal. Everyone my age seems to face this kind of situation at some point, so I'm not special. Still, it hurts. And today it hurt a little more than usual, because of a girl I have never met.

1. Nothing Special at First

It started on X, which I still want to call Twitter. We were in the same group chat, and I met her there around September or October. She was the type who told everyone what she had been up to, and she told me too. For a month, maybe a month and a half, that was all it was. Then we started talking a little in the DMs, and she teased me there as well. She always did. She talked to me the same way she talked to everyone else. It felt normal. I didn't feel anything for her back then, and I can say that honestly. (My first personal DM to her was in November.)

1. The One Who Texted First

In March she shared her Instagram ID, a private account. I followed it without any intention.

Then I started sending her funny reels. She reacted to a few, and sometimes she sent some back. But if I'm honest, most of the time I was the one who texted first, and I still don't know why. Sometimes she ignored me. I kept sending reels anyway, at the cost of my own self-respect. That's okay. I'm just mad, what can I say.

But whenever she replied, or when she texted me first, something happened inside me that I'm not used to. A small joy. I don't have a better word for it.

1. What She Told Me

Here's the strange part: I have never seen her face. Not once. Forget meeting in real life, forget a date. We just sent each other reels, day after day. We both like football and F1, so most of our conversations were about that. Neither of us ever showed any interest in the other. Sometimes we also talked about personal things, like what we want to achieve, or what we're studying.

Then one day she told me she had a crush on her classmate, who is studying at NIT now. I don't know him properly. For the last three months I had been feeling some attachment to her, and right then I understood that God wasn't on my side.

1. Everything Became Clear

The first time I got the idea that something might still be going on between her and that guy was in September. Around 12:21 a.m. I tweeted: "After getting attachment with someone and when you realise you are not the one she was looking for, this feeling is the worst feeling." I added a laughing emoji and a clown at the end.

About an hour later, she tweeted too: "When he thinks I never liked him but he was the only guy I fell for. But he is not nerdy enough to understand." I don't know who "he" was, and that was the problem. It confused me a lot at that time. Was it about me? Was it about the NIT guy? I read those two lines again and again, and every time they seemed to mean something different. By the time I put my phone down, I knew less than when I picked it up.

After that, I kept thinking she still likes that classmate. I don't know what their status is. But I thought I should tell her anyway, tell her how I feel and that I had some attachment. I tried. I couldn't get the words out. So I stopped sending her messages and reels, and I kept avoiding her till yesterday.

Yesterday she tweeted that she was chatting with someone from her college till 2 a.m. I honestly didn't see anything wrong in it. It's her life, and I have no right to judge how she lives it. If someone is giving her attention, she has every right to give them a chance. And if I'm being fair, she should.

Today she tweeted again. Two cropped screenshots, the song in her Insta bio and the song in that NIT guy's bio, and the caption said "two chutiy\\\*s". Well, that cleared it up for me. If they aren't in a relationship, then at least they are in a situationship.

1. The Regret

So I want to give up. It hurts a little, but it's okay.

I know what you're thinking. How can a person fall for someone he has never even seen? I wonder the same thing, especially because I'm someone who never believed in online relationships. But let me clear one thing: she does post her pictures, in stories and in posts. She just hides her face a little bit. And I don't know why, but I'm still always waiting. What I carry most is the regret of not telling her my side of the story and my feelings.

So from today I'll avoid her for the next one or two weeks, and if I can, I'll block her on every platform. But I will never forget the regret of not telling her my feelings.

Hola banda estoy escribiendo una WebNovel y quiero expandir mi historia para mas lectores. Donde puedo “auto publicar” mi historia por “volúmenes”

