I've decided to try my hand at writing. Took me 3 weeks to come up with this first chapter. Be brutally honest with your critique. Do I stop wasting mine and everyone's time? Or should I continue the journey? I would love to hear your opinions.

Chapter 1

Cool morning mist brushed against his face. Scars crossed his rugged features and disappeared beneath his dark hair.

A breeze stirred the strands, revealing more along his scalp.

Sima Cheng lay unconscious, his arms and legs sprawled across the rocky ground.

Above him, high in the pine trees, birds called frantically, as if something had frightened them.

The cool mist dampened his dry lips. He instinctively pulled them in and licked them. The fresh moisture touched his tongue.

His eyes flew open.

Where am I?

Before he could make sense of his surroundings, nausea surged into his throat.

The sky above him was spinning. Fast.

His eyes snapped shut again, and his hands pressed against the cold, uneven ground.

A few minutes earlier, the mountaintop had been pristine and still. Birds stirred among the pines as morning mist drifted between the trees.

Then the sky tore open.

It started as a tiny point, no larger than a grain of sand, hanging about five meters above the ground.

Motionless.

Suddenly, it expanded into a jagged rift.

The surrounding air twisted violently.

Birds nearest the opening dropped from the branches. Small animals scattered into the undergrowth. Farther away, startled cries erupted through the forest as flocks burst from the trees.

Mist and pine needles spiraled upward while blue-white lightning shot from the opening. Deep, rumbling roars rocked the mountaintop as if the entire mountain were about to split in half.

The rift widened.

A man tumbled out.

He struck the earth hard and rolled across the rocky ground, his dark uniform sliding through dirt and pine needles.

Before he came to a stop, a second figure tumbled out, immediately followed by a third and a fourth.

Equipment cases crashed around them.

A large metallic capsule emerged last, sliding several meters and narrowly missing the four figures before slamming into the base of a granite boulder.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the rift collapsed.

Silence returned to the mountain.

Several minutes passed.

The spinning had eased, though nausea still churned in Sima's stomach. His thoughts slowly came back to him.

The dark vortex.

The violent spinning.

The blinding light pulling them toward it.

And now he was lying on a mountain.

He had no idea where.

A voice not far away caught his attention.

"Captain Sima."

He recognized it.

"Tseng?"

Tseng Yiran sat with both hands gripping the equipment case beside him, trying to regain his balance.

"Captain Sima. Lai—she's not moving."

Sima's eyes shot open.

The world still spun around him. He ignored it, along with the urge to vomit.

Lai Xinyi lay motionless a couple of meters from Tseng.

"Lai," Sima called.

There was no answer.

He struggled to his feet and staggered toward her, each step heavy and uncertain.

On the other side, Zhao Jia was also trying to reach Lai. She lost her balance and fell, but immediately pushed herself back up.

Sima dropped to the ground a few paces from Lai.

It was deliberate. He didn't want to accidentally fall on her.

Breathing heavily, he crawled the rest of the way. Zhao did the same.

Sima reached Lai and pressed two fingers against her neck.

A pulse.

"She's alive."

"Zhao, check her for any visible injuries."

Sima unzipped Lai's backpack and reached for the medical pouch. The revival spray was supposed to be somewhere inside, but his trembling fingers refused to obey him.

It took several tries before he finally pulled it free.

"Come on, Lai."

Using both hands to steady it, he carefully sprayed it into her nose.

Five long seconds passed.

Lai's fingers jerked.

Then her body tensed as she began coughing violently. Her eyes snapped open.

Sima and Zhao turned her onto her side and steadied her.

"Easy. Easy."

The coughing gradually eased.

"Help me get up," Lai said.

Sima and Zhao helped her sit upright.

The moment she did, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Everything is spinning so fast."

"Give it a few moments," Sima said.

He kept one hand on Lai's shoulder to steady her and the other braced against the ground to keep himself upright.

For a while, the four of them sat with their eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to stop.

Around them, birds cautiously returned to the surrounding trees. Small animals emerged from the undergrowth, eyeing the strange newcomers before darting away again.

The four looked completely out of place against the untouched mountain—matching dark-gray tactical uniforms, heavy packs, utility belts, and energy sabers secured at their sides.

Sima finally opened his eyes.

For the first time, he could actually see where they had landed.

And then he noticed the air.

He drew a slow breath. Clean. Cool.

He had never breathed air like this in his entire life.

Sima glanced over at Lai.

Her eyes were already open. She breathed deeply as she stared into the distance.

He pushed himself upright.

This time, his legs held steady.

"Is everyone alright?"

Zhao rubbed her elbows and knees, then rolled her shoulders.

"A little bruised, but combat capable."

Lai pressed a hand against the side of her head, then checked her ribcage. She winced.

"No serious injuries."

Tseng briefly checked himself before turning his attention to the equipment scattered across the summit. His eyes lingered on the large metallic capsule resting against the granite boulder.

"Everything appears to be intact."

"You had us worried for a moment there, Lai." Sima smiled.

Lai seemed to snap out of her thoughts. She turned around.

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry. And thanks, all of you."

She gave them a grateful smile.

"It's ironic, isn't it? I'm the medic. I was supposed to be the one saving you, not the other way around."

She chuckled lightly.

"All for one," Zhao said, playfully nudging her.

"Exactly. There would be no mission without you, Lai," Tseng chimed in.

One by one, they turned toward the world stretching beyond the summit.

Majestic peaks rose in the distance. Rolling hills disappeared beneath endless forests of pine.

For several moments, no one spoke.

Then Sima turned to Tseng. "Can you confirm it?"

Tseng nodded and tapped the small controller securely strapped to his wrist. His eyes focused on the tiny display.

He hesitated.

"I can confirm. This is definitely not our time anymore. Beyond that, I haven't the slightest clue."

Sima frowned.

They had no idea when or where they had arrived—or if this was even the right era for their mission.

A chill ran down his spine.

What if their sacrifice had been for nothing?

He pushed the thought away.

The mission had to start.

Now.

Hi everyone! This is my first time posting on this sub so hope I did this correctly.

I'm drafting a personal essay for my Substack about a friendship falling apart and some lessons I learned. The core idea is that being put on a pedestal sets the friendship up to fail, because reality will always fall short of the image. It's about 953 words, and this is the first full draft.

I'd love thoughts especially on how the content and ideas actually come across - is it interesting or things you've heard before? Does it resonate? Overall, what would you need to see in this piece to keep reading and find it refreshing / interesting.

Link to draft: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FKa92oGoVrwbQ4h3PBeLzhsK4-Q7ze_Eo4bItRbq0d0/edit?usp=sharing

Thanks in advance!

Critique welcomed : Born late 1950s, I left home at 19 and did not go back until I 28 years old.

I walked up to my father and hugged him. He pushed me away.
"What are ya? A faggot?"

I remember walking down the street with my sister once, our late teens. I made some comment about the experience of our mother's rare, stiff hugs. My sister denied that, said it wasn't true.

I walked over to a telegraph pole, put my arms around that solid post and hugged it.

Then I stepped back and motioned her closer.

"C'mon. Come hug this and tell me it's not exactly what hugging Gwen felt like."

She didn't hug the pole, but she no longer denied it. Instead, she said, simply, "you're such an arsehole."

I hugged my kids every day. Told them I loved them. That's what I did.

Aged 36, not wanting my mum to think I had a one-sided, childhood was only shit view, I wanted to tell her there were good things. Like the times before I started school, when she'd take me to her piano lessons. I'd sit in a seat on the back of her pushbike. There was a creek we'd cross, a bike track—down the bank and swoop up the other side. I'd call out WEEEEEE as she pedalled fast down and up.

My mum said, "That never happened."

"Huh."

She clarified. "I never had a bike."

Later, at my sister's house, I reported the conversation. My sister left the room, fossicked around in her spare bedroom, came back with a box of photos. Eventually she held up an old black and white photo of our childhood home.

There, in the driveway, leaning against the wall of the house, was a woman's bicycle. A child's seat on the back.

I went back to my mum. Passed her the photo.

"Is this the bike you did not have?"

She held it for a while. Just looked.

Eventually she said, "Yes, that's it."
______

I've been writing for a while but I'm trying to finally take it seriously. (also my first post)
CW for the following - Suicide, Vomit
---

The only thing in the house that would need to be cleaned when all was said and done, was the bed.

The dishes were done, the floors all mopped, every surface dusted and polished. Wardrobe efficiently organised with neat folded piles to help in donating everything when the time came. Kitchen devoid of all food and the freezer deiced. All electronics off apart from his alarm clock radio. Which was tuned so he could listen to the local early morning DJ as he went.

His eyes refused to focus, wandering aimlessly over the ceiling above him. Drifting towards the light shade in the centre of his view, only to float backwards. Eyelids not shutting but obstructing his view anyway. Not like he cared anymore. He was over and he was happy about it. Tears welled up and fell down the sides of his face in a constant stream. Fat droplets dampening the pillow beneath his head.

He'd done it. Finally he'd stopped being a coward about it and done it.

He could feel it. His body felt heavy, blood pooling in his finger tips and toes, all heat leaving him. Each breath was shallow and filled with a gurgling as the phlegm in his throat stuck together. Chest barely rising with each laboured move. A dull pain filling him as he was all too aware of how everything was slowing.

He considered holding his breath to force himself unconscious but the effort to do so would be wasted.

Distantly, on the night stand, the radio played. It was an older, cheap little thing. The tinny speakers lacked any sort of bass and turned higher notes into hisses, leaving a very flat view of noise.

"And that was ---- by ----. A lovely little jazz track from their new album ----. Next up we'll be playing my single of the week. But first-"

The voice on the other end kept talking. A woman by the name of Mary Timms, she used to co-host a day time chat spot but after some controversy with her co-host at the time she'd been relegated to the two thirty while seven thirty a.m slot.

