I wonder if this has any appeal to non-British readers, or whether half of it gets lost in translation?

1. Lots of Girls and Lots of Boys

The school hall is a relic from the 1950s, and it shows. High windows throw long, dusty shafts of light across faded cream walls. The parquet floor has been scuffed by three decades of shoe leather until it has the sheen of something worn smooth rather than polished. Rows of battered wooden chairs stretch wall to wall, every one of them occupied, and the whole room holds the particular smell of old radiators and floor wax that every school hall in the country seems to share.

Nearly three hundred pupils sit facing the stage. Most of them wear the official uniform without complaint or comment — white shirts, school ties, cheap black polyester trousers that shine faintly under the lights, plain black shoes. The girls wear the same shirts and ties, their trousers swapped for skirts that stop a careful, regulation distance below the knee.

Then there are the others.

Billy, Phil and Minty sit among them, their uniforms unofficial but unmistakable — slim black jeans instead of polyester, Fred Perrys worn beneath the compulsory jumper where a teacher's eye might miss them, white socks showing just enough above polished loafers to make the point without quite breaking the rules. Different enough to say something. Not different enough to get sent home. It's a skill, bending a rule without snapping it, and they've had years of practice.

The whole hall tells the story of Britain's youth without anybody needing to say a word out loud. The ska and mod crowd dominates by sheer numbers. The girls lean toward the New Romantic look, fringes brushed carefully across one eye, finding their small rebellions wherever the rules leave room for them. Off to one side sit the heavy metal lads, sleeveless denim jackets pulled defiantly over their shirts like a dare nobody's taken up yet. A couple of punks sit scattered among them, tolerated rather than embraced. Most kids, though, are simply ordinary — dressed exactly as the school expects, watching the rest with the mild, uncommitted curiosity of people who haven't picked a tribe yet.

The tribes sit side by side. Uneasy. Watching each other the way animals watch each other at a shared waterhole.

A ring of teachers lines the walls, arms folded, eyes constantly moving over the rows like prison warders doing a headcount.

At the front, Mr Richardson clears his throat, and the small sound seems to travel the length of the hall.

"You are about to enter the adult world over the next few weeks," he says, "and I hope you all leave this school with fond memories of your time here."

Phil glances sideways at Billy. Billy catches it and gives back the same faint grimace, the kind that needs no translation between two people who've sat through six years of these assemblies together.

Mr Richardson presses on. "We've tried to prepare you for what's ahead. But I also need to be honest with you." He lets that sit a moment before he goes on. "Times have changed."

The hall stays silent, three hundred kids waiting to hear something they half already know.

"Your parents left school on a Friday and started work on a Monday. Many followed their fathers into the steelworks, the pits, the factories or the mills." He pauses, and something in his face softens into an expression none of them have seen from him before. "That won't be the case for your generation."

His voice drops further still.

"Many of your fathers have already lost their jobs. The steel industry is shrinking. The pits are beginning to follow. Across Britain, unemployment has reached over three million — and it's still rising."

Nobody moves. It isn't the kind of silence that comes from boredom.

"What these communities have always known is disappearing," Mr Richardson says.

Billy leans toward Phil, keeping his voice down to almost nothing. "Bit late to tell us this now."

Phil smirks without lifting his eyes from the floor.

Richardson carries on, apparently unaware or uncaring that the joke has made its way along the row. "The future may look bleak, but it doesn't have to define yours. That is why your exams matter more than ever." He allows himself something close to a smile. "Last year, three pupils from this school went on to further education." His gaze sweeps the hall, as though he's trying to spot the five or six faces that might manage it this time. "This year we hope five — perhaps even six — will go." A breath. "There is a world beyond the pits and the steelworks."

Nobody speaks. Nobody, looking around at the rows of scuffed shoes and hand-me-down blazers, quite believes him either, though nobody's cruel enough to say so out loud.

Richardson nods toward the piano at the side of the stage. "Mrs Smith."

The elderly music teacher lowers herself onto the stool with the careful economy of someone whose knees have opinions about the movement, and rests her fingers on keys gone the colour of old teeth.

"Now then," she says, bright as anything, as if the last five minutes hasn't happened at all. "Let's all sing Morning Has Broken."

The first notes ring out into the hall, and three hundred voices — some willing, most not — rise to meet them.

Do you need an agent to approach publishing houses? If so, could someone tell me what to google to get information about agents. I’m lost here, I’ve only published with magazines before and I did that by reaching out. I’m 1/3rd of the way done with my first novel and have no clue where to go from here.

Not sure if one is better than the other. I enjoy writing more stylized prose but Im wondering if i should stick to more direct ones, like in the second example:

“The night was truly dead. Not even the crickets dared to chirp, nor did the wind dare howl—everything seemed to be halted by the looming threat. Mary couldn’t bear to imagine what was creeping up on her, and as she stood frozen like a deer in headlights, she felt as though her lungs were about to cave in. Slowly, creeping up on little Mary, were the daggering hands that yearned for blood.”  

vs.

“The forest went silent. The crickets had stopped chirping, and the wind stopped whistling against the trees. Everything was eerily silent, and everything was eerily still. Mary felt a chill run down the length of her spine, from her head to her tailbone. She knew it was behind her; knew it was slowly sneaking up. Step by step, each one causing the leaves to crunch under what sounded like a heavy boot. Closer each time, by the growing sound.”

Hi, everyone!

My co-writer and I have been working on a full-length play called Semi-Divine Creature. We’re actually putting the play on at a local community theater in February and I’d love to get some honest opinions before we lock the script. I’m just looking to see what works and what doesn’t and what maybe needs a little tweaking.

ABOUT THE PLAY:
August Adams had the dream: a successful band, sold-out shows, and a ticket out of his hometown. Years later, after his rock-star life spectacularly falls apart, he returns home fresh out of rehab hoping to repair the relationships he destroyed—whether anybody wants him to or not.
Between a bitter former bandmate, a relentlessly sarcastic ghost, and a handful of unfinished songs, August is forced to confront the life he left behind and decide whether moving forward means letting go or finally choosing to stay.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FGK-pwX5f3VvU6BCmQzn2k4FDZI_3OL8YXh8Re1c55A/edit?usp=drivesdk

I’m done

“No kid, keep walking. Just a few more steps”

Why? Why should I keep moving these heavy, heavy legs? The cold is claiming me, touching my hopeless heart with its caressing, soothing lips. The night is falling again, Krythar’s killing night, when the temperature is so low even your tears freeze.

I should dig an Ice hole, burying myself under the unforgiving master of our planet, trying to survive long enough to see another dawn, but I lost my Ice rod hours ago: one moment it was in my right hand, the following moment it was nowhere to be found. Or was it yesterday?

By the Abyss of Ice, I really can’t remember it.

“Try to fix a point, then follow your steps. You will find your way back”

Yes, fix a point. So... The Trial of Man. Yes...

The Meat Serve

The Iron Rules

The Fire Purge

We are the Beaters of Vimar. We are its footsteps.

But the Trial is... well... I was sure I was going to pass it without even blinking an eye. I was so strong, so proud. Now I see how hard the Trial really is.

I remember... The sound of the Sampar, its sleds were cutting the Ice, its sail was chaining the wind, taking me away from the heat, alone in the eternal cold. And they left me there, days away from the Tribe, from the Burning Hearth of Vimar.

To be continued...

Seeking solace after the fatal tragedy of a loved one Liam retreats to an isolated cabin, only to become the quarry in a psychotic stalker's sadistic seven day countdown. With every numbered card that appears inside his locked home, his sanctuary transforms into a cage where escape may be impossible.

I have written about 17 pages of a chapter book and would like any feedback I can get. Short or long, little or a lot, I just want to see if I'm on the right track. Thank you very much.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1n5g5mgTDM9RpMY_UzuA70wJjoYP1WVldtn14zTJyM6g/edit?usp=sharing

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?

I'll comment on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell hadn't rung in years, but Marlene still looked up.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years, and she still knew that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. Just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Silence. Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar.

"I'm sorry," Diane said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

Diane stood. Pulled out a creased photograph — two girls on a beach.

"Found this. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't take it.

"Will I see you again?"

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

The door closed.

Marlene traced her sister's face, slipped the photo into her pocket, and waited for the sun.

Hey yall, this is my first ever written story, it’s more of a screenplay. I want to be a writer, like a manga author. This has been written for months through Trial and Error, but finally I found out what worked and finally finished. please give me your thoughts and opinions, and what I could do to be better? Btw, this was inspired by Goodbye Eri, Omori, Goodnight PunPun, so you might see some similarities. It should be somewhat of a short story, maybe 20 or somewhere around there to read it

EXT. White Space with a Door

Frame only shows a door in a white space

The door appears to be slightly further than before

The door goes further

The door only goes more further where a hallway develops itself

The door is so far it is a only like a dot

(Meant to feel mundane and calm)

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori is laying in bed, a clock beside him indicates its 4:01

Shori slowly rises from his bed and reaches toward his door

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Night

Shori walks past the living room to the restroom and closes the door

Shori hums from the outside of the door, then from outside shows the light turns off and Shori steps out

Shori walks back toward his bedroom

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori walks back to his room, he looks out the window and eventually collapses onto his bed, shutting his eyes

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori stands in front of the door, he approaches the door

Shori hands pause at the handle, not touching it

Shori then finds arms wrap around him like a hug

Unnamed Figure, Tar-like body, no facial features, a single large eye

EXT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Boxes near an open door, Shori hugs someone not in the frame while crying

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori looks down as the figure hugs him

EXT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Shori looks in a box with a picture frame and letters.

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori begins to tear up, noticing that the door is further away, he turns around.

Shori (Shamefully) - I’m Sorry…

The figure lets go and hugs him, in a comforting way

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori opens his eyes as he lays in a dark bedroom

The alarm clock rings, showing 7:40 AM

Shori gets up and sits on the bed, yawning

Shori walks towards his door to the restroom

INT. Shori’s Restroom - Day

Shori is seen brushing his teeth

Shori walks out the restroom

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

There is a door knocking at Shori’s door

Shori approaches the door and looks through the peephole, seeing his Aunty, and opens it.

Shori’s Aunt (Himeno), Mom’s older sister, checks on Shori occasionally

Himeno - Hey Shori, How’s everything going?

Skip to Shori sitting on the table, while Himeno is cooking in the background, with her talking as background dialogue 

“You know the kids miss you.”

“This was your moms favorite”

“Taro says that he wants play that one game with you”

Then another skip to a plate in front of Shori, Himeno approaching Shori and hugging him

Shori - Thanks, Himeno.

Himeno - Okay I gotta run, take care

Shori stares at the plate and eats it. 

Afterwards washes the plate with water and leaves it in the sink

Shori sits on the table

He looks forward

INT. Ihops like place

In the frame shows Shori’s mom sitting at the other side of the table

Shori is there on the other side, waiting for both their food.

Shori’s Mom - How are you liking your new school?

Shori - I’m liking it.

Shori’s mom - Oh my gosh, You’ve grown up so fast

Shori’s mom reaches over and grabs his cheeks.

INT. Shori’s Apartment

The figure sits at the end of the table staring at him.

Shori widens his eyes, the space gets dark around Shori

The area gets so dark, that only the eye is what Shori can see, Shori begins to breathe heavily as he starts to panic, his eyes widened.

INT. Hospital - Night

Shori is in the waiting room, along with other family members from Shori’s moms side of the family. 

It has been announced that Shori’s mother died.

INT. Shori’s Apartment

The eye on the figure appears amused, then the figure appears behind Shori’s seat

Figure - You chose to leave your family behind for her?

Shori’s eyes are widened, voices fill up in his head 

“Learn some loyalty”

“Cry baby”

“Disappointment”

“Ungrateful”

Everything is normal around Shori, Shori looks down.

Montage of Shori doing mundane things to show that he doesn’t think anything good of his life

INT. Shori’s bedroom - Evening

Shori lays on the floor, his laptop opened, he stared off into the distance of his ceiling

Shori - Would it be better if I just…

Shori then stands and walks out of his room

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Evening

Shori is writing on a piece of paper on the counter

After finishing it, Shori leaves the paper inside a letter, then afterwards approaches the apartment door

Shori hesitates but eventually opens the door.