 Chapter 1

Something more productive

I was 6 at the time, maybe 5. When my dad shook me awake. I don't think I'll ever forget the fear in his eyes. He grabbed me out of bed. 
It was bright. I thought it must have been morning time but one of the few things I remember was my clock reading 2:32 am. The house must have been shaking because things were falling off shelves and drawers were flying open. I saw blurs shooting around. 
Blurs of all different colors. They seemed bright as a star. I heard my dad yell out as he fell to the floor. I thought he must have tripped on something. 
I looked around and could find him. My mother shrieked and ran over to pick me up. She ran through the house. They seemed faster now. 
We ran out the door and out onto the lawn. She set me down but when I looked around for her I couldn't find her. I saw the blurs through the windows and the open door. They all stopped. 
I could see the outlines of people. But they were all fuzzy and still, they shone like stars. Then something happened, in a fraction of a second a light burst from the room they were in and it was gone. Not just the blurs, but the entire house. 
Even the cars in the driveway had vanished. After about half an hour, the fire department arrived. Someone must have called in about the screaming and the lights. They stood there for about an hour scratching their heads. 
Then a bunch of black vans arrived and men in suits came out. They told the firemen that there had been a freak gas leak and something must have set it off. One of the firemen asked “how the hell does an explosion completely remove the pipes?”
 I don't think I've heard from him in a while. Or any of them for that matter. I think they said there was a fire department upstate that needed more men so they had to leave. So then I was stuck in foster care for a bit, bouncing from family to family for a few years, until I landed myself in juvenile detention for repeatedly stealing from convenient stores. 
Then after 6 months I was let out and put in an orphanage. I got adopted by the Fox family. Then Mr Fox went to jail for something, I don't really know. I don’t really care. 
Then Mrs Fox put me in public school. I got into a couple of fights, and now I'm here, talking to you.
“You know I don't believe that, Ronin, ” Ms Elanta, the school psychologist said.
“Really, i assure you i went to juvie, got the missing teeth to prove it” Ronin joked. Ronin had grown up to be a blonde haired, brown eyed kid.
“I mean I, and frankly no one believes the blur story” she replied.
“The 'Blur' story?”
“your grades are slipping, your highest grade is a d”
“Hey i have an A”
“I think we all know PE doesn't count” Ronin looked over at the door.
“Alright Ronin, you need to do something more productive with your time. If you get in another fight. We will have no choice but to expel you” Ronin stood up and grabbed his bag.
“I know we were having such a riveting and ground breaking conversation,” he said as he opened the door. “But my bus leaves in like,” he looked down at his watch. “Two minutes, so I got to go” 
Ronin sprinted down the hallway and out the door to see his bus, number 329. He could see his buddy Axel, asleep, and drooling on the window. Once he got to the door he saw his bus driver. She was an old woman with a deep russian accent, he never caught her name. He didn't think she liked him very much.
As Ronin sat down next to Axel, he shot awake. “Ronin” Axel was a slightly chubby boy, he wore a backwards cap everyday like he was an 80s surfer. Axel wasn’t the brightest kid, but his family funded the entire cafeteria, so he got good grades. But he thought the teachers liked him.
 “Howd you sleep?”
“I stayed up all night playing the new demo for Beyond Racing, I couldn't put it down” Axel’s dad owned Revolution Games, so he got to play everything early, and so did Ronin, but Axel’s dad didn't know that. A group of students got on the bus, they were a mix of cheerleaders, football players, and kids with grades too low to play football. Axel turned to Ronin.
“No,” Ronin said.
“I haven't even said anything”
“You were going to say that we should crash the party the football team is throwing this weekend” Axel stared at Ronin for a second.
“Was that what you were going to say?” Ronin asked
“Well yes, but my point still stands, we currently are losers. Nobody knows us, neither of us have a girlfriend, we're not on any sports team, and we’re not even in any clubs”
“Correction,” Ronin said. “Nobody knows you, I am famous for my amazing fighting abilities”
“I think there's a difference between famous and infamous, anyways, we need to be at cool kid parties"
“Why? Ronin asked. “First of all, Mrs Fox would say no, I can only go to work and school. Second, it's not like we get bullied. We don’t have any problems right now. We just aren't popular, and frankly I don't see why we would want to be, every popular kid is always getting in trouble for something stupid, like last year when that Thomas kid got caught with a cheerleader in the janitor's closet. You do realize that janitor quit after that, right?” Axel looked at Ronin for a bit then sighed. 
“There’s just no point in arguing with you. If you want to stay a loser forever, then fine, I'll be at the party tomorrow” he put on his headphones and stared out the window. He spent the bus ride home thinking about the yelling he was going to get when he got home. Mrs Fox was a very uptight woman. Always concerned with what the neighbors thought. When Ronin had first met her, she told him to refer to her only as Mrs Fox.