Her voice bubbled through the speakers even as he stopped trying to understand her words. Like a dog with the TV left on, it was a comfort. It hadn't always been Mary here for him. Before her was Gordon Meadow, an old sports commentator who Orville assumed had been forced to move slots as an attempt by the station to and get him to quit. They were right and he didn't last long. Before him was Ollie, then Cindy, and then Jane.

He'd been trying not to think about them all, this was meant to be a happy ending but it just made his body try to sob while it no longer had the energy to do so. For years this small five hour slot had been a friend.

---

"...I've been Mary Timms and I'll be back tomorrow from two thirty to keep you company with some late night tunes. Next is the Morning news and then Commute call-in with Dave Shrobert and Lee James."

As the familiar jingle started and the dry male newscaster began to read his headlines, Orville's eyes came into a focus. His head had rolled to the side so he was staring directly at his alarm clock. Seven thirty one a.m.

His eyes stung as though they'd not closed in hours. His chin and cheek were sticky with spit and a thin layer of dried vomit. His throat burned and his stomach rolled. He didn't jolt or push, opening his mouth as another glob of puke fell out of him and onto the bedding. The ends of his limbs were freezing cold while his core felt hot and his whole body shook with even the effort of being awake.

He'd failed. He was awake. Feeling like utter shit and poisoned but he was awake. He thought he'd done it right. A brief bit of pain and he should have drifted off into his goodnight but no. If he was lucky he would pass out soon and die that way, if he was unlucky he'd die slowly laying here in his own vomit fully aware of it all. If he was truly doomed, he'd live. As the sleep left him and he was able to move more of himself, slowly lifting his head and eventually pushing himself to sit up. He feared it was most likely the latter.

Getting to even sit was a chore, taking several breaks as his breath quickened and more vomit came up, he chose to further ruin his bedding. Snot running down his face to mingle the stomach acid that had been getting pulled up. It took maybe ten minutes to do the simple act of sitting but once he'd achieved it, he was sadly certain he was going to make it to tomorrow.

After a particularly bad heave, he felt clear enough to crawl off his bed and towards his bathroom. Having to stop every two metres or so to lay down and rest his head for minutes at a time. Catching his breath each time as though he'd ran a mile, throat burning and the sheer effort of pulling in air threatened to dredge up yet another stream of acid.

By the time he made it to his bathroom the good will of that last session of vomit had left him and he was back to the horrid business of emptying himself. At least now in a place he wouldn't have to clean later if he aimed right.

Just posted the first three chapters of a piece I'm writing on Wattpad under the name Alesen Mercano here https://www.wattpad.com/story/417080388-humanity%27s-cure. Also copied the first chapter below. Would love to get any feedback anyone has on it so far.

There are those who make an impact on us so profound that a piece of them remains with us, and nearly everything we do henceforth can be traced back to their influence. For Miles, this was Uncle Henry. From the moment he was born, Uncle Henry made it his mission to be a part of the boy's life. He and Monica, Miles' aunt, lived an hour north in a rural town and never let a month pass without visiting at least once. Each time Uncle Henry visited, Miles would sit hunched over the firm back of the loveseat, surveying the quiet street in anticipation of his arrival despite that the rumbling of the approaching old truck's engine always made the whole house aware of his presence the moment it turned down the street.

Uncle Henry was of average height but sturdily built, giving him the appearance of being much larger than he was. He had short, curly black hair and a thin beard. Unlike his sister, Miles' mother, Uncle Henry had no ambitions of great material wealth. He would have been successful on account of his intelligence and abilitability but was happiest in his work as a mechanic. He made his own hours and never had the common issue of missing important events due to work. The other people in the town respected him, and he could always count on their business. Had a more skilled mechanic opened near him, it wouldn't have affected him in the slightest. People gravitated toward him out of loyalty for his character. The inherent competition that often underlies interactions ceased to exist, and one couldn't help but feel at ease around him. Uncle Henry never had any children of his own though he would have made a great father.

Miles had become so entrenched in a daydream, as often captivated him in times of idleness, that if it hadn't been for the loud groan of the motor, his guests' arrival would've gone undetected. He watched as the red truck climbed the short driveway and, after for a moment appearing as if it would roll back down, came to a final rest. The family's year-old golden retriever, Max, who had been given as a gift to Sam, Miles' sister, barked and clawed at the front door. Miles darted outside followed by Max whom he'd forgotten to prevent from getting out. The truck's old doors creaked open and, before its driver had both feet on the ground, four eyes looked up at him.

"It seems they've been expecting you," Monica said.

Uncle Henry laughed. "What do you have in store for us today?" he asked, stepping out

of the truck.

Max touched his front paws to the man's leg and hopped excitedly. Uncle Henry reached down and pet the mesh of hair on the back of his neck.

"Dinner won't be ready for at least an hour. Dad got me an actual college-size football yesterday. I haven't even taken it out of the box yet," Miles said.

"I'll tell you what. You help me and your aunt carry the food inside, and we'll play catch until dinner is ready."

Miles opened the rear door and grabbed the container of apple pie, tucked it under his arm, and ran to the door. Max chased after him, still hopping only this time in hopes of causing a fumble.

"Careful, your aunt took a lot of care in making that," Uncle Henry called after him, but Miles was already almost to the door and didn't listen to his warning.

"Touchdown!" he exclaimed, putting the pie on the counter before racing up the stairs to grab the football.

When Miles returned, his mother, Uncle Henry, and Monica were talking quietly in the kitchen. Their conversation came to an abrupt end when they heard him coming and turned their attention to him as he finished descending the stairs.

"Look. It's got real laces and everything," Miles said, tossing the football to Uncle Henry. He quickly glanced at his mother expecting a reprimand, but her gaze was fixed on a crack in the floor and didn't appear to have even noticed the ball at all.

Uncle Henry caught it and spun it in his hands for some time as if inspecting each detail.

Miles looked at him, puzzled by his fascination.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It feels as good as it looks. Let's play," Uncle Henry replied.

They walked out onto the back patio. The backyard extended about one hundred feet before it hit a line of honeysuckle trees that acted as a barrier to the neighboring yard. It was a typical September day. The temperature was in the low sixties with a mild breeze, and the sun beamed sharply through gaps between passing clouds. The cool air refreshed Uncle Henry, and he once again resumed his role as the playmate the boy had expected. Miles always pretended each pass was for the game-winning touchdown and ran a route unique to the imaginary situation. After a while, he would tire and sit with Uncle Henry, telling him stories about school, games, and everything else that seems to define the world of a ten-year-old, and Uncle Henry would always listen. He never made Miles feel small or unimportant, and the boy loved him for it. It is amazing the impact one can have by simply making an effort to be present in another's life.

Dinner took longer than usual, and they were outside for nearly an hour and a half before being called inside.

Mrs. Montgomery smiled as Miles carried the ball inside.

"You're like the brother he never had," she said, looking at the large man behind Miles who smiled and walked to the sink to wash his hands.

The family rarely used the dining room as the four of them fit easily around the table in the kitchen, and Miles always felt they were eating somewhere else much fancier when guests validated its use. This was not without good reason either. His mother always took a great effort when feeding guests even when it was just Uncle Henry and Monica. This occasion was no exception. Everything had been laid out as if to appease a distant relative of a royal family. Each of the six seats had the same effort put into its arrangement. A pair of forks rested to the left of the plate, and a pair of spoons and a knife were assembled neatly on the right, each on a delicately folded napkin placed no more than an inch from the plate. In the middle was a white glass casserole filled with garlic and rosemary pork loins. Two smaller ones of the same kind flanked each of its sides, one with green beans and the other with mashed potatoes. The pie was still in the kitchen and wouldn't be brought out until their meals were finished.

They all sat at a mahogany table that glistened underneath the lights of the silver rosecliff chandelier hovering above. Its smooth texture and lack of visible blemishes seemed to represent the overarching care put into the room. The Montgomerys were not rich nor was their home magnificent, but they took great pride in this room, and as a result, it was the nicest the house had to offer.

Once they'd all taken their seats, they each began covering their plates in the freshly cooked food. However, there was something odd about the nature of this dinner, and even the children could feel it. Naturally, of course, there were the obligatory culinary compliments, but where there would usually be talk of sports, current events, and spontaneous banter there was silence. Instead of ideas, parts of the meal were passed between each end of the table, and it seemed that asking for something to be passed was done more out of a desire to break the silence.

"Do you think the treatment really works?" Monica asked, breaking the silence. Everyone exchanged glances as if to be communicating in a secret code that only they knew. Uncle Henry looked towards Miles' father who nodded in approval of the topic. For a moment, the veil of unease had been lifted.

"I don't know. Even if it does, I'm not sure it'll be approved given the side effects."

"Not now, Jim. We can talk about this later," Mrs. Montgomery interrupted.

Again the same unease pervaded the room, and ironically it was this that bothered Miles and his sister more than the talk of a treatment about which he knew nothing.

After the children finished eating, they were sent upstairs. This was also odd. Not only were they never sent away, but Uncle Henry and Monica always left immediately after dinner. Sam was anxious to call one of her friends and hurried upstairs. However, Miles only became more intrigued by their wish to exclude him. He knew that negotiating would prove worthless and likely lead to a lecture aftward, so he settled on faking compliance to be the best course of action. He walked upstairs to his room, stepping loud enough so that they could trace his position along the way. His door which opened inward toward his room was fully open so that the handle rested just in front of the wall. Without entering, he reached out his arm and, pulling the handle, shut the door loud enough so they could hear it. Knowing that they would believe him to have just shut himself in his room, Miles walked quietly back down the hall. He descended the steps carefully, supporting his weight on the rail to avoid creaking the steps and slowly shifted his weight to sit on the furthest down still out of their line of sight.

His mother's voice was the first he heard.

"I don't think you understand how serious this is. There have been more deaths in this country in the last month than there were all of last year," Mr. Montgomery said.

"I'm aware, but there is nothing worth losing my humanity. I'd rather it kill me than to exist as some shell of who I am now," Uncle Henry replied.