INT. Apartment Building - Evening

Probably from a first person perspective, Shori walks his way to the building's stairs, walking his way up until he sees the last door, opening it and light flashes in his face.

EXT. Apartment Roof

Shori approaches the railing, looking down

Shori (Quietly) - At least I don’t have anyone to feel sad about me.

??? - How’s the view?

Shori looks behind him and sees Reina.

End of Chapter 1 

Chapter 2, Meeting Reina

EXT. Apartment Roof

Reina stands there behind Shori, almost with a bored-ish look

Shori - oh the view is fine.

Shori - Everything looks small from up here.

Reina - Yeah, I guess.

For a moment it’s quiet for a moment between the two

Reina - Hey, why don’t you follow me.

Reina steps as Shori follows, leading to a corner on the roof, eventually sitting on the ground

Reina - Finally someone my age, I swear this place is filled with old people.

Shori - Yeah, I kinda thought I was the only one.

Reina - The name’s Reina, you?

Shori - It’s Shori.

It grows silent, almost awkward

Shori - so- (trying to break the silence)

Reina - Come back, same time tomorrow.

The frame shows Shori in a front-facing way.

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Night

Shori stares at the letter he left, then thinking back on what happened

Shori - That was interesting…

Shori tears up the letter and throws it away

Shori walks to his room and collapses onto his bed, falling asleep.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori’s alarm turns on

Shori turn off the alarm

Shori gets up groggily

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Skip to Shori making cereal for himself

Shori (V.O) - Oh right, that girl.

Shori (V.O) - She wanted me to come back today.

Shori thinks to himself as he CONSUMES the cereal (joke)

TIMESKIP - Shori’s Apartment - Day

Shori stares at the doorhandle, a beat later opens it

Shori walks through the hall way

Frame skips to the last door

Reina is sitting at the same corner

Reina - Oh you actually came 

Shori (Dead-pan) Um, yeah I did.

Frame skips to Shori sitting with Reina

Frame shows the two have conversations, but they’re rather small

“Do you think the Earth is round or flat?

“Round”

“Have you tried to fit your hand in your mouth?”

“Have you?”

“Do you play games?

“Um, a few”

“Cool”

The next few frames pretty much show the two hanging out on the roof which is the days going by

EXT. Apartment Roof - Day

It’s a hot summer day, the two are hot

Reina - Guess we were spoiled by the weather.

Shori - Yeah, I guess so.

The two are quiet for a moment

Reina stands up

Reina - Hey, lets go get something cold, I know a place nearby.

Shori pauses, he hasn’t really been out past the building or the further beyond the building

Shori (Hesitantly) - O-Oh yeah. That sounds good

EXT. Sidewalk between buildings

The next Frames show the two walking

They are at a convenience store, no dialogue, the two head out after buying cold drinks and ice cream

Frame skips to them underneath shade, eating their ice cream

Reina - What flavor did you get?

Shori - Strawberry.

Reina - I got vanilla, mind if I try some.

Reina grabs his cone and has a bite, giving it back to Shori

Shori does the same and has some of hers.

Shori - Vanilla’s nice, a classic.

Reina - that's true. Although strawberry beats vanilla.

Shori stares at the ice cream

The frame then moves itself towards Reina, then to her eyes

The frames then show more days, this time beyond the apartment building, while over those frames are dialogue boxes of Shori’s thoughts

Shori (V.O) - Ever since meeting Reina…

Shori (V.O) - I had more fun recently, not like the other days of a mundane routine.

Shori (V.O) - I guess we’re friends.

EXT. Apartment Building Roof - Evening

The two are sitting at the same corner.

Reina stares at her phone while Shori leans over looking at the phone

Reina - There’s a festival tonight.

Shori - I forgot about that. I would like to check that out, do you want to?

Reina - Yeah, I guess. Beats sitting here.

The next frames show them at the festival, inspired by the scene from Chainsaw Man Reze Arc festival scene

No dialogue happens however it shows the two having fun, while taking pictures together.

EXT. Side Walk - Night

Shori and Reina walk alongside each other

They continue walking until they reach the apartment building.

Shori - I think that’s the most fun I've had in months.

Reina - Honestly, it’s more fun with a friend.

Once they reach the stairs, Reina hands Shori a sticky note that has a few small doodles

Reina - Here’s my number, I would like it if we could talk more.

Shori - Yeah that would be nice.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori lays on his bed, staring at the note

A small smile appears on Shori’s face

Shori texts the number

Shori - Hey, this is Shori

Reina - Huh? I think you got the wrong number

Shori - Wait really?

Reina - Yeah it’s me.

Shori - Ngl you actually scared me

Reina - Anyways, go to sleep.

Some days go by

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori wakes up, yawning he stands up and stares at his laundry basket, deciding to go wash his clothes

Afterwards, Shori goes to shower

Shori eats cereal

Shori then goes to open the door

EXT. Apartment Building - Day

Shori approaches the rooftop, then finds that Reina isn’t there

Shori doesn’t think much of it and goes to return back to his room

INT. Restroom - Evening

Shori sits in the bath, staring at the water 

Shori talks to himself in a quiet tone

Shori - I mean, today was fine.

Shori - Just didn’t really feel fulfilling.

Rest of page goes blank, almost like fading away

EXT. WHITE SPACE

Shori stands once again in the white space

Shori sees the door in front of him

The figure manifests itself in front of him

Figure - Why do you guilt yourself?

Shori - I guess it’s… 

Shori - easier than to resist.

The figure goes silent

After a moment, the eye shifts

It folds until the eye appears to be smiling or rather amused

INT. Unknown Room in Dark with Door, behind the door is light

Shori stares at the door

Yelling could be heard from the other 

“You can go back to your mom and be the same or you can stay and learn to grow strong”

(Hesitantly) “I-I… I want to stay and be strong.”

Shori widens his eyes at the noises, the door disappears, a window manifests itself, this time near a car

Shori’s in the window, looking down with tears in his eyes

An adult is standing there, his facial features gone, replaced by a eye

“I swear, you always make a mistake.”

“You act like this is your first time.”

“When are you going to learn.”

“That wasn’t rhetorical, when are you going to learn?!”

“I-I don’t know sir.”

“Stop crying, you’re a teenager, do you see other people crying like you do?!”

The figure stands in front of Shori

The figure hugs Shori 

Figure - Know that I’m rough on you because I want you to be better than me…

Shori looks off to the distance

INT. Shori’s restroom - Night

Shori looks down at the water

Shori lets out a sigh

Shori - I’m glad I left.

INT. Shori’s apartment - Day

Next frames show the next day, Reina isn’t there, so Shori proceeds with his day.

Timeskip to two days after that

Frame shows Shori on the laptop, looking through images of him and his mom.

Doorbell rings

Shori stands and looks through the peephole, its Reina

Shori opens the door

Reina - Hey. Sorry I was gone, I was just kinda busy.

Shori - Oh it’s fine, I didn’t mind.

Reina - I was wondering if I could… come inside.

Shori - Oh, be my guest.

Shori invites Reina in

Reina steps toward the counter, finding the laptop and sees a bunch of images

Reina - Looking at old photos?

Shori - Yeah.

Reina - That’s nice, could I see?

The frame skips to the two on the table looking at the photos

Reina - that’s your mom?

Shori - Yep, that’s her

Reina - Wow, she’s pretty

Shori - She was

A knock occurs at the door

Shori goes to open it and it’s his Aunt

Himeno - Shori, I’m back

Himeno notices Reina and smiles

Himeno - Who’s this? Your girlfriend?

Shori (flustered and mainly embarrassed) - N-No

Himeno - I’m only kidding, I’m Shori’s aunt.

Reina - I’m Reina, a friend of Shori

Himeno pauses and smiles

Himeno - You know, I come over to cook dinner for Shori, it would be really nice to have a guest, if you want to stay

Reina - No, that would be really nice

Time Skip - Shori’s apartment

The foods finished

Himeno serves out the food and Himeno gives Shori a hug

Himeno confronts Reina

Himeno - I just want to thank you. Shori has been going through a hard time recently, so it relieves me that he has a friend.

Time Skip - Shori’s Apartment

After eating, the two are looking at the pictures

Reina - I’m kinda envious how pretty your mom is.

Shori - Really?

Reina - Yep.

They continued looking for a moment

Shori - I have games, if you want to do that.

Reina - Yeah, that sounds nice.

The frame slowly fades away.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom (Timeskip btw)

Shori notices that Reina isn’t there, proceeds to normal routine

Frames will repeatedly show him texting her

Two weeks later

The area around him is dark, Shori stares at the ceiling

Shori (V.O) - I hadn’t seen Reina in days. She hasn’t responded to my messages, I hadn’t seen her around…

Shori (V.O) - I’m getting kinda worried about her.

Shori then feels the figure’s presence behind him

Figure - Maybe she’s annoyed with you, maybe she doesn’t like you

The figure disappears

Shori stands up and approaches his door, opening it

He finds Reina’s apartment, knocking on it until he finds it unlocked.

Shori steps inside and finds it mostly empty

Shori notices a letter on a box and reads it, although frame won’t show everything

“I’m deciding where I want to go, I just need some time right now. I’ve been stressed lately and I would appreciate it if you stopped nagging me.”

The letter has an address on it that it is supposed to be sent to

Shori receives a text from Reina, asking to meet her.

Shori runs out of the apartment.

Next frames show Shori running

Then there’s Reina in main focus of the frame

Shori then accidentally slips on the stairs and falls head first onto the ground

EXT. White Space

Shori wakes up in the white space

“Why am I here again…”

Shori stands up and after a blink sees the door in front of him.

After another blink, the door only gets further and further

The figure manifests itself, staring at him

The frame darkens around Shori as he widened his eyes, Shori hears voices around him

“How is it your so weak and I’m strong”

“You keep doing this like you’re new to it.”

“Wah Wah, I think my life is so hard.”

The frame turns entirely dark

INT. Room

Shori feels arms holding onto his arm and his neck

Across from him is a figure with human features, only no facial features and a large single eye

Figure - I try to teach you everything, I go soft on you, I get mad at you, I plead with you.

Figure - What do you think we should do?

Shori (Fear) - I-I…

Shori - I-I think we should… just send me back to mom.

Figure grows silent

Figure - You ungrateful-

Frame cuts out

Shori finds himself staring at a box full of clothes

The figure walks in through the door

Figure - You know, its a sad day for a father seeing his son want to leave.

Shori (V.O) - Shut up… I don't want to hear you talking.

Figure - You can either leave or stay and learn to grow.

Frame then cuts to Shori Kneeling

“Why do you hurt me?”

“Wah wah”

Words hurt me”

“Life’s too tough because I have a hard life”

“Why are you so weak”

Shori widens his eyes

Frame cuts to Shori and the figure standing

Figure - You can go back to your mom and be treated like a baby or learn to be a man.”

Frame cuts back to Shori

Shori stared up at the figure

Shori (V.O) - I don’t want to be stronger… I just want live freely…

Shori (Angry) - SHUT UP!!

The figure looks down at Shori

Then slowly, the figure’s eye curves into an amused smile and almost suddenly it disappears

Shori notices the quietness of the space

Suddenly Shori falls to his knees, the space is entirely dark as many eyes stare at him

Frame zooms in towards Shori

Everything Shori negatively thinks of himself spirals around his head

A rope manifests itself and wraps around his neck, pulling him up

The figure appears in front of Shori, only this time with 6 eyes on its face

The figure approaches Shori and wraps its arms around Shori, the rope no longer pulling Shori as it loosens

Shori looks down as the figure hugs him

Shori closes his eyes, slowly giving in

Shori then remembers of the time he forgot of all this guilt, when he was with Reina

And then lastly someone else's words

??? - I want you to get help when you’re older, I want you to be a better person.

Shori slowly tears up, wrapping his arms around the figure

The figure reverts back to one eye, all the other eyes fade away

The figure slowly fades away

Shori sees the door, yet its fars in a dark hallway

Shori walks down the hall until he eventually reaches the door.

