a dark psychological thriller

I am looking for feedback (pls don't comment just to criticise something about my punctuation it's not my strong suit ik, im genuinely just wanting to know if u read on and why or why not

Hi all! I'm finished with Book 1 of a five-book Epic/political dark fantasy with a romantasy core, so think war, factions, high stakes, and slow burn. Its an 18+ series and looking for a small group of 3-5 early readers for feedback before I open up a launch date.

Content notes: explicit sexual content, dark themes (identity loss, psychological horror elements, power dynamics).

The sun was harsh over the wastelands that day.

Sir Lennart awaited anxiously on the dusty old chair they had provided him with, rivers of sweat dripping down his tired face. His mind, completely blocking out the buzzing of flies, focused exclusively on the task at hand.

Cutting off his train of thought, the massive door to his right creaked open, and from it, a grotesque biomechanical abomination lumbered forward.

"Little knight come, father see you now." Its dehumanized voice buzzed not from the mouth, but from a speaker attached directly to the throat.

The disgusting creature was a misshapen mass of flesh and robotic parts. Its rotund body was held above ground by four pairs of legs, some robotic, some organic. Its face held nothing readable, just a cold, smooth surface of metal with two holes for what Lennart presumed to be its "eyes" and one hole for feeding, shaped on the bizarre form of a perpetual smile.

"You come or no little thing? Father is busy man."  

His impatience was palpable as two of his arms held open the great door while the third motioned the knight inside.

Lennart got up, collecting his gauss lance leaning against the side of the chair.  

As he entered the corridor, the big heavy door behind them closed with a loud, echoing thump as the giant proceeded to silently guide him down the hall.

The creature's many steps held a surprising and concerning dexterity in their stride, flowing through the big hallway with all the swiftness it had no right to possess.

"You people surely have... interesting physiques," Lennart said, delicate in his wording like a bird hitting a window, blurting it out louder than originally intended.

The thing surprisingly answered with a quick chuckle.  

"Ya, long time ago father saved us, turned us into angels. Little knight never see angels before?" the creature asked in an innocently curious tone.

"I've seen some of your scavengers before out there, but nothing like the people in here."

"You lucky man. Father not like visitors, but he was interested in your pretty red symbol."

Lennart looked at his locket, a red sigil consisting of a bird surrounded by the sun, the symbol of his order.

"We here."  

The end of the long corridor led to another big door. Behind it, a huge bridge of scaffolding extended from one ruined building to the next. Smaller, more human-shaped guards stood on either side of the bridge, motionless.

"You go. Father awaits little knight. No funny business, or Marcus sees knight again one last time."  

The big creature then backed into the corridor, closing the big door behind Lennart, who was left to cross the bridge with a huge feeling of dread in his heart.

The bridge was firm and stable, even though it looked visibly dubious with no guardrails. Down there, people walked the streets, chrome shining on their augmented bodies. Lennart couldn't help but reflect on what the thing had said.

"Angels," he mumbled to himself. These transhumanists really believed their grotesque forms were some sort of... enlightening. Lennart couldn't help but feel sick, imagining his body permanently mutilated into an unsightly blob of metal and tissue.

Reaching the final doorway, a chill ran down his spine. Behind that one gate lay the deranged individual these aberrations worshipped as a leader. He was hesitant, not sure he would be able to forget whatever shape he was about to speak to. But in his heart, he knew he had a message to deliver, and he couldn't dishonor the great seer.

As Lennart stepped past the gate, he was surprised by what he saw. A massive hall, lit by countless electronic bulbs, had towers of computers extending from floor to ceiling, and the hum of refrigerating units trembled the structure slightly.

"Oh, the child comes, finally." Lennart's eyes snapped forward, drawn from his distraction by a sharp, imposing voice. At the center of the great hall, on a round wooden table, sat... a human.

A normally looking man, or maybe a woman; it was hard to tell from the distance. White long hair flowed down from his head, impossibly smooth with light undulations. Its face rested in an immaculate example of androgynous beauty, his eyes cold and unmoving. "Come forth, child, take a seat. I suppose you didn't come all this way to gawk at me?"

Lennart walked up to the table, silent, and with a little bow, introduced himself. "I'm Lennart Aurelian de Capparde, Holy Knight of the Stellar Order, and I bring you a message from my grand seer herself."

He fumbled a bit, obviously nervous, and produced from his waist bag a piece of paper, folded into a letter.

The father took the paper in his hand, unfolding it with a certain amusement. "Would you look at that, a paper letter, huh? It's flattering the way your order proudly displays its admiration for days gone by."

He began reading, scanning the pages with those blank, unblinking eyes. His stare was much creepier up close; something was... wrong with that man. As Lennart analyzed him, he could swear his skin rippled in the parts of the body Lennart wasn't focusing on.

"An alliance... somehow your paths never cease to surprise me, always finding a little unthought-of way to act, slipping right through the cracks of my calculations." His eyes snapped to Lennart's face.

"What do you make of this... proposal your superiors brought me?"  

Lennart stood surprised, a bit unsettled by the question.

"Well, I believe the seer knows what she is doing, sir. If she sees an advantage in this 'council' she intends to create, who am I, a mere knight, to argue otherwise? Besides, your group is very well known for your peaceful behavior."

His eyes were cutting right into Lennart's soul, dissecting, analyzing.  

He gave a soft smile, as if I had just said something ironic.  

"The seer says this council will help rebuild the lands of Karnadia, end suffering, and bring peace... I wonder if she knows how much our peace costs."

Lennart was surprised by the comment and a bit confused.  

"Huh... sir? What do you mean?"

The man grabbed Lennart's hand, his face somber, his eyes full of memories behind the iris.  

"I'll tell you a story, little knight, and I want you to reflect on it."

"Years ago, this land, this ruined city, was a visage of hell, my boy. Raider gangs killed, raped, and ate our people because we were weak, pathetic, too flimsy to properly defend everyone. I lost so much... buried so many...

I had to do something; I had to change something. My medicine was no longer enough to help people; I was treating a symptom while the disease itself remained untreated. Then he came to me in a dream, one of the unfathomable; he whispered into my mind knowledge lost to time. And he inspired me... guided me...

I began testing on dead animals, carcasses, fixing the broken bodies with cogs and transplanted flesh until the structure was stable enough for me to siphon the life back into its new husk. Weaving and molding flesh and circuits like an artisan does fine pottery from rudimentary clay.

It took many sleepless nights and many hours of bone-grueling work, but I did it, boy. A previously dead dog sat on my table, back to life, to a better life.

Within weeks, some desperate souls stumbled in to be my subjects: terminal patients, families donating people in vegetative states, and sometimes people found freshly dead with no explanation who were brought to me.

And I raised them all; I elevated them above mortality, above the filth of mankind. Strong, angelic in nature and form. We tried to convince more people to show how much better they could be, how much stronger our civilization could be.

They didn't listen; they looked at the Ascended ones as if they were monsters. I couldn't blame them; it's a common reflex for a simple-minded mongrel to flinch when staring straight into divinity.

Our leader at the time, a man naming himself King Orthos, said that I couldn't impose the change on everyone, that it wasn't ethical, and people were entitled to their own choice over their bodies... that saddened me, boy.

A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Our community was gifted the opportunity to ascend over humanity, to become an unbreakable, eternal chain.

And they refused... I didn't want to... believe me, I didn't. But I couldn't stand by and watch as people let their petty opinions stand in the way of their survival...

His hand was now pressing hard, his delicate arms showing an unnaturally strong grip. His eyes were wild, deep, nostalgic...

"People know what they wish for, but not what is best for them...

On the night of October 23rd, 2236, the ascended combed the houses of the unchanged, bringing them all to my lab, killing those who resisted. I disassembled and rebuilt their bodies into the visage of gods, and they saw how wonderful my gift was to them."

He went silent, smiling vacantly in Lennart's general direction, looking past him. Quickly growing uncomfortable with the macabre story, Lennart broke the silence.

"But Father... you're... human, are you not? Why didn't you change?"

Father looked at him, really at him this time, eyes matching his. "Oh dear boy... this world is so much more than what you see."

As he uttered that phrase, a rumble echoed from the floor below, a wet, thunderous noise of something heavy and soft being dragged across the concrete. Lennart, visibly frightened, stood up, his face pale, heart racing, his honor on the brink of shattering.

"You're dismissed, boy. Tell the seer I accept her terms." Hearing those words, Lennart turned and, without saying a word, began walking as fast as he could without running in the direction of the door.

"Just remember, young one." Lennart paused, his blood drained from his face as shivers ran up and down his spine.

"Remember her for the things we do... in the name of peace."

It’s a short story about emotional numbness, trauma, motherhood, memory, and the thin line between reality and consciousness. I wanted the ocean to represent both the literal drowning and everything the narrator has spent years trying to suppress.

I’d really appreciate honest, constructive feedback on the pacing, the transition into the daughter’s memory, and the ending.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what you think.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The sand cut between my toes like scissors and paper. The ocean swept the ground. It continued to push and pull until I began to drift. Before I knew it, I was far away from the shore. The water climbed to my knees. A heaviness had settled in my chest. The weight travelled from my heart to my heels. My body would not move. A living paralysis.

The numbing wasn’t a new experience. I had become so accustomed to it. I actually thrived in it. I couldn’t laugh at a joke. Death didn’t make me cry. Gifts didn’t draw me a smile. Things had become hard yet normal for me. There was water holding the Exit door, and I couldn’t find another way out. So instead of continuing the 28-year search, I decided to create my own world. I decided to sit in it. It felt like I had no other choice. It felt like my only choice. I had built a cemented brick wall to protect and imprison myself. It felt impenetrable, but even the smallest crack can allow water to seep through. I found myself filling the cracks so I could continue to stay safe in the midst of the flood.

The rays were subtle. They were twisted and tangled in the shade of the cumulus clouds. My eyes were open as cherry pies. The water had filled my eyes. Mixed with salt and emotion, it ran down my face. Tears and rain coincided. I closed my eyes and began to meditate as it baptized me. For that split moment, I could feel the blood running through my veins. My heartbeat became a melody of drums. The vibrations in my body had started to come alive on my skin. Instead of fighting it, I embraced it. I just wanted to feel. I just wanted to live.

The rain began to match my heartbeat. It’s like they were working in unison. The rain dove in like a pro swimmer performing his biggest flop of the year. I closed my eyes to absorb the moment. The small entryway that the sun rays peered through had shrunk. The glow underneath my eyelids had dimmed. I opened my eyes to soak it all in. The clouds were dark and emotional. Faint yellow and orange beams soared above them. It began to pour.