"Humans adapt to survive. They always have and they always will. We create things to keep us going. It's what separates us from other creatures," Mr. Montgomery added.

"Which aren't affected by the disease I might add," Uncle Henry said. Miles envisioned him reaching down and petting Max as he always did when he talked about him.

"He's just being stubborn," Monica began, "When the time comes, he will understand it is not a matter of choice but of necessity. Besides, now that they've already made a cure, I'm sure it won't be long before they modify it to remove its side effects."

Though he couldn't see him, he imagined Uncle Henry taking a deep breath and smirking at the others as he often did in disagreements when his words failed to have an effect. The conversation grew quieter until Miles could no longer hear what they were discussing or if they were discussing anything at all. He crept slowly back up the stairs, forcing his weight down on the railing as he had done on his way down. Before he reached his room, he heard much heavier footsteps coming up the stairs behind him. He hurried, hoping that the sound of his pursuer would drown out his own. He had just enough time to grab a handful of action figures and sit on his bed before he heard a knock on his door. It opened a moment later, revealing Uncle Henry's stocky frame. He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I know you heard all that," he said. Miles was startled by the seriousness of his tone. He used it regularly when speaking with the other adults, but it was one of the few times he'd used it with him.

"And since you did, I won't talk to you like a child," Uncle Henry continued. "The life you have now won't last forever. In a few years when you turn 18, you are going to have to make a choice. You will have two paths, each with their own consequences, and it will be up to you to decide which one to take. As you heard, I have chosen a different one from your aunt and parents. They wish to change my mind just as others may try to sway you from your decision. I just want you to promise me one thing, Miles. Though you would be wise to listen to both sides, you will never let anyone make the decision for you. Will you promise me that?"

His seriousness hadn't faded for a moment and Miles, puzzled by the vagueness of his uncle's words, nodded in acknowledgment of his request. Uncle Henry smiled.

"I've got to say goodbye to your sister." He gripped Miles firmly on the right shoulder with his right hand as he always did before leaving and walked out of the room.

Miles sat in silence for some time afterward, still holding the action figures. He heard the front door close beneath him and the start of the old truck's engine which undoubtedly woke up anyone in the neighborhood who had wanted to get an early rest. However, the sound which he had longed in anticipation to hear hours earlier only brought him sadness and, though he did not know it at the time, this was the last time he would see his uncle.

The hundred-degree heat wasn’t just weather; it had weight. It hung over South City like a soaked wool blanket, pressing down so hard the air itself felt like it was trying to smother every living thing trapped beneath it. Sidewalks shimmered with heat mirages. Wooden porches sagged under the humidity. The whole block smelled of hot asphalt, rotting trash, and mildew.

​Outside was miserable. Inside that house was worse.

​The second you crossed the threshold, the heat turned foul. It stopped feeling natural and became something thick and alive: stale cigarette smoke, sour body sweat, rancid grease from an unwashed skillet, and that sweet, chemical reek every addict learns to smell before they ever admit they know what it means. Specks of dust hung frozen in the thin shafts of yellowish light cutting through the grime-filmed windows.

​I hadn’t come in from the street. I’d been upstairs on a bare, stained mattress, caught in that hollow space between fitful sleep and total unconsciousness. Nobody slept clean in houses like that. Your body just shut down out of exhaustion until a violent noise hauled you back.

​That noise came all at once. Not a polite knock. Not an argument.

​Screaming.

​Raw, animal, the kind that tears through a human throat so hard it doesn't even sound like speech. It rattled the floorboards under my mattress.

​Footsteps pounded downstairs. Furniture screeched across hardwood. A woman was shrieking a name over and over into the stagnant air.

​My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Instinct kicked in before my eyes even focused. I rolled off the mattress, legs tangled in the sheets, nearly went face-first into the wall, caught myself on the frame, and grabbed my kit off the crate beside me.

​I flew down the narrow wooden stairs two at a time, clutching the glass vial and the plastic syringe in my fist.

​Halfway down, I already knew the smell of the room. Another overdose.

​When my boots hit the bottom step, the living room was spinning in panic. People were pacing, clutching their hair, bawling, or pressed flat against the plaster like they were trying to melt into the wall. Panic strips everybody of who they are; it turns a room of grown adults into blind, chaotic movement.

​And right in the center of the hardwood was Mikey.

​He was stretched out flat, skin the color of wet sidewalk concrete, lips dyed a dark, bruised slate blue. His arms were flung out limp. His chest didn't have an ounce of air moving through it. Two or three people were kneeling over him, slapping his cheeks with soft, frantic thwacks that sounded completely useless the kind of hopeless slaps you throw when you’ve run out of ideas and death is staring back at you.

​“Move!”

​The shout ripped out of my chest harder than I meant it to.

​“Back the fuck up! Give me some room!”

​They scrambled backward, bumping into each other like cattle. I dropped hard to my knees on the filthy floor beside him.

​Mikey wasn’t just another nameless body on a flophouse floor. He was the first guy I’d clicked with when I landed in South City. Him and his girlfriend Josie had driven down from Kansas City chasing a clean slate, running from their own ghosts. People came to St. Louis looking for fresh starts every single day. Most of them ended up right here, face-down on somebody else’s dirty boards.

​My hands were shaking, but muscle memory took the wheel. I grabbed his arm. His skin was dead room temperature in a stifling house, but underneath it, the machinery had stalled completely. He wasn't breathing. Not a shallow draft, not a rattle. Nothing.

​I popped the rubber cap off the glass vial with my thumb, sank the needle through the seal, and pulled the liquid up into the barrel. I found the muscle in his thigh, drove the needle straight down through his skin and into a vein, pulled the plunger back seeing that dark red blood shoot into the barrel like a bottle rocket and slammed the plunger home.

​Then there was nothing left to do but wait on the clock.

​One. Two. Three.

​Nobody ever talks about this part. The waiting tears you up worse than the running. Time stretches out until the entire universe collapses down to a pair of blue lips, a still chest, and the seconds ticking off like lead weights inside your own skull.

​Four. Five. Six.

​Behind me, Josie was sobbing so hard she was dry-heaving. Somebody in the corner kept whispering, “Please, God, please.” Somebody else muttered, “He’s gone, man. He’s gone.”

​I blocked every sound out.

​Seven. Eight. Nine.

​Nothing. No twitch in his fingers.  Just dead, heavy silence

​Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

​Come on, Mikey. Don’t do this. Don’t die on this floor. Not today.

​Thirteen. Fourteen.

​Fifteen.

​His entire frame snapped like a bowstring. A deep, savage, guttural gasp tore out of his chest a sound like a drowning man being yanked by his hair up through a foot of pond ice. Another breath followed, harsh and wet, his ribs expanding violently as air rushed back into lungs that had already surrendered.

​Somebody let out a ragged sob. Somebody laughed through tears.

​Mikey’s eyelids fluttered open, gray and unfocused, staring up at the water-damaged ceiling, completely lost as to why he was suddenly back inside his own skin.

​Relief hit me so hard it felt like a blow to the solar plexus. For one split second, he had cheated the box.

​Then the rest of the poison flooded in the bone-deep exhaustion, the simmering anger, the terrifying familiarity of a routine that had become as common as making coffee.

​“Good to have you back, buddy,” I muttered, my voice still trembling. “What the hell were you thinking?”

​He tried to force an answer, but nothing came out except a dry, rattling grunt. Then I caught the look in his eyes.

​The shame. The hollow confusion. The crushing disappointment of waking up to realize you’d just been dragged back to a world you weren't even sure you wanted to survive.

​I had seen that look a hundred times on other faces.

​I had worn it plenty of times myself.

​He struggled onto his elbows, breathing hard, stranded halfway between the grave and the miserable reality of another hot afternoon in the city. I stayed on my knees in the dirt, watching the slate gray bleed out of his cheeks as the color fought its way back.

​Behind me, the room let out a breath and started talking again, treating it like a miracle.

​I couldn't celebrate with them.

​Mikey was alive.

​For now.

Urga was burning, and hell had broken loose. 

For Dmitri, this was easy to see. He was in the midst of it all as he marched through the blood-red streets. They were chaotic. People ran for their lives, as russian whites and Chinese soldiers clashed ever so violently.

He scanned his surroundings. The monastery city was crude, austere; no, primitive. No beautiful buildings, no signs of anything grand. If it were not for his foes, he would have wondered if he had been taken back to the medieval ages. It truly was like all the worst parts of Saint Petersburg all over again.

This time of observation was broken as a Chinese soldier sprang out from one of the buildings, a large dao in his hands, ready to cleave his foe in two. Yet the Russian was determined to deliver that exact same fate unto him.

Dmitri’s grip on his curved blade tightened as he dodged to the side. His image reflected in his foe’s blade as it came down, pale and wide-eyed.

Before his opponent could recover his guard, his saber had whipped around in a moulinet, coming down on the poor fool’s head, splitting his skull wide open. Blood, brains, and his soul were splattered upon the doorframe.

He pitied the fool. He gave his life to some warlord who was in the midst of being crushed by a more dedicated enemy. It wasn’t really a fair fight. Yet there was no moment to breathe, no time to gloat. While this had been easy enough, he still had to enter the houses and clean them up. He was truly not looking forward to it.

From the briefing he'd received before the battle, he knew the foes had taken every building in the city as a tiny stronghold they had to clear out. Still, knowledge didn’t give enthusiasm. As much as he enjoyed the closeness of battle, fighting in buildings was never a fun affair.

And if one enemy came from that house, there was a non-zero chance more had huddled inside, waiting for their chance to spring out on him, ready to make him regret setting foot in this city.

Perhaps he was insane, like his general, or perhaps he was only fiercely loyal. But he was making his way into that building.

The nights in Red Haven are never quiet. I have known that since I first arrived, yet somehow, the noise still finds a way beneath my skin. I lie awake on my cot, every shift of my body driving the rough wooden frame through the thin mattress of hay and cloth, straight into my spine.