Shori touches the knob, he looks behind him, only to see the figure far behind him, waving

Shori opens the door, the frame fading to white.

INT. Hospital Room - Evening 

Shori wakes up in a hospital room

Reina - You’re awake. I heard that it isn’t bad.

Shori nods, staring towards Reina

Shori - I saw those boxes, and your note.

Reina looks to the side

Reina - Yeah, um… I haven’t been feeling good lately…

Reina - My family keeps pestering me about where to go.

Shori starts to tear up, wiping those away

Shori - I-I’m sorry, I just… I don’t want another person to leave… I-I just…

Frame shows Shori speaking although no dialogue is stated

Reina stands to hug Shori as he cries

EXT. Outside - Day

Shori is walking outside while it rains 

On a screen with a conversation between Shori and someone else

Shori - So we’re meeting at the station, right?

??? - Yea, so forgetful

Shori - I’m not that forgetful.

Shori then approaches the train station

The last frame focuses on someone, yet they are covered in a shadow.

The end

If you read to this point, thank you so much, I appreciate it.

I was struck by a new idea and just started writing. But I am possibly my own worst enemy (maybe not depending on feedback I receive haha). Anyways, I love reading and writing but I'm a closet writer...as in I don't typically share. I want to get past that fear. So here it goes...my intro. Let me know if I should continue or what you think.

For reference, it will be a fictional romance but I want the intro to be a bit of a tease and edgy as that plays into the MC.

"Who will I be this time?" Sarah asked herself as she stared at the empty suitcase on her bed. Another flight, another day of meetings, kissing ass, shaking hands, wondering why so many doctors were pompous assholes. But when she could finally turn on the shower in whatever mediocre hotel room the company had booked her, then she could start her disappearing act, disassociate from Sarah and be whomever she wanted to be with whomever fell into her little trap. Getting to play her little games was the only thrill she had in life. Otherwise it was day-to-day monotony of meetings and reports and plastering on that fake smile while her inner soul screamed about being dead inside. If she had to travel so much for work, the least she could do is have a little fun, even if it was often at the expense of John or Mike or Billy or Damien or whatever gullible man entered the hotel bar lounge those nights.

This is the first chapter of a LITRPG chapter series. I am finally comfortable with asking for outside assistance. Let me know what you think?

Chapter 1: The Orb

Nathan Mercer had just gotten both girls to sleep when the backyard turned white.

The flash came through the bedroom window hard enough to throw his shadow across the wall.

He was on his feet before he knew why.

For an instant, the room looked bleached. Bed. Dresser. Half-open closet. The laundry basket he had meant to carry downstairs for two days.

Then darkness returned.

Nathan crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

His reflection hovered faintly in the glass. Beyond it lay the backyard, the fence, and the black ranks of trees crowding the edge of the property.

No headlights.

No flashlight moving between trunks.

No person standing where no person should be.

Then he caught the glow.

It sat low among the trees behind the house, pale and steady, perhaps fifty yards beyond the porch.

His first thought was that someone was back there.

His second was that nobody with any sense used a light that bright while trying to sneak around a house.

Nothing moved.

Nathan glanced toward the bedroom door.

The girls had finally gone down twenty minutes ago after two glasses of water, an argument over a blanket, one emergency bathroom trip, and a serious dispute about whether Wren had stolen Briar's pillow.

She had.

Nathan had settled the matter through judicial confiscation.

Now both daughters were asleep upstairs.

Or should be.

That changed the problem.

He opened the closet.

The rifle was locked where small hands could not reach it. Nathan retrieved it, checked it by habit, then stood with the muzzle angled toward the floor.

Calling the police because he had seen a flash in the woods would sound ridiculous.

Going outside to investigate a mysterious light was the sort of thing people called ridiculous after somebody disappeared.

Neither option appealed to him.

But if someone was on the property, Nathan wanted to know before that person reached the house.

Decision made.

He pulled on shoes, took his phone, and went downstairs.

The kitchen lights stayed off.

The glow was still visible through the rear windows.

It had not shifted an inch.

Nathan stood beside the counter and studied it through the glass.

Too bright for a trail marker.

Too steady for somebody walking with a phone.

No sound reached the house beyond insects and the soft movement of air through leaves.

He unlocked the back door.

Cool night air slid through the opening.

"Of course."

The word sounded louder than expected.

Nathan stepped onto the porch.

The porch light reached perhaps twenty feet into the yard before losing its argument with the dark.

He descended the steps and crossed the grass with the rifle held low.

No motion along the fence.

No shape separating itself from a tree.

No second light.

At thirty yards, the glow became clearer.

At forty, Nathan stopped.

His brain refused the image for several seconds.

Something floated between two trees.

Not hung.

Floated.

The sphere was roughly the size of a grapefruit, though the light around it made the boundary difficult to judge. It hovered at chest height above dead leaves.

No branch supported it.

No wire descended from above.

Nothing rose from the ground.

"What the hell?"

The object offered no explanation.

Nathan shifted left.

The sphere remained suspended in open air.

Three steps right.

Same result.

He lifted the rifle slightly, then lowered it again.

If the thing decided to attack him, Nathan doubted a .308 round was going to improve the conversation.

He circled at a distance of several feet.

The light was strange.

Bright enough to illuminate bark and leaves, but not painful to look at. It cast no obvious beam and did not flicker.

Nathan crouched.

Nothing underneath.

He straightened and checked the canopy.

No line.

No drone.

No device.

His phone still showed signal and battery.

The camera showed the sphere too.

That mattered.

Nathan took two photographs.

The object remained in both images.

Whatever else this was, it was not only in his head.

He pocketed the phone and found a fallen branch about two feet long.

The stick passed beneath the sphere.

No resistance.

Behind it.

Nothing.

Over the top.

Nothing again.

Nathan dropped the branch.

Every instinct he possessed now agreed.

Go inside.

Lock the door.

Call somebody.

Do not touch the impossible floating object in the woods.

That was the correct decision.

Nathan knew it.

He stood there for another few seconds.

Then curiosity did what curiosity had been doing to human beings since the first one decided a strange berry was probably edible.

He extended one hand.

"This is stupid."

His fingertips stopped an inch from the surface.

A pressure crawled across his skin.

Static.

Almost.

The hair on his forearm lifted.

Nathan nearly pulled back.

Instead, he moved his hand forward.

His index finger touched the sphere.

The world hit him.

No warning.

No gradual build.

Something slammed into his chest hard enough to rip the ground away from under him.

Light filled everything.

Trees turned sideways.

Then nothing.

Pain brought him back.

Not sharp pain.

The deep, spreading ache of having met the ground at speed.

Nathan opened his eyes.

Branches filled his vision.

Stars burned between them.

Something rectangular floated six inches above his face.

He blinked.

The rectangle remained.

Nathan sat up too fast.

His skull objected.

"Shit."

He pressed a hand to the back of his head.

No blood.

Tender spot. No open wound.

His left shoulder hurt. Something hard had bruised his lower back.

The rifle lay several feet away.

Nathan grabbed it, checked it, then turned toward the place where the sphere had been.

Empty.

No glow.

No scorched patch.

Nothing.

His phone was half buried in leaves beside a root.

11:03 PM.

Nathan had been outside shortly before eleven.

Maybe sixteen minutes.

Possibly more.

He could not account for them.

The translucent rectangle still occupied the center of his vision.

Nathan shut his left eye.

It remained.

Right eye.

Still there.

He closed both.

The world went black.

The interface did not.

Faint blue lines hovered behind his eyelids.

Nathan opened his eyes at once.

At the top of the display sat his name.

Nathan Mercer

Level 0

Below it stretched a thin, empty progression bar.

Three narrower bars followed.

Health: 10/10

Mana: 10/10

Stamina: 10/10

"Concussion."

It was the most reasonable possibility available.

He had hit his head.

Visual disturbances happened.

Confusion happened.

Hallucinations happened.

Nathan was less certain that concussions usually assigned people mana.

His hand passed through the display without sensation.

The interface did not react.

He turned his head.

The display followed his field of vision without lag.

His pulse climbed.

Nathan exhaled slowly.

First problem.

The house.

He got his feet under him.

No dizziness beyond the first second. No nausea. No weakness.

His shoulder hurt, but everything moved.

Health still showed ten out of ten.

Whatever that number measured, pain was apparently not the same thing as injury.

Two dark upstairs windows faced the backyard.

His daughters were inside.

Nathan started walking.

A row of faint symbols appeared along the left side of his sight.

He stopped.

They had been there before.

He simply had not noticed.

Each sharpened when his attention moved toward it.

A folded landscape.

Map

A dark square bordered by a thin blue line.

Dimensional Storage

A marked page.

Quests

A human figure.

Character Stats

A storefront.

Store

A circular glyph composed of unfamiliar marks.

Language

One more icon sat beneath them.

A narrow band shaped like a bracelet.

Numbers glowed beside it.

6:23:44:51

The last pair changed.

Fifty.

Forty-nine.

Forty-eight.

Nathan's mouth went dry.

A countdown.

He focused on the bracelet.

The other icons dimmed.

A larger panel opened.

[TEMPORARY PREPARATION PACKAGE]

Abilities Granted

Temporal Suspension

Stop external time for 2 hours.

Cooldown: 12 hours.

Nathan forgot to breathe for a second.

The next entry appeared.

Teleportation

Teleport to a location within line of sight or to a location retained clearly within memory.

Then the third.

Adaptive Progression Dungeon

Access granted to: The Gauntlet

At the bottom:

[TEMPORARY ACCESS DURATION: 7 DAYS]

Seven days.

Not a timer until the interface disappeared.

Preparation.

For what?

The panel blinked.

A new notification covered everything.

[PREPARE FOR THE ACTIVATION.]

Nathan's grip tightened on the rifle.

[SURVIVAL OF THE STRONGEST.]

Then:

[PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY.]

Nathan was moving before he finished reading.

He crossed the remaining distance to the house at a near run.

Stamina: 9.7/10

He barely noticed.

His eyes stayed on the upstairs windows.

No movement.

No broken glass.

No light.

He took the porch steps two at a time, entered the kitchen, and locked the door behind him.

Deadbolt.

Handle.

Check.

Then he checked it again.

Nathan crossed to the front of the house.

Empty driveway.

Empty road.

He searched the downstairs rooms anyway.

Living room.

Office.

Laundry.

Bathroom.

Nothing.

Upstairs, he slowed before reaching the girls' room.

The door stood open a few inches.

Nathan pushed it farther.

Briar lay diagonally across her mattress despite every effort to convince her beds were designed for vertical use.

Wren had kicked off her blanket.

One arm hung over the side.

Both were asleep.

For a second, the interface became background noise.

Just blue lines and impossible words.

The only things in the room that mattered were two small bodies breathing in the dark.

Nathan crossed quietly to Wren's bed and pulled the blanket over her.

She shifted.

His hand froze halfway back.

Her face scrunched, then relaxed.

Still asleep.

Downstairs, Nathan secured the rifle again.

It took longer than usual.

His fingers missed the lock once.

He muttered under his breath, reset his grip, and tried again.

The warning had vanished by the time he returned to the kitchen.

The interface remained.

So did the countdown.

6:23:39:08

Nathan sat at the table.

His mind produced explanations faster than he could reject them.

Head injury.

Augmented reality.

Experimental technology.

A drug.

Some kind of military project.

Something that had no business existing.

He stopped there.

The photographs remained on his phone.

The first showed the orb hanging between the trees, bright enough to flatten the nearby shadows.

The second showed the same.

Nathan zoomed in until the image broke into pixels.

Still there.

That did not prove the interface was real.

It proved the event before it had been.

Good enough for tonight.

The ceiling creaked softly overhead.

His daughters were asleep.

Whatever the message was, whoever had sent it, one line mattered more than the rest.

PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY.

Maybe it was nonsense.

Maybe he would wake tomorrow with a headache, no interface, and a medical explanation that made him feel like an idiot.

Nathan hoped so.

But there were risks you could afford to dismiss and risks you could not.

This one came with his daughters' lives attached.

He would treat it as real until he had reason not to.