The different colors of my emotions were mixing together, like a painter searching for the right color. Except this time, the only color I could see was blue. The anger, the sadness, the rejection, the racism, the colourism, the ageism I’ve experienced began to overflow. What I thought I had sealed permanently was still permeable. I tried my best to keep it captive and tame it. No matter how many doors I locked it behind. No matter how much music I played or how much love I made. No matter how far I ran or how far I drove away. It always found a way to swim up against the downward current.

I turned my head. I looked back at the shore. I couldn’t help but see me and my children building sandcastles on a sunny day at the beach. Even in that memory, I could feel an elixir of emotions fill my blood. I carried that with me everywhere I went. I feared that my children had been poisoned too. I feared that I had passed it down. Images of that day faded in the rain. I turned my head back toward the vast sea.

The sea level began to rise. The ocean grabbed a hold of my waist and thrust me down. The underwater waves pushed and tugged on my body like a piece of seaweed. The strength of the sea combed my black, tightly coiled locks, allowing them to move with the water like a ballerina. My limbs flailed. I tried to swim. I never had the proper training. I began to move in motions that I thought would save me, that I thought would bring me back to the top.

As my legs kicked and my arms flapped like a chicken trying to take flight, however, I was still sinking. Tiny bubbles from my nostrils had begun to float upward. I held my breath tightly in my lungs. I tried to hold on to it, but it kept slipping away like water between my fingers. I knew I wanted to be free. I knew I wanted it to end. But this wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen. The surface of the water no longer looked clear. The images of the seagulls above the water were no longer distorted. I couldn’t see them at all. I was completely surrounded by a dark indigo. The only sound I could hear was my thoughts.

I began to sink deeper. The air began to escape my mouth. My eyes started to fall, and my heart rate began to slow. The water around me became a blanket, yet I was still cold. My limbs felt like a bag full of bricks. With all the strength I had left, I lifted my arm and reached toward the top, but I was far too late. As the water pulled me down, darkness took over my sight. I could no longer see me continuing to live.

“Mommy, I’m scared,” said my daughter.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The smell of Cantu and baby oil filled my room. My daughter stood behind me as I applied my nighttime face mask in the bathroom. Her pink blanket hugged against her pajamas and covered her head like a hoodie.

“Mommy… can I come sleep with you?” she continued.

I stopped applying my face mask and looked at my daughter through the bathroom mirror. I couldn’t believe what was happening. My body and mind were confused. I stood there, looking at her reflection, trying to understand how a moment so ordinary could suddenly feel like something I had already lived before.

I turned and waved my hands for her to come closer. I kneeled down and comforted her in a squat position. My white, laced nightgown gracefully covered my legs and feet.

“What’s bothering you, Sweets? Did you watch Goosebumps again?” I asked, concerned.

For a moment, we sat in silence. There was a sudden pause. Her eyes widened. Her body fidgeted, and she started to place her blanket in her mouth. She looked down at her feet. She began to tug on her socks with her toes.

“No,” she said in a soft yet high-pitched tone.

I moved her body in front of me so that we both could look each other in the eye. She switched between my eyes and the floor. I could tell she had lied to me.

“Are you sure, Sinclair?” I said sternly.

She nodded her head very slowly. She continued to gaze at the floor like my voice was coming from the tattered wood in our apartment.

“Hmm… well, would this make you feel better?” I said as I began to tickle her.

Sinclair laughed loudly. Her giggles would always send chills down my spine. It was like electricity. Her small voice and ethereal laughter acted as a charger to my battery pack. I picked her up and flew her around my room like an airplane. She put her arms out like wings and lifted her head. As we passed the mirrors, I could see her smiling. I continued to fly her to her bedroom. Baby lotion and acrylic paint fumes engulfed the room. The night light glistened brighter than usual. Her bed sheets were off her bed, while her pillows sat on the floor like lost puppies. Our cat was frightened by my heavy footsteps from my daughter’s plane ride. It had scurried from underneath her bed to the hallway.

“Alright, now, we are now landing at Airport Sinclair. Please do not move from your seat,” I said as I placed her in her twin-size bed.

She continued to smile with her bright eyes. I grabbed the sheet and flung it in the air to allow it to fall gracefully over her body. She sat up in her bed and began to blow air like it was fire and the blanket was her hot air balloon.

I sat beside her bed on both of my knees. As she uncovered her body from the floating blanket, I gave her a big hug. I began to tuck her into bed and placed the sprawled pillow underneath her head. She laid down in a fetal position facing me.

“Okay, so no more Goosebumps at night… right?” I said with a smile.

“I didn’t watch Goosebumps, Mommy… I just had a bad dream…” she said with a smile.

I got up to check and see if the TV was hot. It was ice cold. The plug for the TV had been pulled out of the wall. I paused, and a curious look overtook my face. The floor creaked as I made my way back to her bed. I was back on my knees.

“A bad dream… I see… hmmm… So… what was your dream about, Sweets?” I asked with a curious tone.

“You were drowning, Mommy,” she said.

I froze. I began to hear seagulls' squawk. I looked around my daughter’s room, searching for the noise. When I looked down at my daughter’s bed, she had disappeared.

“Sinclair!”

I screamed.

“Sinclair!?”

I screamed again.

I began to run around the house in search of my daughter. As I made it back to my room, my bathroom and bed disappeared.

Everything turned pitch black again. The black transitioned into a soft light rushing from one side of my face to the next. I could feel the heat of the sun gracing my skin. The sand cushioned me as I lay on the shore. I opened my eyes to two men and one lady hovering over my body. My eyes were weak, and I couldn’t really feel the rest of my limbs. I turned my head slowly and looked to my side. Another man was kneeling next to me with his flashlight.

“Ma’am! Are you okay?” he said.

I couldn’t hear him as his voice seemed to be muffled, like he was speaking behind a soundproof wall.

“Ma’am! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he continued.

Coughs began to erupt from my body as I puked up seawater. I couldn’t catch my breath. My limbs still felt heavy; however, I managed to sit myself up. The man kneeling beside me grabbed a beach towel and wrapped me in it and covered my head like a hoodie. I began to clench my toes together. I began to shake profusely as the chills climbed throughout my body. The crowd began to close in on me.

“Give her some space, damn,” the guy stated.

“Hey, we found you lying on the beach, and we ran over to make sure you were okay. You were unresponsive, so I started to perform CPR on you,” he continued.

Ambulance sirens began to ring in the far distance. My hearing began to become clear from the previous distortion. My vision became clear again. As I looked over at the man beside me, a family was enjoying their nice outing. The children were building sandcastles. I looked back down at my feet in the sand.

“Alright, everyone, she’s conscious, and the ambulance is on the way. Thank you for your help,” he shouted.

The crowd began to disperse. People left me one by one.

“Did she try to kill herself?” a man whispered to the lady beside him as he walked away.

“A lot of surfers try to catch the big wave during a thunderstorm…” another lady said as she gathered her beach bag.

I didn’t have the energy to explain to the man how this even started.

One of the children ran over toward us.

“Uncle Leonard, is she going to be okay?” she asked.

“Yes, Lyric, she will be fine,” he said quickly.

“Okay… well, can you fly me around… like an airplane?” she said cheerfully.

I looked up from my feet at the ocean. I began to look around at the beach again. Seagulls began to squawk above my head. I brushed the rough sand off my hands and rubbed my eyes.

“Umm… whoa there,” he said as I tried to stand.

I ended up stumbling as I tried to stand to my feet. I sat back down and looked the man in the eyes.

As the ocean roared and the sun rays beamed, I had regained more of my consciousness. I scrunched up my face in a confused manner.

“Where is my daughter?” I said, shakenly. “Is she okay? I can’t find her.”

It’s a short story about emotional numbness, trauma, motherhood, memory, and the thin line between reality and consciousness. I wanted the ocean to represent both the literal drowning and everything the narrator has spent years trying to suppress.

I’d really appreciate honest, constructive feedback on the pacing, the transition into the daughter’s memory, and the ending.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what you think.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The sand cut between my toes like scissors and paper. The ocean swept the ground. It continued to push and pull until I began to drift. Before I knew it, I was far away from the shore. The water climbed to my knees. A heaviness had settled in my chest. The weight travelled from my heart to my heels. My body would not move. A living paralysis.

The numbing wasn’t a new experience. I had become so accustomed to it. I actually thrived in it. I couldn’t laugh at a joke. Death didn’t make me cry. Gifts didn’t draw me a smile. Things had become hard yet normal for me. There was water holding the Exit door, and I couldn’t find another way out. So instead of continuing the 28-year search, I decided to create my own world. I decided to sit in it. It felt like I had no other choice. It felt like my only choice. I had built a cemented brick wall to protect and imprison myself. It felt impenetrable, but even the smallest crack can allow water to seep through. I found myself filling the cracks so I could continue to stay safe in the midst of the flood.

The rays were subtle. They were twisted and tangled in the shade of the cumulus clouds. My eyes were open as cherry pies. The water had filled my eyes. Mixed with salt and emotion, it ran down my face. Tears and rain coincided. I closed my eyes and began to meditate as it baptized me. For that split moment, I could feel the blood running through my veins. My heartbeat became a melody of drums. The vibrations in my body had started to come alive on my skin. Instead of fighting it, I embraced it. I just wanted to feel. I just wanted to live.

The rain began to match my heartbeat. It’s like they were working in unison. The rain dove in like a pro swimmer performing his biggest flop of the year. I closed my eyes to absorb the moment. The small entryway that the sun rays peered through had shrunk. The glow underneath my eyelids had dimmed. I opened my eyes to soak it all in. The clouds were dark and emotional. Faint yellow and orange beams soared above them. It began to pour.

The different colors of my emotions were mixing together, like a painter searching for the right color. Except this time, the only color I could see was blue. The anger, the sadness, the rejection, the racism, the colourism, the ageism I’ve experienced began to overflow. What I thought I had sealed permanently was still permeable. I tried my best to keep it captive and tame it. No matter how many doors I locked it behind. No matter how much music I played or how much love I made. No matter how far I ran or how far I drove away. It always found a way to swim up against the downward current.

I turned my head. I looked back at the shore. I couldn’t help but see me and my children building sandcastles on a sunny day at the beach. Even in that memory, I could feel an elixir of emotions fill my blood. I carried that with me everywhere I went. I feared that my children had been poisoned too. I feared that I had passed it down. Images of that day faded in the rain. I turned my head back toward the vast sea.

The sea level began to rise. The ocean grabbed a hold of my waist and thrust me down. The underwater waves pushed and tugged on my body like a piece of seaweed. The strength of the sea combed my black, tightly coiled locks, allowing them to move with the water like a ballerina. My limbs flailed. I tried to swim. I never had the proper training. I began to move in motions that I thought would save me, that I thought would bring me back to the top.

