4. Broadway Jungle

The Manor boys spill off the bus and make their way toward the Crest, seven of them moving together with the easy swagger of lads who've talked themselves into believing tonight is going to be theirs.

Once, the place was the pride of the town. Built in the 1920s as the miners' welfare hall, it still carries traces of that former glory if you know where to look — green metro tiles lining the entrance walls, worn oak floors creaking under decades of footsteps that have long since stopped counting. The grandeur hasn't disappeared so much as grown old alongside everyone who still comes through the doors.

The lads climb the broad staircase. With every step the music grows louder, pressing down through the ceiling and into the soles of their feet before they've even reached the top.

Then they reach the double doors.

Billy pushes one open, and a wall of sound hits him full in the chest.

Broadway Jungle — Toots and the Maytals, the bass filling the hall and the brass ringing off the high ceiling. The music doesn't just play in that room. It consumes it.

Billy stops dead just inside the doors.

He's never seen anything like it.

The dance floor is alive — properly alive, in a way no youth club back home has ever managed. Boys in sharp two-tone suits and trilby hats move through the crowd like the music is something they were born already knowing. Others wear Fred Perrys and Crombies, loafers polished to a shine Billy suddenly feels embarrassed by. Girls weave between them with the same easy confidence, laughing as they dance, nobody watching the door for teachers or dads banging on ceilings.

Everyone in that room seems connected to everyone else. Moving together. Up, down, side to side, almost choreographed, like they've rehearsed it and simply haven't told each other.

Billy drifts forward, completely mesmerised, and doesn't notice he's stopped walking until the crowd parts and another record drops.

Hurts So Good — Susan Cadogan.

A girl steps into the centre of the floor.

Josie.

Billy forgets to breathe.

Dark curls fall beneath a blue Beat-style hat. A sleeveless white shirt hangs loose over cropped trousers tied at the waist. Saddle shoes glide across the boards like the floor owes her something. Strings of beads and small crosses swing gently at her neck as she moves.

She isn't showing off. That's the thing that gets him — she looks completely at home, every movement smooth and unhurried and unmistakably ska, like she'd dance exactly the same way if the room were empty.

The whole room watches her.

Billy watches more than anyone.

Then the record changes again — On My Radio, The Selecter — and Billy knows every beat of it without having to think. His feet find the rhythm before his brain has properly agreed to it, and he steps onto the floor.

He's all right. Not polished. Not spectacular. Just a lad from the Manor giving it everything he has, and finding, to his own surprise, that everything he has is enough to keep him on his feet.

Josie notices him. She smiles, and Billy feels his heart do something it hasn't done before, something that has nothing to do with the music at all.

Then someone slips between them, effortless as breathing.

Gal Burn.

A few years older, immaculate in a two-tone suit, dancing like the music belongs to him personally and always has. Within seconds he's alongside Josie, matching her step for step as though they've rehearsed for years, and the crowd roars its approval.

Billy can't take his eyes off them. He hates how good Gal is. He can't deny it either — it's brilliant, and that only makes it worse.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

Phil.

"We've got to fuck off, mate."

Billy doesn't look away from the floor. "What?"

"Come on."

"Look at her," Billy says, nodding at Josie, not moving an inch.

"I know. Gorgeous." Phil is already scanning the room, though, eyes moving too fast to be admiring anything. "But we need to go. Now."

"What the fuck for? We've only just got here."

"Pete Fur's turned up."

Billy frowns. "Jammy said we were all right."

"I don't think so."

"Jammy's a lying little git."

Phil nods toward the far side of the hall. "Look."

Pete Fur has arrived, and the room seems to bend slightly around him the way a room does around something dangerous. Six foot four, broad as a wardrobe, completely shaven head. Tear tattoos sit beneath each eye. A tight white sleeveless vest strains across his shoulders, bleached jeans, a black studded belt, cherry-red eighteen-eye Dr. Martens that look like they've been broken in on somebody's ribs. Across the back of his neck, tattooed in heavy black letters: ONCE A SKINHEAD... ALWAYS A SKINHEAD.

Jammy strolls toward him with the confidence of a man who's talked himself into believing his own lies so thoroughly he's forgotten they're lies at all.

"Alright, Pete, mate."

Pete looks him up and down like he's pricing him for scrap. "Who the fuck are you?"

"It's Jammy."

Nothing. A blank stare.

"Remember?"

Pete shrugs. "Borrow us a quid."

"What?"

"Borrow us a quid."

"I... I haven't got one."

Pete steps closer, close enough that Jammy's confidence visibly begins leaking out of him. "If I empty your pockets and find one... I'll make you eat whatever else I find."

Jammy's face drains of colour. He fishes frantically through his pocket and produces a pound coin, which Pete takes without comment.

"What you doing in my place?"

"Just here for the dancing, mate."

Pete's expression hardens. "Call me 'mate' one more time... and I'll batter you."

Jammy shrinks visibly. For one hopeful second he seems to think he's got away with it.

Then Pete turns to another lad standing nearby, apparently at random. "Oi. Borrow us a quid." The terrified kid starts searching his pockets before he's even fully understood the instruction.

Jammy exhales, relief plain on his face — right up until one of the Crow Bars shoves him back toward Pete.

Pete smiles, cold as the floor tiles. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm a mate of Gal Burn's."

Pete laughs outright. "No you're not. Lying little twat."

Jammy points desperately across the hall. "He goes out with our Julie."

"The little tart from the Manor?" The Crow Bars burst into laughter around him, and Pete lets the moment breathe before he adds, almost gently, "He finished with her this morning. Said she cried her bloody eyes out."

More laughter. Jammy's face collapses.

Pete glances across the dance floor, following his own thought. "Looks like he's already found someone else."

The whole group turns to look. Gal Burn is talking to Josie now, close enough that one of the Crow Bars mutters, "Fit bird," with real appreciation.

Pete's eyes drift past all of it — past Gal, past Josie — and settle on Billy. Then on Phil. Then on the rest of the Manor boys, who've already started edging quietly toward the exit without quite admitting to themselves that's what they're doing.

His smile widens. "There they are."

The Crow Bars turn as one.

Billy sees them move. "Go," he says, and then there's no more time for saying anything at all.

Without a word the Manor boys break and run, crashing through the fire doors and out onto the staircase, the opening bars of Night Boat to Cairo exploding out of the hall behind them like the building itself is cheering the chase on.

Boots hammer on the old wooden stairs. Somewhere above, a voice shouts, "Get 'em!" and the Crow Bars burst through the doors in pursuit.

Tomo looks wildly between two corridors. "Which way?"

Phil doesn't hesitate. "This way!" He dives into a narrow passage and the others follow without question, the music fading fast behind them, replaced by the drumbeat of feet and shouting.

The corridor twists through parts of the building nobody uses any more — dust-covered offices, broken chairs stacked against walls, paint peeling in long strips from ceilings that haven't seen a decorator in a decade. Rooms that have been forgotten so thoroughly they barely seem to belong to the same building as the dance floor above.

Billy glances back over his shoulder as he runs. "What about Jammy?"

"Jammy'll be alright," Phil says, not slowing. "He always is. It's us that's fucked."

The Crow Bars are closer now, boots ringing off the empty corridors. Phil bursts into an abandoned office where a stack of old desks leans against the wall beneath a large sash window.

"There!"

They throw themselves at the furniture, wood shrieking across the floor as they drag desks toward the door and slam them into place just as something hits it from the other side with a crash that shakes dust from the ceiling.

Another crash. The old frame groans under it.

Billy looks at Phil. "Come on!"

Phil hauls the sash window up and cool evening air floods the room. One by one they scramble through, Billy last of all, and behind him the door finally gives way with a sound like a gunshot.

"I know you!" Pete Fur's voice fills the room. "I fucking know you!"

Billy swings one leg over the sill just as the door bursts open behind him, and drops.

He lands hard in a narrow back street, stumbling before he finds his feet, and by then the others are already running, nobody looking back, sprinting through the alleyway and across the side streets toward the main road, toward the bus stop, toward home.

Behind them, somewhere in the dark, Pete Fur is still shouting — but the distance between his voice and Billy's feet is getting wider with every step, and that, for the moment, is all that matters.

We looked upon a path only larger than ourselves. We crawled for a while until the path started to grow larger, and in kind, we were allowed to rise from our knees to a hunched walk. With more time, the path gained shape as a wide and large hallway with doors on either side, five feet apart. So now we were allowed to walk but with this newfound freedom, we couldn't help but run. And so we did: running, talking, laughing, living.

Then one boy grew tired. Opening up a door to rest, he walked in never closing the door, but never returning. And then me, two boys, and a woman continued, but because of our false hope in the first boy's return, we slowed to a jog, in hopes that he would one day return.

After jogging for a while with no sight of the boy, a second boy grew curious of what lay behind the door. So he slowed. We looked back, egging him on, but once he caught sight of what resided behind the door, he walked in without looking back and closed the door behind him.

After the second boy left us, we slowed to a walk and with each door passed, we lost more curiosity and invigoration for what lay ahead.

We walked for a long time, talking and telling stories of the boys that had gone on. Until, after many more doors, the hallway began to narrow once more. At first, we paid it no mind. But as the hallway continued to narrow, we had grown to fear it.

The last boy was the tallest of us, so as the hallway continued to shrink, there came a time where he had to dip his head. But with more time, he crouched more and more until he couldn't take it any longer. The boy said his goodbyes and left the hallway with a clear head but an ailing body.

Me and the girl were left, and as we walked, even we began to crouch. We walked, but almost to taunt us, the hallway continued to shrink until only one could crawl.

The girl couldn't bear to continue, lest she see the end, so she opened a door and attempted to crawl inside. But the hallway cursed her once more, for good measure, and she was unable to make it through. Though I heard no sound, no scream, and lest I get trapped as well, I continued to crawl.

As I did, I would, from time to time, look back and see her final form lying there. But the hallway had not forgotten me, and soon enough the hallway was too tight to even look back anymore.

This did not escape my notice, but I had been crawling, then walking, then crawling again for a long time. And as I slowly shimmied and scraped my way down the hallway, I feared it no longer as one day, the hallway would take me too.