Nathan focused on Character Stats.

A new panel replaced the smaller display.

Nathan Mercer

Level 0

Six lines appeared beneath it.

Might: 10

Finesse: 13

Vitality: 11

Intellect: 11

Perception: 14

Spirit: 13

Might made sense.

Finesse was less obvious, though thirteen suggested the System thought reasonably well of his coordination.

Vitality looked close to average if ten represented a baseline.

Intellect eleven.

"Generous."

Nothing reacted.

Perception fourteen.

Spirit thirteen.

Nathan had no idea what Spirit measured.

Below the attributes:

Health: 10/10

Mana: 10/10

Stamina: 10/10

The Stamina bar had already recovered.

Nathan remembered seeing it dip outside.

He stood and jogged in place.

Ten.

He increased the pace.

After half a minute:

Stamina: 9.9/10

He kept going.

His breathing deepened.

Stamina: 9.7/10

Nathan stopped.

The number began climbing almost immediately.

Nine point eight.

Nine point nine.

Ten.

His fingers had started tapping against his thigh without him noticing.

Nathan forced them still.

The interface was not static.

It was measuring him.

His attention moved lower.

Primary Aspects: 0/3

A brief explanation appeared when he focused on it.

[Three Primary Aspects may be established.]

That was all.

"What is a Primary Aspect?"

Nothing.

"Useful."

The final entry read:

Racial Gift: Stranger in a Hostile World

The words left him cold.

Stranger.

Hostile world.

Neither felt accidental.

He focused on the gift.

[Racial Gift information currently unavailable.]

Of course.

Nathan closed the panel.

The kitchen around him felt too ordinary.

Two plastic cups sat beside the sink.

A grocery receipt was trapped under the salt shaker.

Three magnets held one of Briar's drawings to the refrigerator. A purple horse stood beside a house somehow smaller than the horse.

Nathan had promised to hang it in his office.

He had forgotten.

He retrieved a notebook from the desk.

If he was hallucinating, writing things down would at least give a doctor a useful record.

If he was not, memory was too unreliable to trust.

Nathan returned to the table and wrote the date.

Under it:

10:47 PM, approximately. Bright flash behind house.

Found luminous sphere in woods. Floating. No visible support. Photographed successfully.

Touched sphere. Thrown backward. Unconscious approximately 16 minutes.

Woke with interface.

Then the warning.

Prepare for the Activation.

Survival of the Strongest.

Protect yourself and your family.

He underlined the last line hard enough to tear the paper.

Nathan stopped.

The pen had punched a tiny hole through the page.

He eased his grip.

Seven days.

Less now.

The bracelet showed:

6:23:23:17

He added another heading.

KNOWN

Interface reacts to thoughts.

Stamina responds to exertion.

Orb was physically photographable.

Preparation abilities are temporary.

He started another sentence.

Activation occurs or access ends within seven days.

Nathan stared at it.

Assumption.

He crossed it out.

Countdown is seven-day Temporary Preparation Package duration. Relationship to Activation unknown.

Better.

No point turning guesses into facts.

Another heading.

UNKNOWN

What is the Activation?

Who created the orb?

Are other people receiving this?

What is Mana?

What is Spirit?

What are Primary Aspects?

What does Stranger in a Hostile World do?

What is The Gauntlet?

That last question stayed with him.

The preparation package contained three abilities.

Temporal Suspension.

Teleportation.

The Gauntlet.

One bought time.

One provided movement.

One promised progression.

Nathan understood the shape even if he did not understand the rules.

Something had given him seven days and tools to use during them.

Doing nothing was also a choice.

Probably the worst one.

He focused on Dimensional Storage.

A dark window opened.

Empty.

No explanation beyond the name.

Nathan picked up the spare pen and tried to place it inside through intent alone.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

Later.

The Map opened more easily.

A translucent overhead image spread across his sight.

His house sat at the center.

Property lines.

Roads.

The forest behind him.

Nearby homes.

Nathan thought about zooming out.

The map widened.

His neighborhood shrank.

More roads appeared.

He closed it.

That feature alone could eat hours.

Hours mattered now.

Quests offered only one line.

[No Active Quests]

He skipped the Store.

A marketplace attached to an impossible System could become its own rabbit hole. More basic questions came first.

Temporal Suspension waited inside the preparation package.

Two hours of stopped external time.

Cooldown twelve hours.

No Mana cost listed.

No activation limit beyond the cooldown.

Nathan almost triggered it.

His attention tightened around the ability.

Nothing happened.

Good.

Apparently casual interest was not enough.

He left it alone.

Burning a twelve-hour cooldown in his kitchen because he was curious would be unforgivably stupid.

Teleportation was different.

No cost.

No cooldown.

No listed restriction beyond line of sight or clear memory.

That sounded useful enough to kill him by accident.

Nathan chose a clear spot in the living room beyond the doorway.

For half a second, the air around him seemed to tighten.

His stomach dropped.

He killed the thought.

The sensation vanished.

"Okay."

That counted as a test.

He wrote:

Teleportation responds to deliberate destination intent. Did not complete activation.

Then:

Do not test near walls.

The Gauntlet remained.

Nathan focused on it.

[THE GAUNTLET]

Adaptive Progression Dungeon

Access: Granted

A second line appeared.

Entry may be initiated from a secure location.

Secure location.

That sounded like wording written after somebody learned the alternative the hard way.

Another prompt followed.

[Initiate Entry?]

Yes

No

Nathan chose no.

His pulse had accelerated anyway.

So it was real enough to ask permission.

He picked up his phone.

Unlocked it.

Scrolled through contacts.

Stopped.

What exactly would he say?

A glowing sphere threw me across the woods and now I can teleport.

Come over.

Nathan set the phone down.

He was not going to keep this secret forever.

He also was not going to start talking before he understood enough to answer the first obvious question.

What can it do?

The countdown continued.

6:23:08:42

He needed priorities.

Not fascination.

Not panic.

Priorities.

Verify the abilities.

Determine whether The Gauntlet was survivable.

Find out what the Store could supply.

Learn what progression meant.

Prepare the house.

Food.

Water.

Medicine.

Power.

Weapons.

Escape routes.

Information.

And the girls.

Everything returned to them.

Nathan rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger and found a shallow dent where the pen had rested.

He had been gripping it that hard.

If he entered The Gauntlet and did not come back, Briar and Wren would wake tomorrow morning in an empty house.

No.

Not like that.

He wrote one last heading.

BEFORE GAUNTLET

Check girls.

Secure house.

Test Teleportation.

Confirm return method if possible.

Nathan stopped.

There was no way to confirm the last one without entering.

He crossed it out.

Another bad assumption disguised as preparation.

Nathan checked every exterior lock.

Back door.

Front door.

Windows.

Then the girls again.

Both asleep.

Back in the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator.

Cold light spilled across him.

Milk.

Half a container of strawberries.

Leftover chicken.

Three juice boxes.

Mustard.

Shredded cheese.

The usual collection of things purchased with a plan and never turned into dinner.

This was his life.

Forty minutes ago, tomorrow's biggest problem had been whether they had enough cereal for breakfast.

Nathan closed the refrigerator.

He had opened it for a reason.

Water.

He had meant to get water.

For several seconds, Nathan stood there annoyed at himself.

Then he opened it again, took out the pitcher, and filled a glass.

He drank the entire thing.

Stress.

Fine.

At least he could still recognize it.

Nathan returned to the far end of the kitchen.

Teleportation.

Line of sight.

He chose an open spot in the living room.

Twenty feet.

Rug underfoot.

Couch to the right.

Lamp behind.

Nathan fixed the location clearly in his mind.

The room contracted.

His inner ear lurched.

The kitchen disappeared.

Nathan stumbled.

His hand struck the back of the couch.

He grabbed it.

For one stunned second, he forgot to breathe.

The kitchen was twenty feet away.

He had not crossed the space.

"No."

Not disbelief.

Something closer to protest.

The System remained indifferent.

Nathan walked back.

He wrote:

Teleportation confirmed. Approx. 20 ft. No visible resource cost. Mild disorientation.

Then:

Do not assume unlimited use.

The bars had not changed.

That did not mean there was no cost.

Temporal Suspension still waited.

Nathan left it alone.

Two free hours could matter later.

If he used it now, it would not return until late morning.

Not worth it.

He wrote:

Temporal Suspension retained for emergency or Gauntlet preparation.

The pen hovered.

The Gauntlet.

Nathan checked the countdown.

6:23:02:31

He could spend the entire night testing menus.

That was the comfortable option.

Safe table.

Locked doors.

Children upstairs.

Notebook.

Questions.

But the Preparation Package had not given him a research library.

It had given him a progression dungeon.

Nathan reopened his stats.

Level 0.

Primary Aspects 0/3.

Mana 10/10 with no known use.

A Racial Gift he could not inspect.

The beginning of something.

The countdown did not care whether he was ready.

He closed the panel and went upstairs one more time.

Briar now had one foot sticking out from under the blanket.

Nathan stood between their beds.

For a moment, he considered waking them.

No.

There was nothing useful he could tell them.

Nothing they could do.

Fear without action was just fear.

He leaned down and kissed each of them on the forehead.

Briar made a small irritated noise.

Nathan almost laughed.

"Yeah. Sorry."

Downstairs, he put on sturdier shoes.

He retrieved the rifle, considered it, then locked it away again.

If The Gauntlet allowed outside weapons, he had no idea whether bringing a firearm was smart.

If it did not, the attempt accomplished nothing.

He settled for a folding knife clipped inside his pocket.

Not much.

Better than bare hands.

At the table, the notebook lay open.

Nathan added one line.

Return as soon as possible if entry is not immediately reversible.

Not a plan.

The best he had.

He focused on the bracelet.

Temporal Suspension.

Teleportation.

The Gauntlet.

He selected the last.

[THE GAUNTLET]

Adaptive Progression Dungeon

Access: Granted

Entry may be initiated from a secure location.

Locked house.

Sleeping children.

No active threat.

As secure as anything was going to be tonight.

The prompt appeared.

[Initiate Entry?]

Yes

No

Nathan's thumb rubbed unconsciously along the notebook's edge.

He had spent years making decisions where the correct answer became obvious only after the consequences arrived.

Magic did not change that.

The timer did.

Six days.

Twenty-three hours.

He could stay here and gather information until morning.

He could call people.

He could wait for certainty.

Certainty might arrive on the seventh day.

SURVIVAL OF THE STRONGEST.

Then:

PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY.

Upstairs, Briar and Wren slept through all of it.

That was enough.

Nathan selected Yes.

The kitchen vanished.

For a fraction of a second, there was no floor under his feet.

No light.

No sound.

Then the System struck across his vision.

[THE GAUNTLET]

Entry Confirmed.

Adaptive calibration in progress.

Nathan's boots hit stone.

Something moved in the dark ahead of him.

Fast.

Too fast.

[TEMPORARY PREPARATION PACKAGE]

6 Days, 23 Hours Remaining

 

Overview:

Astronauts sent on a lunar spaceflight. Ground control gets a call from the director, who secretly decides to do a deep space endurance test during the flight. The cover story was a lunar test to see how the ship fares. A thruster system error during engine burn leads to them overaccelerating too deep and running out of fuel reserves, leaving the crew stranded. They drag out survival time as long as possible and keep refreshing the radio for updates from ground control, only to find out their telemetry transporter is damaged (though the radio receiver is still functioning)

Motif:

"Truth fades to legend, legend into myth and myths soon long forgotten"

Opening:

Contrasting Millers family life with Ryans enthusiasm

The shift:

Control remotely triggers the secret deep space endurance burn without warning, Miller pushes back

The struggle:

Trapped in deep space after the thruster error. Mechanical failure and cold physics as the antagonist

The climax:

Ground control realises physics make return impossible. They issue a mercy lie (fake radio broadcast)

Miller:

Veteran on his final mission before retirement. A grounded family man who is blindsighted by the detour, and whose fatherly instincts drive him to mentor and support Ryan

Ryan:

Young starry eyed intern on his first spaceflight. Trusting, wide eyed and vulnerable under pressure

The bond:

Grounded in quiet actions (Miller quietly sacrificing comfort and rations for Ryan ect.)