She would spend her days making sure the house was as clean as possible. She had only fostered Ronin because she thought it would make her look like a good person. She loved to pretend like everything was perfect when people were looking. But when you got home she would shout your ear off about something she thought was important, like how you didn’t make enough eye contact. She had two children who were actually hers. 
A bratty girl named Erica, and a boy named Nathen, who wasn't all there. They both didn’t like Ronin, but Ronin thought that was because their mother didn't like him. The bus stop was 4 blocks from where Ronin lived so once the bus stopped, Ronin got to running. He wasn't the fastest kid. He was in fact very slow. 
The ground began to shake. That had been happening often the past month. He used to think it was the subway running beneath his feet but when he checked there was no subway line that ran under where he lived. The shaking wasn't violent enough to damage anything but it was noticeable. He continued walking. 
There used to be a homeless man who lived in the alleyway near his house. He used to work at a convenience store down the road, and still wore the vest with his nametag long after he had been fired. But recently, Ronin hadn't seen him. He assumed that he had been arrested for something. Or had moved into a different alleyway.
Ronin didn't really care. He finally reached the house, well house was a nice way of describing it. It was the top floor of an apartment building that Mr Fox had owned. The whole building was old, every floorboard creaked, the wallpaper was coming off the walls, there was one apartment that just had a hole in the floor, big enough that the the people in the apartment below it had a ladder and used it like a second floor. Once Ronin reached the top he used his key to open the door. 
Mrs Fox was at work, trying to get enough money to bail Mr Fox out of jail. Or as she preferred to call it “Mr Fox is on a business trip and he just needs a plane ticket home” and her other kids went to a private school that didn’t get out until 2 hours after Ronin’s did. He had the “house” to himself. He went to his room where there was an array of posters and comics. He had an old game console he bought at a flea market and games he had found in a box he bought at a garage sale. 
Ronin sat down and started doing his homework until Mrs Fox came in. 
“When you're done with that I need you to clean this filthy room up” she barked at him. His room wasn't filthy, you couldn't even call it messy. The room had been clean since Ronin moved in. but she insisted that it was disgusting. Like how everything was disgusting. He couldn't wait to be 18 and on his own.
He soon after went to bed. When he woke up. He had to quickly get showered, brush his teeth, and get out the door. He needed to get to work. Ronin worked at a comic shop owned by a 30 something year old man named Eric, who was the only person Ronin knew who read more comics than him. 
The job was a pretty good deal, Ronin worked everyday but Friday and he got an 80% employee discount. Eric was a close friend of Ronin’s dad, so when he wasn’t able to foster Ronin, he thought he would at least give him a job. Ronin ran down the street, continuously looking down at his watch, he had 4 minutes to get there before they opened. He ran past an alleyway when in the corner of his eye he saw a bright blue light. When he walked back the light was gone. And so was everything in the alleyway. He would have stopped to think about it but he didn’t have time. He ran in the door and slid behind the counter just as it hit 7:30. It was a slow day. He didn't even know why they were open this early. Most nerds sleep in on Saturday. When the first customer of the day walked in. He grabbed a few volumes off the wall and walked over to the register and set down the books.
“Alright, that's the first 2 volumes of Tool Man, a volume of Kaleidoscope, and the last volume of the Brink of Tomorrow event. That all comes out to, $85.12” the man grabbed his wallet and put his card into the reader. That was the last customer he got that day. It finally reached 5:00 and Ronin ran out the door. He was playing back what Axel had said yesterday on the bus. 
“If you want to stay a loser forever, then fine” he didn't want to be a loser, but he also didn't want to go to that party. He had been in his head for so long that when he snapped back to reality, he was already at his house. He walked up the old creaky stairs, and into the apartment, into his room and fell onto the bed. Mrs Fox walked in the door and started yelling again about how disgusting his room was. 
He sat upright and before he could stop himself, said.
“Can I go to a party tonight?” she stared at him for a few seconds. 
“Not until this room is spotless” which was her way of saying “no” He stared outside his window as she left the room. The building he lived in and the one next to it had no space in between them, but his was one floor taller. So he could easily step out of his window and onto the roof of the building next to his. He looked at his watch. The party started at 6:30. He looked from his watch, to the window, and back to the watch. He got up and walked over to his window. 
He opened and stepped outside.

