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.

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

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.

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

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

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.