As my legs kicked and my arms flapped like a chicken trying to take flight, however, I was still sinking. Tiny bubbles from my nostrils had begun to float upward. I held my breath tightly in my lungs. I tried to hold on to it, but it kept slipping away like water between my fingers. I knew I wanted to be free. I knew I wanted it to end. But this wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen. The surface of the water no longer looked clear. The images of the seagulls above the water were no longer distorted. I couldn’t see them at all. I was completely surrounded by a dark indigo. The only sound I could hear was my thoughts.

I began to sink deeper. The air began to escape my mouth. My eyes started to fall, and my heart rate began to slow. The water around me became a blanket, yet I was still cold. My limbs felt like a bag full of bricks. With all the strength I had left, I lifted my arm and reached toward the top, but I was far too late. As the water pulled me down, darkness took over my sight. I could no longer see me continuing to live.

“Mommy, I’m scared,” said my daughter.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The smell of Cantu and baby oil filled my room. My daughter stood behind me as I applied my nighttime face mask in the bathroom. Her pink blanket hugged against her pajamas and covered her head like a hoodie.

“Mommy… can I come sleep with you?” she continued.

I stopped applying my face mask and looked at my daughter through the bathroom mirror. I couldn’t believe what was happening. My body and mind were confused. I stood there, looking at her reflection, trying to understand how a moment so ordinary could suddenly feel like something I had already lived before.

I turned and waved my hands for her to come closer. I kneeled down and comforted her in a squat position. My white, laced nightgown gracefully covered my legs and feet.

“What’s bothering you, Sweets? Did you watch Goosebumps again?” I asked, concerned.

For a moment, we sat in silence. There was a sudden pause. Her eyes widened. Her body fidgeted, and she started to place her blanket in her mouth. She looked down at her feet. She began to tug on her socks with her toes.

“No,” she said in a soft yet high-pitched tone.

I moved her body in front of me so that we both could look each other in the eye. She switched between my eyes and the floor. I could tell she had lied to me.

“Are you sure, Sinclair?” I said sternly.

She nodded her head very slowly. She continued to gaze at the floor like my voice was coming from the tattered wood in our apartment.

“Hmm… well, would this make you feel better?” I said as I began to tickle her.

Sinclair laughed loudly. Her giggles would always send chills down my spine. It was like electricity. Her small voice and ethereal laughter acted as a charger to my battery pack. I picked her up and flew her around my room like an airplane. She put her arms out like wings and lifted her head. As we passed the mirrors, I could see her smiling. I continued to fly her to her bedroom. Baby lotion and acrylic paint fumes engulfed the room. The night light glistened brighter than usual. Her bed sheets were off her bed, while her pillows sat on the floor like lost puppies. Our cat was frightened by my heavy footsteps from my daughter’s plane ride. It had scurried from underneath her bed to the hallway.

“Alright, now, we are now landing at Airport Sinclair. Please do not move from your seat,” I said as I placed her in her twin-size bed.

She continued to smile with her bright eyes. I grabbed the sheet and flung it in the air to allow it to fall gracefully over her body. She sat up in her bed and began to blow air like it was fire and the blanket was her hot air balloon.

I sat beside her bed on both of my knees. As she uncovered her body from the floating blanket, I gave her a big hug. I began to tuck her into bed and placed the sprawled pillow underneath her head. She laid down in a fetal position facing me.

“Okay, so no more Goosebumps at night… right?” I said with a smile.

“I didn’t watch Goosebumps, Mommy… I just had a bad dream…” she said with a smile.

I got up to check and see if the TV was hot. It was ice cold. The plug for the TV had been pulled out of the wall. I paused, and a curious look overtook my face. The floor creaked as I made my way back to her bed. I was back on my knees.

“A bad dream… I see… hmmm… So… what was your dream about, Sweets?” I asked with a curious tone.

“You were drowning, Mommy,” she said.

I froze. I began to hear seagulls' squawk. I looked around my daughter’s room, searching for the noise. When I looked down at my daughter’s bed, she had disappeared.

“Sinclair!”

I screamed.

“Sinclair!?”

I screamed again.

I began to run around the house in search of my daughter. As I made it back to my room, my bathroom and bed disappeared.

Everything turned pitch black again. The black transitioned into a soft light rushing from one side of my face to the next. I could feel the heat of the sun gracing my skin. The sand cushioned me as I lay on the shore. I opened my eyes to two men and one lady hovering over my body. My eyes were weak, and I couldn’t really feel the rest of my limbs. I turned my head slowly and looked to my side. Another man was kneeling next to me with his flashlight.

“Ma’am! Are you okay?” he said.

I couldn’t hear him as his voice seemed to be muffled, like he was speaking behind a soundproof wall.

“Ma’am! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he continued.

Coughs began to erupt from my body as I puked up seawater. I couldn’t catch my breath. My limbs still felt heavy; however, I managed to sit myself up. The man kneeling beside me grabbed a beach towel and wrapped me in it and covered my head like a hoodie. I began to clench my toes together. I began to shake profusely as the chills climbed throughout my body. The crowd began to close in on me.

“Give her some space, damn,” the guy stated.

“Hey, we found you lying on the beach, and we ran over to make sure you were okay. You were unresponsive, so I started to perform CPR on you,” he continued.

Ambulance sirens began to ring in the far distance. My hearing began to become clear from the previous distortion. My vision became clear again. As I looked over at the man beside me, a family was enjoying their nice outing. The children were building sandcastles. I looked back down at my feet in the sand.

“Alright, everyone, she’s conscious, and the ambulance is on the way. Thank you for your help,” he shouted.

The crowd began to disperse. People left me one by one.

“Did she try to kill herself?” a man whispered to the lady beside him as he walked away.

“A lot of surfers try to catch the big wave during a thunderstorm…” another lady said as she gathered her beach bag.

I didn’t have the energy to explain to the man how this even started.

One of the children ran over toward us.

“Uncle Leonard, is she going to be okay?” she asked.

“Yes, Lyric, she will be fine,” he said quickly.

“Okay… well, can you fly me around… like an airplane?” she said cheerfully.

I looked up from my feet at the ocean. I began to look around at the beach again. Seagulls began to squawk above my head. I brushed the rough sand off my hands and rubbed my eyes.

“Umm… whoa there,” he said as I tried to stand.

I ended up stumbling as I tried to stand to my feet. I sat back down and looked the man in the eyes.

As the ocean roared and the sun rays beamed, I had regained more of my consciousness. I scrunched up my face in a confused manner.

“Where is my daughter?” I said, shakenly. “Is she okay? I can’t find her.”

This story relates to a problem we all share. 😁

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QPws10nWtFkxQPZc9ZdtVHd7tDEv3rDmDsDeXbiKyrg/edit?usp=sharing

Bonjour ! 👋 J’aimerais quelques conseils qu’ils soient de debutant ou pas peu importe sur comment bien ecrire un antagoniste ou un mechant qui serait apperciable de lire dès son introduction et qu’il soit assez memorable

This is the craft problem I keep hitting and I want honest feedback on whether my instinct about the fix is right.

Working on a literary short story. There is a moment near the end where my protagonist arrives at a genuine self understanding that the whole piece has been building toward. Not a dramatic revelation, just a quiet shift in how she sees something she has been misreading for most of the story.

Every version I write tips into one of two problems. Either the moment is too visible and feels like the story stopping to announce its own meaning, or I underwrite it so completely in the name of subtlety that readers I have shown it to miss it entirely and the ending lands as nothing happening.

The self understanding moments I admire most in literary fiction are almost never stated directly but they are also unmistakably present. The character does not say I finally understand something. But the reader finishes the page knowing something shifted in a way that cannot be unfelt. I cannot reverse engineer how that works from the outside well enough to produce it deliberately in my own draft.

My instinct is that the fix lives in finding the exact right physical detail or action that carries the understanding without stating it. That the moment needs an object or a gesture that means something specific to this character based on everything that came before. But finding the right one has proven harder than the instinct suggests it should be.

Is there a way other writers here think about this kind of moment that actually helps in the draft or is it one of those things you find by accident and then pretend you planned it.

I am primarily a playwright but I have been dabbling in short stories. When I'm writing scripts, I use WriterDuet (fantastic for playwrights and screenwriters, by the way!) but when I'm writing prose, I go to Google Docs.

However, I'm nervous about Google's AI features and potentially stealing my work. This is not a debate about whether or not Google is or isn't; I know that they say they aren't but I also know that there's really nothing stopping them from taking it. I'd rather be safe than sorry so I want to move my work to a more secure platform.

I hear people talking about getting a Microsoft Word subscription but a) how is MSW different from Google Docs and b) I already have a subscription to WriterDuet -- it already has a feature for writing novels, short stories, etc. and while the formatting is different from GD or MSW, I can definitely work with it.

In short, my question is this: Is my work any safer on a platform like WriterDuet? If not, what are other writers using?

(I've also read about some people just writing everything in a very basic notes app, but I really don't want to do that so if there's a way I can protect my work while still having helpful features, let me know!)

Thanks, D

Memoirs of Ashes

Greetings, reader.

This is meant to be an introductory page. Or whatever one calls the beginning of something I hope you will not forget. Here I will put down a few thoughts of my own. They may well resonate with yours.

They say education begins at home. That a child learns by observing. That is true. But a child also learns, for the first time, what a relationship is. As for myself — I was taught to lie. Not because I did not know how to tell the truth. Because my lies pleased them. When I lied, I was theirs. When I told the truth, I was a traitor. And I came to prefer lying. Why? Because it was easier. Lies built trust quickly. My truths were bitter and they drove away the very people I could not afford to lose. I have always hated losing. People or otherwise. The moment I have no reason to fear, I become anxious. As if everything will end the next moment, as if it will all be over. That feeling — the dread — I chase it. It puts me at ease. Some things are beyond redemption. Such as my preference for anxiety over calm.

Growing up taught me nothing is permanent. What comes, goes. I learned the misconceptions we have about attachment. "I love you, so I will stay." No. Sometimes one must let go. It is never easy. It is an art. It may be painful at first, but you do not know the peace that comes after.

No amount of reassurance can give me the peace I crave. I never let anyone know what I am thinking next. I have been through thick and thin, through days and nights that would curdle one's blood to merely imagine. And yet you will always see me smiling. People tell me they cannot believe it.

That is why I became a psychiatrist. Not to cure. To translate. To sit opposite people who also smile when they should not. I do not keep case files. I keep accounts. These are some of them.

March 14th 1985…

I've been called to Esquirol in Saint-Maurice for a modest consultation. An adolescent, now a criminal. He had been under restraints for four months. He had put two staff members in the infirmary and anyone who had tried to interview him. According to the court he was a minor, mentally disturbed and absolutely needed to be under supervision. I handed the dossier back to the nurse without reading it.