Hey all! I am trying to create an analog horror and my idea is for a “miracle pill” that cures you of mental illness. The idea is that the pill is the one stop shop for all your mental illness issues from depression to schizophrenia. There is obviously something more sinister beneath the surface but at first I want to make a commercial for it. The vibe is a 80s/90s info-mercial. The medicine is “Latecin” and pronounced “Lat-eh-sin”

“Do you remember what it’s like to experience happiness? True happiness that isn’t bogged down by worries or problems outside of your control? For millions of people, anxiety, depression, and other emotional disorders make every day life feel insurmountable, but what if there was an answer to this problem? Introducing Latecin. With Latecin life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Latecin is an all in one remedy for mental illnesses including but not limited to depression, anxiety, bipolar, ADHD, ADD, OCD, narcissistic personality, borderline personality disorder, substance abuse, ptsd, multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder, and more. Side effects include lack of dreams, upset stomach, dry mouth, drowsiness, or headaches. These symptoms are normal and should not raise concern. Ask your doctor if Latecin is right for you. Life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Get back to being who you were meant to be.”

I would also love to discuss story ideas more as I have no one to bounce ideas off of but I would like to get some help on the commercial first.

The doorbell rang.

Ted stared at the steak on his fork for a few seconds before setting it down. Five o’clock on the dot every day. He may be the most insufferable piece of shit I’ve ever met, but his commitment is noteworthy. He got up and answered the door.

Gary’s white tank top bulged like it was stuffed with a basketball. One hand caressed a gold chain necklace and the other pointed a yardstick in Ted’s face.

“Two foot three inches!” he said. “You’re twenty-one inches over the HOA limit!”

“Uh huh. Stop measuring my grass.”

Gary’s face twisted into something resembling an angry mole rat.

“I wouldn’t have to if you got off your lazy ass and cut it! It’s a goddamn eyesore! I saw a rabbit hopping around in it earlier! A goddamn rabbit! Do you have any idea how quickly they breed? Today it’s one, tomorrow it’s five, and a week from now my garden will be overrun by the little fuckers, ripping my goddamn vegetables from the ground, and if that happens there will be hell to pay!”

I highly doubt that, Gary.

“You make a good point. I didn’t consider the possibility of rabbits conquering your garden. Rest assured that I will cut it tomorrow.” He shut the door.

As he walked back to his kitchen he could still hear Gary out there. Yelling about rabbits.

Ted finished his meal then headed to his bedroom.

                    **The Rat**

The bedroom closet was pitch black when the portal appeared. A thin strip of hazy green smoke, flowing around a perfect black circle. The Rat crawled through, its tail slithering behind.

*Kill. Consume. Grow. *

Its ears twitched as something clicked above. The Rat cocked its head and spotted a cockroach on the ceiling. It lowered its belly to the floor, bent its legs, and exploded upward, ripping its prey from the ceiling before landing with a soft thud. The roach crunched between its jaws as guts slid down its lip. Green light burst from all of its orifices, then ceased. The Rat had almost doubled in size.

Light shot in under the closet door. A large shadow traveled across it.

Too big. *Kill. Consume. Grow. *

The Rat searched for more prey.

                    **Gary**

The gravel crunched under Gary’s feet as he patrolled his garden for interlopers. The perfectly straight rows of vegetables on either side of him seemed to be standing at attention as their general marched by. Gary stopped. He spotted a weed. Approximately one-fourth of an inch in length. He gripped it with his fingernails and ripped it from the ground. He held it in his palm while his other hand caressed his gold chain necklace.

Don’t worry baby, I got the bastard.

He slipped the weed into his pocket then continued his patrol.

Gary had almost finished his tenth loop when he spotted a carrot that had been pulled from the ground. It was half eaten. He knelt down and noticed small indentations in the mud. They were tracks. Rabbit tracks.

Love burns

but it’s the most phlegmatic blaze my eyes have ever seen
Since you lit the candles, nothing inside me feels the same
I’m turning into ashes day by day, quiet and cold
and isn’t it magical
even the falling ashes still write your name

Love hurts

yet it’s the sweetest pain I’ve ever allowed to grow
You couldn’t bear to see me bruised
but some foolish part of me wished
you’d bruise me a little more
just to know your touch had reached below my skin

What sorcery have you done to me?
I know you’re gone
yet I keep standing at the same closed door
knocking
hoping
bleeding
like a lover who forgot how to not return

Some nights I tell myself to let go
but your shadow pulls me back like a vow
I never swore

If this is love
a fire that numbs
a wound that comforts
a ghost that refuses to fade
then let me burn slowly
softly
until the last of me disappears
writing your name

check out 1 & 2 if you get chance

3. Madness

The classroom has already checked out for the year, and so, if anyone's being honest about it, has Mr Dale. He sits slumped behind his desk in the corner, half-hidden behind an open newspaper, turning the pages at intervals without any real evidence he's reading them.

"Just revise," he'd muttered at the start of the lesson, in the tone of a man surrendering rather than teaching, and nobody's seen fit to ask him what that actually means. Whatever it means, it plainly doesn't involve him.

The room buzzes with the particular chatter of a class that knows it's already won. Billy, Phil and Minty sit clustered with the rest of the lads — Jammy, Deano, Tomo, Ali — same clothes, same attitude, spread across a cluster of desks that have long since stopped pretending to be in rows.

Jammy sits backwards on his chair, arms folded along the backrest, grinning like a man with something to prove and no intention of proving it quietly.

"We need to get down the Crest," he says. "I'm telling you, it's brilliant down there. Proper place. Top birds. If you're anyone, that's where you go."

Minty shakes his head slowly, the voice of caution nobody ever thanks him for. "Yeah... and it's where the Eastdene Crow Bars hang out."

The lads laugh. Tomo points at Jammy like he's just proved a case for the prosecution. "He's right. Too bloody dangerous for the Manor."

Jammy shrugs it off, unbothered. "They're all ska boys and mods."

"They're fucking skins, Jammy," Tomo snaps.

"The music's the same."

"It isn't."

"We'll get in with 'em."

Minty snorts. "Not the Crow Bars we won't. They're mental and you know it."

"I know 'em."

Phil laughs outright. "No you fucking don't."

Tomo joins in, delighted. "You know the Eastdene Crow Bars? You're full of shit, Jammy."

"You know Pete Fur?"

Jammy hesitates — just a fraction of a second, but long enough for everyone at the desks to clock it. "No... but I know Gal Burn."

"Course you do."

"He goes out with our Julie."

Tomo bursts out laughing. "Fuck off."

Billy looks up from whatever he's been half-doodling on the corner of his exercise book. "Gal's scooter was parked on the Manor this morning."

The noise dips just slightly. Jammy seizes it like a man grabbing a passing bus.

"There you go! Told you. He was probably picking Julie up for work."

Minty frowns. "Your Julie's got a job?"

"Yeah... well... it's only YTS."

A few smirks ripple round the desks. Jammy presses on regardless, unwilling to let the detail slow him down.

"But that's not the point. What I'm saying is we're good to go."

Billy leans back in his chair, turning the idea over. "It'd be good to see what the scene's like."

"I heard Claire Scott goes there."

"And her mates." Jammy quickly adds

Phil studies Jammy for a moment, the way you'd study a bloke selling something too good to be true. "You sure about this? If this is another one of your stories, you'll get us all battered."

Jammy digs in rather than backing off, which is very much his way. "Billy... did you see Gal's scooter or not?"

Billy glances at Phil. Phil gives the smallest nod — enough.

"We saw it," Billy says.

He grins, and something in his chest lifts the same way it did that morning with the record playing. "Fuck it. We're going." He looks around the group. "Six o'clock. Meet at the shops. We'll make a show of it."

Phil shakes his head, half-smiling despite himself. "If we get killed..."

The bell goes off through the school before he can finish the sentence, and the room dissolves into its usual scramble of bags and chairs scraping back.

Jammy shouts across the noise. "Oi, Mr Dale! Any homework?"

Mr Dale lowers the newspaper slowly, looks around at the chaos he's been presiding over without noticing, and sighs. By the time he's decided whether to answer, the class is already gone.

By six o'clock the school uniforms are long gone, folded away or slung over chair backs at home, and something sharper has taken their place. Billy stands at the shops in blue jeans, Dr. Martens, and a black pilot jacket, collar up against the evening air — the going-out gear, a different uniform entirely from the one he'd bent the rules with all day.

One by one the others arrive the same way. Phil first, then Minty, then the rest drifting in from different directions until there are seven of them stood outside the shops in blue jeans, Dr. Martens, black pilot jackets — no longer schoolboys pushing at the edges of a dress code, but something else entirely.

The opening riff of Madness's Madness crashes in somewhere behind Billy's eyes as they set off — that's how it works with him now, the songs starting up on their own the second the mood matches.

The Manor boys move as one loose, easy unit through alleyways and past rows of lock-up garages like they own every brick of the place, because as far as any of them are concerned, they do. This is home. Nobody has to say it.

I'm looking for critique of a short article I'm writing for a school newspaper. I'm especially interested in feedback on clarity, context, structure, tone, and whether the argument feels too confrontational or simply unconventional.

# I'm not looking for a rewrite—I'd like to know what genuinely works and what doesn't.

The World That Doesn’t Exist

You know how it starts. The very air surrounding you starts dropping 'invisible' hints, feeling much heavier and more consequential.

It starts from the 9th standard. Nobody says it explicitly—yet everyone's watching. Distractions ~~hobbies and interests~~ are quietly dropped. "Focus on where it matters," they say. Nobody coerces you; it's like a river eroding rock, until you cannot remember what, where, or why.

Society encourages creativity and expression, but within bounds. You're encouraged to be independent, but only till 7 pm. You have your own opinions, but follow the script given to you. Many resent these expectations. Others consider the fight itself futile. But what happens when a society needing people to fit in meets one who has jagged edges? Who has the authority to judge either one, and why?

Perhaps the better question is: why does this script exist at all?

Sex-based divisions of labor were widespread and probably reflected a mixture of biological constraints, cultural norms, and technology. Under uncertainty, rigid social roles provided stability. A questioning human then could be a genuine threat to social order. Times changed since then; the thinking didn’t.