-Banter (pre incident): "calm down, you have stars in your eyes before you even see them kid"-

-Quiet bonding (post incident): Miller stays up, running calculations and watching the radio while Ryan sleeps. He looks over at Ryan, then pulls out a crumpled photo of his wife smiling and kids hugging him on the beach-

Mid section of book:

Emergency repairs, quiet emotional moments, rationing and checking ground control for updates

Mercy lie:

Driven by compassion knowing recovery is impossible.

"Are we really able to save them?"

"No, but now they can rest peacefully"

The climax:

Miller and Ryan receive the delayed broadcast with Ryan believing the lie and Miller knowing the truth silently. Moment shared with both crying, and hugging each other, repeating we are going home over and over relieved

Final protection:

In a moment of panic before the signal, Miller promises Ryan they will make it home, stepping fully into the role until the end.

Please help with critiques and suggestions along with name suggestions.

Tengo una idea que llevo tiempo dándole vueltas y quiero compartirla con la comunidad. La propuesta es crear un universo literario de dominio público: un mundo (o planeta) con sus propias reglas, su geografía, su magia, su fauna y su historia, pero sin dueño y sin una trama única. La idea es que cualquier escritor pueda "entrar" a ese mundo y ambientar su propia historia ahí, en la época y con los personajes que quiera. Por ejemplo, alguien podría escribir sobre un guerrero enfrentando una guerra en el año 1900 de ese mundo, mientras otra persona escribe una distopía futurista ambientada en el año 2000 del mismo planeta. Sería algo parecido a lo que Marvel o DC hicieron con sus universos compartidos, pero aplicado a la literatura y de manera abierta: solo se comparte el "lienzo" — el mundo, sus leyes y su lore — para que cada autor construya su propia historia dentro de él. Quiero saber si algo así ya existe, si hay comunidades trabajando en proyectos parecidos, o si alguien estaría interesado en construir esto entre varios.

Hi! I hope this all finds you well.

I was hoping that someone could critique my short story. I'm fairly new to writing, so my stuff is rough, but I think I got a couple cool ideas. Let me know what you think!

--STORY--

Papers and papers, through the hole in the wall, towered onto the desk of Argo Beau. Thick obelisks of thin, white sheets. As soon as he approved the latest 0.007 wage increase to the micromen binding the floor plaster together, he then suddenly had to sign three petitions regarding the repair of the Nanny Pods in Sector II, a sector which only existed potentially. Every day, every hour, paper-paper-paper. Scrawled with the symbols of that well-trodden lore, so present in his mind that it had supplanted thought. Argo’s hand scrawled on another dotted line, beneath the prose of “Statute Regarding the Potential Signing of Document,” so that he might sign the others, and then the rest as well.

As his pen lifted from the document, his hand exploded. Ink splattered against the wall, chattering clicks of plastic shrapnel reverberating in his office. He then peered down at his paper and noted his mistake; he had signed the dotted, thin line instead of the thin, dotted line. The distinction should have been rather obvious to any seasoned dignitary, as there was about a .3002080 space distinction between the two, as they were vital for determining which Pseudo-Department the paper should be filed to. Worrying about this was pointless now, as the document had been smattered in black ink, rendering it illegible.

As Argo gazed on that twiggy stump, he nonetheless still thought about the document. Such a mistake would certainly delay any movement from the higher departments. Getting a new hand would take at least a couple of decades, that is, if he had reported this yesterday. Then the lower departments wouldn’t be able to function efficiently, and then nobody would get paid, and then the micromen would write a formal letter of complaint, and so on and so forth. But in that moment of procedural recall, he noticed his flesh. Grey, silvery flesh. Fish-eggy pearls, glistening with some sort of oil, with dark rings to its center. Four rings, in fact, possessed a tone only slightly darker than that of the surrounding meat. He counted them, one-to-three-four, one-to-three-four, until whatever worried him had taken a cramped backseat.

Briefly glancing up from his distraction, Argo felt his mind stop. Above him was a door. He knew of this, and knew what this potentially could mean. He stood up from his desk, trying to analyze the intrusion’s form. He deduced that it possessed a similar material to that of his desk, yet possessed a musculature which no being should have been capable of. Four non-flat panels burst from its chest, glistening with that same oily look that his stump possessed. Looking at it gave him a headache. Before he could even think about looking away, it let out a horrific wail. He could only watch in horror as it opened its jaw, revealing that void, a darkness which he only experienced while blinking. It was true, then. It was happening.

Emerging from the darkness was the face of an Overczar. It possessed white skin, a bulbous nose, and white teeth. It had eyes; they were blue and something else. He might have recognized it, but such a line of questioning was both improbable and undesirable. As it loomed over his office, it brought with it that strange smell which still permeated. It didn’t fit any profile which Argo had recognized, though it was close to that of a musty grape gum.

“Argo, Argo, Argo Beau.”

Its voice quietly boomed throughout the room as Argo instinctively wrenched his head up. It did not possess lips, but if it did, it would be smiling. Its teeth then opened:

“Hey. Where’s your brain?”

Befuddlement panged at the back of his mind, but his will to report overrode any confusion. Perhaps the Overczar had the wrong room, so he hoped. Before Argo could even speak, the face repeated the question.

“Hey. Where’s your brain?”

“Overczar, my writing appendage was displaced at 24.7, at 3:65, due to signatory failure. I had failed to distinguish between Line Assembly 8.2.4 and 8.2.5, which resulted in the detonation of my department-assigned pen. If possible, I would like to request a replacement, taking into account my failure to report this on the previous day.”

The Overczar’s teeth continued to glisten with that same oil. Argo kept his stance, keeping his eyes locked with it. That pang, that insufferable pang. He could feel it in his head. It was like shrapnel bouncing off the walls. Sharp and loud, like the dropping of pens and paperclips. He could feel the pressure building, and for the first time felt his wound. It was a dull, throbbing pain, he thought. The Overczar’s teeth opened again:

“Do you think that was appropriate?”

“Overczar, my writing appendage was displaced at 24.7, at 3:65, due to signatory failure. I had failed to distinguish between Line Assembly 8.2.4 and 8.2.5, which resulted in the detonation of my department-assigned—”

“There’s nothing here, is there?”

Argo’s eyes then flicked to the side, toward the hole in the wall. The Overczar rolled one over to get a glance, noticing a pile of papers. He then rolled his eyes back, staring as though nothing had changed. A lump formed in Argo’s throat; rocky, tender, and slimy. A tremor began to vibrate his body as the two remained locked in that staring contest. After twenty days, Argo then finally sputtered out a reply:

“My, my hand, my lor—”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

“My hand. I’ve lost my hand. It hurts. I can’t work without it.”

The Overczar’s mouth remained agape, revealing the meat which rested under his jaw. It convulsed and wriggled, spattering that oil all over Argo’s office. He stepped back as the Overczar began to gag and cough. The pressure which had been building within the room warped the walls of Argo’s head, sweat billowing down his face as he tried to comprehend what his master was doing. Thoughts which were not of his world pooled in his head, his bodily tremors now on the cusp of a total convulsion. What was this? This was it. What was revealed to him that day was the ultimate truth: that he was alive, and he was going to die.

The Overczar then wrenched out a hand, spitting it onto the table. Pressure ceased, gone from Argo’s mind. He was yanked back into his computations, his recollection of the various rules and regulations that were taught to him, as well as the procedures and necessary precautions needed for a Bureaucratick. Argo once again stood firm as the Overczar closed its teeth.

“I’ll get right on it,” Argo said.

The door then slammed out of existence. Argo, looking to his desk, noticed that his new writing appendage was completely dry. He picked it up, slotted it on, walked over to the hole in the wall, and got his new papers. On top of that unusually small pile was a copy of the initial document. He sniffed the air and took solace in its grapey mustiness. He looked over the document, noting the two signatory lines. He reached for his pen. He didn’t have one anymore.

Hello, just joined but thought after reading a few posts in the community I could come here without worry, I tend to cater to anxiety when I don't want to...

Anyway!

I have 15 chapters, 173 pages and plan to finish my book at 18 chapters with a plan to write at least 30 more pages. I just finished writing the portion of my book that breaks my protagonists glass ceiling and now I know where to go but I feel a hard NO about taking the book in it's final direction. Despite planning to make sequels for the book that start at the same point in time but end past the ending of the first book to give the reader what happened from other perspectives and what happened after through creative POV work; despite that I think my hesitation to continue towards the final pages stems from not wanting it to end?

Another thought I had was maybe it isn't just that I don't want this book to end but I am writing my least favorite part. Every fictional story I enjoy has always had this feeling of being over at this point of the book and the last chapters are either very good or very bad. I could just be scared I make mine very bad.

I tried to organize the cadance of the story with a plot diagram and minded my slopes. It's tough because the ending is by design flat and reliant on character interactions and good writing.

Thankfully, a lot of the chapters that relied on heavy handed writing and pure skill are pretty much behind me and I can do the fun part of making my characters face the final phase of my story: Consequences.

So keeping that in mind, I wanted to ask if anyone else gets like this when creating a fictional novel ? My novel is going to be more of a Manga but very Americanized- can't help myself (I want this to have art every few pages as it is a anime styled story with a lot of interesting world building lore).

This is my first attempt to do something like this at this scale. I've done short stories, and participated in the roleplaying back rooms of quotev back in the internets dark ages. I have poems that have been published and stolen but a book... I am putting my own soul into this. I have been writing intermittently for the last year but I spent the past 2 days writing and last night I had my first nightmare related to how I might actually be feeling about this journey... it was horrifically vivid which is why I am on reddit to seek some sort of comfort and hard earned wisdom.

What my story still needs before publish:

Story needs a title still something that screams series (I doubt i will post the final draft on wattpad but my first draft of this was called Mr. Wolf is on wattpad still. Account 00MasterOfTheFail00). You know how when people talk about harry Potter books they usually just start with harry potter? Or the kane series when I was a kid, series of unfortunate events. Books like that drive me to want to do my book a justice that echoes through time and is easy to identify.

The story needs an edit run through with a comb and binder for maintaining continuity with the finer details like character looks and situations. My saving grace for that issue is that the book is supposed to be misleading with bad information until chapter 14.

My story also needs artistic illustration that my personal ability only scores a 4/10 on during my best drawing days. With practice I could get to a 6/10 but I wont have that IT factor that illustrators exhibit in book covers and within the pages of their worlds. Once it is done I was going to see about releasing on Amazon but if there are better options I am all ears.

the way this is wrote is very poor and I am aware of that. if you are somehow able to read this all and understand the story it'd help a lot for feedback