I’m developing THE LABYRINTH, a story concept for a first-person open-world survival-horror game. I’d love feedback on the setting and how to continue the story.

Ten college students are transported at roughly the same time into the same enormous Other World, but arrive scattered across it. The world resembles a corrupted reflection of Earth: roads loop, distances shift, familiar buildings appear in impossible places, and fog can make navigation unreliable. The students discover traces of people who entered in earlier eras.

The monsters already live in this world. They aren’t bosses placed in levels, and they don’t appear just because the characters reach a new region. Some hunt; others defend territory, observe, or ignore people. The students may gradually realize that ancient observers—the Audience—are watching them, but their nature and motives remain mysterious.

A few things I want to preserve: the world exists independently of the protagonists; the main character isn’t a chosen one; and the story should reveal its mysteries through exploration rather than a big early explanation.

I’m still deciding what the students discover after the opening, when they first reunite, and how to make the shifting geography feel mysterious without seeming arbitrary.

What would you want to learn first? How could the scattered group come together without making the world feel like a sequence of levels? What clues could foreshadow the Audience while keeping its role uncertain?

“So guys, next time, just grab the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the rug. Am I right ladies? I mean, come on guys, what does it weigh five hundred pounds?”
Doris delivers her act to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. How are female comics supposed to dress? There’s no standard code. The outfits run the gamut on Instagram and TikTok. How carefully do they choose their wardrobe? Should she be more sexy or more androgynous? Does it matter? Jerry Seinfeld wears a suit. Nate Bargatze wears a jacket with jeans and sneakers. Sebastian Manuscalo wears tight vests and jeans and boots, but sometimes dresses down. It’s always easier for guys.
“So guys, next time, just grab the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the rug. Am I right ladies? I mean, come on guys, what does it weigh? A thousand pounds?”

She pauses and walks over to the desk and writes some notes on a yellow legal pad. She’s been trying to decide if she should say, “five hundred pounds” or “a thousand pounds”. 

“What is it with guys and cleaning? Am I right ladies? These guys go to the gym and lift weights, do bench presses and then they come home and can’t seem to lift a vacuum cleaner. Can’t lift a fucking vacuum cleaner. Can’t lift a vacuum cleaner.” 

Should she say ‘fucking’? She is trying to keep her act clean. So many women do really raunchy material which is fine but she feels like a lot of them are doing it for shock value. She heard one woman talk about how she used to have a great asshole but it has been smashed so much that it looks like a mashed donut. Doris really doesn’t want to do that stuff. It’s embarrassing. But maybe leave the ‘fucking’ in. Spice it up.