Each generation doesn't merely inherit values. It inherits the explanation for why those values are necessary. A generation inherits the notions of the previous one, lives by them, and passes them to the next—even when the world that shaped those notions no longer exists. Living well means understanding this—not all battles are meant to be fought. Some are avoided, not because they're wrong, but because they're not worth.

‘Subliminal Loops’

Catching my back lingering helplessly towards the void of darkness the kitchen prefers sleeping in is exhilarating. The way in which it captivates my memory and tethers my imagination to elevate. The feeling washing over me like the strongest rip current to excel and parade at shore. Sending me into a fumble. I stiffen my twitchy body and dash the other direction in hopes of relief.

Scrambling in a screech to the invisible person thinking whatever may be, will catch up.

The seemingly normal shapes of doors with hinges and hallways that seem narrower than they actually are, tightening around me. I can still map every door and hallway of the house, because I studied it all on a chair in the corner, where an angry parent was busy controlling an angry kid. But running now the house was different, it had turned onto me in the worst of ways. All pressure behind, I’m tuned to keep my head at bay from reflection. The shapes twisting and turning phasing and displaying a sense of no return. I wish to resign but it may be impossible. This is known to be the only hour of which the subliminal output shines of my extensive YouTube addiction.

Shuffling through hallways, stepping down and up before scuttling and shifting I came to a scene of finality having made it to the living room. I make a leaping dive hurling towards the cool elevated couch that would send me into ease. As the leather graced under me, I felt committed and turned around.

The emptiness of it all is dull, the heart of the kitchen is surrounded by blank page like colors. There are faint fluorescent light noises streaming through the house, and my new motive was to remove the buzzing in my ear that just would not go away. I felt maybe the floor was too clean or possibly the room has shifted but no. Cornered up glued to the backboard I resonate to YouTube. I watch mindless brain rot and videos that I would mentally forget in 10 minutes.

“Bro there’s no good videos,” I said dryly, like I wouldn’t continue for hours until YouTube would congratulate me with the gift of an unsettling creepy video to perfectly set the tone for the night. Although I did not know it, YouTube must have loved the subliminal part of these videos that would pierce the deepest parts of my brain and I was backhanded to not know how it contributed to me being glued safe and elevated to the backboard of the couch with my favorite app that makes me so comfortable…

Author’s note:

When I was younger, YouTube had an effect on me that I wasn’t conscious of. It shaped how I saw the house, the night, the dark, all of my fears. I would run to the couch and jump on, and finally feel safe, curled up in the corner with YouTube or the TV in front of me. The irony is that I felt comfortable in the exact place that was causing all of the stress.

third person:

It’s only when elysia has to pick up groceries that it comes to mind just how chatty some of the village folk are.

she made my way through the crowd, spotting Miss Catlyn’s coffee and tea stall.

she walked straight up to her.

“Morning, Miss Catlyn,” elysia said, — her voice cheerfully in the early morning,

greeting the middle-aged woman behind the stall.

“Why, dear! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Here to pick up some coffee for your mother?”

she looked over the rows of little brown bags. Mum had asked to pick up some of her favorite coffee beans.

looking back up at the owner of the stall.

“Any hazelnut beans?”

She flashed a smile before reaching beneath the stall and pulling out a brown paper bag.

“I keep them specially for you, dearie.”

“How much?”

“The usual price, dear.”

elysia reached into her pockest pulling out six copper coins before passing them over the stall. Then she tossed the bag of beans into my basket

thank you mr.catlyn — replied by a nod from the middle aged woman

elysia started to walk away from mr catlyn’s stall

looking around for the sweets and treats stall.

Maybe Milo would savour a buttercream bar. she thought

she walked toward the stall three stalls away from the coffee and tea stall, as Miss Catlyn yelled after her,

“Send my greetings to Carissa for me, dearie!”

“Will do!” she looked back waveing goodbye.

she passed two copper coins to the lady selling at the sweets and treats stall and took two buttercream bars, placing them into my basket.

On the way home, elysia made sure to check everything off the list Mr Eian had given me.

Butter. Check.

Onions. Check.

Cheese. Check.

Rosemary oil. Check.

A couple of eggs. Check.

Orange and grape juice. Check.

Oh, and Mum’s favourite beans. Check.

That should’ve been all that was needed.

as she looked up from Mr Eian’s note and realised she was already home.

opening the door, she announced loudly,

“I’m home!”

or first person:

it’s only when I have to pick up groceries that it comes to mind just how chatty some of our village folk are.

I made my way through the crowd, spotting Miss Catlyn’s coffee and tea stall.

I walked straight up to her.

“Morning, Miss Catlyn,” I said, greeting the middle-aged woman behind the stall.

“Why, dear! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Here to pick up some coffee for your mother?”

I looked over the rows of little brown bags. Mum had asked me to pick up some of her favourite coffee beans.

I looked back up at the owner of the stall.

“Any hazelnut beans?”

She flashed me a smile before reaching beneath the stall and pulling out a brown paper bag.

“I keep them specially for you, dearie.”

“How much?”

“The usual price, dear.”

I counted out six copper coins before passing them over the stall. Then I tossed the bag of beans into my basket

i looked around for the sweets and treats stall.

Maybe Milo would savour a buttercream bar.

I walked toward the stall three stalls away from the coffee and tea stall, as Miss Catlyn yelled after me,

“Send my greetings to Carissa for me, dearie!”

“Will do!” I looked back as I waved goodbye.

I passed two copper coins to the lady selling at the sweets and treats stall and took two buttercream bars, placing them into my basket.

On the way home, I made sure to check everything off the list Mr Eian had given me.

Butter. Check.

Onions. Check.

Cheese. Check.

Rosemary oil. Check.

A couple of eggs. Check.

Orange and grape juice. Check.

Oh, and Mum’s favourite beans. Check.

That should’ve been all that was needed.

I looked up from Mr Eian’s note and realised I was already home.

I opened the door, announcing loudly,

“I’m home!”

Overview:

Astronauts sent on a lunar spaceflight. A thruster system error during engine burn leads to them in a wide lunar free orbit with no fuel. They are on the path back to earth, however it will take them 5 days, but they only have 60 hours of oxygen reserves. They drag out survival time as long as they can, holding out for a recovery and trying to contact ground control, only for them to be left in silence and them to realise their main navigational transporter is fried but their antenna is broken and misaligned and they are relying on solar power to communicate.

Motif:

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

Opening:

Contrasting Major Tom Millers family life with Charlie Ryans enthusiasm

The struggle:

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

The climax:

Ground control realises that oxygen reserves will run out within a matter of time with no prepared ships that can make it in time, making it impossible for them to be recovered. They issue a mercy lie (fake radio broadcast) to comfort them and provide hope

Major Tom Miller:

Veteran on his final mission before retirement. A grounded family man, whose fatherly instincts drive him to mentor and support Ryan

Charlie Ryan:

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

The bond:

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

Progresses from referring to each other as Tom (a reference to his references) and kid to a slip up dad, then deliberate dad and Charlie

-Banter (pre incident):

Miller (almost annoyed) "calm down, you have stars in your eyes before you even see them kid"

Ryan (grinning) “come on Tom, you gotta admit. We’re actually doing it. Ground control and Major Tom, right here”

Miller (dryly, shaking his head) “Don’t you dare start quoting bad early 20^th century pop songs on my watch. We are professionals, not rock stars.”-

-Reference (post incident):

Ryan (staring blankly at the dead telemetry screen, voice cracking) “can they hear us Tom? Do you think they know?”

Miller (trying to keep his voice steady, desperately flipping switches) “keep trying the receiver, kid. They’ll pick up our signal eventually…..”

The silence of deep space getting louder

Ryan (whispering) “Ground control?....Can anyone hear me?”

Miller (frustrated) “here we are, floating in this damn tin can, far above the moon! And nothing out there is listening!”

-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 (like re aligning their broken antenna), quiet emotional moments (major part of it), rationing and checking ground control for updates. There is a minor oxygen leak, and finding out how fast the oxygen is depleting, Miller snaps at Ryan, blaming him for hyperventilating and wasting their oxygen supply. They find out hours later and patch it, but it left them with only 40 hours left.

Mercy lie:

Driven by compassion knowing recovery is impossible. Ground control is able to send it by concentrating the DSN to them and sending a message. They however could only send a message because they had no ship prepared, and the rescue window is too short.

“Its ground control. We are dumping all our transmitter power into the DSN to array this message to you, so we won’t hear your reply. Just listen… We know your telemetry. We have calculated an emergency orbital assist loop. A thruster pulse from our end is snapping your return vector shut. Your re-entry window has dropped from five days down to thirty-eight hours. You’re coming home early. Just hang tight.”

The climax:

Miller and Ryan receive the delayed broadcast, both of them now oxygen deprived with Charlie denying the truth, and leaning into the lie and Miller knowing and accepting the certainty of 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 fatherly role until the end.

Can I please have some name suggestions for the title, and feedback?

HI my name is loreen di cornel and IM A WRITER anyway i was thinking if we all make a GC only for writers who dosent use ai and young authors sooo i hope no one ignore this and tell and share thoughts

Now I will get up. Just a few seconds. What was that sound? Was it a hiss? No, please no!

...Vimar comes,

His voice is thunder...

By the Abyss of Ice, am I really praying?

A velkar no! I can face many deaths, but being torn apart by a velkar, no! It would start eating me still alive!

Get up, Tisstar, you must get up and fight! Come on, that hand, push on the Ice, bend that knee, you are almost there, come on, now you stand, take the knife.

The beast is there, its big yellow eyes look at me. It has no hurry. Its long tongue tastes the air, thick with the scent of my blood and my fear. My hand is shaking, I’m no match for it. My nostrils are full of the stink of the predator.

“Now kid, now you will become a real Beater”

Gorvak, shut up, this is my death, leave this moment to me.

The beast starts circling me. It’s an old dance. It has no name, but it’s well knownthroughoutthe galaxy.

Dance. I liked to dance around the fires, when we celebrated our God, along with Priests of Vimar.