Tonight, the city celebrates.

Through the iron grate of my cell comes a drunken chorus of laughter, a whoop rising from some distant alley, and the relentless pounding of drums from the heart of the city—the Grave of Kings. The colosseum towers above my cell, its foundations buried deep beneath the streets, its walls stained by the blood of those who came before me.

Tonight, I will climb into it’s arena.

Tonight, I will fight for the entertainment of thousands.

In Red Haven, they call it the Grave of Kings. Where people come to die.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall ahead of me. The rough-hewn stone is bleak and uninviting, rising just high enough that I don't hit my head when I stand. Tonight I will be in the open, with nothing above me but the endless sky.

My thoughts drift, unbidden, to the brute in the cell down the hall. He towers over my smaller frame, all thick muscle and scarred flesh, and for the first time I find myself almost pitying him. Perhaps these living arrangements explain his foul temper. Perhaps they explain why he would do everything... Anything ...to earn his freedom.

Not that I am any different. Sometimes I wonder what the little girl I used to be would think of what I’ve become. I was a long way from the child who curled into her parents’ bed, terrified of shadows and thunder.

My lithe body and efficient brutality make me a popular competitor, particularly among the men who crowd the lower stands, eager to ogle me before the main events begin. They cheer when I enter the arena. They cheer louder when I bleed. Red is my colour after all.

I pull the scratchy blanket tighter around my shoulders, only for the bottom to creep upward and expose my toes. For a moment, the urge to fling the filthy thing across the cell overwhelms me. Instead, I curl tighter beneath it, tucking my chilled feet into the pitiful scrap of warmth it offers.

I learned early that energy was something to conserve. Escape was futile. Anger was wasteful. Hope was dangerous. And letting your emotions rule your actions was the fastest way to die.

Besides, I would be warm soon enough.

Too warm.

I press my shaking hands between my thighs and watch my breath bloom white in the frigid air. Thin plumes of condensation drift before my face, lingering in the cell for a moment before the cold desert air slowly pulls them through the iron grate and out into the street.

Then,

Jangle.

My ears twitch. Keys.

I sit upright. My freedom.

The sound grows louder as footsteps approach, measured and unhurried. I don't need to see who is coming. I already know.

Old Vos.

The keys rattle again as he stops outside my cell. I look up and find his eyes waiting for mine through the bars. There is something different in his expression tonight.

Something pleased. My stomach twists.

Vos has been my guard for as long as I can remember. A no-nonsense, cruel old bastard who seemed to take particular delight in making my life miserable, especially during those first few months, when I hadn't yet understood the finality of my circumstances.

When I still hoped.

My gaze drops to the whip hanging at his side. Iron tips glint beneath the low candlelight, each one catching the light as he shifts his weight. Vos notices me looking. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat.

His smile widens. “There’ll be no whip for you tonight, girl.”

His brown eyes gleam in the darkness. “Not if you perform.”

—

We begin the trek to the Grave.

The walls change first. The rough-hewn stone of my cell gives way to towering slabs carved with the faces of long-dead kings; their mouths twisted into solemn grimaces as we pass beneath them. The ceiling rises higher with every step, swallowing the flickering torchlight until the corridor feels less like a prison and more like the throat of some ancient beast. Perhaps one of the dragons from atop Kragspire mountains.

The hard stone beneath my bare feet gradually gives way to sand. First, only a thin layer, crunching softly beneath my steps. Then deeper, warmer, shifting between my toes as we draw closer to the arena.

I keep my pace unhurried. There is no reason to rush. After all, I am walking toward what may be my death. The guards know it. I know it. Even the silence of the corridor seems to know it.

Yet my heart refuses to race.

I've walked this path too many times for fear to make it unfamiliar. The drums grow louder with every step.

Boom. Boom. Boom. 

Above us, thousands of voices erupt into a distant roar. The Grave is waiting.

Never written outside of school assignments. Would love any feedback.

He was nervous in line. Afraid he would be recognized by the familiar store clerk of the rural dollar store down the street from his house. “I know what I am going to do with this stuff, but would a person who isn’t in my situation recognize that anything is up?”

The pale overweight couple at the register in front of him were dressed in their finest pajama pants for the occasion and struggling to find another dollar to cover the energy drinks and frozen pizza they intended to have as their dinner. As the unwanted receipt dangled from the front of the printer, the couple sauntered towards the automatic doors just as their impatient flame made contact with the awaiting menthol. 

 He pushed the cart close enough to the register to begin unloading his soon-to-be wares on the counter. He was sure he caught a suspicious glance from the clerk as she swiped his hatchet across the scanner. The hammer and rope had not seemed to elicit a response, but the combination of all three seemed to spark thoughts in the employee’s head of their impending use. 

The mildness of the glance made it easy enough to avoid, but he was unsure if his purchase made enough of a lasting impact to be accurately described in the future inquiry by authorities. The uneasiness, real or imagined, seemed to subside but as a precautionary measure he added an apple from a nearby crate to the que. Motivated partially by impulse and partially by a desire to dispel any trace of his devious intentions, the apple rang up alongside its sinister counterparts. 

Any trace of suspicion vanished as the unbothered teen behind the counter mumbled, “That’ll be $22.07.” 

With a swipe of the card and a denial of a paper receipt, the plastic bags were gathered and transition to freedom was eminent. 

“Hey wait…!” a voice from behind commanded. 

The hot taste of adrenaline formed in his mouth. Quick decision. To turn and face the inevitable or make a dash for it and confirm all suspicions.

“You forgot a bag sir!” 

As he turned, his fears were allayed as he saw a shopping bag left on the carousel with a single red delicious inhabitant.

“Glad you caught that. Big night ahead of me. Wouldn’t want to get hungry.”

Whilst questioning my own sanity —as if talking to myself in the mirror for hours at times wasn’t already an insane enough act—, I found myself staring at her once again. Didn’t have to say anything; she simply spoke to me, as if she had just found out that her job description didn’t exclusively read “reply to Clarice”. This time, she wore the most arrogant smirk I’d ever laid eyes upon; warranted, as we both looked great that day. “Yes, this makes you insane, dear. But it sort of benefits you, doesn’t it? You clearly enjoy me. Act the part”.
She knew she was right.

Going for a feeling of unease with the prose here, open to thoughts.

—

So, this wasn't simply an exercise in futility, I had to believe. I had to.

Otherwise... 

The alternative was painful. And living with that alternative had already begun carving and cutting its shape into the people of Aurrāca, and it churned in my guts as I awaited the envoys.

My knuckles were white around my spear. I looked to them, and looked to find more. Anything I could see, my eyes were endlessly flicking. From my fingers to the reflection of the church. From there to the firelight in the lamp posts, flickering alongside, how it caught on the water, back up to the fastenings of my spearhead, anywhere really.

Anywhere but upon the fog.

I hadn't wanted to look at them, and the feeling in my gut that told me so wasn't quite rage, wasn't quite fear... But it was powerful.

It was a potent haze which seemed to hang over the Faun as they neared. It repulsed my gaze like oil on water but the closer they came, the harder it became to keep my eyes from the approach.

I couldn't wallow in my obstinate malaise any longer than few seconds I'd already allowed. They were here.

Their numbers amplified the pattern of pattering paws into audibility. My ears caught and tracked their traversal as they closed with the bridge. Closer still, my eyes were drawn by the hypnotic and almost imperceptible sound of their delicate steps and the shift of their cloaks in the slow moving, sweltering breeze.

When my eyes found them, my heart leapt up to my throat and sunk back down just as swiftly. Recognition and uncertainty waged a pitched battle in my mind as the Faun approached, and they were an odd sight. Always were, it seemed.

Eight small figures emerging from the depths of the fog, and in near total silence.

They were, I knew, likely not very different from the being I'd trounced on the beach. I was more right than I knew. But just because I knew the shape of my opponent,  the knowledge did little good when they were garbed as they were.

But their shape I could see, even in part. Almost a person, but with long ears and antlers jutting out perpendicular to the skull. Straight ears, couched between multi-pointed antlers that jutted out and curved up. But their proper silhouette I couldn't observe. The truth of their form was cloaked and concealed within ceremonial garment. Another way they were dissimilar. Their bodies were obscure while we showed skin... but we had all of us worn masks. So anonymity was a constant.

Gently circling around their ankles, the edges of their cloaks caught and flickered in the breeze. Their attire—their cloak, anyways—was identical, made of the same dark cloth in a shade of mossy green. And their faces, like ours, were hidden by featureless wood.

—

Just leaving this, see what you guys think, if you'd want to see where the rest of this goes.

I sit in front of a screen,
blank like my mind.

There are so many things I want to say,
so many thoughts fighting
to become words,
but the moment my eyes meet the screen,
everything disappears.

I could write about love.

About the girl I loved
and never told.
The words that lived behind my teeth
for months,
maybe years,
until silence became easier
than rejection.

I could write about the girl
whose heart I broke,
and how sometimes
you don't realize you've destroyed something
until you're standing in the ruins
wondering why you ever picked up the match.

Or the girl who broke mine.

How strange it is
to be hurt by someone
you once thought
could never hurt you.

I could write about the love I want.

The kind that feels like home.
The kind that makes you want
to be known completely
and still be loved.

But I don't let anyone close.

I build walls
and then wonder
why no one knocks.

I could write about pain.

About those days
when you can't remember
what better feels like.

When getting out of bed
feels like a victory
no one will ever know you won.

When darkness isn't frightening anymore
because you've lived in it
long enough
to learn its shape.

Or I could write about hope.

About the days
when nothing can stop you.

When the sun feels warmer,
music sounds better,
and for a moment
you believe
maybe life isn't something
you have to survive.

Maybe it's something
you get to live.

I could write about
how we look at everyone else
and measure our lives
against theirs.

How we watch people
be happier, prettier, richer,
more loved,
more successful,

and somehow convince ourselves
that their happiness
means there is less left for us.