I never underestimate my patients, though I never encourage them to think they are above me either.

There is an art in opening a disturbed person's door: If you open it too fast, it is deemed threatening. If you open it too slowly, the creaking will disturb the person on the other side into thinking you are a predator. Predators are never fast. They are slow, precise, and undoubtedly accurate. I had no intention of appearing as a threat, nor as a predator that day, so I simply opened the door as one would when entering one's own house. As I stepped inside, the orderlies were already working the metal locks behind me with a sharp jingling of keys.

Well — the boy was even taller than I expected, lion-faced, his face marked with old dermatitis artefacta at the temples and jaw, his nails bitten to the quick, a healed slit through his left eyebrow.

I walked, not too fast, not too slow, and sat down opposite him. I kept the clipboard the nurse had handed me earlier face down on the iron table.

"How was your day?" I asked, loud, too cheerful for a white padded cell. I could tell he was completely caught off guard. His eyes twitched. No answer. A disappointment, but I consider it progress.

"Aw, no reply, I see." Then I tilted my head to the side. I quite hate being professionally formal with clipboards and pushed-up glasses. But before I could question him, he spoke.

"Are you here to tame me too, doctor?" he asked with a disdainful downturn of his mouth. He thought I was some regular psychiatrist who would jot down his every minute reaction and call it therapy.

"I thought the word was civilize," I said, leaning back with an easy smile. His bound wrists twitched at the sound of my voice, which considering the situation was too light-hearted and unprofessional.

"Never mind." I cut his thoughts short. "I would like to ask for your name, since I didn't read your file."

He seemed very skeptical. After a tense moment of contemplating he finally answered, "Why?" It was clipped and defensive.

I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. "Because I don't believe a man's history can be stamped onto a few pages."

"Anything you do here won't make a difference to me," the boy said flatly after a moment, his jaw set in a stubborn line I wished to erase.

I closed my eyes for a moment. This one doesn't let me inside his head, but one thing is clear: he doesn't want to discuss what has happened to him, what's inside him, nor does he want anyone's help.

They say he's gone. I'll believe it by judging the five wishes I asked him to write by tomorrow.

Revirement — a change of mind.

March 16th 1985...

My schedule kept me away. Again the same routine. Polite smiles, nods and greetings. Again that door. And again it closed behind me, orderlies putting the lock back in place.

I was handed the parchment on which he had written the wishes I asked him for before I entered. I thought the day might never come — I'll admit this about a patient, no less — but... He did not have a bad hand. In fact, it looked well thought out and slightly exaggerated with those twirly ends to his letters. They told me he had been particularly aggressive today so they had fed him Haldol, so he was conscious but his eyes wouldn't focus. But I went inside anyway. The actual thing was, I was looking into the psychology of the room. Once my very wise senior said — "The madman's furniture is his fixed idea made visible."

The first thing that I noticed was... well. The cell was correct. That's the first wrong thing about it. Walls untouched with filth or any scratches with nails a few of the patients would have, the tin mug, the low stool next to that cot parallel to the door on which he lay unmoving. The iron table is perpendicular to it. The boy treated the room like he was about to leave yesterday. Second wrong thing about it — I can't tell if he lived here for four months or four minutes. Even if a few of my great pals here would jot — the patient presents no furniture disorder. But I believe that — Disorder lies in absence of disorder. Third wrong thing about it that is like an itch from a mosquito I can't scratch off my skin is — I don't know if it was deliberate. The first thing he wrote was — The lights never turn off. He wrote lights never turn off as his first wish, not food, new clothes, not even freedom but light. I caught myself smiling again. Most patients would ask for a window. But he asked for darkness. Because here in Charenton, the light is not for utility. It's supervision. When they say 'light out' in Esquirol, they mean they turn off his light so that they can see him better in theirs— So he had done what any adolescent would — he had stopped believing in the night. If he cannot make the light disappear, he cannot make himself disappear. I will not turn it off. If I did, he wouldn't be so patient after all. The only sign of paranoia I had detected in him was — to whatever I say, he always replies at least five seconds later. Paranoid people are usually loud and overwhelming, but he isn't. The second wish was his food. They feed him some bouillon which grows a skin by the time it reaches him. There's a small line by the boy just beneath it — "It looks like they washed the floor with it." I would later ask him to elaborate on this wish. I get it, that's not the most ideal meal you would like to have but this is Esquirol. Charenton. He's saying I don't know the difference between his meal and stale brown water.

Apprivoiser — to tame.

March 17th 1985…

The sound of my alarm pierced my eardrums. Dawn had not yet broken, but I could hear footsteps in the hallway heading towards the cafeteria. I shrugged off the blanket and placed my feet on the floor, feeling the cold of the linoleum. After freshening up and changing my clothes, I emerged from the logement, crossed the corridor and exchanged a few polite nods directed my way. Upon arrival at the cafeteria, most of the lower-ranking psychiatrists deliberately avoided my gaze. Some purposefully adjusted their uniforms or looked at their breakfast to avoid appearing rude. So, everyone knows what the foreigner is here for. What a great way to start the day indeed.

I entered his cell again. He was seated at the edge of his bed with a glassy expression. Looks like the effects of Haldol have not worn off yet. Anyway, I chose to sit beside him at a respectful distance. Sitting at similar positions is a direct way to enforce familiarity. It keeps the patients from feeling inferior, but I wanted to test him.

"Your second wish, as you have written... was the food. Do you want a change of food or a chef?" I asked the boy lightheartedly. I doubt if he can comprehend anything in this state.

"You aren't going to turn them off, right?" he asked groggily, not looking at me.

I raised an eyebrow in amusement. "What exactly?"

"You know exactly what I am talking about."

I tilted my head to a side. "You know right, that's not possible."

"You asked me to list five things, but didn't give me your word that you'd make them true." His tone was undoubtedly accusing.

"That was part of my practice. By the way, how do you think I assess my patients?"

"By observing them."

"Not entirely. I empathize with them, I observe them, then I get into their heads."

"You can observe me, but not get into my head. What have you discovered about me?"

"That's a secret," I said and pulled out his neatly folded list from my breast pocket, scanning the contents. "Elaborate on your wish about food."

"I want them to eat it first before serving me." The boy said gravely, finally turning to look at me.

My eyebrows rose slightly, not in surprise. "That's one hell of a wish you are asking for. And why do you think they would do it?"

He turned his gaze to the stone floor. "That's the point. They won't. They can't. Eating it means getting stripped of humanity itself."

"Did you eat that?"

"I tried to... because I was starving. And I don't wish to die like that." He said in a dull voice.

I noticed that the boy was slack today, maybe from the sedative or resigned from his earlier rowdiness.

Soi-disant — so-called.

March 18th 1985…

It was clear, even to an outsider, that I could not humour his wish for special food. The least the institution could grant him was an extra egg or bread. Insufficient, but sufficient when your suppliant is a patient.

"The infirmiers talk to me as if I am a dog" — his third wish. Quite immature to be verbally sparse with someone who is in an asylum and needs consolation. That's what I said in the staff meeting on Sunday. I even got nods of approval.

I cannot expect a change in the boy if they don't allow a change in themselves. They need to mend their ways, at least their vocabulary.

Today as I entered his cell, the atmosphere in the room was calmer than before, less suffocating, more adequate.

I sat down on the chair opposite the table, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, lost in thought. I let the silence settle for a moment.

"Tell me about your upbringing." I crossed one leg over the other, waiting for his answer.

He took his pause, as expected. Slowly he started, "My mother had a dovecote. When I was a child, she tasked me with culling weak chicks to feed the wolves."

He was calm, "Cruelty can reveal facets of one's personality. Did it never bother you to dispose of them?"

He shook his head slightly, "At first, yes. Then, I learned to master my remorse. It was natural selection in her eyes... I agree with her on this point, feeding weak birds is a waste of resources."

"And your father?"

"Bourgeoisie... he was a fabric trader."

"Was?"

"He is deceased."

"Oh, my apologies."

"Doesn't matter," his mouth curled slightly. As a doctor I knew when to stop.

"They say you put two staff members in the infirmary, is that right?" My fingers drummed at my knee.

"They were forcing me to answer questions I did not want to answer," he said as he wrapped his arms around himself. I looked away respectfully.

"You should've mastered your rage like your remorse."

He sighed sharply, "I cannot control my temper. I get agitated very easily."

"I'll figure out why." I said, then closed my eyes.

I heard his shuffling from the side of the cell so I opened my eyes and saw him moving and straightening his bed with the edge of his palm, meticulously.

I find it a contrast to his actual nature. "Do you have any hobbies?"

He didn't look my way, engrossed in his task, "Arts and piano."

My eyebrows rose in amazement, "But you have not been seen in the common area."

He snorted, "After what I did to those two infirmiers, they locked me up, no going outside since they consider me too violent to mingle with other patients, and they stopped giving me objects, no graphite or paper."

The unavailability of graphite made sense. Some exceptionally creative patients tend to use anything as a weapon, even simple things such as a pencil.

"If I provide you a pencil, would you promise not to misuse it?" I asked straight away.

He paused in his doing. Turned to look at me with scorn, "Do I look mad to you?"

Bourgeoisie — comfortable middle-class /producers who think owning makes them decent.

Would appreciate any beta readers

Context (this isn’t the official blurb so forgive me if it has any mistakes or leges things out):

The story is set in a huge world with five kingdoms each seperated by a causeway and surrounded by their own type of sea. The western continent is surrounded by the magma sea, the northern is surrounded by an ice sea, the southern is surrounded by a mirror like sea, the eastern is surrounded by a dark abyssal sea, and the central continent is in the middle of them all and connected to them all.

The story follows kyron discorda whose goal is to be a light seeker: a soldier who stands in the way of humanity and horrors. Horrors are abominations that overrun the world kyron lives in and have forced humanity into a war of survival.

Light seekers make use of branded sigils to gain innate powers and climb the ladder of ascension to fight horrors and save humanity.

Kyron is a naive boy who had always thought it was humanity versus horrors and could never even think otherwise. That is until he finally leaves the walls of the capital on a journey that was supposed to be one of the happiest experiences of his life but instead turned into the beginning of his tragedy.

The story is about kyron coming to terms with the brutalities of the world, learning the truths and discovering the mysteries of the world he lives in, of his power system and more. It’s a story about how he learns to survive and move forward no matter what after being thrown into the depths of despair over and over.

The novel is a dark fantasy and I wrote it so that it’s a true dark fantasy. Characters can die and if the story requires it, they will, but they also won’t die for no random reason. I made it so that there are constant stakes and it is a weak to strong mc that has to struggle for every single power up he gets.

There is nothing given to him and he earns it.