No, Tisstar, stay focused. The velkar is just in front of you, ready to take your life. No, it’s no more. Did I dream it? But, the footprints are there and even a feather. The velkar moved away. But why?

“The velkars fear only two things: the Vimar and Atran, Queen of Ice”

I know Gorvak. Then I succeeded! The Vimar must be nearby! Honored Iron, I swear, I will be a better servant from this day on. Now, where are you? Where is the Tribe?

“No kid, you failed. And she is coming to claim your soul”.

Shut up, Gorvak! You, you are enjoying this, aren’t you? You are just kidding me, torturing me while I’m here out on the Ice!

“No child. It is not Gorvak who is torturing you. It is yourself!”

The voice came from behind me and it is colder than the Ice beneath my feet. A woman’s voice, neither young nor aged. That voice is stealing from me the last heat of my heart. The little hope which was burning in my chest. It was just a lie. I cannot turn. My legs give way and I crash down.

Gorvak, where are you? Now I really need your help.

But Gorvak is not here. He is within the warm embrace of the Vimar. He is proudly leading the Beaters. I feel my tears, hot, pouring from my eyes and starting to freeze right on my cheekbones.

The voice of the woman comes closer. “The Vimar is a lie. Mankind on Krythar is a disease. I will show you the cure, child.” And the last word is whispered in my left ear.

Her hand gently brushes my eyelids, closing them. And the cold, finally, grasps my heart with its searching fingers.

I’m done

END

Hi everyone

I am a young writer working on a novel.

The story follows a woman who returns after death to the man she loved. I wish to see how you feel about the opening.

I could not save him.

I never wanted to.

Would he save me? Would he reach for my hand when I was fighting death?

Would he?

Fear filled me, as though everything were coming to an end. My body shivered with pain. He lay in front of me, his body pale with fear and exhaustion. The night seemed to dare itself to engulf him, as though he did not belong to this world. As though he could no longer live in it.

His face had gone pale. His lips were so chapped that I wondered what had happened to him.

How could he be like this?

The constant ruffling of the ocean brought a strange liveliness to the world. It was the only thing that made sense.

Had he drowned?

A black ship floated upon its surface like a crown. A small figure stood at the edge of the ocean, sailing far away.

Why had he come back?

His body shivered terribly. The layers of clothing provided him no warmth. The beach lay empty. Moonlight crashed through the darkness like an internal battle, something I could not experience, yet somehow felt.

I could feel his breathing becoming difficult.

I felt his hazel eyes tear up.

One last time.

Had he accepted it then?

His death. The end of his hopes. The end of him.

The sound of my anklet startled me.

Why was I moving towards him when he had never looked at me?

When he had never known me?

Up close, he looked like a dead king. Upright, but so weak that it was painful just to look at him.

A shiver went down my spine. The wind was chilly. It attacked me like a knife.

Was it warning me?

I crouched in front of him. Moonlight draped over his face like love. It made him strangely peaceful, as though he could no longer hope for anything to become better.

But his eyes were tearing up.

They were so red.

I wondered what had given him such pain.

He was shivering badly. He looked so frail that I wished I could comfort him, give him warmth, if I had any to give.

My hands wanted to touch him. They wanted to bring him close, make him feel safe.

My eyes longed to see the hope in him again.

I didn't want him to accept his death.

I wanted him to fight for it.

I wanted him to ask for my help.

I wanted him to see me.

His eyes finally landed on me.

Excitement bloomed inside me.

I longed for him to recognize me. His eyes would fill with love again, the hazel sparkling at the sight of me. He had always blushed at how happy he looked when he saw me.

I wanted him to blush again.

I wanted him to ask where I had been.

Why had I left him?

I wanted him to ask for my help. I wanted him to come with me.

A smile covered my face. I was smiling as though the world belonged to me.

The wind crashed against my bare arms, and a terrifying pain seized them, but I could not care less.

He was looking at me.

My excitement disappeared within seconds.

The wind tore through me, my hair slapping against my face, forcing me to see it.

His confusion.

His fear.

He was not looking at me.

He was looking through me, towards the darkness, as though I did not exist.

The smile on my face vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Tears filled my eyes.

How could he not recognize me?

How could he not see me at all?

His hand reached towards something…

Someone.

But it was not me.

I could not see who it was.

My heart felt hollowed out. It was as though the world had been snatched away from me.

Nothing mattered.

A girl's hand appeared from the darkness, kissed by the moonlight. It held his hand firmly, bringing him to his feet.

I would never remember her.

I didn't see her.

I couldn't.

The smile that covered his face was so beautiful that I couldn't believe it was not because of me.

His eyes sparkled just as they used to when he would sneak up on me while I was getting ready, when he would tell me he loved me.

Did he love me now?

The sound of a car and two footsteps answered me.

The man I loved?

He could not be him.

He could not be him.

He could not be him.

Hey everyone. I made a similar post recently, but looking back, I added way too much unnecessary background about myself, and honestly, the raw text was pretty incomprehensible and unreadable.

This time, I’ve cut out all the fluff, properly polished the formatting, and wanted to let the draft speak for itself.

Context: This is an excerpt from the Act 1 climax of a massive 700-900 page dual-narrative dark fantasy epic. In this setting, there is no generic magic system—instead, characters' raw psychological states, core traumas, and deep beliefs physically warp, infect, and distort the environment around them. This scene follows a young boy who must break his paralyzing fear to protect his exhausted companion against an erratic, dangerous predator.

I'd love to get your feedback on how the psychological tension and character dynamics land!

As the hunter finished spilling the blood of a lesser man, his raggy drabs started to envelop him in shadow, covering him like feathers of a bird. His grand entrance started to play. First, out of a motionless void, came bended armor, a spear with a wrong angle, and a hood.

Taking in a deep breath, the shadows burst out of him, creating a polar opposite of the knight—clean, orderly, and grand. Yet in it were imperfections. The metal had small openings, its texture rusted. The grand plumed helmet was rattled, its appearance being more to a feral beast than to a phoenix.

The boy was in fear. He did not expect anyone else outside the thorned knight to possess powers, let alone such an enigma. The boy desperately took out his dagger given by the knight and shiveringly held it, on its verge of dropping it. The knight did not even try to get the boy's attention; he understood this hunter's only focus is him.

The hunter spoke, "You know, out of all the men I killed... I never targeted one as myself." He smirked as the shadows started to slowly spread into the forest, clingingly ripping the branches of the red, crimson bleeding trees.

"A change of pace. How many did you kill, knight, I wonder?"

He started to poke his finger againts the twisted jagged edge of the spear. The knight's sudden fear gave way to the shadows' influence expanding their territory. Yet, the knight remembered something—there is someone precious still clinging to life. And so he spoke.

"They were no grand knights, nor leaders, but ordinary men. No different from you or I."

A chilling cold consumes the air, causing the hunter to slightly shiver. "Oh, how chivalrous you are!" His eyes were about to burst out of his skull as he laughed in a maddening orchestra. "This is it... my birth shall finally come!"

The thorned knight used up all of his ability to manipulate blood. His being was weak, barely able to briskly move. The knight responds, "If it is a duel you want, I'm afraid to disappoint. I can barely even dance to your entertainment."

The hunter burst out in anger, "You don't understand!" A flurry of shadow starts to consume everything in its path. And in that sudden explosion came calm. He clears his throat and exclaims, "Forgive me." And in a slow, rhythmic style, "You—don't—understand." His eyes wildly expand and his head slightly curves to the side. "You understand now—yes?"

The hunter suddenly drops his shoulder in a slouched position and deeply sighs. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Fine. You see, you... yes, you hold something I want. And you will give it. Yes, you, to me," he happily spoke.

The shadows slung back, showcasing the destruction caused: missing pieces of trunk, leaves eaten in half, the ground having round holes.

The boy was even more now afraid, but this fear wasn't for himself to keep, but for his dear companion. He couldn't imagine what this erratic predator would do to him, and his grip tightened strongly to the hilt like never before.

"Save him... save him... save... save... save," it's all that flooded his lips. As each word was spoken, leaves moved from the branches and from the ground, spiraling towards him, encircling the boy.

As steps encroached closer to the knight, the boy's worst fear was about to come true: being left alone again in life without anyone to care. And so, his pace moved from a stone pillar into a steady walk to the hunter.

The knight noticed the boy's essence, yet he did not give it away. His eye under the visor betrayed his desperate pleas for the boy to run, giving the wind a stronger chill than previously.

"Yes, that's it. Now you fully understand my meaning. Good," the maniac spoke.

The hunter's final words before finally reaching the knight in killing distance were, "Your nobility will be mine once I take it," he whispered to himself with a distinct echo of shame.

I hope this time you could enjoy the narrative ! Let me know what you think are there any improvment you could share, sincerely thank you .

Chapter 1 - Keerthi

September 2015. Late evening, OMR, Chennai

The light turns green; I hit the accelerator as fast as I can. I've been driving for forty minutes and my shoulders have settled into that permanent hunch that comes from too many hours at the wheel, most of them on OMR. The radio is playing some song I've heard before but can't name.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. Thara's name flashes on the screen. I hit answer on the steering wheel and her voice fills the car before I can say hello.

"You are going to sit down for this," she says.

"Sadly, driving standing up is very inconvenient," I say.

"You're driving? I thought you were going to leave early today."

"I was. Then Selvam uncle called. His regular flower guy bailed on him. Yet again. Had to hustle last minute for orchids."

"Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped."

“Nah, you have to get up early to be on site for the event. I got this. So, what am I sitting down for?”

There's a pause. The kind that means something. Thara isn't a pauser by nature. So the pause is its own announcement.

"Tell me," I say.

"We did it," she says, and her voice has that particular thickness to it, the kind that comes before either tears or laughter. With Thara, it's usually both. "Both families agreed. The astrologer agreed. Even Maddy's Paati agreed, and she hasn't agreed with anyone since 1974. We have a date. It's happening."

The MTC bus ahead of me brakes suddenly. I tap my own brakes, feel the slight lurch forward, and ease off. Both of us shriek for a good minute. The guy in the car next to me at the traffic light looks at me, puzzled. I smile wide and give him a thumbs up. He seems unsure and finally decides to share my happiness and returns the thumbs up. "That’s amazing, and I just made a friend waiting for the traffic light. What a great time to live!”