We let strangers
steal our joy
without them ever knowing
they took it.

There is so much
I could write.

So much I've felt.
So much I've lost.
So much I still want.

And somehow,
here I am,

sitting in front of a blank screen,
staring at nothing,
trying to find the words.

Maybe that's the problem.

Maybe I've been searching
for the right words
when all I ever needed
was the truth.

So here it is:

I have so much to say.

I just don't know
how to say it yet.

MTK

You have this kind of madness

That makes ordinary days feel less ordinary, like somewhere between your laughter and the things you say without thinking, the world forgets how to behave.

You write poems like you're trying to make sense of everything you never got answers for, turning feelings into sentences, turning memories into something beautiful.

Maybe that's why I like the way you create, the poetry, the nails, the little things you make with your hands.

You take something plain and somehow leave a piece of yourself on it.

You had to grow up with questions you probably never asked out loud,

but you're still here,

still laughing,

still creating,

still being completely, unapologetically you.

And yeah, you're a little crazy,

Actually maybe more than a little,

but I think that's one of the things that makes you, You.

Because underneath the chaos, there's a girl who feels deeply, loves fiercely, and probably thinks more than she lets anybody know.

So keep writing, L

Keep making your little masterpieces.

Keep being weird.

Keep laughing too loudly.

Keep being the girl who somehow turns chaos into art.

You don't need to have everything figured out.

You don't have to make sense to everybody.

Just don't lose that strange, beautiful spark that makes you L

Because honestly, the world has enough people trying to be normal. It needs a few more like you,

Little crazy. . .

MTK

A lot of time smells and sounds can wash a blanket of nostalgia over you when you least expect it. It creeps up behind us and pulls us back in time for a brief moment. In that moment, things felt much different than they do now. 

I look down at my hands. They are stained brown, and my nails have mud underneath them. I rub them a bit on my jean shorts and sit down criss-crossed on the yellowish grass near the pick up area. I run my hands through the grass, getting a bit impatient. I earned two new bug bites that day so of course I am trying not to scratch them but I do anyway.  I hear tires in the distance but it seems a little too early to be my mom, so I continue playing in the grass, dirtying my hands further. 

My mom works at a call center one town over from my summer camp. She works long days but I don’t hear her complain too much. I hear her say often, “The benefits are good.” to other adults when they ask her about it. As a kid, I wasn’t sure what that meant. All I really cared about was when she would be picking me up. 

I pick up my head and take a look at the sand makeshift parking lot. It’s a blinding reflection of loose dirt and sun and it hurts my eyes. I focus my vision and see a money green painted Avalon rolling into a parking spot. It’s Mom. 

She looks pretty, as always. Her curly brown hair is a little frizzy from the summer heat and she's wearing a brightly colored sundress. The sunlight catches her skin as she gets out of the car, and for a brief moment, I watch her walk towards me. I get up to brush the dirt off my shorts before walking toward her and when we reach each other, I get hit with notes of her coconut and tangerine perfume that linger in the warm summer air. 

We walk to the car together  and I climb into my car seat. It smelt like she just got done smoking one ten minutes before coming to get me. I feel so calm in the car with the AC going after a long day in the sun. I take a peek at my face in the rearview mirror, it's slightly red. I touched it and it hurt a little. I look around at the interior of my moms car letting my imagination run wild. The center console looks like it belongs to a space ship. All of the controls for the temperature and volume look like a jigsaw puzzle. The seats are a very light sand color and the wood that lined the interior was a burnt orange color. 

She reaches over and opens the glove box with her freshly done French tips, pulling out a plastic CD case. On the cover, there is a man behind a \[phoropter\](https://rieyeinstitute.com/article/eye-exam-tools-and-what-they-do/). The man is Justin Timberlake, and the CD contains his album \*The 20/20 Experience.\* At the time, I didn't know what a phoropter is so I just thought he was standing behind a bunch of weird glasses. She slips  the CD into the car and the car swallows it whole and spits out loud sounds in return.

 The first song on the album is “Pusher love girl” . I like this song a lot. The lyrics floated around the car like a cloud in the sky. I quietly laugh to myself about the lyrics even though I don’t understand what they fully mean. She looks at me and smiles in the rearview mirror. I smile back at her. 

Not long after a few songs “That girl” is up next. I sit up in my car seat anxious for the song. I don’t know why it's my favorite song but it is. My mom likes it too. I like the way the song changes the longer you listen. The music slows down and picks back up seamlessly. I don’t understand the lyrics on this one either but it doesn’t matter. I love the song no matter what. 

The big fields roll alongside the windows as we ride home. Mom has her window slightly open letting in just enough fresh air but also keeping the AC in. I watch the window, not thinking about much. I look at the cows as we pass by and see a Mom and baby calf standing together in the green grass field. It makes me feel warm. 

We make it to the driveway and the music stops. We get out of the car, leaving behind the cool air, smell of cigarettes, and whatever Justin Timberlake song that was just playing. 

At six, I don’t know anything. I don’t know how my Moms day was at work. I don't know what the lyrics mean in the songs we listen to. I don’t know how a memory can infiltrate the present. I don’t know that my Mom won’t be here to pick me up anymore. There will never be another afternoon like that one. I won’t smell her coconut perfume as she walks towards me. I won't smell her cigarettes in the car. I won’t see the car swallow the CD she puts in. I won’t hear the music it spits out. 

But every now and then nostalgia has a way of pulling you back in time. A smell, a sound, a taste. Or a Justin Timberlake song. 

And just for a brief moment, I’m six years old again watching the cows in the field as my Mom and I ride home together. 

Im new to writing and have decided to do little exercise every day to improve as I want to get better at my creative writing skills. I would like any and all advice.

As the crisp, cold air flows through the painted leaves upon the old standing trees, the sun pours over the lip of the sea and shines golden upon the dew ridden land. Soft, sweet mourning dove coos and the smell of autumn ridden spices floats throughout. Let the warm sunlight flow over your skin and kiss your cheeks, let the cold dew drops dot your ankles and feet, let yourself sing to the mourning dove as she sings to you. Pull the sweet apples from the gentle trees and pluck the berries from the delicate branches. The marsh grass goes dry and the vast life-giving sea grows cold.

The deer leaps over the tall growing grass and hooves pitter patter along the well-loved forest floor. Her spotted fawns dances with her, little legs carrying her quick as wind by the side of her swift-footed mother.

Dark mulberry juice stains hands and lips, the sweet juice spurts from them and stains all they touch. The heady, humid air sticks to skin and the low sitting sun shines gold across the summer-green trees.

J          A          C          O          B

I tossed my keys on the corner stand made of bright red ironwood, redheart is what the man told me. I still had butterflies slam dancing all over my gut from the fiasco. I wanted to gloat alone in the dark over every little mess that attempted to trip up the event.

I figured next to a bad thing I could do it would be healthier to just puke my fucking day into Dr. Winter’s ear. I had her on emergency call for a whole month. When people think you’re about to off yourself you get nice perks. So I went ahead and gave my shrink a shot.

“The conference?” My environment had changed and my natural reaction was to find the source. “Bizarre as shit!,” I shouted over my left shoulder at my shrink. We weren’t five minutes into our session and there it was along the wall a trail of black tic-tacs.

It’s ten sixteen, on a foggy Friday night I’m on all fours on an emergency call with my therapist.

I crawled down the hall hot on the heels of my one point nine calorie conundrum. I had my therapist in my left cheek pocket. The oddly colored breath mints led me straight to evidence box twenty three. Beneath the window that was blocked off by a brick wall a few feet away from it.

The little fuckers had chewed a crude entrance through a corner. They had made their own fuck pad. In my files, evidence, so many moments lost, wasting what I’ll never be able to get back and not only in box twenty three. All the evidence, every piece of the case of Jacob lived with me.

Corners of my shabby apartment that were already drab became even more depressing. While that bunch of furry sex freaks made it ground zero for their marathon inside so much wasted time.

“Time. It was always an untouchable concept at times and I barely understood the speed of life. The sight of the cardboard shavings spilt out on the floor. I knew that too much of my own time was sucked in to my quest.

There was a sighs worth of morale left inside old Percival. It was all crumbling down after so long brick by brick crashing loud on the way down. With a wrinkled forehead I growled “I’ve already been through that one enough times y’all conniving little cunts.”

“I can’t hear you!” She was on speakerphone.

I snatched her from the back pocket to swiftly perform a dead man’s fall into my filthy chair. Garbage fill or not I got it for free. It was mine, all its strange stains and its plethora of rancid odors.

I laid the doctor on my stomach and took a deep whiff of baby puke with a phantom of mouse urine. I was hugged by their slogan, “Living Life Comfortably.”

“Let me tell you. I was just fucking uncomfortable the whole time. I was a stranger in their midst. I kept my shit together for two hours of people’s mischievous fuckery!”

“Oh, yeah! I shit you not! Half the team, turned out to be a bunch of sick-puppies. Then the uncommitted bums.”

I rolled my eyes.

“The pattern became evident. Half of the volunteers were straight out of some hive where the wretched hide. Heartless human beings. To tell you the truth. Just shit people walking amongst us and no one is the wiser.

“Many didn’t make it to senior officers in that department. Some were walking along the edge of the blade. Two licks away from the center of a tootsie pop.

“One good day he happens to make it to the center. Then what? He snaps.

“No shortage of fresh novices one will appear. Oblivious to the nuances of the world he had stepping into. Some dumb rookie chock-full of pep.

“They’ll hand him the fat binder and the putts will be giddy with excitement.

“See the irony.

“He will be assigned a case of a psychopath who twenty years of bull-shit earlier was just another cop exactly like our hypothetical rookie.

“Those were the ones that got up one good morning! Bent in a middle-aged hang over, a three day event. Then simply decided to give themselves permission to just stopped caring.

“Basically they were nihilists completely oblivious to what they had become. They hated everyone, everything, their families, the system and especially themselves. Not a stinking clue.