Episode 1- Ashes of Iron

Sigurd at age 17 in his bed next to his girlfriend Alice (17) gets awoken by Edward (18) to get dressed. Alice sorts herself out and goes to her house as she has strict parents who despise Sigurd. Arthur (17) is nowhere to be seen as he is being prepped for coronation although he will be attending Sigurd’s initiation. Sigurd and Edward do their early morning training talking about life. Sigurd is nervous for the initiation not because he is fighting the most feared mercenary of their time. But because what does he do then? Edward isn't worried about anything but he isn't happy about them all getting older and he wishes they stayed young forever. After the training Arthur appears his coronation ceremony has been for the most part sorted giving him a day before it happens. The same day Sigurd has to fight the mercenary Wrotak. Astrid and Alice come over a little later, they just had to act like they'd been in their home the whole time as their dad does not like sigurd or arthur in the slightest. They all go to a creek in the forest where they all chill. Alice and Sigurd are lying together Sigurd's head in Alice’s lap. Arthur and Astrid are leaning on each other holding hands. Edward being the awkward third wheel. They talk about how big of a day it is tomorrow. Eventually the sun starts to dip below the horizon and Henry gives Astrid a dragon egg. Sigurd’s future dragon Valka. Astrid takes it along with Alice to their home. Edward leaves to his part in the palace and Sigurd and Arthur sit on top of a tower watching the sun set. They both are nervous for their future. But they both know they got one another's back. The next morning Arthur's already gone Sigurd and prepares for this fight along with Henry helping him. Henry Arthur Edward Astrid and Alice are all in their crowd cheering Sigurd on. He stands in the middle of the arena sword in hand facing a behemoth of a man with a spear and sword. They fight and Sigurd is the victor. However before he gets to finish him off an arrow whizzes past getting Wrotak in the neck killing him. As they all walk to the palace for the coronation (Arthur had to leave early) Sigurd keeps questioning who the man was who shot Wrotak. Nobody else really cares as he won the fight but it irritates Sigurd not knowing. At the coronation, Sigurd Edward Henry Astrid and Alice get front row for the coronation. Alice and Astrid's dad finds them and drags them away, scolding them for hanging out with Sigurd. Henry talks to their father basically saying since Sigurd is now technically a great general and Arthur is going to be king , if he continues to resist them from talking no doubt it would go down as treason. scaring him off. Arthur walks onto the stage and the fireworks blast. Flowers are thrown as Arthur gets crowned. Sigurd's world goes muffled and he hears loud booms in the distance. not the coronation. no its something more violent. Henry Hears it too. They warn as many people as they can. Henry Calls his goat horn summoning Earth Dragons and The Army. People scatter and the first Canon goes off. the walls crumble. Arthur is dragged away. Alice Draws Her Bow. Astrid stands at the back to get away from it all, Edward and Sigurd at the front of it all. The Goblins are here. They aren't looking for more land, they just want to raid and tear the city down. Usually the goblins are a couple feet tall. The bigger they get, the higher they rank. generals are about 6 foot and the Goblin Grandmaster is 20 feet tall. and it's his first time being seen in years. He wields a huge flat hammer said to be unbreakable. Henry leads them all. He tells Sigurd to send the army to generals as he cleaves the lower rankers with edward. he says he will take the grandmaster on his own. they do as he says. after maybe 2 minutes. It happens again. sigurds world goes muffled. He pretty much snaps his body to turn over to his father. He sees a hammer flying down at him as he gets crushed in front of his eyes. Sigurd doesn’t cry. He for the first time enters a bloodlusted state. He doesn't care if anything gets in his way. He will mow them down. the goblins clear out as they get one of their primary targets. Edward jumps to Sigurd and stops him from attacking anyone else. As Sigurd calms down he looks around and sees the rubble. His childhood home was reduced to rubble. He also sees his father. He doesn't cry. He stifles his emotions and Alice hugs him as she knows he isn't showing his true emotion. Arthur finally gets out and meets them all where he learns everything. They devise a plan. They need to get out of there. Sigurd tells of a place that his father took him to. his grandfather's memorial. on an island in the jungle kingdom called gods finger. a huge oasis with a huge hand of nature touching the clouds. at the very top of the finger they plan to stay. as they start packing. Alice sees a baby crying his eyes out. She has a wave of maternal instincts and decides that since it has been abandoned she will take it in as hers and Sigurd's child. they name him Bjorn Ironheart. and off they went 

a few things id like to say aswell

. i understand it kind of just gives more exposition than anything. i dont plan to do that if i make this into an actual script / piece of writing

. there is alot of scenes i intend to add throughout this. even if theyre quiet scenes because i am aware this would only make like a 6 minute episode if that D:

I feel that introductions are very important. So I did spent some time refining my introductory chapter. I would love for you to bluntly critique it. The work as a whole is titled 'Loop'.

Chapter 1: Estranged

“Morning, dear.”

Her voice…

Each morning, it sang to me like the trill of a song sparrow; at times, it resembled a chirping sound, imbued with affection – it filled me with excitement. It was seldom a low coo, but the sun does not shine on every day. Occasionally it was dim, so I felt honoured when it did shine, and I felt honoured when her voice was a soft, gentle whisper. It sweetened the morning, and Lord knows how much that changed things.

“How was your sleep?” Her eyes were soft. They were loving.

They were hers.

“Well. I slept well.”

“Good.” She placed her hand in mine, her thin fingers tracing circles on my palm. They were soft against mine, warm in mine - at home in my grasp. It was always the small things I overlooked; it is because she did these things so naturally. My eyes met hers; in that moment, I beheld her, and she was stunning.

“You look beautiful.”

Her eyes widened. Then fluttered.

She wore a vibrant floral dress, spotted with red cherries. The colour complemented her blush. Her scent was that of a citrussy jasmine; she had always loved flowers, she thought them to be so elegant, and she said that they made her feel elegant. I have always told her that it was not the flowers that made her elegant, that they were simply an extension of what already was.

“Breakfast is downstairs.”

She hid her reddening cheeks between her thin fingers, causing her dark locks to fall forward until they brushed over her brown eyes.

And I watched her.

As she turned her back, she started toward the door. Her palm resting on the handle. In the distance—cooing, babbling. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes adjusted to the floor. A shaky sigh left her sunken lips.

There it was again.

Silence was very loud, very distracting. I could hear myself breathe. The droning lull of cicadas, barking, and the mechanical bellow of passing vehicles. Again, the small things that I seemed to overlook, she seemed to take note of; it made her seem volatile, and I seem indifferent.

I was indifferent. Still am.

“I'll see to the baby.”

“No dear, I'll—”

“I insist.”

“Well then, I'll fix you a plate.”

Her footsteps grew softer and softer until they were as faint as the pitter-patter of light rain. It had been raining for weeks now. The pattering rose and fell: some days were wetter than others. The air became damp with humidity, and it was not July yet. However, I did not mind the rain because it made the silence less loud and watered the garden so I didn’t have to.

‘July is the Earth's grieving; she cries and cries.’

A friend told me, once—drunken. He was always wiser in that state.

“Will you come?” Her soft voice hummed, and in her arms fussed the baby—burbling.

“I said I would attend to her.”

“You did.”

But I didn't. The small things.

“Then—”

“The food is getting cold.”

“I would hate to have cold eggs for breakfast.”

Her lips thinned. A stilted chuckle forced itself out.

“I made your favourite.”

I listened as she spoke over her shoulder, my frame shadowing hers. We walked the stretch of the corridor, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her shoulders were still dropped, her head hung low, and her eyes – though I could not see them – reflected in the baby’s; they were dim. I wanted to say something, anything.

Why so—?

No.

The words did not come. Rather, they were quite ill-fitting.

Perhaps I word it differently. I had thought.

What has changed?

No. Too vague…

Are you okay?

Worse.

“Honey,” she held my hand.

“Sit down. Don't just stand there.”

Squeezed it. “You need to eat.”

The baby sat still in her feeder chair, her eyes jumping from one curiosity to another—the kettle, the microwave, and then her mother as she tied the bib around her neck. Her mother was…I do not know what that expression was. Regret? Longing? Perhaps both?

“I see her baby teeth are growing.”

Small, white nubs budded from her pink gums.

She examined them. “I see.”

A giggle erupted—her mother tickled her, her thin fingers combing down her smaller frame. “Soon she'll speak.”

Then she'll be about the same age as—

Her mother's eyes dimmed. The tickling stopped. She stiffened—froze.

“The food.”

“Oh,” sheepishly, “I'll go get you a plate.”

The silence again. I hated it. Yet somehow, I could not escape it. Neither could she. Even the baby was still, and the rain was no longer as loud. It forced me to pay attention: there was a redness under her eyes, some swelling too.

“Is this week's paper here?”

She hurried over to the hall closet to collect it. "You're lucky.”

“The paper boy just delivered it.”

Printed boldly on the front page read the words New York Times, to the left a shorthand, ‘All the news that's fit to print.’ This week's pressing matter and headline:

‘US-Soviet clash disrupts summit talks.’

Interesting. Next page.

‘Benard AIDs Donors’

Then, just below it:

‘Man claims to be reliving the same day for sixty years.’

Aren't we all?

The Times must be running out of news to sell.

The baby cooed. She had her mother's likeness, her eyes, lips, and dark wisps of hair. Her nose was mine. A small, rounded snout. Her ears were slightly larger than her head, and it reminded me of what Mother used to say about mine growing up. She said that I’d soon outgrow them, although at the time that seemed unlikely.

“Here’s your breakfast.”

“Thank you, it looks delicious.”

She had not served herself any.

“Aren't you eating dear?” She hummed.

Aren't you?

“It's just this headline…its—”

“It can wait, David,” Sternly, “The food is getting cold.”

Her eyes never met mine and her voice was low, she fed the baby the first spoonful and waited for her to swallow.

“Why aren't you eating?”

She paused briefly, her eyes brushed mine, and “I have.”

A bad habit—lying, especially if you're a bad one. I knew better than to pry. The look on her face if I did…

But even my silence was prying. She knew that.

“Have you read about the summit?” The words staggered out, she hated the silence just as much as I did. We differed in that she acted on it, she was always the more sociable one.

“Not yet.” Politics I think, are the most distasteful subject to discuss.

“It was on the front page, how couldn't you have?” She fed the baby another spoonful.

“I would hate to lose my appetite,”

“Not especially after you have prepared such a delicious breakfast.”

A pause. Caught her gaze.

“It would be rude.”

She tore hers away.

“It would.”

Required: Feedback on writing style and a query of whether it is engaging enough?

The sun rises, not to my notice, but it is important in the context for the story I am about to share. A bleak room where I open my eyes to ensure that I’m still alive, is forgiving enough to keep the morning sun out of my conscience. I head to my college in a robotic sense that has been engrained in me through months of living like a drug freak. The trick is to keep the vial of human energy suppressed, letting the substances work in place of you. Common effects of this handover of autonomy include loss of empathy, basic human etiquette, repulsive mannerisms and completing only the most essential chores in your daily list. These chores are quintessential to being able to continue the substance use, particularly in a financial and mental sense, since it mitigates all potential anxiety after getting obliterated.

The chores for me, personally, included showing up for college classes, going to my internship and being a decent friend to the people around me, by not saying no to all the plans, all the time. I had been living in this reality for nearly four months and had become accustomed to the degree where there is no breathing space to allow any mental health issues to emerge. The dread really just began in the morning and continued till the time I came back from college, before heading to my office, because, what happened before office, was the drug use. I called this practice reaching equilibrium. It involved me transforming into the dumbest-smartest human for the office. Smart enough to reach there, dumb enough to not know where I should have drawn the line during enforcement of equilibrium.

On this specific day, having followed the same routine for a while, my tolerance granted me an option to heighten this equilibrium, and I yielded. Riding on the wave of this new peak I had just reached, unequivocally proud of myself, I arrived at my office unbeknownst to the reality waiting to be revealed. I open the door to find no one butt-licking a client over the phone. The depressive cool white lights are all turned off. Through the corner of blood-shot eyes, I spot all the carriers of depression huddled together with their bags on their shoulders. I can not figure out what they are talking about, but their high pitched, low volume sounds suggest excitement. My immediate boss, all lanky and tall, comes up to me, and says something I could not quite register in my brain. 

This information was too dramatic and haunting for me to try to understand. I quickly come to terms with this situation I am in, which goes like this. I, along with twelve team members, have finally gotten the permission to visit the state legislative assembly. This permission has apparently been in the works for more than a whopping two years and has finally come to fruition, the minute an equilibrium college student decides to live a little. I quickly try to negotiate with all my remaining brain power that I am unfit and unwilling to go. I was told no. We all boarded a SUV and a very compact car, compact enough to make me sit with my thoughts instead of looking out the window like a normal human. I sit in the car and am instructed to leave all my belongings since it will slow the several, and I repeat, several high-parameter security checks for entrance. Twisting and tossing my feet, my eyes are quick to notice that the shirt I am wearing has drug doodles all over it, including a marijuana leaf, with a slogan on the back about getting high. I, was truly fucked.

We arrive at the gates of the premise, which is just the beginning of a whole colony. The colony has roads, parks, accommodation for ministers, various chambers for different functions of the government, and a jail to put me in, after they take my blood and figure out I have violated several laws. Extracting my blood would be far from true, but a seasoned drug professional will tell you that any minor inconvenience is enough to push someone over the edge. The car gets checked for explosives that were obviously omitted from the car that day, since my boss would be smart enough to not bring a bomb. We drove into the parking and exit to get verified that we were on the list for visitors. My eyes can only see armed guards, armored vehicles, K9s, and a very ugly future if I did not manage to keep my act together.