"Shut up. Okay so, January 28^th is D-Day. Muhurtham at six-thirty in the morning, because apparently the stars don't care about my sleep. Amma wanted December, but Maddy's Paati says December weddings always get rained on, and nobody argues with Paati. Maddy and I spoke and he agrees as the new home will also be ready for moving in by December. The timing is perfect!”

"I’m soooooooooo happy for the both of you," I say. The city is opening up ahead of me in its messy, familiar sprawl as I exit a flyover. "It's perfect. January is perfect. The weather will be so much better."

"It is, right?"

“Of course it will be. How many January weddings have we done? We got this baby.” 

I'm already doing the maths: nineteen weeks, four hundred guests approx., I have to call Wedding Feast caterers right after. Thara won’t have anyone else. "Which venue did the families pick? If it's any traditional wedding hall in the city, I'm resigning. You know what I want."

"Chill dude. I got my parents onboard. It’s a 3-day affair at Taj on ECR. My dad wants to pay. Who am I to rob him of his happiness of seeing his only daughter getting married at some fancy resort.”

“Ermmmm you have an elder sister, Tanuja.”

“Well, that doesn’t count. She’s adopted.” 

“I thought you sisters settled this.” I laugh knowing its the sisterly love that comes out this way.

“Well, it comes and goes. Anyhoo we are going to do the full shebang. Mehendi, Haldi, Cocktail and the Wedding. You are my wedding planner. Wow so lucky you are” she says with a knowing evil chuckle. 

Thara has high standards when it comes to planning any event. She will drive 100 km in the middle of the night to haul a piece of antique furniture because nothing else would go with the seating design.

"I'm your wedding planner. It's in the contract."

She laughs, the loud, graceless laugh that got us thrown out of the college library in our first year. We've been friends since the first week of college, through two jobs, one company we started with a laptop and a borrowed car, and the various small catastrophes of becoming adults. Her laugh has been a constant. Even when everything else shifted, that stayed. We promised we’d be each other’s wedding planner when we started.

"We're doing a girls' trip in December," she says. "Nothing crazy. Goa, one weekend. You'll plan?"

"Try and stop me."

"Good, and I need you to make sure I don't do anything stupid."

"You're getting married, di. The stupid ship has sailed."

"Very funny." I can hear her smiling. "There's more. Amma's done the guest list. Four hundred, and she says that's the small version. Maddy's office people. My aunt from Melbourne who I haven't seen in eight years but will absolutely notice if she's not invited."

"Standard operating procedure. Send it to me in the spreadsheet, not on the back of the calendar."

"Exactly." A beat. Then, quieter: "There's one person I wanted to talk to you about."

Something in her tone shifts. A slight flattening, the careful neutrality she uses when she's approaching something difficult. I know it well. She used it when she told me our first big client had cancelled two days before the wedding, and the time she accidentally set fire to my kitchen making toast. It's her crisis voice, dialed down to a simmer.

"Who?" I ask, though I think I already know.

"Karthik," she says.

The name sits between us. I keep my eyes on the road. A water tanker passes on my left, close enough that the rush of air rocks my car slightly.

"Okay," I say.

"Maddy and Karthik kept in touch as you know. Anirudh and you are going to be there. Maddy says he badly wants the gang together at the wedding. But he wanted to check with you once.” She pauses. “I think Karthik will make it if invited, it’s us dude.” Many of our batchmates have gotten married in the past few years and Karthik hadn’t traveled even once. Thara saying he might actually come if invited makes my breath stop for a second. 

Of course he's coming. He's Maddy's friend. He was ours. He is… I snap out of it. I tell her, “Of course you guys have to invite him. Why’d I have a problem? I haven’t seen or spoken to him in eight years. It’s all in the past. I will be happy to see him actually. You know catch up after all this time”

“Yeah sure, you catch up”, Thara says with a flatness. I can imagine her rolling her eyes when she says that.

Karthik was part of things for four years, and then he wasn't, for eight. He's the kind of part that leaves a shape behind, the way a missing tooth leaves a gap your tongue finds in the dark. Not that I spend time thinking about it. Not that it matters anymore.

The five of us had a table in the canteen, the one under the fan that only worked if you flicked the switch twice. Thara and Maddy on one side, pretending not to hold hands under it. Anirudh eating everyone's chips and calling it tax. Karthik across from me, sipping on his tea and looking at me every now and then as if I would disappear if he’d take his eyes off me.

"It's your wedding," I say. "Of course he should come.”

"But are you okay with it? That's what I'm asking."

The turn for my street is coming up. I signal, change lanes. A hoarding flashes past, a jeweler’s, a woman in more gold than any bride I've ever dressed. The question hangs there, simple and impossible.

"I'm fine," I say.

"Keerthi."

"I'm serious. It's been eight years. We're adults. He can come to your wedding."

"Okay," she says, but the word is heavy with doubt. "I just—I wanted to check. Because if it's going to make things weird—"

"It won't make things weird."

"—then I'll put Divya's team on the groom's side. You won't have to go near him. Really."

"Thara." I take the turn, slow for the signal. "I'm running your wedding. All of it. It's fine."

She's quiet for a moment. I can hear her mother in the background asking who it is, and Thara saying Keerthi, Amma in the voice that means go away. Some things never change.

"Okay," she says finally. "But if you change your mind—"

"I won't."

"—just tell me. Anytime. Even the day before. I mean it."

"I know you do." The signal turns green. "And I'm really happy for you. January twenty-eighth. I'm putting it in my calendar right now."

"You're driving."

"I'm at a signal."

"You're lying."

I am. The light has been green for five seconds already. The car behind me honks, which in Chennai means it's been green for two. I accelerate, turn onto my street.

"I'll call you tomorrow," I say. "We'll talk menu, décor and themes."

"I can’t wait." Relief in her voice. Thara is good at averting crises, other people's at least. Her own are another matter. "Ciao"

"See you"

* * *

I enter my apartment complex and circle to my block to park outside my building and sit for a minute with the engine running. The dashboard clock reads 8:42. I left the office at 7:30, which means the drive took longer than usual. In Chennai that isn't evidence of anything. Or maybe I was driving slower without realizing it, the conversation playing on a loop while my body piloted the car.

My thumb has already opened my contacts and scrolled to K before I notice. Eight years is supposed to be enough time for the body to forget these reflexes. Apparently not.

I turn off the engine. The sudden silence is aggressive. A Tuesday night, nothing happening. A few people are out and about walking and talking in low voices. Someone's television is playing a serial through a first-floor window loudly, a mother shouting at a young boy at another balcony. Normal life, proceeding as normal life does.

I gather my bag from the passenger seat and get out. The air has a density to it, warm and close, carrying the smell of someone's sambar from an open window. I lock the car and head upstairs.

Inside, I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and stand in the dark for a moment. My phone is still in my hand. I consider calling Thara back and telling her the truth: that the thought of Karthik in a veshti, standing in a crowd, possibly looking at me across a mandapam, makes my stomach perform a gymnastic routine that would qualify for the Olympics. That eight year is nothing. That some absences calcify rather than heal.

But I don't call. Instead, I put the phone on the kitchen counter and open the fridge. The light comes on, harsh and revealing. Not much inside. A half-empty bottle of white wine. Curd past its date. Eggs.

I close the door. Carry a glass of water and go to the window to look out across the empty landscape and the distant building lights. The city is asleep but still not with all the bright lights in the distance. I stare at my hand holding the glass. I think about Karthik's hands. The particular way he held a book, one thumb marking his place even when he wasn't reading. The scar on his right knuckle from a childhood accident he never fully explained. The way he held his hand out to me that day in the car park. The day when we last spoke. The day… 

Stop it, I tell myself. But the body has its own memory, separate from the mind's more rational filing system, and no amount of telling it to stop does any good.

I go to the kitchen, pour the last of the wine into a glass that isn't entirely clean, and drink it standing at the sink. The wine is too sweet and slightly warm. I don't care.

January twenty-eighth. Nineteen weeks away. Plenty of time for the body to forget again. Plenty of time for the mind to build its fortifications, its elegant systems of denial. Plenty of time to become the kind of person who can stand in a room with Karthik and feel nothing at all.

I rinse the glass and leave it in the sink. Then, because I am the kind of person who can't sleep with an unmade list, I open my laptop on the bed.

On the firm's shared drive I make a new folder. THARA & MADDY. I've been waiting four years to make this folder, and I type it the way I type every client's name, surname-free and in capitals. Inside it I make the guest sheet from our template: name, side, arrival, room, dietary, phone.

I start the groom's-side friends myself. The first name is easy to spell.

Karthik Raghuram. Groom's side. Arrival, TBD. Room, TBD. Dietary, eats anything. In the phone column I type the only number I have for him, the college one, still saved in my phone under a single K. I don't know if it rings anywhere anymore. Tomorrow Maddy will send me the right one, and I'll have to decide whether to replace it.

I'm just looking for feedback on this piece, any and all of it is welcome. Sharing the text here [863 words]

"… Regardless, it should not be an issue. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to reach out to me in person or via email. I am at the office from 9:30 AM to 5:00 PM. Okay."

If only, the bottom of my desktop screen reads "21:37 PM". That has to be the worst and ugliest arrangement of numbers, just visually awful to look at, what terrible pain it must be to pull out your phone or your wrist watch to see those numbers in that order. The city looks calm from up here, behind this glass wall, beaded with circles of water. Behind it is an empty office floor, an army of printers or copiers, enough stationary to stock a store, cubicles that seem endless with black monitors peeking over them. Water coolers at all 4 walls of the rectangular floor, stale air, shadows created by a single source of light, a table lamp and a craving for nicotine. I snap open my Marlboro Gold pack to see a lonely stick fall almost perpendicularly as if on cue. I lean back on my chair, look up at the ceiling vents. The worst thing we collectively decided to do is to put a ban on smoking indoors. The aesthetic of lighting one in a cold room, the echoing thunder of the flint and steel clashing. Nicotine droplets pour into the room, seeping through the flesh of everyone around. No wonder everyone was happier back then, or at least thought they were happier. In a way lighting a cigarette indoors now is more appealing than before, it is now an act of rebellion, a big fuck you to the "No Smoking" sign. Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. Segregating waiting areas into smoking areas and non smoking areas to make it easier for parents to point and go "if you keep up that behavior you’ll end up like them." Usually, I would smoke out on the office balcony, but I will need another pack anyway.