That’s a short context to the story but basically I waged to get opinions from actual readers regarding the first 15 chapters. I hve 105 chapters ready alr but am currently editing them, I just wanted to know if the story itself is compelling and people would acc want to read it.

I would really appropriate if anyone would take the time to read through the first 15 chapters and provide your honest feedback. In terms of grammer and over description those are things I have fixed in later chapters and am currently fixing in early chapters, however, they can remain in the first 15 chapters here. So mainly what I wanted to ask if anyone reading is:

1. Does the story compel u to continue reading?
   
2. Are you drawn to the mc and connect with him?
   3 do u connect with the side characters ?
   
3. Do u feel as if you want to continue reading and want to know what happens next?
   
4. Is the overall writing good? (Not the over description but just overall writing, dialogues, etc).
   8: any other feedback on the novel, any characters you like, etc

Thanks In advance guys and I really appreciate it if you take the time to read them through.

Here’s the link:

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1G78dpo9FBwjdOl1Kd3GF9uY56CkbMy9k?usp=sharing

I stare at the computer in both confusion and anxiety. "...what... that can't be me, can it?" I zoom in on the footage. I rewind it, back before the detransformation. An adorkable gentle and shy-looking blushing figure with short black neck-length hair, in a sakura pink retro-futuristic mod dress, white circular-buckled cinch belt, sakura-pink visor in front of her eyes, white knee-high go-go boots, white elbow-length gloves, empty sakura-pink holster on her right leg, holding a sakura-pink plasma raygun that looks like a mix of the dandy raygun and the 009 raygun.

The figure is known by the public as "Blushing Raygun Bishoujou Sakura-chan", an ingenue known for her gentle demeanor, quietly playful easy-going mannerisms, and a powerful sakura-pink plasma raygun, small enough to fit in her right hand. I watched the footage as sakura-chan transformed back into me, holding the equipment. I don't remember any of it however, so I was taken by surprise. I look in my closet and sure enough, there it was, the dress, the raygun, the belt, the gloves, the visor, the leg holster, and the go-go boots.

My crt TV starts to flicker, my game machines and vcr switching on and off soon suddenly, and then suddenly, an analog TV signal on channel 95. I grab the raygun from the closet, but the second my hand touched the handle, I black out. When I came too, five minutes had passed, but I was now wearing the dress, the gloves, the belt, the go-go boots, the holster, and the sakura-pink visor in front of my eyes. My right hand, now gloved, holding the raygun, with some of my free fingers gently caress it as it's pink cone-like nozzle glows pink. I look at my reflection in the TV, a beautiful adorkable Japanese girl, a gentle forgiving bookworm at heart, but an athletic and highly-trained kunoichi-commando for city defense, all with the appearance and facial features of a 80s or 90s anime or manga character from a colorized version of the "A-Zone" doujinshi.

A puppet appears on the TV, tuned to channel 95, "irene..." it says, "you now know your duty as the cybernetic national defense officer known as 'sakura-chan', elected by the council of national defense. More will be revealed as you get settled in."

As I'm about to ask a bunch of questions, all of my memories as sakura-chan come flooding back to me. I blush deeply. The puppet speaks again, "you were elected by the council for your athletic and academic potential as well as accuracy, you were turned into the manga-style retro-futuristic cyborg 'sakura-chan'. We used nanobots and holographic technology to mask your new appearance with your old."

"Fym 'turned into the manga-style retro-futuristic cyborg'!?" I noticed that my voice has changed too, to that of a cute and quietly shy Japanese girl with a honey-sweet Japanese lit.

The puppet replied calmly, like its been through this before, "it'll be okay, sakura-chan, please don't cry."

In my confusion and frustration, i didn't even notice that by body language and eyes were conveying 2 other emotions, shock and sadness, my eyes are super wide, brows furrowed like I'm sad and not distressed, and I've now got tears in my eyes. I felt like I was being trolled. The puppet seemed to pick up on that too, "don't worry, your emotions and how they appear are reflections of how you really feel."

"So I'm not mad, just sad?"

The puppet responds "no, more so overwhelmed."

"Why did you guys hide this fact from me until I found out, why did you wipe or hide each and every memory of sakura-chan, why did you use holograms and nanobots to mask this anime girl look with how I looked before... well... this?"

The puppet responded "To prevent a freak-out or something bad, AFAIK. Either way its been like this for a long time, you live on your own now, and the holographic mask has been disabled permanently when you found out."

For years, the holographic masks masked sakura-chan's manga-like appearance with my old appearance before i was turned into a cyborg. I wondered why my face hasn't seemed to age since high school. Now I was looking at what ive really looked like as a cyborg without holographic masks, "Wait, if that holographic mask has been permanently disabled, what do I tell my parents." At once, it seems that my memories have been altered in one fell swoop, with a single change: my appearance, I now looked like sakura-chan. Instantly my expression had changed from concerned to upset, "did you just... change them back now! Please!"

The puppet seemed to be expecting me to go along with this. It looked so surprised. "Don't worry, it's only local, and applied to everyone you know or met."

"So you mean... my parents, my teachers, and my friends will remember me as..." suddenly, I faint.

The puppets voice keeps ringing in my ears, in my dream, calling my cyborg name and telling me to wake up. I walk around a blank empty space, with windows all around, each window a look into an old memory of me, now altered to show my appearance as sakura-chan. At the end of the trail, I see a badge, a national defense badge, "private name (confidential): ms. mitsumori, irene. Public name: terebimu sakura-chan."

I wake up, it's midnight, nothing forgotten, nothing different, but I'm still sakura-chan, only now i have all of my memories now. It all slowly sinks in. Sobbing softly, I lay down, wanting to cry into my gloved hands. I quietly cry into the pillow before i hear a different voice,

"Hey, what's wrong?"

The voice is comforting, almost... familiar. And it was coming from Sakura-chan' robotic companion, pepoh-robo.

"I found out who i was and they changed all my memories, and gave me all of sakura-chan's memories, as well." I said.

"Oh... i see, meaning they also changed everyone else's memory of you." I gasp and shudder as i register pepoh-robo's words, im quiet for a moment, processing the ramifications of that sentence. Pepoh-robo realizes that it said isn't helping, despite its intentions, "hey... it's gonna be okay, please dont cry, sakura-chan. you've got a super-cool fun job, a loving family down the block, and a hopeful outlook on life. look on the bright side, sakura irene-chan."

"Sakura irene-chan?"

Pepoh-robo responded, "yeah, i nickname between friends, and since you're also a cyborg, you have super-speed, extra strength, a super jump, no one's gonna question the fact that you're an manga-style cyborg, and you won't have to worry about body odor anymore." The air has smelt like fresh sakura blossoms and dorayaki for years, everywhere I went, I eventually stopped questioning it, but i put two and two together, and now I know why.

I look at pepoh-robo incredulously, but the sight reminds me of its optimistic kid-like nature. My mind shifts to one thing it said, "look on the bright side". I try to and suddenly I notice a few memories that were left untouched, my daydreams. During my childhood, I would constantly daydream about being a humble skirt-clad raygun-toting manga-anime space heroine, that went on heroic adventures for fun and out of an innocent love for others. That's when i realized that sakura-chan and her personality is a reflection of my imagination when i would daydream, like an inner child.

Immediately, almost as if my adult self, merged with my inner child, in this case, sakura-chan, ive inherited sakura's perpetual blush as well as personality, demeanor, and mannerisms alongside my own. Suddenly, i dont feel so terrible, for once reality of the situation doesn't feel so heavy, i dont feel so miserable. As i look at the blessings and the bright side, I start to feel better. I giggle softly, as i wipe the tears from my face. I don't feel so sad and mad anymore, but quietly cheerful. Even though i was an adult, I had, at heart, become like a shy, blushingly humble, peppy, innocent, and timidly heroic little girl with an extremely powerful pink plasma raygun.

10:00 AM, the another broadcast from the puppet, probably calling to wake me up and give me another monster-hunting quest. I look from my pillow, half-awake, to look. "Yes? ...I'm sorry about how i acted yesterday..."

The puppet responded "how you feeling?"

"getting used to the whole 'being a manga-style cyborg' thing, on top of smelling like sakura blossoms and dorayaki for the last five years."

The puppet explained the situation, "man-eating monsters from space are being weaponized by criminal forces. These monsters, suddenly taken from their planet, are mindless apex predators from the planet "hunkulon", the hunkulonian people have adapted to give off a somewhat pleasant stench that is absolutely foul to the monsters and wards them off, a defense humans don't have. These space pirate terrorists are blackmailing the government, demanding all the oil and money or they will unleash the monsters. Your quest: defeat the monsters, and arrest the pirates, ensuring that they face a trial with due process."

Even though i was still getting used to the whole "anime cyborg" thing, i was excited to go the kinds of adventures, i daydreamed about as a kid. Suddenly a memory comes in, i go back home, grab a cup of tea and a book on my way upstairs. Yup, there's somehow an enterance to my roof now, yet its been here since i moved in. I climb up, i see a sakura pink saucer. Excitedly, i hop on, set the autopilot to where the pirate ship is. I drink my tea and read, before hearing bumps in my saucer's trunk. Out comes my robotic companion, pepoh-robo.

i playfully grabbed my raygun from the leg holster, my free finger's caressing my raygun, whilst i blush with a soft smile as I giggle and playfully adjust my gloves, skirt, and boots. "Well, robo-kun, how about that quest?"

I had become, not exactly sakura-chan, but Irene-chan. "Robo-kun, if you could update public names, I'd like to be 'Irene-chan'"

The housemate

I turn the corner past the graveyard. Hands jammed into jacket pockets, breathing mist. My schoolboy coat sleeves only cover my elbows. It’s not warm enough but I fought Ru for it in a charity shop. It was too British quintessential for me to let go of so easily. I wear it every day. Feeling quite iconic, I kick the gate closed and barge full steam toward the door. The handle. It's moving. No, not moving, changed. I walk up close. A tawny owl is strung up by its neck with a fishing line. We lock eyes. I'd better go around the back garden. 

That is the fourth bird this week. So very Hitchcock. Especially living next to a graveyard. I feel like the birds have something to do with my housemate.

We didn't even want him.  Me and my close friends were looking for a shared place. We’d been to a bunch of viewings. Ben, our actual friend, had come with me to the open house.  

The contract needs signing yesterday. Thirty people at the viewing. I feel sick. I spied someone already asking for paperwork. “Wicked about the house. Can't wait to hang more. It's expensive though…" My heart jumps. I don't want to let it go. 

Ben rubs his ear. "So someone I know needs a place. They can pay." 

Another housemate. 

“Sweet, I'll call the agent now!” 

An old metal key opens the door with a satisfying click. Our first house. My tummy bubbles. I feel like a legit adult. What a catch too. It's a freestanding bungalow. A rare find near the city centre. There are old wood panel floors, a small kitchen and carpet in the bathroom. The cold house warms up the day we arrive. Five of us move in.