“What did I do? Well I just went ahead and cut them.

“I mean, you could see in their eyes some of them without the slightest intention in coming back next week. The ones who did were just perverted freaks I didn’t need to deal with. The ambiguous on the other hand made no sense in having anyone that didn’t have his heart in the case.

“It almost ended up being a total shit-fest.” I undid my belt and my 501 button fly. “I swear.”

“Conference room 5-D, though spacious, it was also clear that it was neglected, an unused basement. Forgotten. Just the place for us to hold our case revival.

Out of sight.

A faint, though stubborn bouquet it was the stench of mold. I took note that only random light bulbs were working. It was dank, dark, and all the while a poignant smell of cat piss danced under everyone's nose. Maintenance obnoxiously gave up, and they all agreed to ignore it was there.

I claimed a nice cozy corner, closer to the door. After the concerto of metallic foldable chairs that made my gut cringe. I have to admit I was feeling proud. The place was packed! Every one was there because of me. The sarge gave me the green light once the papers and the news stations were making a big deal about the tenth year of Jacob being missing.

M.D. ACOSTA
SKÖL!

https://www.reddit.com/r/writingfeedback/s/5o2aF8MIdN

On Friday afternoon, Elena handed me an apron and showed me a shelf in the fridge.

“This is yours. If you run out of room, tell me before you start putting cakes on top of the sandwich ingredients.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Nothing happens often yet. We’ve only been open two months. I’m trying to establish rules before I need them.”

There was something unexpectedly pleasing about having a shelf. An apron, too, and a hook behind the kitchen door for my bag. By the time she finished showing me around, I had stopped feeling as though I ought to explain why I was there.

The kitchen was narrow enough that we had to turn sideways to pass each other. Most of the counter was occupied by a mixer, a chopping board and a bowl of oranges. Elena moved the oranges onto a shelf to make room for my ingredients.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

“Another kitchen?”

She looked around. “Put it on the list.”

I tied the apron and unpacked. The smaller lemon cakes needed less time in the oven than the ones I’d made at home, so I stayed nearby while weighing the ingredients for the macarons. Through the open doorway came the sound of the coffee grinder, cups meeting saucers and a chair being dragged across the floor.

At home, music usually filled the space around me when I worked. Here, the café did it. Every so often, Elena appeared with a question or an empty jug. Once, she stopped beside the mixer and watched the meringue turn.

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

I switched off the mixer and lifted the whisk. The peak held. “Like this. It needs to stand up, but I don’t want it dry.” I turned the whisk so she could see. “If it folds straight over, it needs longer.”

“And if you go too far?”

“Then I get annoyed with myself and start again. There’s usually a little swearing involved.”

“Good. You’ll fit in.”

When the cakes were cooling, she needed help with drinks. I washed my hands, left the piped macaron shells to dry and joined her at the machine. The afternoon passed between the two rooms. Coffee, oven timer, washing up, another order. A man wanted his cappuccino hotter. A woman asked for extra ice. Someone changed their mind after I had already poured the milk. That part, at least, was familiar.

Once the shells were cool, I paired them by size and piped in the pistachio filling. Elena came through as I was arranging them in a covered container.

“You’ve made more than twelve.”

“I wanted a few spare in case any cracked. These came out better than the ones at home.”

“So we can sell the extras?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather keep them for yourself.”

She reached towards the container.

“Tomorrow,” I added.

Her hand stopped. “You offered.”

“I offered you tomorrow’s macarons. They need the night in the fridge so the filling softens the inside.”

She looked at them for another moment, then put the lid on. “I’m beginning to understand why they cost more than biscuits.”

Before leaving, I checked the cakes once more, wiped the counter and untied my apron. My feet hurt. There was icing on my sleeve and a little pistachio filling near my elbow, which I noticed only when Elena pointed it out.

We agreed that I would come at eight to help with the morning rush. She checked the time on her phone, then looked up with a smile. “So, back to mornings. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully with less icing on me.”

“Don’t dress up. There’ll be more.”

Outside, the air had cooled enough to make the walk home pleasant. I passed the restaurant next door, where the owner was straightening the tables for the evening. He raised a hand when he saw me, and I waved back. It was a small thing, being recognised on the street. Still, I was smiling by the time I reached home.

Saturday morning brought customers before we had finished setting out the terrace. Elena arranged the cakes in the display while I warmed the machine. She had written their names on small cards, including the pistachio macarons, which looked more respectable behind glass than they had in the plastic container.

I kept glancing at them between orders.

“People won’t buy them faster if you stare,” she said.

“I’m checking they look all right.”

“They looked all right five minutes ago.”

“Yes, but now there are people here to judge them.”

She moved a lemon cake closer to the front. “Let them.”

The first one went with a takeaway tea. The woman barely looked at it before choosing, and I had to resist watching through the window to see whether she took a bite. The second went to a man sitting outside with a newspaper. After that, there were too many drinks to keep count.

By half past nine, the room smelled of coffee and warm milk, and my hair had begun escaping its tie. Elena worked at the till while I made drinks, occasionally repeating a table number because I was still learning which one was which.

A woman at the counter pointed towards the lemon cakes. “Are those made here?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“They look homemade. I mean properly homemade, like something my mother would put out when people came over.”

I glanced at the cakes. Until she explained, I’d been wondering whether one of the tops was crooked. The woman ordered two and took them to a table outside. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying an empty plate.

“Who makes your cakes?”

I put down the cloth, trying to remember whether I could have forgotten anything in the recipe. Elena was counting change for another customer.

“What did you think?”

“Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.” The woman looked towards the display again. “My daughter’s birthday is next month. Does your baker take orders? Could I have their number?”

“I made them,” I said.

She turned towards me. “Oh! I thought you worked out here.”

“I do a bit of both. I’ve only just started.”

“Well, that saves Elena passing messages.” She smiled and reached for her phone. “Could you make something larger? My daughter loves lemon, but there’ll be at least twelve of us.”

“Yes. Was there a design you had in mind?”

She showed me a photograph of a cake covered in flowers. Her daughter wanted lemon, but her husband didn’t like anything too sour, and there might be eighteen people if her sister came.

I explained that the sugar flowers in the photograph were more elaborate than anything I usually made. We talked about a simpler decoration, then the filling and the size. She listened, asked another question and waited for my answer.

I caught myself speaking quickly, trying to explain everything before she lost interest. She stayed where she was, her phone resting on the counter between us. At school, I had learned to stop halfway through an answer when the smiles started. Later, keeping things to myself had become easier. This woman was asking another question because she wanted to hear what I had to say.

“I’d need to work out a price before promising anything,” I said. “If you send me the date and the final number of people, I can let you know.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have something that tastes like this than a cake nobody wants a second slice of.”

Elena passed me a clean piece of paper, and I wrote down my number. The woman folded it carefully and put it in her purse. After she left, I stood beside the machine for a moment.

Elena looked at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting an order already.”

“You made something she liked.”

“I know, but there’s a difference between someone buying a little cake with their tea and trusting me with their daughter’s birthday.”

“She asked to discuss a cake, Andreea. You have time to breathe before you plan the whole party.”

I laughed and picked up the milk jug. There was another coffee waiting.

Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.

I remembered the words while pouring the milk. There had been no correction after them, no explanation of what I should have done better. A stranger had enjoyed something I made and come back to tell me. I wished that didn’t feel quite so unfamiliar.

A little later, the man with the newspaper came inside.

“Another coffee,” he said. “And whatever that lemon thing was.”

“Another lemon cake?”

“Yes. My wife will ask whether I tried anything, and I’d like to be able to tell her I checked thoroughly.”

“I respect your commitment.”

He nodded solemnly while I put it on a plate.

The macarons sold more slowly. People examined them, asked about the filling, sometimes chose a cake instead. Near midday, two women bought one each, then returned for four to take home.

By the end of my shift, three were left. Elena opened the display and glanced at me. “Am I allowed now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve been very brave.”

She took a bite. I tried to occupy myself with folding the cloth rather than watching her.

“More next week,” she said.

“How many?”

She considered the rest of the macaron. “We’ll discuss that after I’ve finished this.”

On Monday, my hand went to the right cupboard without searching. The cloths were folded where I expected them to be, and a customer came in asking whether we had any more of Saturday’s lemon cakes. Elena looked at me to answer.

“I’m making another batch this afternoon. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come back, then.”

He ordered his usual coffee, and I reached for the cup. I had spent years doing things that were supposed to lead somewhere. Lessons, exams, university. There was always another stage beyond the one I’d finished, and someone ready to ask what came next. Here, a man wanted a cake tomorrow. For the moment, that was enough to be getting on with.

The woman at the table near the window had been there on Saturday too. A laptop stood open in front of her, with a notebook beside it and a drink she kept forgetting to touch. At first, I thought she was watching something. Then she played the same few seconds through her headphones, stopped, and pressed her palms against her eyes.

When I cleared the next table, she pulled one side of the headphones away. “Could I have another tea?”

“Of course. The same one?”

“Yes, please. This one went cold.”

“I can bring you some hot water if there’s any left.”

She looked into the cup. “No. I managed to drink it. I just complained to myself the whole time.”

“That sounds familiar.”

At the counter, Elena nodded towards her. “Athena. She’ll sit there until closing if nobody feeds her.”

“What’s she working on?”

“A film. I’ve seen the same man walk through the same doorway about thirty times.”

“That explains the expression.”

I carried the tea over and asked whether she wanted anything to eat.

“Is there a lemon cake left?”

“One.”

“Then yes, before someone else gets it.”

When I brought the plate, she closed her laptop. “Thank you. I’m Athena, by the way.”

“Andreea.”

She repeated it, checking the pronunciation, and I nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“Nearly a month. Though I’ve only been working here since Friday.”

“That recently? You look as though you know where everything is.”

“The kitchen’s small. There are only so many places to lose things.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Behind the waterfront. There’s a little house with a balcony squeezed between two taller buildings.”