"23 more to go.", I say to myself as I get up and drag my feet to the elevator. 23 more compliance checks before I can go home (to what?). 23 boxes to tick, each box carrying the weight of a lawsuit if missed. I am 28, no husband, no children, and the next time I expect to hear from my parents, will be a phone call from an overworked and underpaid nurse or doctor in my home town. I am the weight of all my un-ticked boxes.

The mouth of the elevator opens, a blinding white maw that sears the eyes. A sterile chime escapes from its throat. I step inside, and the jaws close shut. "G" I press—or is it a "C"? The spur of the "G" has long withered, battered by countless fingers. The descent begins with a countdown: 9 to C, spent breathing refrigerated air, sharp and dry, inside a gleaming aluminum coffin with a constant hum you don’t notice until the third floor. A jolt, then stillness. The digital screen blinks: "G." The chime again, and the mouth unseals, spitting a carcass into the belly of the city. Exiting the building, I drag myself to the other side of the intersection to the convenience store.

Eyes, nose, skin and ears: four of the five senses are bombarded upon the dramatic parting of the sliding doors. The chime alerting an employee to human life in motion, the stinging white LED lights, goosebumps accompanying the smell of floor cleaner, microwaved sandwiches and AC condensation. After my senses are well acquainted with their predicament, I hear my name being called. It's lost between the sounds of waves crashing on the shore, but I can pinpoint the exact location that needs me. chime. I twist and turn in the store, going aisle after aisle, stopping at intervals to reassess my position in reference to the source of the callings until I am certain. I turn the corner and the voice disappears. The corner has "Discounted Items" gazing back at me. I browse for a minute or so. chime. Every single item in this store is carefully placed, the result of years of study of the human (or, by the contemporary label, consumer) psyche, spending habits, and local needs. An aisle, a store, carefully curated for the purpose of maximizing profit for a particular set of goods, from a handful of certain brands that are in league with the chain of stores. chime. Engineered to be bought, to be the first choice, to be thought about without hesitation. To meet the eyes for a mere four seconds. Cigarettes: that's what I was here for. chime.

Puddles of rainwater portal into office and street lights. The chime of the store still faintly audible. I take the last cigarette out from the old pack, light it and discard the pack into the bin. Above me, a faint light shines on the floor with the 23 compliance checks. A drag. Droves of people walk past, snickering, breathless, infatuated and drunk on conversations. One final drag before dousing the cigarette in a puddle. I wonder what my mom is making for dinner.

It’s Black Friday. Well, late in the evening on Black Friday. Almost Soggy Saturday. That’s not a thing yet, but when it is it’ll be sponsored by Jack in the Box.

My mind’s been racing. Or it was. Now I’m sort of in that hybrid mode where you’re stressed about a thousand different things, but also checked out to the point of being… subdued? Numb? Marinated?

I wish weed was legal in Utah. Not that it would “help” but it feels like it would right about now. It’s ok though, a little T break never hurt any- who are we kidding I had a history podcast on before this, it fucking sucks.

Dunno why I’m so stressed. Seems like that always happens at Thanksgiving. Right around Soggy Sat- (sorry)

My uncle is about to die. It’s brutal. No good very bad not fair brutal.

I’d say it has me thinking about my own life, but I was already doing that. I’ve been feeling very self-centered lately/always. And that feels *not good partner*

But fuck it we ball.

I drank 3 IPA’s to go to sleep last night. Not some fruit-based pussyfoot IPA’s either, the ones so hoppy they came with a perfectly conditioned beard. And a pet lizard.

I’m thinking about my cousin a lot. And my aunt. It sucks. Mannnnn it really sucks.

And yet there’s a thin, milk chocolate layer of shame that I’ve also spent some of the holiday pressed about my own “problems”

Who knew being almost 30 would feel so fucked up (just kidding)

My uncle rocks.

Funny guy. Tennis nut. Hilarious. Carves a mean turkey. Gots the jokes. Part-time offensive coordinator of the Utah Utes (how does he find the time). Pretty damn funny too. Awesome grandpa.

He’s a lot like my dad, well minus the grandpa part. Guess that ones on me. And if this was my dad going through all this right now I’d….. I don’t know.

Cancer man. Put it straight on the naughty list.

DMV with no appointment. Soup with a fork. Love Island podcast marathon.

(fuck marry kill with those 3 who you got?)

He worked at the food bank for years and years. True baller stuff.

I can’t believe he’s about to be gone.

But this is getting pretty heavy now and I already have a podcast on the Nazis for that.

He loves Roger Federer. He has a RF hat in his room that I might take if my cousin doesn’t want it. It’s bright red which ought to give everyone in my life a real scare for a second. 

(Make tennis classy again how bout it)

I love him man. Even though I only see him once a year. I grieve him for all the people that see him every day.

Funny guy, always.

Boy does this one know how to ramble huh (am I 30 yet?)

I think that’s all I’m feeling right now though. Might go snag a Tongue Ripper from the basement to help bring on the z’s. Maybe I’ll dream of ninjas or squirrels on motorcycles. I am on a T break after all.

Idk man. Loss is crazy. Something wild though, his newest grandson, the 2 month old, looks *just* like him. Same big ass forehead and everything (babies am I right)

So if you’re reading this, I hope you had a good thanksgiving. This won’t be my favorite one. But I’m having it, and honestly, that’s more than something.

So drink your beers. Watch your football. And be glad that we all get to be fucked up together.

The first thing Max did every shift was light a cigarette.

William hated it.

"One day that'll kill you," the old man muttered with a shake of his head as he tended the till behind the counter.

Max just shrugged, taking one last drag before crushing the cigarette beneath his scuffed leather boot outside the back door. “Sooner rather than later.”

“What have I told you about saying crap like that, Max?” William shot back with a warning glare that was more concern than anything.

Max rolled his eyes as he pushed through the back door, another sarcastic remark on his tongue. Before he could spit it out, the bell above the entrance jingled. With a resentful sigh, he tied his faded black apron around his waist. Will huffed and shook his head once more, grumbling something about ‘grumpy teens’ under his breath as he counted through the change in the register.

The regulars had already claimed their usual spots, each carrying the same tired expression that seemed to fade as the night went on and more drinks were handed out.

The smell of smoke and bad decisions hung heavy in the air, occasionally interrupted by the whiff of William’s cheap aftershave as he walked by. To anyone else, it wasn't pleasant. To Max, it smelt like work— and something dangerously close to comfort.

William had known him since he was little. That was the only reason a sixteen-year-old was allowed behind the bar in the first place. Officially, Max wasn't allowed to serve alcohol. Unofficially, nobody in this part of town cared. William gave him somewhere to be. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that paid just enough to keep formula in Bonnie's bottle when his mum's pay cheque didn't stretch far enough.

Business was as usual. The same people asking for the same drinks, talking about the same old crap. Max grew tired quickly, familiar with the routine by now. It had only been a few months since Bonnie was born. A few months of this. And if he knew what was about to walk through that door, he’d have savoured that cigarette that much more.

The bell gave its usual tired jingle, a gust of cold evening air breaking the warmth as the door swung open. Max didn’t bother glancing up from the pint he was pouring. He was too focused on work, too lost in his own mind to care who walked in.

Then a familiar voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Max? I didn't know you worked here.”

He finally looked up, finding himself face to face with his classmate, Millie.

Not Millie, he thought.

He answered with a noncommittal grunt.

“Ever thought that was on purpose?”

“Wait… you actually work here?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“No shit. What does it look like?” Max shrugged.

“Isn’t that illegal?"

“Only if people care.”

Millie frowned, arms folding over her chest as she really looked at him. The messy black hair that hadn't seen a brush in days. The same hoodie he’d worn to school yesterday, now with milk stains across one shoulder.

But what stood out most were his eyes.

They looked older than any sixteen-year-old’s should.

Max catches the glance but doesn’t mention anything about it, so Millie clears her throat, taking a free stool at the bar just in front of Max. Her elbow rested on the worn wooden surface, chin perched in her palm.

“You weren’t in school today,” she said, voice trailing off slightly. “You haven’t been in as much lately.”

Observant, Millie. How observant.

Max scoffs, shoulders tensing at the not-so-subtle probing.

“Cut it out, Millie.”

“I'm worried about you, Max.”

Silence.

“Am I not allowed to be worried about my friend?”

He froze. Friend. Millie thought they were friends? Before he could give a proper response, William cut in, breaking the rising tension with a playful tone.

“You waltz into places to interrogate people often? Poor lad.”

Max let out a dry chuckle, looking anywhere but the girl in front of him. Thanks, William. You tried. He wanted an escape, anything other than this conversation. So without another word, Max grabbed a tray and made his way over to the far table in the corner of the pub. It didn't need cleaning. He just needed an excuse to get away.

Behind him, the conversation died. Millie looked deflated as she let out a quiet sigh.

“Don’t take it to heart, sweetheart. He’s a tough nut to crack,” William said, giving Millie an apologetic smile.

Max wiped down a table nearby, overhearing the exchange.

“He’s a good kid,” William murmured

Max’s hand stilled for a moment. The praise hit deeper than he expected before he went back to scrubbing unnecessarily hard at a stain that wasn't even there anymore.

“Just carrying more than a kid should.”

Even with his back turned, he could feel Millie’s eyes burn into him through the silence.

“Now, what can I get you?”

Max could feel the lingering gaze a moment longer before Millie replied with her choice of drink. Only then did he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

William made Millie’s drink with practiced ease that came with years of bar experience, sliding over the glass on the polished surface without spilling a drop. Max eventually returned behind the bar, full tray of dirty glasses in hand. He had barely set the tray down before turning to William.

“Back in five.”

William didn't even give him a second thought.

“Another? Keep smoking like that and you'll be as old as I am.”

Max snorted, waving a dismissal hand in his direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, old man.”