Ru and I drag our bags and claim the upstairs bedrooms. My room has a big window that overlooks a large grass garden. Maybe I can do some digging and finally find a Roman coin. So romantic. Or maybe some delicate ancient pottery. 

Brakes scream outside. A moving van jumps the curb. Not a big car-van. An actual truck. Movers for Money is splattered on the side. A stranger jumps out of the passenger seat. The housemate. Cars beep. The truck blocking the road. A relay of workers. A PlayStation, TV, hundreds of CDs, a sofa and a very expensive, state-of-the-art electric red gaming bean bag. He can afford workers? Well the living room is sorted. 

We show Mumbai the cat around. Technically no pets are allowed but we're cat sitting. Housemate pulls a disgusted face. “Their tongues are like sandpaper.” 

He stacks some CDs into containers. Breathing heavily and rubbing his fingers through his hair. I lean in the doorway. “Hi, I'm Anna.” He stands, nods and kisses my cheek, leaving to return the van. He didn’t tell me his name…  Mumbai slinks into the lounge through my legs. He jumps lightly onto the prized bean bag. Does a full body stretch and casually takes a shit. I’m alone. I could hide the evidence. But I don’t. 

We play a game of carrom in the evening. A cheers to our new home. We're sat around the board on the floor. Housemate's bean bag takes up one entire side. Ru is excited to sand her floorboards. “Maybe I can hire a sander from B&Q.”  I laugh at the audacity of DIY in a shitty rental. Housemate tells us he manages a bar, works super late nights and sleeps all day. “I'd like it quiet until I wake up.” Ru rubs her nose. We all watch Housemate aim a coin, landing it in one go.  Ben breaks the little silence. “He works at The Bridge, you know, opposite the theatre.” I rub my back. It hurts from playing on the ground. “Anyone want another drink?” Housemate gets up and walks out.

Ben takes the opportunity to let us know he is moving out. He hasn’t unpacked yet. He is going to live with his sister. He tells us not to worry. Housemate will make up the rent. 

Four guys sit around a small table in the kitchen.  One packs a chillum. We'd invited Ben to the housewarming but he isn't here yet. The guys stand to assist with the smoking. The kitchen is full and they bump and bobble around the chairs trying to smoke with this effortful pipe. My friend Jess makes a face.“Strange snorkel." We giggle and dance, wearing top hats and making faces at each other. All squished into our tiny kitchen. Ru and I take a drunken selfie. Housemate wafts in from the living room where he was playing the PlayStation. Alone. He’s wearing pajama pants and a bandana. He keeps looking at my friend Jess while he gets himself a coke. He walks right over and stands close. Apparently he was in a semi-famous band once. Jess winks at me. She feels it too. Also TV. He’d also been on TV.  He is the only one speaking. He dribbles on, “Can you turn the music down?”

It's after lunch when I come home from work. A buzz leaks from the living room.  Housemate and his PlayStation. I hear him throw something across the room. I pop my head through the door. “What's up, did you die?” He nods. Fuck yeah. Movie time! Housemate being pissed at gaming means he might allow me to watch one of his DVDs, on his TV, in our living room. “You can have the TV if you want…” 

”Sweet, I’m just quickly going to make something to eat.”

The sink in the kitchen is full. Nope, overflowing. Housemate apparently had a festival of food. Far out. I lift out soggy bits of bread from the sink. Washing fast. I can't miss this movie opportunity. I grab a plate from the drying rack and cut some carrots. Balancing hummus and a plate. The TV is still available. 

Housemate asks me what I want to watch.
 
Okay. “Umm, how about… Cujo?” Mumbai snuggles into my lap. I offer the dip but Housemate turns it down. The screeching soundtrack is too loud. A bouncy St Bernard is in full foaming killer mode and we laugh. Like at the exact same time. He looks at me from the beanbag before going back to the movie. I smile. 
 
The credits begin to roll.  I punch the silence. The end of a film is where you're supposed to speak.  “The dishes. I'm doing a lot of dishes. Can you please clean up after cooking?” He looks at me. Gets up and goes to bed. 

One of the buttons is coming off my coat. It hangs by a thread. I hold it in its place, fingers cold in the air. The night blows into my sleeves.  Fucking coat. Mist has landed in the graveyard tonight. It hugs the tombstones. Iconic.  The gate squeaks. Bloody hell.

Another bird. Bewildered by its execution. I don't like looking. It's pretty wearing its blue and yellow feathers. Tiny eyes. I turn toward the back. Pause. In the corner of my eye I see it flutter. Shit. I turn back.  Carefully, and as far away from the feathers as possible, I arrange my fingers and work the knot. He flutters and bounces. I try to work fast but my hands are cold. I don't want to carry him by a noose, but I do. I sit him against the tree to give him some neck relief. Sorry  dude.  Inside, the kitchen is clean and quiet.  I'm going to make dinner. 

I open the pantry
there is nothing inside.

I open another
Nothing.

I go to grab a plate
no plates.

“Huh?”  Has everyone moved out?  

I go outside and smoke a cigarette to gather my thoughts.

The dead bird is sitting on the grass, looking at me with black empty eyes. His head now drooping at an impossible angle. I lay him on the grass and stroke his feathers. Sorry. His eyes are so small. 

I'll check the cupboards again. If this is a magic trick I want to make sure I complete the reveal.

Ta-da!

Nothing. 

I guess I’ll just go to bed.

I wander past the housemate’s door and pause at the bottom of the stairs. The handle. I turn back. It has gained a tiny padlock. I push my ear onto the wood panel and listen. Nothing. I slide down onto my hands and knees. Pressing my face into the grimy carpet. 

Peering through the small crack under the door, through the dust and darkness, are piles and piles of dishes and saucepans and food. 

​

🎭 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒' 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓

A Notice to Those Who Want a Place at the court.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hearken to this, wanderers, writers, dreamers, craftsmen!

The doors to The Jesters' Court shall soon open. We want Couriers with a variety of skills - not just those who can write, but those who would build, refine, question, create, teach, and learn together.

✒️ Writing - to turn thoughts into tales.

🧶 Plot & Storycraft - to shape ideas, worlds, characters, and schemes.

⚒️ Editing - to sharpen words and strengthen the works of others.

👁️ Beta Reading & Proofreading - to watch and review what others have overlooked.

🎨 Art & Design - to bring stories to life upon the page.

📜 Promotion & Publishing - to help worthy works find an audience.

🎶 Poetry & Creative Arts - to give words their rhythm and soul.

🐉 And much more besides, for those who carry more than one craft may walk the path of the Chimera.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🃏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓'𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐘

We do not believe a person should be bound to a single skill.

Why spend years waiting for one person to finish a task, when we can teach each other, share, and create together?

Here, you may:

✦ Refine the craft you already have

✦ Learn a craft which you've never done before

✦ Teach someone else what you know

✦ Collaborate on shared projects

✦ Share critiques, ideas, and inspiration

✦ Earn ranks, laurels, crowns, and special rewards.

✦ Find fellow creators with whom making things is fun.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🍻 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓

This is not a solemn monastery of dusty manuscripts. It is a peaceful court with a jester's spirit. Work when it's assigned and needed, learn when there is something to learn, Laugh when the Court gets chaotic and together, Celebrate one another's victories but no pointless rivalry, no bullying, no tearing another down for sport.

Create.coordinate. Improve. Have a little fun.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

⚔️ 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑?

Age: 15-25

Skill: Intermediate or above

From: Anywhere

Gender: All welcome

You need not be perfect.

We are looking for those who are willing to learn, contribute, and collaborate.

Those who have more than one craft are especially welcome.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

👑 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒 & 𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒

Your work will not go unnoticed. As you contribute, learn, teach, and help the Court, you may rise through its ranks, gather Laurels, earn Crowns, unlock honours, and gain special rewards.

The more you build, the higher you climb.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

🎭 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 TO THE COURT

Server: https://discord.gg/Nm58hnTcQ

Come as a stranger. Leave, as a Courtier.

Norwegian filmmaker here. I'm mainly wondering if the book's opening is good or catchy?

And as English is not my native tongue, does the language and prose work?

‐------

Julian was eight, and his father was about to die. The brown-haired boy was leaning against the window in the living room, listening to the wind and rain. Down below in the circular square, St. Olav's Place, water was running fast on the cobblestone. It was six pm on New Year’s Eve, 1991, and it was already dark in Aalesund.

The streets would empty after work, around five, earlier if the weather was bad. A ghost town, Julian thought. Today the weather was really bad. Only fools would be out now. Arthur’s words. A good enough reason to spy on people from the apartment window. Julian looked out and saw lights from other apartments, and water dripping from balconies. Continuing further down, in the middle of the square was a man, walking. He wore a hood, and his face was masked by the shade, leaving only his mouth visible. Julian’s eyes stopped. Weird.

The man was muttering something and twisting his hands. What’s he saying? Julian hesitated first, but his curiosity won him over. He flicked the lock on the window, and pushed it open, carefully. The cold swept in, and the howling wind and rain hitting the street was all he could hear. A little disappointed, he dared to lean out more. Seagulls were screaming off the coast, but nothing from the man. And as the wind started blowing harder, he started walking up and down the square. Still muttering. Looks like dad. Julian thought about his father in his study. The same kind of pace, with his head buried in a book, and always muttering something to himself.

A rustle in the wind drew his focus back to the street below. Then, out of nowhere, a woman appeared in the square. She was walking towards the man. What? Julian rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know what to think, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the pair. The woman was considerably smaller, had short hair and wore dark clothes. 

“We’re getting close!” She spoke loud enough for Julian to hear. “It has to be here!”

“Shhh! Quiet!” The man said. His voice was dark and raspy. He stopped in his tracks.

“But after all these years.”

The man gestured something at her. 

“Apologies. We’re awaiting your command.”

And with that, she was gone. 

“Julian!”

His dad’s call sounded almost muffled. Julian’s eyes stayed on the man outside. He was just standing there. Then he started his stride once again, up and down the square. Julian finally turned his head around. “Yeah, dad?”

“That took a while.” His father stood in the doorway, with a dark blue coat on and an umbrella in hand. He was staring at Julian. “What are you doing? You’re all wet.”

“Nothing, just looking.” He felt the chill from the window hitting his neck. He shuddered.

His father didn’t pry. “Anyway. I’m going now. Food is on the table.”

Julian frowned. “Now? It looks like a storm outside!”

His father smiled. “I know. I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Arthur is coming—” He squinted at his wristwatch. “Umm, in ten minutes.”

Something was pulling on Julian to go back to the window. But he stayed where he was and nodded to his dad. “Ok. Bye!”