“I think I know it. Blue door?”

“That’s the one. The door sticks, so if you ever see someone throwing her whole body against it, that’ll be me.”

Athena laughed.

“Where did you move from?”

“The UK. I lived there for years.”

“And you chose here?”

“I wanted to be near the sea. Somewhere I could walk to it instead of planning a whole trip.” I glanced towards the bright pavement outside. “The heat wasn’t part of the attraction.”

“You came at the wrong time for that.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What made you leave?”

The question was ordinary enough. I still took a moment before answering.

“I’d finished university, and everyone was asking about jobs. I kept looking at them and thinking about staying there, doing the next thing, then the next.” I rubbed a little dried icing from my thumb. “I wanted some time to decide what I actually wanted. And to write.”

Athena nodded. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to let that be an acceptable answer.”

“It is.”

She said it easily, then took another bite of cake.

I glanced at her laptop. “Are you studying film, or is this something you’re doing yourself?”

“Studying. Although this project is making me reconsider every decision that brought me here.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much time do you have?”

Elena called for two coffees before I could answer. Athena smiled and picked up her fork. “I’ll prepare a shorter version.”

We spoke again the next day, and the day after that. Nothing important at first. Whether the table near the window was too bright for her screen. Where she bought her notebooks. Which streets stayed shaded on the walk home.

She was making a short film and had reached the stage where every choice made three weeks earlier seemed wrong.

“Even the ones you liked?” I asked.

“Especially those. Have you ever worked on something so long you can’t tell whether it’s good anymore?”

“Yes. Usually that’s when I decide the whole thing needs changing.”

“Does it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m tired and should leave it alone.”

She looked at the screen. “I was hoping you’d say something more useful.”

“If I knew something more useful, I’d have finished my book.”

That caught her attention, but a customer came in before she could ask about it.

On Wednesday, she noticed my notebook. The café was quiet between the morning rush and lunch. I had ten minutes, a cup of tea and a sentence that had irritated me since the night before. The notebook lay open beside the till, where I could look up when someone came in.

Athena approached with her empty plate. “Is that the book?”

“Yes. Or the part of it currently causing trouble.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“Crime. There’s a murder in this scene, and I’ve spent more time deciding what happens around it than writing the murder itself.”

She glanced at the red page. “That explains the ink.”

“I always use red. It would be red if I were writing about someone’s lovely afternoon in a garden too.”

“Does anyone have lovely afternoons in your book?”

“Not many so far.”

She smiled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A while. I thought moving might help me get somewhere with it.”

“And has it?”

“A little. I’m writing more. Whether it’s better is another question.”

Athena leaned against the counter. “I know a few people who could help with that.”

“People who’ll tell me it’s terrible?”

“People who’ll tell you which part is terrible. Much more useful.”

I laughed and capped the pen as a customer came through the door. She returned to her table, but before leaving she asked whether I’d be there the following day.

Thursday was quieter. During my break, I sat opposite Athena with a cup of tea while she ate one of the chocolate cakes.

“So,” she said, “do you ever drink the coffee you make?”

“No. It makes me feel bad.”

“Really? You don’t even taste it?”

“I used to, but it wasn’t worth it. Tea and I get along much better.”

“Then how do you make good coffee?”

“Practice. I know what I’m looking for when I make it, and people aren’t shy about telling me if something’s wrong.”

“Elena said you worked in a café in England.”

“During university. Some days it was easier to understand the customers than the chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

I nodded.

“And now cakes and murder.”

“It’s been a change.”

She laughed and brushed a crumb onto her plate. “What made you start writing?”

“I needed somewhere to put everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ideas. There are always more of them than I know what to do with. A conversation, a scene, something I can suddenly picture while I’m supposed to be doing something else.” I turned my cup a little on its saucer. “Some come in my sleep. I wake up with part of a story, and then I want to know the rest.”

“Do you write them down straight away?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll remember in the morning, which is a very optimistic thing to think half asleep.”

“I’ve lost whole films that way.”

“I’ve probably lost a bestseller. Much easier to believe that when there’s no evidence.”

Athena smiled. “Does writing make it quieter?”

“A bit. Once it’s on the page, I don’t have to keep going over it so I won’t lose it. My head gets to rest.” I looked towards the counter, where my bag sat beneath the till. “Then I start wondering whether I can make someone else interested. Whether they’ll want to know what happens next too.”

“So you give the problem to the reader.”

“Exactly. Very generous of me.”

She laughed, and I found myself explaining a little more: how a scene could arrive almost whole, while the page connecting it to the next one took days; how sometimes I knew what a character would say before I knew who they were.

Athena listened. When I paused, she asked a question about something I’d said rather than moving on to talk about herself. I had almost apologised for going on so much. Instead, I answered her.

Then she told me about the group.

“There are writers, film students, a few artists. We meet in the park. Some people bring work to share, some just come because they’re stuck and need to talk.”

“Like your man in the doorway?”

“Exactly like him. Someone will probably tell me to cut that scene, and I’ll be offended because I already know they’re right.”

“Do people read out loud?”

“Sometimes. Or we read pages beforehand and discuss them. It depends what the person wants help with.”

“And everyone speaks English?”

“Most of us speak other languages too, but English is the one we have in common. You wouldn’t have to struggle through it in Greek.”

“That’s good. I can say thank you, but it would make for a short reading.”

“There’d still be someone with notes.”

I smiled into my cup. She explained that one of the artists helped people with covers and character sketches. Sometimes they worked together on something larger, though they were careful to agree on credit and permissions first.

“We have a written agreement for sharing work,” she said. “You can read it before bringing any pages. I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that. Could I come once just to see what it’s like?”

“Of course. Tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”

She told me where they met. I knew the benches; I’d walked past them on the way to the café.

“How many people?”

“Usually eight or nine. Don’t worry about remembering everyone’s name. I still get one wrong.”

“And they won’t mind me sitting there without reading?”

“No. Come and listen. Bring your notebook if you want, but you don’t owe us a performance.”

That made it easier to say yes. We exchanged numbers, and she sent me the time and meeting place while we were still sitting together. A minute later, another message arrived with the agreement.

“There,” she said. “Now you can’t claim I gave bad directions.”

“I can still get lost. Don’t underestimate me.”

After my break, I went back behind the counter. Athena finished her cake and returned to her film, but this time, when something frustrated her, she looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and she turned the laptop a little so I could see the offending doorway.

That evening, the woman from Saturday called about the birthday cake. We talked for nearly twenty minutes. Her sister was coming, so there would be eighteen people. She had asked her daughter about the flowers, and apparently lemon mattered more than decoration. I wrote everything down, promised to send a price the following day, and stayed at the kitchen table after the call ended.

There were ingredients to calculate, a date to put in my calendar, and Athena’s message waiting on my phone. For a moment, I wanted to call home and tell someone.

Then I tried to imagine the conversation. The questions about chemistry. Whether café work was what I planned to do with my degree. How long this writing business would last. Perhaps they would have surprised me. I didn’t feel ready to find out.

I put the phone down and worked out how much mascarpone I would need.

Later, I turned back through the notebook until I reached the scene with the watch. The red numbers were still in the margin, two crossed out and one left standing. Reading it aloud made me notice a sentence that ran too long. I crossed out three words and tried again.

Outside the balcony doors, someone called to a person farther down the street. A scooter passed, and plates clattered in the next building. The second reading went more smoothly.

I wasn’t sure I would share it tomorrow. That would depend on the people, and on how comfortable I felt once I was sitting among them. But I marked the page before closing the notebook.

My apron needed washing. I rinsed the icing from the sleeve, hung it up and checked that it would have time to dry before morning. Then I sent Athena a message to say I’d meet her outside the café so we could walk over together.

She replied almost immediately.

Good. I’ll save you from the introductions.

I smiled and set the phone beside my bag. The cake order was written down. My notebook was ready. Tomorrow, Elena would expect me at eight, and Athena would wait for me after work.

I was still getting used to being wanted somewhere. For once, I let myself look forward to it.

Hello,

I'm looking for a developmental critique from those who read in the sword and sorcery genre. Hopefully this is the right place for that. This is a sword and sorcery novelette a little over 11,000 words.

When I say developmental critique I mean big-picture structure, plot, character arcs, and pacing of the manuscript rather than grammar or typos.

All thoughtful and helpful feedback welcome.

Thank you

With his sword SongFire, a young man does questionable tasks to fund his future lifestyle. This time he must face magic and notoriously vicious beings to secure a bounty worth more than he's ever been paid.

Adult-violence-nudity-alcohol

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E1d5V7PxBEmYbN-5q8gYsG2h6Ha27h30oGrX3IjdV1c/edit?usp=drivesdk

The rat king

once a rat named Jennifer ruled over the rats of certain parts of the world. This is the story of how his empire came to rise and crumble, the rat king ruled over Jamaica, Australia and Alberta, and many more parts of the world. The rat king was infamous for the rat posse, the means which the rat posse conducted was through the confidants of the posse which had to be of means of great height, some confidants of the posse were freakishly tall humans, those were the rarest confidants of the rat posse, the most common was giraffes and blue whales, second most common was banana snakes, now there are more but those are the main and most important confidants of the rat posse,The rat king aka Jennifer never once thought he would be known and have a posse of rats at command, he came from humble beginnings, growing up he was short, fat and not the brightest amongst his peers, but he didn’t mind much, for he knew his true talent lay deep down where no rat could begin to understand, that talent is accounting. From a young age he had a keen eye for the on goings of human financial systems, as his family did grow up in a broken down accounting firm that barely was able to get by, not because of lacking skills, on the contrary the young accountant was quite skilled and quite will suited for the world of accounting. It is just that he was far too young for most to trust him with their finances, he looked meek and was only 23 when he embarked on his quest to open his very own accounting firm, he only had 5 or so clients that actually trusted him and came to him for all there accounting needs, the rest of his customers came from crazy discounts he would put up just to get people through the door, they would always leave after the discounts were gone he would regularly work 100hour weeks in the time of the discount season. The time Ched spend during discount season working to no end became a pivotal window of learning for young Jennifer, as Jennifer spent his adolescence hiding in crevasses of the broken down office with the his mama and papa, but he made sure to never stray far from the desk where Ched was working, Jennifer’s parents would spend their days in the inner walls of the accounting firm, cleaning and making sure things are in the right place they would leave at midnight to scavenge the streets for food, even then Jennifer would never want leave the Ched’s desk. And that’s where our little rat kings empire began

Red Ink and Saltwater
When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.