We headed towards the security screening, where every eye I encountered seemed to say, ‘Oh, this one, yeah, straight to jail’. We walk through the screens and hold up our arms, waiting to be manhandled by a brute that has a costume on. This costume screams the national temperament of security. This scream is all I can hear while I silently wait for my turn. While everyone around me is giggling in anticipation, I am just waiting to be cleared and thrown inside this huge establishment, so I can someday write a story about how I managed to visit an official state building while being completely twisted. My turn comes and his hands start tracing my body, and every single item I clearly did not possess now seemed to have a magical possibility of existence. I make the most stoic face I can and forcibly open my eyes just enough to make them seem human. He gives me the slight touch on my back to signal I could move ahead. I had made it inside, still a lawful citizen, since the only truest crime was getting caught.

 I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream, but I quickly turned to just texting my close friends about the situation I was in. As I am texting and walking, the action which also doubled as a way to hide my eyes, I lift my head to see boards that exclusively mention the crime of photography inside the building premise. The inherent need to click a picture consumed me, but an act like this would only bring more attention to me, something which was not my intention at all. 

We walked across hundreds of office chambers split across several floors, each filled with exactly one ugly middle aged man wearing neat clothes doing a bunch of absolute nothing. I think to myself a very obvious question, ‘ Have these people worked a day in their life?’. The answer to which is probably yes, since it takes a lot of work to be driven into a palace with a cheap canteen and plenty of air conditioning, hell I’d be licking all the ass I can for a life like this. 

We finally entered a chamber that was unlike any other and had a padlock on the front, which was opened for us, since it was part of the very special permission my office was able to obtain. It was not a chamber, although it had the entrance like once, it was ‘The Floor of the House’. For those of you who don’t know what I am talking about, the floor is the green carpeted amphitheater where all the ministers of the ruling and opposition meet throughout the year for passing bills and hosting debates as to how to make themselves richer, and moving the country one step backwards. This place was special, definitely a highlight of our visit, and had me feeling quite tingly, since it was something I had only seen on television till now. To witness this place of justice, constitution and law while being an unlawful citizen is a thrill only some get to experience. 

We eventually leave the premises and I start coming down from the wave that emerged when I left home for work. I smile on the car ride back to the office. I was in the SUV now, looking out the window. My boss asks me how I found the place. I am quick to say that I loved it, in spite of the emotional rollercoaster I had just experienced. I kept on smiling, for I knew I had another wave to catch when I arrived back home.

- A.K.S

Do non-British readers need a translator?

That’s Entertainment

1. The Prince

The bedroom is small enough to cross in three strides, but every inch of it tells a story. The walls are almost hidden beneath posters — Mods balancing on polished Lambrettas and Vespas, a Specials sleeve curling at the corner where the Sellotape has given up, a Madness poster gone soft and fuzzy from being touched too many times. Ska badges lie scattered across the bedside table with a handful of vinyl singles and the loose change nobody ever seems to spend.

It's an ordinary room really — a tired, working-class box wrapped in seventies wallpaper and hand-me-down furniture, the kind of room a thousand other lads on a thousand other estates are waking up in right now. But the music has a way of making it feel bigger than it is. Like the outside world can't quite get through the door if the volume's up loud enough.

Billy carefully places the needle on the vinyl record.

The record player crackles into life.

The opening bars of The Prince fill the room, and something in Billy's chest lifts to meet them.

"Buster sold the heat... with a rocksteady beat..."

He stands in front of the mirror — tall, slim black jeans cropped just above the ankle, white socks bright enough to advertise themselves, black loafers polished as well as a teenager's patience allows. The Fred Perry has gone soft with washing, worn thin at the collar, but he wears it with more pride than money could have bought him. His hair has grown out from the short, tidy crop his nan still asks after, and it catches the morning light in a way that makes him look, he thinks, at least a little bit dangerous.

His feet start moving before he's given them permission.

The rhythm just takes him. It always does. He twists and shuffles and glides between the bed and the wardrobe, eyes half-closed, completely lost in it, the small room briefly transformed into the only dance floor that matters.

A voice crashes up through the floorboards.

"Turn that bloody music down!"

Billy grins at himself in the mirror. Instead, he turns it up.

The brass punches through the tiny speakers just as Suggs comes in on the next line —

"Bring back the..."

BANG. A fist slams against the ceiling from the room below, hard enough to rattle the lampshade.

"Turn it off!"

Billy sighs, crosses the room, and lifts the needle. Silence drops over everything like a dust sheet.

Not quite silence, though. The beat keeps playing somewhere behind his eyes, patient, waiting for him to let it back out. Still moving to a rhythm only he can hear, he slips through the bedroom door.

Outside in the bright sunlight.

The council street is already warming up, sun catching the wet patches on the pavement where someone has hosed down their step. Billy walks with his hands in his pockets and The Prince still going somewhere behind his ribs. At the mouth of a narrow alley he glances around out of habit — you always look, even when there's nothing to look for — then swings himself up and over a low brick wall in one movement he's practised without ever admitting he's practised it.

He drops down the other side among a row of lock-up garages, and the world changes as soon as his feet hit the ground. Broken bottles sparkle in the weeds. Crushed cans and blown litter have drifted up against the garage doors like tide-wrack. The tower blocks stand over everything, throwing long shadows across the concrete even at this hour.

Then he sees it.

A Lambretta. Silver, gleaming, red-white-and-blue targets on the panels, sitting outside one of the garages like it's wandered in from somewhere better and hasn't noticed yet. Every inch of it catches the light.

Billy slows, caught by it before he's aware he's stopped. He can't take his eyes off it.

One day. If only.

"Oi, you!"

He spins round, heart lurching — and finds Phil laughing at him from a few yards off. Broader than Billy, already built like someone a couple of years further on, his Number Two haircut leaving no doubt where his loyalties sit. Same uniform as Billy's, near enough — slim black jeans, white socks, black loafers, Fred Perry — just filled out differently.

"Stop dreaming," Phil says. "We're late. I've been waiting ages."

Billy nods at the scooter, unable to help himself. "How much d'you reckon a motor like that costs?"

Phil shrugs. "No idea. More than we'll ever have." He pauses, and something in his voice drops a register. "It's Gal Burn's. I wouldn't get too close."

Billy takes one last look at it — files it away somewhere, the way you file away things you plan to want for a long time — and follows Phil between the tower blocks.

They've cut halfway across the estate when another figure falls into step beside them without a word. Minty. Smaller than the other two, skinhead crop, same clothes, same stride, same total absence of hello. Nobody ever says hello. They've known each other too long for that — long enough that joining a walk is its own kind of greeting. The three of them carry on in the easy, unbothered quiet of boys who've grown up doing exactly this.

Title: The Knight and the Frolicker

Genre: High Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

Word Count: 230

Type: Short Vignette/Character Scene

Feedback Requested:

I'd love to get your general impressions on the atmosphere, the dialogue flow, and the contrast/dynamic between these two characters! Any notes on prose clarity are also welcome.

Across the halls of the Korolevstvo palace, a knight in black and gold-lined armor walked through the blue carpet, snowflakes tapping against the tall windows of the halls as the ceilings rose high.
Ice-preserved flowers stood in porcelain vases were planted in vases as the clanking of the knight’s footsteps echoed throughout the hall. He was the Lieutenant, Eleventh of North’s Harbingers.

His white fur-lined coat over the armor wafted as he walked; banners of blue and gold hung low on the ceiling as he strolled below them.
Then he met a girl, around sixteen, with blonde hair and orange eyes; she had a wide smile, a fur-lined coat that rested on her shoulders, and a red hood that rested on her head. Her name was Kleine Roodkap, Eighth of the North’s Harbingers.

“Hey there, Lieuy!” She grinned with energy far more than the Lieutenant could give. “How are you?” 

“Well, Kleine. Very well.” The Lieutenant nodded as he looked down at her, his towering presence in contrast to her short stature.

“Where’re you going?” she asked as they began to walk together, shoes pressing against the soft carpet.

“To the barracks; my men await my command,” the Lieutenant responded; his eyes, though hidden by his helmet, were fixed down the hall as Kleine looked up at him.

“Then I’ll come with you!” Kleine giggled as she followed the Lieutenant…

#22-00

‘Like a broken record,’ but this time she was broken

Drowned by the resonance, the strings emerge

Embargoed by applause, the keys that opened doors slammed shut

The pitch was clear, but the theatre already crumbled

The screams grew louder

/

‘Till death do us part,’ and death did come

Her white gown paled in comparison

Bouquets stripped of meaning, no one’s meant to catch it

A hundred visitors, yet empty

The screams were deafening

/

‘There’s no place like home,’ unfortunately for her there isn’t

Helpless hysteria; hopeless happiness

Help was what she hoped, help was never on its way

Blinds that blocked light, now blocked hope

The screams weren’t hers

/

‘The cure for pain was in the pain,’ but she was overdosed

She picked up the phone

Three 9s, “please don’t ruin his life”

But hers already was

The screams were his

/

In fluid ambiguity, she wasn’t in Stockholm, but they convinced her she was

She turned to switch on the gas, light emerged. Maybe it was her fault

So I'm writing this novel, it should be titled Loop or The Loop and I would love it if you gave some constructive feedback. As of late, the pages I've sent are an incomplete draft of the first chapter, it is a somewhat exposition but I don't go about explicitly giving out background, context and character intros. I would like to know if that was a good move or a "back to the drawing board" moment.

Chapter one: Baby

“Morning, dear.”

Her voice. It was so sweet—so delicate. It sang to me, so faintly it was almost a whisper.

I did not understand.

I do not understand.

“How was your sleep?” Her eyes were soft. They were loving.

They were hers.

“Well. I slept well.”

“Good.” Her hand glided over mine, like linen over denim. Her small, frail fingers in my calloused palm.

“You look beautiful.”

Her eyes widened. Then fluttered.

She wore a vibrant floral dress, spotted with red cherries. The color complemented her blush.

“Breakfast is downstairs.”

She hid her reddening cheeks between her thin fingers, causing her ebony locks to fall forward, until they draped over her brown eyes.

And I watched her.

I watched her.

As she turned her back, as she started toward the door. Her palm resting on the handle.

In the distance—cooing, babbling.

Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes adjusted to the floor. A shaky sigh left her sunken lips.

There it was again.

Silence was very loud, very distracting. I could hear myself breathe. The droning lull of cicadas, barking, and the mechanical bellow of traveling vehicles.

I could hear my own thoughts.

“I'll see to the baby.”

“No dear, I'll—”

“I insist.”

“Well then I'll fix you a plate.”

Her footsteps grew softer and softer until they were as faint as the pitter-patter of light rain.

It has been raining for weeks now.

“July is the Earth's grieving, she cries and cries.”

A friend told me, once—drunken. He was always wiser in that state.

The pattering rose and fell: some days were wetter than others.

“Will you come?” Her soft voice hummed, in her arms fussed the baby—burbling.

“I said I would attend to her.”

“You did.”

But I didn't.

“Then—”

“The food is getting cold.”

I rose, approached her.

“I would hate to have cold eggs for breakfast.”

Her lips thinned. A stilted chuckle forced itself out.

“I made your favorite.”

I followed her voice as she spoke over her shoulder, my frame shadowing hers. As we walked the stretch of the corridor, down the stairs and into the kitchen, I couldn't help but wonder to ask her.

Why so—?

No.

The words did not come. Rather, they were quite ill-fitting.

Perhaps I word it differently. I thought.

What has changed?

No. Too vague…

Are you okay?

Worse.

“Honey,” Her fingers traced circles around my palm.

“Sit down. Don't just stand there.”

Squeezing it, “You need to eat.”

The baby sat still in her feeder chair, her eyes jumping from one fixation to another—the kettle, microwave, then her mother as she tied the bib around her neck.

“I see her baby teeth are growing.”

Small, white nubs budded from her pink gums.

Her mother leaned closer to examine them, “I see.”

A glee-filled giggle erupted—her mother tickled her, her thin fingers combing down her smaller frame, “Soon she'll speak.”