“Love you, Julian.”

“Be careful, dad.”

“Of course. It’s me!” 

He picked up a bag, and went outside. Julian looked at the empty doorway. Then he felt his body move to the open window again. Careful not to make a sound. The man was still there, and still walking up and down. Julian felt almost spellbound. The twisting hands looked scary to him, unnatural. He was listening hard now. He glanced toward the harbour. Everything was oddly quiet. Where did the wind go?

"Vosk ta dumeraq zorwen khen…”

The voice of the man rang in Julian’s ears. His blue eyes widened. How? The voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to him. Small gusts of wind appeared and circled around the man on the street.

"Ta grakhun vrothim..."

Julian shook his head in disbelief. It shouldn’t be possible, but there he was listening to a man’s whisper, over twenty metres away. Large raindrops were hitting Julian’s face from the side now. The wind felt more intense. The small gusts continued to circle around the man. But all he could hear was that man’s voice.

“Grakhun!”

I’ve been writing a lot lately, but how can I truly know if my writing is improving? The general advice for writers is to write 1,000 words per day, no matter how bad. But what if they always stay bad?

Of course I can read it back with a critical eye and make edits, but I will always have blind spots. I might undervalue the stronger sentences or not notice where my writing is slipping or losing its connection with the reader.

Having these LLMs that are so incredibly skilled at deceiving us into thinking they’re real voices makes it tempting to use them for feedback on the writing. A machine will take the words and compare what it sees against the thousands of pages it is trained on and try to produce an intelligible answer. A real human reader will read the text, play through their own memories and associations, feel how it’s landing in this particular moment of their life, get a sense of what the other person is trying to say, give them words of encouragement and useful critique.

The online and perhaps even printed media are now being invaded by AI-written sentences; one could argue we must be intentional about protecting our own human ability to think, to tell stories, to write. If we’re blind to the flaws in our own writing and the machine provides us only with a mechanical answer — then we need others to read our writing and to tell us what is off.

Historically, many writers met with other writers to help each other with their feedback. Both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were part of a literary group called the Inklings, who met every Thursday in Oxford to read their work aloud. Without that Thursday demand for the next chapter and Lewis’s encouragement for Tolkien, there would be no Lord of the Rings.

So I set out to find such a writers group, scanning more than ten pages of Google results, opening more than a hundred links. And somehow, none of them clicked. Maybe because I don’t know who is inside or I am simply not inspired by the description. So I decided to do what any sane individual would do when they can’t find something — create it.

The idea is simply to share our writing with each other every week and then to meet to give each other feedback. That’s it. I’m putting the group together but I am no teacher or mentor — I am just as much trying to grow as a writer and expose what I write to the critique of others. For instance, I feel comfortable writing from my personal first-person perspective, sharing my inner psychological experience through words and exploring various concepts and ideas across philosophy, anthropology or any other humanities domain. Yet when it comes to switching to third-person narration, dialogue, detailed description of settings and scenes, even telling my own stories — I feel I begin to stumble. Somewhere, my writing starts to feel flat, more like a report than a story. So this is one of many things I would hope to improve over the course of such a writers group.

If you’re interested in joining, you can read more practical details about the group in the link in the comment below to understand the conditions and then fill out the form, which will give me an idea of your current writing and whether this group would be a suitable fit. There will probably be more applicants than the final tight group of five; that said everyone will get access to the directory of answers to this form, so that you can find other writers to connect with and form your own groups, if you wish. You can opt out of your details being shared too, but more on this in the form itself.

The focus will be creative writing, i.e. any writing that isn’t trying to sell or promote anything — essays, short stories, poems but no copywriting or content engineered for virality. Using AI to generate prose or produce feedback for others is prohibited, but we still allow using it for research and holding context as long as you disclose.

I feel excited to put together a room of people passionate about high-quality thoughtful writing that at the same time might have divergent opinions giving way to a fruitful and stimulating conversation. Above all, I hope we will enjoy our time together and walk away as better and more confident writers.

The form will close on the 7th of September and I will make a decision by the 20th of September to have our first meeting on the 24th of September.

Here’s the link below in the comment again if you’d like to apply.

May your words find the minds that see them.

nikita huno

Let me know if you want me to continue writing. Also, give me feedback if you like.

Chapter 1 Another day

The alarm on his phone rang with a soothing morning tune. He slowly opened his eyes, not like he had gotten much sleep, having tossed and turned for hours his body ached and his eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. Facing another day at work was going to be tough, but he had no choice. Getting a little more shut eye was not an option. Last time he had come in late, his manager had really let him have it, harshly telling him he was acting irresponsible and asking him if he really wanted to continue working here.

The manager wasn’t so strict when his coworkers came in late, sometimes he was even sympathetic towards their excuses. Maybe, he should have come up with a good excuse instead of freezing up when his manager confronted him. Not that it really mattered, it always seemed like his manager had it in for him and was wanting to fire him for even the smallest mistake. His coworkers didn’t like him either. Sometimes, he wished they would just get over with it and fire him, but then he had bills to pay and no one he could rely on.

The job was at a fast food place frequented by teens and he was in his late 20’s, something people considered as failing in life. Honestly, he was just thankful he could afford food and rent. It took a lot of effort just to find that job, Employees at the place were getting interviews and moving on to better jobs constantly while he was stuck there. He had gotten a few interviews for office or retail and every single one had ended up in disaster. This was not too surprising;, things had never really gone right for him in life.

But enough thinking, he got out of bed and brushed his teeth and took a quick shower and threw on the same clothes as the day before. Honestly, there was no washing machine and only a few clothes and he could only get laundry done at a laundromat only once a week or every two weeks. He looked in his mini fridge and cupboards almost empty except for a carton of a dozen eggs, two small tuna cans, a quarter carton of milk, ramen and a couple slices of bread. He took out slices of bread, cracked an egg between them and put it into a bowl and poured a small glass of milk in a cup.

He consumed the boring breakfast, body on autopilot and quickly washed the bowl. After putting on some deodorant to mask the greasy smell, he left the tiny studio apartment with his phone in the pocket. It was 7:15 and the bus came in at 7:30 to reach the place by 8:00. After reaching the bus stand, he looked at his phone. First, he checked his notifications nothing from dating apps. Just typical, he very rarely got likes or matches and when he tried chatting with them, there was never any response, occasionally he got unmatched too. It seemed he was always the one trying things and failing. He glanced at his reddit feed and looked at the news, just more crimes or politics, nothing interested ever happened even if it did it wouldn’t affect him.

Getting on the bus, he noticed a harsh look from the bus driver, he had rode on the same bus everyday for years since he had the job. The bus driver was a middle-aged guy who was balding with rough skin. Not once did the bus driver greet him warmly or thank him, it was like his attitude did a complete 180 degree u-turn after seeing him. He gave a basic courteous smile to everyone else and greeted them politely.

The only interaction he had ever gotten was the bus driver gruffly telling him the change goes in there when he first start riding the bus. It was interesting how nobody ever sat next to him on the bus, even when there were no empty seats people would rather stand than sit next to him. Oh well, it was nice having extra space, being around people made him uncomfortable anyway. He sat in the back and continued mindlessly scrolling reddit and browsing tik tok reels. There were so many couples on there, he wished with all his heart he could find a woman, but so far that had been impossible. After some time, the bus reached his destination and he requested to stop and got off.

He continued walking from the bus stop in the middle of the expressway passing parking lots with fast food and retail stores, ignoring all the cars whizzing by. There were not many people around, it was too early. He continued glancing at his phone, his mind a blank and body dragging him to the place. He arrived at the establishment seeing the large sign. The day had just begun.

When Tonya returned to the hospital that Wednesday, she’d gotten a request to see Karen and she now walked into her office, anxiety riddling her body. It hadn’t been that long since Tonya had received the write-up because of Derrick’s x-ray breach. What would Karen Mendoza think of her now? 

“How’s the wrist?” Karen pointed to the cast.

“It hurts,” Tonya said. “It’s hard keeping it stabilized, but I’m doing it.”

“A TFCC tear?” Karen asked. “From falling on the pavement?”

She nodded. 

“It sounds more like something you’d get if someone yanked or twisted it.”

No response. 

“Do you think you can still work the floor?”
“Yes, I can. I can do computer work; I can use my good arm. Carlos once told me he worked x-ray with a broken thumb,” Tonya told her. “As far as moving the machine or portable, I can get a runner to do those duties, but I will be on my game.”

“Runners aren’t always available, especially when the ER is swamped.”
“I know.”

Karen  tapped her pen in thought.

Tonya cleared her throat. “Karen, are you letting me go after all?”

Karen looked up, eyes wide. “What? No…” she said. “I’m approving your request to cross train in MRI.”
“What?” Tonya sat up, a slight smile sneaking across her face. “But what about the disciplinary action?”

“It’s removed. Derrick Jackson was in complete breach without your knowledge, according to security,” she paused. “Now, you’ll still be helping in x-ray, but you’ll primarily cross train under Jonathan Vu in MRI doing light duty work, mostly patient screening at the computer, shadowing Jonathan during scan sequences and fact-checking internal devices. When your wrist heals, Jonathan will start you on actual patient positioning. You start with Jonathan tonight. He’s actually expecting you.”

No firing? No scolding? She sat there, stunned.

“That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I just…I didn’t expect….” an excited chuckle escaped her lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.” 

She turned and headed out the door. 

“Tonya?”

She turned to Karen.

“You said you injured your wrist tripping in the parking lot? But I don’t buy that for a minute,” Karen said.

Tonya turned to her but didn’t say anything. She just left, embarrassed. 

I have this meta-theatrical play idea and I’m not sure where to take it

I’m a first-time playwright developing a 35–40 minute one-act play for a theater festival, and I’d like some feedback on the concept because I can’t genuinely decide.

**The basic premise:**
A playwright hears an announcement for a playwriting festival and begins creating a play. He chooses people from the audience to become his characters and assigns them roles: a Main Character, Lover, Sidekick, Rich, Poor, and the Eye/Authority.
MC and Lover are from a Poor family
Sidekick from Rich

At first, they simply follow his script. But as the story progresses, they start questioning their roles:

The Lover doesn’t want to simply be the hero’s “shadow.” Symbolizing women who are reduced to supporting roles

The Sidekick wants recognition beyond the role assigned to him, his sexuality also connects him to LGBT discrimination.

The Poor - central question is not merely how to survive, but when he gets to actually live.

The Rich doesn’t want to be reduced to a stereotype.

The Eye/Authority, initially just a puppet enforcing the script, eventually becomes aware enough to being the first character to confront the Playwright.