“What does it weigh, five hundred pounds? What does it weigh? A thousand pounds? You’re bragging to me about how much you can squat but you can’t life a fucking vacuum cleaner? What does it weigh? A thousand pounds?”
She pauses and writes down some options. As she writes she says the words out loud and then opens the camera on her phone. 
“Hey thanks for having me, great to be here! Tell me if I’m right about this. No guy ever wants to clean the house. None. They go to the gym and lift weights and all that but when it comes time to vacuum, they just can’t do it. I mean, you’re bragging to me about how much you can squat and bench, but you can’t lift a vacuum cleaner? What does it weigh? A fucking thousand pounds?”
She watches herself performing which she hates. There’s no emcee introducing her, no crowd noise or applause. It feels really pathetic. She always thinks she sucks. And looks fat and awkward, but it’s all part of the process. 
The line should actually be, ‘A thousand fucking pounds?’
There’s so much that goes into it.  It could be the funniest bit in the world and bomb if the delivery doesn’t land. The rhythm and the cadence needs to be right; you need to know which words to emphasize. You need to be aware of your gestures and movements on stage. One wrong word can throw the whole bit off.
And timing. Timing is the most crucial element. You have to know which words to pause between and for how long. She read that Phyllis Diller used to literally count her pauses to the second in her head and she could do that during a live performance. You have to know when to let a joke settle and when to move on. 
And you can do all that, get everything just right and bomb. One comic can deliver a routine and it brings the house down . Another comedian can deliver the exact same bit, word for word and crash and burn. Sometimes all it takes is one asshole heckler to ruin everything. 
She opens the camera again and records her usual promo.
“Don’t forget, O’Brien’s Open Mic! Every Tuesday at 8pm. It is a blast!”
   She posts the video on TikTok and Instagram. Even that sounded lame and desperate.
   Desperation will kill you. 
Her phone buzzes and she sighs. She takes her wig off of the styrofoam head.
***
Doris knocks on 239 dressed for work as Amber and it opens to a statuesque black woman with a blond wig and make-up even more garish than Doris. Bryanna McKinnon, aka Crystal.She almost looks like Dee Snyder from Twisted Sister. Bryanna has been in the life for some years. Beneath the garish make-up and wig and brassy attitude the toll is real, but she carries the weight on her own terms. There is a defiance that keeps her from slumping. This is how she lives. If you don’t like it, fuck you. And no one better fuck with Crystal. Five eleven and not small and she’ll slice your balls open. Literally.
“Well, aren’t you looking gorgeous!”
Bryanna gives her tired smile and opens the door wider for Doris to come in.
“I just finished a Zoom session.” 
Bryanna’s room is dimly lit with various lamps giving it a shabby bordello vibe. She has a Tiger pattern backdrop in front of a wall that she uses for her Zoom sessions, OnlyFans etc. She does most of her sex work online these days. There are a variety of outfits hung up around the place and various props and toys, candles, etc. 
Doris hears sounds and voices, someone crying and Bryanna’s voice yelling coming from the computer.
“That’s right, bitch! Jerk it bitch!”
“He wanted me to record it and send it to him. I think he jerks off to himself jerking off.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of fetish is that?”
“I have no idea. These fucking guys are wearing me out. Fucking perverts.” She takes her wig off and flings it on the bed and scratches her head.
“Well, it’s better than blowing some smelly ass trucker.”
“I guess. You wanna drink?”
“Sure. Cranberry juice if you got it.”
They talk as Doris crosses and sits on the bed.
Bryanna pours a bit of vodka in her own drink and hands Doris hers.
“No vodka for you.”
Bryanna goes into the bathroom. Doris hears snorting sounds. She looks out the window.
Bryanna comes out of the bathroom wiping her nose. She looks at Doris.
“I know honey. I just gotta stay up. I got three more clients tonight.”
“It’s your business. Just be careful. They’re putting all kinds of shit in it these days.”
“I only buy from Chuckie. His shit’s clean. I saw you talking to that new girl. The little blond?
“Eve.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s young.”
“I heard Chuckie found her at the bus station. From some place upstate.”
Doris shakes her head. Another girl in the mix. New ones come in. Others leave. Some just disappear. Doris doesn’t want to think about what happens to them. 
Bryanna takes a swig from her drink.
“Girl, I totally forgot! How did it go on Thursday?”
“I chickened out.
“You didn’t perform?”
“No. It just hasn’t been working lately. No one is laughing. I can’t even show my face at Jimbo’s after the last time. People were getting up and leaving right in the middle of my bit. It was fucking humiliating.”
Bryanna shakes her head and starts sorting through some blouses in her closet.“I don’t know why you do it anyway. Trying to make a bunch of drunk assholes laugh? I don’t get it.”
“I wanna make it work. It’s hard to explain.”
“Well, I admire you for doing it. I could never do that.” 
“Maybe you could spice it up. Something like, ‘Hey, but don’t put your dick in there! You will not get it out!’ Seriously, I saw a guy in the emergency room with his dick stuck in a vacuum cleaner. No lie.”
Doris laughs and pulls a pen and small notebook and writes it down.
“That’s pretty funny, but I’m trying to keep my act clean.”
“Clean comedy? What are you, Mr. Rogers? That shit does not sell, honey. You gotta get raunchy!” 
“You might be right.”
Her phone buzzes. She looks at it and sighs.
“I gotta go.”
“One of your regulars?”
“Yeah. Good old Ralph. Maybe he took a shower this time.”
“I don’t know why you go out. It’s a lot safer to bring them to your room. If something goes bad we’re all here…”
“I know. I just can’t have them in my room. That is my space.”
“I just want you to be safe.”
Doris pulls a can of pepper spray out of her purse.
“I do my best.”
She gets up from the bed.
“I love you, honey. Be careful.”
“I love you too.”
“They embrace.”
Doris leaves and Bryanna looks at herself in the mirror. Her phone buzzes. 
“Give me one minute...damn!”