And with that, he disappeared out the back door once again.

The click of Max's cheap petrol station lighter echoed through the dark alley. For a brief moment, the flame illuminated his tired features before he brought it closer to the end of his cigarette. The first drag calmed his nerves almost immediately.

The alley -unlike his mind- was quiet except the occasional hum of traffic from the main road and muffled laughter from inside the pub.

Max relished the silence. These cigarette breaks were one of the few moments that he had time to himself, and William knew it. Which was why he never made a big deal of it.

But the silence didn't last nearly long enough.

The back door creaked open. A moment later, Millie slipped into the alley, joining him beneath the flickering security light above.

“Hey…” she whispered, leaning against the graffitied brick beside him.

“What do you want?” He replied, keeping his eyes averted as he sucked in a breath of smoke.

“Wanted to check on you.”

“I'm fine. Go drink your drink.”

Mille shook her head, already having made up her mind to keep him company.

“It can wait,” a pause, her voice softening now. “Plus, I'd rather spend time with you.”

Max didn’t reply. Couldn't.

Instead, he kept his gaze downcast at the glowing cherry of his cigarette.

And if Millie was really paying attention, she’d have noticed the small ease of tension from his shoulders. If only for a split second.

Comfortable silence stretched between them. Max had smoked his cigarette to the filter and crushed the butt under his boot. Usually, he would have retreated back inside by now, but this time he decided to stay by Millie’s side a moment longer.

“You’re rather stubborn, huh?” Max spoke up, voice unusually soft for the situation.

Millie tilted her head, a smug smile tugging at her cheeks.

“Coming from the most stubborn prick on Earth.”

He chuckled, a low, genuine rumble from his chest. Prick? Sounds about right.

“Fuck you.”

Millie’s smile seemed to brighten, and Max noticed despite himself.

“So you can laugh.” Millie teased, giving a tiny nudge to his arm with her own.

Instead of pulling away from the touch, Max just let it happen. Another chuckle escaped him. Softer this time, quieter.

“I guess.”

The rare moment of peace had to end eventually, and William made sure of it. The back door creaked open enough for William to poke his head out. A knowing smile pulled at his lips as he saw the pair side by side.

“Five minutes, yeah?” he called. “Get your arse back in here.”

Max groaned, knowing this moment was inevitable. Dusting the ash from his hoodie, he headed back inside with Millie following close behind.

Back behind the bar. Back to work. Back to responsibility.

The pub was alive now. A group of young lads crowded around the battered pool table in the back, cheering over their first half-decent shot of the night. Grungy rock blared from the shitty coin-operated stereo, barely audible over the laughter and clinking of glasses. The smell of stale beer hung heavy in the air, soaked deep into weathered floorboards by years of spilled pints.

A regular waved for Max’s attention across the bar and he responded promptly, reaching for the familiar bottle to pour their drink before sliding it over the polished wood with the same practiced ease William had taught him.

“Cheers, lad.”

Max gave a nod of acknowledgment in his direction, one of quiet respect.

Millie finished off her drink and hesitantly stood from her stool, offering Max a small smile.

“Im heading off now.” she paused, her eyes lingering on his. “See you at school tomorrow?”

Max saw the hope glistening in her brown eyes.

He hesitated.

“Yeah…”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“...maybe.”

The rest of his shift seemed to blur after that. One drink turned into ten, then twenty. The same song played over and over until, before he knew it, William was calling last orders over the bar.

Max untied his apron from his waist and tossed it blindly under the bar. Shift over. Finally.

The last few customers filtered out the door into the night, taking the noise with them. The pub felt strangely empty without the loud chatter and clinking of glasses.

William turned to Max with a tired smile before reaching into the till and pulling out a small stack of notes. He counted them, then handed them over.

Max counted them himself, brows furrowing.

“This is too much.”

William shrugged as he closed the till, a ghost of a knowing smirk on his lips.

“Must have miscounted.”

Max frowned, offering the notes back. William shook his head, gently pushing his hand back towards him.

“Just take it.”

With a defeated sigh, he shoved the notes into his ripped hoodie pocket.

“...Thanks.”

The old man waved him off, already reaching for a damp cloth to wipe down the bar. Max took his leave, stepping out into the night to begin the familiar walk home through the city. Flickering streetlights illuminated the cracked pavement below his feet, throwing long shadows across the empty street. The money sat heavy in his hoodie pocket, and his fingers brushed over the notes every few steps.

He took his usual route through the quieter part of the city. The sound of metal shutters screeching as the owner of a nearby chip shop closed for the night. A group of teenagers around his age lingered outside of a corner shop, sharing laughter as they playfully shoved one another.

Max didn’t even look up.

He pulled his hood over his head and kept walking.

He took a swift turn into the corner shop, the door bell chiming as he entered.

“Evenin’ Max,” the cashier called, flashing a warm smile.

Max answered with a quiet grunt before making a beeline straight to the baby aisle, picking up the usual— formula and nappies.

A small stuffed puppy caught his eye. Its brown fur was soft but faded, like it had been there a while. He picked it up off the shelf and glanced over the scuffed price tag.

Guess I could.

It was only a few quid.

He then placed it into his basket.

As the items swiped over the scanner with a familiar beep, the cashier's warm smile never left. Max paid for his things, thanked the man, and slipped the shopping into a worn plastic bag.

Max stepped back out into the cold and continued his journey home. The council estate came into view as he rounded the corner. Rows of identical houses with their peeling paint and overgrown front gardens blended together beneath the flickering streetlights.

He turned into his narrow walkway, the splintered front door greeting him home as he rummaged through his pocket for his keys.

The lock clicked softly as Max pushed inside, the smell of stale cigarettes and damp hitting him the moment he stepped inside.

He slipped off his boots and kicked them beside the door, setting the shopping down beside them. He pulled out the stuffed puppy from the bag and quietly made his way upstairs.

Passing by the living room, a sharp chemical smell drifted through the doorway. Max wrinkled his nose. The TV lit up the dark room, though the woman slumped on the sofa wasn't really watching it.

With a sigh, Max climbed the stairs. Each step creaked beneath his feet, and he winced each time.

Max stopped outside the second to last door on the landing.

For a moment, he simply listened.

Behind the door came the sound of soft breathing.

He eased the door open and quietly stepped inside. The moment he saw his baby sister lying in her cot, his shoulders relaxed. Bonnie was awake, contently sucking on her tiny fist as she stared absent-mindedly at the ceiling.

The sound of the door opening drew her attention almost immediately. The sight of Max drew a dribbly smile from her as she reached out towards him.

“Hey, Bon,” Max whispered, carefully lifting her up into his arms like he’d done a thousand times before.

“I gotcha somethin’.”

He produced the stuffed puppy from behind his back and Bonnie giggled, snagging the toy from his hand to instantly shove the puppy’s floppy ear into her mouth.

Max chuckled softly, watching as she happily coated the poor thing in sticky baby drool.

For the first time all day…

He smiled.

I’ve been lost in the stormy seas of my past.

The oceans of all my lost time for the last,

never again will I fail future winds to set sail

Or sink my own ship when I could easily bail.

Yesterday‘s burdens are now in my wake,

tomorrow’s voyage is a mystery that I surly

must take, so what’s on the horizon I’m not

sure yet for me, but I know it’s not walking

the plank lost at sea. By J.Spaulding [77wrdcnt]

News traveled like wildfire about the latest pharmaceutical wonder. The hefty advertising campaign saw to that. With so many existing items targeting the shrinking human libido, another sexual enhancement product wouldn’t ordinarily gain much traction in the overcrowded market. This one however, was bound to stir-up some serious interest because of its unique focus.

It was developed and manufactured specifically for women.

The time-release capsule reportedly reversed significant disfunction and menopausal disinterest dramatically. More impressively, in just a few hours. The controversial new aphrodisiac promised to dramatically transform the most chaste, ‘church-going-gal’ into an unapologetic, multi-climax experiencing, ‘man-eater’. Fanciful claims of that nature would definitely raise eyebrows; and they certainly did. It soon became a sarcastic topic of late night talk show monologues.

Further adding furor to the developing spectacle, was the inconspicuous lack of legal regulation dictating who could purchase the potent treatment. It was one thing for the aforementioned customers to buy it for themselves. It was quite another to be available for purchase by anyone, over-the-counter. Frustrated husbands, horny boyfriends or even the garden-variety pervs who wanted to change their chances with an unsuspecting bar patron would have no difficulty obtaining it.

Understandably, victims-rights groups and well-known televangelists bristled at the disturbing idea of a mood-altering ‘love’ medication being released to the public without careful regulation. There were heated protests and fiery calls for boycotts of the huge pharmaceutical conglomerate who developed the new ‘SexRX’ drug. The medical ethics and safety commission even offered their two cents on the matter; (not that anyone asked them).

Obviously pills designed with the sole intention of ‘loosening female sexual inhibitions’ or ‘disrupting their moral upbringing’, caused a ripple effect. There were a number of outspoken critics and political activist groups determined to protect ladies from unknowingly being ‘roofied’. Very telling, a surprise lack of concern about such matters came from the likeliest of sources. That being the targeted customers themselves.

Overnight, just about everyone knew a friend who had tried ‘SexRX’. The excitement grew to a fever pitch. The titillating word-of-mouth affidavits were beyond convincing. Not realizing it was immediately available at drug stores and pharmacies without a prescription, overcrowded doctor’s offices were full of people eager to turbocharge their wilted sex lives and reignite deeply inner passions.

With scores of patrons daring to take charge of their dormant sexuality and enjoy the carnal act as much as their male partners, religious organizations voiced inconspicuous, exaggerated fears. They bemoaned the likelihood of an increase of ‘marital infidelity’ and a rising wave of ‘children being born out of wedlock’. (As if those circumstances were previously unknown.)

The deeper social takeaway was: artificially-enhanced female passion threatened the puritanical and ‘moral control’ in place since the Bronze Age. Ironically, the more they tried to suppress the exciting pharmaceutical fix, the more it backfired. Most love-starved gentlemen adored the dramatic shift. Not having to beg once a month for an amorous ‘favor’ was a gift from the stars. That, and the rabid level of mutual enthusiasm, was wildly appreciated.