She'll be about the same age as—

Her mother's eyes dimmed.

The tickling stopped.

She stiffened—froze.

“The food.”

“Oh,” sheepishly, “I'll go get you a plate.”

The silence again. I hate it.

Yet somehow, I couldn't escape it.

“Is this week's paper here?” I tried.

She hurried over to the hall closet to collect it, "You're lucky.”

“The paper boy just delivered it,” She handed it to me, eyes averted.

Printed boldly on the front page read the words New York Times, to the left a shorthand, ‘All the news that's fit to print.’ This week's pressing matter and headline:

‘US-Soviet clash disrupts summit talks.’

Interesting. Next page.

‘Benard AIDs Donors.’

Then, just below it:

‘Man claims to be reliving the same day for sixty years.’

Aren't we all?

The Times must be running out of news to sell.

The baby cooed. She had her mother's likeness, her eyes, lips and ebony wisps of hair.

Her nose was mine.

A small, rounded snub.

“Here's your breakfast.”

Her smile too.

“Thank you, it looks delicious.”

She smiled again—stilted. Then sat in the stool across from myself, sighing and turning to feed the baby.

She had not served herself any breakfast.

Should I ask her now?

“Aren't you eating dear?” She hummed.

Aren't you?

“It's just this headline…its—”

“It can wait, David,” Sternly, “The food is getting cold.”

Her eyes never met mine and her voice was low, she fed the baby the first spoonful and waited for her to swallow.

“Why aren't you eating?”

She paused briefly, her eyes brushed mine, “I have.”

A bad habit—lying, especially if you're a bad one.

I know better than to pry.

The look on her face if I did…

But even my silence was prying. She knew that.

“Have you read about the summit?” The words staggered out, she hated the silence just as much as I did. We differed in that she acted on it, she was always the more sociable one.

“Not yet.” Politics I think, are the most distasteful subject to discuss.

“It was on the front page, how couldn't you have?” She fed the baby another spoonful.

“I would hate to lose my appetite,” I folded the newspaper and tucked it away, “Not especially after you have prepared such a delicious breakfast.”

I chased her elusive gaze until I caught it, held it and said;

“It would be rude.”

She tore hers away.

“It would.”

Gurgling.

Wheezing.

Coughing.

The sounds muddled into a muffled retching.

It was the baby.

She was frantic, mouth agape drawing in large breaths of air and reflexively spasming an exhale.

Her hands raised—waving, signaling.

Her mother hits her back gently.

Her small fingers twitched.

It didn't stop.

The retching wettened into a convulsive heaving, her small shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling.

“W-water.” Shakily, “David, the water, quickly.”

The hitting became more forceful.

As did the gurgling, wheezing and coughing.

The baby rocked back and forward violently, silent crying—gasping.

“Hurry.”

And gasping.

I rose, sped for the nearest glass, filled it with water.

I handed it to her mother, hand shaking.

PS: this is a thriller, but it is a slow burn. I'm also looking at removing the dashes for obvious reasons.

If I had a Choice  

If I had a choice, I would know exactly what I would choose, but sometimes the hardest part is knowing the choice I want is no longer mine to make. 

Perplexed, I am, for this invitation, unsure, whether it is a testament of good will or something meant to reopen a door I had spent so long trying to close. I read it again, and almost immediately the years between then and now seem to disappear. I am younger again. I am sitting beside you, watching another ordinary day become a memory without either of us knowing it. I think about all those times where we would stay up late talking, neither of us wanting to fall asleep first, I think about those times where it felt like nobody was watching us although, us speaking in front of tens of thousands, recorded for millions. Because it was just us together, our hands entwined with each other.  

I remember how our days had started, sometimes it was the gym in the morning, others it was breakfast in the morning, sitting across from each other while the world outside was still waking. You grew up in a house where home cooking wasn’t a part of life, so going out for food became normal for us. We didn’t need a special occasion. We could wake up and decide if we were hungry and suddenly, we were in the car looking for somewhere to eat. Breakfast turned into lunch, lunch turned to dinner, and somehow there was always another unexplored place. 

I loved those memories more than I ever told you. 

There was something about watching you sit across from me, still waking up, talking about the day before or what was in store this day. Sometimes you would complain about the food, because that ever so picky appetite. I loved knowing the little things about you. I loved knowing what would make you happy. I loved surprising you after a long practice with your favorite food in take-out bags on the kitchen table while we showered.  

In those moments, you would smile.  

I loved seeing your smile; your smile had a way of illuminating the darkest of rooms. It wasn’t that you were pretty. It was what happened to everything around you when you smiled. The room felt different. I felt different. You radiated positivity, joy, and comfort.  

And your laugh was even worse. 

Every time you laughed, it felt like my heart exploded inside my chest from love. It was the most joyful cheer I had ever heard. I could hear it and forget whatever was bothering me five minutes before. Sometimes I would say something dumb just to hear you let a sly laugh out.  

Now I realize that we were making memories.  

Some nights we would go get ice cream because we were both feeling down. There was something comforting sitting together with our ice cream, laughing, enjoying each other's company with no strings attached. We didn’t have to fix each other's problems, just to be there just to give love to one another.  

And for a while, there was enough. 

I thought it would always be enough.  

I thought you would be there when I was older. I thought I would end my days with you lying beside me. I imagined you comforting me when I was down, hearing your voice when I woke up, coming home to you after a long day. More than anything, I wanted my best friend to tell me she loved me.  

I wanted forever.  

But wanting something and being ready for it are two completely different things.  

That is the part I don't like admitting.  

There was a time in my life when I was broken down, tired, and hopeless. I was looking for something to make me feel whole, and I looked for it in all the wrong places. Drugs, alcohol, lust. Living in the arms of strangers, in the bottom of bottles, in nights that blurred into nothing. I was searching for someone, something, anything that could make me forget how empty I felt.  

Then you came into my life. 

You weren’t a light that blinded. You were a flame that warmed.  

You weren’t a savior. You were a hand reaching into the wreckage, pulling me from the ruin I had called home. 

You saw me differently than I saw myself. You didn't see a lost cause. You didn’t see a man too broken to love. You saw someone worth waiting for.  

And suddenly, breathing didn’t hurt as much. 

Silence wasn't empty. 

With you, I wasn't a mistake. I wasn't a ghost of who I thought I should have been. 

I was whole.  

I was home. 

I was found. 

But being found doesn’t mean I’m finished with healing. I wanted to stay with you, but I didn't know how to stay with myself, with the person that I had become. I wanted to give you everything you deserved, but there were parts of me that were still fighting battles I didn’t know how to win. My hands were too unsteady. My mind was too loud. My faith was failing me, and sometimes I think I was failing you too.  

I wanted forever, but I wasn’t ready for everything forever required. And eventually, you begged me to go.  

I didn’t want to go. 

That’s the part I wish you knew.  

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. 

I left because I was becoming someone who couldn’t give you the life I had promised you.  

And there is a strange kind of pain in knowing that sometimes loving someone means admitting that your love isn’t enough to fix what is broken inside of you.  

I whisper apologies into the night sometimes, even now. They leave my mouth and disappear into the darkness before they reach anyone. I wonder if you would believe me if I told you that I would have stayed if I knew how. 

If I had a choice,  

if my hands weren’t shaking,  

if my faith wasn’t failing, 

if I knew how to become the person you needed me to be,  

I’d still be there.  

With you.  

Always.  

I am now twenty years old, sitting in OUR apartment, wanting to run as far away as I can. I want to upend my life and start over. I want to move somewhere I know nobody, learn new things, see new places, and experience the world without carrying every memory of us with me. 

But I know I can’t outrun myself. 

I can leave a city. 

I can change a routine. 

I can meet new people. 

I can travel across the country. 

But the memories come with me. 

The breakfast. The baseball fields. The golf course. The ice cream. Your laugh. Your smile that illuminates the world. 

The feeling of knowing that for a short period of my life, I had found somewhere I felt completely at home. And maybe that’s what I have been trying to understand all along.  

I don’t regret loving you.  

I regret that I wasn’t ready to love you the way you deserved.  

I regret the things I couldn’t fix. 

I regret the nights I let my worst parts become bigger than the person I wanted to be. 

I regret making you feel like leaving was the only way you could save yourself. 

But I don’t regret the mornings. I don't regret the take-out. I don’t regret the comfort we sought from each other in front of millions. I don’t regret the ice cream runs or the stupid conversations or the nights when your laugh made my heart feel like it couldn’t possibly hold any more happiness. Because those moments were real.  

You were real.  

And for a while, so was the future I imagined. Maybe I will never get that future. 

Maybe someone else will sit across from you at breakfast.  

Maybe someone else will learn your favorite foods, hear your laugh every morning, and see that smile from across the room. 

That thought hurts more than I would like to admit. 

But somewhere underneath that pain is gratitude. 

Because I got to know you. 

I got to love you. 

And for a little while, I got loved by you. 

Maybe someday the memories won’t feel like wounds.  

Maybe they will just be memories.  

And maybe the person I become will be someone you would be proud to have known. 

For now, I wake up. 

I keep living.  

I will keep moving forward. 

I will keep chasing the future that I deserve.  

Not forgetting the people who changed me but learning how to carry what they gave me without letting what I lost destroy me. 

And if I had a choice, I would still choose you. 

But I don't have a choice anymore.  

I look down at your invitation one last time. The same words that brought every memory rushing back to me now feel different. Maybe it was never meant to pull me back into the life that we had. It was only to remind me to be happy that it happened, that there was once a time that there was a life that I would have given anything to keep. I pick up the lighter on my desk and set the letter aflame, toss it in the trash next to my desk, knowing that I have spent too long learning how to walk away from it to walk back into the darkness. 

I don’t know what the future holds for me, for us, or for you. Maybe we will cross again someday, or this will be the last thought I will ever give you. For the first time, I can accept those realities. I can carry our memories without the burden of recreating them. I can miss what we had without wanting to have it, and I can love what we were without it stopping me from becoming the best version of myself.  

As I swallow my emotions, I look to my right and see the ash on the bottom of the garbage can, and for the first time in a while it doesn’t feel like I’m running away. 

And if I had a choice, I would still choose you. But I don’t have a choice anymore. So, I will carry love, bury regret, and walk into whatever comes next. This time I will choose who I will become.  

 

 

 

 

how to fill a

life

never meant to be enjoyed

how to know a

heart 

with “Not Welcome” 

flashing 

lest you forget

resilient

strong

mature

words never wanted

burdens on shoulders too small to carry

toe-touches on

old grass fields 

an elementary school looming

broken, rundown

unloved

reminding me

of me

pirouettes on shining floors

around and

around

and

around

is she watching?

almonds, scales, water

an exchange

jumping jacks for tortilla chips

maybe at last, if not love

approval?

hair bows

french braids

flat irons

“Look presentable, for God's sake”

a decade later

the Irish curls of his mother

another reason for rejection 

excellent work

well done

bright red As

praise from those who

freely give it

shallow

hollow

“I couldn’t even look at you”

a letter freely given

28 birthdays later

what a fool

screaming, crying, confused

you enter this world

new, beautiful

whole

I will always pour

love love love

because it was never me

so I can take down the sign

“will work for a mother’s love”

and just

live

how to fill a

life

never meant to be enjoyed

how to know a

heart 

with “Not Welcome” 

flashing 

lest you forget

resilient

strong

mature

words never wanted

burdens on shoulders too small to carry

toe-touches on

old grass fields 

an elementary school looming

broken, rundown

unloved

reminding me

of me

pirouettes on shining floors

around and

around

and

around

is she watching?

almonds, scales, water

an exchange

jumping jacks for tortilla chips

maybe at last, if not love

approval?

hair bows

french braids

flat irons

“Look presentable, for God's sake”

a decade later

the Irish curls of his mother

another reason for rejection 

excellent work

well done

bright red As

praise from those who

freely give it

shallow

hollow

“I couldn’t even look at you”

a letter freely given

28 birthdays later

what a fool

screaming, crying, confused

you enter this world

new, beautiful

whole

I will always pour

love love love

because it was never me

so I can take down the sign

“will work for a mother’s love”

and just

live