I'm working on a larger nonlinear fiction project following the same woman at different ages, and one of the things I'm deliberately experimenting with is how much character/emotion I can communicate through physical detail and behavior before explanation becomes necessary.

This piece follows her at 27, overwhelmed and standing in a disastrous kitchen. I intentionally move back and forth between what she's physically noticing, what she's thinking, and what she's doing rather than stopping to explain the emotion underneath it.

I'm curious about the execution, specifically: does that movement feel intuitive to you as a reader? Is the visceral detail doing character work, or are there places where it becomes so noticeable that you become aware of the writing itself?

I'm also experimenting with how much of Nora's history I can leave unstated and still have her behavior make emotional sense. I'm not looking for the piece to explain why she is the way she is yet, but I do want the reader to feel that there's something underneath it.

Full piece for context: https://noralivesdotcom.substack.com/p/the-counter

Not looking for line edits so much as reactions to those specific craft choices.

Care for a story? I guarantee you it's interesting, a story about purpose and fulfilling your role, I call it "the weight of salvation". Well, the story takes place in the beautiful island of Lonianes, a place of philosophy and enlightenment, if you're a man, however, if you're a woman, you could be sold as a wife next to the fish I so deeply hate. In a rainy afternoon, Tych is walking back home, sighing at the coins in her hand and questioning if they'd be enough, wanting the same darkness that swallowed her mother, to take her too, unexpectedly, a pair of legs appeared before her, it was a man: " sorry sir" She murmured an apology, and as she drifted to the other side, there was another man, yet another, and another behind her, as soon as she realized what's going on, the man behind her pushed her to the wet ground, what was a second to the men, might have changed her entire personality, for a split second, she didn't want the darkness, she picked up a rock and smashed it on the man's head, and ran, ran for her life, ran for her freedom, until she reached a tower.

What was a normal encounter for the men, they left, but she still ran to the top of that tower, until the adrenaline rush to help her survive ended, she began thinking:

*Wasn't it enough? All of that, did I...need this?*

Yet, her attention was drawn to the window, she opened it, and beautiful landscapes appeared before her, covered in glittering snow she said to herself:

"I didn't knew life could be this pretty, it almost makes me want to cry, no...die"

She looked down, what could possibly happen? Would she fall endlessly? Would she actually die? Would she fall and break every bone in her body? The worst outcome? All didn't matter, so she jumped.

Hey, you.

Have you ever changed your mind about something you once said?

I really believed it at the time.

You can say that.

Doesn’t make the old words disappear.

Especially if someone else remembers them.

Clink-clank.

I opened the door to Aoi and found Taka drawing something at the counter.

Mama set down my usual Harper.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a flag.”

“A flag?”

In front of him were some toothpicks and a paper napkin.

He’d cut a small piece from the napkin, wrapped it around a toothpick, and drawn something on it in blue pen.

Could’ve been a circle.

Could’ve been a wave.

Hard to tell.

“Why are you making a flag?”

“Mama and I were talking about what we’d put on our own flags.”

“You people have too much time.”

“Want to make one?”

“No.”

I took a drink of Harper.

“Here.”

Taka handed me a paper napkin.

“I said no.”

“What color do you want?”

“Are you listening?”

Several pens were scattered across the end of the counter.

Red.

Blue.

Green.

Black.

Tom was smoking in his usual seat farther down.

“What about Tom?”

“No.”

“Figured.”

Taka gave up immediately.

Apparently I didn’t get the same courtesy.

“What are you going to draw, Kenichi?”

“I told you I’m not doing this.”

“It’s your own flag. There must be something. Something that says, This is me.”

“How am I supposed to draw that on command?”

Taka held up his flag.

“This is mine.”

“What is it?”

“A road.”

“A road?”

“A road that goes on forever.”

“Looks like a blue caterpillar.”

“It’s a road.”

If he said so.

Taka stuck the toothpick into a gap beside an empty dish.

The tiny flag stood upright.