The Playwright doesn’t see himself as evil. He genuinely tries to **fix** their problems by rewriting the story, but his solutions still don’t satisfy them because he’s still deciding what is best for them.
Eventually, the Playwright breaks down, and his tears symbolically cause a flood across the manuscript. While the Main Character goes to confront him, the other characters deal with the flood themselves. (A reference to the flood control issue here)
The Playwright finally starts listening to them rather than simply rewriting them. They begin working toward a new story together.

Then an alarm goes off:
**“And that is 40 minutes! Our maximum time given!”**
The Playwright argues that he hasn’t finished the ending. Finally, he gives the **Pencil**, which represents power, to the audience. To remind that the audience, the people has the power. Asking “what will you do now

**BLACKOUT.**

I can’t decide how it should end. My draft where:
The one above, or The flood drowns all the other characters to signify the lives taken by the real actual flood. I don’t know even know what the mc and playwright we’ll talk about during that confrontation.

I hate cockroaches. They have not done anything to me, well at least, yet. But I still hate them a lot. Especially when they move. They are unpredictable. They might come towards me, or maybe just run away from me. They might straight up land on my face too, thinking if which I might throw up already. They are unpredictable. I hate them especially when they are moving so freely.

But as much as I hate all insects, I can tolerate wall spiders. Wall spiders> Cockroaches. They are calm, well this is how I feel. Maybe its because they do not move freely. They are JUST THERE. Predictable. They dont do anything. They wont move unless you try to touch them. I feel I am in control. They are not moving everywhere. They are not moving freely like cockroaches.

Maybe, this is what she feels too. About me. She likes me when I am her perfect daughter. She likes me when I dont go out or only the places she wants me to go. She likes me when I do things she wants. She likes me when I wear what she thinks is appropriate. She likes me when I EAT how much she thinks I should eat. Maybe she likes me because she feels in control. But she hates me when I am unpredictable. She hates me when I move freely. When I do things that I WANT. When I go out without asking. When I tell her what I actually want. When I wear what I want. When I tell her how much I want to EAT. She is not in control anymore. I am moving freely. I am unpredictable. Maybe I am her cockroach.

🖤 GOD OF MADNESS 🖤

My ghosts were back.

They had crawled out from the hidden corners of my mind, rising to the surface just to mock me.

This time, they didn't come only to whisper.

They came with a promise.

A promise to take me with them.

To break me piece by piece.

Second by second.

It was their revenge.

For hurting Mia.

The perfect twin.

The perfect Sokolov.

And this time, I was completely alone.

Too weak.

Too pathetic.

Too broken to even protect myself.

And the truth was?

I didn't want to fight anymore.

I was exhausted.

Exhausted from being a disappointment.

A useless mafia princess.

A backstabber.

So, I stopped fighting.

I let myself sink into that suffocating black ocean and allowed the darkness to pull me deeper. I welcomed the numbness.

Until—

His hands stopped them.

A warm, familiar touch cut through the freezing darkness.

And then I heard his voice.

Ilya Levitsky.

He was calling me back.

Commanding me to fight.

But how do you fight when your soul is already gone?

How do you come back when you're simply too tired to survive the darkness?

---

🖤 A GOD OF RUIN FANFICTION 🖤

Maya Sokolov × Ilya Levitsky

A story about darkness, guilt, secrets, broken souls, and the person who might be willing to reach into the madness and pull you back—

even when you don't believe you're worth saving.

Welcome to the madness.

Welcome to GOD OF MADNESS.

Wandering through the city streets,

I was struck by a piece of the moon

Emitting its moonlight like a diamond reflecting sunlight,

Moving its body like an oar rowing a boat in an elvish lake,

Moving its hands like small branches of a plant, swinging in the wind.

Admiring its infinite beauty

with my finite eyes

Following this heavenly object,

While wiping my tear-stained cheeks.

Suddenly, it stopped moving and stood still,

Like the entire solar system had refused to work.

As I got closer,

My heart and mind became slaves to it.

I raised my hands to the air, filled with its brightness,

And as I touched it with my bare hands

Everything stopped,

As if nature’s laws, all the equations, all the theories, had stopped functioning.

The piece of the moon began to feel like a piece of the sun,

The heavenly object transformed into hellfire,

It drew me in.

Wandering through the city streets,

I was struck by a piece of hell.

I have more of them, if anyone is interested please DM.

She's a Trojan horse,
Exquisite she seems,
But her heart is a place
Of "here be dragons", see.

Bribes emotions with emotions,
To pacify thee,
But her rhymes are
A sop to Cerberus' dreams.

She's on Pegasus' wings
To the dragons she flies,
She tickles its tail,
While they chase fireflies.

Yet her heart dies all night,
As she plays with fire.
But when darkness falls,
With darkness she'll rise.

Where The Marrow Was

I.
In those final weeks, I was determined to remember everything. I took mental inventory of each detail, archiving for a future in which there would be nothing new to add. I thought whatever I catalogued was mine to keep.

But the void had gotten there first. It had been with me for two years, since the day he told me he was dying.

By the time I began building my archive, the void had already slipped inside. It lay patient and quiet, growing hungrier with each failed clinical trial. It had been feeding on me before I knew it was there; it just hadn’t developed its taste for my memories yet. 

The void waited for me through all that followed.

II.

That February brought a cold that Virginia wasn’t accustomed to. It would later be recorded as one of the coldest Februaries we had seen in a century. Somewhere between Richmond and home, I ordered my father’s drink - a Tanqueray with lime - from the café car to quell the dread that gathered in my chest. I stepped off the Amtrak Carolinian and into a blizzard closing in over eastern Appalachia.

My parents lived in a single-story, mid-century house in the valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains, its back wall lined with sliding glass doors. I watched the snowstorm swell that first evening until the world outside disappeared into darkness and the glass, no longer framing the storm, showed me only my own reflection. From his gurney, my father could look out onto my mother’s patio garden - lush every spring, but now barren beneath the snow. Six years earlier, he had buried my pet rabbit in one of the planters.

As one day became another, I slid open the patio door, gently so as not to wake my mother, and stood barefoot on the flagstone. The wind needled and stung my exposed skin, clearing away the stale, suffocating warmth of central heat. I filled my lungs with the contrast of cold, clean air before tiptoeing back inside to the sweltering house where death was taking its time. My father’s face had swollen from chemotherapy, warping the moony features that twenty-five years had made indelible to me. I laid my head against his chest and listened to his rattling breath, uncertain whether he knew it was me.

Hospice nurses visited every day at first, then only when we asked. After a week or so, I wondered if they’d forgotten us, until I realized there was nothing left for them to do.

During those final weeks, my mother baked incessantly. There was always something in the oven: whole wheat sandwich bread, blueberry muffins, macaroni and cheese casserole, apple or pecan pie. She said it helped to stay busy, but she hasn’t stopped since.

Two rooms away, my own body kept making small, humiliating demands - still asking to eat, drink, sleep, or bathe while I remained rooted beside him. My scalp crawled, eyes burned, and stomach ate itself raw whenever I did not comply. I resented my body for expecting maintenance while his was shutting itself down.

I read the local paper out loud to him, though I wasn’t sure if he could hear me. The mundane small-town news made me remember why I’d left for Richmond seven years earlier. I had gone looking for something more to remember, never considering what I would miss.

And when I could no longer find anything remotely interesting in The Winchester Star, I sang to him to fill the empty space - Alison Krauss and The Everly Brothers, even though my voice wavered and broke. I clumsily played Duke Ellington on the out-of-tune piano:

“I’ve been invited on dates 
Might have gone, but what for?
It’s awfully different without you 
Don’t get around much anymore.”

Never before had I wanted my hand in his so desperately. His made mine feel small, like 1996 again. That year, I had fallen through the ice on the pond at our neighbor’s farm while my father wasn’t looking. He dove in after me fully clothed, shoes and wallet and all, pulled me from the water, and wrapped me in a horse blanket in the back of his truck. Part memory, part family scripture. I remember the blanket more clearly than the drowning. Or maybe I only remember remembering it, and that is the trouble.

I was jolted back into the room when, largely comatose, he responded to my touch by gripping my fingers like a vise. I let him hold on until they throbbed and fell numb. I decided that his grip was proof he knew I was there, that love can make the the body forget its limits - like a father plunging through the ice to save his little girl, or his daughter refusing to leave his deathbed, believing that somehow things could still change.

III.

Of course, nothing did. And it seemed I had survived it, yet I barely remembered doing so. 

In the year that followed, the vivid reel ceased its rotation. The void took full hold of me. I bargained with it - begging, pleading, offering up every rotten thing inside of me. But in the years it had spent feeding quietly, it had developed a sickeningly refined palate. It turned up its nose at my offering - preferring marrow, sweetbreads, the palest veal. When at last I came to, I was startled by the ordinary evidence of my continued existence. Somehow I still had the same job, same dust-filled Richmond apartment, same two cats - but I didn’t recall offering him more than a few cursory tears.

That house in the valley belongs to strangers now. And yet, a decade later, I still pad the hallway in my dreams to check my parents’ bedroom for the sound of his breath, and I still hear it rattle. For those moments, I am relieved to know it was all just a big misunderstanding, or even some small clerical error that my sleeping brain had finally corrected. Yes, things still could change. 

But then I wake, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I find myself suddenly eleven hundred miles away from that valley, sleeping beside a man my father never met. Different job, different city and apartment. On the mantle, one of those cats has become ashes in a carved wooden box.

The missing frames start to flicker back into place. Snow driving against flagstone. Bread in the oven. Rabbit bones in the planter. His hand crushing mine. Amazing Grace ringing through the church. His gravestone in Lexington, the words etched - “A Virginia Gentleman.” For an instant, the void is illuminated from the inside. 

I wonder now if he knew I was there at all, or if my hand was simply an anonymous stand-in for a bullet to bite.  I wonder what his pain felt like. I only know my own.

The void sleeps in the cavity of my chest now, fattened on a decade of forgetting. But sometimes, in the dark of some particular night, the valley gives him back to me. By the light of the life I return to in sleep, I can sometimes feel it stir. 

a small excerpt -

OUR LITTLE MARTHA

The first thing I learned about grief was that it could be taken, not healed, not forgotten. Taken. It happened when I was seventeen. Mother had been crying in the kitchen for three days after Father died. On the fourth morning, she looked at me and asked if I could make it stop. I didn't understand what she meant. How could I make it stop?

The last thing she remembered about Father was his hand slipping from hers. The last thing I remembered was how her grief felt when it engulfed me through our joined hands. It flooded my chest, pressed against my ribs, and filled every empty space inside me. After that, she never cried for him again. I forgot his face three days later.

If you liked what you read you can find the full story in the link down below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XQN7thpVoq_WOY2X-LzvzK8r6d3HfjfN7J_BkUvmgOk/edit?usp=sharing

(part 2 coming soon)