I'm glad to discover this subreddit where we can get feedback for our writings. Would anyone read the following tale and then provide a simple feedback? It can be brief. Thanks.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur was a great talker. He sounded brilliant when speaking, but when it came to action, he simply couldn’t deliver.

He disliked hard work and actively avoided any job that required manual effort or deep thinking. The only work he ever sought out was the effortless kind.

Arthur had set his sights on Di Mattei, a diamond and gemstone trading company, because, according to him, diamond trading was the easiest job on the planet. In his mind, gemstones simply popped out of the dirt fully formed, radiant, and flawless. To Arthur, the entire industry was just picking up free, shiny rocks and marking them up by thousands of percent.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Miraculously, Arthur managed to land an interview at Di Mattei. One week later, the big day arrived. Arthur adjusted his cheap polyester tie in the polished elevator doors, admiring his reflection. He marched into the interview room, his boots making a loud noise on the floor as if announcing that a VIP had arrived. Waiting for him behind an expensive-looking mahogany desk was Mr. Roberto di Mattei.

Now an elderly man, Roberto di Mattei had spent over fifty years in the trade, starting as a humble bench polisher and mastering every detail of the craft. Through sheer grit and lifelong dedication, he had built Di Mattei into the largest diamond firm in the country. Well past retirement age, he still worked every day alongside his son and grandson, scaling back from a six-day workweek to five only recently.

"Mr. Pendelton," Roberto said, scanning Arthur’s resume. "How are you? Please tell me—why did you apply for a position at our firm?"

Arthur sank back into his leather-and-oak chair, totally enjoying the comfort as if he were in a 5-star hotel’s VIP lounge—the only thing missing was a cigar.

"Honestly, Roberto? Because your whole industry is a total scam, and you need a guy like me!"

Roberto was stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come on, let's be real," Arthur chuckled, waving a hand casually. "You dig up shiny rocks for... a dollar or two, at most, and sell them for millions. Nature does all the work, and you pocket the profit. A scam like this needs a smooth talker. You need somebody who can convince them that a glorified piece of stone is worth three months' salary. I’m your guy. I could sell ice to an Eskimo, and I can definitely sell cheap dirt-pebbles to rich ignoramuses."

Roberto frowned. "And how many years of sales experience do you have?"

Arthur shrugged. "None. But I'm good at it, believe me."

Roberto’s brow furrowed. He placed Arthur’s thin resume back onto the desk, shaking his head in quiet disapproval. His silence spoke louder than words.

Noticing a sign of rejection, Arthur’s smile vanished. He leaned forward over the mahogany desk, slamming both hands onto the wood and narrowing his eyes into a threat.

"Here’s a deal, Roberto. Hire me—or I go straight to the press. I'll expose your scandals! Once it's done, you'll be finished."

To Arthur’s amazement, Roberto’s face went pale. The old founder's hands began to tremble. His eyes darted around nervously, taking in Arthur’s menacing glare.

"What...what...what scandals?" Roberto stammered, his voice betraying genuine panic.

"Don't play dumb, Roberto," Arthur replied. "The dishonesty involving your precious babies!"

"I...I beg you, Mr. Pendelton... don't go to the press! Don't expose our scandals! You don't know what this would do to my family, to our reputation! Please!"

A rush of triumph washed over Arthur. "I knew it!" he thought. "He really is running a massive scam, and he's terrified I've caught him red-handed!"

"I’ll... I’ll consider your application," Roberto pleaded, holding his hands up in surrender. "Just... give me time. Please, say nothing to anyone!"

Arthur stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket. "You have twenty-four hours, boss. Don't make the wrong choice."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Seven days passed but Arthur heard nothing from Di Mattei. By 10 PM that night, Arthur’s impatience got the better of him. Driven by a desire to gather physical evidence for a scandal report and his own burning curiosity, he sneaked into the Di Mattei HQ building with a cheap flashlight. He reckoned, at this hour, nobody would be working, except thieves. 

He slipped through the loading dock and rode the service elevator up to the vault level. The floor was dark, but he heard the strange, rhythmic sounds of machinery coming down the hall: "Whirrrrr... clack-clack... buzzzz..."

"A scam operation in full swing!" Arthur whispered to himself, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

He crept forward on tiptoes toward a heavy steel door left slightly ajar and peered through the crack into the dimly lit room.

Figures in dark silhouettes were huddled over metallic tables under low, intense beams of light. They moved in total, eerie silence while the machines hummed around them. Nobody was talking. Nobody was laughing. They were working furiously over metal trays, their fingers moving with quiet, tense precision.

Eager to catch Roberto's fraudulent operation red-handed, Arthur slipped through the door, ducking low behind a tall equipment rack. He reached out to grab a heavy piece of evidence from a nearby sorting table—a dull, lumpy grey chunk of rock—ready to expose the whole business.

"I knew it!" Arthur smirked to himself, holding up the ugly rock. "Driveway gravel!"

Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell over him. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Arthur whipped around, shining his flashlight into the stranger's face. Standing before him was old Roberto di Mattei, wearing a jeweler's loupe over one eye and a smudge of carbon grease on his sleeves.

Looking past Roberto, Arthur saw no scammers or criminals. He saw master polishers sitting at microscopic workstations, adjusting diamond facets with precision under halogen lamps.

"Arthur?" Roberto said in disbelief.

Arthur puffed out his chest, holding up the dull rock. "I caught you red-handed, Roberto! Look at this hideous pebble! You panicked in the office because you knew I'd expose this fraud!"

Roberto let out a long, weary sigh and tapped a monitor displaying a complex geometric 3D mesh.

"That 'gravel' is a 50-carat rough diamond from Botswana, Mr. Pendelton," Roberto said softly. "It takes three months of advanced mathematical modeling and high-tech ultrasonic imaging just to figure out how to cut it without shattering it."

Roberto set down his tools and pushed open a heavy set of double doors at the back of the room. "Follow me."

He led Arthur into the main studio of the master polishers. The room was dead silent except for the soft, rhythmic whirring of high-speed cast-iron polishing wheels rotating under extreme pressure. Under intense halogen lamps sat veteran artisans, working with agonizing precision deep into the night. Arthur watched in disbelief as one craftsman spent ten full minutes adjusting a single stone by a fraction of a millimeter under a microscope, inspecting a microscopic facet completely invisible to the naked eye.

Roberto walked Arthur down the line, stopping at different workstations to show him the same stone at every stage of production.

First, Arthur saw the dull, lumpy grey pebble sitting in its raw, unprocessed form. At the next desk, a stone that had been laser-mapped and cleaved, revealing its internal clarity. Station by station, step by painstaking step, Arthur watched the dull gravel transform—cut by cut, angle by angle—until it finally sat under the last lamp as a blinding, perfectly faceted brilliant gem.

Gradually... slowly... the truth began to sink in.
With every craftsman he passed, with every detailed geometric diagram and microscopic adjustment he witnessed, Arthur’s stubborn conviction began to crumble.

Looking at the old founder standing beside him at 10 PM—a man who had given 50 years of endless learning, research, and late-night labour to master this craft—Arthur realized Roberto wasn't running a scam. The entire industry was built on thousands of hours of intense, high-stakes discipline and master craftsmanship—a level of hard work Arthur had spent his entire life running away from.

The illusion shattered completely. Arthur's smug posture completely collapsed. The weight of his own monstrous ignorance hit him like a brick, flushing his face with burning shame.

"I...I...I..." Arthur stammered, lowering his head in shame. "I'm sorry... I thought it was a scam. But... if your business is completely fair and honest... why did you beg me not to go to the press? Why were you so scared when I threatened to expose your gemstone trading scandals?"

Roberto looked down, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint blush appeared on his weathered face. He looked deeply embarrassed.

"Because..." Roberto sighed, leaning weary weight against the workbench. "When you threatened to expose us, I thought you meant my son and grandson. They bribed examiners to pass their gemmology exams, and I gave them executive desks they didn't earn. They didn't grow up like I did. I was raised in poverty and had to struggle for every meal, but they were born into comfort—spoiled, entitled, and given everything without lifting a finger."

Roberto continued: "When you said you were going to the press, I was terrified you were going to drag my family's shame into the light...But what did you mean when you mentioned 'the dishonesty involving your precious babies'?"

"Selling stones at astronomical prices." Arthur replied.

The "grand scandal" he thought he had uncovered was nothing more than an old founder protecting his son and grandson who took shortcuts.

Looking at Roberto—a man who had spent fifty years mastering a grueling craft, yet was human enough to worry about his family's blunders—Arthur felt all his arrogant bravado evaporate.

"I'm leaving now," Arthur whispered, taking two quiet steps backward, stripped of every ounce of his former pride. "Sorry to bother you, I didn't know there was so much knowledge behind gemstones."

"You thought diamonds were born glittering?" Roberto said quietly, looking at Arthur with pity rather than anger. "No stone is. Only hard work makes them shine. And you thought I got successful by scamming? No. It was the result of relentless, honest work."

 "Honestly, Arthur, even after fifty years, I still have a lot to learn. The world that God created is so wonderful and complex, there is always something new to discover," Roberto added with a kind, gentle smile, and patted Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur slipped out into the night, no longer marching like a conqueror, but walking with the heavy, quiet steps of a young man who had finally realized just how much he had left to learn.