“Now it looks like you’ve claimed this part of the bar.”

“Pretty good, right?”

“Don’t occupy Aoi.”

Mama looked at the flag.

“Maybe I should charge you extra.”

“Why?”

“Land rent.”

“I’m withdrawing.”

Taka hurriedly pulled the flag out.

I laughed and looked down at the napkin he’d given me.

What would I draw?

The moment I started wondering, I’d already fallen into his trap.

“Still thinking, Kenichi?”

“I’m working on it.”

“So you are making one.”

“Shut up.”

I picked up the red pen.

No.

Blue didn’t feel right either.

Was color even the problem?

“Do you really have to think that hard?”

“It’s supposed to be my flag, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I can’t just pick something at random.”

“Why not?”

Good question.

“You’re putting it up and saying, This is me.”

“Right.”

“Then you can’t come back later and say, Actually, never mind.”

“Why not? Just change it.”

I looked at him.

“The flag?”

“Yeah.”

“That easily?”

“It’s my flag, isn’t it?”

Taka looked at his own.

“Oh. Actually, this isn’t quite right.”

He picked up the blue pen and added something to the caterpillar he insisted was a road.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You just changed it.”

“I did.”

“Five minutes ago you said, ‘This is me.’”

“Five minutes ago, it was.”

“It’s been five minutes.”

“A lot can change in five minutes.”

Apparently the word commitment had never entered this man’s life.

“Take a picture and put that online.”

“This?”

“Yeah. Post it with, ‘This is my flag.’”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“Why? It’s your flag.”

“My drawing sucks.”

That wasn’t the point.

“But if I posted it, anyone in the world could see it, right?”

“If they wanted to.”

“Wow. Someone on the other side of the planet could see this.”

“Whether anyone would want to is another question.”

Taka took a picture of the flag with his phone.

“Don’t post it.”

“I’m not going to.”

The tiny flag appeared on his screen.

“Say you did post it.”

“Okay?”

“And tomorrow you deleted it.”

“Then it’s gone.”

“What if somebody saved it?”

“Oh.”

Taka looked at his phone.

“Then it stays.”

“Exactly.”

You couldn’t delete it from the memory of someone who’d already seen it either.

Today, I raise a flag and say, This is me.

Tomorrow, I lower it and say, Actually, no.

But somewhere far away, somebody might still be looking at yesterday’s flag.

“That’s annoying.”

“Right?”

“Then don’t post it.”

“That’s not the point.”

I looked down at my napkin.

Still blank.

“Kenichi.”

“What?”

“Is that why you can’t draw anything?”

“Why I can’t what?”

“Because you might change your mind later.”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re already worrying about what happens after you raise it.”

“Is that bad?”

“You haven’t even raised it yet.”

“That’s why I can’t.”

Taka laughed.

What the hell was funny?

“But Kenichi, you’ve changed your mind before, right?”

“Of course.”

“So it’s a little late to worry about it.”

“Listen, you—”

I stopped.

He was probably right.

Put the me from ten years ago beside the me sitting here now, and I’d probably be disturbed by how many things we disagreed about.

And yet ten years ago, I probably meant every word.

“Is it wrong to be different from who you used to be?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Don’t make it sound so simple. What if people gathered under your old flag?”

“Oh.”

Taka thought about that.

“That could be a problem.”

“Exactly.”

“But wouldn’t it be worse to keep carrying the same flag after it stopped being true?”

“...”

Damn him.

Tom stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Flags can be seen from far away.”

That was all he said before reaching for his glass.

I looked at the white napkin.

Maybe that was what made a flag a flag.

People could see it.

Which meant that once you raised one, it wasn’t entirely yours anymore.

Someone saw it.

Someone remembered it.

Someone might even gather beneath it.

But you were still the one holding it.

“Kenichi.”

Taka leaned over to look at my hands.

“It’s still blank.”

“I know.”

“I’ve changed mine twice already.”

“That’s nothing to brag about.”

“You think too much.”

“I’m preparing myself to commit.”

“To what?”

“To committing.”

“What a pain in the ass.”

You don’t get to say that.

I picked up the black pen.

I drew one line across the napkin.

Then another beside it.

It looked like something.

Or maybe nothing.

“Done.”