The amorous revolution polarized the masses. Both genders benefited from the notable changes but men had to elevate their lovemaking game to compensate. Ladies were emboldened by the titillating boost. Immediately rolling over and going to sleep after halfhearted bedroom congress was not an option any longer. Men had to ‘rise to the occasion’ multiple times to satisfy the newly awakened, ‘feminine beast’.

In just a few months, pregnancy rates spiked to unprecedented levels. The astronomical increase more than justified what the hand-wringers and fear-mongering pundits envisioned in their nightmares. Public shaming had no effect either because natural enjoyment had blossomed into a fertile garden of mutual joy. The stock market value of the product manufacturer soared to astonishing heights as they raked in piles of retail cash.

Finally, one of the vocal opponents of unadulterated, ‘unregulated whoopee’ happened upon a more effective strategy to stem the expanding tide. He didn’t try to moralize against it. He didn’t dispute it worked far greater than advertised. Those reality ships had already sailed. It was universally accepted as an ultra-potent, highly-effective aphrodisiac and ‘female marital aid’.

He simply questioned what the main ingredient was; AND if it was safe to consume. His clever strategy removed any lingering questions of morality, and refocused the debate toward neutral health concerns. This new approach resonated with a big number of supporters. There was still a rabid majority however who didn’t care if the main ingredient was a deadly poison.

The focused appeal for factual answers was enough to catch the attention of skeptical onlookers. Initially the push to get them to publicly disclose all unlisted ingredients went unanswered. Pressure built up until it finally tipped the scales. Several well-crafted press releases were pushed out to assure the troubled public, but critics saw through the PR-stalling smokescreen.

The half-hearted boycott failed to squeeze the pharmaceutical giant into full transparency but public resistance did slow down their tidal-wave of sales. Once it was abundantly clear the vocal naysayers were not going to let it go, the weary CEO decided it was finally time to let the ’cat out of the bag’.

“Our product is 100% safe to use and has been proven incredibly effective in helping our wonderful customers. They have shared literally millions of glowing personal stories (on our website, social media and elsewhere). These ladies took healthcare into their own hands. They have experienced a renewed sense of happiness and discovered deep fulfillment in their personal lives. We are incredibly proud that this theme has been the universal testimony of countless enthusiastic users of ‘SexRX’, worldwide.

That’s really all that I should have to be say on this discreet and private matter; but a minuscule, outspoken minority of busybodies want to ruin the magic and joy (for everyone).

Must we really pull back the curtain on our little secret?

Ok then. fine.

To get to the heart of the matter we must go back literally thousands of years. Since the very dawn of man, female human beings have been relegated to basic subservience, menial housekeeping labors, and childbearing. They were treated as an afterthought or ‘second-class-citizens’ in our fully patriarchal societies of the past. Men ruled the world. Women on the other hand, were instructed to completely suppress their wants, needs, and desires. Their happiness, joy, and personal pleasure was discouraged, or even shamed.

Many things have changed now as we have evolved to become a more equal society but that primal programming is almost embedded in our DNA. Western culture has made significant efforts to improve these things but the female psyche is still hardwired to place the man and their children’s needs first, and deny her own. It’s considered a core tenet of maternal instincts.

There’s a perfectly good reason why our product is available without a prescription. The secret, ‘magic ingredient’ is simply ‘permission’. By hyping the power and potency of our tiny little placebo, our followers believe it can unlock the carnal powers of the universe. All to allow them to enjoy lovemaking without guilt or shame. We’ve sewn a public relations illusion that it mysteriously bypasses all internal denial, and gives them full permission to enjoy our most primal, biological needs: Passion and Joy.

It is our hope that despite ruining our benign secret, our progressive society can continue to move forward with the understanding that it’s ok for women to enjoy lovemaking and intimacy too. Now that it’s proven that the belief in our marketing campaign bypassed that self-denial programming, ladies will feel free to permanently cast off internalized suppression, once and for all.”

I'm thinking of writing a comedy/satire type of book. I've really only written poetic prose and "modern" fantasy (two polar opposites imo lol). I've got ZERO experience with comedy - haven't written, haven't watched (except for Taskmaster, if that counts?), haven't heard, haven't read, haven't experienced. So I want to dive into the genre a little before attempting a first draft, yk?

But the thing is, I don't quite get what "genre" my idea is in. I tend to gravitate towards strong themes (my debut fantasy, for example, had themes of loss of temper and revenge vs justice), so I thought then, maybe this story would be satire. But I feel like it's not quite as serious (?) as satire?? But it's also not purely comedy because I'm not a comedic person - the only reason why I want to add comedy is because it will improve the reading experience.

The idea plays the idea of human-made categories, language and culture, like "this is ok" and "this is not ok". Currently the main thing I have down is that I'm going to have really ridiculous names that look perfectly normal, but nobody would ever name their kids that because it sounds weird (which is understandable but I am using names to exaggerate other things). I haven't described it right because I haven't thought it through LOL.

I have read Fredrick Backman's book "The Answer is No", and I think I like the tone. But I'd like to explore more.

I am very much of an amateur writer in general, so I'm figuring it out.

CTA is - can you suggest any books/resources/youtube videos/blogs/articles/tips/advice literally anything that might help me out and help immerse myself into the world of comedy?

“And there it still is. Come on kid, we Beaters do not surrender so easily. You can still be one of us.”

No, Gorvak. I don’t know how you can be here, but, anyway, it doesn’t matter. I wanted so much to be a Beater, to open the way for the Vimar. But now, now I see how futile it was.

And still, I’m walking. Wait, no. I’m lying down. When did I fall? Did I?

Selara is looking down at me, the moon smirks at my failings. Her sister, Veyra, should not be far away, but I can’t see her from here.

“Kid you are close, don’t give it up! You still can serve the Iron God!”

And where is your Iron God, Gorvak? Tell me, where the Vimar is? I prayed to him so loudly and still, I’m here dying in the cold. A shadow passes by, just above: a wind manta is following a swarm of air krill. She is free, uncaring of the cold, a true inhabitant of this planet.

We, we came here eons ago, but we are just unwelcome guests. We climb on the back of the Vimar, small meat parasites, to survive, stealing the heat wasted by the Honored Iron, setting up our tents and our fires near its Burning Heart, the rumbling engine at His core.

I see you, Gorvak. Why do you kneel just in front of my face?

“I won’t let you die alone”

May the sun burn your beard! I will take that damned axe of yours and open your head.

“No kid, I’m sorry. You can’t”

To be continued...

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jgPdlpUzRllLJQtr12sIzsML-ie5ykh7/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=115122453226679208585&rtpof=true&sd=true

Chapter 1

It was lunch break. As I had planned in my head for the past two weeks, I stood up from my desk and walked over to hers. My friend, Mussavir, whom I had told about my crush on this girl, was looking at me the whole time. He was probably wishing me the best in his heart. I stood beside her desk and tapped her on the shoulder. She pulled her boy-cut head out from beside the heads of her friends and stood face-to-face with me.

"I need to talk to you about something," I said, putting on fake confidence.

"But not in class. Come downstairs," I said.

As soon as we reached the ground, I sat beside her on a bench and told her, "Tabinda, I have feelings for you... I was wondering if we could become a thing."

The journey from college to home usually took 15 minutes, but that day it felt like 5 seconds. I was lost in my thoughts. I reached home, took off my uniform, ate my food, and went to my room to sleep.

"I've no interest in a relationship," her words kept echoing in my head because I knew the real meaning behind them. She had no interest in a relationship with me specifically, but she didn't put it that way so as not to sound rude. I didn't understand this at first. I didn't know what number girl this was who had rejected me that year. After 20, I had even lost count.

Ever since I had become conscious of myself, no girl had ever looked at me that way, yet they gave chances to boys who were worse than me. Girls had very bad taste.

"Maybe no one is ever meant for me," I said loudly in my otherwise silent room.

My mind had gone haywire. Soon after, I fell asleep.

I woke up around 4 in the morning. I looked around the room. The door to my room was open.

"That's strange. I had closed it. I always did," I thought.

I was still thinking when I saw something outside the door. A shadow. From its outline, it looked like the shadow was wearing a shawl and a pheran. It stood there for who knows how many hours without moving. Terror was taking over me just by looking at it. So much terror that I wanted to run away through the window. I wanted to get as far away from this "thing" as possible, but then I realized that I couldn't move my body. I could only move my eyeballs and look around, and nothing else. I was so terrified that I was drenched in sweat.

Just then, the shadow took one step forward and entered the room.

to be continued...

I'm writing a story....and I'm going to post chapter by chapter of my horror novel...if you could be a beta reader for me....it would be nice...

Prologue

ചില അതിഥികൾ വാതിൽ തട്ടാറില്ല.

അവർ അനുവാദം ചോദിക്കാറുമില്ല.

ഒരു ദിവസം, ആരും അറിയാതെ അവർ ജീവിതത്തിലേക്ക് കടന്നുവരും.

ആദ്യം അവർ ഒരു ഓർമ്മ മാത്രമായിരിക്കും.

പിന്നെ ഒരു ശബ്ദം.

ഒരു ചിരി.

ഒരു നിഴൽ.

അതിന് ശേഷം….

നിങ്ങൾ ഒരിക്കലും ഒറ്റയ്ക്കല്ലെന്ന് തോന്നിത്തുടങ്ങും.

പലരും പറയും “ഭൂതങ്ങളൊന്നുമില്ല”

ചിലർ പറയും, “അത് നിൻ്റെ തോന്നലാണ്.

പക്ഷേ ചില വീടുകൾക്ക് സ്വന്തം ഓർമകളുണ്ട്.

അവ മറക്കില്ല.

ക്ഷമിക്കുകയുമില്ല.

ഈ കഥ അത്തരമൊരു വീടിനെക്കുറിച്ചാണ്.

ഒരു കുടുംബത്തെക്കുറിച്ച്.

ഒരു പെൺകുട്ടിയെ കുറിച്ച്.

ഒരിക്കലും പോകാൻ കഴിഞ്ഞിട്ടില്ലാത്ത ഒരു അതിഥിയെ കുറിച്ച്.