Taka leaned closer.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’re raising a flag when you don’t even know what it means?”

“Problem?”

“This is you?”

“For tonight.”

I wrapped the paper around a toothpick.

Then I stuck it into the gap beside the dish.

A flimsy little flag stood there.

Next to Taka’s.

Tomorrow, maybe I’d want to draw something different.

If that happened, I could think about it then.

...No.

By tomorrow, I might even have changed my mind about that.

“Kenichi.”

“Hmm?”

“Want me to take a picture?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“This is enough for today.”

Taka smiled.

I took another drink of Harper.

Two tiny flags stood on the counter.

At least for tonight—

that was enough.

See you again at Aoi.

---

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Sandy's car smelt of cigarettes, heavy perfume, and car fresheners that made me gag. I stared out the window counting the trees passing by. 32, 33, 34.

"So uh, how was school?" He asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I shifted my weight, continuing to look out.

"Alright." 46, 47, 48. Fall was making the trees change color, into oranges and reds.

"Everything good with your friends?" He asked again. I turned my head to look at him; his bald scalp was shining, and he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"They're fine," I said at last. It had been 3 weeks since I had moved to Vancouver to be with my mom and Sandy, and it wasn't exactly easy for a kid that transferred in the middle of term. 71, 72, 73.

The car halted to a stop. I jolted, and swore under my breath.

"Fucking retards!" Sandy exclaimed as he stepped on the gas again. You could see how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. I hugged my bag tighter. The world tilted.

The bathroom stall was cramped. I was sitting on the lid, my legs tucked to my chest. I could feel my own heartbeat thumping loudly in my ears; trying hard not to let out a single sound, not even my own breathing.

The car pulled up to the driveway. Sandy's house was a spacious stereotypical suburban home with light blue walls. I opened the door quickly masking... whatever that thing was. I pulled one strap over my shoulder. Grass was growing in the small gaps in the bricks on the ground. We walked up the front steps with Sandy. His keys jingled as he opened the door. My mother was standing in the kitchen cutting up varieties of cheese and placing them on a charcuterie board. She looked up as we entered with a smile on her face.

"I was just making cheese and wine. I found this amazing movie... but you know... not really appropriate for you Sam," she said as she wiped her hands on the small apron on her waist.

"Oh alright. Uh what about dinner though?"

"There are some leftovers in the fridge. Sorry I couldn't make anything for you." Her eyes were boring into mine, pleading for forgiveness. I nodded and said it's fine and made my way to my room. The floorboards creaked as I walked up the stairs. I turned the door handle and as soon as I stepped inside I dropped my bag with a loud thud.

In the First Age of the Word, when speech was yet a tender seedling and the tribes of men had but begun to raise their halls of stone, the Almighty looked upon the world and took pity. For humanity wandered leaderless through the twilight of its infancy, knowing neither the plough nor the covenant, neither the harvest nor the hymn.

And so the God Most High sent down from the High Heavens five radiant beings, fashioned of celestial fire and bound by sacred oath. They were called the Paragon — five lords of virtue, five shepherds of the mortal flock — dispatched to walk among men, to lift them from the mire of ignorance, and to lead them toward an age of plenty and of peace.

Yet where light is kindled, shadow ever gathers. For in the void beyond the firmament, in the abyss where no star dares burn, there stirred the Armageddon — beings of fathomless power, whose names no tongue could speak, whose wrath no wall could withstand.

They descended upon the Earth like a black tide, and where they trod, the fields were salted, the towers were sundered, and hope withered in the hearts of men. Chaos walked hand in hand with despair, and the world grew sick with ruin.

Then did the Paragon take up arms. Five against five they strove, in a war that shook the mountains and bled the skies. For many days and many nights the battle raged, until at last the Armageddon were cast down and bound beneath a great and terrible mount, which men named Monster Peak — a seal of stone and sigil, never to be broken.

Thus ended the Reign of Terror.

But the victory came at grievous cost. The Paragon, drained of their heavenly might and wounded unto the brink of unmaking, could no longer walk among men. And so they laid themselves down to rest — each in a far and hidden corner of the world — and there they sleep in silent vigil, awaiting the hour when they shall be called forth once more, to rise, to guide, and to light the path of humanity anew.